Red State Son

Imussed

2007-04-13T10:31:00.000-04:00

"[Imus] would have to lose everything before being that honest [about his racism], and even then it might be a stretch. But that's not going to happen -- not this time around, anyway. Despite all the ass-covering, tsk-tsk rhetoric, so long as American elites want him as their court jester, Don Imus's career is not only safe, it is sanctified."

So wrote the psychic Son on Tuesday. And what happens? Imus does lose everything. Far from being sanctified, the crusty court jester's cap and bells have been taken and torched in a highly-staged act of corporate "contrition." As CBS chief Leslie Moonves piously put it to his employees, "At the end of the day, the integrity of our company and the respect that you feel for CBS becomes the most important consideration." Oh yeah. Can't you feel the moral power? The Rev. Moonves went on to say that Imus "has flourished in a culture that permits a certain level of objectionable expression that hurts and demeans a wide range of people," and that sacking him was the first step in "changing that culture, which extends far beyond the walls of our company."

Of course, Rev. Moonves didn't explain why CBS carried Imus's show for as long as it did, subsidizing countless hours of racist, sexist chatter, or why instead of just firing the old hack from the get-go, it placed Imus on a two-week suspension. But then, the road to Damascus is a winding one, and not everyone can see the hallowed light and convert at the same time.

The loss of significant ad revenue helped to clarify matters as well; and once MSNBC dropped Imus, that was it, for there was no way that CBS radio was going to be the sole hold-out. Besides, who would now appear on Imus's show and trade quips with the center of so much negative attention? More to the point, who would sponsor the show in the face of all this media-amplified hostility? I confess that I didn't see Imus getting hit this hard, but looking at the chain of events, it makes perfect sense. Mix in some high-falutin' bombast a la Leslie Moonves and the scenario is complete. In America, you can't simply say that you fucked up or tried to get away with something for as long as you could before getting slammed. That's too open-ended and morally vague. We require absolutist, hand-over-heart closures amid rippling flags and sacred light pouring down from Heaven. Most people see right through this, but expect and demand it anyway. In a nation of hypocrites, the emptiest gesture usually prevails.

So, barring a possible move to satellite radio, Don Imus is through, and we can get on with the other, many distractions from the real world that is the American way. Praise white Jesus!

If you desire some decent racial comedy, check this clip from "Hollywood Shuffle", featuring Robert Townsend:

And of course, the great Dave Chappelle, who is so well-spoken:

Especially in this scene. Imus, you haven't a fucking clue.

So It Goes

2007-04-12T09:48:00.001-04:00

Kurt Vonnegut has passed on, apparently from a brain injury caused by a fall. He was 84. No wonder he fell.

Thousands upon thousands of words will be typed and uttered on Vonnegut's behalf, most of them useless, many attaching grand themes to his work and philosophical outlook. But it's really simple: Kurt Vonnegut had a first-rate imagination, wrote clear prose, and proposed that people be kind to one another. He distrusted authority and painted those looking to rule us as clowns. He smoked for much of his adult life and did not suffer from emphysema or cancer. It happens.

Most Vonnegut fans praise "Cat's Cradle" and "Slaughterhouse-Five" as his greatest works, and indeed they are top-notch. But my sentimental favorite is "Breakfast Of Champions," a funny, tragic book that did not tickle the reviewers, and that Vonnegut himself believed to be among his lesser efforts, giving it a C. Not me -- the tangled tale of Dwayne Hoover and Kilgore Trout still resonates with me whenever I dip into it, and Trout remains my favorite fictional character in American lit, just ahead of Myra Breckinridge.

Trout was a prolific but largely-failed science fiction writer whose better stories appeared in porn mags. One I still remember was "The Smart Bunny," about a rabbit born with a human-sized brain who hops to the city to have it chopped down, given that a human brain is useless to a rabbit. On his way there he is shot and killed by a hunter, who upon noticing the rabbit's large cranium believes him to be mutated and therefore inedible. So the dead rabbit is simply thrown away. The end.

There's a lesson there for all of us, I think.

I met Vonnegut once, in 1990 at some fancy lit gathering in Indianapolis, our mutual hometown. He was nice but a bit gruff, spoke quickly and wheezed when he laughed. He also reeked of cigarette smoke. We chatted about being Hoosiers in New York, where we both lived, and agreed that New York was a great city and there was nothing like it. He then excused himself to have another smoke.

We crossed paths again, kind of, in 1995, at Terry Southern's memorial service at the Unitarian Church of All Souls on 80th and Lexington Ave. Vonnegut was one of the speakers, as was my friend Nelson Lyon, who worked with (well, propped up, actually) Southern at "SNL", and was Michael O'Donoghue's screenplay writing partner and main inspiration for the character Mr. Mike. As the service wound down, Nelson and I went outside for some air, and just to our right stood Vonnegut, alone and puffing on a butt. He stared at us intensely.

"Nels," I said in a low voice, "Kurt Vonnegut is staring at us. What should we do?"

"One writer at a time, Den!" boomed Nelson in his robust voice. "Today we honor the late Mr. Southern!"

Vonnegut didn't go to the post-memorial cocktail party at George Plimpton's apartment. At least, I didn't see him there. Maybe he was outside, smoking.

Vonnegut said that early in his career, he almost became a writer for Bob and Ray, but didn't feel he was funny enough. Herman Wouk once wrote for Fred Allen, and I don't recall "The Caine Mutiny" to be a laff-fest. There are worse pairings. I think Vonnegut would've done fine. But we'll never know.

Kurt Vonnegut was a free thinker, an atheist who believed that instead of the Ten Commandments, public buildings and courtrooms should display the Sermon on the Mount. At the height of his lit fame, he said that he wrote as simply as he could so that his ideas could be grasped by Generals in the Pentagon. He cracked wise to the end, and now he's dead.

So it goes.

Bad Boy Inc.

2007-04-10T11:57:00.000-04:00

At our weekly political meeting at FAIR, where the group's business was discussed and our radio show planned out, items from the corporate press were tossed around, analyzed, critiqued. One week, someone submitted an editorial cartoon showing stereotypical black people dancing in a rain of welfare money, and we were trying to decide whether this was a racist cartoon, or a parody of racist images. When the strip was passed to me, I studied it for a moment, then shook my head slowly and said, "Well, one thing's for sure -- those are some crazy, shiftless Negroes."

The white people, who made up the majority of the meeting, froze, their faces slowly turning toward the two African-American interns to see what damage Mr. Loose Cannon wreaked this time. But the interns, a female and male, laughed, as did another staffer who happened to be Indian. My radio partner (a lesbian, since I'm categorizing here) smiled and flashed me the "What am I going to do with you?" look that I often received from her. Only then did the white folk relax a bit. After all, if the black kids were cool with it, then my crack must've been funny. Or something.

In retrospect, the "shiftless Negroes" line wasn't all that great. It was a sarcastic riff on a ridiculous image, whatever the editorial intent. But the fact that a white lefty didn't fear offending young black lefties cut through the unspoken tension that hung over the office. White guilt can become so self-consuming that the only "acceptable" means of communication to those of darker hues is a rigid condescension and humorless deference, which of course is insulting to any thinking person. My crack didn't tip-toe around racist thinking -- it lambasted it using its own language. (Also, the interns were used to me popping off one-liners, talking in different accents, and doing celebrity impressions. That context helped.) But white people trying to ridicule racism up-close risks all manner of misinterpretation. It's a very fine line, and as with all humor, a very subjective, touchy business.

None of this applies to Don Imus. Anyone with even a passing knowledge of his shtick knows that the I-man and his crew revel in mocking African-Americans, Arabs, queers, women, or anyone else who isn't an aging, craggy white man. Imus's latest outrage, calling the Rutgers women's basketball team "nappy-headed hos," is all over the media, and while Imus professes guilt through stupidity, this racial scandal is a PR goldmine for him and his show. I mean, when was the last time Imus got this much attention? Yes, it's negative attention, but this is America, where publicity conquers all. And that Imus's "punishment" is two-weeks off the air tells us, as if we don't already know, that the corporate honchos at MSNBC and WFAN appreciate Imus's commercial "edge," and this suspension merely sharpens his brand. The old man is still a Bad Boy. A very naughty, profitable boy at that.

Public contrition is another regular American feature, and Imus played his part yesterday by appearing on Al Sharpton's radio show. The Rev. Al is no stranger to the media spotlight himself, and Imus's remarks serves his celebrity as well. Their conversation made for great radio, for here were two serious media pros playing this controversy for all it was worth. Each knows his role and performed accordingly. It couldn't have been better scripted. Imus knew that whatever punishment he would receive, it wouldn't end his career (far from it). Rev. Al knew and still knows that his calls for Imus to be permanently removed from the airwaves is a pipe dream, so Imus will remain a target of his broadcast ire, as will Imus's soft-on-racism bosses. Win/win all around. And while some legitimate points were raised during the show (Imus would never consistently refer to Jews the way he does to blacks), the noise level owed more to Jerry Springer than to a serious discussion of racism in the media. But then, that's showbiz.

I can't remember ever finding Imus funny, but I did yesterday as he informed Rev. Al of his charitable work for African-American children with sickle cell anemia and cancer. When Imus thundered to Rev. Al's guest, Bryan Monroe of the National Association of Black Journalists, "I bet I've slept in a house with more black children who were not related to me than you have!", I thought, man, that's not only a crazy statement, but a shameless one, too. Imus tried to water down his racist remarks by hiding behind sick and dying black children. And that he did so as the only white person on an African-American radio show was so twisted and absurd that I broke down laughing. If only "SNL" took those kind of chances.

Were Imus genuinely serious about dissecting his racial humor, he would have to admit that as a white person, especially of his generation, he was raised on racist imagery which molded his thinking about black people in general, as is obvious whenever he and his cronies cackle about "nappy-heads" and the like. There is nothing in his humor that attacks racist assumptions, for racist assumptions are the basis of his humor. Thus, he can't use the "satire" defense when caught spewing the garbage that is his act. All white people hold racist assumptions of some kind; we've been conditioned to do so, though, hopefully, this diminishes with each succeeding generation. If Imus copped to this and said, "Look, I've got a lot of racial stereotypes in my head, and I think they're funny. That may be sick, but it's the truth", then we'd be getting somewhere. But clearly, Imus isn't interested in that kind of confession, not while he still has a public platform and is backed by heavy-hitters in the media and politics. He would have to lose everything before being that honest, and even then it might be a stretch. But that's not going to happen -- not this time around, anyway. Despite all the ass-covering, tsk-tsk rhetoric, so long as American elites want him as their court jester, Don Imus's career is not only safe, it is sanctified.

ALSO: My pal Louis Proyect, who somehow manages to listen to Imus, weighs in on the controversy.

No Comment

2007-04-09T10:34:00.002-04:00

Should there be a general, civil code of online commentary? Can there ever be a shared perspective on what constitutes "civil" exchanges? The bloggyworld is presently wrestling with these and related questions, which were given prominent play in this morning's New York Times. Fortunately for the Son, none of this applies to me. It's like watching a bunch of Speech Club wonks drafting constitutions that only apply or appeal to their little circles, while bloggers like me are off to the side draining beers and chuckling at the ruckus.

Actually, it's incorrect to label the Son a blog. I'm not part of any online tribe, party apparatus, ideological clique, or cool kids club. I'm always happy when someone links to one of my posts or blogrolls me. It's nice to be appreciated. But what is considered the blogosphere has very little effect on what I write. Age has a lot to do with this; temperament, too. While I love the widespread, direct access the Web provides, which truly is a revolution in human communication, I see no point in erecting structures that essentially limit what one can say to another based on political affiliation or outlook, which is really what these proposed "civil" codes are all about. Abusive, even threatening, comments or blogposts are being used to help harden ideological boundaries, for there are those who believe that sharp political disagreement with a certain host's stated views is a form of abuse, which in turn generates genuine abuse and nastiness, and soon becomes a flame war.

We've all seen this. Goes on all the time. Before I started the Son, and a few months into the project, I visited some of the more popular liberal sites and commented under a pseudonym just to get a feel for the crowd. The political statements I made were pretty much my own, with a few theatrical embellishments here and there, but nothing false or outlandish. Needless to say I was swamped with hostility from a given blog's regulars, especially if I said anything critical about the Holy Clintons or President-In-Exile Al Gore. I would try to reason with some of these people, but usually it was a lost cause. The Dems are the final word in human decency, and if one critiques the final word in human decency, then that person is indecent and worthy of abuse. If you doubt this is the general tone, take some of my arguments and post them at Daily Kos, Atrios, or Firedoglake, and see what you get in return.

This is why I don't have comments at the Son. I have no interest, much less the time, to oversee and referee those looking to burn down a thread with whatever is sizzling in their brains. If people wish to react to something I've written, pro or con, they are free to email me and I'll usually respond (though with my readership climbing, it takes me a few days to get through my mail), depending on the intelligence of the reader or the relevance of his or her comment. I've had some pretty stupid people email me with all manner of bait, and by not having a comment thread, their idiocy doesn't muck up the Son's home page. Only I see it, and trust me, I'm doing you all a favor by keeping it off the main stage. There's room for only one raving nut at the Son, and that's me.

Live With Us In Forests Of Azure

2007-04-05T11:58:00.000-04:00

Some days it pays to start drinking early, and keep drinking until bedtime. This, so far, is decidedly one of those days, but familial responsibilities prevent me from getting hammered and listening to loud, annoying music at brain lesion levels. So instead, I'll bitch and rant at you good people. I'm sure you won't mind.

Flipping through the cable news nets this morning meant endless chatter about the 15 British Royal Navy and Marine personnel just released by Iran. Now, I know this is the story of the day, and it will be interesting to hear from the servicepeople just how well they were actually treated by their captors. But some of the anchor and pundit reactions to their release brought new meaning to self pity, when they weren't waxing sanctimonious about our "superior" values. And naturally, there was the standard ignorance, as when a reporter for Rupert Murdoch's Sky News, being simulcast on Murdoch's Fox News, spoke about the horror that Kaye Turney must have endured when forced to wear that "Arab get-up" of a scarf on her head. Thing is, Iranians are largely Persian, not Arab. But for devoted viewers of Murdoch's channels, those goat fuckers are all the same -- Arab, Persian, Klingon, whatever. Just bomb the bastards already. Christ, what are we -- pussy faggots or something?

Think I exaggerate? Following the idiotic Sky segment was the ubiquitous William Kristol of the Weekly Standard. Kristol is one of those "Downfall" bunker-types, like Hitchens, who still think the Iraq war is going quite well, more or less. But today, Kristol was sullen. Seems the West has been bitch-slapped by the shifty Iranians, while Nancy Pelosi went Neville Chamberlain with Syria's Bashar al-Assad, and no one is doing anything about it! Clearly, seeing this mini-crisis end peacefully, with no apparent signs that the British personnel were tortured, hurts Kristol no end. Wimp sadists like him get off on imperial violence, so long as he's not on the frontlines, of course. That Iranian cities weren't hit with cluster bombs is a clear sign that the West is losing its nerve. As I watched this sack of shit drone on about reprisals and the like, I thought how pleasing it would be to break his knees with an aluminum bat. THWACKK! THWACKK! "How's that workin' for ya, Bill?" But being a self-hating Western pussy faggot, I immediately erased this image from my mind, and looked to the glorious day when Americans are speaking Farsi under the North American Caliphate.

My liberal friends must be saying, "But Dennis, those are rightwingers. What do you expect?" And they would be right -- no one forced me to watch Fox, so I got what I deserved. But when driving the teen to school right after this, I tuned to the local "progressive" radio station to catch Stephanie Miller's noise machine that passes for a liberal talk show. I have to hand it to Miller and her colleagues -- they don't waste a second of airtime. Every instant is crammed with cackles, crashes, explosions, sirens, buzzers, bells, rim shots, cement blocks falling on high school marching bands, and God knows what else. Then there's the comedy, which I'm guessing is pre-written, but it's hard to tell, given how horribly mangled the bits often are. Miller apparently loves ethnic humor, since everytime I listen to her show someone is speaking in funny fer-ign accents. Today was a two-fer -- first, an extended Kim Jong-il routine done in a "Ah so! Me likey!" style that was so painfully bad, it would embarrass Jerry Lewis.

Well, maybe not.

Then came the Mahmoud Ahmadinejad impression, which sounded more like Apu from "The Simpsons" than the actual person being lampooned. Even Miller got into the act, popping off a few "I am veddy pleased to be tanking you!" lines before guffawing at her own performance. Hey, if Miller won't laugh at her own stuff, who will?

I have to keep reminding myself that Anne Beatts once wrote for this woman. It's a long way down from working with O'Donoghue, Gilda Radner, and John Belushi. Did I happen to mention that American comedy is in a regressive stage?

As Rodney Dangerfield would say to Johnny Carson after doing his five minutes of panel jokes, "That's it." Enjoy your day -- stay away from TV and radio!

Weather Vain

2007-04-04T12:00:00.000-04:00

Lots of libs and lefties like to Weather bash, which is fine, as those who engaged in domestic bombing campaigns did more than damage property -- they helped to kill what remained of the anti-Vietnam war movement. Former Weather member Mark Rudd said that the group essentially did the FBI's job for them, and he's right. Blowing up buildings in a largely apolitical country with no mass support among the populace was politically narcissistic and strategically dumb. Weather's violence owed more to Dadaism than to revolutionary struggle, and if it hadn't helped to strengthen and further legitimize the state, Weather might be seen today as an interesting, if ridiculous and dangerous, performance art movement.

Given all that, it strikes me as strange how vehemently anti-Weather many libs remain. The resurgence of the Students for a Democratic Society, from whence Weather emerged in 1969, has reignited Weather hate, as seen in this Nation piece and at Crooked Timber. (Max Sawicky takes a saner tone.) This pronounced disgust seems more like a "rational" pose, the price of admission to "serious" dialogue about the new SDS, and little more. Not one of these libs, so far as I've seen, will ever admit to getting so frustrated and angry with the imperialist state that they fantasize about blowing up some symbol of violence and oppression, for such fantasies are sick if not fascistic. Well, call me a twisted Nazi, but there have been plenty of times in the past 25 years when, after reading about or watching my tax dollars slaughter poor people, I had visions of blasting corporate headquarters' to the sky, so long as the buildings were empty, of course. Even in my head, I had no desire to kill strangers, regardless of their complicity in mass murder and starvation. And that included war criminals like Jeane Kirkpatrick, Elliott Abrams, and Caspar Weinberger. Tar and feathering, yes; but murder? No.

Many years ago on a Brooklyn street, I shared this view with a writer for The Nation whom I knew for a time. He looked at me as if I'd puked on his shirt. "How can you say that, Dennis!" he said, scrunching his face. "That's Weather Underground bullshit. You're not into them, are you?" I replied that while I thought that Weather was extremely counterproductive and self-marginalizing, I did understand their urge to make bombs. Sometimes the shit gets so thick and bloody that all you can do is scream and throw dynamite. Besides, I added, there was all that free dope, acid and group sex that Weather famously engaged in.

"Wouldn't you want to fuck a young Bernadine Dohrn with a head full of good weed under a poster of Ho Chi Minh?" I asked him.

"Ewww!" he said. "No way. That's screwed up."

"Maybe. But you gotta admit, it would be fun."

The Nation lib cut short our conversation and walked swiftly down the block. Needless to say, we didn't talk again.

I don't recall if he supported NATO's bombing of Serbia, but many libs did, and those are usually the ones who are most vocal about the horrors of Weather violence. So, on the one hand, an American liberal can applaud US bombs hitting selected targets and killing civilians, then in the next breath, denounce a small collection of crazed white kids blowing up parts of empty buildings. The former is still happening, while the latter is ancient history. Pretty much sums up the liberal mindset of today, and if you think that's funny, just wait until the '08 election season really heats up! In some places, the weather never changes.

Losing Influence

2007-04-03T12:22:00.000-04:00

Couldn't sleep Sunday night (which is typical of late -- I look like a haggard lunatic in daylight), and instead of YouTubing, I remembered that C-SPAN 2 was re-running a three-hour profile of Alexander Cockburn at midnight, so I plopped on the couch and joined the show about 20 minutes in. Whatever one thinks of Cockburn, he is an entertaining figure, eloquent and glib, his right eyebrow sharply arched as he vents about whatever is thrown at him. And he did not disappoint, though it appears that age is fucking with his memory as he occasionally stumbled over names or blanked out completely. The man's entering his late-60s -- is that what awaits?

While watching Cockburn, I thought back to my initial discovery of his work in the Village Voice, around 1981 or so, and how electric his column was. I was just beginning my adult political education, so I didn't get all of Cockburn's points or references, but I instantly recognized first-rate prose and sharpened wit, and from that point on, I made it a point to read Cockburn whenever I could. By the time he landed at The Nation in 1984, after being suspended by the Voice for taking money from an Arab foundation (to write about Israel's 1982 invasion of Lebanon), Cockburn really hit his polemical stride, and within months his "Beat The Devil" column was the must-read in that dusty, liberal space. What I loved about Cockburn back then was his open, unapologetic radicalism. When he celebrated the achievements of the Sandinista revolution in Nicaragua, he did so robustly, at times putting The Nation's more cautious liberals on their heels. Only Christopher Hitchens kept up with him on the column front, while regular contributors like Holly Sklar fleshed out Cockburn's themes in longer pieces. Add in Andrew Kopkind, Barbara Ehrenreich, and Robert Sherrill (whose book reviews in the mid-80s practically burned through the page), among others, and it's easy to see why The Nation was so vibrant in those days. Its editorial mix and overall attitude helped steer me away from the comedy scene and into the world of media activism, where I began to learn the basics of writing political essays. And Cockburn was my primary model.

The danger with venerating your creative influences is that, should you spend any time alone with them, you will inevitably be let down or disillusioned. This is for the best, as deification is a dead end, and those you elevate usually turn out to be assholes of one kind or another, so one should take the work on its own merits and not grasp at something that doesn't really exist. I learned this first-hand with several influential figures I've met, talked to, or gotten to know; and this was especially true with Cockburn.

In my defense, I was young. Mid-20s. Politically naive. I actually believed that the guy who wrote "Beat The Devil" would be as exciting and engaging as he was in print. But when I first met Cockburn at The Nation's offices in Manhattan, he was extremely condescending, snide, sarcastic. I left myself wide open for his hostility, smiling and turning cheek after cheek. After all, he was The Man, while I was no one, still learning about politics from the ground up. I think my enthusiasm for his work stirred in him contempt; and once he saw that I would take anything he dished out, he made cracks about my youth, my gullibility, my obvious hero worship. In retrospect, I probably had it coming, as I tended back then to gush over those who inspired me. But I also realize that Cockburn was in full control of the situation, and could've shown a bit more patience and mercy to a kid wet behind the ears. That he chose instead to make me feel like a fool suggested that perhaps Cockburn wasn't that generous a person. He seemed to get a kick out of knocking me around. But I didn't care. I thought he was the best.

In time, I learned to hit back when needed, no matter the heavy rep of the target. Not that I relished combat or sought it out, but after years of writing at various levels and in numerous forms, I felt comfortable and quite capable of defending myself, and when Cockburn and I finally clashed in the letters pages of New York Press, nothing he said, no matter how stupid, petty, or deceitful it was, got to me. Indeed, it made me laugh. He no longer was The Man, not to me, anyway. And his reliance on gutter tactics proved how dumb it was of me to venerate him in the first place. Prick a prick, and he'll bleed all over you.

Still, I agree politically with Cockburn more often than not, and share his disdain for the Dems and those liberals sworn to defend the mule. Even with our recent falling out, where he essentially ordered me to not write about Hitchens or I'd lose my Counterpunch access, I keep his site on my blogroll. He posts at least one interesting piece there a day, and once in a while, Cockburn himself brings some old heat from the days when his work had more force and reach. This occasionaly touches the younger part of me still alive -- the schmuck.

Doll Play

2007-03-29T12:53:00.000-04:00

Claim that any or all art forms have stopped evolving, or have simply died, and dozens of people will say you're full of shit -- which you may well be. I certainly don't discount that possibility in my case. There's plenty of creative expression that I've not seen or am completely ignorant of, and many of you, responding to my "Post-Meta-Feta" post, have been kind enough to school my aging ass on what you consider to be cutting, or at least interesting, musical and comedic efforts. I'm still wading through the stuff you Sonsters have forwarded (as more flows in), so it'll be a few more days before I write a follow-up to my original post. Until that glorious moment, allow me to step back a bit and give this topic a more personal context.

The other day, while scrolling about, I came across some 15-year-old kid's complaint that he has no contemporary musical influences to inspire him; that everything is by-the-numbers safe and ready for mass consumption. The kid wished that he was born in the '60s so that he could've experienced the original punk and new wave bands in real time, and not as someone else's nostalgia. While it may seem a dopey thing to wish for, I do feel for the kid (though his sentence structure is nearly non-existent, and no, not in a good, pomo way), for that was a great time, and it left an indelible mark on me, as I've written here before. One of the old bands that the kid enjoys is the New York Dolls, who were the precursors to, and in many ways the main influence on, punk itself. And while I was 13-14-years-old when the Dolls were at their hottest, I didn't know they existed until years later. Such was life in early-70s suburban Indianapolis. So, in a sense, I'm just like that kid, looking back to a sound and visual style that in its day was exciting, off-putting to stiffs, and most importantly, vital. Check out this clip of the Dolls in their prime:

For a kid like me who tried his best to dress like Ziggy Stardust, the Dolls would have been heaven. David Johannsen's Marilyn Monroe jacket combined with Johnny Thunders' hair would have made for compelling school attire, assuming I could approximate it and not be censured by the principal and faculty, as I sometimes was when wearing feather necklaces and sparkling eye liner (and don't think that studying karate at the same time didn't hurt when encountering confused, queer-phobic jocks and their minions). Had I been aware of the Dolls at that age, I would've gone apeshit for them. Musically, they weren't terribly innovative, but they had passion, verve, a theatrical flair, and a who-gives-a-fuck gender bending attitude. Bands like the Dolls were synonymous with freedom, simply because back then, there weren't that many open examples of men performing and dressing like them (Bowie excepted, of course). So I understand why that kid latches on to the Dolls, given what's on offer these days. I'd probably do the same were I him -- ah, hell, who am I kidding? I do latch on to the Dolls just as passionately as he. What's not to love?

As many of you know, a new New York Dolls is touring the world with an album of fresh material behind them. Here's Johannsen along with guitarist Sylvain Sylvain promoting "One Day It Will Please Us To Remember Even This" on a British talk show from last year. The song "Dance Like A Monkey," which appears at the end of the clip, isn't that bad, actually. I'll take an older David Johannsen over an older Mick Jagger any day. Sometimes, we aging fucks can still bring it, if only a step or two slower.

Post-Meta-Feta

2007-03-26T15:19:00.000-04:00

This is probably age talking, but as I look around our cluttered pop culture, I see nothing but retreads, meta-retro references, and post-post-you name it. Very few things startle anymore, much less come from nowhere, and this makes me glad that I don't have to write about pop cult for a living (apart from the steady paychecks, that is). What can anyone say that is new? What's more, who really cares? Interest in how art is created, much less where it comes from, keeps shrinking; and given what we are offered, that's probably just as well.

Of course, critics have long bemoaned the lack of originality in art and music: derivative efforts are always in circulation. But now, I believe we've really hit the end of the creative road, at least in the pop sphere, which is where the serious action has always been. Is there anything today that's comparable to the radicalizing effects of ragtime? jazz? rhythm and blues? country western/swing? be-bop? rock? ska? reggae? punk? hip hop/rap? The teen gets Rolling Stone, and when I read about new bands and ask her about them, she shrugs and says that they're ripping off older forms and bands, but composing nothing new or fresh. It's simply market/genre-driven imitation. And from what I've seen and heard, she's right, sadly enough. I mean, all these glam boy bands popping up? The music is stale and trite, and the look was better and more stylishly done by Bowie in '72, or even by Elton John, before he became a Vegas waxwork. Not that the teen listens to any of the new glam shit; she's currently exploring New Order and Nine Inch Nails (she thinks that Trent Reznor is a genius), which makes her old man proud.

The same is true with comedy. Who is rearranging the form, much less blasting it to bits altogether? There are some really good, first-rate comics and humorists around, but no one that I know of is bringing it from deep left field. In the 1970s and early '80s, comedy was wide open, and it was common to see a real variety of styles in the clubs and theatres, as well as on the streets. Now, comedy has been incorporated, and the chief goal is to pry safe laughter from suckers willing to pay to be patronized. Larry the Cable Guy and Dane Cook are perhaps the most prominent, profitable examples of this degradation in the stand-up realm, while "SNL" remains the top showcase of permissible, corporate-friendly "satire."

Even more distressing, as the culture grows meaner and nastier, from "reality" shows to porn, our supposed truthtellers are increasingly timid and unwilling to bash the bashers. Maybe it's a fool's errand, an unwinnable war, but then, this is an age of unwinnable wars, and what's more retro than that? Let's hope that this is simply a down time, and that seeds of a creative revolution are starting to sprout, somewhere. Without that, we're doomed to endure endless plays-upon-plays-upon-plays on expression that has no depth, no soul, and definitely no future. Maybe that's what we deserve, but unlike many other areas of life, I'm still a romantic on this front.

Weekend Viewing

2007-03-24T13:53:00.000-04:00

Deterrence Leakers (1961) -- Unemployed pool cleaner Jake Longhorn (Kyle Sweet) hits the road in search of non-chlorinated kicks, when he comes across mute Hopi puppeteers in the Arizona desert. Through pantomime and peyote, Longhorn develops strange mental powers, can levitate lizards and rocks with a nod, and is soon transformed into the Cactus King as the National Guard is put on high alert. With Sidney Feldman and Luce Frantz.

Mako Dines At Four (1953) -- Crank scientist Dr. Leroy von Quartzberg (Ed Mellon) plots revenge upon his former colleagues at the Jedidiah Institute, who rejected his radical theories about pine sniffing and sent him into exile. Von Quartzberg's plan is stymied when a wayward zeppelin crashes into the Institute, releasing millions of atomic mites from their glowing terrariums, changing the demographics of the area and wreaking havoc that only the crank scientist can quell. With Sandi Kellems, Pete Kase, and Zandar Qomm.

Felonious Is One Way Of Putting It (1969) -- Go-go dancers Patty Noone (Nell Sinder) and Jace Feller (Ida Hansel) discover a pair of oversized gila monster masks, and are mysteriously transformed into Mormon missionaries who can predict hail storms and tidal waves with unerring accuracy. Local ostrich farmers become concerned with the dancers' growing influence, and unite with a gang of disheveled Civil War buffs to stave off certain assimilation. With Carlo Muste, Tim Pradd, and Mallomar.

Count To Ten In German (1975) -- Bumbling teen violin prodigy Luke Canner (Jetsen Trille) befriends a stuttering black hooker, Jasmine Touch (Norah Foreman), and the pair bond over a two-week arson spree that leaves LA's top chefs homeless and without proper cooking utensils. Krishna booksellers take advantage of this opening, and before long most of Los Angeles is awash in pleather seat covers and coconut air fresheners. Luke and Jasmine consult a dead rabbi for help, but are lulled into a trance by vegetarian hypo-terrorists, and are sent on a suicide mission armed only with pear juice-filled balloons. With Koko Waxman, Zed Planer, and Chazz Gillespie.

IN THE QUEUE: Cassie The Playful Condor (1972); Memo To Mummyphobes (1990); Will You Please Put Down That Hammer? (1968); Verbs On Rice (1986); Credit Where Debts Are Due (1979); Return Of The Cheddar Cars (1993).

As Nature Intends

2007-03-20T14:41:00.000-04:00

There are days when I can barely take it, when I must continually fight the swelling urge to wig out, to stomp on anything breakable, to yank at my longish hair while screaming down the sidewalk, sending the housefraus and their kinder behind quickly locked doors.

This is one of those days.

I've been here many times before and can detect the symptoms fairly early on, so complete Technicolor frenzy is usually avoided. But a frazzled current runs just beneath my skin, like a flickering florescent tube in its final hours of scattered light. It's irritating as hell, but I can handle it, for the most part, anyway.

What set it off? Nothing specific, though the main trigger, I suspect, is the obscene amount of talk radio I've absorbed over the past week. One of the downsides of living in the Fat Middle is that you must drive pretty much everywhere, which alone cultivates all manner of madness, as people seem to think that they're in some rolling living room, free to act as they would at home, only on roads and freeways choked with other cars. Mix in cell phones and whatever is blasting from their speakers, and you get the swerving insanity I encounter daily. So, presumably to keep me focused, I listen to people talking about either politics or sports. Many of the hosts are ignorant enough; but it's the callers who really floor me, which is my fault, since I freely expose myself to their know-nothing craziness.

I know that intelligent, sane Americans exist, because if they didn't, this country would be in utter chaos with fires raging everywhere, cars overturned, homes broken into and looted, and countless people hanging by their necks from lightposts and traffic signals, if not simply shot in their heads. Still, this hideous scenario remains possible. Should a major societal or economic breakdown occur, we are very much fucked, if those who phone into radio shows represent the majority. Stupid doesn't come close to what these people are. Stupid I can handle. Aggressively moronic is containable as well. But paranoia, tribalism, and a seething resentment toward those who are "different" is a recipe for an American Iraq. And no, our Democratic "leaders" won't save us. Those who don't leave on private jets will probably be among the first to be strung up, assuming they don't play to the mobs and finger their colleagues and constituents instead.

Is there a place where one can find true respite from all this? I'm sure there is, but having a family means that you are part of society, no matter how much it disgusts and frightens you. After Gulf War, Act I, during which I gained over 15 pounds from gin and beer while fighting my rage and depression on the stump, I quit drinking and spent most of the following summer in a cabin near Woodstock, New York. I was dating a young political activist who was renting the place with some other lefties who came and went, leaving the two of us alone much of the time. It was great -- no TV, no computers, just lush green forest and at the top of a nearby hill, a large, deep, clear lake, in which she and I often swam naked. At night we read and listened to jazz on the radio. Although I knew that in Iraq, people were still suffering from the aftermath of the war, Saddam's bloody crackdowns, and the beginning of our murderous sanctions, I focused on losing that booze weight, clearing my head, and getting laid by a beautiful woman in her early-20s.

And she was beautiful -- tall with well-honed legs, red hair and freckles. The kind of woman that would send Robert Crumb into an erotic tizzy. Problem was, she hated her looks on political grounds, and did what she could to "de-beautify" herself: not shaving her legs or underarms; not washing her hair for days; and so on. She had been a professional teen model who worked with Brooke Shields, among others, but as she got older, she discovered radical feminism and anarchism, and when we were together, that's all she talked about. Which was fine with me. Indeed, I helped to turn her on to Emma Goldman by lending her my copies of "Living My Life," Goldman's two-volume autobiography. While my gesture was sincere, it also won me numerous brownie points, and this made that summer most pleasant. And that I didn't allow her rejection of bourgeois female beauty standards to dampen my enthusiasm for and attraction to her added to the pleasure. Besides, she was so hot, she could have amputated her legs and I still would've been all over her.

As summer came to a close, our relationship crumbled, and soon I was another patriarchal pig out to objectify and repress womyn everywhere. This angle was nourished by a very intense orgasm that I helped to give her, after which she cried, jumped out of bed, and hid in another room. She felt vulnerable and weak, and this apparently embarrassed her. When she returned, she blamed me for putting her in a compromised position.

"But, didn't that feel good?" I asked. "You were so into it."

To the contrary, she replied. I used sex as a means of control and false consciousness. I told her that while I certainly had shortcomings as a lefty man when it came to feminism, our sex was consensual and tender, and that she needn't break off with me for political reasons. Just tell me that this is over once we get back to the city, and I'm good with it. We had fun and shared some genuine laughs and passion. Why end it like the Moscow Trials? But, of course, that's pretty much how it did end. Someone had to be the Enemy of the People, so I pleaded guilty and moved on.

The lesson? Escape from madness can be wonderful and fulfilling, but it is always temporary. Plus, she never did return my Emma Goldman books. Part of my punishment, I suppose.

Run, Savage, Run

2007-03-07T12:24:00.001-05:00

There are two savage nations: the real, militarized, commodified nation of 300 million; and the Nation overseen by radio howler Michael Savage, whose nightly freak show reaches some 8 million listeners.

And I'm one of them.

Normally, rightwing radio bores me. Limbaugh, Hannity, and O'Reilly make the same barnyard noises daily, and the rubes who love them seem content with that. Predictability in the service of ratings and profits certainly has its place. But Michael Savage is something else. He claims to be a "conservative," but somehow I can't see Edmund Burke, Albert Jay Nock, or even William F. Buckley at his worst saying a portion of what Savage regularly spews over the airwaves. And that's what sets Savage apart from the standard rightwing talk format -- he doesn't mind sounding absolutely crazy, although for him, "crazy" is moderate. He goes after anyone, including Republicans, and most especially George W. Bush, whom Savage mocks as a clueless viceroy or idiot king. But these attacks come from the very far right, a place where liberalism is a mental disorder if not a disease to be wiped out, where all Muslims are potential beheaders, where "illegal" immigrants are turning the nation into mud people, and where queers are child molesters and AIDS-carriers who actively seek to destroy the heterosexual lifestyle. So of course Savage dislikes Bush and the leading GOP candidates running to replace him. They contribute to society's sickness.

