Bread & Circuses

Cobo Hall. Detroit, Michigan. Summertime. Hot-as-hell, unrepentant humidity. 1984. Commercials for The Toughman Contest had been playing for weeks on Channel 50, showing amateur pugilists in tight, stained jeans flailing at one another, shirtless, wearing sloping discolored boxing gloves circa 1940. No Vic Tanny muscles there. Hardened Joe Q. Roughnecks chosen from the audience to face-off in the ring. Winners continued through the tournament -- to another weekend or another town -- and the losers went home to muster themselves with bathroom surgery; pissing blood, affixing raw calves' livers to shamed, blackened eyes.

Pryvett Rawgers & Co. were there to see it.

The protocols preceding any stadium event dictated that Pryvett & Co. got themselves liberally shitfaced beforehand. They blew the afternoon at the Sunnyside Tavern in LaSalle. Among Pryvett's crew was "Milk Man," whose nickname derived from his pathologically pristine appearance: long flaxen hair, pressed white shirts, immaculate beige Members Only jacket. Milk Man was voted "Mostly Likely to Pursue a Career in Menswear" two years running in their high school yearbook.

There was Konrad, a surly Arab guy whose method for picking up girls in bars involved tripping lasses or spilling drinks on their arms. Whenever a brother, boyfriend or bystander punched Konrad in the face for such conduct, he swore that he was suffering residual prejudice from the 1979 Iran Hostage Crisis. Konrad did, however, distinguish himself once for bringing three packages of hotdogs to a screening of The Rocky Horror Picture Show, and disposing of the weiners by hurling them over the audience throughout the film.

The quartet was rouned out by Ernst, an opaque young man of few words, bearded and crowned with an unruly thatch of uncombable brown hair. He was an artist who once submitted a project to his art teacher comprised of a baby doll scorched with a blowtorch affixed to a piece of wood with a dagger. His instructor went ballistic and Ernst was ordered to see the school psychologist, a wan man who regarded the world with heavy-lidded eyes staring through thick-framed Henry Kissinger eyeglasses. He had long, wispy sideburns and stared at Ernst for a long time at the start of their first session before saying, "What are you trying to say with the doll and the dagger?"

So, gunned on draught beer and corned beef sandwiches, Pryvett & Co. made their way to Detroit's Cobo Hall for the Toughman Contest -- MulletVille, Redneck Woodstock. The boys assimilated perfectly with the assembled crowd. This was where drunken auto workers, plumbers, roofers, working slobs of all stripes spent a summer Saturday. Tickets were ten dollars a shot -- "Priced right for families," Pryvett later recalled. "I could just see guys asking the ticket-seller, 'Hey, do I get more beer if I buy the Family Pack?'"

The scene around him at Cobo enthralled the historian in Pryvett. It was Ancient Rome colliding with contemporary trailer park.

The Toughman Contest audience was jacked up on beer, cocaine, nitro-glycerine testosterone. Jeers and epithets circulated through the mob as though some outrage had just occurred on a baseball field, that a running back had just fumbled the ball, or some referee had stuck his officious, ferret nose into the business of sportsmen competing. There was a general contankerous, grunting pulse amid the arena's inhabitants as they waited for the fights to commence.

However fragmented and disjointed the audience's attentions were as the arena filled, all voices joined in a communal roar when the guest MC of the event made his appearance ringside: Mr. T.. Rocky III was only two years in the past and The A-Team was in full flower. Mr. T. shouted a few unintelligible words into a microphone he would use to give the loudspeaker play-by-plays of each fight. The audience roared back its approval. Then Mr. T. gave a final wave and took his seat amid the officials surrounding the ring.

For all of the unhinged hype of the violence to come, the Toughman Contest fights were actually tame; sometimes dull bordering on lame. Shirtless, out-of-shape autoworkers took the ring -- one wearing a pair of Budweiser shorts so tight those sitting nearest the ring could have counted the number of beer caps in the guy's pocket. One fighter threw three punches and then stopped, winded. His opponent was in no better physical condition to capitalize on this pause in the action. In between rounds, fighters returned to their corners for a few drags off a cigarette, a chance to hork into a plastic pail. To get around the Boxing Commission and all its constraining rules, fighters were allowed to kick, as well as punch. This brought a further unkempt schoolyard touch that appealed to the collective reptillian brain of the mob.

The promoters doubtless recognized the limitations of unleashing untrained fighters before an audience of thousands. Hence the guest MC. And Mr. T. did not disappoint. His rapidfire verbosity, the primeival guttural resonance of his voice, held the mob rapt. His most frequent verbal lash at the fighters was, "Come on Gorilla Man!"

Neither Pryvett, Milkman, Konrad or Ernst were particularly demonstrative members of the mob. This wasn't The Rocky Horror Picture Show. But they took in everything around them like cultural observers from another land. Every once in a while a fierce shout would go up somewhere behind them or off to the side, and a fist fight among the rabble broke out like sudden brush fires on the badlands.

After half a dozen matches, an announcement was made from ringside that women would also take to the ring. There was some booing and sexist outburts amid the almost-completely male crowd. These soon turned into startled, excited cheers when it was seen that women were capable of sudden, stunning violence, as well. The female roughnecks had their own menace the mob recognized and approved of. The women had more endurance than the male fighters, flailing leopard-like in the center of the ring, launching kicks with greater frequency and speed. Although few fight-goers would later admit it, the female fighters put on the kind of show they had paid to see.

One of the last fights, between two women, had all the hallmarks of being a completely lopsided slaughter. A gargantuan Detroit Mama, sporting a large round butt and enormous, unwieldy breasts hanging to her waist was to face-off against a petite Latina chick who had the body of a sparrow. The Latina would certainly have speed and dexterity on her side, but the moment the Detroit Mama got hold of her, a massacre would ensue.

The bell rang. The Detroit Mama moved across the ring with a lumbering swagger that seethed menance and confidence. The Latina approached with a light lithe step that betrayed no fear. The disruptions among the audience dissipated as the bloodsport they had all come to see was surely seconds away from happening. The Latina didn't have a chance.

The Detroit Mama made her move, launching a sweeping haymaker that would have easily decapitated her opponent had it landed. It didn't. Where the male fighters usually failed to take advantage of their opponents being off-balance, the Latina chick lashed out with shocking surety, kicking the Detroit Mama in the tits. Unlike the male fighters, the Latina chick didn't lose her wind two or three kicks into her onslaught -- she continued with a ferocious, automated rhythm that soon had the mob on its feet cheering, screaming, calling for more, more.

No matter how the Detroit Mama sought to protect herself, the Latina chick continued kicking her in the tits. After a few failed turns and attempts at blocking the blows -- after a couple of dozen kicks -- the Detroit Mama collapsed to one knee. The Latina reset her stance and delivered a crushing blow to her opponent's face. Then another, and another. The Detroit Mama buckled and crumpled to the mat.

The mob was in overheated hysterics, cheering and cheering the untouched Latina chick.

As the sated crowd poured out of Cobo Hall that night, Pryvett & Co. retired to the Detroiter Bar on Beaubien street in Detroit. The place was filled with fight fans reliving the night's entertainment. As Pryvett and Milkman and even Ernst talked and joked about the last fight, Konrad was unusually quiet. None of the guys commented on this, and it was quickly forgotten after that night. And though they continued meeting and hitting the taverns of LaSalle and Windsor and Detroit, never again did Konrad spill another drink on a girl's arm, nor did he ever trick another lovely prospect on her way to the Ladies' Room.

The Idiots Are Due on Maple Street

The corporate necktie isn't so much a noose as it is a leash.

-- Pryvett

It was a sunless, muggy day when Pryvett's place of work filled with a strange chittering sound that smothered even the '80's glamrock belching out of the warehouse boombox. The chittering sound grew, perpetuating itself everywhere through Package Handling Company, International, like the coming of a locust plague, the approach of a living sandstorm filled with operatic mites and ticks and fleas.

The un-unemployed of Workplace Inc. shuffled about their discordant ways and looked up as one of their number ran into the warehouse from a hallway that led to the offices.

"They're coming!" the crier cried, breathless. "The idiots are coming!" he moaned. "They're coming this way."