Not Michael Savage. He lays it down like no one else. If you doubt his sincerity, just listen to his show for about 15 minutes. You'll hear Savage stroke his ego so vigorously that you'd swear he has his hands down his pants. And while Savage takes listener calls, no one in his Nation appreciates him the way he appreciates himself. How could they? Savage is intellectually superior to everyone, as he reminds his audience every few minutes. Even the most fawning listener tributes fall well short of Savage's throne. It's a wonder why he even bothers broadcasting.

Well, the obvious reason why Savage broadcasts is that he's making serious dough while cementing his celebrity status. Unlike Oliver North and G. Gordon Liddy, Savage has a voice made for radio. He really is a natural for the medium. North and Liddy sound tinny and screechy compared to Savage, and they cannot match his easy-listening flow of fascistic tangents and riffs. Col. Tom Parker supposedly said that if he could find a white man who could sing like a black man, he'd make millions. The Col. discovered Elvis Presley and did just that. Michael Savage clearly came upon a similar formulation: if someone with a smooth, somewhat acerbic-sounding voice could effectively and believably transmit the most vile, nativist, violent opinions nationwide, that person would easily mega-cash in. And this Savage has done and continues to do.

His audience, at least those who phone in, isn't terribly articulate or intelligent, much less acquainted with political and social reality. But they do feel threatened, cheated, scorned, and taken to the cleaners. Savage's Nation bursts with self-pity and hatred for anyone even remotely seen as "different" from Average Americans. They are natural brownshirts awaiting a Führer to articulate their confusion, idiocy, and rage, and Savage plays this role beautifully. In fact, so venerated by his Nation is Savage that when he recently announced that he was mulling whether or not to run for the GOP nomination, millions of followers went to his website to encourage his candidacy. Just last night, several callers urged Savage to run against those bleeding-hearts McCain, Romney, and Giuliani; and while Savage flirted with making a more declarative statement, he pulled back and instructed his Nation to keep voting for a possible run.

One of the obstacles Savage says he faces is, of course, the Liberal Media, which will doubtless rip him to shreds should he run. Why? Because the Liberal Media hates and fears The Truth, which Savage alone possesses. Remember, this is the same Liberal Media that gave him a TV show on MSNBC after dumping the liberal Phil Donahue for being too anti-war. That Savage ruined that opportunity by engaging in his usual queer-bashing is, I'm sure to him, further proof that the Liberal Media is out to silence him.

But if Savage really is the courageous culture warrior that he repeatedly insists he is, what better foe to engage in a presidential campaign than the Liberal Media itself? After all, the media craves "controversy," and Savage can certainly provide enough fireworks to make any debate he's part of a must-see event. This is why I back a Michael Savage for President campaign. There are millions of American fascists and nativists who lack a genuine voice at the national level, and Savage is that voice -- that is, if his viewpoints are sincerely and deeply held. If the Savage Nation is instead run by an Elmer Gantry-type adept at milking the rubes, then the man is just another con-artist who is part of the very conspiracy his character denounces every night. Either way, Michael Savage is more American than perhaps even he himself knows. Running for president would be a natural and most entertaining extension of whatever persona is truly Savage.

Pearls In The Pollution

2007-03-02T11:23:00.000-05:00

Ideologues rarely write insightful, penetrating film or arts criticism, for the obvious reason that their politics, usually party-oriented, drag their assessments down. They expect and demand that creative expression reinforce what they see as The Truth, and any deviation from that gets slammed as a weak-kneed distraction. This is evident across the ideological divide, but today I'm thinking about the film reviews posted at the World Socialist Web Site, primarily those written by David Walsh, a favorite in several lefty circles.

Stylistically, no one will confuse Walsh for James Agee, still the best American film critic, in my opinion. Agee, for all of his shortcomings and faults, cast a decidedly human eye on what was being screened, and connected it to the wider world with a socially-conscious passion and empathy that obliterated party lines, which in his time were much more powerful than now. One finds the humane in Walsh's work as well, but it is surrounded by and tangled with so much overt political posturing that his critical perception is forced to wave a fist and demand revolution as an answer to social ills screened and unscreened. Everything gets boiled down to polemics, which is the antithesis of effective criticism. Still, many of Walsh's arguments are accurate if stiffly expressed; and his recent piece about last Sunday's Academy Awards ceremony raised points that, while obvious to some, needed to be made amid the glitter and the pomp. As Walsh put it:

"The overriding impression left by the evening at the Kodak Theatre on Hollywood Boulevard is of a group of people far removed from the realities of American or global life. Wealthy, insulated and self-involved to an unhealthy degree, the Hollywood elite is not in any position to make serious or profound judgments on much of anything. And their lack of perspective extends to themselves and the awards program. Anyone with a reasonable degree of objectivity would recognize the largely limp and pointless character of the annual ceremony."

Walsh rightly decried Hollywood's coronation of Al Gore, whose film "An Inconvenient Truth" not only won for Best Documentary, but served as the sole political theme for the night. While environmental devastation is certainly a vital topic (though in Gore's case, the corporate structure responsible for much of it is largely let off the hook in favor of pushing consumers to take "individual" action), Walsh reminded us that another form of devastation is currently taking place:

"In fact, the truly 'inconvenient truth' of the evening, so inconvenient that no one referred to it, is the ongoing murderous occupation of Iraq, as well as the plans for a massive American-led assault on Iran. None of the words 'Iraq,' 'Iran,' 'Bush' or 'Cheney' passed any lips once during the ceremony. The US is undergoing an unprecedented political crisis as a result of the disaster in Iraq, and that went entirely unmentioned. In general, one would have obtained almost no sense of contemporary American life, or its more complex and painful aspects, from the awards ceremony."

To be expected, especially with the prospect of a Democratic presidency in '08, another reality that Walsh also mentioned. From Nancy Pelosi taking impeachment off the table after the mid-term elections, to the present waffling and foot-shuffling by Congressional and Senate Dems over Iraq, the overall "liberal" mood is one of moderation in the face of mass murder and corruption; "realism" over aggressive engagement. While libloggers and the more professional Weblibs make varied "antiwar" noises from below, the party to whom they pledge allegiance is in no hurry to deal with the ongoing madness and misery. Indeed, the Dems are feeding the death machine, and there is little indication that the mule team will oppose any attack on Iran -- quite the opposite, in fact. So it's really no surprise that the Hollywood elite, which is predominately Dem-oriented, would allow antiwar expression to sully its annual extravaganza.

Yet, despite this open, calculated cowardice, certain mainstream Hollywood releases have helped to undermine the larger political narrative. Steven Spielberg's "Munich" was one (which I noted in this space last year), and more recently, Clint Eastwood's rather dark takes on World War II, "Flags Of Our Fathers" and "Letters From Iwo Jima". I have yet to see "Letters" (though it sits atop our Netflix queue), but from what I've read and heard from friends, it apparently is an antiwar masterwork. And that it is seen from the perspective of soldiers in Japan's imperial Army, perhaps the most hated enemy the US has ever engaged (compare the extremely racist depictions of the Japanese to the buffoonish Germans or strutting Italians in American pop culture of that period), is something to positively note, if not celebrate. I'll know more once I see the film. But I did recently watch "Flags Of Our Fathers", and while I expected to find it of interest, I wasn't ready for the punch it packs.

I'm sure many of you have seen "Flags" or know of its plot, so I won't belabor it here. Eastwood has chipped further away at the Good War mythology, going much deeper than did Terrence Malick in "The Thin Red Line", an elegant film that suffered unfair if inevitable comparisons to Spielberg's "Saving Private Ryan", which also appeared in the Summer of '98. In a sense, Malick set the table for Eastwood, who pushes our faces directly into the savagery of the Pacific War, and the political hypocrisy and racism on the American homefront. Eastwood's battle scenes make the opening of "Saving Private Ryan" look like "Pauline At The Beach". And his portrayal of the corrupt spirit behind the "war effort" is unflinching and at times painful to witness. Frankly, I was floored by "Flags" and highly recommend it. And if, as some have suggested, it is the "lesser" of Eastwood's twin films, then I cannot imagine what awaits me in "Letters From Iwo Jima".

Some of my political friends lack my enthusiasm for these types of films, especially when made by mainstream directors. To them, these efforts don't go far enough, aren't sufficiently "radical" in spirit or execution, or gloss over or omit key historical moments. In many cases, my friends are correct: most Hollywood offerings are shitty and tame, meant to reinforce tired plotlines rather than engage or challenge audiences. We all know that. But because of the power films have over the populace, certain themes can be transmitted in ways that direct political expression cannot. Clint Eastwood's war movies are contemporary examples of this; but I recall how a particular mainstream Hollywood film softened the fear and hatred in someone I personally knew.

A relative of mine through marriage was one of the most queer-phobic men I had ever encountered. He not only hated "fags," he was convinced that they actively recruited children to become "like them," and all the rest of that ignorant bullshit. He and I had many arguments over this, usually while drinking, and no matter how delicately I pushed a specific point, or how easily I countered his bizarre reasoning, he still loathed gay men. Then Jonathan Demme's "Philadelphia" was released, starring the very mainstream Tom Hanks as a gay man with AIDS who faces not only death, but professional discrimination. After seeing this, my relative's views about queers changed -- not completely, not to the marrow, but his once rancid outlook was decidedly altered. Tom Hanks, being recognizable and thus safe, gave my relative permission to be empathetic, and I never again heard him utter the simplistic bile that casually came out of his mouth.

When discussing "Philadelphia" with a member of Act Up! back in New York, I mentioned the above anecdote after listening to his political criticism of Demme's film. "Movies like that aren't meant for us," I said, "they're meant for people like my relative." The activist took this in for a moment, and cautiously agreed. He still had ideological problems with "Philadelphia", but if it helped to eliminate queer-hatred in the heartland, then the movie served a larger purpose.

The same goes for films like "Munich" and "Flags Of Our Fathers". The mainstream may be largely polluted, but it holds the biggest audience; and any effort that can help drain some of this pollution while opening once-closed eyes should be supported or at least acknowledged. Whatever works.

Campaign Snapshots

2007-02-28T12:00:00.001-05:00

To show that she is qualified to be president, Hillary Clinton broke up laughing earlier this week after President Bush told her a joke about how bad poor people smell.

In an effort to reach out to African-American voters, Sen. Clinton has hired a new speech coach, who here is teaching her to say, "Wha' zup whodie?"

Though she denies any animus toward fellow Democratic candidate Barack Obama, Sen. Clinton has tried to derail the Obama campaign. She is shown here sneaking up behind the Illinois senator, attempting to strangle him with a scarf.

Confident of his popularity, Sen. Obama has been testing the national media to see how much he can get away with. Here he tells reporters that he's petting his invisible Doberman Victory, who he hopes will become the nation's imaginary First Dog.

Denying that he uses steroids to help bulk up his body, Sen. Obama waves down to supporters and well-wishers at a recent campaign stop.

After facing critical questions from the press, an angry Sen. McCain tried to turn into the Hulk, with pathetic results.

Massachusetts Governor Mitt Romney met with active duty personnel recently, telling them that if he is elected president, they will all face certain death.

While in New York City during a campaign swing, Gov. Romney tried to exploit the 9/11 terrorist attacks by serenading a piece of rubble from the World Trade Center.

And finally, always the prankster, former New York City Mayor Rudy Giuliani showed off a combat medal he stole from a wounded Marine in a coma.

The Right Laughs

2007-02-22T13:21:00.000-05:00

CONSERVATIVE COMEDY TAKES OFF
BY Janet Hespard
AP Reporter

LOS ANGELES (AP) -- Randy Clift has never liked Muslims, and after the 9/11 terrorist attacks, his dislike deepened into extreme hatred.

And that's when things got funny.

Clift was a struggling stand-up comic, looking for that one humorous hook that would bring him headline status and professional success. After the initial shock of the attacks on America in 2001, Clift began working more anti-Muslim routines into his act, and before long, his career took off.

"Look, I never claimed to be a PC comic," said Clift in a phone interview from Biloxi, Mississippi, where he's appearing at the Chuckle Barrel. "And Muslims make me sick anyway, so when I put the two together, I found out that a lot of people felt the same way. The more I bash Muslims or Arabs, the bigger the laughs. Now I'm booked all through '07 and into '08. Hopefully, this will get me on Leno, Letterman or Conan. I can't wait!"

Clift may have to wait longer than he suspects. For while conservative comedy is on the rise, not everyone is in on the joke, especially those who book the bigger venues. Nightclub audiences may like Clift's brand of humor ("What's the difference between a dead goat and a Muslim? The dead goat smells better."), but on national television, insulting a major religion is almost never allowed, and it's difficult to see this changing anytime soon.

This is why conservative yuksters are creating their own platforms.

The Fox News Channel's recent experiment, "The 1/2 Hour News Hour," is a case in point. Billed as a conservative version of "The Daily Show," "The 1/2 Hour News Hour" pokes fun at liberal targets, with uneven results. Yet creator Joel Surnow, the mind behind Fox's dramatic hit series "24," is confident that his new venture will soon find its core audience.

"Well, I'm sure that our boys in uniform will like it," explained Surnow in his San Fernando Valley office, an American flag draped over his shoulders. "They pretty much like anything I do. Not like these Hollywood liberals I have to deal with. God, they make me want to puke. So what I'm trying to do with this new show is make the liberals puke instead. And I can hear them gag already!"

Surnow's show, for all of its intended daring, so far relies on standard conservative takes on homosexuality, welfare, The War on Terror, and of course The Clintons. "We might be predictable in that sense," Surnow admits, stroking a small, marble bust of Ronald Reagan, his favorite president. "I mean, with a conservative comedy show, you kinda know where the jokes are going to go. But you know what? Millions of Americans watch '24' for the torture scenes, so there's definitely a market for '1/2 Hour's' type of humor."

Surnow stared silently at the Reagan bust for a few moments, then began to cry. "Mr. President," he whispered to the bust, "I hope we're making you laugh in heaven."

Whatever the fate of "The 1/2 Hour News Hour," conservative comedy appears to be the next humor wave. Although the majority of these comics are men, more conservative women are making their funny voices heard, and not just those who have long blonde hair and wear mini-skirts.

Molly Steffens is a unique act: she performs only when she's visibly pregnant. While this may seem somewhat limiting to someone pursuing a career in show business, Steffens says she doesn't need the money or the fame. Performing while pregnant helps to frame her main concern: abortion.

"My husband has a lucrative, corporate job, so money's not an issue," said Steffens from her Connecticut home. "This gives me the artistic freedom to use comedy as way to overturn Roe v. Wade. Of course, it'll take the Supreme Court to ultimately do that, but I like to think that I'm out there on the frontlines, getting club audiences to think differently about killing babies."

Steffens, who's expecting her eighth child, is currently appearing at various East Coast clubs in what she calls "enemy territory." Most of her act deals with the humorous side of motherhood, but there are parts of her routine where Steffens taunts those in the audience she suspects are pro-choice.

"Once I spot a pro-baby killer, I really let them have it. I point to my belly and ask them 'You want to murder my unborn child? Well, come right on up here and kick me in the stomach! Go ahead! After all, it's your choice!' That always shuts them down, because what are they gonna do, attack a pregnant woman in front of a bunch of people?"

One might think that this would bring a comedy set to a dead halt, but Steffens insists that the opposite usually happens. "Most people like the honesty. Besides, an angry pregnant broad waving a microphone is funny already. The taunting is just the icing on the pregnancy cake."

Steffens says that her anti-abortion humor is partly based on her Christian beliefs, but she doesn't consider herself to be a Christian comedian. That's not the case with Charlie Willard, who embraces the label.

"Yes, I'm a Christian, and proud of it," admitted Willard, who lives near Nashville, TN. "But as much as I love the Lord, I also love to make people laugh. You know, Jesus was a bit of a comic as well. Though when he performed, there was a two-loaf minimum."

Willard often plays to sold-out auditoriums and theaters across the South and parts of the Midwest, but these are usually church-based crowds, and not the kind of nightclub setting most comedians cut their teeth on.

"Sure, I'd like to work in some of the more famous rooms, but there's a serious prejudice against Christian comics. If you use drugs, alcohol, profanity and are liberal, which, let's face it, all go together, then you'll have a stand-up career. But if you tell a club owner that you've been bathed in the Blood of the Lamb, you'll be lucky to get a five-minute spot on open mike night."

Such obstacles haven't kept Willard from making a living from his comedy. And while he clearly longs for more mainstream attention, Willard refuses to alter his act in order to attract a wider audience.

"One night, He gave me the gift of tongues in the middle of my act. The audience went crazy, so hey, I kept it in. But I doubt that people at The Laugh Factory are gonna find the Holy Spirit speaking in ancient languages through my mortal body funny or hip."

While comics like Willard may never hit the mainstream, there are conservative jokemeisters who do get national attention. Dennis Miller is perhaps the prominent example, and the comedy veteran likes this rightward comedy trend.

"For years, I was lonelier on this wing of comedy than Didi and Gogo at a WNBA exhibition game. So it's nice to see more real Americans performing patriotic comedy." When asked if he feels his humor has changed, Miller added, "Not really. The great thing now is that I don't even have to try to be funny. Whenever I talk about any political topic, people laugh. It's a sweeter gig than Sammy swimming in chorus girl trim at the Sands after drinks with Frank and Dean. I love it."

Vile Bodies

2007-02-21T13:17:00.000-05:00

Two aging Brit writers sit and share drinks.

One smokes ready-made cigarettes; the other rolls his own.

The novelist frets over his weight and tries to stay slim. The columnist doesn't care about his weight or appearance.

The novelist had his rotting teeth replaced with new pearly whites. The columnist's teeth are cracked and stained, the only part of himself he tries to hide when talking or laughing.

Time is slipping from both.

Their opinions coarsen with each passing season.

The sun is setting. They pour another round of drinks.

"Fucking wogs."

"What's that?"

"Those motherfucking wogs. They cannot grasp even the simplest Western concept. Baboons are smarter."

"Quite right. I don't know what we were thinking."

"The problem isn't us, dear boy. Our house is in order, and anyone who can't see that is too fucking dense to be taken seriously."

"Still, there are less and less of us, and this alarms me."

"These may be the final days."

"Perhaps it's best."

"Why do you say that?"

"Come now -- surely you don't want to live in a world dominated by screeching darkies and their primitive customs. If we aren't meant to win, then it's time for us to go."

"Fuck that. If this is the end, let's take out as many date-eaters as we can."

"Go down firing."

"Precisely."

"Fine by me. But as you know, darling, the woggies are outbreeding us. Any final attempt at extermination will be strictly symbolic."

"Not to those we put in the ground!"

"Excellent point! I bow before your riposte!"

"As well you fucking should!"

"Indeed!"

A new bottle is opened. Fresh cigarettes lit. The columnist passes wind.

"That serves as my answer."

"To whom, old dear?"

"The cunts."

"Which cunts?"

"You know, cunts. Bitches. Chicks. Women."

"Frightful things."

"Increasingly so, yes."

"If only they possessed the same genetic urgency that the wog bitch has in spades. Our kind may have a chance."

"Forget it, angel. Those selfish feminist gashes killed that off for good. And even on their more fragrant days, they could never match the mindless primate fucking of the wog."

"Quite right."

"The only thing left for Western slags to do is either suck my cock or laugh at my jokes."

"Or both."

"Simultaneously."

"Your prick may suffer bite marks in that instance."

"Bring it on! Without pain, pleasure is pantomime."

"I might steal that line."

"Please do. I did."

"From whom?"

"Some manic cunt I met at a party. She needed to be fucked, let me tell you."

"Chivalry stayed your hand?"

"The scotch shriveled my dick. I couldn't have gotten it up even if the president entered the room."

"Fucking aging."

"Fucking cunts."

"Fucking wogs."

A night cap is poured.

"Have you ever had a lit candle shoved up your ass?"

"Fucking tease."

The Real World

2007-02-16T09:56:00.000-05:00

The Son has had its share of fun with the John Edwards/blogger brouhaha, but after reading Amanda Marcotte's take on the whole thing in Salon, I want to set the jokes aside for a moment and speak from the heart.

Time to grow up, Amanda.

Seriously. Wake up and deal with the real world of American politics. Yes, it's a nasty, horrid place filled with dreadful people largely motivated by hatred, fear, and too many personality disorders to mention. We're in the belly of the beast, and if you want to stake your political claim, then get ready to be slimed beyond belief.

Of course, working for a white collar, mainstream candidate like John Edwards will do little to change our present sorry state, but that's another subject for a later time.

Did the "right wing noise machine" make you feel uncomfortable? Did it call you bad names? Did it make your sexuality an issue? Did it issue death threats?

Good. You got its attention. But instead of taking your lumps and fighting back, you slink away and write a mealy-mouthed sob story about how "mean" the American right is. Well, guess what -- rightwingers are mean. And crazy. And filled with fascist loathing for anything even remotely progressive. And you know what else? They play for keeps. How about you?

I've received my share of abuse and death threats, though most of these came either over the phone or were issued to my face. I know what it's like, and yes, it can be extremely frightening and have a very chilling effect on your further actions. But you learn to move past it. You have to, if you are at all serious about changing society in any way. Giving in to these tribal fucks merely feeds their perceived power; and if they can shut you down with a few harsh words, then you serve as their enabler.

Now some may counter, "Easy for you to say -- you're a man, which is a different power scenario." Yes, gender does make a difference in how one is viewed and treated. But my being male didn't stop those who threatened to bash my head in with a baseball bat, or promised that when I least suspected it, I would be shot dead while walking down the street. Bullets are gender neutral. And anyway, what about Harriet Tubman? Emma Goldman? Fannie Lou Hamer? Cindy Sheehan? I dare say that they took more than their share of serious abuse, indeed, they and others like them risked their very lives in order to make a difference. Think about the women struggling in Afghanistan and Iraq (read Riverbend's archives for a dose of reality). Think about Iranian feminists who, if your idol John Edwards has his ultimate way, will be incinerated by US and Israeli bombs. Somehow, I don't see Salon giving them the space they gave you to moan about how hard political life can be. They've got more immediate concerns to deal with.

It may not feel like it, Amanda, but you are a relatively privileged person who, despite the reactionary assault you faced, is pretty much free to say and do as you like. That you caved in response was strictly your choice, but please don't ask us to cry for you, especially when there are other women out there who endure and resist the bullshit in real time without a large online audience patting their backs and stroking their heads. Hopefully, this episode will knock the yuppie liberalism out of you and toughen your hide for the harsh fights to come. Because they are coming, Amanda. Are you ready?

Blame Me!

2007-02-14T11:51:00.000-05:00

You're an up-and-coming, young liberal blogger, looking to ply your talents for your favorite Democratic politician. You're filled with political energy and bursting with opinions, just waiting for that special candidate to bring you aboard the Victory Express. Problem is, you've left a trail of angry, critical attacks on your many political opponents, some of whom have media access and demented followers who can make your life a living hell. It's the last thing a Democrat running for office wants to be associated with, and so your dreams are shattered before they've even taken flight.

Sound familiar? Well, it no longer has to end this way, not when you can simply Blame Me!

Hi, I'm Dennis Perrin from Red State Son. You may know me from my many assaults on liberal bloggers and the Democratic Party as a whole. While I maintain that no serious, lasting change can come from voting for the lesser of two evils, I still like to help where I can, and the recent John Edwards/blogger controversy offers just such an opportunity.

Look -- there's no way in hell that a serious Democratic campaign is going to hire the likes of me. Not only is my contempt for this corrupt, archaic political system open for all to see, my public opinions have bordered on slander and oftentimes read like a lunatic's screams. When it comes to mainstream political discussion, I'm toxic, damaged goods. But that doesn't mean you have to suffer the same marginalization. So instead of quitting a campaign under pressure, why not Blame Me! for your previous outbursts!

For an affordable, privately-negotiated fee, I'll allow you to insert my name in your blog archives, making me the source of any or all hostile opinions you may have typed in the heat of the moment. When your political enemies are searching for something that can embarrass your candidate, instead of finding this:

"The crypto-fascist Christers are trying to shove their blood-stained crucifix up our collective ass."

They'll see this:

"'The crypto-fascist Christers are trying to shove their blood-stained crucifix up our collective ass,' said Dennis Perrin, discussing the GOP's 2008 campaign strategy."

It's just that simple! With a few clicks of the keyboard, I become the target of reactionary ire while you are merely "quoting" me! And there's no need to worry or feel guilty about any harsh response I might inspire -- I have years of experience dealing with rightwing maniacs and their tortured, projected psyches. Nothing they say about me bothers me in the least. They're fucking crazy! I even briefly tangled with Bill Donahue back in the day, and let me tell you, that guy is a sad, sorry motherfucker. Think what spending countless years defending a sick, twisted institution like the Catholic Church does to a person's mind, then multiply it by 20. That's where Bill Donahue's at. Mix in some Jew-phobia and an obsession with queers that practically kicks down the closet door, and you get a jabbering head-case who always seems to find a working camera or microphone. But that's no longer your concern!

"I wrote some pretty harsh things about Republicans and conservative Christians on my popular blog. Then one day, someone from Sen. Hillary Clinton's campaign offered me a job overseeing her online outreach. It was a dream come true, but I worried that my blog archives would come back to haunt me. Thanks to Dennis Perrin, all of my crude insults, casual libels, character defamations, and gutter-level slurs instantly became his! I never knew how powerful a few quotation marks could be! By blaming Dennis, I can focus all of my energy on Sen. Clinton's plan to tighten the corporate stranglehold on our country while finding new ways to wage war in the Middle East!"

Jill Smith (not her real name)

"I was all set to move to North Carolina to help John Edwards become the next President of the United States, when my archived attacks on 'pro-life' nutjobs and patriarchal fascists were spread all over the media, derailing my plans and filling my in-box with semi-literate screeds against my looks and sexuality. If only I could have blamed Dennis Perrin for my old opinions, I might very well still be in the thick of the '08 campaign. If there is a 'next time,' you can bet that I'll Blame Dennis!"

Amanda Marcotte

It may be too late for Amanda, but it's the right time for you. Campaign season is heating up, so don't take any chances -- Blame Me today!

Talking "Fridays" With Tom Kramer

2007-02-13T12:45:00.004-05:00

As many of you know, I'm a big fan of the old ABC sketch comedy show "Fridays." I've posted several takes about the show and whatever clips I could find, but there's much more to be written and said about that now largely forgotten effort.

Recently, a friend in LA put me in touch with Tom Kramer, who directed the short films on "Fridays", as well as the filmed commercial and TV parodies. One of my favorite Tom Kramer filmed bits was "Assassin M.D.," about a sniper who shoots people, then rushes down to the street to medically treat them. It was written by Rod Ash and Mark Curtis, the latter of whom died of cancer in 2004. Tom shot an hour-long video about Mark Curtis' final months called "50 Things To Do Before I Die". In it, Tom and Mark go to a Neil Young concert, which they hate, travel to Vegas, meet up with some of Mark's closest high school friends (including former writing partner Rod Ash), go on a cruise, and at one point, reunite with several old "Fridays" writers, among them Larry David and Larry Charles, as well as Jack Burns, Bruce Kirschbaum, and Bruce Mahler.

Watching that assembled talent talking about their time on the show made me want to do a bigger project about "Fridays", either written or videotaped. Even though it used the same format as "Saturday Night Live", "Fridays" had its own flavor, and in many ways remains unique among the many sketch shows that have since come and gone. And of course it helped prepare the creative ground for "Seinfeld" and "Curb Your Enthusiasm". So I asked Tom if I could interview him about his time on the show, and he graciously made time to do so. Consider this the first step toward realizing that larger project.

DP: Could you tell us a bit about your background and upbringing? When did you decide to become a filmmaker?

Tom Kramer: I was a good Catholic kid from a dry cleaner family in St. Louis, MO. I started making films in grade school, first by editing home movies to music, then by making my own scripted films.

DP: Which came first for you -- film or comedy?

TK: Actually, I liked making dramatic films until I showed one before a large crowd at Loyola University in New Orleans, and everyone laughed. I then realized I had an accidental knack for comedy.

DP: Tell us about how you got involved with "Fridays". What did the producers John Moffitt and Bill Lee tell you about the project, and how did they know of your work?

TK: I was a freshman at Loyola when Dick Clark did a special in New Orleans and hired some of us students as runners. I took the next Fall off from college to work as a runner on an NBC series, "Dick Clark's Live Wednesday" in Burbank. It was a dream come true, but the show got cancelled. So I went back to college the next Spring and made a documentary film parody in film class. The summer after my sophomore year I made a drastic decision and dropped out of college. I drove back to Hollywood and gave a copy of my film to Bill Lee and John Moffitt, who I met doing the Dick Clark series. I didn't know that they were just putting together a pilot for ABC to be called "Fridays". I got a call two days later telling me that they wanted to use the film in the pilot. I was so excited, I couldn't sit down. That film, "Nauseating Spasms," aired on Episode 9 of "Fridays", I think.

DP: What was planning the show like?

TK: We'd meet on Sunday to pitch our sketches and get assignments for the week. Blocking and rehearsals would go on during the week with a dress rehearsal and air on Friday. I would write sketches as well, but mostly concentrated on films, which I would pitch on Sunday. Monday would be casting and location scouting, Tuesday or Wednesday shooting, Thursday editing, Friday sound mixing and then air on Friday evening. I would also direct anything else on the show that needed to be shot on location.

DP: Early in its run, "Fridays" was slammed by critics and other comics as a rip-off of "Saturday Night Live". Did any of this criticism bother you guys or make you write in a different way?

TK: We were so happy for the opportunity that we didn't care. Besides, it was a "rip-off" of "SNL" and we tried to acknowledge that and have fun with it.

DP: What were your initial impressions of the cast?

TK: I was most impressed with John Roarke, because of his impressions, and Mark Blankfield's incredible physical comedy.

DP: What were your initial impressions of the writers?

TK: Genius.

DP: What was it like being one of the youngest people on staff?

TK: I was very impressionable, but I think I was also allowed time to grow because of my age. They really made a big deal out of it when introducing my films.

DP: That's true. I recently watched the parody of "A Chorus Line" you did with Billy Crystal, and he praised you to the heavens. What was your favorite piece?

TK: "Cons On Ice" was my favorite, about a new convict in prison who has to prove himself on the prison ice rink.

DP: In the early stages of the show, comedy veteran Jack Burns served as supervising producer, head writer, and on-air announcer. He certainly brought a lot of experience to "Fridays", having worked at Second City in the 1960s, and in comedy teams with George Carlin and Avery Schreiber. Tell us how Jack Burns helped to pull the show together.

TK: Jack staged and blocked the sketches, and worked a lot with the cast. He also inspired the edginess of the show with what he always referred to as "that 'Fridays' edge."

DP: At a certain point in the show's run, he seemed to just disappear.

TK: Jack stepped aside to spend more time working with the cast in staging the sketches. He recognized the talents of the writers he helped hire and encouraged all of us to have more say in the show. He was a big "protector" of me as well, being the "young filmmaker," and to this day is a great friend and Hollywood "father figure" of mine. He did have some problems [with other staffers] but never with me. I remember when he left the show about two-thirds of the way in. I'm not exactly sure whose decision it was at the time. But things were pretty crazy back then. You can only imagine.

DP: One part of "that 'Fridays' edge" was of course the show's drug humor. It's no secret that various chemicals were ingested on "Fridays", but what was the comedic thinking behind some of the drug sketches like the "Rasta Gourmet," the pill-popping Pharmacist, and the dope smoking 3 Stooges?

TK: "Fridays" aired during possibly the last time in America that drugs were at all acceptable. It was the early-80s, and drugs were open and everywhere in Hollywood. Some of the writers were veterans of the 60s drug culture, so drug humor, like that of Cheech and Chong, was popular. I personally had very little experience with drugs at the time and didn't seem to get the humor like most others. I guess I was very naive. I resisted [using drugs] at first, but eventually got pulled in and struggled for years to get sober. By the way, not everyone [on the show] did drugs.

DP: "Fridays" was also known for being very political -- much more political than "SNL" ever dared to be. You guys bashed the religious right at a time when most shows and networks feared people like Jerry Falwell. You never let up on the Reagan administration, and perhaps boldest of all, the staff wrote and performed hard core material about US involvement in El Salvador, setting sketches in refugee camps, torture centers, and the like. What was the general political bent of the writers and cast? Where there any political arguments or disagreements?

TK: Most of the writers and cast were antiwar and liberal in their views, so I don't remember many arguments on that. Reagan being in office became great fodder for humor. John Roarke, in make-up, did a hilarious Reagan. Draft registration was just reinstated and I was turning 21, so I did several antiwar films. One I remember was the "Draft Lottery Sweepstakes," which was a parody of the Publisher's Clearinghouse commercials, only here the grand prize was a trip to Afghanistan.

DP: You were about a quarter century ahead of the geopolitical curve on that one, though back then, we were on Osama Bin Laden's side against the Soviets.

TK: As far as that anti-draft film goes, my main political point of view was pacifism. I was a member of "The Fellowship of Reconciliation." It wasn't practical, real world thinking. I was just against war and killing in general except maybe in active self defense. I think how war comes full circle and how America sometimes changes sides depending on who has the oil or whatever is typical of politics. I'm still antiwar but still not quite as knowledgeable or active as everyone was back during "Fridays".

DP: What were the audiences like during air? Any incidents?

TK: The audiences were great and enthusiastic, but the only problem, if you want to call it that, is that they were sometimes too loud so that the sketches couldn't be heard.

DP: Give us a sense of what it was like during the infamous Andy Kaufman week in early '81.

TK: Andy lived in character most of the time. The famous on-air fight was kept secret and I only found out about it a few minutes before it happened. It was arranged by Andy and Jack Burns. The following show [hosted by Billy Crystal], Andy came on to apologize and feigned a nervous breakdown. He hosted the first show of the next season as a born again Christian, and a lot of people believed him.

TK: Andy told some of the writers that his ultimate plan was to fake his death. A few years later [1984], I was almost killed in a car wreck in St. Louis. I was in traction in my bed, and I remember watching the news that Andy Kaufman was dead. Since I was seriously near death myself, I actually resented this and called the news station to tell them not to fall for the joke. They were going to send a news crew to my hospital bed to interview me; but then I talked to Mark Blankfield, who had the same manager as Andy, and he confirmed it. Andy had died.

DP: When did you guys get the sense that the show might be doomed?

TK: After the Iranian hostage crisis, Ted Koppel started "Nightline", which pushed us back a half hour, which hurt our ratings. That was the beginning of the end.

DP: We all know the names Larry David and Michael Richards. Who are some of the people, writers or cast, we should also remember?

TK: You should remember Mark Blankfield for sure, a reincarnation of Buster Keaton. Also, Larry Charles, who directed "Borat" and "Curb Your Enthusiasm", was on the writing staff. I'm just amazed that you remember the show at all!

DP: I loved "Fridays". Like I said, it's the "forgotten" sketch show from that pre-comedy boom period. It should be remembered.

TK: People ask me all the time what "Fridays" was like. It was the most intense experience I could imagine, my dream gig. I had the opportunity to enjoy the adrenaline of a live show with a live audience, but at the same time, have the creative freedom and control to write, produce and direct my own short films each week, starring people I idolized, including Oscar winners, all before I was legally old enough to drink. This was right before cable hit, so our audience was enormous.

DP: At one point, larger than "SNL's".

TK: I knew how lucky I was. I remember going off alone at times and crying in gratitude. But still, it spoiled me rotten and didn't prepare me at all for how Hollywood worked. It took many years of humbling experiences to rebuild a life and career. Between then and now I've fought with addictions, serious accidents and homelessness. I got sober and made a transition into making reality and hidden camera shows. When I got word that Larry David was offering me a chance to direct an episode of "Curb" [for the upcoming season], I screamed and then cried again. The first day on the set, I asked Larry if he remembered the first film I directed him in. He didn't hesitate: "Underwear Beach." He then listed several more of his favorite "Tom Kramer Films." That was an honor.

DP: Finally, how would you define the legacy of "Fridays"?

TK: A once in a lifetime opportunity, and totally exhausting!

The Fuck Phase

2007-02-07T16:19:00.000-05:00

Returned from the grind last night to find my 10-year-old son watching "Curb Your Enthusiasm". I nearly blurted "What the fuck!", but that would've defeated the purpose. But then again, he was watching "Curb", so my reticence was probably pointless.

This was the teen's idea, and she was there watching alongside him.

"Why is he watching this show?"

"It's a great show," she casually replied. "You know that better than anybody."

"Besides, Dad," chimed in the boy, "I've heard the all the words. You say them when you get mad."

"Well, it's more than the words. There are certain situations that you're too young to see or understand."

"This episode only has words," said the teen. "The one where Larry trips and injures Shaq."

"Yeah," I smiled. "That's a good one."

My desire to keep the boy from the crudeness of the world is fading. About time, too. After all, come Fall, he'll be in middle school, a place where 8th graders roam the halls, uttering the nastiest shit in order to separate themselves from the 6th grade children. Still, he remains a sweet, positive kid, though he is beginning to push back at and challenge me more and more. His determination will strengthen over the next few years, and before long, my little boy will be gone. A part of this makes me wistful, but another part of it gladdens me, as we'll be able to converse more freely and share ideas and feelings that for now he can't fully grasp. I look forward to this, even as I watch the unjaded, non-cynical boy slip further away into the woeful world that you and I know all too well.

Once he adds "fuck" to his daily vocabulary, I'll know the serious corner has been turned.

The teen began saying "fuck" out of the blue, testing our limits when she was 12, but by 14 she was throwing it around like a seasoned pro. It shocked me at first, which was ridiculous, given my peppery language, but I soon grew used to it, although at one point I told her that just because she was free to say it, she didn't have to use it every other word. She has since leveled off, and picks her profane spots with better care. Her new project is to get her little brother ready for the next stage of life, so he won't be some goody-goody wuss offended by streams of fucks, shits and cunts.

"He's not where he should be," she told me. "He'll be eaten alive unless he's comfortable with these words."

It warms me that she's looking out for the boy. She always has, no matter how dismissive her demeanor. Yet I never thought that part of this would include intensive lessons in and exposure to profanity. But what can you expect from someone who learned his cussing on the fly?

When I was the boy's age, "fuck" wasn't as widespread as it is now, but it was on the verge of everyday acceptance. Only a few of my classmates in 6th and 7th grade swore, and when they did, it seemed to me exotic. It wasn't until my stepmother began taking me to R-rated movies that "fuck" became familiar. And of course by my freshman year of high school, most kids were swearing on a regular basis.

I'm tempted to see the early use of profanity from a class perspective, the idea being that those who are poor or on the lower rungs of the working class start cussing when they're seven- or eight-years-old, even if they have no idea what the words mean. Their exposure to the cruelties of life at such an early age make saying "fuck" and "shit" seem harmless, especially when set against the larger problems they and their families may face. Kids grow up fast under harsh conditions, and I've seen plenty of examples. But I've also been around rich people, and their children usually are "motherfucking/cocksucking" it up at pretty much the same stage as those kids they'll never meet, so perhaps it's culture and not class that determines the usage.

In any event, the boy likes "Curb" and wants to see more. I told him that we should watch some "Seinfeld" first, since it's the same type of humor, minus all the "fucks." As for the Michael Richards/racist angle, I'll broach that with the boy after he's seen enough Kramer to appreciate Richards on strictly comedic terms.

Last Saturday night, when the family bundled together and watched Peter Jackson's "King Kong" on HBO, we all took turns making cracks about the movie, the actors and the computer effects, a la "Mystery Science Theater 3000". I was in a pretty steady groove myself, making the other three laugh for the better part of the film. Afterward, the boy followed me into the kitchen sporting a big smile, patted me on the back and said, "Great jokes, Dad! You were totally awesome!"

"Awesome." That's a word I don't mind hearing from my son.

Son Surge

2007-02-05T10:48:00.000-05:00

You've probably noticed an uptick in Son posts of late, and there's a reason for that: I'm writing to keep from going crazy. I'm writing passages, blurbs and bits that'll never be seen, scratched out, erased or simply put away in file, folder, stacks of papers. I also have several Son posts in an offline queue, awaiting final revisions, while I take extensive notes of the daily insanity and plan, with the purest intentions, to flesh them out into some kind of readable shape. And on and on it goes. I'm clearly in the midst of a writing surge, which makes me happy and drives me nuts. Puttering and muttering is my present waking state.

The only problem is, I make nothing doing this. Oh, I've had some bites and interest over the past few months, but in the end, zilch. I've been dicked around since November by a large site with a wide audience, a site that many of you probably read on a regular basis, but the name of which I've been advised to keep anonymous, for you never know when they'll decide to get serious. Still, the dangling of a plum assignment just above my head is maddening, as was a reviewing gig with a prominent paper that was there, then suddenly wasn't. Plus, I was told by someone in the know that another site I've submitted material to will never publish me because of my hostility to the Dems. I've been informed more than once that while my writing is elegant, my opinions are shit. Apparently, I can construct a decent sentence, but it's mere tinsel atop rotting crap. There's something to be said for aesthetic victories, I suppose.

Bottom line, I cannot get paid for my writing, and must continue to perform custodial labor to help make ends meet (and even that's becoming shaky). There are worse fates, I know, but this reality is starting to wear me down. Yet, I refuse to fold, and will continue with the Son, though I will make some changes. After talking with Jon Schwarz, one of the Son's best friends who is distressed about the state of contemporary satire (primarily on SNL), I plan to write more satirical content, though what shape it will take I'm still working out. The plan is to distribute jokes and fake news items throughout bloggyland and see what kind of traction they get. Also, there will be more cultural writing, with some interviews mixed in. A Video Son project is in the works. Of course, the Son will continue to comment on the political scene and the expanding war, but that will no longer be my main focus. There are others who work this beat better than me, like Jon, Chris Floyd, Max Sawicky and crew, Steven Poole, and Arthur Silber; Louis Proyect tackles both socialist theory and movie reviews; and Lindsay Beyerstein of Majikthise is emerging as one of the sharper libloggers, and has cracked the all-male team at Tom Tomorrow (who graciously allows Jon to push my stuff there). Billmon remains AWOL, but few can really match his pace, depth and output, apparently, not even Billmon himself. How he functions with all those insights and no public venue to express them is a mystery to me. I'd end up shouting on street corners.

I'm also in the process of collecting my better posts, rewriting, updating and shaping them into a manuscript. Whether or not I can sell a Red State Son book I have no idea, but if worse comes to worse, I'll self publish and hawk it myself. I'm really proud of some of the work I've done here, and want to preserve it between actual covers before the entire system shuts down, and every computer screen goes blank. I don't know if that's actually going to happen, but it's best to prepare for the worst.

So I'm sticking around, but Sonsters, I must hit you up hopefully one last time. I sincerely don't want to rattle my rusty cup, but I have no choice if I am to continue. I'm simply up against it. I have other professional plans for the Spring, but right now I'm in a rough patch. I know I have a lot of new readers, so if you or anyone else enjoys my work or gets anything out of these tortured posts, your help would be humbly and deeply appreciated. Remember, I do all this myself -- no writing teams, no guest bloggers, no extensive news quotes followed by a brief original sentence or two. You all know the score, and the PayPal button is there if you choose to assist this effort. Also, serious offers of writing work, including joke writing, would be great.

Okay. Let me get off my knees and back to work. The surge continues.

A Sincere Farewell

2007-02-01T10:49:00.000-05:00

A moment of silence for Molly Ivins, who died yesterday of cancer at 62.

I believe it was Gore Vidal who said, "Of the dead, speak only the truth." So I must admit that I was not the biggest Molly Ivins fan around -- not that I disagreed with her or found her work to be seriously lacking in any way. It just seemed to me that she was trying to reach the fence sitters and assorted wavering types, hoping to show them that being on the left was not a bad or frightening thing. Her natural, at times caustic, sense of humor definitely helped. But I never felt that she was writing for the likes of me. Which is fine. The struggle operates at all levels. I will say that I admired her warm and humane demeanor. She remembered what it's all supposedly about while grunts like me cursed humanity and threw garbage on the stage. Roses at her feet for that.

The other thing worth noting about Ivins is how she influenced and helped to wake up younger writers and activists. A lefty Texan of my acquaintance told me that Ivins seemed like a Marxist in that reddest of red states, and that her example was not only needed, it was cherished. Coming from a pretty rightwing state myself, I can definitely understand that (Hoosiers of my generation had Kurt Vonnegut, who, while not overtly political, was still a creative, humanist example to admire). That Ivins served as a nail in reactionary hides is to be remembered and celebrated. I only wish that her style of writing was more in evidence among libloggers. Most of them could use a generous injection of Ivins.

Farewell, Molly. You've been spared the madness and misery that is hurtling our way. The fight continues in our battered hands.

Pinning One's Hopes

2007-01-30T13:04:00.000-05:00

History is a mean, brutal creature, unsentimental, unsparing. Collective efforts to shape and steer history in certain directions have been decidedly mixed, and in many cases, have worsened already miserable situations. But there is very little that we the living can do to escape these outcomes, though Americans do have the luxury to ignore what is going on Out There, so long as our numerous screens remain lit and our distractions plugged in. This is getting harder to do, but if nothing else, Americans will always find a way to bury their heads, even if it means actually burying their heads. The view under ground must be more enjoyable than the awful realities raging above, yes?

Still, there are those who try to keep an open eye to the horrors around us (this humble space included), and others who continually push against the large, closing walls. This latter effort is very necessary, despite the long odds, and I've done what I can to assist in these efforts, however feeble my contribution. So it was with considerable interest and sincere confusion that I read my old friend Jeff Cohen's celebration of James Webb's State of the Union response. While I understood why so many liberals threw their hats in the air on Webb's behalf, I must confess that Jeff's flying beret caught me off guard. After all, Jeff is a true American radical in a non-sectarian sense. His knowledge of American history and connection to various progressive currents has always impressed me, and when I was younger, helped to educate me.

I worked with Jeff during my formative, political years; and for a time, we shared a New York apartment, which afforded me direct access to Jeff's experience and seasoned political views (watching the evening news with him was a valuable lesson in itself). For someone who knew so much about the smallest political trends in American history, Jeff remained pragmatic, and could work inside the largest media behemoths. Read his highly entertaining and illuminating book, "Cable News Confidential: My Misadventures in Corporate Media," for the sordid details.

Allowing for all that, I remained stunned by Jeff's embrace of Webb. I emailed him and asked what was up. He promptly replied, saying that his piece was not specifically in support of Webb himself, but of the "progressive" message Webb sent out to millions, a message that should be amplified and expanded whenever possible. And what did Webb say that stirred Jeff so?

"When one looks at the health of our economy, it's almost as if we are living in two different countries. Some say that things have never been better. The stock market is at an all-time high, and so are corporate profits. But these benefits are not being fairly shared. When I graduated from college, the average corporate CEO made 20 times what the average worker did; today, it's nearly 400 times. In other words, it takes the average worker more than a year to make the money that his or her boss makes in one day.

"Wages and salaries for our workers are at all-time lows as a percentage of national wealth, even though the productivity of American workers is the highest in the world. Medical costs have skyrocketed. College tuition rates are off the charts ...

"In the early days of our republic, President Andrew Jackson established an important principle of American-style democracy: that we should measure the health of our society not at its apex, but at its base. Not with the numbers that come out of Wall Street, but with the living conditions that exist on Main Street. We must recapture that spirit today."

Jeff maintained that this type of language is largely missing from mainstream discourse, especially when coming from official Democratic spokespersons. In the DLC/Clinton era of Dem politics, and mostly after, Jeff is right: few if any major Dems have talked this way (Mario Cuomo's speech at the 1984 Democratic convention possessed a similar tone, and George Wallace was very pro-blue collar, let us not forget). You'd hear it from the likes of Dennis Kucinich and Maxine Waters, but Al Gore and John Kerry shied away from such open populist appeals (though in the waning days of his 2000 campaign, Gore did make a few populist noises, which helped him with working people -- not that the party, the DLC in particular, learned anything from this). That a freshman senator from a conservative state delivered such a statement about low wages and class divisions should not be ignored or played down, but seized upon and widely spread.

Fair enough. Lord knows we need more, serious class awareness from below, seeing that those on high are already class conscious in order to maintain their advantage. But Webb is not alone among major Dems when it comes to this topic. John Edwards is making the class divide one of the key issues in his presidential campaign, while Barack Obama speaks about the need to create decent jobs while staving off the encroachment of the rich. What these and other Dems are simply doing is acknowledging reality, which is a good thing, to be sure, but not something that should mute our critical sensibilities. If Dems like Edwards and Obama have any shot at winning the Dem nomination, much less the presidency, then they're going to have to talk like this, or else kiss goodbye millions of potential votes from working people. Webb's already been elected and has just begun his six year term, so his populist language is potentially interesting, though it is part of the overall Dem approach. Bush has been murder on working Americans, and for the Dems to take his place, they must reach out to those Americans who've been hurt.

Regarding Webb's reference to Andrew Jackson's contribution to "American-style democracy," one might remember Jackson's smashing of the Creek tribe and his support of the Indian Removal Act, which eventually led to the Cherokee "Trail of Tears" and related atrocities. The Cherokee called Jackson "Sharp Knife" and for good reason. What Jackson and his successor Martin Van Buren oversaw would later be defined as ethnic cleansing, which was indeed an integral part of early "American-style democracy." I doubt that this is what Webb was trying to express, since the prevailing wisdom is that only monsters like Milosevic are guilty of such crimes. But it is telling that of all of the American references available, Webb went with Andrew Jackson. Not a huge deal, but worth a thought nonetheless.

Webb also touted Theodore Roosevelt's opposition to robber barons in order to provide his address further historical context. While it's true that TR was for a time opposed to the big business looting that was rampant at the end of the 19th century, his political ambition eventually overtook him, and in 1884 he broke from the reformist wing of the Republicans and backed the corrupt James G. Blaine, saying "I have been called a reformer but I am a Republican." Blaine lost to Grover Cleveland, but Roosevelt's shrewd move helped to propel him up the GOP ladder, where he became William McKinley's running mate, and then after McKinley's assassination, president.

When it came to war, Roosevelt was a dedicated imperialist and racist. His motto: "No triumph of peace is quite as great as the supreme triumph of war." Again, it's odd that a "progressive" like Webb would refer positively to such a political figure. Perhaps Webb trusted that most Americans know Roosevelt only from Mount Rushmore, and not from his desire to fight corruption to the degree that it threatened the status quo of which TR was a part, nor from his enthusiasm for slaughtering Filipinos and converting the survivors to Christianity. Ann Coulter might appreciate that, but one hopes that a Democrat with "populist" instincts would not.

Jeff knows all of this; but he's after something bigger: namely, a progressive takeover the of the Democratic Party. Jeff is now an active board member with Progressive Democrats of America, a group made-up of liberals and those a little further left who see the Dem party as the only realistic vehicle for serious political change. In our rigid, fixed political system, Jeff and his colleagues may be right, which is a pretty sad fact for the Greatest Democracy The World Has Ever Seen. Still, you deal with the cards that are dealt you. When Jeff informed me of this current strategy (which he predicts will take 10-20 years to fully come about), his piece on Webb made even more sense -- praise that which you can honestly praise, gain some trust, position yourself for further possible influence, and keep moving through the party.

Jeff cites the Christian Right's takeover of much of the GOP machinery as an activist model, though in my view, rightwing theocrats have more in common with their party than do progressives with the Dems. In other words, the fight on this side of the aisle is going to be much, much tougher, especially with the corporate stranglehold on the mules. At some point, serious differences will be unavoidable, namely, the mainstream Dem position on the Middle East, Israel in particular. Sooner or later, simply celebrating bits and pieces of the Dem platform will no longer suffice. When the shit truly hits the fan, that's when we'll know how far progressives can go in transforming the party altogether.

As you can see, I have serious doubts about this strategy. I, too, have worked with the Dems, and they are a stubbornly centrist, at times reactionary, bunch. Yet, as Jeff insists, this may be all we have at this point in time. So, in the spirit of open-mindedness and as a nod to an old friendship, I'm adding the PDA to the roll, and will keep a steady, critical eye on their various campaigns. After all, if there's even a small chance that my children might benefit from their efforts, not to mention the country and the rest of the planet, then it's worth seeing what the PDA and others can do.

Some Rally Notes

2007-01-29T09:40:00.000-05:00

Busy day today, much of it away from office and home. So I won't be able to harangue you in the usual fashion (I have the rest of the week for that). But I did want to say a few things about the antiwar rally in DC over the weekend. The teen and I watched much of it on C-SPAN, and while there were speakers and choices in music that I wouldn't have suggested or backed had I been in on the organizing (this was always the case when I did help put together events, so take it for what it's worth), I thought that Saturday's rally was much more focused and inspiring than the last one, which was all over the map and dominated by sectarian drones. This rally, organized by United For Peace and Justice, possessed spirit, emotion, and verve. And, finally, some actual antiwar Iraq vets! To me, that was the best part of the rally, watching those young, camo-clad vets on stage. That really moved me, as did the military family activists. They were clearly the highlight of the day, and should be a significant part of any public action from here on out.

Of course, there were liberals who were put off by the rally. I won't name names or provide links. You probably know who they are, and I'm trying this week to be more upbeat and positive, and tearing into ignorant quotes will seriously undermine my mission (however realistic or short-lived). But there were those who thought that any mention of Israel and the Palestinians was off topic, and that this would anger and alienate any fence-sitters watching. For some, Iraq and Iraq alone is the only issue worth discussing, and even then, one must be careful of what one says. All I can say in response is that this is a regional war, and Israel is decidedly a part of it, both in terms of the ongoing brutalization of the Palestinians (who continue to kill each other, a violent split that solely serves their brutalizer), and in regional military actions, training and planning, the chief target being Iran. Indeed, from what I saw, there was very little mention of possible strikes on Iran. If anything was truly amiss at Saturday's rally, it was that.

Still, I thought that many of the right tones were expressed, despite the inevitable lags here and there. The Hollywood contingent, which usually inspires the harshest reactions, did well, in my view. I have never had a problem with celebrities speaking out on social issues, regardless of their politics. Some know what they're talking about; others haven't the faintest clue. I assess them individually, and those who showed up in DC weren't anything to be embarrassed by. As Sean Penn remarked in his brief address that was under two minutes, actors are citizens as well and have a duty to show their solidarity, which Penn, Tim Robbins and Susan Sarandon did. Many critics, liberal and reactionary alike, spat all over Jane Fonda's appearance. Liberals don't want to be tarred with Fonda's anti-Vietnam war reputation, and reactionaries are still kneeling before their Hanoi Jane altars, religiously convinced that Fonda did more to hurt Vietnam-era soldiers and vets than did the US government and the Veteran's Administration. That Vietnam combat vets shared the same stage as Fonda on Saturday apparently does little to sway this crowd, and I didn't see any Iraq war vets fleeing the area upon Fonda's arrival. I personally have had my criticisms of Fonda, most harshly of her and former husband Tom Hayden's support of the Israeli bombardment of Beirut in 1982. Hayden has since apologized for this stance, while Fonda, in her recent memoir, pretends it never happened. But Fonda has shown a growing awareness of Israel/Palestine issues since cheering on Ariel Sharon those many years ago. How deep it goes only she knows for sure.

Given all that, I found Fonda's address to be perfectly fine. She showed respect for war vets and their families, and admitted her own fears about speaking out, considering the slime machine that still operates at the mere mention of her name. Watch for yourself and see if you agree.

Slammer Time

2007-01-25T10:08:00.000-05:00

Insanity stalks me this morning, after trying to strangle me in my sleep. Filthy fuck. Ignoring it does little to dissuade it. There is no reason nor morality that it recognizes. It just waits there, waits for me to let my guard down, its crazy face devoured by a stained-teeth smile.

I was going to write about the Dems again today, seeing how they are supposedly in charge while lame duck Bush jabbers on about "sacrifice" and the need for extended slaughter. But I simply lack the energy, Sonsters. Composing these daily blasts wears me out, and I neglect the house, the dirty kitchen floor, the mud room crusted with salt as several towels soak up the melting snow and ice tracked in by the family, the living room disheveled beyond belief, books stacked everywhere, magazines strewn on the dusty carpets, our neurotic New York cat puking up her food every few hours while our lazy Michigan cat sleeps and sheds all over my old Army jacket. Money is tight, bills are put off or partially paid, and here I sit, reading about the woeful world, jotting down notes and stray lines with sports radio providing ambient sound in the background.

Is this all there is?

Actually, believe it or not, I have planned, if not a more optimistic post about certain progressive Dems, then something less hostile and gloomy. At least that's how I feel at this conception stage. Once I start banging the thing out, that might change, but I can't say for sure. I never know how most of my posts will end, nor can I predict my mood as the thoughts burn through me. But I will try, loyal readers, to find something of worth in this mess, for I wear myself down far too often and suspect that I'm doing the same to you. If that's the case, my sincere apologies. Who wants to visit an angry man everyday, who shakes his fist at the sky and throws rocks at cars and trucks that speed through his residential stretch? I'm even looking the part these days -- my hair is getting long and my salt and pepper beard grows wild, like those old crazy coots in the trailer parks of my youth, cursing up a storm with a Schlitz in one hand and a Marlboro in the other. My friend Bob and I would egg these guys on, then laugh as they ranted away, seemingly oblivious to everything save their own dying rage. Kids can be cruel to the old, but I don't think those coots really noticed, especially after putting away a six-pack.

Speaking of old men who talk too much, a quick Perrin family snapshot: my grandfather, Charlie Perrin, who died in 1987, was somewhat legendary in the bars near his home. Charlie was filled with fear, which he covered up by being the loudest guy in the room, and oftentimes the funniest. For all of his bullshit, my grandfather could make you laugh, though he had to work you to find the right opening for his extremely corny but absurdist jokes and takes. I once went with him to one of his favorite bars, The Slammer, which had mock jail cell doors on the booths and old black and white photos of prisons and jails on the walls. The bar itself was very dark and reeked of dried beer on the floor. When we entered it was around 11 AM, and a small crowd of older men, hunched over their drinks, turned and stood to greet my grandfather.

"Hey! Charlie's here!"

They all smiled, awaiting Charlie's performance, and he did not disappoint them. I said very little, and took some pride in Charlie's act, which consisted of weird plays on words and anecdotes about his time as a salesman for Morton Salt. His little audience ate it up, and I could see, however briefly, my grandfather releasing some of his fear and living in the jovial moment. Of course, he got drunk and I had to drive him home, whereupon he drained a few more beers then nodded out in his big, plush chair, the bulk of his day over by 3 PM. He'd wake up a few hours later and read condensed books until bedtime, telling me that once he got the gist of a story or historical tale, he didn't need to read the whole thing, and so moved on to another shortened tome.

While I don't drink during the day (though sometimes I could really use it), I sort of feel like the Son is my Slammer, and you good people are the audience at the bar. Now, if only I would tell more amusing stories, yes?

Here's some classic Rodney Dangerfield, who looks a lot like my grandfather, though Rodney had a slicker act. But then, if Charlie hadn't been so emotionally beaten down, who knows what he might have achieved?

Sticky Webb

2007-01-24T10:47:00.000-05:00

What is it about American liberals that makes them behave like 7th grade civics students eager for an A? Do they seriously believe the rhetoric about our "glorious nation" and its "unique" destiny? Or is this merely a defense mechanism, a desperate effort to stave off the awful realities we all face and play down the abject criminality of those who rule us? Either way, the libs aren't helping matters. And with the Presidential Sweepstakes currently under way, their shit will pile up at an accelerated rate.

Reading some of the lib responses to James Webb's speech from last night has left me feeling angry and depressed. More than a few have employed the adolescent "awesome" to describe what was, in form and in fact, a pretty standard political spiel. What a sorry time we live in for Webb to be seen as a beacon of political hope and courage. Yes, he was against the Iraq invasion from the get-go, but so were a lot of people, Republicans and conservatives among them. That Webb, like many in the US elite, foresaw the horrors that awaited our entry again means little. Anyone with passing knowledge of the region and a hint of honesty predicted the exact same thing. Are we so far gone that a conservative Dem who faces reality is considered "impressive"? Apparently so.

Note that Webb described the Iraq war as "mismanaged." Not criminal, not corrupt, not imperial, but "mismanaged." What if the invasion and occupation had been successful? Of course, that would necessitate bloodletting on a massive scale, and even then "success" would not be guaranteed. But let's suppose that Bush gambled correctly, wiped out all forms of resistance and put a lethal stranglehold on the Iraqis while Halliburton peacefully set up shop and US control over Iraq's oil reserves was secure. Think Webb would object to that? Judging from his speech, I seriously doubt that he would, especially if Bush's poll numbers were in the 70s or higher. Webb is simply articulating what many in the US elite already know and feel -- the Iraq war was a tactical, imperial error which is undermining US power in the region. Or to use Webb's terminology, it has been "mismanaged," and so it must be corrected, if that's even possible at this stage.

Note also that Webb completely buys into the War on Terror scenario, which he didn't really define last night, though he's doubtlessly referring to Afghanistan specifically and al-Qaeda generally. That's a serious topic that requires serious debate, but Webb wasn't interested in going beyond rhythm phrases like "war on terrorism," the mere sound of which supposedly defines itself and therefore nothing else need be said. And Webb is decidedly on board with an attack on Iran, as he is completely behind Israel's aggression in the region. When the cluster bombs begin falling on Iran, don't expect Webb, Pelosi, Hillary, Obama, or any senior Dem, to oppose it -- that is, unless the murder of Iranians is somehow bungled or "mismanaged." Then perhaps Webb might make some critical noises, and wave more family photos at the camera to prove his sincerity. And, as nature dictates, online liberals will again fawn at his feet, marveling at his "awesome" delivery.

Our "Opposition" Party In Action

2007-01-24T09:19:00.000-05:00

From one bloody hand to another. God Bless America.

Real Roots

2007-01-23T12:02:00.000-05:00

Back in my DC days, when I attended talks, appeared on panels, radio and TV, went to pubs and parties crowded with smart, ambitious young politicos (along with the inevitable drunken-hangover stay at Hitchens' pad), I witnessed first-hand the detachment of the American political class from the American public. Not that I was terribly naive about this reality going in; but direct exposure helps to hammer home points, and listening to the utter contempt the Beltway crowd had for the masses at times shocked even me. When I told my relatives about it, they weren't surprised, but neither were they convinced that this was truly the case. For if those who worked on or wrote about Capitol Hill hated and feared them, then what did Congresspeople and Senators think? The idea that The People mattered only during elections (and oftentimes, not even then), was, I believe, too negative for some of my relatives and their friends to take, especially if they were Republicans. After all, the GOP cares for its own, right?

I was reminded of all this during last week's little "netroots" dust-up, when Max Sawicky questioned not only the theoretical prowess of online libs, but also their dedication to something other than corporate Dems. A few libs, like Kos and Steve Gilliard, turned Max's point around to make it seem as if Max was the political elitist, and they merely humble servants of a nation in desperate need of de-Bushification. But other libs used Max's critique as an opening to discuss the actual meaning of political theory today, and whether or not knowing your Marx or Alinsky (Paul Goodman, anyone?) really matters anymore. This then led to an attack on the George Scialabba review in the Nation that I linked to last week, for it seemed to certain younger libs that Scialabba, like Max, was out of touch with what's really going on.

Matthew Yglesias, a well-regarded online, Beltway lib, found terrible Scialabba's idea that American lefties actually engage the larger populace in an effort to raise political issues, if not political consciousness. As Scialabba put it:

"How to accomplish it? I don't know. Perhaps population exchanges or year-abroad programs between blue and red states. Perhaps The Nation should offer free subscriptions to registered Republicans. Perhaps Katha Pollitt and Ann Coulter (or Thomas Frank and David Brooks, or Greg Palast and Matt Drudge) should barnstorm the country, the way Stanley Fish and Dinesh D'Souza did in the 1990s. Perhaps all secular liberals should sign a pledge: Every time one evangelical reads a nonreligious book, one of us will go to church. Somehow or other, someone must sow a healthy appetite for informed, discriminating political argument across large swaths of the electorate where it now appears lacking. Otherwise, public life will become wholly (what it now is largely) a marketing competition, and nothing more."

Yglesias utterly rejected such a straightforward, grassroots suggestion:

"[T]he underlying presumption here -- that political progress depends on massively increasing the general populations knowledge of American politics and public policy -- is dead wrong. 'Informed, discriminating political argument' is never going to be popular 'across large swaths of the electorate' because most people simply don't care very much about politics. This is a fact of political life -- of human nature -- that successful movements seek to deal with, not something to sit around pining over while the world passes everyone by."

Apart from Yglesias' open elitism, which is no surprise, given his Harvard background, I'm always amused by how profoundly limited many Ivy Leaguers are. Perhaps the reason why "most people simply don't care very much about politics" is because American elites have worked long and hard to depoliticize the population. You don't have to be a Lippmann scholar to know that historical truth. But young Matt seems to seriously believe that, unlike him and his smart friends, the rabble out there just isn't up to understanding the larger forces that shape and steer contemporary society. Indeed, Yglesias goes to fellow Harvard alum, Sam Rosenfeld, for back-up on this point:

"[T]he modern liberal emphasis on making the public somehow smarter and better informed about politics as the central means of bringing about progressive change has amounted to a catastrophic misallocation of energy. I'm not sure what empirical basis anyone has in mind for such a notion: Do people really think that, say, New Deal reforms, or those brought by the Civil Rights Movement or during the Great Society came about because Americans of those periods happened to be better informed than today -- because, that is, the political discourse was more elevated and sophisticated, and demagogues and morons had a harder time finding an audience? Isn't it a bit more likely -- and, indeed, something of a constant of human societies -- that the 'quality' of mass political discussion and the political sophistication of the average citizen have always been pretty tawdry, and that effecting beneficial political change has a good deal more to do with manning and strengthening particular institutions and engaging directly in raw political struggle than it does with sprinkling enlightenment across the land?"

What the fuck do they teach at Cambridge anyway?

Yes, there have always been uninformed, tribalisitic and superstitious Americans throughout this country's history. Millions of them, in fact. But to claim that average, working people were just as depoliticized in the New Deal era, or during the Civil Rights struggle, as many are today is self-serving, ahistorical horseshit. One can go back even further, to the radical years of the late 19th century, to the Industrial Workers of the World of the early 20th century, periods when numerous working-class newspapers enjoyed wide circulations. The American and immigrant workers of that time were highly politicized, so much so that US elites were not only alarmed and threatened by what they saw as a possible uprising, or even revolution, they did what they could to suppress this type of political activity, which of course included shooting workers in the streets and jailing those leaders who were deemed "anti-American Reds." The political discourse of that time not only was "more elevated and sophisticated" than now, it was more effective in educating those who lacked the money or connections to attend elite institutions like Harvard. Read Emma Goldman's autobiography for a closer look at this now-forgotten era of working class activism and political awareness, then wonder what the hell Yglesias and Rosenfeld are really talking about.

It's certainly true that large segments of working people today lack the same outlets and support networks that workers of earlier periods fought for. Decades of assaults on workers' rights accompanied by relentless anti-union propaganda has taken a heavy toll, and it remains one of the true successes of the American political and economic elite. But awareness from below has not been completely stamped out, as we presently see in the anti-sweatshop movements and the ongoing union struggles of Justice for Janitors. George Scialabba's recommendation is a good one -- "we" should be mixing more with those locked out of the current American system and making "our" ideas more accessible and better understood. I've done my share of this over the past few years, and it's not an easy or even pleasurable task. There are more setbacks than breakthroughs, and perhaps soon I'll write more about this. Still, it's worth a shot, especially in a criminal time like now. How much longer can we afford the "insights" and "guidance" offered by those from on high, or those, like Yglesias and Rosenfeld, who pine for such elevated status?

War. No. End.

2007-01-22T14:13:00.000-05:00

There are days when my anger and frustration with what remains of the American "experiment" hit such violent lows that whatever chair I happen to be occupying is in danger of becoming kindling -- even the metal chairs. I've destroyed many chairs in my time, kicking and stomping them into splinters, throwing the larger remnants against the wall while unleashing hideous, primal screams as my monkey brain clicks on and I jump around, reduced to a sub-evolutionary state suitable only for football tailgaters, NASCAR gatherings, or some contemporary country musicpalooza. My political Hulk is an unreasonable beast, and over time I've lessened his influence and subdued his destructive urge. But he can still pop out at any time, and like Bruce Banner, I must maintain control before my pupils dilate, my shirt and pants begin to rip, and broken chairs begin flying.

Chaos and death continue in Iraq, and this past weekend has been most brutal. You've seen the headlines and the accompanying wire photos of smoldering, twisted metal and blasted bodies, some wrapped in bags, others not, with pools of blood spreading everywhere. Political machinations continue, of course, both in Baghdad and in DC, where there is, so far, token Dem resistance to Bush's upcoming "surge." (Afghanistan is not much better, but that's for another day.) Libs across the land keep pointing to the polls and to last November's midterms, insisting that the American people are overwhelmingly opposed to any escalation in Iraq. Maybe they are, but I suspect that this opposition is tepid at best, at least when it comes to the great mass of Americans, who are, by design and by choice, largely apolitical and ahistorical. They don't like bad news, and that's all that's coming out of Iraq.

If this present war went down as easily as the first Gulf engagement in 1991, we'd probably see the same high pro-war poll numbers, tickertape parades and "Salute Our Conquering Heroes" TV specials. I remember that period very well, for I was right in the middle of it all. And some of the biggest celebrations took place in lower Manhattan, with office workers pouring out of buildings, chanting "U-S-A! U-S-A!" Had Bush, as many of his liberal critics urged, invaded Iraq with a massive show of force and slaughtered three, four, five times the number of Iraqis who even glanced at US troops with a frown, and controlled the larger cities with an iron, Saddamist fist, think the negative poll numbers would be as high? Christ, people would be jacking off at Bush's feet, praising his toughness and resolve. And naturally the Dems would yank meekly along, maybe quietly suggesting a raise of the minimum wage so the working poor could afford an extra meal at McDonald's -- from the 99 cent menu, of course.

An ugly scenario, to be sure. Perhaps even uglier than the reality we currently face, if that's possible. The reason I even entertain such chilling thoughts stems from various sources of late, most recently a local radio show that I'd never before heard until Sun morning, and an item in today's Indianapolis Star.

The radio show, hosted by someone named Michael Stein, and broadcast by WDTW-AM, Detroit's "Progressive Talk," has to be one of the more idiotic offerings I've encountered since reading Kos' take on political philosophy last week. Stein, from what I heard, is one of those anti-PC rightwingers who "tells it like it is," in his case, from a shallow, polluted pond of ignorance and arrogance. Stein not only believes that "we" can still win in Iraq, but challenges "the left" to articulate a better policy. None of the callers could sway him from his stance, though truth be told, they weren't in full command of any passing facts of the matter. One self-described moderate backed Bush's coming escalation, saying that the extra bodies would act as protectors for those beleaguered troops already on the frontlines. Stein barked back that the US goal was not protecting other troops, but to win the war and secure the peace "before" civil war erupts, "before" Islamic fanatics establish a foothold, "before" Iran and pro-Iranian elements begin influencing events in Iraq.

I know that a lot of truly stupid people have access to microphones and cameras in the United States, but this guy blows past the average. For a moment, I thought I was experiencing aural hallucinations, so unfuckingbelievable was Michael Stein's rant. Then I saw, according to WDTW's schedule, that Stein's show is paid programming, which explains his appearance on Sunday mornings. But I wonder if Detroit's "Progressive Talk" will put on any viewpoint in exchange for money, or simply lunatic reactionaries like Stein? In a sense, you can't blame the station. Not only do they get paid, but they feature someone who makes their regular line-up of Al Franken, Stephanie Miller, and Randi Rhodes appear forward-thinking. Not a bad racket.

Still, know-nothings like Stein are more common than not, regardless of media reach. I was reminded of this when reading about college students in Indiana who remain, at this late date, "ambivalent" about the Iraq war. Some quotes:

"College students honestly don't know what should be done. We don't know what should be done. We don't like what's being done, but we don't have any better ideas."

"In class, it is not something people really want to talk about that much because it's such a sensitive topic."

"[P]eople are so tired of hearing about it. We just want whatever makes it over."

And of course, there's always a young optimist:

"I know mistakes were made, but reconstruction always takes time. It will definitely show more results. It's a good start, and we should be able to see progress at least."

See why I left Indiana all those years ago? The place can still turn your mind into quick-drying cement.

To be fair, there's a lot of this in Michigan, a somewhat bluer state. In fact, I'm willing to bet that this makes up the majority of discussions and thinking about Iraq nationwide. For all the hype about how the majority of Americans are against this war, when was the last time you heard, either on talk radio or in your everyday life, a serious, historically-based statement or exchange about what's going on? This is why I remain suspicious about those supposedly "antiwar" polls. And if American antiwar feeling is more surface than depth, then where does that leave us, especially with more war on the horizon? I'll try to answer this tomorrow as I look at some "educated" online political opinion, where Walter Lippmann's "manufacture of consent" is more popular than ever.

But for now, please excuse me. There's a wooden stool that's just asking for it.

Sonshine Day!

2007-01-19T10:48:00.000-05:00

The Son has been a sour lad of late, partly because of the usual political bullshit, and partly because I've spent the week fighting off some low-level virus, flu, exhaustion, whatever it was, plus performing blue collar labor on top of it.

Blarghhh.

But today, I feel so much better, thank you, and I don't want to waste this good feeling on harsh opinions. Instead, the Son is all about the love, the sharing, the smiling in the face of hatred, fear, and contempt, the daisy in life's rifle barrel.

The boy's been writing up a storm of late -- mysteries, historical essays, and most impressively, poems. Here's one he composed this week.

Haunted Mansion

The neighbors, a ghost in his mansion.
I know it!
The dogs are Zombies!
The cats are vampires!
The tv's a mummy!
The books are ghosts!
The statues are alive!
The birds are skeletons!
I must be brave!
So I can borrow a cup of coffee.