As the crier slunk away amid the motionless rabble of the warehouse, the chittering insectile hum entered the area, followed a moment later by a gaggle of idiots. There was probably half a dozen of them, though their number was difficult to ascertain because of their constant movement.

Before thoughts of escape formed in the green fly-guts brain goo of the un-unemployed of Workplace Inc., the idiots were upon them.

It was an abysmally hot day -- even more tortuously sticky and airless in the warehouse -- and the idiots from Head Office approached, wearing suits and neckties, looking around the place with the parched myopia of newborn babies, seeing everything, understanding nothing. They were like inadvertent wanderers stumbling upon an ancient, alien civilization. The idiots moved in a group as though they shared the same invisible brain or nervous system, operating by radar like bats. All of them incessantly rubbed their hands together as they sweated through their suit jackets.

The idiots circulated through the un-unemployed, stretching the limits of their invisible, idiot manacles. They spoke to the un-unemployed of Workplace Inc. like foreigners practicing their English: "Are... you uh employee here?"

From How to Interact with and Verbally Engage Workplace Rabble Prentice Hall, 1966, page 117 sub-section 11(c): "Try to humanize yourself by speaking on the rabbles' level, with quips and bon mots. The rabble responsible favorably to humor."

Pryvett was roused from his slit-eyed sniper's observation of the scene when he received a spine-straightening slap on the back. He looked to his side and saw a grinning moon-faced idiot who had no pupils in his eyes. "Say fella," the idiot intoned, "do you... feel you make... a difference here?" The idiot's smile broadened, growing exponentially more maniacal. "I once had TB... and I continued to work..."

From How to Interact with and Verbally Engage Workplace Rabble Prentice Hall, 1966, page 231 sub-section 19(f): "Try empathize with the rabble by saying such things as 'I used to work such low-level jobs, too,' whether or not it's true."

A shift manager called the un-unemployed to order as the gaggle of idiots reformed behind her. Pryvett stood near one of the few attractive females of Workplace Inc., a lithe hillbilly chick who had a great body -- perpetually clad in a tight wife-beater tanktop shirts and cutoff shorts -- but who had strangely large, mannish hands and spoke with a disconcertingly masculine voice. She appealed to Pryvett's sensibilities due to the complex attraction/aversion cycle she aroused in him.

The shift manager said: "To celebrate this warehouse going fourteen months without a workplace injury--"

Pryvett thought, Come on! Bonus bonus bonus bonus bonus--

"-- we're going to give each of you a baseball cap and T-shirt to say 'Thanks!'"

The idiots zestily applauded.

From How to Interact with and Verbally Engage Workplace Rabble Prentice Hall, 1966, page 469 sub-section 5(x): "The rabble respond favorably to gifts of trinkets and cheap clothing, which also serve as cost savings measures from actual monetary rewards."

The lithe hillbilly chick said to the paeon next to her, "They should give out tanktops instead of T-shirts!"

The spot ceremony was adjourned, though quickly readjourned. The enthusiasm exuded only moments before by the shift manager was visibly missing, as she said, "Sorry, I had meant to say that you will each receive either a baseball cap or a T-shirt."

A collective rasping, resigned, groan circulated among the un-unemployed of Workplace Inc.

As Pryvett returned to his station to resume the grinding wait until quitting time, he overheard an idiot remarking to a shift supervisor, "Going fourteen months without a workplace injury is fine, but this warehouse is so untidy. You should have the workers sweep up during their breaks."

The insectile hum of the idiots moved from the main area of the Workplace Inc. warehouse the far wall where the punch-clock was mounted. There was a strange intonation of excitement amid the jittering and muttering, as though an issue had been identified. A moment later the idiots began to raise their arms and remove the posters affixed to the bulletin board near the punch-clock -- the workplace motivational posters, the fifth generation photocopied faxes stating the month's productivity numbers, all-caps threats composed by the plant manager regarding pilferage, workplace drunkenness, tardiness, solicitation, mopery and the use of firearms.

An impromptu verdict floated back from the idiots: "This signage has been improperly affixed! These were fastened with two pins per item, but should have been more properly secured with four pins."

From How to Interact with and Verbally Engage Workplace Rabble Prentice Hall, 1966, page 666 sub-section 13(z): "Always, always, always, always -- no matter how pristine the workplace, no matter how competent and motivated and efficient the rabble -- always, always, always find something wrong with the place of work so that a visit may be concluded with a reprimand and promises from the rabble to try and work ever harder."

It takes a corporation to raise a child.

-- Pryvett

Haris Pilton and the evaporating "Get Out of Jail Free!" Card

From CNN.com POSTED: 0256 GMT (1056 HKT), June 8, 2007:

LOS ANGELES, California (AP) -- She was taken handcuffed and crying from her home. She was escorted into court disheveled, without makeup, hair askew and face red with tears.

Crying out for her mother when she was ordered back to jail, Paris Hilton's cool, glamorous image evaporated Friday as she gave the impression of a little girl lost in a merciless legal system.

"It's not right!" shouted the weeping Hilton. "Mom!" she called out to Kathy Hilton, who also was in tears.
...
The sheriff later hinted at a news conference that Hilton had psychological problems, and said she would be watched in jail "so that there isn't anything that is harmfully done to herself by herself."

Yes, the soulless heiress of the Hilton fortune has a psychological disorder. It's called Affluenza, complicated with being a natural born cunt. To the sheriff who freed her (with probable hopes of receiving cash or a blow-job) Haris Pilton's response to jail is what is known in the business as "deterrence." If it was fun going to jail, who would obey the law? And we want people to obey laws -- even over-indulged skanks who have more money than many countries in this world -- because without abeyance to laws, we'd have anarchy.

Pilton's reaction to jail is how most of us would respond to anarchy. So, this little wretch does not get to reorganize our society to suit her whims, she must obey the law like the rest of us.

Special kudos must go to Rick and Kathy Pilton for giving the world this little trainwreck in high heels. The devil himself could not have created a more loathsome, self-absorbed cretin. This socialite-termite-parasite has taken up far too much space in our collective consciousness. All we can hope is that when her jail sentence is completed that she immediately reoffend and crash her BMW into a bronze statue of Zsa Zsa Gabor, wiping herself, Haris Pilton, out once and for all.

I wish every ill upon the house of Hilton. Every pox and affliction. This toilet spawn known as Haris Pilton will hopefully spend eternity in a hereafter inside a Dollar Store with no exits or cellphone coverage.

bacon; charity

I was possessed by the Holy Spirit today at work -- realizing that my first anniversary is approaching, I got thinking that I'd like to mark the occasion in a special way. Going out for lunch with colleagues is always fun, but I'm the type who wants to leave this world a better place than how I found it, and one more Thai lunch in my system won't do much in the way of that. Then came an idea, which prompted me to write an email message:

To: cafeteria_person@workplace.yah

From: myself@workplace.yah

Subject: bacon; charity

I have what may seem like a strange question, but I am genuinely curious – how much would a stainless steel bin of bacon cost me?

I go to the cafeteria each morning for coffee and the smell of the bacon is unbelievable. My first anniversary is approaching and I would like perform a small charity event where I would eat a bin of cafeteria bacon in order to raise awareness.

If the cost is outlandish, I may have to rethink my small celebration.

Thanks!

The stainless steel bin holds, probably, a couple hundred strips of bacon. With the right amount of coffee, air conditioning and Grand Funk Railroad cassette tapes, I could eat the entire thing handily.

My idea is to expand the event somewhat and have local celebrities sit at the table with me in ten-minute increments. My personal picks would be news anchor Carolyn Clifford, former Detroit Piston Kelly Tripucka, sports commentator George Blaha, A-Channel weather woman Julie Atchison, newswoman Anna Vlachos, and D.O.C.'s famous Richard Goldman -- who would be most welcome to show up in a muscle shirt and do one-arm push-ups near the table.

My wife says that if I do perform this act of charity, I can't go home that evening. It amazes me that she even doubts I could eat a stainless steel bin of bacon. Actually, she doesn't really doubt that I could do, she's just not will to witness the consequences. But I don't foresee any unusual physical complications. I not only plan to work through the rest of that anniversay day following the bacon-charity-eat, but having lunch, as well. Maybe Thai food.