Of all of the boy's creative work of this period, the above is definitely a keeper.

Upon reading this, I was reminded of a Michael O'Donoghue poem that appeared in the Evergreen Review in 1965.

The Untimely Demise of Madame X
(or)
"Shot in Her Box at the Opera"
. . .to Benjamin Peret, 1928.

My airplane is burning.
My formal gardens cross their legs.
Negroes have eaten up my sister.

My mother have been revoked.
Gypsies stole my father,
Repainted him,
And sold him across the border.

My wife is a sailor.

My wolves are housebroken.
My cat is a dog.
The goldfish drowned.

Emery dust in my monorail.

My arsenal is doves.
My caprice is annotated.
The bathtub tried to bite me
And did.

Hunchbacks gave me money.

My screams are dead snowflakes
Falling on dead people
Making them feel all warm and loved.

While the boy (thankfully) lacks O'D's fascination with death, there are similarities in cadence and image. And the boy's only 10. O'D was in his mid-20s when he wrote the above. I like the kid's artistic chances.

The wife showed me the following clip this morning, which helped to sharpen my Sonny outlook:

But for me, few could top Bugaloo Caroline Ellis, who made many of my Saturday mornings most delightful.

Have a happy weekend, Sonsters! And remember: take only what you need, and know your dealer.

Jerks In The Circle

2007-01-18T12:17:00.000-05:00

The libloggers have spoken, sort of, and man, what a sorry group they are. I knew that many of the larger lib sites contained little more than "Go Dems Go!" rhetoric, but I must admit that I was somewhat surprised by their inability to defend this position, such as it is. Max Sawicky nailed them and nailed them good; and their whiny, self-absorbed responses merely reinforced Max's original point.

I thought that Steve Gilliard would put up a better fight -- not necessarily a fact-based counterstroke, given Gilliard's rather loose grip on political reality beyond his keyboard, but something that possessed a little passion. His ego alone could cough up a quick 700 words. But instead, Gilliard retreated, waxing on about some anonymous housewife in Ohio who wants her own voice heard in national affairs, and how her desire is feared and despised by elitist, lefty pointy heads who hate average people, unlike Gilliard and his friends, who are the real populists, and who, through blogging, are empowering her while changing the world.

Yeah. Can't you just feel the societal shift?

While Gilliard composed his fantasy scenario, Marcos "Kos" Moulitsas decided to engage Max directly:

"Here's my take on the whole matter -- 'intellectuals' who'd rather read books and measure purity are next-to-useless. I prefer people of action, not of elitist academics. And I say that as someone who collected degrees as a hobby. What did all those Marx readers deliver the country? Nixon. Reagan. Bush. Bush II. Not to mention the DeLays, the Scalias, and the long national nightmare that is just now being stemmed.

"That's not a knock on people who've been fighting the good fight. Just on those who think the intellectual circle jerks of the 60s are superior to what we're building today."

To say that Kos is ahistorical here is an understatement. The guy is simply a dolt -- an aggressive, careerist dolt, mind you, who is clawing upward for senior mule status, but a sack of rocks all the same.

The inescapable bottom line is this: libloggers largely talk and link to each other. When Kos complains about "intellectual circle jerks," he's simply projecting what he, his followers, and imitators do on a daily basis (though their exertions are more pseudo-intellectual). The idea that online libs are "changing reality" or "saving lives" or even "reaching out and empowering" the common folk is a self-serving delusion. The vast majority of the American public do not read political blogs of any stripe, and I guarantee you that I can walk down my Midwestern street, knock on every door, ask "What's your opinion of DailyKos?" and receive more blank stares and mumbled "Who?"s than "Why, he's a man of action! A true progressive force!"

What Kos and company are "building today" is little more than a pro-Dem consensus for those already predisposed to the idea. Idependent, critical thinking about empire, global capital, other "wars of choice" (just wait until their Dem heroes support a US attack on Iran -- we got a preview of their reactions during Israel's cluster bombing of Lebanon last summer), class relations, and other, actual problems that the Dems have no real interest in addressing, much less attempting to solve, is either beyond them or beneath them, in Kos' case, probably both. Those who proudly know nothing about earlier, important struggles cannot be trusted or even expected to lead or help forge serious, contemporary struggles. But they can appear on political chat shows and handicap who will be their corporate party's nominee in '08. That's a form of action, I suppose.

Dembulbs

2007-01-17T11:24:00.000-05:00

Angry, pissy emails regularly flow into my inbox whenever I slam Dems or libloggers for their latest blunder, hypocrisy, or state apologia. "Who then?!" is the usual response, followed with "You're full of shit!" or some related pleasantry. To be expected in our political culture, where the acceptable boundaries continually shrink, forcing sensible people into contorted, contradictory positions as they try to make sense of what is offered them. I understand, but I don't accept this as the only means to discuss and debate our sorry condition. Indeed, living in a wealthy, imperial country, it is incumbent upon us to break down these boundaries whenever possible. This is not easy, as reaction is always there to hammer us back down. The real question is, how much hammering will you take before you hammer back?

For many online libs, hammering back means voting for Dems and little more. Of course, this is to social change what katas are to combat, but again, this is what we've been reduced to. Dem victories in the midterms supposedly altered the American political terrain, but we old-timers know better, having seen this pantomime before. One can excuse the younger libs for jumping up and down with glee, eyes widened to the possibility of ideological rollback. They lack the longer view and have yet to receive serious political scars. But when an older lib, say someone over 40, tries to jump with the kids while squeezing his or her eyes tight in order to see the same illusion, the result is pathetic and very beside the point, like a balding hippie, or worse, a graying punk, wheezing and sweating in an effort to keep pace.

The disjunction of then from now was further illustrated yesterday when Max Sawicky, older lib and economist supreme, delivered his critique of the online lib world at TPM Cafe, Josh Marshall's centrist circle where today's Big Minds meet to chew the policy fat and devise new ways to elect more Dems. Given this static environment, Max's cutting, accurate line, "The 'Internet Left' is a mostly brainless vacuum cleaner of donations for the Democratic Party," pierced the thin skins of those operating the party's Orecks, and led to predictable retorts about how the Sixties accomplished very little and are thankfully dead, how online libs are saving people's lives in the here and now and helping to ensure a better future, etc. and so on. Online lib-fave Steve Gilliard weighed in as well, informing Max that the chief movements of the 1960s ended badly, and in the cases of SDS and SNCC, "slipped into terrorism." Gilliard also claimed that the New Left "was a minor participant in social change because it was disconnected from the masses. It was really college kids and some activists reading Marx and talking." Today's online libs are more effective because they don't sit around and talk about Marxist theory -- they're out there in the Real World, getting it done, unlike "fantasists like Max Sawicky."

Where to start?

First of all, Gilliard's concept of American radicalism and its effect on this country's politics is not only blinkered, it's simplistic bullshit. The social movements of the 60s, like any attempt to force political change, boasted both successes and failures. But it's the failures that we are most reminded of, and Gilliard sounds no different on this front than those rightwingers, primarily from the Wall Street Journal and the American Spectator, that I used to debate back in the day. "The Sixties were a bust!" the likes of John Fund or Terry Eastland would tell me, their forefingers jabbing at the air for emphasis. "The New Left did more harm to this country than good!" After reminding them that the antiwar movement of that period cut across ideological lines (the libertarian right was opposed to Vietnam as well), I said that the New Left, for all of its mistakes and self-destructive actions, helped to till the ground for future grassroots political movements -- just as the labor movements of the 1930s (which Gilliard tries to divorce from radical forces like the CIO, not to mention the Communist Party and other socialist formations) and the civil rights and anti-nuclear weapons movements of the 1950s set the stage for the New Left. Thanks to the activists of the 1960s, opposition to imperial war took root in the body politic, and movements for women's rights and queer rights began to gain traction and support. Environmentalism also became a mainstream topic and concern, something that wouldn't have occurred had it not been for the ferment of the 60s, which entailed much, much more than sitting cross-legged under banners of Huey Newton, quoting Marcuse and Fanon.

It's easy to see why reactionaries hate the Sixties, and have spent their political lives trying to turn back the clock. But for liberals like Gilliard to spit on the same movements makes you wonder what exactly he and his fellow Dems have in mind for tomorrow, apart from electing more Dems, that is.

Missing from all this liberal outrage are assessments of 1980s activism, which owed a great deal to the movements of the 60s. When the Reagan administration tested the waters for direct US military intervention in El Salvador in 1981 with its "White Paper," opposition to this proposed move was immediate, as activists ranging from college kids to churchgoers to suburban dwellers staged sit-ins, organized street actions, wrote letters to politicians and newspapers, signed public petitions, and essentially raised such a degree of hell that the Reagan gang backed off, preferring to go clandestine instead. As Noam Chomsky put it, the American people drove the government underground, and even then, education about and solidarity with the people of Central America spread throughout the country. I was in my early 20s when this exploded, and it served as my first serious political education (following up my years in the Army, which kick-started my political awareness). As I've said before, I knew people in the Sanctuary Movement, and met with Salvadoran teachers and union organizers who fled their country thanks to American support and training of the death squads that were hunting them down. And while I did run into some college brats playing Che or Fidel from time to time, the majority of activists I knew, met or worked with back then were common people -- people with mortgages and kids in school, who went to church on Sunday (or temple on Friday), who shopped at malls and ate fast food. The same went for those in the anti-apartheid movement of the same era. Dissidence was deeper in America than it had been in the 1960s. And you can thank the social and political movements of the Sixties for that.

If you want to read a serious piece about today's Dems and the limitations we face in trying to push the mules in a progressive direction (assuming this can be done), check out George Scialabba's review of various lib books in the current Nation. Scialabba is another old-timer, whose essays in Grand Street in the 1980s and early-90s were among the best political commentaries of that period. He tries hard to find silver linings in the Dems' recent ascension, but like many of us who've been around this block more times than we can count, all that appears are bits of tinsel tossed down by Barack Obama and John Edwards. Things might change, of course. Anything's possible. But sitting on your ass and tapping out ahistorical screeds on behalf of a corporate party while denigrating the influential struggles of those you've never met is hardly the best way forward.

Sick Day Filler

2007-01-16T11:53:00.000-05:00

Feel pretty lousy today. More physical than emotional. So I'm gonna take it light and try to come back tomorrow with something more substantial.

Until then, here's a couple of visual distractions sent to me by Shane Taylor and Oliver Sheppard, the latter of whom runs Cult Punk, a political/music site which I will soon add to the roll, along with some other worthy online efforts.

The first, "Shoes", simply is. Nothing else need be said.

The second, "Apache", is something more -- more of what, I've no serious idea. But I promise you, it's like nothing else you'll see today.

And here's Eric Bogosian playing Garry Shandling's ex-comedy partner on the always great "Larry Sanders". Aren't comedy writers complete pricks?

King For Today

2007-01-15T10:31:00.000-05:00

Happy MLK day, especially to all us well-intentioned white folk who do so very much to help alleviate the world's suffering. Being a white lefty is burdensome and often unrewarding, but someone has to go tell it on the mountain, and who is more qualified to mourn and celebrate Dr. King than we forward-thinking persons of pinkish-grayish hue?

I offered my own thoughts about King this time last year, and I see no reason to revise them. What I said then, I'd say now. The only thing I'm sorry to have missed back then was Aaron McGruder's sharp satirical take on what King would say had he survived the assassination attempt and lived to see commercial African-American culture.

I don't watch much late night TV, so I knew nothing about McGruder's animated assault on his "Boondocks" show. Clearly, my head was up my pale ass when this episode aired and offended a good many people, which is what a decent satirist should do. I'm sure that more of you out there know about McGruder's harsh take than don't, but in case, like me, your head was elsewhere, the episode roughly breaks down like this:

King is not killed in Memphis in 1968, but falls into a coma, from which he doesn't awaken until 2000. As he clears his head and looks around him, he becomes increasingly disgusted with the way African-Americans are portrayed and how many of them behave. He's also branded a traitor when, after the 9/11 attacks, he maintains his Christian pacifist position (something I also mentioned in my post from last year). But it isn't until King, accompanied by "Boondocks" fixture Huey Freeman, arrives at a black church that his rising contempt is given full expression.

I like it that King moves to Canada and dies there at 91. As for Oprah becoming president, well, better than a lot of other possible celebrity choices, I guess. But surely McGruder recalls that Oprah was in favor of invading Iraq, bringing on Kenneth Pollack to cheerlead the war. I don't know if she's ever offered a mea culpa since then, but if not, I doubt anyone of consequence is going to remind her. One of the perks of being Oprah.

After the episode aired, McGruder appeared on "Nightline" to explain his satirical intentions.

I won't pretend that I was an avid "Boondocks" reader, but I've always liked McGruder whenever he's appeared on TV or radio. I only wish I'd been at that infamous Nation dinner several years ago when McGruder really brought it to the pale liberals about to receive their just desserts.

"Toward the dessert (chocolate torte) portion of the evening, Uma Thurman rose to introduce a special guest: Aaron McGruder, the creator of the popular and subversive comic strip 'The Boondocks,' who, as it happens, had travelled farther than anyone else to be there, all the way from Los Angeles. McGruder, one of only a few prominent African-American cartoonists, had been making waves in all the right ways, poking conspicuous fun at Trent Lott, the N.R.A., the war effort. An exhibition of his comic strips—characters with Afros and dreadlocks drawn in a style borrowing heavily from Japanese manga -- with accentuated foreheads and eyes -- was on display in the Metropolitan Club’s Great Hall. It seemed to be, as a Nation contributor said later, 'his coronation as our kind of guy.'

"But what McGruder saw when he looked around at his approving audience was this: a lot of old, white faces. What followed was not quite a coronation. McGruder, who rarely prepares notes or speeches for events like this, began by thanking Thurman, 'the most ass-kicking woman in America.' Then he lowered the boom. He was a twenty-nine-year-old black man, he said, who got invited to such functions all the time, so you could imagine how bored he was. He proceeded to ramble, at considerable length, and in a tone, as one listener put it, of 'militant cynicism,' with a recurring theme: that the folks in the room ('courageous'? Please) were a sorry lot.

"He told the guests that he’d called Condoleezza Rice, the national-security adviser, a mass murderer to her face; what had they ever done? (The Rice exchange occurred in 2002, at the N.A.A.C.P. Image Awards, where McGruder was given the Chairman’s Award; Rice requested that he write her into his strip.) He recounted a lunch meeting with Fidel Castro. (He had been invited to Cuba by the California congresswoman Barbara Lee, who is one of the few politicians McGruder has praised in 'The Boondocks.') He said that noble failure was not acceptable. But the last straw came when he 'dropped the N-word,' as one amused observer recalled. He said—bragged, even—that he’d voted for Nader in 2000. At that point, according to Hamilton Fish, the host of the party, 'it got interactive.'

"Eric Alterman, a columnist for The Nation, was sitting in the back of the room, next to Joe Wilson, the Ambassador. He shouted out, 'Thanks for Bush!' Exactly what happened next is unclear. Alterman recalls that McGruder responded by grabbing his crotch and saying, 'Try these nuts.' Jack Newfield, the longtime Village Voice writer, says that McGruder simply dared Alterman to remove him from the podium. When asked about this incident later, McGruder said, 'I ain’t no punk. I ain’t gonna let someone shout and not go back at him.'

"Alterman walked out. 'I turned to Joe and said, "I can’t listen to this crap anymore," ' he remembers. 'I went out into the Metropolitan Club lobby — it’s a nice lobby — and I worked on my manuscript.'

"Newfield joined in the heckling, as did Stephen Cohen, a historian and the husband of [Nation editor and face of "reasonable" liberalism] Katrina vanden Heuvel. 'It was like watching LeRoi Jones try to Mau-Mau a guilty white liberal in the sixties,' Newfield says. 'It was out of a time warp. Who is he to insult people who have been putting their careers and lives on the line for equal rights since before he was born?'

"By the time McGruder had finished, and a tipsy Joe Wilson took the microphone to deliver his New Year’s Resolutions, perhaps half the guests had excused themselves to join Alterman in the lobby. A Nation contributor estimated that McGruder had offended eighty per cent of the audience. 'Some people still haven’t recovered,' he said, sounding thrilled.

"'At a certain point, I just got the uncomfortable feeling that this was a bunch of people who were feeling a little too good about themselves,' McGruder said afterward. 'These are the big, rich white leftists who are going to carry the fight to George Bush, and the best they can do is blame Nader?'

"He went on, laughing a little, 'I was not the right guest for that event. I’ll be the first one to say that. It was one of those reminders that, yeah, I’m not this political leader that people are looking for.'"

Anyone who can drive condescending assholes like Eric Alterman into the lobby is okay by me. Obviously, McGruder didn't recognize Alterman's resounding goodness, nor that of the other aging white lefties in attendance. And after all they've done for his kind. I'm sure Dr. King would've been appalled.

New Blood For Old Sam

2007-01-12T11:23:00.000-05:00

The war's about to expand, with Iran and Syria somewhere in the mix. Bush is in his bunker, snarling and snapping at subordinates, then staring off into space as his medication kicks in. Laura smiles and insists all is well, playing Toby Keith CDs to keep the mood upbeat. Cheney comes and goes, tense as hell, muttering crazed thoughts through his yellowed, grinding teeth. Condi flits in, oblivious and loyal to the end, affecting Audrey Hepburn poses in the tall, ornate mirrors. Barney the dog shits on the tile, then humps the leg of the Secret Service agent assigned to clean it up. Down the street, Nancy Pelosi poses yet again for the cameras, twirling a red cape, her eyes glazed with self-satisfaction. And Rahm Emanuel carefully emerges from his limo, looking around for antiwar hecklers, his nerves jangled from encountering the common herd.

Another day in the dying American empire. I wonder how long it will be before all these squalid figures start wearing laurel wreaths on their heads, feasting on roasted boar while Moroccan bellydancers shimmy around the torch-lit tables. We're on the cusp of a major death spike which everyone can sense, especially those about to be called up or have their tours lengthened. But at the state level, there is little more than talk and denial, with Joe Biden saying that he might, some day, get really, really serious about expanded war, and the open admission by the likes of Harry Reid that any opposition to this fresh round of brutality will be "symbolic."

Some libloggers are moaning about Bush's end run around Congress, but seem to miss the 800-pound fact that much of Congress is with Bush, regardless of rhetoric to the contrary. Congressional "opposition" is made up largely of careerists and cowards; and once this next phase of bloodletting gets going, they will wave their flags and speak, hands over hearts, of bravery and sacrifice, while avoiding any real confrontation over the war. After all, there's the '08 elections to think about. They can't look too partisan this soon. What will corporate lobbyists think?

I've long suspected that this wretched period of American history would occur in my lifetime, a period where the government finally and openly shows its full contempt for the governed, and does whatever the fuck it wants, convinced that no one will stand up to it. Who's to say that our rulers are wrong? We're staring right in the face of abject criminality, and yet everyone feels helpless -- so helpless that many cling to the fantasy that the Dems will put a stop to this waking nightmare, or at least dampen its horror. But this is comparable to begging a butcher to use a duller blade when cutting the meat, or trying to reason with a hyena that is muzzle-deep in a fresh carcass. This is what the American liberal tradition has come to, while on much of the right, derangement and lunatic nationalism spread and stick like herpes. We are a sick, twisted nation that is armed to the teeth. And we are only in the beginning stages of the final, barbarous meltdown.

I'm sorry if the Son seems too despondent these days. I sincerely wish this wasn't so, and I suspect I'm driving readers away with these angry, frightened posts. If that's the case, so be it. I write what I feel. Maybe Billmon and Michael Bérubé were right in hanging it up. Perhaps it's time to shut down and take a vow of silence. Eat mushrooms and see the world as it really is, beyond our violent, primitive monkey minds.

All that sounds good -- well, tempting, anyway. I could use a few trips through innerspace right about now. But here I remain, for the duration, at least, for honestly, what real choice do I have? If someone must play the foole while the graves are dug and the screams drown out the laughter, then hand me my cap and bells and give me room to dance.

Yesterday, I finally watched Mike Judge's "Idiocracy", and while the first 20 minutes made me laugh, or released some of the pain from my body, the film soon ground me down, and by the end, I was as depressed as I had been before. Judge is a first-rate satirist, and his scalpel cuts incredibly deep. This film was apparently abandoned by 20th Century Fox before Judge could put the final touches on it, and the rough edges show. It makes "Office Space" look like a big budget mall movie. I'm sure the execs at Fox weren't all that crazy about promoting a film that tells Americans how fat, stupid and violent they are. Although Judge sets most of his story in the year 2505, he's speaking to us today, and he's relentless with his message. "Idiocracy" has to be one of the gloomiest comedies of recent times, and if Judge can drain my spirits in 84 minutes, I can't imagine what his film would do to someone less prepared for its punch. Here's a clip from the film's opening, contrasting the birth rates of white yuppies with horny, ignorant rednecks. And while the yuppie larva wouldn't necessarily bloom into someone worthwhile, Judge's point is more than made.

Unlike Judge's dystopia, the Star Trek franchise has always tried to sell the distant future as an enlightened, progressive era. A pleasant fantasy, and who knows, maybe even achievable. Tough to tell from this point in time. My friend Louis Proyect recently watched an episode of "Star Trek: Voyager" that adds to the franchise's tradition, and he offers some interesting thoughts. I haven't seen this show, but it sounds entertaining. How we get from here to there in real life, however, is lost on me. But then, who comes to the foole for answers?

Demial

2007-01-11T10:08:00.000-05:00

Notes scattered across my desk. Late night jots on 3x5s and on the backs of Trader Joe's receipts. I look at them this morning and feel nauseous. My stomach and nerves are revolting against what reason remains in my brain. I feel like puking on my keyboard and kicking the monitor that keeps bringing the bad news. And it is bad, Sonsters. You and I both know it.

Not much energy today, so there won't be yet another screed against the Dems and their lib apologists and enablers. What's left to say? Well, plenty, but I've gotta space these posts out a bit or I'll be back in that killer mode from last July, when Israel's assault on Lebanon drove me to a near-physical meltdown. (Juan Cole told me that I suffered from a lesser but still significant form of war fatigue. He went through the same thing when he was in Beirut during the civil war there. "How can I have war fatigue sitting at my safe desk in the midwest?" I asked him. "You look at enough photos and film of people getting butchered, children among them," he replied, "and it'll get to you, no matter where you live.") Watching Dick Durbin's response to Bush's slow motion madness made me feel like I was in a cage. This is it? This is how the "opposition" reacts? And that line about the Iraqis dialing 9-1-1 for US help was a real kneeslapper, Dick, even though it has nothing to do with what the fuck's going down. Who are these maniacs who control our political lives? Does anybody really give a shit?

Reading some of the more popular lib sites only deepened my sorrow and feelings of desperation. I won't bother naming them or quoting their silly posts. You probably know who I have in mind. They continually rub their little porcelain mules and hope hope hope that their Dem idols will eventually get off their soft assess and deal with Bush's escalation. But the Dems won't, not if another 37 hearings can delay any serious engagement. Oh, and Chris Dodd is now running for president. Just what we need -- a bad, aging Bobby Kennedy impersonator. Very retro in a very sad way. I bet Dodd's already got Emilio Estevez's vote. Just stay out of Californian kitchens.

That's it for today. I'll be back tomorrow with something more amusing, I hope. Right now, I'm going out to find Mike Judge's "Idiocracy", for if there's a movie that matches my mood, that has got to be it. Until then, watch this simple but brilliant act. This came after the close of the Vietnam war. Will we ever recapture such innocence?

That Liberal Desire

2007-01-10T11:09:00.000-05:00

So Bush is intent on cramming another 20,000 warm bodies into the Iraqi meatgrinder. What will the Dems do about that? Nothing much, it appears. As reported in this morning's New York Times, these supposed bringers of better tomorrows are planning little more than symbolic gestures, although some talk about maybe showing stiffer spines down the road, whenever or wherever that is. And I love what Joe Biden said: "If you really want to change the situation on the ground, demonstrate to the president he’s on his own. That will spark real change."

Oh yeah. Can't you just picture Bush shaking and sputtering once he realizes he's on his own? Which of course he really isn't. The Dems, for all of their choreographed chatter, are right there with Bush. If they weren't, they'd attempt to bring some serious pain his way, flexing their political muscle as far as they possibly could. They are the majority, right? So what's the fucking delay?

You knew the fix was in once Pelosi and gang took impeachment, or even the merest shadow of impeachment, off the agenda. To sane observers, Bush is as impeachable as presidents get. Shit, if lib darling Clinton could face the drumroll, then Bush is a no-brainer. Indeed, Clinton's impeachment makes a Bush impeachment that much easier. Compare the crimes and tally the score. It's so obvious that it would make the sun blush for being so bright.

But it's not going to happen. And honestly, we all knew it would never happen when we marched with high purpose into the voting booths last November. Like so much else in American political life, a Dem majority actually attempting to redress the crimes of state is a fantasy, simply because they are in on the corrupt action. Criminals only rat each other out when there's no more room to move; and as of today, the Dems believe that they have plenty of space in which to maneuver, which is why they are talking about possible action in the near future. They are worthless, spineless, a travesty to even a schoolchild's concept of liberty and justice for all. They should be pelted with garbage whenever they appear in public.

If you want the true face of the Dems, take a look at Rahm Emanuel's expression when he was accosted by antiwar activists, as seen on Bill O'Reilly's show:

A lovely sight. Naturally, O'Reilly then ripped into Sunsara Taylor, who for some reason decided to appear on that asshole's platform. The only good thing about this segment is that we see how even reactionaries like O'Reilly will rush to the defense of their supposed political enemies should they actually face the anger of common people. O'Reilly may be a mere Murdoch mouthpiece, but he does share the same interests as those in the Beltway's political elite, as is clearly evident in the clip above. That it takes a member of the Revolutionary Communist Party to state the obvious about the Dems and the war should shame those liberals who fancy themselves antiwar, but who would never, ever, confront a Dem leader like that. When the mules at Firedoglake start organizing such public demonstrations against their beloved leaders, then we'll know that the shit has taken a serious turn. But like those they revere, the libloggers and their loyal dittoheads will wait and wait and wait while the Middle East continues to burn, more dead and mangled come home, and the Iraqi bodycount climbs and climbs.

At home, worms eat our flesh as we smile and jerk off to internet porn -- the worst of which is liberals blowing a diseased donkey that in turn fucks them for votes and overall allegiance. I'm all for respecting various lifestyle choices, but the one American libs have committed to affects more than just themselves. But then, it's hard to see the bigger picture with a donkey dick in your mouth.

THANKS: To my old chum and sometime sparring partner Marc Cooper for favorably mentioning an earlier Son post. Marc and I have many political differences, some of which can get quite heated, but at least he sees the Dems for what they are. Every bit of dissent helps.

Sing Along With The Son

2007-01-09T14:22:00.000-05:00

Like the confused, fat squirrels jumping from our trees and racing across our roof (which vexes me so), I'm scampering about today, and in no shape for a long, reflective, or even angry post. But I wanted to put up a list of songs that my old friend Luke burned for me of late, music that, in Luke's ears, makes a fitting soundtrack for the Son. Luke has made many CDs for me, and like John Cusack in "High Fidelity", he draws from an eclectic range of sounds and weaves together compilations that have their own rhythmic narratives. And the Son's soundtrack is no different (though there is one omission -- "Janitor" by Suburban Lawns). Luke really caught my many moods. See if you agree. And if some of you are real nice, maybe I'll burn and send out a few copies so that when you read the Son, you can listen and sing along.

"Fear is a Man's Best Friend" -- John Cale

"Oh! Brother" -- The Fall

"Dancing For Money (Outtake)" -- Talking Heads

"Signs" -- Five Man Electrical Band.

"Jug Band Music" -- The Mugwumps

"Lies" -- Thompson Twins

"Let Me Die In My Footsteps" -- Bob Dylan

"I Hear You Screaming" -- Gene Krupa

"Talkin' John Birch Paranoid Blues" -- Bob Dylan

"Boa Constrictor" -- Johnny Cash

"I've Been Twistin'" -- Jerry Lee Lewis

"Strong White Male" -- Mecca Normal

"Police & Thieves" -- The Clash

"Reefer Man" -- Cab Calloway

"Living With War" -- Neil Young

"Nine Million Rainy Days" -- The Jesus and Mary Chain

"Watercolours Into The Ocean" -- Destroyer

Here's an amusing, if sometimes literal, montage set to "Signs", the 45 of which I bought when I was 11-years-old (and thought was really radical, to the degree that I understood what that meant back then). Don't know how Luke knew that I liked that song, but again, he seems to read my mind when putting together these compilations.

And here's a sweet clip of Cab Calloway's "Reefer Man". Just what are you saying, Luke?

Dems & Doze

2007-01-08T11:43:00.000-05:00

Readers of the Son, both casual and regulars, know that I distrust (to put it mildly) the two major parties, and I make my feelings plain. No hidden meanings here. And yes, I repeat myself more than I would like, but honestly, there are only so many ways one can assess the American political structure. There are times when I'm tempted to go Lance Mannion, and simply write about film, comedy, and music, for there I can go much deeper and derive more joy than dealing with the latest Beltway bullshit. But as the old saying goes, if you don't define your political space, it will be defined for you. So here I remain, mucking through the endless falling crap.

I say all this as a reminder to you and to myself that we are entering a new phase of American political reality, not new in the sense that it's unprecedented, but new in that the other wing of the ownership party is looking to clean up Bush's many messes, and reset US imperial policy on a more "constructive" course. That's the Democrats' function, especially now, with much of the American elite appalled at Bush's extreme mismanagement. This is how our system works, for something this powerful and profitable to those at or near the top isn't going down without a serious struggle. The "miracle of democracy" is, at bottom, an attempt to keep the status quo from collapsing, and so the Dems are brought in to brace the beams and flush out those elements that are undermining the larger structure. Rebuilding the thing or committing to extensive repairs is the furthest thing from the mules' minds.

Predictably, many liberals see all this as some kind of political overhaul, if not a minor revolution. As I said last week, this is what they're supposed to do: having sold themselves on the premise, they now attempt to sell the premise to the rest of us. And if we refuse to buy into it, and prefer instead to deal with the structure as a whole, then the attacks begin. I've been called many things, both at other blogs and in private emails. I'm utopian. I live in my parents' basement. I'm politically adolescent. I don't know how the system really works. I hold the Dems to too high a standard. I'm really a rightwinger. I'm a sectarian asshole. I helped defeat Gore/Lieberman in 2000 and Bush is all my fault. And so on. You know the tune.

I won't review, yet again, my actual political history, much of which consisted of working with and voting for Dems. I even voted Dem in the last election, picking Jennifer Granholm over Dick DeVos for governor, since DeVos would've been much worse for Michigan than the centrist Granholm (of course, I refused to vote for the vile Debbie Stabenow, for reasons I've already stated). The point is, I'm very much aware of the differences between the mules and the GOP. How could I not? The problem, which we've seen for some time and are currently experiencing at a feverish pitch, is that too many liberals have convinced themselves that the differences are astronomical, that the brightest, purest light is fighting a bottomless, darker evil. Think I exaggerate? Go to any of the major lib sites and scroll around. Nancy Pelosi is to them what Trotsky is to the Fourth International.

In a way, I can understand this need for fantasy. After all, in a fixed, corrupt system like ours, where real politics is reserved for elite players and their advisers, trying to tackle what actually exists can seem daunting for some, if not completely impossible, and this usually leads to an abandonment of hope and a steady slide into apolitical cynicism. I've seen it too many times in my adult life, and have experienced it myself. The Real Deal is a savage motherfucker, and if you get too close you will get burned or chewed to bits. I've known several well-meaning, intelligent people who worked on Capitol Hill, and witnessed up close their political dismemberment. It's a tragic sight to see, and it happens more often than not. It's another way the system defends itself, and being a murderous entity, its defensive methods are meant to hurt and cause lasting pain.

Instead of grappling with that reality, where even the tiniest victory is in no way guaranteed, a good number of libs openly pretend that the political wing they support is somehow outside of this system's nastiness, or perhaps in direct opposition to it. You can recite their party's actual and verifiable history all night long, and for many of them, it doesn't matter. They need the Dems to be a certain way and that's that. Who cares what horrors earlier Dems unleashed? And anyway, it's all probably Republican propaganda.

The current fantasy making the rounds is that Pelosi and Harry Reid are somehow "antiwar," and this is bolstered by a letter the two of them recently sent to Bush. Now, whatever Nancy Pelosi's current stand on Iraq really is, and I have no doubt that she, like a lot of elite Americans, are tactically opposed to Bush's proposed troop "surge," the new Speaker of the House is hardly antiwar. There's no way a pro-war party like the Dems would promote someone who opposed their view that the US has a right to attack anyone it wants, so long as it's in the "national interest." If that were the case, Dennis Kucinich would be prominent among senior Dems. The invasion of Iraq carried with it a ton of risks, and so there was elite opposition to it --- not because of some philosophical hostility to imperialism, but because the invasion could very well damage the US military system, as well as incite anti-American hatred worldwide. Of course, this has pretty much transpired, which is why Dem leaders like Pelosi and Reid are against further escalation. If there weren't powerful forces supporting them, neither of these pols would dare broach the subject. "Redeployment," on the other hand, is perfectly acceptable --- indeed, necessary, if the US imperial project in the Middle East is to survive. And that, above all, is what Pelosi and Reid are trying to salvage. A complete and total pullout from Iraq is simply not going to happen, not voluntarily, anyway; and it definitely is not going to happen under the gaze of a San Francisco Dem.

If you find me too harsh on Pelosi, consider this: a report in the London Sunday Times cited sources in the Israel Defense Forces that Israel is rehearsing a possible air strike on an Iranian enrichment plant using low-yield nuclear weapons. Of course, the Israeli government immediately denied this, but the story's intended effect has gotten through. Now, assuming this story is true, and I know it's a stretch to imagine the IAF bombing another country, but if this actually goes down, how will the "antiwar" and all-around progressive Nancy Pelosi react? Would she oppose it? Denounce it? Call for a freeze on military "aid" to Israel? Given her complete support for Israel's assault on Lebanon last summer, I seriously doubt that, suddenly, Pelosi would go in the opposite direction, especially now that she's House Speaker. That would be a rebuke of her institutional position and sure political suicide. Like the rest of the Dems, with perhaps one or two minor exceptions, Pelosi would applaud such an attack and call for more if Israel deemed it vital to its "national interest" (in this case, remaining the sole nuclear power in the Middle East).

So, we know how the "antiwar" Pelosi would react. But what of her fawning chorus of libloggers? How would they respond to such an attack? Would they criticize their political darling and wake up to what she actually represents? Or would they merely make, at best, a few critical peeps and fall back into line? I think the answer is obvious. But then again, I can see only so much from the basement stairs.

On The End Of Every Fork

2007-01-05T11:19:00.000-05:00

There are times when I wonder what world I'm living in. I know, I know -- reality is subjective, and we are merely the sum of electrons and neurons popping and colliding in our underused brains, reordered in such ways that we can get through the various hells of contemporary existence without losing whatever sanity we possess. I get all that. But when I look around these United States at this time, I see a country that, for all of its cultural diversity and millions of mini-sagas, is guided by serious delusional thinking. Not thinking I happen to agree or disagree with, but straight-up fantasyland, funhouse mirror projections. The beginning of the 110th Congress is an immediate case in point.

From the right, there are frenzied cries about the "leftist" takeover of government; but one site in particular, Red State, decided to vent its despair and fear in a very retro way:

Subtle, eh? Yes, FrontPage does this sort of thing on a regular basis, but David Horowitz's graphics usually verge on self-parody (and I see that DHo's lost none of his zip, cheering on Shi'a death squads, which kind of brings him full-circle to when he supported Bin Ladenist violence in Afghanistan when the Russians were there). The above attempt to douse the Dems in red paint is something else altogether -- equally as stupid as anything Horowitz slaps up, yet an attempt at political commentary all the same. However, for this graphic to be taken at all seriously, you have to really believe that American communists were behind the US withdrawal from Vietnam. And since only the federal state could order the military to return home, this means that the USG of 1975 was essentially pro-communist, with Republican President Gerald Ford overseeing this treason. In the real world, we know that American big business turned against the Vietnam war by 1968, and that Republican Richard Nixon, despite his criminal expansion of imperial violence into Laos and Cambodia, was forced to wind the whole enterprise down, and would've presided over the final pull-out from Saigon had he not resigned or been thrown out of office. But for some reason, the reactionaries at Red State are using this imagery to slime the modern day Dems. It's a political non sequitor, a cheap and easy way to express hatred for the moderate wing of capital. It's at once funny and pathetic, and I suspect that as this Dem-dominated era drags on, we'll see more of the same from other rightwing outlets.

Instead of simply laughing off Red State's oafish effort, liberals like those at Crooks and Liars appeared peeved by the thing. How dare those righties call us socialists! We're nothing of the kind! Which is true, of course. But it is telling that it takes a graphic like Red State's to push libs into confessing their real politics, which in many instances honors the same symbols while employing similar "patriotic" rhetoric. As Speaker Pelosi reminded us from her new perch, we are one country, despite which party one belongs to. Pelosi is certainly correct, if not completely candid. Both major parties serve the same master, and it ain't the Constitution, in case you're confused. But this won't stop some libloggers from trying to confuse the issue anyway, as was seen at two prominent pro-Dem sites yesterday.

Firedoglake is perhaps the most servile Dem site currently running. Christy Hardin Smith's posts are embarrassing to read, and it boggles the mind that a grown, educated person could tap out such simplistic prattle. Either she and her hundreds of dittoheads really believe this crap about the Dems, which means that political fantasy is their primary mode of expression, or that they know it's mostly bullshit, but are saying it anyway, which means that they are cynical political hustlers. Either way, the truth about our present state is being avoided, dismissed, ignored, glossed over. And this, remember, is the "progressive" take. I'm no Criswell, but I can say without fear of contradiction that this type of commentary will worsen as we roll into '08, and that sites like Firedoglake will become mere echo chambers for the Dem-controlled state.

The other site, Hullabaloo, shows a bit more independence, though Digby is not above kneeling before the mule throne himself. After watching Pelosi take the oath to defend the rights of corporations to loot and -- er, I mean, the oath to become House Speaker, Digby let loose a real howler:

"I am a liberal because it is the political philosophy of freedom and equality. And I am a progressive because it is the political path to a better future. And I am a Democrat because it is the political party that believes in freedom, equality and progress."

One need not review the extensive history of liberals and Dems selling out and undermining the very "freedom, equality and progress" that Digby cherishes to know that's he's chasing fireflies. When I read posts like this, I cannot tell the difference between libloggers and, say, Scientologists. Both swear allegiance to a central belief that is untenable, but nevertheless is needed by them to get through the day and justify their actions. The more you examine and take apart their rationales, the tighter they cling to their fantasies. If Digby, Firedoglake, and the other lib sites are talking like this only one day into the new Congress, then the coming year is going to be a drawn-out, nerve-wracking slog.

Plane As Day

2007-01-04T11:02:00.000-05:00

On Tuesday afternoon, while throwing around the boy's metal and canvas gliding plane in the nearby park, an engine roar came out of the sky, and right above us was a large passenger jet no more than a few hundred feet in the air.

"That's not right," I said aloud.

"What's the matter Dad?"

"That plane's way too low. I wonder if it has mechanical problems. There's not an airport anywhere near here."

"Are there people on that plane"

"I suppose so."

"Well, I hope they're safe."

The jet lumbered on, staying at the same altitude, moving over a row of distant trees. Then, it was gone.

Another father with two young kids just entered the park. I asked him if he saw what we saw.

"Yeah," he said, still staring at the tree line where the plane had disappeared. "I hope it doesn't crash."

For a moment, we all stood there, silent, waiting to hear an awful noise, or see black billowing smoke rise in the bright blue. Nothing.

"Let's go home and check this out," I said to the boy, and we exited the park, leaving the other dad staring off in the distance as his children stared at him.

Within a few minutes, we were back in the house. I checked the local sports radio station, which is located down the road. All I heard was extensive moaning about Michigan's embarrassing performance in the Rose Bowl. Not a word about an errant plane. Checked the Web. Still nothing. Went in the front room and turned on CNN. No reports about any plane making an emergency landing in Ann Arbor. I left the TV on and looked out the window. All perfectly peaceful and calm. A jogger ran by. Two old ladies walked a yappy little dog. The boy was getting upset. He feared that all those people on that plane were in danger. His eyes welled up, and I told him not to worry, since we heard no noise or saw any smoke. I flipped through the cable news channels and caught an image of a plane landing at an airport.

"Hey, Dad," the boy said. "That looks like that plane!"

It was Air Force One arriving at Grand Rapids, the final stop for Gerald Ford.

"Yeah, it does look similar," I replied, "but there's no way that's the same plane. How could it get to Grand Rapids so fast?"

There's a reason why I don't pull a paycheck for making air speed estimations, for yes, Sonsters, you guessed it -- that was indeed the very same plane.

Seems that Air Force One made a pass over Michigan Stadium, where Ford played football, and which is five minutes from our house. The boy and I were witnesses to Ford's last visit to his old stomping grounds. And where Air Force One wants to go, it apparently goes, regardless of altitude. It was quite a sight, watching that big ass jet fly just over our heads. Had I only known beforehand. I would've waved to Betty Ford, one of the few remaining liberal Republican women, for her support of the ERA if nothing else. Beats the mass murder her husband bankrolled. A true "better half" in every way.

And Awaaay We Go

2007-01-03T11:09:00.000-05:00

Sometimes, the past can take the sting out of the present, no matter how trivial the source. On Saturday, my long-awaited DVD box set, "SNL: The Complete First Season" arrived, much to the wife's chagrin, as she doesn't share my enthusiasm for the old show. Still, she watched a few bits with me and wasn't completely put off, but it was my son who expressed the most interest, asking me if he could sit in on one of my viewings. I explained to him that some of the references were over 30 years old, and that he wouldn't understand them all; but once again I learned that comedy has its own language, regardless of age.

We watched the Desi Arnaz episode, one of the more solid shows of that first season, and the boy really got into it. There was enough strangeness, absurdity and slapstick to appeal to him, and I was mildly shocked that he laughed at some of Chevy's Weekend Update jokes, repeating them to himself and laughing some more. Then we watched the first Elliott Gould show, and again, the boy got a lot of the humor, especially the Killer Bees sketch that broke the fourth wall, which he loved.

"I like how you can see the studio and all the cameras," he said, as a younger Lorne Michaels strode to the control room to confront the drunk director, Dave Wilson, whose cameras were off-kilter. "It's like everything is part of the show."

I smiled and thought of how "SNL" first grabbed me. Of course, that was in real time, and I was a few years older. But watching these original shows reminds me of how pure that first season was -- not perfect, not always funny, but you can really see the effort the cast and writers put into it, as if they had nothing to lose. The pace was slower, but the comedy was deeper, much deeper than it is now, or really in any other period of the show's history (some exceptions exist, of course). The political humor of that time was far sharper than now, with jokes about CIA secret wars in Africa and US alliances with openly fascist figures like Spain's Franco. Tina Fey has said that she would be afraid to work on the original "SNL"; and judging from her work on the show, I can see why.

The holidays turn our home into a screening room, since all of us are film fanatics of one stripe or another. And New Year's Eve is always the strangest and usually the funniest night, as we watch as many extremely awful movies we can before collapsing. This year, the wife bought a mega-DVD set of drive-in movies from the 50s through the 80s. Instead of scrounging through the local video store's backlog, looking for that one Loni Anderson drama that might put us over the top, we now own 50, count 'em, FIFTY, truly shitty efforts. And thanks to the thorough synopsis that's provided for each movie, we know going in what to expect -- well, we have a general idea, anyway. Because with some of these films, the synopsis serves as a teaser. Images and lines that you thought you'd never see or hear, or indeed, never imagined at all, hit you from nowhere, catching you off-guard. That's what great about bad cinema: the unexpected pleasures.

This year proved to be a bumper crop. The first film, "The Manipulator", stars a bearded, long-haired Mickey Rooney, who plays an odd ringmaster of sorts, but allow me to quote directly from the DVD sleeve itself, since I cannot match this precise plot description:

"A has-been movie make-up man (Rooney) has gone over the edge by kidnapping an actress and hiding her on the back lot sound stage of an old movie studio. While there, he forces the actress to perform scenes from various productions, all the while shouting orders to imaginary crewmembers and spiraling further into madness. Faced with death through starvation or by his hand, the actress must try to reason with a man who has clearly lost his mind."

You can see why this served as our opener.

The film, surprise surprise, makes very little sense, but Rooney is in fine mad form, delivering insane monologues, applying mascara, lipstick and rouge to his little round face, dancing to carnival music, shouting non-sequitors, and so on. Keenan Wynn briefly wanders in, and either dies or goes to sleep, I couldn't tell which. And there's a nice fantasy sequence showing a classical string quartet in full formal wear, playing music inside a meat locker, slabs of slaughtered cows swinging into their instruments. Most of "The Manipulator" is shot in the standard, low-budget early-70s style, with plenty of fish-eyed lens shots and swirling colors. I suspect the filmmakers tried to make it look experimental, or maybe they had no idea what they were doing. In any case, Rooney never lets up. It's a long way from the MGM soundstages of the 1930s and 40s, but Rooney, ever the pro, gives it his all. Phoning it in would seem obscene to him.

As much as we enjoyed "The Manipulator", it was nothing compared to the next offering, "Twister's Revenge". The plot here is simple: Mr. Twister, a monster truck that has a computerized brain and can talk though his speakers ("My Mother The Car" meets "Knight Rider"), is pursued by three rednecks who want to use the truck for their own nefarious purposes. And that's pretty much it. Lots of chase scenes through rural settings carried by banjo solos. Plenty of bad intentional comedy. Explosions and house and barn demolitions. And, of course, Mr. Twister shows why he's the king of the monster truck circuit, crushing smaller vehicles while laughing in a computerized voice. Take it from the Son, this is a very funny movie -- that is, if you find a Grade Z "Dukes of Hazzard" knock-off amusing. It was the perfect way to end 2006.

The new year was ushered in with "Invasion of the Bee Girls", a 1973 horror/sex offering in which suburban California women are turned into semi-bees by an alluring female entomologist, and are ordered to kill as many men as possible by fucking them to death. This being a 70s film, however, fucking is called "balling," a word that's used many times to describe each murder scene, but not as poetically as when an outraged male citizen yells out at a police press conference, "Eight men have been balled to death in the last week. What do you intend to do about it?" The wife and teen liked this movie far more than I did, as I found it quickly repetitive. But the scenes where detectives are trying to ascertain who's doing the lethal balling are humorous, though you'd think that a hive of bee women would be easy to find in a small community.

The following day, the fam went to a local relative's house to eat nachos, drink beer and watch Michigan play USC in the Rose Bowl. This visit had the potential to turn into a bad production of its own. While we are close to these people, we cannot discuss politics, or religion, or sex, or drugs, or the war, or really anything else that might be going on apart from cultural diversions like college football. These people are pretty rightwing in their politics and Christianity, so we knew what to expect. But I didn't anticipate rubbing shoulders with a couple of real nutjobs, both of whom I'd met before, and had hoped to never see again.

The first person is a woman in her early 20s, a soldier in the Army Reserve who served a brief tour of Afghanistan. A mutual friend of the family who grew up with this girl told me that she was insane, and she did little to dispel that reputation the first time I met her, eyes glazed as she spoke of the wonders US-led wars, how America was guided by God and the rest of it. Apparently, visiting a dirt poor country in chaos like Afghanistan did little to shake her faith, in fact, it hardened it. When the national anthem was played before the start of the Rose Bowl, this woman literally stood at attention in front of the large screen. I thought it was a joke, but no -- she was absolutely serious. Once the anthem ended, she let out a whoop, widened her eyes and told the rest of us how excited she gets when she hears that song. Everyone other than my immediate family smiled back and nodded their heads in agreement. I went to the kitchen to see if there was any vodka.

The other person is an ex-high school football star turned rightwing Christian minister. Man, there is nothing worse than a religious jock, given that most jocks buy into the authoritarianism of sports anyway; and when you add an extreme interpretation of the Bible . . . Lord, help us. This guy, simply put, is a royal asshole: loud, belligerent, convinced of his personal holiness and of the evil in those who disagree with him. I've seen him in action at weddings and other gatherings, and he tries to steamroll people into seeing God his way, using his massive (and now bulging) frame to press his point. And then there are the moments when he assures all that not only is Jesus in the room, the Son of God is standing right next to him, telling him what to say -- sort of like Jimmy Stewart in "Harvey", but without the charm or intelligence.

This day, the guy made sure that everybody knew he was in room, attempting to get each and every person to acknowledge his presence. I ignored the guy as best I could and focused on the game. Before long, however, he strolled over to where I was standing and planted himself right next to me. I could feel him breathing on my cheek, and saw him, peripherally, studying my profile. I almost turned to him to say "I appreciate the attention, but I don't swing that way." However, in that room, such a comment would violate the No Reality rule (as did my quip about the Michigan marching band playing "Stairway To Heaven": "What's this?" I wondered aloud. "A tribute to stoner music of the 70s?" This met with complete silence and stares). So I simply kept ignoring him until he gave up and left.

Jesus, on the other hand, remained for a moment and whispered to me, "Isn't that guy a complete knob? Still, I must show mercy to him. It's what I do."

Amen to that. I have the feeling we're gonna need lots of mercy in the months ahead.

Here To There

2006-12-31T13:38:00.000-05:00

A cell phone video of Saddam's execution, from beginning to grisly end, is zipping around the Web. I won't embed it or link to it -- there are limits to my lunacy. If you want to see it, you'll have no trouble finding it. Some warbloggers are featuring it as the necroporn it is, and one in particular, which I won't name, is really getting off on it, as are his readers, who seem to be masturbating while tapping out their tortured thoughts. These people, without doubt, are seriously, mentally ill, or suffer from a sadism so extreme that it takes violent death to bring them pleasure, such as it is. They speak as though they are morally superior to the likes of Saddam, but they are no different from his kind. Sewage rises to meet its own level, and these people are swimming in it.

Then there's the "irony" of these so-called foes of Islamofascism not only cheering on a masked Shi'a death squad, but openly lamenting that they didn't videotape extensive torture of Saddam before hanging him. But then again, when you revel in murder, especially in Iraq, you can't be too finicky when it comes to the executioners.

Another year ends in madness, chaos and misery. And let's not fool ourselves: tomorrow will bring more of the same. This is not to say that there's no hope or that those committed to a different world are mistaken; it simply means that we must be mentally and emotionally prepared for what is coming our way. I was up most of last night thinking about this, and wondering what the Son's next step is. As much as this gig wears me out and drives me to the bitter edge, I'm here for the duration. Your ongoing mails, many of which are remarkably thoughtful, serious and illuminating, help to keep me going. You give me hope and allow me to delve into all the surrounding craziness without feeling like I'm alone. I want to sincerely thank all of you, and I trust you'll continue to offer your feedback, insights, and friendship.

A lot of work lies ahead in '07. Let's see what we can do together.

Sometimes, Things Speak For Themselves

2006-12-30T09:20:00.000-05:00

So to, ah, speak. MSNBC anchor JJ Ramberg, anticipating Saddam's execution, gets all choked up:

As much as I wish that the sheer and open hypocrisy of Saddam's hanging made Ramberg gag, it was probably a bit of bagel she had during a station break. But who really knows? Maybe, just maybe, cable news anchors have human emotions and a strong sense of moral outrage after all.

One can dream, anyway.

And no, this is not my year-end post. That is still in the works.

Dancing Past The Bleeding Stage

2006-12-29T12:10:00.000-05:00

As the noose is readied for Saddam's neck, tributes to Gerald Ford continue, especially here in Michigan, where the homeboy's been awarded demigod status. All perfectly natural, if you buy into imperial reasoning, which a good number of bloggers do, primarily the liberals, many of whom cannot kiss Ford's corpse fast enough.

Saddam, a brutal man who performed many services for the West, is about to be executed for doing exactly what he was encouraged to do, and for what the US itself has done in Iraq over the past three years. Since Saddam is no longer needed, save as a Hitler surrogate, he can be dispatched to the nether regions without apology or even the faintest nod to the hypocrisy of the deed. That's how you treat murderous clients past their expiration dates.

Gerald Ford, on the other hand, is to be given a state funeral with all the trimmings, hosannas coming from every direction, even though he approved of, backed and financed genocidal violence against the Timorese, working closely with General Suharto, who already had killed about a million Indonesians in his bloody rise to power. Ford knowingly participated in war crimes that, proportionately, not only dwarfed Saddam's ugliness, but was on par with Pol Pot's terror in Cambodia.

Yet, Saddam gets hanged, and Ford is canonized.

I apologize for repeating myself here, and for stating the obvious. But after watching so many libloggers saluting Ford's legacy while completely ignoring East Timor (or playing it down, as did Crooks and Liars), I feel the need to say all this one last time, just so I know I'm not hallucinating. I wish I could say that I'm sickened by this sight, but I'm so used to supposed "progressives" buying into American Exceptionalism that it simply doesn't faze me anymore. This is not to say that I don't care about such widespread and knowing denial, but one can do only so much, and you can't force others to acknowledge the blood on their hands. After all, this is America. We are the epitome of self-satisfied delusion and mock outrage. Those who perform this most sincerely receive various rewards, as well as access to mass media. But again, I repeat myself.

Of all the numerous tributes to Ford I caught, Ben Stein, appearing on Neil Cavuto's Fox News show, delivered one of more honest testimonials. When asked if Ford's pardon of Nixon was part of a pre-arranged deal, Stein, one of the last true Nixon apologists around (along with Diane Sawyer and Monica Crowley), rejected the very concept, insisting that Ford was his own man and acted independently. I believe Stein. There was no need to prod Ford to perform his political function. Ford would have never reached his appointed presidency had he not faithfully served the system and internalized its customs. A deal? Why? Ford was a loyal apparatchik, which is why Nixon promoted him in the first place, and which is why Ford didn't flinch when greenlighting mass murder.

What are you gonna do?

I see that my friend Jon Schwarz is upset with the more-or-less racist tone of a certain Robert Smigel cartoon. Like Jon, I too am a big fan of Smigel's, but I'm not surprised by this particular cartoon (having already seen it), especially its treatment of Arabs. This is nothing new for Smigel, or for those who worked with him on "SNL" and "The Dana Carvey Show". Arab-bashing, even from the better comic minds, is commonplace, and has been for ages. You rarely, if ever, see a similar treatment of Jews or Israelis as is routinely doled out to Arabs, and of course to Iranians. I recall one "SNL" sketch that showed an Iranian version of the Iran/contra hearings, and it remains one of the most racist bits ever aired on that show, as the actors screamed in gibberish, pulling on their fake beards. Contrast that to a 1987 sketch in which super model Paulina Porizkova played Golda Meir, the joke being that the Israeli Prime Minister was so hot, her generals could not concentrate on the Arab threat. In the former bit, the main characters are crazed lunatics; and the latter one, everyone is perfectly rational, if distracted by a fantasy Meir. And so it continues.

Here's a good example of what I'm talking about -- a sketch from "The Dana Carvey Show" featuring Steve Carrell as a Pakistani, Carvey as a Korean, Dino Stamatopoulos (one of the show's writers) and Smigel playing Iraqis. Unless there's a subtle point about racial stereotypes being made here, this sketch is simply about laughing at the Foreign Other. Quite amazing when you consider the talents involved. Stephen Colbert's outstanding and funny Gregory Peck partially saves the bit, but overall, it's a pretty vile piece.

Carvey's Korean was originally a Chinese character that he played on "SNL", and naturally it led to some protests from the Asian community (which "SNL" later mocked by introducing a more "noble" Chinese character, played by Phil Hartman). I remember talking to Michael O'Donoghue about Carvey's Chinaman routine, and even Mr. Mike found it offensive. "You forgive a lot of bad taste if something's funny," he told me, "but that Carvey thing is just dopey. And talk about racist! You couldn't do that with a Jew or a black character." No -- but make him Arab or Persian and the sky's the limit.

Will return over the weekend for my final post of '06. Plenty of fun to be had. Be there. Aloha.

Carvey's Brokaw Predicts

2006-12-27T22:10:00.000-05:00

Thanks, Bex, for the reminder, but watch where you throw those RIPs.

The GAW In Action

2006-12-27T12:04:00.000-05:00

The Great American Whitewash remains one of the more effective propaganda tools used by those who write the history. If a major event or serious crime can be played down or simply omitted from an official account, then it most certainly will, while the more "uplifting" aspects of the narrative are expanded and polished to a clean shine. This tactic doesn't always work, and sometimes reality seeps through. But for the most part, the GAW is a reliable way to make our history appear superior to other nations. Or as Archie Bunker once put it in a slightly different context, it's what "separates the US of A from the red chinks and all those other losers."

The GAW can be used for just about anything; but when a former statesman, or better still, an ex-president dies, then the GAW is wrapped in sparkling stars and stripes and thrust at the reader/viewer with the subtlety of a 40 car pile-up. We saw this when Nixon passed, then Reagan. And now that Gerald Ford has died, we see it again -- in one instance, through pure political revisionism; and in another case, complete omission.

Before I get to those two examples, I must comment on a passage from the New York Times obit, which shows to those who are awake and sane that the Times is anything but a left-wing newspaper. Under the title "Traditional Values," we read, "The home in which the future president was brought up, along with his three stepbrothers, was imbued with the values of family loyalty, thrift and patriotism . . . On May Day one year, Mr. Ford and other students at South High saw another group of youths painting anti-American slogans on the steps leading to the school building. The group Mr. Ford was in, mostly football players, dashed over, grabbed the paint cans and, by one account, splashed the paint on the others."

Ha ha! Young Jerry clearly had the right instincts when encountering speech he didn't like, a "traditional value" that the Times apparently endorses. But that was just a teaser, a bit of biographical fluff to help set the overall tone. For the Times, and pretty much every other Ford obit I've read, the 38th president's true patriotic glory came when he pardoned Richard Nixon, after Nixon fled to San Clemente in order to avoid certain impeachment and criminal prosecution. At the time, there was some editorial grumbling, and leading Dems like Ted Kennedy denounced Ford's choreographed move. But for the most part, the owners of the country and their stenographers praised Ford for ending the "national nightmare" of Watergate and keeping their profitable system intact, because, you see, America couldn't afford to actually place a president in the dock and try him for various state crimes. Even Ted Kennedy came around to this view, which the obit writers are flagging to show bi-partisan appreciation for Ford's inspired and necessary act. When everyone in the political class agrees to overlook or push aside crimes that might call the whole system into question, it proves that the system "works," and self-congratulation is the order of the day. (Some contemporary libloggers buy into this view as well, thus proving their political "rationality.")

The other legacy that Ford left behind is of course his backing and bankrolling of Indonesia's invasion and dismemberment of East Timor. On the eve of this invasion, Ford and his Secretary of State Henry Kissinger were in Jakarta, dining with the murderous Indonesian General Haji Mohammad Suharto, doubtless discussing what was to come. After all, over 90% of Indonesia's weaponry was supplied by the U.S., and there is simply no way that Suharto could have launched that invasion without Ford and Kissinger's approval. Suharto did have the good manners to wait until his imperial sponsors had left Indonesian airspace before ordering the assault, which commenced on December 7, 1975. Within a few years, the Indonesian military and its proxies had slaughtered over 200,000 Timorese out of a population of 700,000 -- about a third of the overall Timorese population. Think about those numbers for a moment. Try to imagine something similar happening in the U.S. For all of our national anguish and anger over what happened on 9/11, East Timor endured countless 9/11s on a steady basis. We paid for it and provided cover and excuses for it. And it was Gerald Ford's administration that gave Suharto the green light and the means to do the grisly job.

Now, a civilized country that dealt with its history honestly would mention the above in any overview of that period. And had Gerald Ford been, say, a Chinese premier who ordered a client army to wipe out a third of a smaller country's population, I'm guessing that would be mentioned in American news outlets upon his death. But being the U.S. president who ended a "national nightmare," Ford's direct hand in mass murder is completely ignored. I have yet to find any mainstream mention of this, much less any critical words from libloggers, content to tap "Gerald Ford RIP" and nothing more. If any doubt remains in you about the utter depravity of our intellectual and political culture, the fuzzy obits on behalf of Gerald Ford should sober you up. That is, if you're not loaded on the Great American Whitewash.

Godfather Of Soul -- Will You Miss All This?

2006-12-26T12:24:00.000-05:00

American dead in Iraq have passed the 3,000 mark, with US elites from the New York Times, the Dems and the GOP calling for more fresh bodies. Ethiopian warplanes pound Somali Islamists, the type of African-on-African violence that the West supports, however quietly. Saddam will probably hang within 30 days, a cynical, empty gesture that will do nothing to ease the pain in Iraq -- indeed, quite the opposite, as the Iraqi death toll jumps daily. And at home, last-minute Christmas shopping led to shootings at Florida and North Carolina malls, suggesting that for some, holiday warmth comes from the mouth of a hot gun barrel.

Yes, 2006 is going out as it came in, with more, so very much more, on the way for '07. And of course the Son will try to place it all in some kind of context, for clarity's sake, if nothing else. It's not as if this humble space can thwart the crazy, murderous tide.

Today, however, I bid adieu to the great James Brown. Unlike many of his fans, I was not steeped in Brown's body of work. My earliest memories of him confounded me, as I lived in a largely all-white world where the likes of Brown were mocked, if noticed at all. Whenever he appeared on Ed Sullivan, Mike Douglas or Merv Griffin, I was immediately drawn to his intense, precise movements, sweat rolling down from his pompadour, grimace on his face. Brown conveyed so much emotion and feeling with so few words, when he wasn't simply grunting and tossing off quick asides. In my young world, James Brown was an alien, but not alienating, and I often fell into his groove, not knowing what the hell was happening. And the bit where he broke down to his knees as his handler draped a coat or cape over him, ushered him off-stage before he turned and ran back to the mike for more singing and dancing, always hooked me and made me feel for the guy. Too young to know about stock routines, his breaking down usually made me sad. "That poor man," I'd say to myself. "He's so brave to keep going."

Well, Brown kept going for decades, on and off-stage. Stories of his domestic problems, physical abuse among them, seemed to always follow the man. His drug use, while unsurprising for a musical performer, could stagger even the most jaded observer. PCP in his 50s? Who the hell does that? Louis Armstrong smoked weed all of his adult life, but that seemed like grape juice compared to what Brown poured into his small, sturdy body. The hardest working man in show business worked it at every level, no matter how destructive. It's amazing that he lived as long as he did.

Here's a VH1 video of "Papa's Got a Brand New Bag," which shows Brown at various stages of his career. A nice, tasty selection. After that, his appearance in 1980's "The Blues Brothers", a so-so comedy that featured some wonderful musical segments, and introduced legends like Brown, Ray Charles, Aretha Franklin and Johnny Lee Hooker to a whole new audience. Brown played a singing preacher who really brings it for the Lord. And the great thing about this clip is that Brown could perform gospel as beautifully and smoothly as he did R&B, funk and his own brand of hip-hop, the latter of which mined his riffs for years.

The final cape now rests on James Brown's shoulders. Part of me wouldn't be surprised if he threw it off for one last encore.

Happy Merry!

2006-12-24T10:33:00.000-05:00

Welcome, Sonsters, and assorted urchins and waifs, rubbing the fogged windows to get a better look inside (no frost this warming year). It's time once again for the Son's Retro Christmas Special, brought to you, as always, by Tasty Cigarettes.

Remember: "Tasty Cigarettes Are The Ones/When You Want Taste That Sticks To Your Lungs!"

Ah, Christmastime. A special moment of the year, when tired phrases and forced sentiments are freely exchanged among friends and family alike. But it's not just fun, laughter, and stolen kisses under plastic mistletoe -- Christmas is a merging of the sacred and profane, the spiritual and hedonistic, the selfless infinite and the grubby depths of Mammon. It's a bar code on Baby Jesus' forehead; a sleigh ride down a mountain of discarded consumer items made in Sri Lankan sweatshops; the bells of St. Mary's punctuated by car bombs in the street below. Hanukkah and Kwanzaa have nothing on this holiday.

Yet, despite all the madness, greed and deceit, the fake smiles, phony snow, and ultra-bright Gap commercials, there is tenderness to be found, genuine warmth and sharing. For one day, at least, most people act humanely, show patience and restraint, proving that somewhere inside us exists the potential to recognize what connects everyone -- a certain energy that is always present but is too often dismissed or ignored. And of course, this energy is best expressed through comedy and song, which, as you Sonsters know, are always in abundance here.

Let's begin with this classic "SNL" holiday bit, one of the few true highlights of the 1982-83 season, "Merry Christmas, Dammit!", starring Eddie Murphy as Gumby, Gary Kroeger and Julia Louis-Dreyfus as Donny and Marie Osmond, and Joe Piscopo doing his fine Frank Sinatra. This appeared just a year after Michael O'Donoghue was fired as supervising producer by Dick Ebersol, but his presence remains, as you'll see when Gumby reads to the children.

Some charitable soul edited "Christmas Vacation" down to six minutes -- not that there are only six minutes of funny lines/scenes in this often overlooked holiday film (much funnier than "Scrooged"), but at least here you get a taste of Chevy Chase's many moods. I especially enjoy Chevy's emotional breakdowns, which come from a serious place. I've had the pleasure to discuss this "Vacation" installment with Chevy, who wrote a lot of these scenes (uncredited), and despite all the flops he's endured, Chevy remains a very smart and funny guy. He also sent out a family holiday card this year with an antiwar message inside. Thanks, Chev.

The boy really likes this clip from "SCTV", and asked me to include it. No prob, son. After all, it's Martin Short as Ed Grimley, perhaps the strangest, most optimistic character ever to come out of that show. What's not to like?

Now, some old school Xmas hip-hop, from the masters themselves, Run-DMC. "Christmas In Hollis" is one of my all-time faves. Yours, too?

There have been many wonderful Christmas episodes of "The Simpsons", including the very first show; but this little take-off on "A Christmas Carol" really captures the pop culture holiday spirit that many of us grew up with. And the Mr. Magoo parody hits home with me, as I found that holiday special extremely frightening as a kid.

Here's the teen's request -- the Christmas Kangaroo "SNL" sketch, with Hugh Jackman and Will Ferrell. While I'm not as crazy as is the teen over this bit, I always find people in large animal costumes to be funny, regardless of carnal activity.

"Mad TV's" better parodies are usually filmed or animated, and this contemporary take on the old Frosty the Snowman special is one of their more inspired. Hell, looking outside today, it's closer to documentary than to comedy. But then, the best satire scares the living crap out of you.

Here's the ending of The Monkees' 1967 Christmas show, filled with anti-Vietnam war sentiment, as well as warm, communal feelings. This touched me when I was young, even though Vietnam to me then was an abstraction. No longer, obviously. And the same message can be expressed today, though which contemporary music act would dare do it, I don't know. Maybe one of you younger Sonsters can fill me in. Until then . . .

Another great sketch from "SCTV" -- "The Dusty Towne Holiday Special". With Catherine O'Hara, doing her version of bawdy 50s/60s comic Rusty Warren, Andrea Martin as a "Solid Gold" dancer, and the late, great John Candy as Divine. Sexy holidays to all!

Not to bring the room down or anything, but here's John Lennon's "Happy Xmas (War Is Over)" set to some pretty grim images from our war-ravaged world. Not for the faint of heart, but let's try to keep the larger picture in mind when celebrating in our safe, warm homes.

And finally, perhaps my favorite Christmas piece ever, Robert Smigel's conception of what Jesus would make of the modern world's exploitation of his message. I cannot embed this, but do watch it, enjoy it, and have a beautiful holiday, wherever you are. Peace.

From DVDs to IEDs

2006-12-22T11:22:00.000-05:00

The teen and I are doing our seasonal, consumerist duty at Best Buy, when to our right, in the DVD section, stand two tall Marines over a smaller teen boy. Back and forth, a well-rehearsed duo, the queries fly -- How old are you? What are your plans after high school? What do you want out of life? Do you want to be successful and respected?

The kid is pretty relaxed. Short, spiky jet black hair. Large silver earring in his right lobe. He keeps browsing the comedies as the Marines make their pitch: The USMC can pay for half of his college tuition; plus, if he enlists now, there may be a large signing bonus. The kid says that he doesn't want to go to Iraq. The Marines tell him that he probably won't go there. The kid smiles, shakes his head, and gently but adamantly says he's not interested. The Marines retreat, split up, and hunt for more possible fodder perusing CDs and cell phones.

"Couldn't help overhear," I say to the kid. "Nice job. You handled that well."

"Thanks." He pauses. "A buddy of mine joined the Marines. I thought about it, but I don't want to go to Iraq."

"And that's where you'd go. Those guys were lying. They want more troops over there."

"I know."

"Well, anyway. Take it easy. Have a nice Christmas."

"You too."

He checks out the teen in an approving way, then heads to the registers, DVDs in hand.

Later, at home, this little scene keeps bugging me. Did the Marines simply enter Best Buy and start hitting on teens without any clearance from the store? Or is Best Buy signed up for the war effort, offering its young customers to the military? I phone the store, and after pushing 28 numbers, finally get a human voice, a woman who works in the TV section.

"Hi. Got a question about in-store solicitation."

"Yes, sir?"

"I was in your store earlier, spending money, and I noticed two Marine recruiters trying to get your teen customers to enlist. What is Best Buy's policy on that?"

"I don't know if we have a policy on that."

"You mean, if I came into your store with a box full of bibles and started selling them to your customers, you wouldn't do anything?"

"Well, sir, we have a strict policy against outside solicitation."

"But aren't the Marines selling something?"

"I don't understand."

"Those Marines were selling the Iraq war."

"Were they?"

"They need bodies to send to the Middle East. Is it Best Buy's policy to provide these bodies?"

"I think, sir, that those Marines were selling service to our country."

"Which means sending kids to Iraq."

"I suppose it does."

"Let me get this straight. I cannot sell the purported word of God in your store, but the Marines, or any other branch, can sell war and not be thrown out. Is that about right?"

"Maybe you should talk to a senior manager."

"Great. I'd love to."

"I'll connect you."

After 20-plus minutes of listening to canned holiday music and the same pitch to buy plasma screens and PSPs, I get a dial tone. Cut off. So I try the national corporate office and am told that I must have been seeing things. When I insist that I saw Marine recruiters and that all I want is Best Buy's policy on this, if indeed there is one, the guy puts me on hold. More canned music and commercials. Then a recorded voice asking for my Visa, Discover or AmEx card number. I hit "0" in the naive, dated hope that this will swing me back to an operator, but all it does it make the recorded voice agitated, saying that it does not understand my request. I hang up and let the whole thing go.

The teen is perplexed by my digging.

"Recruiters are everywhere. Of course they're at Best Buy. They're at the fucking mall, for God's sake."

"I know. But doesn't it seem odd to you that a major outlet would serve up its customers to the military? It's bad enough that they try to get you to join all their 'savings' clubs. They're working for the Pentagon, too?"

"Get real. This is America."

So it is. And with every $100 purchase, Best Buy will throw in a free body bag. One size fits all.

Last May, I wrote of my son:

"All of this [cartoon] viewing has come in handy at his school's annual talent show, where the boy and I have performed brief physical skits to the delight of the assembled kids, but also to the consternation of a few parents who felt we were putting 'unsuitable' ideas in the heads of the children. Our biggest crime came two years ago, when the lad played a strange, abusive magician and I his hapless assistant/victim. The visual punchline came when he was to pull a rabbit out of his hat, but instead produced a pair of men's underwear. I then began to shimmy and shake, reached into my pants and yanked out the missing stuffed rabbit, which brought the house down. The kids loved it; the teachers seemed split; some parents smiled, but others glared at me when I came off stage. Within days I heard from some teachers that they received several complaints about how kids were pulling stuffed animals out of their pants at home while referring to our act. This cast a mild pall over our talent show appearances since, with teachers telling us 'no poop jokes, no references to butts, no hitting over the head, no kicking, and especially NO PULLING THINGS OUT OF YOUR PANTS.' We still do well (I mean, the kid has a ringer for a partner -- and a director, a duty the wife handles), our most recent bit being a recreation of a simple handshake, crammed with all kinds of visual absurdity, ending with me getting creamed with a large Cool Whip pie. That old gag still works, at least with elementary school kids."

Yesterday morning, the boy and I appeared before his class to give a brief lecture/demonstration of various comedic forms. His teacher assigned the class to talk about the traditions in their lives, and my son chose our talent show appearances. Originally, I wanted to go back and deconstruct the rabbit-out-of-the-pants gag, since kids still talk about it. However, the boy warned me that this was taboo and that we couldn't do it. I said that if it were in front of the entire school, that would be one thing. But this was to happen in front of a 5th grade class. Surely they could handle the rabbit bit. The boy still shook his head no. So I went to his teacher, who's really great and open to most things, and pitched the idea. She looked at me quizzically.

"Are you kidding?"

"No. It's just one class."

She, too, shook her head. "There is a ban on that kind of comedy here. Too many parents complained. You two made your mark on this school." She laughed.

"Wow. Really? Are those parents that constipated?"

"Come on."

"Can the boy hit me over the head with a big stuffed sock, then smash a whipped cream pie in my face? Is that allowed?"

"Yeah. I guess you can do that."

So that's what we did, explaining the logic of slapstick. The kids loved it, and laughed when I took the pie. As I walked out of the room, cream dripping down my face, a boy asked me about the rabbit.

"Maybe in middle school, son."

While we're on the topic of verboten comedy, I came across this old Howard Stern bit from his early-90s TV show. I hadn't seen this since it originally aired, and it's still incredibly funny, as well as disturbing, but this is Stern we're talking about. "The Homeless Howiewood Squares" shows Stern at his creative peak, and really can't be explained, just absorbed. There is, of course, Daniel Carver, The KKK Guy, whose racist language gets its own laughtrack. But there's also Susan Muldowney, The Underdog Lady, whose personal philosophy is based on that 1960s cartoon character, which she honors through interpretive dance. In the second part, she explains her world view in very passionate terms, and the look on "Match Game" host Gene Rayburn's face is priceless. High concepts crash against lowbrow jibes on a cheap Jersey set. No wonder this show beat "SNL" in the ratings.