For some reason the binful of bacon is a greater distractor than I would have guessed. People who hear about my tentative plan are focused on the feat itself and not on the most important detail -- raising awareness for charity. As one wise friend and colleague stated today, "The awareness isn't going to raise itself." Too true, too true. If a binful of bacon and I can make some small dent in that, I would consider the feat a roaring success.

God Created Yuppie Parents ... and Then Wept

Before he'd even had his first shit of the day, God already knew that he would create the universe and numerous worlds within it -- among them a particularly hemorrhoidal little globe whose inhabitants would name it "Earth." He also knew that Earth wouldn't really work out, that he would then use this pristine foreknowledge to pre-empt all the problems that would mar Earth, but realized the malicious psychoses of Earth's inhabitants would simply bleed around all the changes and amendments made to fix the problems. Finally, God just thought, "Fuck it."

During this fit of foreknowledge, God also saw that he would create a man named Job and would torment the hell out of him at the goading of Satan. God felt bad about this, thought of simply never letting the shameful episode happen, then came up with an idea to really poke a stick in Satan's eye: God would create yuppie parents, the most loving, giving, life-promoting, open-minded people of all his creation.

God was so caught up with sticking it to Satan that he believed his own momentary fantasy about them rather than his flat-panel-clear-foreknowledge of yuppie parents' true nature.

After flushing the toilet, God mixed his first Rusty Nail of the day -- the notion that one should never booze alone or before noon had not yet been created; God would create that last of all. He sat down at his large, cartoonist's drawing table and decided that he would create Earth that day.

Maybe it was the quality of his bowel movement, maybe the precise measurements of his Rusty Nail were off, or maybe God simply got carried away wanting to fuck with Satan. Whatever it was, God decided that he would create a pair of yuppie parents, right on the spot, to consult on the creation of Earth.

Upon gaining consciousness in God's workshop, the first thing Mackenzie and Brayden asked for was a low-fat grande green tea macchiato with a spritz of goat's milk, a venti half-decaf latte with no-fat milk and jasmine-flavored cereal bars.

God looked upon his creation. Rather than thinking "It is good," something in him wondered just what the fuck he had done.

He gave them each tumblers brimming with cloudy tap water and a bowl of shelled peanuts, instead.

(Although God did not create the child who was necessary to make Mackenzie and Brayden literal parents, he did implant in their minds the full knowledge and experience of their two year old daughter, Neveah, who was spending the weekend with her maternal grandmother.)

God sketched out the basic look and feel of Earth for Mackenzie and Brayden. Luckily, God was an excellent illustrator, so the yuppies caught on to his aesthetic very quickly. When God began explaining the physical laws governing Earth, however, Mackenzie and Brayden frowned and shook their heads.

God stopped. "What?" he said with more impatience than he intended.

A pained look came over Mackenzie's pixie face, "Well," she said -- more a whine than an actual word. She spoke with maddening hesitancy. "You know this 'gravity' that's going to keep everything stuck to Earth? I don't know if you really thought this through enough."

God stared at her, stunned, annoyed.

"I don't think you realize," said Brayden in the identical pussified tone of his wife, "that this 'gravity' might keep cars on the road, but it might also cause little Neveah to fall off a swing or off her bike. That would be dangerous."

"We can't have that!" Mackenzie burst in. "Children are the hope of the future!"

Brayden nodded and said, "Safety first."

As God explained the intricacies of the human anatomy and its numerous redundant fail-safe systems for balance and dexterity, Mackenzie interrupted. "Could we go back to how people will populate Earth in the first place?"

God gaped.

Brayden said, "I don't think you realize just how filthy some of our body parts really are. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy urinating through my penis immensely, but how are we ever going to explain to little Neveah all the workings of her vagina -- that monthly bleeding thing, gallopian tubes --"

"Fallopian," God corrected.

"-- and how boys are going to want to touch her breasts?" Brayden bristled. "Did you ever think how uncomfortable this is going to be for me and Mackenzie?"

God explained the need for strong sexual attraction among human beings in order for the race to perpetuate itself.

Mackenzie interrupted: "I think I got a little ahead of myself. The first thing of all we should discuss is 'death.' Yeah, that just doesn't work for me. I mean, life is precious, it's a blessing -- why would you want to kill a blessing? I don't understand."

Brayden opened his mouth and said, "I don't think you realize what it will be like trying to explain 'death' to little Neveah. Do you really want to create a world where she might see her beloved Nana lying dead in a coffin?"

"Yes, I must really object to that," Mackenzie said, tears coming to her eyes. "It's completely inappropriate for children, and very upsetting to me. Didn't you ever consider our feelings?"

"And if 'gravity' keeps cars on the road, and gravity keeps people on the ground," Brayden said, growing heated, "have you considered what might happen if the driver of a car doesn't see little Neveah crossing a street?" His voice broke as he said "street."

Mackenzie's hand flew to her mouth. She glared at God. "If a driver didn't see little Neveah, that would mean... oh goodness --"

"What kind of psychopath are you?" Brayden said to God.

"And what about disease?" Mackenzie cried. "What kind of degenerate would want a child to become sick? Possibly even sick enough to die?"

"Yeah," Brayden said, rubbing Mackenzie's thigh. "I think you're way off-base with this entire world."

God explained the intricacies and redundant fail-safe systems comprising the human immune system.

"I don't think you realize," Brayden said, "that Neveah could get a sniffle and innocently -- and so adorably -- wipe her nose with her hand --"

"As children will do!" Mackenzie blurted. "They're just children after all!"

"-- and how she could wipe bacteri-ites --"

"Bacteria," God said.

"-- on her nose. She could inhale these and the next thing we know she's got brain cancer!"

"What kind of monster are you?" Mackenzie screeched at God.

"You're no one I'd want within a hundred yards of little Neveah," Brayden said, putting his arm around Mackenzie's shoulder. "You've got some very sick ideas."

"Sick!" Mackenzie wailed.

"Killing children, ejaculation, afterbirth smeared on babies' heads, cancer, gravity," Brayden said, his voice rising with every word. "You ought to be locked up!"

"Somebody should put a microchip under your skin so we can track your movements," Mackenzie wept.

Brayden rose from his chair and helped Mackenzie to her feet. They walked toward the door. At the door, Brayden turned -- Mackenzie cowering brokenly against him. "Yeah, and by the way, those animals you're thinking of creating -- they look ridiculous. Walking around on four legs and covered with hair? They're absolutely pornographic!"

Brayden and Mackenzie showed themselves out of God's house.

God sat at his cartoonist's drawing table looking after them. He felt a sinus headache coming on. He was suddenly very glad he'd said nothing about his son, Jesus, to the yuppie parents.

God rose to make himself another Rusty Nail. Later he would go into his backyard, shovel up some dog shit and throw it over the fence onto Satan's property. That would have to suffice for revenge for the moment.

The Persistence of Pryvett

Autumn in Windsor, 1982. Book-learning resumed on the university campus and history majors and film students were a-buzz with the viewing of Triumph of the Will, German director Leni Riefenstahl's propaganda documentaries on the 1936 Nazi Nuremberg Rallies. Anticipation was heightened by letters of protest appearing in the campus newspaper, The Lance, from a Jewish group denouncing the screening.

As with all such protestations against film and other art forms, the modest outcry against showing Triumph of the Will ensured every seat in the Lambton Tower auditorium was filled.

Among the audience was Pryvett Rawgers, pompadour in full fall bryl brilliance.

The mood in the auditorium was a mix of amped-up academic anticipation, a strange, silent solemnity and carnival gawkery -- the air charged like an electric fence being urinated upon by a dog.

The man making the presentation, Reg Hart, was renowned for his collection of underground films: racist Warner Bros. cartoons, surrealist works by Salvador Dali, as well as reels of raw propaganda. He was famous among repertory theatres throughout Ontario as much for his exhaustive collection as for his iron-clad contracts -- you hired one of Reg Hart's films, you get its proprietor and his introductions to the films. No negotiation.

"You don't like it," Reg was known to say, "I'll just take my film and go home!"

As repertory theatres disappeared through the 1970s, Reg eventually had audiences of strangers into his house to view his collection.

And on this occasion, the University of Windsor had brought him to town for a couple of days.

As Reg took the podium at the front of the crowded hall, a few latecomers straggled in. One of them was a girl with a half-shaved head; the stubble side decorated with patches of color.

"Hey man," Pryvett's friend muttered, elbowing Pryvett in the ribs, "is that a feminist or a cheetah? I can't tell!" To which Pryvett brayed laughter; the incendiary, suppressed laughter that threatens to break out at churches, during funerals -- wherever and whenever laughter is verboten.

Reg Hart glared into the audience, immediately picking out Pryvett. "You, in the third row!" Reg shouted. "Do you think Nazism is funny?"

"Of course not!" Pryvett said, slowly regaining his composure.

"I don't think you should be here."

"Hey, I paid my money," Pryvett said. "I've been waiting to see this film for a long time!"

"It's my film," Reg spat, "and I'm not going to show it to someone who thinks this is funny."

"Look, I'll move to the back so I won't distract you," Pryvett said, beginning to rise.

"Fuck you, Reg!" someone called out. "You're the fucking Nazi, trying to tell this guy what to do!"

"Yeah," other voices joined in.

Pryvett remained in his seat.

"Why don't you sit down Hitler and just show the goddamned movie?!"

At which point several people jumped to their feet, giving Nazi salutes, shouting, "Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!"

Under the cover of the chaos, Pryvett left his seat and retreated further back in the auditorium. He laughed to himself thinking that the girl with the half-shaved head had no idea the commotion had all began with a joke about her peacock scalp.

Reg Hart shouted into his microphone, "If this doesn't stop right now, I'm taking my film and going home!"

The audience quieted and someone said, "Hey, see, the guy left, so you can continue."

Seeing the seat of the offending miscreant in the third row was, indeed, vacated, Reg Hart continued with his lengthy introduction and Triumph of the Will was finally shown.

The following day the headline on the front page of The Lance read: "Ruckus at Nazi Film Screening!" Classmates of Pryvett's asked him, "Was that you?" To which Pryvett replied, "Uh, no, it was some agitators from the Humane Society."

That evening Pryvett returned to the Lambton Tower auditorium for a screening of a Salvador Dali film. This time Pryvett wore a baseball cap over his distinctive pompadour. However, the moment he entered among the crowd, Reg Hart, standing by the podium, scrutinizing the audience, pointed and shouted, "You!"

Caught, Pryvett approached Reg and explained the nature of his laughter the previous evening. In the calmer air of the second evening's screening, he accepted Pryvett's explanation and they agreed to meet for a Löwenbräu at the campus pub after Dali's The Persistence of Memory.

Little Baby Pain-in-the-Ass's One Second of Fame

Is there any question that the yuppie parents of Little Baby Pain-in-the-Ass are right now launching lawsuits against the breakdancer, the city of New York, the Transit Authority, the creators of breakdancing, the maker of the breakdancer's shoes, the maker of the laces, the estate of the inventor of subway platforms, the artist whose music the breakdancer was dancing to, every single onlooker, every single employee of the subway system, all employees of the world's subway systems, the maker of gravity, the parents of the breakdancer for conceiving and raising him, the estate of the creator of concrete, the United States of America, the estates of the Founding Fathers, Youtube, every ISP whose customer viewed the video, the cameraman who took the video, the maker of the camera that captured this video, me for posting it here...?

Because, doubtless in the mindless voids behind the foreheads of Little Baby Pain-in-the-Ass's parents, all of these named and many, many more are to blame for what was filmed here.

Everyone except themselves.

That's the beauty of being a North American -- you're never responsible for anything, least of all for your own actions.

O-ploitation

Oprah Winfrey gives millions of dollars a year to charities. But by god, does she take, as well.

Today I saw her show on which a woman who had been abused for two years by her husband, and a harrowing 51-minute video of this abuse shot by her own thirteen year old son, was the subject of the day. And the show was Oprah at her most sanctimonious and master-of-the-obvious best.

First, it was wonderful of Oprah to maintain a level of normality during this emotionally draining show by keeping the number of commercial interruptions at their usual fever pitch. She wouldn't want her viewers to think domestic abuse was a reality and fear the sky was falling. So, phew, the commercials kept the viewing audience grounded in its superficial, consumerist quicksand.

The subject of the show was a woman named Susan Still. She married a man who revealed himself to be a brute, whose verbal and physical abuse of her was stomach-turning, rage-inducing, humiliating and Oprah-ready. Oprah played lengthy excerpts of the bizarre video Ms. Still's son made of her abuse -- Ms. Still standing, silent, motionless, in the living room while her Neanderthal husband verbally berated her; then footage of her being kicked and stepped on as she lay crying on the bedroom floor.

It was agonizing, sobering stuff.

Midway through the show, breaking for yet another damnable commercial, Oprah trumpeted the next segment -- when her guest's three children were commanded by their father to call their mother a "white slut ho" over and over. Oprah announced this as though it meant Tom Cruise would soon be onstage dancing sock-footed on her couch. All the while, a clearly traumatized Susan Still sat next to Oprah, looking like she expected her ex-husband to come slithering in from offstage. The disconnect between the two women could not have been more ugly or pronounced.

As Oprah gallantly announced at the end of each commercial break that today was the day she wanted the abused among her zombie horde to begin making their plans to escape their abusers, she showed clips of Susan Still's abuse as though they were Hollywood trailers, and then assailed her guest with the most maddening, obvious, condescending questions: "When your kids were calling you a ‘white slut ho,’ how did you feel?" "What did you do?" as though to say, I hope you marched over to that rotten husband of yours and slapped his lousy face!

When Susan Still meekly stated that she had once seen an episode of Oprah dealing with domestic abuse, Oprah took the opportunity to make a joke about Ms. Still's predicament: "I'm surprised you were allowed to watch the show..." (audience laughs). Then Oprah looked at the camera and addressed her abused zombie horde: "Watch Oprah in secret." More laughs from the audience.

There is no doubt today's Oprah may well inspire some battered people to escape their brutish partners. But what a gnawing, ham-handed program one had to sit through in order for that to happen.

Yes, Oprah Winfrey gives much to the world, but goddamn does she take. The type of exploitation she peddles is most sickening because it's done under the guise of "helping." But there is something utterly unwholesome and un-nourishing about all those execrable tampon commercials shoe-horned between glimpses into human misery.

Reparations Refereeing

The New York Times recently published news of "[a]n academic study of the National Basketball Association, whose playoffs continue tonight, suggests that a racial bias found in other parts of American society has existed on the basketball court as well." The conclusion was that white referees are more apt to call black players for fouls, than white players.

. . . Justin Wolfers, an assistant professor of business and public policy at Penn's Wharton School, and Joseph Price, a Cornell graduate student in economics, said the difference in calls "is large enough that the probability of a team winning is noticeably affected by the racial composition of the refereeing crew."

The study, conducted over a 13-season span through 2004, found that the racial makeup of a three-man officiating crew affected calls by up to 4½ percent. More...

After reading this article, I swung into action to correct this wretched injustice being perpetrated against these unwary steroidal millionaires. I have approached NBA commissioner David Stern (and have yet to officially hear back from him, but he will doubtless endorse and take up my ideas) about "refereeing reparations."

The way these reparations will work is -- for the next five years (seasons) no fouls will be called against black NBA players. If a situation arises where one black player appears to foul another black player (according to the racist rules of the game before the reparation seasons), a tribunal made up of delegates from African nations at the U.N. and former black NBA players will render real-time decisions from New York.

Where reparations refereeing really gets down to correcting past injustices is the reevaluation all previous championships. The number of fouls assigned to black players will be brought into balance with the number of fouls attributed to white players. To make amends for the years of wrongs, all fouled black players will be given an additional free-throw. Because it's impossible to travel back in time, their free-throw averages will be used to calculate how many of those additional free-throws they would have made, and all game scores will be adjusted accordingly.