I will have a special, holiday-themed post over the weekend. See you then. And if the below clips are yanked from YouTube, will someone please tell me? Thanks.

Screaming Through The Holiday Cheer

2006-12-20T11:38:00.000-05:00

Are you ready for endless war? Generations of conflict? No? Well, tough shit, kids, 'cause Santa's coming down the chimney with a sack full of weapons and explosives, aided by your local Marine or Army recruiter who wants to sign your 8-year-old up for active duty the second he or she hits 18. That's if you're poor or slightly middle class, of course. If you're at all wealthy, live in the "right" neighborhood, know the "right" people, your kid is safe. No fighting whatever Islamic faction happens to be the enemy down the road for them. That's what an underclass is for.

I have a sick feeling that the resistance to this madness is going to get pretty nasty in due course. And don't count on our dear friends the Democrats to do anything about it -- they are openly cheering Bush on and talking about putting a million bodies in uniform. I hope that my liblogging buddies are finally waking up to this dreadful reality, but just in case they're still dreaming sweet dreams about all the wonderful things the Dems are going to deliver in '07, and especially in '08, allow me to raise my voice for a moment.

ATTENTION MULES! THE DEMOCRATIC PARTY IS A PARTY OF WAR, DESTRUCTION AND GREED! THEY WANT TO USE YOUR KIDS AS FODDER FOR THEIR BLOODSHED! AND THERE IS NO END IN SIGHT! OBAMA WILL NOT SAVE YOU! SO WAKE THE FUCK UP, GET OFF YOUR ASS, AND DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT!

Sorry about that. Generally, I'm an easy going guy. But with a ten-year-old son, soon to turn 11, to think about, and watching these criminals plan for more chaos and agony, expecting my boy to sign on, I tend to come unhinged. And I trust this will become worse as the years drag on.

Oh, and did you see more evidence of the progress made in Iraq? I'm talking, of course, about the recent spate of public hangings that took place in Baghdad. Now, it's true that Saddam hanged his share of captives, but he did so in private. Very dictatorial. In the new Free Iraq, captives are hanged on TV, the footage of which is given to foreign outlets so the whole world can watch! Aren't you proud to see American kids die for this? I know the Dems must be pleased as punch, given their love of the death penalty.

"Hey, angry Son! Where's the holiday good cheer you promised us!"

I know. I'm trying. Lord knows I'm trying.

Let me turn to sports for a moment. As I'm sure many of you know, there was a brawl in Madison Square Garden Sunday night, when the New York Knicks felt that the Denver Nuggets were running up the score in a game the Nuggets had under wraps.

Many players were suspended, most prominently Carmelo Anthony, the NBA's leading scorer, who cannot suit up for 15 games. Good thing Allen Iverson is now going to Denver. The Answer will help fill that gap until Melo returns. AI is not shy when it comes to launching shots.

What sickened me about the brawl was not so much the on-court violence, since fights happen in sports (which serve, after all, as a substitute for war), but the commentary afterward, primarily on sports talk radio. When there is fighting in NASCAR or in the National Hockey League, the thick-headed white men who make up the bulk of the sports radio audience either dismiss it, joke about it, or in some cases, revel in it. Why? Because those are white-dominated sports, and when two or more white guys fight, there's no soul searching, no calls for civilized behavior. But when there is fighting in the NBA . . . you know the rest. And listening to the barely-veiled racist reasoning by hosts and audience alike, one is reminded that tribalism is still very much a part of us, and that Michael Richards is hardly alone. The hatred and envy thrown at African-American athletes by these white pukes is pretty fucking disgusting and hypocritical, but that's your average American sports fan. Somebody ought to write a book about that . . .

Enough. Let's get to the clips.

Here's a short piece from Showtime's "The Underground", Damon Wayans' sketch show, which resembles "Mad TV" a bit too much for my taste (and having "Mad TV" reg Aries Spears in the cast makes this comparison inevitable). Still, like "Mad", "The Underground" has some funny moments, like this Jackie Chan parody, featuring Groundlings vet Mikey Day as Chan, and Wayans as Chris Tucker.

And since I'm clearly in a slapstick mood, and mentioned Michael Richards, here's an early "Fridays" sketch that pretty much explains itself, and anticipates one of the funniest scenes in "Borat" by a quarter century. Incredible timing and precision for live TV. With Mark Blankfield as the luckless patient.

Of course, as Lucille Ball proved, women are equally adept at physical comedy. Here's the always great Amy Sedaris from "Exit 57", with Jodi Lennon as her "customer."

Finally, from the "SNL" Christmas show, 1977, Elvis Costello's infamous semi-hijacking of a live broadcast. Not terribly mind-blowing, but back then it was a big deal, and Lorne Michaels apparently feared that Costello was about to shout racist epithets, since that's what Lorne believed punk rock to be all about. (Yes, young readers -- Elvis Costello was considered "punk" back in the day; and yes, a couple of years later, he had his own racist incident for which he atoned.) Wonder what would've transpired had the original musical guest, the Sex Pistols, appeared. Could you imagine Johnny Rotten and Sid Vicious on live American TV? In any event, Costello filled in admirably, and this version of "Radio Radio" kicks ass.

Panache Era Echoes

2006-12-19T11:16:00.000-05:00

Like the profound idiot I sometimes am (or is it more than that?), I began my day by watching CNN, which I almost never do. And what type of corporate bias hits me first? Why, a slam of the Palestinians, naturally. The blow-dried dimbulb anchor whose name I didn't catch narrated over footage of Fatah and Hamas shooting at each other, with civilians caught in the crossfire. The dimbulb spoke in the typical "Aren't those Arabs animals?" tone, then shifted to mock concern for The Children. "Look at those kids!" he tsk-tsked, as Palestinian youths ran for cover down a narrow street.

Isn't that touching? Really plucks the heartstrings. Of course, when the IDF or IAF are slaughtering Palestinian civilians, children among them, you don't hear similar concerns from CNN anchors. That's because when the Israelis kill children, it's in self-defense. They have no choice. A grim business all around, but democracy in a sea of hatred demands certain sacrifices -- mostly from other people, preferably those locked into an open-air prison surrounded by land mines, tanks, artillery, with fighter jets and armed helicopters flying overhead.

Yes, it's pretty fucking awful to see Israel's subject population violently turn on one another. But then, that's what they're encouraged to do, whether it's the early version of Hamas receiving Israeli support to attack a moderating PLO, or the present-day Fatah receiving Israeli support to attack and undermine Hamas. The important thing is to keep the rats in the cage at each other's throats (or, to quote Israeli Gen. Rafael Eitan, "drugged roaches in a bottle"), and not allow them to focus on the cage owner, who is driven only by the purest motives, unlike the vermin being kept behind bars.

PHLAAATTT.

That was me hitting Mr. Dimbulb Anchor in the face with a Christmas stocking filled with fresh dog shit. Happy holidays, jerk off. From me to you.

Okay. I said yesterday that I'm keeping Le Son on the positive tip, for this holiday week, anyway; so from this point on, I shall do my best to be "upbeat."

The above photo was taken by a local photographer, Matt Callow, whose work the wife and I encountered at a recent art fair. We loved this shot so much that we bought it as an early Christmas gift for each other, and it now hangs, pic pressed on worn wood, in our living room. Matt's a nice guy, transplanted from England, and possesses a dream-like view of common objects. Check out more of his work here, and maybe toss him some green in exchange for his labors.

My good friends Jon Schwarz and Mike Gerber have a new collection of pieces about to be published, "Our Kampf." It contains, I'm told, all manner of mirth, taken from Jon and Mike's voluminous humor files, some of which I've read and genuinely enjoyed (their mock crossword puzzle for The New Yorker is extremely funny). I haven't read their Weekend Update jokes, so I'm curious to see what Tina Fey and Jimmy Fallon used and what they failed to find appropriate for their fake newscast. Fallon is lucky to have a showbiz career at all, though in these days when pretty much anyone can be a celeb, he stands out more than he would in a less "democratic" time. Fey is utterly overrated, but more talented than Fallon, which again doesn't mean all that much. How Jon and Mike tapped their comedy muse to write for these two confounds me, but then, Jon and Mike are workhorses, and it was "SNL" after all. Hell, I was ready to write for Brad Hall back in '83, so who the fuck am I to knock them? Anyway, "Our Kampf" is bound to be good, and now that I've plugged it, I'll expect my free copy in the mail anytime now.

When speaking of comedy workhorses, the mind instantly conjures up Danny Bonaduce. Wait a sec -- you mean it doesn't? Oh right, my bad. I meant to say One Of The Longest 15-Minute Human Trainwrecks Ever Captured On American Television. I sometimes confuse the two. In any event, the ex-Danny Partridge was recently accosted at an LA sidewalk cafe by a guy named John Conner, who runs a 9/11 conspiracy site. ("Terminator" fans know that this is what Conner's supposed to do before he leads the human race against the machine dictatorship.) Why, of all people, Conner wants Bonaduce's take on 9/11 is a mystery, but it is funny, in a human trainwreck way, I mean.

A source of mine, who worked closely with Bonaduce, tells me that his pro-war, pro-Bush remarks are surprising, given that he apparently voiced the complete opposite not all that long ago. Then again, my source added, Bonaduce is totally crazy, so who knows what personality took charge that day. That's one of the advantages of being a human trainwreck -- you get to be different people at any given moment. No wonder this guy is still on TV.

When it comes to intentional comedy, there are many talents who have fallen between the cracks. One in particular is Elon Gold, who worked on Dana Carvey's brief ABC show, and here does his great Howard Stern impression to Carvey's dreadful Bill Clinton (sort of a cross between Carvey's Ross Perot and Carvey's Garry Shandling). I'm usually not all that wild about celebrity impressions, as they routinely undermine the writing, but Gold's Stern is fabulous.

And here's Gold as himself, interviewing himself playing Jeff Goldblum. Again, an excellent, precise rendering. And funny as well. This clip was taken from Gold's Bravo pilot, "The Latest Show", in which he performs as both host and all of his "celebrity" guests. It wasn't picked up, alas. Too much Gold for Bravo's taste, I'm guessing.

Since I criticized Carvey above, let me post this clip from his ABC show that I find hilarious. It's lowbrow, but so is some of the best comedy. And note Stephen Colbert's inspired Ray Bolger, and Steve Carrell as Jack Haley. What's great about this sketch is how the care and attention to detail serves as the set-up for an extended stupid joke. If only Noel Coward had gone this route.

Relegated But Not Forgotten

2006-12-18T11:47:00.000-05:00

"Death never takes the wise man by surprise, he is always ready to go."

So wrote Jean de La Fontaine, feathered quill on scratchy pulp. When I saw this line yesterday, it made me smile. It relaxed me. It helped to release much of the emotional poison I've been dragging around for the past week or so. And while I'd like to live to see my children as adults, if I go, I go, and that's all there is to it. The randomness of death is strangely soothing to me. When it comes, I trust I'll just nod my head and stroll right into it.

It's the week before Christmas, and I'm going to try to keep the darkness at bay. At least for this week. I see my son jumping around in anticipation. He picked out our tree yesterday at Alcoholics Anonymous, one of last local spots still selling trees. Most people, it seems, get their trees weeks before the 25th, which makes no sense to me, since they dry out after 10 days. The six-foot white pine the boy selected is fresh, full, smooth, and is filling the house with that sweet pine scent. Watching his non-jaded, un-ironic enthusiasm is pure tonic, and has helped to shape my present mood. Who needs a brooding, edgy, pain-filled lunatic pulling at his hair and screaming about the wicked world when you have a happy 10-year-old boy smiling, dancing, getting in touch with his holiday spirit? There are many reasons why I love having kids, and this is one of them.

Which is not to say that I won't comment on current events or completely ignore the surrounding criminality; but if I can avoid all that crap for a few days, I will. There are times when I wish I never cracked open a Chomsky book, never met and hung out with Hitchens, never appeared on a panel or tangled with ideological opposites. Politics, as Charles Bukowski was fond of saying, is like trying to screw a cat in the ass. Not quite sure what Buk really meant, but I agree with him anyway. I have alternate images of myself living and writing at the bottom of the well, composing my thoughts through hangovers after a long night trawling with the cheated and the fucked. I've had a taste of that world, have been on the edge of nothingness, stealing to eat, to get drunk and get high. I'm familiar with it but have never been truly comfortable living it. My middle-class upbringing probably kept me from complete immersion. Still, I wonder what it would've been like to simply let go and think only about the next meal, shelter, sex, booze and drugs, if any. Might have made my writing leaner, assuming I'd survive the streets. Besides, Bukowski had that angle nailed solid, as does, to a different degree, William T. Vollmann (see the latest Harper's for his notes from a boxcar).

Despite my lack of true street cred, I did come up the hard way, and continue to struggle with those whose bylines came via college degrees. Last night, the wife and I attended a holiday party, which was a delightful affair, though dominated by wine-drinking middle-aged college-educated liberals trying to hang on to what youth remains. In the back yard, over a robust fire, stood several younger people, early-20s tops. They were much quieter than the cackling forty- and fiftysomethings indoors, somewhat bohemian in dress and attitude, but nothing overbearing or obvious. Feeling glee tingled after a bottle of rich ale, I joined these kids around the fire and listened in on their conversation, part of which dealt with literary matters. One of the guys is in grad school for creative writing, a really pleasant, articulate young man, who not only loves Bukowski, but also appreciates John Barth, William Gass, and others from that post-mod lit generation. He and I struck up a conversation, and it was nice to speak to someone still in development, whose eyes still widen at the mention of a certain name, book, essay. But the guy is pretty academic in his approach, at least based on our exchange, and I felt too good to advise him to drop out of school, that no serious writer gets a grad school degree unless he or she is looking for work at a corporate outlet, which hires those who have been trained by grad schools to behave and write like everyone else. You wanna write for real? Work on a garbage truck. Mop floors and clean toilets. Sleep outside in hidden areas where you won't get rolled. Talk to winos, the homeless, and those who channel Jesus while they piss on a dumpster. Grad school serves one purpose -- neutering your talent. Read those allowed to write for the glossies and see for yourself.

Like I said, I was in such a nice space that I didn't want to push my manias on this kid. And that's what my rant would've been -- projection of the crassest sort. Besides, who the fuck wants to hear life changing shit from a crazy 47-year-old? Instead, we had a friendly to and fro, with me dropping a couple of experiences, like sitting on a couch next to Allen Ginsberg in George Plimpton's apartment, just to spice things up. Later, feeling embarrassed for fronting like that, I apologized to the guy, who replied, "Are you kidding? That's a great story! I love stuff like that." I gave him my cell number, and we plan to meet soon and talk some more.

I think more so than the hippies, who seem perfectly happy growing gray, those of my generation, which was defined by punk and early rap, are having a harder time dealing with aging. A Grateful Dead or Moody Blues fan mellows into old age easier than someone weaned on the Sex Pistols, Ramones, Germs, and Run-DMC. But in another sense, that nervous energy serves us well as we move toward and past the half-century mark. I recently saw a retrospective of the DC and LA punk scenes featuring Henry Rollins, veteran of both. He's my age, and says he's still pissed off about the horrors of the world, just as he was when fronting for Black Flag. Difference is, he has a better and wider appreciation of art and life, one of the true perks of age. That lifted me. I mean, it's not an earth-shattering revelation, but it was nice hearing it from someone like Rollins.

Some of the same perspective can be found in this outtake from the excellent Ramones docu, "End Of The Century". Tommy Ramone's tour of where the original band met and began to play their fast pop is interesting; but I really like the interview with Blondie's Debbie Harry and Chris Stein, and connect with Harry's remark about how 9/11 was the death of old New York. The crumbling Towers crushed that era for good. She's right -- anyone who lived in lower Manhattan at that time (and I moved there just at the end of that period) viewed the WTC as a symbol of sorts, since the Towers stuck out so prominently, especially on clear nights. You couldn't escape them, and for transplanted Midwestern rubes like me, they reminded you that you lived in the greatest city in America. Harry and Stein pine for those earlier days, and I know exactly what they're talking about.

YO GIRL: Not to be completely yesteryear, here's a funny, if crude and obvious, short from the most recent "SNL". Featuring Andy Samberg and Justin Timberlake, with Maya Rudolph and Kirsten Wiig as the objects of their, er, affection. Written by Samberg and his Lonely Island partners, Akiva Schaffer and Jorma Taccone. Hiring this trio to work on "SNL" was one of the show's better moves in the past couple of years. But the writing overall remains stagnant and largely apolitical. Then again, this is an old man talking.

Mercy Is The Loser's Meat

2006-12-15T10:36:00.000-05:00

"I always believed as a speechwriter that if you could persuade the president to commit himself to certain words, he would feel himself committed to the ideas that underlay those words. And the big shock to me has been that, although the president said the words, he just did not absorb the ideas. And that is the root of, maybe, everything."

That's David Frum, Mr. "Axis Of Fill-In-The-Blank," lamenting George W. Bush's inability to appreciate his genius concerning the Middle East, primarily Iraq. And now look where it's gotten us! Frum isn't alone in his moaning; numerous neocons blame Bush for not invading Iraq their way, the right way. Had he only listened to the music in their advice, the president, the military, and the Iraqis would be much better off. Want evidence? It's all in their words, plenty of which are spilled across the latest issue of Vanity Fair. If there is a gassier, more self-stroking crowd than the neocons, I definitely don't want to know about it.

We should be used to their ass-covering by now, the only serious public stance these fuckwads have left. But what got me about this piece wasn't so much their rhetoric, which I'm more than familiar with, but their posing, captured by photographer Nigel Parry. A reflective, honest person who recommended and urged on a human disaster would most likely hide his or her face in shame. Not this gang. Far from feeling any true regret for the damage they helped cause, they have the nerve to rub our faces in theirs, posing as if the Weekly Standard had centerfolds. I mean, look at former CIA director James Woosley:

What's with the natty little tug at the tie knot? Oh, James, you stylish brute! And of course David Frum affects the tried and true "brainy" pose:

Shameless. Absolutely shameless. A just and civilized society would sentence these assholes to emptying bedpans and changing dressings at Walter Reed hospital, not allow them to preen in a glossy mag aimed at high-end consumers. Better still, send them to Iraq to help with the wounded and maimed there. Force them to get their hands wet with blood and guts, to witness up-close the pain and suffering they advocated in safer climes. If they refuse this duty, bring back public docks and let passers-by pelt them with rotting fruit. Sociopaths like them need to be contained, not turned into Gap models. But given our criminal culture, where we slaughter countless thousands and shrug our shoulders when called on it, such promotion is inevitable. And the neocons know it. No one who promotes US state violence on behalf of corporate elites will ever be truly punished. That's the system we live in.

Liberals can and often do play this card as well. I've offered many examples in this space, but this week's howler comes from Brad DeLong, Berkeley professor, Clinton apologist, and all-around scumbag. After Jeane Kirkpatrick died, DeLong, crying on his keyboard, wrote:

"[Kirkpatrick] was an American and a world patriot: her counsel--even at its most boneheaded--was always devoted to advancing the security of the United States and the cause of liberty and prosperity around the world."

Priceless. There's no point in reviewing the actual results of Kirkpatrick's counsel, for DeLong doesn't care. Death squads are just fine with him. Of course, DeLong would never help to massacre an entire peasant village himself; his job is to provide justifications for mass murder. And while the dying scream amid the general carnage, DeLong goes about his day, stuffing his fat face with God knows what, secure in the knowledge that he'll never encounter such hellish conditions. He truly is garbage wrapped in skin.

My friend Dwayne Monroe, upon reading DeLong's little epitaph, noted:

"The key word [from DeLong] is 'boneheaded' as in mistaken, but in a lovable -- and mark, completely forgivable -- way.

"Really, these gentle words aren't that surprising are they? In the popular imagination, Washington stumbles from one well meant misadventure to another. Surely, only hoarse-voiced, wild-eyed radicals differ on this point, using terms such as 'war crimes' and other uncharitable phrases.

"And since the US as an entity is well meaning, even if "boneheaded" at times in the execution of its lofty aims, it follows that her humble foreign policy servants are just plain folk, trying their best to, as DeLong writes '[advance] the security of the United States and the cause of liberty and prosperity around the world.'

"I'm sure that in years to come, when Cheney and Bush leave this mortal coil, someone will be writing misty-eyed remembrances of their contributions to human development.

"I suspect that even if all our cities were reduced to ashes in a Washington-engineered global cataclysm, some American would find the time, as the strontium 90 gently fell, to sigh over the world's failure to appreciate our devotion -- sometimes "boneheaded" but always as kindly intentioned as a pie baking grandmama -- to liberty and prosperity."

Suffice it to say, Dwayne is a much kinder man than me.

But enough of this negativity. There'll be plenty more of that next week. Let's get to our Friday clips.

I just came across this the other day, and it was the first time I'd seen it. Michael Palin, Terry Jones, and Graham Chapman of Monty Python discussing "The Life of Brian" on Tom Snyder's "Tomorrow" in 1979. No need to analyze. Just watch. Great stuff.

BASTARDS: Nothing great lasts forever, or even for a weekend. The Python clips are gone. YouTube dangles then snatches away.

Here's a YouTube anomaly -- a "Fridays" sketch without Larry David or Michael Richards (though Richards' voice does appear). Mark Blankfield and Bruce Mahler take a shot at the then-still rising religious right, which "Fridays" did on a more consistent basis than did "SNL" (but then, "Fridays" was much more political than the show that spawned it). Some of the jokes may seem tired today, especially since "Mr. Show" did its share of anti-fundamentalist humor; but few were making them in 1980-81 on national television, for fear of offending Jerry Falwell and those connected with the incoming Reagan administration. "Fridays" was an exception.

And finally, here's a fine musical piece by Ernie Kovacs, from one of his ABC specials in the early-60s. I've introduced the boy to Kovacs as part of his comedy education, and he loves the strangeness of Kovacs' vision. In this bit, the boy especially likes the whistling pencil sharpener, as do I.

Have a great weekend.

Once The Mind Goes, The Rest Is Easy

2006-12-14T13:14:00.000-05:00

So very out of it this week, Sonsters. Got a case of creative blahs, and it makes me testy, impatient, a real dick to be around. I wanna torch every Hummer I see on the road. I wanna chase down all those assholes who run Stop signs in my neighborhood, grab them by the collars, press their faces into those signs and ask them what S-T-O-P spells. I wanna shove the ringing bell up the ass of that Salvation Army guy outside my local supermarket. I wanna take a 12-gauge and blast the speakers inside the supermarket every time "Jingle Bell Rock" plays. I wanna tell those "traditionalists" who feel oh so oppressed by the PC "Happy Holidays" greeting that their insistent and pious 'Merry CHRISTMAS" doesn't offend me and that they can take their false sense of victimization and cram it in their mangers. I wanna scream most times I'm in public, and beat my head on the wall when alone.

Like I said, this is not a great week.

There are various topics I'd like to address, but can't bring myself to write about them. Not today, anyway. So instead, I've filled my sock with pennies and nickels and am banging my keyboard in search of meaning, truth, peace, a thinner stomach, less gray in my beard, a sunnier disposition as I skip along the sidewalk, bowing to the ladies, pointing my index finger at the fellas, and patting the laughing children on the head.

Hmmm. Nothing yet. Like decent acid, this must take awhile to kick in.

Did you see this video of Paul Shore getting punched by a redneck at a comedy club in Odessa, Texas?

When I first saw this, I was really pissed off. I'm not a fan of Shore's by any stretch (though his film "Jury Duty" is one of the dumbest things I've ever wasted time on -- so fucking stupid that it's actually funny), but this bullshit where people feel like they can walk on stage during a comic's act and threaten the performer is intolerable. I kept yelling at the screen, "Hey, Pauly! You have a mike in your hand! It's made of metal! Metal hurts! Hit that pigfucker with the mike, you idiot!" I mean, three or four quick smashes of the mike against that yahoo's nose would do some damage. Of course, you would then have to run for your life, as his friends would doubtless come after you. Still, it's better than just standing there and getting punched in the head.

Then I discovered that the whole "incident" was staged. Seems that Shore wanted some Michael Richards heat for himself. But what is the point of this stunt? What's the satirical angle -- that drunken hillbillies are prone to violence? As I've said before, had Richards' outburst been faked, one could see an attempt at media commentary on racist celebrities, however sloppily handled. But in Pauly Shore's case, it's nothing but a cheap bit, unless he's granting the audience their wish to see him pummeled. Hey, if you can't make 'em laugh, cater to their violent side. Whatever works, buuuu-dy.

Some of the pressure is leaving my skull. My appetite is coming back. So far, so good.

Speaking of media fights, this Charlie Rose interview with Dick Cavett contains an extended clip of the infamous 1971 spitting match between Norman Mailer, Gore Vidal, Janet Flanner, and Cavett himself. Do you think Mailer had any idea how ridiculous he looked here? Even so, he's still far more interesting to watch than any contemporary "author" like Ann Coulter, who has the energy but not the intellect to work at this level. As a wise cable news producer once told me in a green room, "Make it fast, make it loud, but please don't make them think." Who does?

The sun has broken through the globally warm clouds. Mid-50s in mid-December. Melt, polar ice caps! Melt you frozen bastards!!

This little experiment has worked. I feel much better than when I started. And you all got to watch! Aren't blogs great?

Here's a Kids In The Hall premise that gives you a good idea what I look like at work. Enjoy, and see you tomorrow.

Waiting For Mandela

2006-12-13T11:53:00.000-05:00

One advantage to being a corporate media hack is that, if trusted, you can write absolute shit and still be rewarded, if not celebrated. We saw this recently with the Hitchens Vanity Fair piece on women in comedy; and now again with Michael Kinsley's Washington Post column on the horrid Palestinians and their new friend, Jimmy Carter.

The ex-prez has been getting it from all sides of late, to be expected when telling the obvious truth about Israel's brutal treatment of its subject population. You'd think that Carter earned imperial points for having bribed Egypt into the Western tent while promoting the state terrorist Menachem Begin as a respected statesman. But that was long ago, and new times demand renewed devotion to old concepts, in this case, that the Palestinians aren't suffering under apartheid-like conditions. Having been to the territories himself, Carter disagrees, and states his case in a new book, "Palestine: Peace Not Apartheid." If Carter were a lefty academic or an Arab-American activist, his book would probably be ignored. But a former US president, no matter how reviled, will always garner a large, global audience; and if he goes against the majority of elite opinion, the knives will come out, as they have. Still, too much is known about Israeli policy to be effectively denied, yet this won't stop many from trying, as Kinsley showed in his recent effort.

Problem is, Kinsley, to be taken at all seriously, must admit that, in the larger scheme, the Israelis hold a decided advantage over the Palestinians, who have endured all manner of indignities. He even chides Ariel Sharon for overseeing the massacres at Sabra and Shatila in 1982, a one-time unutterable fact for anyone associated with The New Republic, which Kinsley once edited. But the line must be drawn somewhere, and Carter's use of the loaded word "apartheid" makes it easy for Kinsley to do so.

How dare the former president -- a Democrat and Nobel Prize winner, no less! -- compare the democratic Israelis with the racist South Afrikaners. Shame on him! Oh sure, the Israelis kick around the Palestinians and make their lives miserable, but "apartheid"? That is beyond the pale! (So to speak.)

The ironic thing about Kinsley's denial is that he promotes Sharon's idea of walling off the Palestinians as reasonable. "Yes, of course, the walls and the rules favored Israel and were a far greater burden on Arabs than Israelis," Kinsley admits. "But that is the kind of thing you can negotiate." I suppose the same thing could have been said about segregated buses and restaurants in the American south: yes, the burden will weigh heaviest on black people, but at least it's negotiable! Somehow, I can't imagine Kinsley making that argument and keeping his job. But when applying this logic to the Palestinians, Kinsley appears perfectly rational. If he didn't, it's doubtful that the Post would publish this horrible piece.

As (intentionally?) stupid as Kinsley is here, he saves his dumbest line for last: "If Israel is white South Africa and the Palestinians are supposed to be the blacks, where is their Mandela?" As my pal Jon Schwartz put it yesterday, "[F]or apartheid to be apartheid, there has to be a Mandela. Otherwise, no apartheid. Thus, if Nelson Mandela had died in an accident at two years old and therefore never appeared on the South African political scene, then the situation in South Africa wouldn't have been apartheid." Excellent, obvious point. But more -- what would a Palestinian Mandela look or sound like?

Recall that Mandela's political party, the African National Congress, committed to armed struggle against the South African state after the Sharpeville massacre in 1960, and resisted apartheid through violent means, via its military wing, Umkhonto we Sizwe. Mandela himself languished in a cell for 27 years for being a "terrorist," a designation seconded by the US government and many media outlets. Kinsley makes it seem as if Mandela was some African flower child who put daisies into rifle barrels, which was decidedly not the case. Indeed, when Mandela was finally released, he appeared on an expanded "Nightline" with Ted Koppel and openly praised Fidel Castro, Muammar Qaddafi, and Yasser Arafat for supporting his anti-apartheid struggle, calling them "comrades." Koppel tried to get Mandela to recant this endorsement, but Mandela refused, suggesting that perhaps Koppel was too slow or misinformed to fully understand what he was saying.

Color me skeptical, but if a Palestinian Mandela did the exact same thing, I sincerely doubt that Kinsley would be applauding him or her in the pages of the Washington Post.

Further, the PLO, beginning in 1976, repeatedly offered Israel peace agreements in exchange for mutual recognition and mutual security guarantees. Israel rejected them, at times with air strikes on civilian targets, just to remind the Palestinians who held the bigger guns, and thus who set the terms. How, exactly, would a Palestinian Mandela improve on those PLO offers? And how, precisely, would a Palestinian Mandela deal with the present-day Israeli state, with Hamas part of the equation? Kinsley doesn't say, and cannot say, because his premise is absurd. But as I said at the top, such absurdity, if serviceable to media elites, will be regarded as keen political insight. You don't need to be a Nelson Mandela, Palestinian or otherwise, to understand that.

But The Band Plays On

2006-12-11T10:53:00.000-05:00

Two wretched people died within days of each other -- Augusto Pinochet and Jeane Kirkpatrick. No, they didn't face firing squads, the needle or the noose. They were allowed to pass on via old age, an imperial luxury their many victims didn't enjoy.

Yes, Pinochet was hassled and harassed over the last years of his life, but never seemed in any serious danger of getting thrown into a Saddam-like cell and facing the same "justice." And there's a very good reason for that: Pinochet faithfully served the interests of capital in Chile; and unlike Saddam, he didn't turn on his benefactors or force them to retrospectively care about his atrocities. This is why you didn't hear the same "humanistic" cries in US ruling circles as was heard when Saddam attacked the Kuwaiti monarchy. Pinochet knew his place and understood the rules of engagement. To this day, he still has defenders in the US, as did Saddam -- until August 2, 1990, that is.

One recurring defense of Pinochet's regime is that he "only" killed 3,000 or so Chileans, with a reported 1,000 missing. Not nearly as brutal, his defenders say, as was Pol Pot, much less Mao or Stalin (further proof of capital's "benevolence"). But also recall that al-Qaeda operatives "only" killed 3,000 or so Americans and others on 9/11, a much smaller crime, if one is wed to per capita assessments. After all, Chile had 11 million people, whereas the US pushed 300 million. How would someone be received if he or she hailed the 9/11 attacks as not only justified, due to US aggression, but said that the attacks were a drop in the bucket, death-wise, a form of restraint that proved al-Qaeda's "benevolence"? And unlike Pinochet in Chile, al-Qaeda did not overthrow the elected US government and install an oppressive regime that lasted 17 years, further evidence of al-Qaeda's lighter touch. Think that person would make the talk show rounds, or get a gig with an elite think tank?

This is not to say that because Augusto Pinochet and al-Qaeda used terror and mass murder on their ideological enemies, they are the same. One significant difference: Pinochet had his own Air Force, whereas al-Qaeda had to hijack planes to do its killing. See? Not at all alike.

Jeane Kirkpatrick, who loved Pinochet and spoke warmly of him while in Santiago, was further up the policy ladder than the Chilean dictator, but shared many of his passions. One in particular, death squads. As Reagan's UN Ambassador, Kirkpatrick defended that administration's funding and training of state terrorists throughout Latin America, most enthusiastically in El Salvador, where early on Kirkpatrick dismissed claims that Maryknoll nuns who were raped and butchered by the Salvadoran National Guard in 1980 were "victims." As she put it, “The nuns were not just nuns, they were political activists, and we should be very clear about that.” Of course. And in an emerging, Western-style democracy, political activists, especially those who work with the poor, are legitimate targets for state violence, a policy that Kirkpatrick never tired of championing.

Still, as much as Kirkpatrick enjoyed watching powerless people being shot in the head or hacked to death with machetes and dumped into rivers or mass graves, she never got to kill any of her enemies herself. An imperial perk, as we know. But still, how gung ho would Kirkpatrick remain if she were given a rifle at, say, El Mozote, and encouraged to murder with impunity? Something tells me that she would balk at direct engagement. If true, then Kirkpatrick was more hypocritical than someone like Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, who at least had the honesty to personally behead a given captive. But then, when you do your own killing, it cuts down on the number of dismembered bodies needed to make the political statement you wish to make. In that sense, Kirkpatrick's rhetorical support for mass murder and torture was more constructive, as it was part of a larger effort to legitimize the terrorist policy of the Reagan White House. What good would Kirkpatrick be to her bosses if her precious time was taken up with pumping bullets into peasants' brains? This is why larger, more successful terrorist operations hire out.

There are those, primarily on the left, who are celebrating the passing of these two ghouls. In a way, it's understandable; in some instances, fitting. But I rarely, if ever, feel any joy when criminals like Pinochet and Kirkpatrick die. Yes, they've met their maker, but then, we all do, eventually. And once they're gone, there are many others who eagerly replace them, keeping the system of mass killing for greed and geopolitical power humming along. When the system itself dies, then perhaps I'll crack a smile and pop a cork -- assuming it hasn't laid waste to the world around us before it finally expires.

Tranquility, You Elusive Jerk

2006-12-08T14:13:00.001-05:00

The Iraq Study Group report has a thousand online hands tugging at it, with everyone talking over each other about What It Means. Does the Son have anything to add to this din? Not really. I mean, what is there to say? The American elite is looking for ways to salvage another imperial mess, while trying to "save" our precious national face, so envied the world over. Bottom line, friends, we're not leaving that hellhole anytime soon. Robert Gates and Henry Kissinger can talk all they like about how the occupation, or what's left of it, is failing, which it is. But even given that, there's simply no way that our rulers are going to hand all of Iraq, or what's left of it, to the Iraqis, whoever they are. It's not about creating a vacuum to be filled with sectarian violence, since that's already happening. It's about maintaining whatever control the US and its allies have over the area's energy reserves, which the Baker group openly admits. This is why Americans, Brits and most especially Iraqis will continue to die and be maimed -- to privatize Iraq's oil. Freedom isn't free, and corporate gorging doesn't come cheap. So get used to more and more flag-draped coffins coming silently home, as well as to the sight of Old Glory forever at half-mast.

Think the Democrats will turn any of this around in the next two years? After their collective swooning at Robert Gates' feet? Russ Feingold can rant all he likes, but I'm becoming convinced that Feingold's function is to play the Angry Populist card as a way to keep gullible libs in line, while the rest of the party works with its corporate sponsors to further enrich themselves while marginalizing the rest of us. That also means keeping the war going in some form -- perhaps through aerial assaults, which Dems traditionally favor over ground combat, and which is why no prominent Dem in the past year has said anything remotely critical about Bush's air war on Iraq, an aspect to the fighting that the major media has pretty much ignored, save, of course, for Seymour Hersh. (And on and on it goes.)

Remember, my liberal colleagues, the party to which you swear allegiance has no interest in ending this war, but is looking for ways to redirect it in a more "constructive" fashion. That Pelosi refuses to go after war criminal Number One pretty much says it all.

But I don't want to end the week on such a sour note, especially with so many sour days and weeks ahead of us. Instead, I'd like to return to women and comedy. Since posting my reaction to Hitchens' ridiculous but successful piece (look at all the attention he continues to receive -- good work Hitch! Keep soiling yourself publicly and you'll never lack an audience!), I've received a torrent of mail, mostly from women, sharing their anger, adding their thoughts, and reminding me of those funny women I failed to mention. Like Mabel Normand, who cut her teeth working with Mack Sennett at Keystone, honing her talent alongside Chaplin and Fatty Arbuckle. Normand was an early, important woman in comedy, who went decidedly against the feminine grain of her time, not only through acting, but directing. My apologies to her spirit for not including her in my roster. She definitely belongs in that company.