A bank of 300 Rancour 1188 Quintuple Core computers has been working on this job of recalculating the actual scores of these past seasons. Most importantly, all past championships will be awarded to their proper winners (purists might be somewhat put out to find teams assigned championships in years before they formally existed, and other teams being awarded championships after they ceased to exist. If we're going to right a wrong, the purists are just going to have to live with this):

1946–47 Philadelphia

1947–48 Baltimore

1948–49 Minneapolis

1949–50 Minneapolis

1950–51 Rochester

1951–52 Minneapolis

1952–53 Minneapolis

1953–54 Minneapolis

1954–55 Syracuse

1955–56 Philadelphia

1956–57 Detroit

1957–58 St. Louis

1958–59 Detroit

1959–60 Detroit

1960–61 Detroit

1961–62 Detroit

1962–63 Detroit

1963–64 Detroit

1964–65 Detroit

1965–66 Detroit

1966–67 Philadelphia

1967–68 Detroit

1968–69 Detroit

1969–70 New York

1970–71 Milwaukee

1971–72 Baltimore

1972–73 New York

1973–74 Detroit

1974–75 Golden State

1975–76 Detroit

1976–77 Portland

1977–78 Washington

1978–79 Seattle

1979–80 Baltimore

1980–81 Detroit

1981–82 Baltimore

1982–83 Philadelphia

1983–84 Detroit

1984–85 Baltimore

1985–86 Detroit

1986–87 Baltimore

1987–88 Baltimore

1988–89 Detroit

1989–90 Detroit

1990–91 Chicago

1991–92 Chicago

1992–93 Chicago

1993–94 Houston

1994–95 Houston

1995–96 Chicago

1996–97 Chicago

1997–98 Chicago

1998–99 Detroit

1999-2000 Baltimore

2000-01 Baltimore

2001-02 Baltimore

2002-03 Detroit

It's my hope that the NBA will soon sit down with Paul Wolfowitz of the World Bank to begin negotiating the massive transfer of championship bonuses and championship rings to their rightful recipients. We cannot pick and choose who deserves justice in this world. Steroidal millionaires are just as worthy of our sympathy and proactive problem-solving as the residents or refugees of any impoverished nation.

Who is at the wheel?

Imagine you're on a roadtrip with three other people. On the highway, you're sitting in the backseat of the car, reading a magazine. The guy in the front passenger seat is trying to find something good on the radio. The guy sitting next to you in the backseat has dozed off.

While engrossed in your magazine -- maybe a copy of The Realist or The National Daily Conservative Review -- the car you're riding in is involved in a collision: you don't see the details of the accident as they unfold, your senses are simply jarred by the crunch of the fibreglass sheathing the styrafoam bumper; the hood buckling; the awful sudden stop, the sound of breaking glass. And all you know is that you've dropped your magazine, your collarbone is sore where the seatbelt locked against you; there's a cloud of powder from the exploded airbags floating in the car.

Miraculously, no one in your car is hurt.

For the sake of this analogy, let's jump ahead of all the insurance rigermarole, police, and all those inconveniences, to the resumption of your roadtrip: You've got a new rental car and you and your group are ready to hit the highway again. . .

. . . but the guy who was driving when the accident occurred refuses to relinquish the car keys. He insists on continuing to drive.

Before the roadtrip began, you and your car-mates drew straws and the guy who was driving when the accident occurred had been the winner and asserts that this gives him the right to continue.

"But you got us in that accident," one of the other guys says, "so that nullifies you winning the straw-draw."

"Yeah," another guy says, "Whether it was your fault or not, I don't trust you at the wheel."

To which the driver responds, "It's because I was driving when the accident happened that I should continue driving. Had one of you been at the wheel, the accident would have been much worse!"

And here is where we are at with American politics during the long, long run-up to the 2008 presidential election.

We have former NYC mayer, Rudy Giulliani, claiming that because he was at the helm of New York when the September 11, 2001 attacks occurred, that he is somehow more qualified to protect the country than any other candidate. This is the same specious logic that George W. Bush used for the 2004 election. It made no sense then, it makes no sense now, and yet these candidates are not only putting forth this ridiculous argument, some people actually agree with it.

There is no question that America, and the world in general, is much less safe since George W. Bush took hold of the White House in 2000. His wrong-headed war in Iraq, Guantanamo Bay, Abu Ghraib, America's consistent flouting of international law, America's lust for torture, are the greatest recruitment tools any enemy of America could hope for to help with rounding up fresh crazies. On a more concrete level, having people in power who stretch the country's military to (and beyond) its breaking point, spread painfully, dangerously thin around the world -- so much so that when America needs its own resources (think: Hurricane Katrina), those resources are missing or sorely lacking -- that strengthens and emboldens "Das Enemy." Pursuing foreign policy goals that make the rest of the free world think the U.S. is crazy is dangerous for America.

I heard Giulliani on the Sean Inanity radio program the other afternoon slinging these un-truisms like an Alabama short-order cook slings hash. And Inanity ate it up, of course.

No, keeping the guy at the wheel who was driving when you crashed in the first place is a bad idea. Talk is cheap, but it's cheap talk that leads to lost lives. Ask those 700,000 dead Iraqi civilians about that.

Oh, right, you can't . . . because they're dead.

Rich Little to perform at the White House Correspondents Association's dinner

It was a year ago that the world beheld the landmark performance of Stephen Colbert at the White House Correspondents Association Dinner. Standing only a few feet from the American Butcher in Chief, Colbert's genius was on full display, ranking in my opinion right up there with Jonthan Swift's "A Modest Proposal" and Lenny Bruce's "Christ and Moses." His comments were among the most piercing, hilarious and honest remarks made about BushCo. Later, however, the very media honoring itself that night proved once more its relevance to the public by almost uniformly declaring Colbert's exceedingly funny performance "not funny." Some went so far as to say that Colbert "bombed" -- doubtless an unintentional pun giving W.'s bewildered proximity to the happenings.

The reaction of the press reminds me of a scene from the second season of All in the Family during a flashback to Mike and Gloria's wedding preparations. Bigot Archie Bunker meets Mike's Uncle Kasimir, a huge, strapping man who was once a marine, but became a florist upon returing to civilian life after WWII. Archie does not like Uncle Kas on first sight and says, "Yeah, well we used to think the marines were pretty funny." To which Uncle Kas responds, "Yeah? Well, we used to think the Air Corps. was funny." Archie's face clouds: "I was in the Air Corps. What the hell's funny about the Air Corps.?"

And that was precisely the response of the press to Colbert's brilliant performance. But at least the press was consistent, treating Colbert's remarks with all of the blind-eyed superficiality it has treated the increasingly suspicious 9/11 attacks and the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. Short shrift is the new journalistic mantra in North America. Lowering debate to the level of irrelevance is the only function these makers of birdcage liners serve.

Well, old Steve Scully, president of the White house Correspondents Association -- unlike the Bush administration -- refuses to make the same mistake twice. This year he has booked legendary comic Rich Little to perform at the dinner. Scully's first choice for the evening was Bob Hope, but Hope's tour of Hell has been such a raging success, he was simply unavailable for the engagement -- there are more former U.S. presidents on his current tour than on earth.

Rich Little says: "I don't know why I was invited [to perform at the White House Correspondents Association Dinner], perhaps they wanted a different type of comedian this year.... But I did the dinner in 1984 when Reagan was president. I loved him, he was the best audience in the world."

"For Steve Scully of C-Span,. the president of the White house Correspondents Association, this is a game where you can neither win nor lose, no matter what you do. He chose Little this year and had a hand in picking Colbert last year."

"'I picked Rich Little because I think he is funny,' Scully said in an interview..."

And no one knows funny like Steve Scully, voted in his high school year book as Most Likely to Marry a Rubber Chicken. The hilarious part? He actually did!

Fux Spews Obiturates Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.

First and foremost, any journalist who works for any arm of Fux Spews has zero journalistic integrity. They enjoy being dictated to by the ideologues running their rancid money-making machine, and are so lacking in character and personal content, that they joyfully spew -- hence the name of the network -- all manner of bullshit, so long as it is contrary to reality and fed to them by King W.'s administration.

Chris Wallace, Brit Hume, Sean Hannity, Geraldo Rivera, Bill O'Reilly -- all industry jokes, bums with wretched reputations, all of whom jumped onto the Fux bandwagon as quickly as contracts and lawyers allowed, all readily identifying themselves as utterly untrustworthy voices.

Ever see the documentary Outfoxed? It shows that the more people view Fux Spews, the less these viewers know about the subjects reported upon. And this week:

Pew Survey Finds Most Aware Americans Watch 'Daily Show' and 'Colbert'-- and Visit Newspaper Sites ... Virtually bringing up the rear were regular watchers of Fox News. Only 1 in 3 could answer 2 out of 3 questions correctly.

So, when hack, ass-licker, soulless chump James Rosen "obiturated" Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., this week, it was done with all the callous, misanthropic bile we have come to know and love from Fux Spews despondents.

It was unequivocally a "good riddance to bad rubbish" obituary -- the sort that every Fux lackey listed above will enjoy upon his demise. Yes, Vonnegut himself at one time described some of his early work as "sci-fi mumbo-jumbo" and quite possibly as the quoted "despondent leftism." But there is no excuse for the mean-spirited final line of this lousy obituary when Rosen quoted Vonnegut as once saying that he hoped upon his death his children wouldn't say of him that he told funny jokes, but was such an unhappy man. "So, I'll say it for them," Rosen droned. Will you, now, Rosen? Only a Fux Spews despondent would presume to speak on behalf of the family of a dead American institution.

What. A. Fucking. Asshole.

But what can one expect from that landfill of a spew network?

I first learned of this hatchet-job obituary on Digg.com where quite a discussion string has grown throughout the day. There are people defending Lackey Rosen and Fux Spews. No, these contemptible phillistines should not be applauded or even tolerated. The only consolation is that since archivists around the world agree that this will be the least remembered era in human history -- our magnetic media is not constructed to last more than a few decades -- that Fux Spews will be recalled with all the force and clarity of the great lost nation of antiquity, Contagia. Ever hear of Contagia and its society of soccer-playing floutists?

Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.

Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., was one of the few famous people I wish I would have personally met. There are many artists whose work means much to me -- Van Morrison, Robert Redford, Jane Fonda, Neil Young -- whom I have no desire to meet. Hunter S. Thompson was the leader in that category while alive. It was often entertaining reading about his antics, but I never wanted to be within a thousand miles of the man.

It was different with Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., whom I always thought of simply as Vonnegut.

Slaughterhouse Five was the first Vonnegut novel I ever read. After the first twenty pages, I thought it was a terrible book. The narrative was nothing more than the author speaking directly to the reader. I was such a stranger to art in my early days that I had no clue that this would, actually, become one of the aspects of Vonnegut's writing that I would most love.

Reading Kurt Vonnegut made me feel better about not knowing what I was doing when attempting my own writing. Vonnegut kept his insecurities in the foreground as his genius powered his work in the background. The second Vonnegut novel I read was Mother Night. Of course my underdeveloped sense of appreciation for subtlety and artfulness was momentarily unimpressed by the book's simplicity. But as the plot unfolded, I remember being knocked out of my chair by the story. When I finished reading the book, I was hooked.

This hasn't kept me from doubting Vonnegut on occasion. I continue to doubt him when trying to get through Hocus Pocus. I doubted him mightly at times in Galapagos and Dead-Eye Dick. As Vonnegut would readily admit: Nobody is perfect -- the writer nor the reader.

On my first visit to Ireland when I was twenty years old, I had limited space among my possessions, but still brought along Vonnegut's collection of short stories, Welcome to the Monkey House. The story "Long Walk to Forever" was like a lightning strike inside of me. And the distraction was very welcome, as I gone to Dublin simply to go to Dublin, and within hours of arriving wondered just what the hell I was doing so far away from home. It worked out in the end.

Years later, while living in Ireland, a good friend came to visit. The day before he left, he bought me a book as a gift to say thanks for having him over. Saying thanks to me! I was so gratified having my friend with me for two weeks that I took him out, got drunk and vomited on his shoes. The book my friend bought me was Vonnegut's last novel, Timequake. The novel is not considered one of Vonnegut's best, though it's among my favorites. It's so flawed and Vonnegut was so upfront about its flaws -- mitigating for them with wonderful updates on the actual people who had populated his previous books. There was nothing more heartrending than reading Vonnegut's beloved, revered brother, Bernie, had died at the age of eighty-six. I reread Timequake last year and it has held up marvelously.

I saw Vonnegut when he appeared on The Daily Show last year. It was terrible seeing how feeble and aged Vonnegut had become; how miserably out of breath he was. But he proved the youth and vigor of his ideas, the still-polished-chrome of his humor. He was as relevant that day as when Slaughterhouse Five hit the bestseller lists in 1969.

Last year I read Player Piano, The Sirens of Titan, and Slapstick for the first time. I've owned strange little hardback editions of these books for years, found in the early 1990s in a Detroit used bookstore. I had started the novels numerous times, but set them aside for something else. But last year I was determined to give them one final try. All three were wonderful. Vonnegut the short story writer was much more in evidence in the first two novels, both written early in his career. They are very tight and to-the-point. The humor is more subtle in those. By the time of Slapstick Vonnegut was much looser on the page.

In 1992, I did a "directed reading" in the English department of the University of Windsor. I had dropped a creative writing course and wanted to make up the credit. My directed reading centered on Vonnegut's Cat's Cradle, Mother Night and God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater. My professor -- a Vonnegut-esque character in his own right; a sweetly morose poet who watched The Simpsons and flipped through his wife's Victoria's Secret catalog when not perpetrating academics -- really bailed me out consenting to lead my directed reading. At that time in my life I was living with a girlfriend in a rented room in a shitty house. I sat in the dank, foot-smelling living room with my books and photocopies of articles about Vonnegut from The Dictionary of Literary Biography.

While writing my paper on those three novels, I had the distinct impression that Vonnegut would have been embarrassed for me. Vonnegut, himself, only ever read for pleasure. He never sought to prove he understood a book by writing about it. That's just what I was doing. By it was one of the few truly pleasurable assignments of my academic career. So much so that the latent Catholic in me felt a little guilty about the whole thing.

Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., has died and I have yet to read "So it goes" in any of his obituraries. I hope I don't read that anywhere. The loss of Vonnegut is immense. For all of the turmoil and triumph in his life, he is one of the few people I've encountered -- personaly or via their work -- who communicated true values all human beings could live by. He was no preacher, no prosletyzer, he was just very wise and equally humble. One of my favorite quotes of Vonnegut's comes from his novel God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater:

"Hello, babies. Welcome to Earth. It's hot in the summer and cold in the winter. It's round and wet and crowded. At the outside, babies, you've got about a hundred years here. There's only one rule that I know of, babies — 'God damn it, you've got to be kind.'"

Don Imus: There's no There There

I've heard the name "Don Imus" here and there over the years, getting himself into the news on the rare occasion by saying something terrible on his radio show. I never found the quotes attributed to him interesting enough to check him out, but during a recent vacation to Florida I watched his radio show (a bizarre concept in and of itself) on MSNBC. What I found was a ridiculous muttering man propped up at a microphone, his drawn face looking like the wax melting from the skull of museum dummy, with an even more ridiculous cowboy hat perched on his head and his beyond-ridiculous moppy hair sticking out from underneath. He carried on a banal repartee with a Paul Schafer wannabe in the studio. The rest of the assorted crew laughed intermittently when nothing funny was said. Then, every once in a while the camera would center on Imus who made an awkward gesture at the viewing audience with a gnarled finger, ushering in a procession of commercials. He does this to let the viewing audience know he hasn't expired utterly at the microphone. He's merely in a functioning coma, not rigor mortis.

What did Imus talk about on his show while I watched? Nothing that I can remember. Being fluent in English, I easily deciphered his affected mumbling; I understood the words that came out of his mouth. They simply did not engage me on any level, either positively or negatively. In fact, Imus was intensely more dull than the commercials that bookended his show.