I've known, worked with, or simply saw plenty of funny female comics in my club days. When I did improv at the old Folk City in Greenwich Village, most of the opening acts were women. I remember Margaret Smith, who would arrive on her motorcycle, dressed in leather, an open, deadpan dyke who dealt cutting one-liners. My favorite was the one about her father being so mean, that when he died, his tombstone read, "What the fuck are you looking at?" Margaret never really killed, but she never really bombed, either. She was emotionally remote, but direct in her delivery. Before long, like pretty much everyone else, she moved to LA and appeared on a few stand-up shows. Her leather look was replaced with dresses, which were unnatural for her, but it was clear that her manager felt this was a necessary, mainstream concession, no matter how ill at ease Margaret appeared. It didn't fit, and after those early shows, I never saw Margaret again.

Susie Essman was solid on stage, and very friendly and sweet off of it. Watching her play Jeff Garlin's nasty wife on "Curb Your Enthusiasm" is made funnier because of her natural warmth and easy going demeanor. The teen, who loves "Curb", doesn't believe my stories about Susie's bright side. That's how good she is -- when she calls Garlin a "fat cocksucker" and Larry David a "four-eyed fuck," you believe it. Susie's small, but she still has tremendous comic power, and I'm happy to see her do well.

Then there was Susan Schneider, who aggressively stalked the stage, speaking in various voices, usually those of strange men. I remember she had a floating eye, which added to her stage presence. But then, I had a huge crush on Susan, which showed, I'm afraid. She was pleasant enough to me, but it was clear that I had no shot, in my mind, anyway, so I stayed my romantic hand and simply talked shop with her. In late summer 1985, Susan got a writing gig on "SNL", the year Lorne Michaels returned to the franchise. Though she appeared as an extra in a few sketches, she didn't last the season, which was a disastrous one for the show (and which almost got it cancelled), and Susan soon returned to Folk City to perform. This time around, however, her confidence seemed shattered, and there were sets when she mumbled through her act. She told a few of us some of the horrors she witnessed while at "SNL", how the show had no direction, and how the old timers who were brought back to guide it rejected most of her material and that of the other younger writers in favor of their own pet pieces. Al Franken, who produced the show that year with partner Tom Davis, came off like an utter, obnoxious asshole, while head writer Jim Downey froze out everyone not in his inner-circle, allowing Susan and a few other rookies to drift through the halls on the 17th floor, with no support offered. Susan did a wicked impression of Downey at a writers' meeting, which matched the same impression done by a friend of mine who worked for Downey at Letterman. Not the warmest of personalities. After a few weeks, Susan stopped coming to the club, and like Margaret Smith, that was the last I saw of her.

That season of "SNL" also touched two other women I was much closer to. The first, Sharon Breslau, was one of the most natural improvisers I've ever witnessed. She never got lost, was never thrown by a bad line or joke, and could steer a scene in any direction she chose. She was also very sensual and quite comfortable in her skin, and this came across on stage, which added to her appeal. Sharon was a Folk City favorite, and mine as well, and for a period she and I not only spent a lot of time together, we lived together for a couple of months in her East Village apartment on Ave. A. Our relationship was platonic, and she trusted me to such a degree that she walked around the apartment nude. We occasionally slept together, but never made love. Now, you must understand that this was a test I was putting myself through, for I desired Sharon in the worst way. But, wanting to be an enlightened, pro-feminist man, I refused to make a pass at her, and focused on the creative side of our relationship, which was enriching. We performed characters in private, a sort of in-house Nichols and May, and her contributions helped me focus on my strengths, such as they were. Yet I hated to perform with her in front of an audience. For one thing, Sharon was superior, if generous, to me; and for another, our creative interaction was ours and ours alone. Thinking back, it served as our sex. Sharing it with strangers didn't appeal to me, which is why I avoided scenes with Sharon as often as I could.

When the "SNL" people came to Folk City looking for talent, most of us were kept off stage by the emcee, Jane Brucker. Jane was a mercurial person, sometimes exceedingly nice, other times incredibly nasty and dismissive. You never really knew what side you'd get. But that night, with Lorne's scouts in the audience, nasty Jane was in full effect. The majority of us were corralled in the bar area, watching helplessly as Jane put herself in scene after scene after scene. She wasn't going to waste this opportunity by being democratic. Still, she had to play off someone, so she called up Sharon. This was risky for Jane -- Sharon was much better than her, but unlike Jane, Sharon had no killer instinct. She possessed no desire to one-up another performer, which is what made Sharon so good. Of course, Jane did her best to dominate the scene, but Sharon moved effortlessly around Jane's indelicate maneuvers and kept the scene in balance. While the rest of us fumed at Jane's self-promotion, Sharon worked her magic without any added emotion. If she cared what the "SNL" people thought, it didn't show.

In the end, it was Sharon, not Jane, who got the call to audition for "SNL". (Jane went on to appear in a couple of "Miami Vice" episodes, and played Jennifer Grey's older sister in "Dirty Dancing".) Sharon appeared surprised by this, but I told her she was perfect for the show. Back in her apartment, she worked on various characters, developing monologues while occasionally playing off my contributions. The day of the audition, I walked her to the subway as she smiled and told complete strangers, "Hi! Isn't it a beautiful day? I'm auditioning for Saturday Night Live!" What might seem like boasting from others sounded innocent and sincere when Sharon said it. And the strangers smiled back and said "Good for you! Good luck! Maybe I'll see you on TV!" The vibe was incredible, and when we arrived at the station, I kissed Sharon and reminded her to be herself. I was convinced that she had a serious shot.

Well, obviously, she didn't get it. In fact, the experience rattled her in a way I'd never seen before. And who was her main tormentor? Al Franken! Sharon said that she would begin a character monologue as requested, but before she got 15 seconds into it, Franken would shout in that annoying voice of his, "NEXT." Franken also talked to other people while Sharon tried to perform, telling jokes and not paying attention to her efforts. Then he would stop, clap his hands sarcastically, then grunt "Got anything else?" After maybe 10 or so minutes, the audition was over, and Sharon was led out while Franken completely ignored her. She got her first serious taste of the pricks who run much of American comedy, and it deflated her.

While I believe in my heart that Sharon would've been a star on "SNL", it was perhaps best that she didn't get the show that year, given how awful that season turned out. Not long after this, I moved to LA to work for Ray Combs and sniff around for TV work, and I didn't see Sharon again for nearly a year. When I moved back to New York, Sharon was working in clubs as part of a comedy act, but I could see that her heart wasn't really in it. We remained friends, but were never as close as we once were, and in time she got married, had a nose job, changed her last name to something I don't remember, and moved to LA. I haven't seen nor spoken to her since.

The other woman I was close to at this time was Kathy Kinney. Like me, Kathy was a Midwesterner who came to New York to perform and find herself. She, too, appeared at Folk City, not as often as many of us did, but when she showed up, she left a serious mark. While Sharon's improv had a Zen essence, Kathy's approach was more direct, bringing her characters to life with very little fanfare. She was not the arm-waving, eye-rolling type -- Kathy stared right through you and forced you to meet her intensity, which not many could or did. Certainly not me. But off stage, Kathy and I became friends, sitting at a given club's bar, talking about comedy and our professional desires. Kathy was a bit melancholy and self-critical, and I assumed much of this had to do with her weight, but I wasn't certain. Clearly, something dark lay beneath her personality, but she revealed nothing about its source. And she could drink, sometimes draining several shots before going on stage, her performance unaffected by the booze. One night at a club in Soho, she downed a shot of whiskey just before an improv set with her group, Prom Night, then ordered another. I asked her how she could balance liquor and improv so deftly.

"Easy," she replied. "I'm a woman." She threw back the second shot, returned to the stage and killed as usual.

Kathy was also at Folk City the night "SNL" came calling, but she didn't stay long. Jane Brucker may have felt comfortable sharing her personal audition time with Sharon, but there was no way she was going up against Kathy. Before that night, Kathy was one of Jane's favorites, since Kathy always got laughs and helped bring in a crowd. But when it was obvious that Jane was freezing Kathy out of a shot at "SNL", Kathy was furious, muttered a few choice words, then left. She never returned, and so far as I know, never again spoke to Jane. Soon, Kathy moved to LA and in no time found work. She had a recurring role on "Newhart" and appeared on "Seinfeld", but her claim to fame was playing Mimi, the sarcastic, heavily made-up secretary on "The Drew Carey Show". Kathy's triumph was the ultimate fuck you to Jane, who after her minor showbiz run faded from the scene. Kathy also performed improv on Carey's version of "Whose Line Is It Anyway?", but she wasn't as sharp as she had been in New York. I was surprised, but still very happy for her success.

I saw Kathy one last time, but she didn't see me. While in LA to interview old "SNL" and Lampoon vets for "Mr. Mike," I went into a Ralph's supermarket near Hollywood to pick up some items, and there at the meat counter was Kathy. She was alone, perusing the various cuts. Although this was during her "Drew Carey" run, she looked extremely sad. I'd seen this depressed expression before, but now it appeared to be worse. My initial joy in seeing her soon vanished, and I decided not to bother her. I regret leaving the store without saying hello and catching up, but it felt like the right thing to do.

You Can't Spell "Funny" Without "Penis"

2006-12-06T15:45:00.002-05:00

"For men, it is a tragedy that the two things they prize the most—women and humor—should be so antithetical. But without tragedy there could be no comedy."

Yes, it would be tragic if those we het-males desire didn't also make us laugh. But in the real world, that simply isn't the case. In fact, a brief perusal of American comedy history gives us: Mae West, Bebe Daniels, Colleen Moore, Carole Lombard, Katharine Hepburn, Gracie Allen, Judy Holliday, Madelyn Pugh, Lucille Ball, Lucille Kallen, Selma Diamond, Imogene Coca, Tallulah Bankhead, Elaine May, Carol Burnett, LaWanda Page, Lily Tomlin, Anne Beatts, Rosie Shuster, Marilyn Suzanne Miller, Gilda Radner, Elaine Pope, Catherine O'Hara, Whoopi Goldberg, Sandra Bernhard, Merrill Markoe, Julia Louis-Dreyfus, Carol Leifer, Tracey Ullman, Jan Hooks, Lisa Kudrow, Molly Shannon, Ellen DeGeneres, Roseanne, Margaret Cho, Janeane Garofalo, Amy Sedaris, Susie Essman, Sarah Silverman, Wanda Sykes . . . and those are only the women I can think of off the top of my head. There are many others, some of whom are currently children, teens, or have yet to be conceived. In short, and to beat this point even more bluntly, women are funny, some devastatingly so, and there will always be funny women.

Christopher Hitchens disagrees, making his case at length in the recent Vanity Fair. He's uttered and written plenty of uninformed opinions over the past few years, but this piece is simply riddled with them. As awful an imperial apologist as he is, Hitchens is even worse when attempting to analyze humor. No James Agee or Walter Kerr, he. The ironic thing about his theorizing is that it makes one laugh, the same way one would laugh at a fat man trying to pull on a pair of too-small pants, or at a village idiot walking down the middle of a busy road, empty smile on his face. It's the laughter of embarrassment and of casual cruelty, of watching someone stubbornly and stupidly go against immediate reality. But as with so much else that Hitchens produces, there is no joy, no warmth, in this performance.

I can see why Hitchens is spending more time with other topics these days, given the savage state, or non-state, of Iraq. Yet wrestling with comedy is nothing new to him. In private, Hitchens fancies himself an able joke-teller, though usually his material is lowbrow, juvenile and sexually rancid in nature. In my presence he got a rise out of cock/pussy/cunt jokes, and judging from this article's tone, that still looks to be the case. Which is not to say that there aren't funny or clever cock/pussy/cunt jokes. It's just that I've never heard Hitchens tell one.

The other thing readily apparent about his put-down of female comics is that Hitchens remains largely ignorant of comedy overall. No one who knows anything about the history of comedy would write a piece like this (regardless of the crumbs he tosses to those few "decent women comedians" -- and yes, Dorothy Parker was funny). Again, this is nothing new. Back in 1995, when he was working on a Vanity Far piece about British comedy, Hitchens asked me to write an essay detailing what I knew about the topic, then fax it to him so he could pick out what he needed for his piece. Seems the old boy knew practically nothing about the London Comedy Store period, 1979-81, which produced the likes of Rik Mayall, Ade Edmondson, Peter Richardson, Lenny Henry, Nigel Planer, and of course Dawn French and Jennifer Saunders, both of whom, I'm sure you know, are women. So I filled in that portion, most of which was published and credited to me (though completely re-written). Still, I found it odd that Hitchens committed to such a large article without fully knowing or understanding the topic at hand. Since that time, however, I find it less and less odd.

If you desire a more definitive debunking of Hitchens' latest, Echidne Of The Snakes does an efficient job, as does my friend, Steven Poole. And while his writing about comedy is as bad as pretty much everything else he slaps his byline on these days, at least the consequences of Hitchens' opinions won't help result in thousands upon thousands of human corpses. Here's hoping he'll analyze more humor. Can't wait for his take on black comics.

AND WITH THIS POST: I can say farewell to ever appearing at Counterpunch. Several months ago, Alexander Cockburn said that in exchange for posting my Tarrytown debate piece, I could never again write about Hitchens -- not for Counterpunch, and apparently not for the Son. Alex seems convinced that I have a queer crush on Hitchens, and has suggested this to me many times. Why that would bother him, if true, is beyond me. But Alex likes to snicker about those whom he's convinced are fags. Like me. But as I told him then, I never say never and will write as I please. And while I'll miss getting a huge spike in my readership, I won't miss the Holocaust Denial mails I always received after appearing at Alex's site. Eclectic crowd over there, to be sure.

George W.S. Trow

2006-12-05T11:41:00.001-05:00

Was found dead in his Naples, Italy apartment on December 1. He was 63.

If you know anything about written humor of the 1960s, or of the early National Lampoon, then you've encountered Trow's sensibility. He was, as the obits stated, extremely witty and elegant in tone, not the type of humorist or memoirist meant for the masses. Trow, along with Christopher Cerf, was the first Harvard Lampoon writer to bring R&B and rock music into that musty, elite circle, thus opening it up for the many talents that followed. Yet despite his love for the pop music of the early '60s, Trow remained wistful for a more refined time. He especially hated television, and counseled his close friend Michael O'Donoghue against taking the "Saturday Night Live" gig in 1975. Trow felt that TV would cheapen if not wreck O'Donoghue's comedy, and in a sense, he was right. But O'Donoghue, who at the time was very broke and had always desired a showbiz career, ignored Trow's advice, and the two of them, while remaining friends, went in different directions.

I got to spend a couple of hours with Trow while researching "Mr. Mike," and he gave me a very in-depth interview. We met at the Telephone Bar in Manhattan. He was dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, gray hair close-cropped, a small man, but looking lean and strong. We sat at a corner table and had a couple of drinks. He spoke eloquently and emotionally about his own upbringing, his time at the New Yorker, how the National Lampoon came together, and of his relationship with O'Donoghue, one of the more meaningful friendships he said he ever enjoyed. A mutual friend told me that he thought that Trow was in love with O'Donoghue, and listening to Trow talk about his late friend while chain-smoking unfiltered Lucky Strikes, I believed it.

Trow was an enormous influence on O'Donoghue, providing a stylish example to an outcast writer who dressed in ripped pants and worn Army jackets. They collaborated on "Savages", an early Merchant/Ivory film in which a tribe of mud people wander into an abandoned mansion and quickly evolve into upper-class sophisticates, reveling in a decadent manner before returning to the forest and their previous, primitive lives. Trow also appeared on "The National Lampoon Radio Hour" as Mr. Chatterbox, a Walter Winchell-type gossip monger who repeatedly implored his listeners, "Do try to mix with a better class of people." In April 1990, Trow and O'Donoghue appeared on-stage together in O'Donoghue's short play, "The Paris of the Prairie," a bizarre little act featuring two old geezers on a porch trading stories about how decent society had gone to the dogs. It was a theme that Trow knew well and explored in his seminal work, "Within The Context of No-Context."

After speaking at length about his friendship with not only O'Donoghue, but also with Doug Kenney and the playwright Timothy Mayer, Trow suddenly became very emotional and looked a bit lost. He stubbed out his cigarette as tears streamed down his face. "I can't . . . I can't . . ." he said to me, then began to sob. I turned off my tape recorder and tried to offer some comfort, though what kind I had no clue, since he didn't know me at all. Trow then stood up and quickly left the bar, his crying increasingly loud. And that was that. Weeks later, I phoned him, but there was no answer. Then his phone was disconnected. When "Mr. Mike" was finished, I was told that Trow was living in Texas, though my source wasn't fully sure. It seemed that Trow was wandering around the country, never staying in one place for too long. Whether or not he ever received my book, I have no idea. Indeed, I didn't know he was living in Italy until my friend Josh Karp told me that Trow had died.

One by one, the old Lampoon crowd is fading away. While not as flashy or extreme as some of his compatriots, George W.S. Trow was nevertheless a solid, significant part of the generation that changed American comedy. Rest in peace.

Padiddle

2006-12-05T10:26:00.000-05:00

You've probably seen the prison pix of Jose Padilla being led from his cell, shackled and sense deprived, surrounded by armed soldiers in riot gear. Those images alone say plenty about the modern American state -- paranoia, overkill, ruthlessness. Padilla's lawyers claim that their client has been extensively tortured, and I've no doubt that this is true. As I've said before, there are plenty of sadistic fucks in uniform, and when given the green light to work their magic, they usually do so with gusto. But this type of sadism runs all through the American system, from cops who feel free to beat and taser anyone who makes them the slightest bit uncomfortable, to prison guards and officials who tolerate inmate rape as a form of punishment and control. Padilla's distinction is that his name is publicly known. There are many Padillas we'll never see or whose real names we'll ever know.

It's nice to see some liberals get all worked up over Padilla's treatment, as it besmirches Uncle Sam's otherwise sterling reputation. That's the liberals' function, to be the "humane" voice of the American state, except when they're not, like Debbie "Hit him again!" Stabenow, who was given another six years by Michigan Dems to flack for corporations and chew through what's left of the Constitution and Bill of Rights. To hear some tell it, Stabenow's fellow mules in the House and Senate are gonna roll back the reactionary assault of the past six years and set us on a more admirable course. And with Stabenow at their side, you have to feel upbeat about that possibility.

Anyway, I've no energy to rehash my feelings on this topic. You may read some earlier musings here and here, which, upon re-reading them myself, makes it seem like we're stuck in the same horrific groove. But that can't be, can it?

Laughing At Or With Hate?

2006-12-04T13:37:00.000-05:00

If it wasn't for Borat and Michael Richards, how would we discuss racism in America? Oh sure, there are police shootings and beatings caught on video. But those forms of institutional violence are forever with us and do little to shine new light on old pathologies and hatreds. And let's be frank -- they're not as glamorous as celebrities losing their minds and comedians poking at societal wounds. If you don't know the person gunned down by cops, you can read the headline, shake your head, mutter angrily, then move on to something else. Michael Richards we'll remember. How many of you still think about Eleanor Bumpers?

Also, the main culture prefers focusing on the kind of racism that doesn't call the system into question. Instead, we examine a particular person caught in an awkward or compromised position, as if they are some archiac exception to our wonderful, people-loving democracy. This is especially the case with Richards, whose racist outburst at LA's Laugh Factory is still being talked about and denounced, with Richards assuming the role of the country's main bigot, or at least the present symbol of white contempt for The Other.

There was a part of me that hoped, for Richards's sake, that the whole Laugh Factory tirade was staged; that the person who shot it and the people who were the targets were all in on the act. What would be the point? A parody of the celebrity caught speaking his rancid mind, the reactions to it, the hoops the celeb would have to jump through, the forced contrition, the attempt to heal wounds under the bright lights of mass media. In other words, a multi-level take on, say, the Mel Gibson incident. This is something that Andy Kaufman did without peer, and for Richards, it would get him away from Kramer and closer to his own type of comedy.

But, most times, things are as they appear to be, and Richards looks like he has some serious demons swirling within.

Still, Richards isn't alone. Racism exists and probably will always exist in some form because humans possess tribalistic minds. The various social divisions we tolerate and help to enforce take on different features, depending on the level of society and the immediate need for distinction. It can be institutional or personal, but we all do it, no matter how "good" our overall intentions. At best, we can water it down over time, as Martin Amis once put it in relation to his father and to his son. His father was more racist than he, and through exposure, experience and education, his son will hopefully be less racist than he, and so on down the generational line. And that's just white people we're talking about here. Prejudice, hatred and bias exist in everyone. No one escapes. Does this mean that we should shrug off open displays of racist feeling? Of course not. But there are differences between straightforward hatred and expressing hateful words in order to mock or demystify them. And since Richards had his breakdown in a comedy club, that difference has become somewhat blurred.

Thanks to Richards, there is a renewed drive to get everyone, white and black, to cease saying "nigger," regardless of context. The Laugh Factory has banned the word, which is not surprising, given the bad publicity the club has received. But how does a ban on that or any other racial or sexual epithet change matters? Easy -- it doesn't. It does, however, give many people a false sense of comfort, for if one does not hear or read "nigger," then racism is on the run, yes?

Uh, no.

Now, I'll concede that more overt racists take advantage of any opening that allows them to spout their poison. Hey, they usually say to the offended, it's only a joke! This is the Rush Limbaugh/Ann Coulter dodge, and it's adopted and plied by lesser, cruder talents, which reinforces the original point: simply banning a word does nothing to change the feelings of those who use it to express their hatred. And by banning the word, you restrict the ways in which a comedian or satirist can take it apart to offer a better look at the nastiness that resides in all of us. The old adage that sunlight is the best disinfectant remains true.

But even in a comedic context, there is ambiguity, especially if white performers and writers attempt to attack a racist word or set of beliefs. Are white comedians really trying to breakdown and expose hateful attitudes, or are they hiding behind the Rush/Coulter dodge? Depends on the comic. I've seen white comics say some pretty ignorant shit, then try to pass it off as "satire," assuming they know what that word means. Here's an example of that mindset:

Then there's someone like Howard Stern, who is less relevant these days, now that his tired routines are restricted to satellite radio. But when he was coming up, from WNBC-AM in the early 80s through his prime K-Rock years after the Peacock fired him, Stern played with and mocked racial attitudes across the board. At times he cut so close to the bone that it was difficult to know whether or not he was racist himself, and it was this uncertainty that gave his humor added edge.

I must confess that I didn't appreciate Stern until he was well-established, at least on the east coast. Though I lived in New York all through the 80s, I never listened to his show, taking the word of some white liberal friends that Stern hated all non-whites, women and gay men, while he exploited lesbians for cheap laughs. It wasn't until I came across his Saturday night TV show in 1990 that I realized how simplistic my friends' dismissal was. While uncomfortable with some of his humor, I could see that there was more going on than mere race or sex baiting: Stern took an anarchistic approach to tribalism in general, rooted to his own confused upbringing in a largely black neighborhood. It was easily the most honest satirical take on racism I'd ever seen -- not perfect, not always funny, but clear and direct. And it reminded me why one should never trust a liberal when it comes to comedy that you've never seen. If it causes a lib any unease, chances are good that they'll hate it and insist you hate it, too.

Here's an excellent example of Stern's humor at his peak -- "Guess Who's The Jew." And unlike "Saturday Night Live", which openly stole this idea, Stern brought on real people to play unscripted roles. One, Daniel Carver, an actual Klansman, was a Stern regular, who didn't seem aware that he was being mocked. Another was Marie Bronson, an African-American woman whose obvious disdain for Carver made her, in a weird sense, his straightperson. And of course, with a premise like this, you knew that Kurt Waldheim Jr. would appear, played by Stern writer, actor and sound effects engineer Fred Norris, who was a devotee of Michael O'Donoghue (as if you couldn't tell in this sketch).

So, Sonsters, is this sketch an attack on racist, hateful attitudes, or simply racist itself? It's the same question being asked about the Borat film by those who have a hard time distinguishing parody from reality. And that such angry confusion still exists further proves that simply burying offensive words delays a better understanding of their power to wound, when not simply giving them more power than they deserve.

HA HA: Now that everyone is watching "Seinfeld" with different eyes, here's a piece from "Fridays" that, in retrospect, has an even funnier ending than before.

There's A Wall In My Face

2006-12-01T18:18:00.000-05:00

Exhausted. Will see you on Mon. To give you a taste of what I'm working on and thinking about, here's a BBC docu about Richard Pryor, hosted by Lenny Henry.

Have a good weekend.

Random In Name Only

2006-11-30T12:29:00.000-05:00

Belated but enthusiastic and heartfelt huzzahs to the now-unionized janitors of Houston. This latest victory is part of a nationwide campaign by the Service Employees International Union to organize and provide better pay and benefits for those who do the shit work, night after night. From Boston to Miami to Los Angeles and elsewhere, janitors and groundskeepers are scoring victories that one might find unthinkable in this age of corporate domination and global sweatshop exploitation. Having done this work myself, I know how thankless it can be and how cleaning people are routinely dismissed and looked down upon. There is a bond between those who render these services, and I still get mail from janitors and cleaning people who've read about my experience and want to share their stories with me. As I've said, janitorial labor is perhaps the best thing to ever happen to me, and gave me a much-needed look at life from another angle. Now, if I can only transfer some of my cleaning skills to my own home, the wife would be ecstatic.

Here are some personal stories from Houston. Read, understand, appreciate.

Speaking of the wife, she and the teen like to watch the various make-over shows that populate the cable wasteland. Their favorite is "How Do I Look?", hosted by Finola Hughes, a soap opera mainstay, but to me she'll always be John Travolta's dancing mate in "Stayin' Alive", the hilarious sequel to "Saturday Night Fever". There's very little dancing on Hughes' make-over show, however, but plenty of mugging and silly posturing. Which is part of the appeal, I suppose. Yet what gets me is how everyday people allow themselves to be dressed down and re-dressed, undergoing a twenty-minute re-education camp about what "proper" attire they should wear. There's a lot of stylistic bullying present, egged on by the fashion victim's family and friends who cannot stand the sight of their supposed loved one. The allure of being on TV accounts for most of it, I'm certain; but there's also the comfort that some people find in being told what to do or what to wear. I dunno. It's all pretty much alien to me.

The other day, while hanging with the teen, "How Do I Look?" came on, which meant I was leaving the room. But the teen asked me to stay and watch one make-over with her, so I did. It was appalling, and the teen agreed. The victim was a teen-age girl, maybe 18, who we thought looked perfectly fine with a pseudo-Mohawk (the sides of her head were close-cropped but not shaved) and a punk/ska wardrobe. Her make-up was light but beautifully applied, and she had a sharp sense of humor and spoke candidly.

What was the problem?

Well, her older sister thought she looked weird and didn't want to be seen in public with her (the girl was not mall material, it seems). And her father thought she looked "slutty" and "too sexy" in her short skirts and ripped fishnet hose. Now, neither of these two were anything special to take in. The sister was dumpy and dopey as hell, giving off "Like, y'know, whatever" airs, and the dad clearly wasn't being called late to chow. Listening to these two kvetch, it became immediately apparent that the sister was jealous of her sibling's independence and intelligence, while pops had a serious problem with his daughter's comfort with her sexuality, and may even have had a hard-on for her as well. It was pretty creepy to watch, and for a moment it seemed that the girl would reject much of the style options being thrown at her. But in the end, she acquiesced, not only dressing more like her sister, but having her hair colored to match the drab extensions hanging to her shoulders.

The teen was pissed.

"What the fuck?" she shouted, as the girl's dad showed visible relief, happy that his daughter no longer looked like a streetwalker, or at least his vision of one.

"In conformity there is acceptance and peace," I replied with a grin.

"Yeah, well, it's still bullshit. God, does that make me mad!"

"Maybe you shouldn't watch this show anymore."

She looked at me like I was nuts.

"Are you kidding? I love this show!"

And people are complaining about Borat?

Wanna know just how geekity geek I can get? I was watching "Studio 60" Monday night, which has drawn me into Aaron Sorkin's world, and loved the new plotline about an avant garde writer played by Mark McKinney coming in to school the two freshman writers on the finer points of televised satire. Not that the actual comedy that comes out of this is any good or remotely funny or interesting, just the premise of it. I could watch an entire hour of comedy writers sitting around and riffing, one-liners and concepts flying back and forth. McKinney's character, which he plays as dour and low-key, may become my favorite "Studio 60" fixture, assuming the show makes it to the end of the season. Like I said, geekoid supreme.

Many weeks ago, I mentioned that a debate with another prominent blogger was in the works, but it has since fallen apart. The original set-up was me engaging Michael Bérubé on how the left should deal with Iraq, Afghanistan, the whole Terror War construct, the emergence of Hezbollah, and possible war with Iran. Though Michael and I have exchanged some pointed barbs in the past, he and I are on pretty good terms of late, and are in agreement about more than you might imagine. But we do have differences, and wanted to thrash those out on Michael's home turf, Penn State. After showing some initial interest, the PSU Dems decided that they wanted the standard Liberal vs. Conservative format, just like you see on TV. My response to that decision was, what is there left to debate with war supporters? Wouldn't it be more constructive for those against the war to air and iron out their differences while finding a political approach that most if not all can agree on? The campus mules don't think so. But if there's anyone out there who would like to see the Son and Michael Bérubé mix it up, for the sake of the greater good, of course, contact either one of us, or try Scott Pellegrino. Imagine the theatrics! Caramel corn for all!

Our Honor

2006-11-29T10:04:00.000-05:00

Began then abandoned three attempts to write about Iraq, or what's left of it. Maybe I've hit a wall when it comes to the war, or maybe there's nothing left to say. When I read all the reports and analysis about the slaughterhouse we helped to erect, I feel paralyzed. I don't know how others can keep offering opinions about this human disaster. At this point, especially for Americans, we should be shamed into silence.

Which is not to suggest, of course, that people do or say nothing about the war. Pressure to find alternatives to the present madness must be maintained, or else it'll never end. Perhaps what I'm trying to say is that I no longer have anything to add to the chorus. I feel somewhat guilty about this, being a political blogger who's expected to pop off at daily headlines. But that's where I'm currently at, for what it's worth. Besides, there are others, like Juan Cole and Patrick Cockburn, who keep their eyes and ears on the chaos. And my pal Jon Schwarz, who knows quite a bit about US involvement in Iraqi affairs, from pre-Saddam time to now, will always have something to say. Though how he keeps his sense of humor about it eludes me.

I will offer this: the notion that the US held "honorable intentions" as it tore the lid off of Iraq is not only self-serving piety, it's a widespread sociopathic delusion. Yet, US politicos from Chuck Hagel to Russ Feingold utter this line whenever possible, keeping a straight face while another thousand or so Iraqis are blown to bits, and a few dozen more US soldiers and Marines have their heads, arms or legs blown off by IEDs, or are felled by snipers. "Honorable"? Are you fucking kidding me? Criminal would be the first word out of my mouth, but then, I'm not trying to appease the fantasies of the political elite nor those among the greater mass who seriously buy into this insane logic. Recall that Richard Nixon called for "Peace With Honor" in Vietnam, then invaded Cambodia and Laos while continuing to rip apart Vietnamese society. If I was someone who lived in the crosshairs of US foreign policy and heard American politicians talk about "honorable intentions," I'd either start building a bomb shelter or pack what I could grab and hit the road.

It's one thing for domestic Phalangists to engage in such rhetoric. Many of them believe that the Creator of the cosmos wears a red, white and blue robe, speaks English as a first language, and cares about the outcomes of football games. Of course they think that whatever we do is "honorable." Many of them are out of their minds. But for liberal Dems like Feingold to speak this way is another matter entirely, that is, if one takes Feingold seriously as a Beltway mover and shaker, which he is. Either he really believes that unilateral military assaults that result in hundreds of thousands of corpses are "honorable" gestures, however mistaken, or else he's just yanking the rube chain in a cynical effort to appear decent and reasonable. If it's the former, then he too is lost in a delusional fog. If it's the latter, then he's only making matters worse by not speaking clearly and realistically about the system that makes disasters like Iraq possible, if not inevitable. Either way, libs love Russ, and oftentimes speak the same way (a la Stephanie Miller, Ed Schultz and Randi Rhodes -- three prominent examples of liberal decay). And since Feingold represents the furthest reaches of permissible progressivism, that means you and I, Sonsters, are screwed and roasted on a stick.

I didn't promise an upbeat post.

It's too bad that the United States isn't a single person. If it were, it would've been locked away in solitary confinement long ago, after the authorities found a mass grave in its backyard with more bodies rotting in the crawl space and a few survivors chained to the basement wall. In that instance, we could dismiss its claims that it was acting "honorably" toward its victims as the ravings of mad killer. Unfortunately for us, we are it.

TODAY'S LESSON: Marx and Engels, set to classic American cartoons.

Rough Trade

2006-11-27T11:49:00.000-05:00

Caught "Casino Royale" over the weekend and liked it quite a bit. A bit long for the spy/action genre, and too much poker for my taste, but overall the new Bond flick served its entertaining purpose, which is about all you can expect from the 007 franchise -- that is, when the franchise produces something worth watching.

I haven't sat through an entire Bond movie since I last saw "Goldfinger" on cable. To me, Bond will always be Sean Connery, not so much as he was the first cinematic 007, but because in my view, Connery had just enough rough edge to make his Bond more believable, thus more alluring. The other Bonds, Roger Moore, Timothy Dalton, and Pierce Brosnan, left me absolutely cold. They were too pretty, too sleek, too mannered to pull it off. Bond, let us remember, is an assassin. Whatever rarefied social behavior he managed to learn and put into effect was mere cover for his dark side. And it was Bond's dark side that his sponsors most valued and ultimately counted on, and that Bond had no discernable problem employing.

After "Casino Royale", I still consider Connery to be the best Bond, but only just. Daniel Craig's interpretation is near-perfect, and in some ways superior to Connery's, his crooked smile barely concealing the raw physical and psychological fury within. Indeed, Craig's Bond would destroy Connery's Bond in a straight-up fight, which isn't fair to Connery, given the limitations of his era. Still, the new 007 is a savage motherfucker, and it's about bloody time.

Predictably, there are some lefties who despise or dismiss what Bond represents (see Richard Seymour's gyrations), mostly for good reasons, I'll concede. After all, Bond is an agent of Western imperialism and sabotage, helping to keep MI6, the CIA, and doubtless Mossad in business. If he harbors any personal doubts about a given mission or of his status in the larger, geopolitical scheme, he does well to suppress it while in the field. In "Casino Royale", however, there is a brief period when Bond rejects his role -- not due to any ideological shift, though a hint of this is suggested, but in favor of love. Yet as even the most causal Bond fan knows ahead of time, 007 can never truly know or enjoy love. His fate was sealed with his first kill, shown in an early flashback, a brutal hand-to-hand in some murky public bathroom. As Bond's second target rhetorically asks him, "Made you feel it, did he?" Yes, he did. And thanks to that, it seems that violent death is all that Bond truly feels.

Now, some of you may be asking why Mr. Son, given his hatred of imperialism, torture, and poker, would find anything of worth in the Bond franchise, especially the newest and easily most graphic installment. My honest answer is, I really don't know. Something twisted deep inside, no doubt. As I've related here before, I was a bullied kid who got his ass kicked on a regular basis until the age of 14, when I spent the summer between 9th and 10th grade studying Korean martial arts five days a week. While getting beaten up made me hate violence at a very intimate level, striking back provided me such immense satisfaction that any humane objection was quashed. I actually enjoyed taking apart a bigger foe, which takes very little time, if you know what you're doing. Add to technique an unquenchable anger and it's amazing that I didn't maim some of the assholes I fought. Once the blood got pumping I lost perspective and went crazy. It took a couple of calmer and older comrades of mine to demonstrate that this route would end badly for me, in one form or another, and that perhaps some philosophy would provide balance. Thus I was introduced to Lao Tzu and the Taoists, as well as to Gandhi and Martin Luther King, Jr. That, and three years in the Army, helped to ease and channel my varied manias and barely repressed rage. But I've always appreciated and enjoyed well-executed fight scenes in films; and Daniel Craig's close-quarter techniques are as fluid as they are furious, and ring especially realistic.

Also, I must confess to having a bit of man love for Craig, at least when it comes to his amazing body and the way he wears a shirt. There exists in all of us, straight or queer, a bi-sexual nerve that may or may not run terribly deep. I've encountered mine from time to time, and was hit over the head with it while watching "Casino Royale". Not that I desire Craig sexually, or if I do, it's not immediately apparent to me. But man, I could not take my eyes off him, even with the sultry, sexy Eva Green on his arm. When I admitted this to the wife and teen, they laughed and gave me no end of grief all weekend. Which is fine -- clearly, they wanted to test how uncomfortable I was with this infatuation, and whether or not I'd disown it. But I feel no discomfort in openly admiring Craig's frame, a body type I would love to have for myself (that is, if I had a personal trainer and chef). Once it was clear that I couldn't be rattled on this front, the wife said that if I felt the same way about Russell Crowe, she would immediately understand and concur. Crowe's all right, and much closer to my own body type than is Craig. Yet Crowe, as rough as he was in "L.A. Confidential" and "Cinderella Man", lacks that certain unhinged quality that Craig exudes as Bond. Now, if the two of them co-starred in a remake of "Fight Club", I might be persuaded otherwise.

BACKDROP: On the political and cultural underpinnings of James Bond, by Alexander Cockburn, from the July 1987 American Film, reprinted at Counterpunch.

CHASE: An early scene from "Casino Royale". Gives you the taste.