Years ago, I saw an interview with Don Imus. I forget what the occasion was or who conduted the interviewer. But there sat Don Imus before the camera with a distinct expression of tharn in his muddled gaze -- deer-trapped-in-headlights expression. He muttered one-word answers to the interviewer as though he was from some other culture and had no concept of being asked questions by a stranger while being filmed. He seemed stunned and slow-witted, possibly hungover. At one point, the interviewer asked Imus if there was anyone in the world he loved. It seemed a stupid question, a softball lob that a more thorny and alert personality would have leapt all over. But Imus just stared warily into the camera like a rancher in 1903 regarding a bank manager. He muttered without moving his lips, "Ma-brudder." Don Imus loves his brother. It was a strange, humanizing moment -- a moment in which Imus needed to humanize himself because up until then he seemed like some inflated something that was merely losing air.

So, Don Imus, alleged titan of morning radio, recently uttered racials slurs. In typical Imus form, these comments were of a dull, inelegant nature -- not that there is an elegant way in which a person can reveal himself to be a racist. The words fell from his mouth with the muted thud of turds landing on a tiled floor. "Nappy headed hos" Imus called the girls of the Rutugers womens basketball team. For a man who's made a career out of saying terrible things, this observation of his was not only terrible, but launched at a completely undeserving target. Damn right, Imus should be fired. From what I saw and heard of him, how is it that he's still employed?

Good on Al Sharpton pulling Imus' pants down about this. Unfortunately, given the elaborate slickness -- and laughable pointlessness -- of the televised version of Imus' show there's clearly too much money in the man (how? why? who the hell knows!) for him to be fired. Hence the flaccid slap on the wrist his employer gave him -- a two week suspension. Lying in bed at home or sitting before the microphone in that science fiction radio studio, I don't think Imus will really know the difference. There's no there there. Which makes him a hard target to wring any justice from.

Ah, Good Friday & Crucifixon Hangover

Easter weekend is one of my favorite weekends of the year. I'm blogging right now on my Blackberry from the bright lights of the Philipines. I've come to be crucified -- you know, they have this fantastic tourist-draw in which pilgrims are nailed to actual crosses with actual nails by guys with actual hammers -- and I'm currently waiting in line for my turn. It seemed uncouth to bring a book to read in line (other than the Bible, that is) so I'm covertly blogging. There's enough commotion around me -- hordes of self-flaggelators, rosary-praying pilgrims and, of course, the monstrous screams from the people currently being crucified -- to distract people from noticing me. Truthfully? I can't abide their screams. Either be crucified like a man -- quiet and dignified, like Jesus -- or fuck off and stay home and watch The Song of Bernadette on AMC.

Anyhow, while waiting for my turn under the hammer, I wanted to blog about something I've been thinking about lately:

Global warming and why is it that religious people absolutely refuse to acknowledge such a thing exists? The other day our local weather man was saying as a lead-in to his forecast that there have been other warming periods in the history of the world that were not caused by man. Interesting. I'd like to read more about that. But until then, how can anyone dispute that our factories and cars and all the shit they spew into the air isn't having a negative effect on the world that sustains us? I'm no alarmist and I'm certainly no activist. When I heard the latest about the melting icecaps, I thought, "Well, at least we don't have to worry about them getting so large as to spin the world the wrong way on its axis." I guess that happened millennia ago -- archaeologists have found wooly mammoths under arctic ice with wild flowers undigested in their stomachs, suggesting that the wooly mammoths had gone from a warm climate to a cold one in a very, very short time.

Regarding global warming, my born-again Christian neighbor said to me, "Well, I believe that god has a plan." By that reasoning, I ought to go out and become a heroin addict, shoplift and shoot-up the rest of my life because what's the point in exercising freewill? God has a plan. Like most things my born-again neighbor has said to me, I think this is bullshit.

So, is this the reason global warming can't exist -- even though it's quite apparent that it does? Because god has a plan?

There were a couple of other things that I wanted to air, but my turn has come in line. Have a great Easter! I know that I will.

Crucifixon Hangover
I'm blogging from the Philipines with my Blackberry on voice-recognition mode. It hangs around my neck like Soap on a Rope.

Before coming here, my chiropractor gave me a schematic made from an x-ray of my hands. He marked up the image to show where the nail was to be hammered through me in order not to aggravate my carpal tunnel syndrome. When my turn came to be crucified, I handed the schematic to my hammer-er. The bastard wiped the sweat from his forehead with it, then pounded me onto the cross. I'm no chiropractor, but I think he did less than a delicate job of it.

My first impression upon being crucified -- as my cross and I were raised into an upright position -- was an overwhelming sense of being a piece of furniture. I wished I had brought windchimes to hang off the ends of the crossbeam.

My cross faced the direction opposite to that from which I entered the crucifixion area. And so it was more than a little disheartening to see hotdog and ice cream stands over there. And a souvenir shop called St. Martin's Souvenirs. I'd had lasik eye surgery not long before my overseas trip and I saw quite clearly the Padre Pia placemats and plastic Jesus statues displayed in the front windows. There were candles of every size for sale. Figures of saints and angels were lined up like superheroes, and holy water receptacles with the images of peoples' favorite saints or biblical figures on them.

The sight of all this shit was like an electric charge in the nails piercing my hands and feet.

I thought about how much money I spent on my plane ticket to the Philipines, taxi fare from the airport, the clothes I wore that were ruined with blood stains. And I wondered what kind of long weekend I could have had in Las Vegas for the same amount of money -- and no wounds to slow me down at my keyboard.

As I sit in this train station, dictating on my Blackberry, my hands wrapped in Shroud of Turin dishtowels, I'm beginning to think that this is one of the stupidest vacations I've ever taken. Christ, my hands are so fucked up, I couldn't even unwrap a chocolate egg if any of the unsmiling people around me offered one.

The Doors after Jim Morrison: "Other Voices"

With a personality like Jim Morrison fronting the band, there's little wonder that the intensely brilliant musicianship of Ray Manzarek, John Densmore and Robby Krieger was often eclipsed by his looming figure. Once Morrison was dead, in July 1971, there must have seemed little point in the trio continuing. Luckily, however, they did continue as a band, recording Other Voices and Full Circle.

When I first read about these albums in Danny Sugerman and Jerry Hopkins' biography of Jim Morrison No One Here Gets Out Alive, my first thought was, "Damn, how depressing must that have been, going into the studio with Jim Morrison dead and buried in France?" But hearing both albums, now, my verdict is that I'm thrilled the remaining Doors continued to record. The demise of Morrison (rumors of him having faked his death aside) following the release of the astonishing L.A. Woman LP was the height of anti-climax -- or, maybe just too pat an ending to this real-life story.

By December 1971, The Doors as a trio released Other Voices:


1. "In the Eye of the Sun" – 4:48
2. "Variety Is the Spice of Life" – 2:50
3. "Ships With Sails" – 7:38
4. "Tightrope Ride" – 4:15
5. "Down on the Farm" – 4:15
6. "I'm Horny, I'm Stoned" – 3:55
7. "Wandering Musician" – 6:25
8. "Hang on to Your Life" – 5:36


Without Jim Morrison at the lyric and vocal helm, it's fair for the passing music fan to wonder, "What's the point?" Well, the point is that The Doors, musically, had much life left in them after July 1971.

The first track of the album, "In the Eye of the Sun," is a rock/blues fusion with Ray Manzarek on vocals. Musically, most of the tracks are absolutely amazing in the breath of sonic landscape they cover. Think of the numerous changes of mood and tempo in the song "L.A. Woman," and multiply that by three or five.

The lyrics throughout the album tend toward the crackpot mystical. I didn't detect any outright attempts to imitate Morrison's style; maybe that pseudo-L.A. mysticisim was more a product of the times.

"Variety is the Spice of Life" is sung by Robby Krieger, and sadly, the song is as lame as its title. Regardless of how weak or strong the vocal performances are (and they never rise far beyond weak), Krieger's guitar work mesmerizes. The man seems wonderfully incapable of repeating himself.

"Ships with Sails," musically, is classic Doors. Robby Krieger's guitar is reminiscent of "Love Street," "Blue Monday" and "Indian Summer." There is a stand-up bass played alongside Manzarek's subdued "Riders on the Storm" keyboards, which makes for a wonderfully atmospheric piece.

"Tighrope Ride" is a great little upbeat rock 'n' roll song that might really have turned into something with Jim Morrison at the microphone and handling the lyrics. Still, very much worth hearing. Manzarek, whose vocals are pretty lousy throughout the album, comes as close to singing well on this track.

"Down on the Farm" is another wonderful moody track that adds xylophone to the sonic mix. This is one of the songs that morphs and transitions through an improbable series of sound textures -- from hypnotic, drugged-out L.A. nodding-off in the sunset into jughead country hick twanging, from which the song draws its title.

If you've ever tried downloading rare Doors tracks you might have run into "I'm Horny, I'm Stoned." It's an upbeat sort of throwaway song sung by Robby Krieger. On its own, hearing it for the first time in 2001, I thought it an interesting novelty track that didn't hold anything beyond the first listening. But on this album it's a bit more of a kick.

"Wandering Musician" begins with slow, meditative keyboards that build into something rock steady and quite beautiful. As the track unfolds, Ray Manzarek's genius for invention is on full display. Nowhere on the album do The Doors attempt to recreate the past. These tracks are fresh compositions. Had the tracks been allowed to flourish as instrumentals, it would have been interesting what directions they might have taken not being hemmed in by lyrics.

"Hang on to Your Life" is upbeat, with a livelier performance from John Densmore than anywhere else on the album. Robby Krieger, once more, is in flying form with one fresh, signature Doors lick after another. This is a jazzier song in which each musician has truly shown up to play. Their inventiveness as a trio is painfully evident -- painfully, because the tragedy of The Doors' story is that neither this, nor their next album got much notice before utterly fading away.

There are no odes to Jim Morrison on the album. His absence is a gaping blackhole -- no sense drawing even more attention to that fact. For as blinding and impressive as the musicianship is here, The Doors were really not The Doors without Morrison. Manzarek and Krieger make their attempts on vocals, but I think this album might have been much better had it been conceived as straightahead instrumental. Jim Morrison was an exceptional rock 'n' roll singer and a first-rate writer of rock 'n' roll song lyrics. This album is all about the remaining Doors and the ideas they might have brought into the studio had Morrison arrived from France after the summer of '71, alive, refreshed and ready to follow-up L.A. Woman.

If you're a Jim Morrison fan, you probably won't find anything worthwhile in Other Voices because the album truly lives up to its title. For fans of The Doors' music, this will prove to be a surreal, interesting, and at times, weirdly satisfying journey through the veil of "what might have been." The imagination and talent of Jim Morrison is sorely missing, but to their credit the remaining Doors made no attempt to replace him -- either with a new vocalist or by their own efforts to round things out by writing lyrics of their own and doing vocals.

Music doesn't get much more haunting and interesting than this.

Dorian Gray rises from the dead in Windsor, Ontario

So, the bear-trap of bad luck snapped shut on my play Dorian Gray. The day before it was to be performed at the Capitol Theatre in downtown Windsor, Ontario, the theatre closed; gone bust. The official nuts-and-bolts of the story is more complex than this, but the net effect is the same.

From The Windsor Star: Capitol cancels rest of season

The Capitol’s decision leaves several community groups scrambling to find venues for their events.

Canada South Performing Arts’ production of Dorian Gray, by local writer Matthew St. Amand, was scheduled to open Saturday.

Dispatch from Florida:

A good friend suggested that my next play be a Pinter-esque slapstick comedy about trying to get a play on the stage in Windsor. This is an idea worth pursuing, but not yet. Dorian Gray refuses to die in Windsor, Ontario. A new venue has been found -- Mackenzie Hall (Mackenzie Hall, 3277 Sandwich St., box office: 519-255-7600, tickets $20)-- and the play will be performed Friday March 16th and Sunday March 18th both nights at 8 p.m..

This is the second interruption in the play's schedule. It was first set to be performed in late October 2006, but the production was postponed with slow tickets were cited as the reason. When the Capitol Theatre closed on March 9th 2007, it was, for me, like becoming a widower for the second time. I can't imagine the level of disappointment that was felt among the dedicated and talented cast and crew who had put in so many long hours of planning and preparation. But there we were, a collective groom standing at the marriage altar with a second dead bride.

But there appears to be movement beneath the death shroud covering Dorian Gray. Dorian and his story will not simply fade away.

As Oscar Wilde was personally ensnared by the mores and politics of his day, petty municipial politics in the city of Windsor (recently maligned on national television by none other than Stephen Colbert as "the worst place on earth") have nearly driven a splintered wooden stake into the heart of Dorian Gray. Nearly. But art outpaces bureaucracy every time. The Windsor beancounters have put their crooked thumbprints all over this production and are probably as satisfied with having done that to the extent that their rats' value system can feel satisfaction. But the Windsor artists have prevailed in the more important arena -- their play is going to be performed.

From the play's director, Mark Lefebvre:

Canada South Performing Arts presents

Dorian Gray

by Matthew St. Amand
adapted for the stage from the Oscar Wilde novel

The show is being moved to Mackenzie Hall due to the closure of the Capitol Theatre

New dates are Friday March 16 & Sunday March 18 both at 8 p.m.
Mackenzie Hall, 3277 Sandwich St.
Box office: 519-255-7600
Tickets $20
Limited seating

"SEE THE SHOW THE POWERS THAT BE DON'T WANT YOU TO SEE"

"CURSED? YOU DECIDE"

"THE BASIS OF OPTIMISM IS SHEER TERROR"

"ETERNAL YOUTH COMES WITH A PRICE - $20"

KruftCo

Man of the Year

I was an extra in the Robin Williams film Man of the Year. Here are a couple of screen captures of my performance.

Lost in the Speedlation

It was a mean and dissolute time for me. I was in a depression that would last years and took me months to even realize what psychological succubus enveloped me. To awkwardly quote from The Pogues song "The Sickbed of Cuchulainn" -- "There's a glass of punch below your feet and an angel at your head / There's devils on each side of you..." There were self-made devils all around of me at this time, certainly, but the angel at my head was my good friend, Speed. Born of Bavarian parentage, psychologically assembled by James Bond novels, James Brown music and the best of 1970s television viewing, he was a man for all seasons. You know that scene in the John Belushi bio pic, Wired when Bob Woodward is at Belushi's deathbed and Belushi implores him, "Breathe for me, Woodward!"? Speed breathed for me on countless occasions.

There was one of numerous nights we were at the Grad House pub making the landlord rich. A peloton of beer bottles stood on several tables that we had been pulled close together. The labels had been ripped from the bottles and on the white of their reverse sides "Suck My Kiss" had been scrawled in ballpoint pen. Then the labels had been reaffixed to several of the beer bottles. The jukebox had a stack of coins in it to keep it playing for a week, nonstop. The night was bending toward its end -- its end at the Grad House, at least. I found a fly in one of my final rye-and-gingerales.

The night of merriment had done me no good. I was weeks away from graduation and my fear and uncertainty were ascending daily to a blinding zenith.

As we consumed the drinks we had horded following "last call", I stood near some girls I didn't know conspicuously eavesdropping on their conversation. I remember a Lou Reed song played on the jukebox; guys at the pool table finished their final game; people were clearing out of the place and heading into the chill night. The girls standing near me suddenly turned in my direction, looking over my shoulder. Suddenly they smiled and laughed, and even cheered. I wondered if Angel Gabriel stood at my shoulder gesturing toward me, giving the girls the sign they'd been waiting for all night -- "This guy's OK." I turned to see if Angel Gabriel was actually there. He was not. But out of the corner of my eye I caught movement; purposeful, soulful, rhythmic, James Brown movement.

My old friend, Speed, with whom I had begun that night around noon, stood in a small open space between tables, by the front windows of the bar. Although a slow Lou Reed song droned through the Grad House, Speed found a beat in the music I am sure Lou Reed did not even know was there -- and to this mysterious, invisible sub-beat, Speed "busted" and "threw down" a series of moves that ignited the room instantaneously into uproarous shouts, cries and gasps. At one point, as the song wound down, Speed went into a contortion I was sure would send him through the front window. Instead, he spiraled into a prodigious backspin in the most narrow and forbidding of areas, bringing it to an end with an MTV pose of cocky relaxation with a hand beneath his head, his elbow resting on the floor -- looking as though he lay upon a couch watching girl-on-girl porn. The noise in the room coalesced into applause all around.

Speed had once more cast out the evil spirits.