Ha! Did you expect Sony to allow this clip to be free?

The Two-Fer

2006-11-24T10:59:00.001-05:00

Two years young, baby. That's what the Son is today. I can't believe that I've written 24 months of more or less continual blogposts. As I've said, I had to be pushed into doing this gig, which I saw as a complete waste of time. Well, Sonsters -- I was wrong. So very very wrong. Writing the Son has been, especially over the past 10 months, the most rewarding creative work I've ever done. And that I've built a solid, responsive, global audience floors me everytime I think about it. Unlike my daughter's generation, I still view this Web thang as a human miracle of communication. But that's because I'm nearing 50 and grew up with records you cut out of the back of an Alpha Bits box. When I look at the teen or watch any of the music videos/ads aimed at her demographic, instant global connection and expression is no different than a breakfast burrito. It just is. I wonder what it'll take to knock the teen's socks off when she hits middle age . . .

How much longer I'll keep the Son running I really can't say. Thanks to this little soapbox, I'm starting to get feelers from some serious folk to do bigger things, both written and non. I can't divulge what these are, since for all I know, they could collapse later today. But it feels nice to edge back to The Show. Still, I can't see abandoning the Son any time soon. I've made too many new friends, restored old friendships, drained poisonous relationships. Plus, there's so much insanity to attack and misery to address, while finding time to laugh in the middle of it all. Though I must say, honest laughter is tougher to come by, which makes it even more imperative to enjoy.

While I feel a sense of joy when I contemplate the past two years, I feel a certain sadness this morning. Yesterday, while the wife and my mother (who is visiting with my stepfather), worked in the kitchen (and yes, the men helped), the teen was flat on the couch, suffering a nasty cold, and the boy was in the basement, watching a "Simpsons" tape. Suddenly, I heard the boy yell for me. I went downstairs to find his red face covered in tears. He was holding his left hand, which was bleeding. Seems he got his fingers caught in the VCR as he tried to retrieve the tape, became frightened, panicked, and yanked his hand out, ripping some skin away in the process.

I took him upstairs where his grandmother consoled him and took care of the cut, which thankfully wasn't stitch worthy. But this did nothing to soothe him. He kept crying and sobbing, went to our bedroom, fell on the bed and cried some more. On and on it went. After about 20 minutes, I went back to talk to him. Did it hurt that badly? I asked. He wouldn't answer. I tried to look him in the eye, and he buried his face in the pillow. Frustrated, I said that his cut wasn't that deep, and that this was now an official overreaction. I told him to stand up, come into the bathroom with me to clean up and return to the family gathering. He refused. Further frustrated, I grabbed him by the arms and lifted him off the bed -- no easy feat, as he's nearly 5'4" at 10-years-old. I stood him up, but he went limp, fell on the carpet and cried some more. I told him I was disappointed and left him there to cry for however long he desired.

I went into the kitchen, popped a beer and leaned against the counter, shaking my head. I know my son is sensitive, but Christ, this was fucking ridiculous. The teen soon joined me, sat down and said that the boy wasn't crying about his finger. In her view, he was releasing weeks of repressed anger, hurt and anxiety caused by some of his classmates.

"He tells me everything is fine."

"He won't tell you the truth," she replied. "He's afraid that either you'll get mad and go to his teacher, which would embarrass him, or that he'll disappoint you in some way."

"How would he disappoint me if it's him getting picked on and made fun of?"

"That's just how he is. But he tells me pretty much everything. All that teasing from the jocks, telling him that he's a girl and a loser and that he sucks really hurts his feelings. But with you, he'll deny it."

"Why?"

"Like I said, he looks up to you and doesn't want to let you down."

"But I went through the same thing!"

"Exactly."

Sometimes I forget that she's 15. Or are today's 15-year-olds this perceptive?

Needless to say, I now felt truly awful. The poor kid. And with me tugging at his arms, telling him to shake it off. Fucking hell.

By this time, the wife had calmed him and had him take a bath and wash his hair, which he did without protest. I was sitting in the living room, drinking an Absolut on the rocks, watching the Lions get hammered by the Dolphins, while hammering myself in my head. It's not that I felt guilty about my initial response to his anguish, though I did to a degree; but that he's enduring such soul-crushing emotions at his young age, and feels he can't tell his Dad about it -- his Dad, who knows better than most what it's like to be bullied and verbally attacked at that very age.

The boy returned to the living room, hair wet, fresh clean shirt, and smiled.

"Sorry, everybody, for all that crying. I get that way sometimes."

He plopped down next to me, pushed his damp head against my chest, and whispered, "Sorry, Dad."

I choked up, held him and kissed his head.

"I love you, son. I love you so much."

"I love you too, Dad."

Then he got up and went to play "Operation" (which they still make, to my surprise) with his sister.

I went into the kitchen, dumped the ice into the sink, looked at my mother who was chopping celery, and began to cry. She held me as I had held my son, and told me that the boy would be fine, that this was a rough patch. Part of life.

I sincerely hope this is so. He has a lot to fight through -- not just his physical awkwardness, but his dyslexia, which he inherited from me, and his surging, creative personality which he's still trying to control and channel, with varied success. For the rest of the day I watched him closely, studied his expressions when he wasn't looking my way, trying to pick up some kind of clue. An absurd tactic, admittedly, but I did notice his sincere desire to be taken seriously, even if he wasn't completely sure what he was attempting to express. The kid's carrying a lot of excess weight, and how we help him unload it is going to be the chief task ahead. Yet under all that anxiety and pain exists an incredibly bright and optimistic young man. And just before we sat down to eat, he prayed for the poor, the starving and the forgotten, and pleaded for the war to end. For me, that was the highlight of the day, something truly to be thankful for.

SEE: This great and revealing segment from Danny Hoch's film, "Jails, Hospitals & Hip-Hop", brought to my attention by Doug Henwood. Provides the proper bookend to the Michael Richards outburst.

The Strange, Metaphysical Meaning Of Thanks

2006-11-22T13:23:00.000-05:00

As the Son approaches its Second Anniversary, its driver is consumed with many family duties over the next 24 hours, so posting will be lite till Friday. Hell, I may even post this weekend, just to catch up with all the insanity flying around our dizzy heads.

Assassination and near-civil war in Lebanon.

Endless rounds of murder and torture in Iraq's civil war.

Charles Rangel's cynical bid for a new military draft.

Continuing Israeli violence against and land grabs from the Palestinians.

Assorted bullshit on the home front.

Plus, I plan to comment on the recent victory of Houston's janitors, and perhaps an appreciation of Robert Altman's work.

But none of that today. The kids are home, the wife's working her usual magic in the kitchen (those of you who've experienced my wife's excellent cooking know what I'm talking about), and I'm saddled with numerous household chores. So, as always, here are a few visual treats for your edification and approval, while I go to our messy basement to wash piles of soiled linen.

Mel Brooks, especially in his prime, has always been a great talk show guest. He's breezy, witty, and naturally funny, and you get a glimpse of what those living room sets he and Carl Reiner used to perform at private parties must have been like (where they developed the 2,000 Year Old Man bits). Here's Brooks with Dick Cavett (and film critic Rex Reed) on Cavett's ABC show, April 6, 1970. This is from the DVD box set "Comic Legends" which features a bunch of old Cavett shows with Woody Allen, Groucho Marx, Jerry Lewis, Lucille Ball, Bill Cosby, The Smothers Brothers, among many others. It's an absolute must-have for any serious comedy fan. And it reminds you, if you're old enough, that is, what TV talk shows used to be like -- creative people having intelligent conversations that lasted more than five minutes. Cavett was perhaps the best at this type of television, as you can see.

Speaking of comic legends, here's a couple that you rarely think of in the same instant: Groucho and his royal hipness, Lord Buckley, from "You Bet Your Life", October 11, 1956. Though Groucho is playing dumb, he clearly appreciates the Lord's smooth rhetorical shtick. Two pros complementing each other. Nice.

And finally, someone figured out that Fox News works much better with a laughtrack, and that at bottom, Bill O'Reilly is a born comic.

Thanks, Sonsters, for all the support and feedback you give me. Enjoy your holiday, or whatever it is you plan to do over the next few days. As for me, down to the basement I go . . .

Race Bombs

2006-11-21T12:26:00.000-05:00

The old cliché is true: bombing while performing comedy is utter hell. And every comic, no matter how unique, talented or plain funny, has bombed more than a few times. Part of the process. Part of the scene. Inescapable. I've seen top flight comics die in front of silent, cynical crowds, their acts fast becoming feverish attempts to keep the plane from hitting the control tower. And, yes, I've died a thousand deaths onstage as well, both singly and with a group, the only salvation being the scattered laughter from the other comics at the back of the room. At that point, you're essentially playing to the band. In fact, some of my bombing experiences won over comics who liked my material despite what the audience thought, and offered to pay for it. So some silver was yanked from those dark, swirling clouds.

After watching Michael Richards' meltdown from last Friday night, however, I don't see how he gets anything back. It's one of the saddest and most perplexing plummets I think I've ever seen. I'm sure most of you have seen it, but if not, here it is:

Dealing with hecklers is tricky, and few can deftly pull it off without breaking stride. Sam Kinison was especially brutal on hecklers, but his aggression worked since he had a very aggressive act, making his retorts seamless. Bill Hicks would loudly question the intellectual capacity of hecklers, telling them that perhaps they were at the wrong gig and that they might be more comfortable at a Billy Ray Cyrus concert. For lesser talents, there are the old stand-bys -- "Hey, I don't knock the dick out of your mouth when you're working" being a club favorite. But Richards was in a different place altogether, and it's frankly shocking to see him unravel so easily and crudely in front of a couple of guys talking shit. You can see in mid-rant, Richards tries to swing his racist yelling back to some kind of free-form commentary on words that wound and the hatred that exists in us all. But by that point it was too late -- you can't rebound from shouting about hanging niggers in trees by asking the rest of the audience if they are shocked. Of course they're shocked. Even if there was some savage satirical point being made about racism, a white guy using those words in that manner makes it impossible to be understood.

But Richards wasn't channeling Lenny Bruce. He saw two black men interrupting his act, and he flipped out. If they were Asian or Latino, I'm guessing that gook and spic would've been uttered instead. Richards wanted to stab those guys right in their throats, so he used the most jagged tool nearest him. And it worked. He did hurt them. Decidedly so. But by doing this, he also hurt what's left of his career, as well as his comic legacy. Which is really a shame, for Richards has shown himself to be a first-rate physical comic actor, a descendant of Buster Keaton, Jerry Lewis and Jacque Tati. Kramer was the acme of his craft, seen and appreciated by millions. But as I've shown in several clips here, Richards also did fine work on "Fridays", which set the stage for his emergence on "Seinfeld". Now, all of that is trashed, at least for the foreseeable future.

It's clear that Richards appreciates the deep hole he's in. His attempt to apologize last night on Letterman appeared genuine but confused, as if while he was explaining himself, he further realized just how fucked he currently is. Deer in the headlights barely covers it. See if you agree:

This morning's talk radio reaction was pretty much unified in overall disgust, but, obviously, for different reasons. On Laura Ingraham's show, one caller chastised Letterman for being too soft on Richards, saying that if Richards were a conservative Republican, he would've been crucified. Ingraham instantly agreed, citing the woes suffered by Trent Lott and George Allen. While it's rather rich for Ingraham to complain about "double standards" when it comes to offensive speech, given her history of queer-baiting and making light of US-armed death squads killing nuns and priests, lumping Richards in with Lott and Allen is essentially a non sequitur. To my knowledge, Richards has no history of making racist remarks or opining about "inferior" breeds. Lott and Allen do. Lott and Allen are also politicians who supposedly serve the public. Richards is a comic actor. Slime Richards all you want, but there is simply no comparison between him and those poor, misunderstood Dixiecrats.

On Michael Eric Dyson's show, audience anger was very evident, and many of the callers I heard were not in a forgiving mood. Dyson himself asked if some kind of action be taken against Richards, though he didn't specify what that would be. Richards isn't on any show, and I seriously doubt he will be anytime soon. I suppose one could boycott "Seinfeld" reruns or not buy or rent the DVDs, but that would be the extent of it. Richards is an individual, not a corporation. If he has any PR savvy or sense of honest guilt, he'll attempt to make amends. But that's on him, not outraged "Seinfeld" fans.

Dyson also wondered what Chris Rock and Dave Chappelle thought of Richards' outburst. That's an interesting notion, and I'd love to hear what Rock and Chappelle might have to say. I suspect that while they would condemn Richards' language, as comedians who play on the edge themselves, they may give Richards some slack. It's a different world on stage, especially against a hostile crowd. Anything can happen to someone intensely free associating, as Richards was. And naturally this includes exposure of one's hidden bile, rage and hatred. Tough to edit that in real time, which is why stand-up remains the hardest and perhaps the most dangerous comedy format. If you doubt this, go on stage and give it a whirl, say around 1:30 AM on a Friday in front of scattered, heckling drunks. Or failing that, ask Michael Richards.

Yesterday And Today

2006-11-20T10:08:00.000-05:00

The pitcher's mound is lower than I remember, but the rest of that field looks as it did in 1972. The houses, same colors, just behind the outfield fence; the street along the first base line; the concession stand, now shuttered for the winter, in back of left field -- it all remains, at least for the moments I spent lingering there on Saturday morning. Standing at short, my main position back then, I let the whole scene swarm over me, and for a brief instant I felt the unsullied excitement of playing ball at St. Albans, the crack of wooden, not aluminum, bats coming from the other two diamonds, parents yelling encouragement and critiques, balls slapping leather, kids chanting "Hey batter batter . . . swing!" Then I snap back to the present, a graying man alone on the field of his youth, kicking up dirt for old time's sake.

Not all of my weekend visit to Indy was this nostalgic, but a lot of it was, unavoidable whenever I go back there now. Perhaps it's a middle age thing, for I was never that interested in the old sites when I came home from New York or LA. These days, however, a memory's mere scent starts the time machine in my head, and there I am, occupying a boy's body, using his eyes and nerve endings to relive a moment long dead, in an effort to better understand my present self. It's a narcissistic but necessary practice, especially with a son encountering some of the same obstacles I did at his age (and older). It's as if I'm trying to link my son to that boy and show him that he's not alone, that he's connected to this timeline which can be and has been altered to better negotiate those obstacles he currently faces. My son's big advantage is that he, for all of his anxiety about performing well in school and at home, is much more secure in his skin than I was in mine. On that front, the present tutors the past.

As for present day Indianapolis, it seems less hawkish than the last time I was there. What residents personally feel is another matter, but there aren't as many outward prowar signs and expressions --- plenty of Support The Troops stickers, but today, that could be construed as antiwar as well. Not surprising, really. At this point, only blood-maddened sadists and disconnected ideologues rant favorably about the Iraqi slaughterhouse. There's not much more to discuss, save ending the US presence, which isn't going to happen anytime soon, if ever, especially with Dems in the saddle. The mules want a more "realistic" approach to attacking and helping rip apart other countries. They want to be considered "credible." This is not the language of an opposition party seeking justice and political rollback. It is the rhetoric of the corporate state's other wing, hungry for power and influence after years of muttering in the shadows. Right now, they're stretching their arms and cracking their necks, preparing for the real deal in January. Think things have changed? Just wait.

I suppose the measure of how muted prowar arguments have become can be seen in my aunt and uncle, with who I spent time Friday night. When last I saw them, there was a heated political exchange between my aunt and I as she tried to persuade me that Bush's invasion was all about democracy, freedom, soda pop, hot dogs and balloons. There was none of that Friday. Not a word about Iraq from either of them. What could they say? As much as I desired to, I didn't broach the topic, which would've been a nasty gesture on my part, given that their rationales are currently on the ropes. Instead, they went on and on about O.J. Simpson's "If I Did It" grab for money and attention, knowing that no one at that table would have Juice's back. Then the Emilio Estevez film "Bobby" came up, and their eyes brightened a bit at the memory and possibility of RFK's 1968 presidential run, stopped by Sirhan Sirhan in a California kitchen. That was their generation, and it clearly still resonates with them. When I said that the Vietnam war was a criminal enterprise and that they were right to oppose it, they fell silent and stared off. I didn't intend for my statement to be a veiled criticism of their pro-Iraq war stance, but that's how it appeared to be taken. When you mention one imperial war, the others aren't far from view. And seeing how the dismemberment of Iraq (which as a country has pretty much ceased to exist) is in many ways worse than what happened in Southeast Asia, at least in geopolitical terms, reminding those who favored this war just how wrong they were is not the nicest way to connect. Appropriate, necessary, yes. But not polite conversation.

Still, they helped to set the current mood. Having it thrown violently back in their faces is to be expected.

WATCH: Patrick Cockburn report on just how really fucking beyond belief awful Iraq presently is. I can see why bashing O.J. is preferable to defending that insanity.

Short Week Fun

2006-11-16T11:16:00.000-05:00

Leaving town tomorrow morn, driving down to Indy to see the folks and some of the old sites. It's a solo trip, which I need from time to time. I hate being away from the wife and kids for too long, but when I'm away it reminds me how tight we all are and how I couldn't conceive of living without them. The one advantage to traveling alone is that I can blast the car stereo as I roll across the flat northern Indiana terrain, The Clash, Blondie, Germs, Roches, Specials, Devo, Violent Femmes, Monkees, Coltrane, Elvis Costello, Biggie, Zombies, Bowie, Hank Williams and whatever else I pull from the backseat providing the soundtrack to miles of silos, barns and dead corn fields. I'm glad I escaped Indiana for New York all those many years ago, but going back, especially in the wet fall, gives me a certain warmth -- that is, until I've been in Hoosierland for about 48 hours, as Red as Red States get, regardless of the recent election. After that, Ann Arbor seems like paradise -- until I encounter the local drivers again.

Sartre's No Exit works in here somewhere . . .

Speaking of backward, knuckle-dragging nativist stupidity, the town of Pahrump, Nevada, apparently wishing to live up to the fun made at its expense on the last "Studio 60", has made it illegal to fly a foreign flag alone within city limits. If one wishes to honor the symbol of another land, it must fly beneath Old Glory, because, damn it, we're Americans first and foremost, the freest fucking people on the motherfucking planet, so don't try to wave your Taco Bell beach towels or whatever it is you fly down there in Mexico, 'cause Pahrumpers won't have it!

See what nationalism does to people? Burn all the flags, I say. Artificial indicators of a more primitive time. Oh, and don't get caught smoking weed in Pahrump, either, especially if you satirize Christianity on a fictional national TV show, or a rightwing John Goodman may prosecute you to the fullest extent of the local law, unless your younger brother is serving in Iraq, in which case you'll probably get off, if "Studio 60" is to be believed. Something to consider.

Since this is a short week, I've not been able to get to the many topics I wish to address, so my ritual Dem bashing will have to wait. Plus, I've got other things cooking offline, and that has slowed my Son blasts and musings of late. But I will have plenty to write about next week, assuming I make it back alive from my trip. I'm a pretty careful driver, defensive as all hell, but you never know what lunatics await between here and central Indiana.

"Charlie Parker, pray for me. Pray for me and everybody, in the nirvanas of your brain where you hide, indulgent and huge . . ."

Since I'm quoting Kerouac, here's some silent footage of him, along with Allen Ginsberg, Lucien and Francesca Carr, their children Simon, Ethan and Caleb (the latter kid grew up to write "The Alienist" and is now a rightwing military historian of sorts), and Mary Frank, all hanging in front of the Harmony Bar at 9th St. and 3rd Ave. in 1959 Manhattan. Ol' Jack looks like he's got few under the belt, not surprising given his alcoholism and his coming depression, even though here he's at the height of his literary fame, while simultaneously being trashed by mainstream critics and more established writers. The man was too sensitive for this world, a tender vulnerability you can see reflected in the eyes of Ginsberg, as he observes his drunken friend and creative inspiration. While it would be interesting to hear what is being said, the silence fits, lending the footage a far-away, long-ago feel.

Now, before I get all wistful, let me veer back to comedy, since that's what video day fun at the Son has traditionally been all about.

I don't watch Conan O'Brien that much anymore, but when I do, I usually find something I like. O'Brien's sensibility is largely absurdist, sometimes intentionally stupid, a style handed down by Harvard Lampoon elders like Jim Downey who, according to an old friend of mine who worked for Downey at Letterman in the early 80s, would start a writers' meeting with "You -- you know what would be really dumb?" then throw out a bunch of non-sequitor sight gags or odd character walk-ons. And in this clip, O'Brien stays true to the "Late Night" formula, which, regardless of age, is still pretty funny:

But if you want to see the "Late Night" formula as it was being developed, you have to go back to Chris Elliott, who created that show's first stand-out characters, though they always acted like and sounded like Elliott himself. Here's one of my favorite Elliott bits, The Guy Under The Seats:

Elliott's comedy blended shameless self-promotion, mock showbiz humility, anger, insecurity, and just plain strangeness. In this cable special from 1986, you get all this and more. "FDR: A One Man Show" is simply hilarious -- that is, if you like this type of humor, which I do. Elliott collaborated with fellow Letterman writers Sandy Frank and Matt Wickline to make what remains, for me, one of the better projects to emerge from the original "Late Night". As much as I enjoyed Elliott's feature film "Cabin Boy", it's "FDR" that really cooks. Watch, and see if you agree, my keen-witted Sonsters. And I'll see you all on Mon.

'Toon Out

2006-11-15T10:54:00.000-05:00

Stateside patriots are making wounded noises about "unpatriotic" cartoons. Yes, that's right -- 'toons. You'd think that the misery and madness of the physical world inhabited by people who are actually killing, dying, getting maimed and emotionally shattered for life would be quite enough to deal with, especially at this savage stage of the war. But the hunt for jihadist symps, who are everywhere and yet nowhere, appears to take precedence among the swivelchair commandos. And that the Enemy Within is using animation to undermine morale -- well, there clearly is no lower form of treason. What's next -- Dora the Explorer marching with Cindy Sheehan? Blue's Antiwar Clues? SpongeBob BurKa?

As you know, in the war baby mind it's forever 1938; or 1941; or maybe 1944. Depends on the mood. And since they're stuck in a narrative from long ago, they naturally expect everyone else to share their mental space. Of course this includes the culture industry, which should be selling the War On Terror as the noblest effort ever-ever, just like they did during World War II, because this is the exact same struggle, right? Right?

See, back then, American animators knew their role. And mercifully, there was no Political Correctness, so they could draw Japs without fear of offending any special interest groups (since many Japanese-Americans were in prison camps -- oh, those were the days . . .). Here's a Bugs Bunny cartoon from 1944 that today's patriots would love:

Now that's how it's done. But do the spoiled, Hollywood liberal terror-lovers understand this vital lesson? Of course not. Here's how they'd like to see Bugs Bunny:

Alert viewers will recognize that this little "parody" was written and produced by the twisted minds behind "Family Guy." But killing Bugs is the least of their sins. Here's an entire episode that mocks military recruiters and the war in Iraq, while promoting the idea that the Satanic Marilyn Manson has something constructive to offer the parents of rebellious teens. Try not to weep while watching. But if you do, a piece of Old Glory can dry your tears.

The "Family Guy" gang are not alone in their hatred of America. Just last Sunday, "The Simpsons" aired a similar treatment, the highlights of which you can see here, along with the sounds of swivelchairs creaking and breaking below the clips.

But then, "The Simpsons" has done this before, suggesting that the US in Iraq is comparable to space aliens invading and occupying Springfield.

Such is the present state of our Homeland. It makes you want to drift back to when things were more black and white.

Bad Borat

2006-11-13T12:34:00.000-05:00

Q: How many idiots does it take to screw in a light bulb?

A: The word "idiot" is a bourgeois construction, employed to divide the working class into false categories, thus keeping it from unifying and working toward the historically correct path of social and political revolution. Also, light bulbs are made by Pentagon corporations.

When I left the world of club and improv comedy for media activism and political writing, I knew there would be a change in environment. Even when I was still scribbling jokes on cocktail napkins for comics in those forgotten early morning hours, I had already gotten a taste of the nuclear disarmament/Central American solidarity scene. But it wasn't until I fully committed myself to the struggle that I saw, in full relief, that many of the clichés about humorless lefties were indeed true. Too fucking true, in fact. This depressed me, for I thought that if any area of political life would be anarchic and free of cultural inhibition, it would be the left, or as many comrades preferred, The Left. Not that it was all sackcloth, frowns and misery; there were and are those progressives who like a good laugh, a serious laugh, even a disturbing laugh. We are human, after all. But I still remember the many lectures I received, primarily from straight white men, about what Was and Wasn't Funny. Needless to say, they didn't have the slightest idea what they were talking about.

In the wake of Sacha Baron Cohen's mega-success with "Borat", you knew that the lefty backlash was coming, and it has arrived, primarily in three pieces, two at Counterpunch, the other in the Nation. There's also been some brisk debate on the Marxmail and LBO Talk lists, and after my rave review last week, some "What are you talking about?" mails in my inbox.

Of the two Counterpuch pieces, I'll limit myself today to Megan Boler's reaction. (The other, by Gilad Atzmon, deals more with Baron Cohen's Zionism and how Israeli violence and support for the Iraq war fuels the "anti-Jewish feelings" that "Borat" exploits -- a critique I'll address another time.) Boler, an associate professor at the University of Toronto who deals with "political multimedia, satire, and digital dissent" (revolt of the digits?), misses the mark by so many miles that one doesn't know where to start. But for the sake of brevity, let's focus on her insistence that political satire should be specifically what she says it should be: that the satirist must say one thing and mean another in clearly understood terms. Boler cites Stephen Colbert's brilliant performance at the White House Press Correspondent's Dinner as the acme of contemporary satire, whereas "Borat" essentially traffics in "straightforward racist and sexist material."

Now, I know that cultural academics must create distinctive categories for their pet theories, and here Boler is no different. But it's clear that Boler has, at best, a passing knowledge about comedy and satire, and judging from her tone-deaf approach to the material at hand, I'm guessing that she's never written or performed comedy at any serious level. Or if she has, I can see why she's reduced to theory instead of direct practice.

Satire and parody work at many levels; and when these comedic tools are ably employed, the results can be varied, from self-satisfied laughter to feelings of insecurity and doubt. What Colbert did in Bush's uncomfortable presence gave many of us who despise this criminal administration a very self-satisfied, vengeful laugh. Finally, someone told off Bush to his face; and that it was a comic who pretends to be a Bush supporter made the joke that much better. There was no gray area in Colbert's performance, and so it was easy to enjoy. Baron Cohen's film, on the other hand, is much more ambiguous. While Boler briefly acknowledges this, she soon dismisses it altogether, failing to find humor in Borat's crude social behavior. Indeed, Boler appears as clueless as those who are fooled by Borat:

"Will the real Cohen please stand up and explain what must be a complicated answer to how anti-Semitism, racism and hating women is the best vehicle for his cultural comedy? I'm not convinced the guffawing audiences are thinking new thoughts that critics claim."

I thought we went through this when Archie Bunker made his TV debut in 1970 (with Life magazine's John Leonard lodging the same complaint then as Boler does now). Yes, some lunkheads will see only their racist, sexist and anti-Semitic reflections in characters like Bunker and Borat. This comes with the turf and cannot be avoided. But when attempting to reveal the underlying sickness of such reactionary beliefs, the satirist is most effective by espousing those very beliefs. And not in any winking/knowing way. If you are going after racism through a fictional character, then that character must be believably racist. The audience must not be let off the hook for the satire to fully work. This makes academics like Boler uncomfortable, muddies her analysis, and in an effort to clear her head, she opts for a literal-minded conclusion: the whole Borat enterprise is a cynical, money-making "lowest-common denominator pleasure," not "politically courageous satire."

Well, "Borat" has made a lot of money, yet I don't recall anyone anticipating such a box-office windfall. And of course the film's popularity further undermines its ability to be a first-rate social comedy because, as Boler claims, the guffawing rubes don't understand Borat's subtleties, which aren't in the film to begin with, so the masses are essentially celebrating their own primitive ideas about race, sex and class, while film critics inexplicably cheer them on. That a hard-nosed, at times disturbing, satirical film might actually enjoy massive success doesn't seem possible to Boler, if one accepts her narrow definition of "satire." I admit to being surprised on this front as well, but I'm sure as hell not going to dismiss it out of hand. Occasionally, good things happen, however awful the times.

Richard Goldstein's review in the Nation is a bit more serious than Boler's, but he, too, isn't completely comfortable in embracing "Borat":

"There's a new comedy in which the ambiguities of laughter are explored and the connections between mockery and sadism are revealed. If you examine your response to Borat, you'll have to face some dicey truths about the joy of bigotry."

Or perhaps more accurately, the burden of bigotry. Again, while some viewers may take easy pleasure in the bigoted remarks in the film, there are countless others who rightly suffer some discomfort when laughing at such hateful expressions. That was certainly the case when I saw "Borat"; the large audience around me reacted in different ways, mostly through laughter, but also through audible shock, surprise, and at times open disgust. (My daughter, who finally caught "Borat" yesterday, reported the same thing.) Far from eliciting a uniform response, the film taps into various emotions and forms of guilt, depending on the viewer's political and/or psychological make-up. That Baron Cohen runs us through numerous gauntlets, high and low, without respite, adds to our laughter, confusion and doubt. We are hit with so much in such a short amount of time that it's next to impossible to fully comprehend in the moment why we are reacting as we do -- that is, if you allow yourself to go with the film's flow. If you step away from the film and start cherry-picking what offends you, as Boler and Goldstein appear to have done, you will doubtless find much to protest, especially if you are pre-determined to do so. But by stepping away, you avoid the film's maximum punch, which must be fully felt in order to better understand what Sacha Cohen is trying to achieve.

Goldstein nods to the film's complexity, but must find a simple hook on which to hang his final thoughts. And at review's end, he does:

"[Baron Cohen's] act depends on the pretense that he's transracial. Try watching him with the fact of his whiteness in mind and you can't really enjoy the show.

"A dexterous delivery allows Baron Cohen to deny his race and class -- which in turn allows his audience to do the same. This suspension of disbelief may free up the yuks, but the laughter is just as primitive as Borat's barbaric ways. And that's no joke."

Like Boler, Goldstein doesn't think the film's audience is capable of irony or self-deprecating laughter. Those who find "Borat" funny are doubtless in as much denial about their backwardness as is Baron Cohen about his skin color and class. I wish I could say that Goldstein and Boler are the ones missing the joke, savage and relentless though it is. But when attempting to police "bad" laughter in favor of the "good," the joke tends to directly hit the Kop in question, and is made funnier by Kop's refusal to acknowledge the custard dripping from his or her face.

Where Has The Laughter Gone?

2006-11-11T08:39:00.000-05:00

Try as I might, I cannot shake the anxiety I feel on behalf of my son. He's currently going through some kind of emotional transition, his tall, lanky body still growing, making him clumsy and uncoordinated, which doesn't help his self-image. He's isolated from most of his peers, which doesn't bother me all that much (hell, I'm isolated from many of my peers, and glad of it), but it bothers him, and for good reason -- the boy's 10-years-old. He tries to reach out and belong, and apart from one or two other boys, the majority of his class seems to view him as weird and not part of their circles. This was confirmed by his teacher to the wife and me the other day, and it just sank my heart. I was on the verge of tears. He's such a sweet, straightforward kid. Maybe that's his problem.

He's been participating in a weekly, after-school basketball clinic, hoping that this might help win him some friends. He certainly has the height for the game, being one of the tallest boys on-court. But he doesn't have the competitive drive. It's just not in him. Plus, he's all elbows and knees when running the court, bumping into other players, dribbling the ball off his foot, and so on. This of course elicits put-downs from the more advanced boys, and when he tells me about this, I feel horrible inside.

"Are you sure you want to keep doing this, son? It doesn't sound like much fun."

"It's okay, Dad. I don't mind it."

"I don't believe you. It would bother me."

"I screw up sometimes. It's no big deal."

"Please be honest with me."

"I am being honest, Dad."

Is he? I really can't tell. The boy has such pride that he would never admit to feeling insecure on this front. But then again, as the wife reminds me, our son feels very secure within the family fold, which has, save for a few brutal months in '99, remained solid. Around the house and in the yard, the boy smiles, laughs, romps about, when not playing video games or watching, for the umpteenth time, "The Mask Of Zorro". At school, however, he displays nervousness and anxiety, unconsciously chewing on his shirt until the neckline is drenched. Yet he's doing well in class, especially when it comes to writing stories and reports. His teacher, the same one he had for third grade who really empathizes with him, has marveled about his imagination and narrative skills. Which doesn't surprise us -- our son is very conceptual in his thinking. This hurts him now with his classmates, but as I keep telling him, in time it will work in his favor.

The boy shows interest in comedy. He's always enjoyed funny things, but his enthusiasm is becoming more defined. So earlier this week, he and I began what I suppose you could call Comedy School. At the moment, I'm showing him various forms of slapstick, noting, for example, the differences between Chaplin and the Three Stooges

"Chaplin's like a dancer," he said after watching some clips from "The Kid," "City Lights," and a few early Keystone shorts. "But the Three Stooges just hit each other. Hard!"

"Well," I replied, "they do hit each other, but that's carefully planned out in advance. But yes, Chaplin moves like he's in a comedy ballet. The Stooges are more like crash test dummies."

Soon we'll get to Keaton, Lloyd, Tati, Jerry Lewis, Lucille Ball, among many others. After that, joke and story tellers (early Bill Cosby will be heavy here); then absurdity; then farce; and hopefully by that time the kid will be well-versed in the tradition and forewarned about trying to make it a living.

Given all this comic study, you'd think that today's belated video fest would be especially laff oriented. But as you've probably guessed, I'm not in a comedy mood. Far from it. So instead, here are a few items that better reflect my present mindset.

Someone who shares my love of "thirtysomething" is posting entire shows at YouTube. So far, there's only three, but one is a personal favorite from the third season, "Legacy". If you're not familiar with the show's characters and interwoven plotlines, there's really no point in me trying to explain it all here. Still, this episode displays all that is good about "thirtysomething", which for me is Joseph Dougherty, who wrote "Legacy." Dougherty's scripts were among the most political, in this case a Mother Jones-type magazine being bought and gutted by an outside corporate group. Dougherty also wrote the Miles Drentell episodes, the cut-throat Zen capitalist ad executive played brilliantly by David Clennon, whose politics would appall Miles. As I've said elsewhere, I got to know Dave in his "thirtysomething" period, and once coaxed him to co-host the WBAI media show I was doing at the time (my usual co-host, Laura Flanders, was away on assignment that week). Years later, when I was in the bowels of "Mr. Mike," the majority of which I wrote between 11PM and 6 AM, I'd take a 2 AM break to watch "thirtysomething" re-runs on Lifetime. During this stage of the book, I talked to Dave quite a bit; and since his old show was fresh in my mind, I got him to reveal all sorts of backstage gossip, as well as engaging him on the meaning of Miles, who was loosely based on Mike Ovitz. I'm not normally star-struck, but I must confess that I found it pretty cool to watch Dave's performances and then later dissect them with Dave himself, a generous, funny guy.

Anyway, here's the episode, which cannot be embedded, only linked. So go, watch, do -- Parts 1, 2, 3, 4 and 5.

And as I've also mentioned before, Paul Thomas Anderson's "Magnolia" is one of my favorite American films. I love the way the movie begins, sharp performances and crisp, Scorsese-like editing. But as the varied narratives unfurl and intersect, and we get to know the characters that are thrown at us early on, "Magnolia" slows down and allows us to absorb the pain, regret, anger and anxiety that these main characters feel. Below is the turning point of the film, when the characters ponder their next, decisive moves, expressed by singing along with Aimee Mann's beautiful "Wise Up." Some critics at the time were either confused or put off by PTA's singing/narrative device, and it certainly risked being laughed at. Yet for me it works and sets the tone for the remainder of "Magnolia," a film that has made me cry more than I care to admit.

Here's another Aimee Mann "Magnolia" song, "Save Me," which served as the film's closing number. This is the music video, directed by PTA, featuring the film's cast being haunted by Mann.

Next week -- back to the comedy. I hope.

All In Good Time

2006-11-09T12:02:00.000-05:00

Too busy with offline matters to write at length today, but I wanted to tell those of you who've written me about 1) the Dems and the election, and 2) whether or not Borat is a racist character, that I will tap out a detailed response early next week, assuming that some unforeseen madness doesn't crop up. But with the Dems ascendant, how could anything like that happen?

One thing I have noticed since yesterday -- many rightwing radio hosts, while saddened, say that the Dems won because they moved rightward, and many of these blowhards welcome such a shift.

The Dems playing to the center-right? What distant polar star are those righties from?

Meantime, white libs cannot stop celebrating, some of whom are practically choking on self-congratulation. To be expected. (And I notice my chum Jon Schwarz is getting caught up in the fun.) But listening to Michael Eric Dyson's show this morning, caller after caller, all of whom were African-American, felt some relief that the Dems won as they did, but not much. Dyson's callers spoke about how the mule party takes black votes for granted; how white lib leaders talk a good game, but govern differently; how Barack Obama is a centrist smokescreen approved by Dem elites; how black people need to be tougher on the Dems and flex their political muscles. And every Dyson caller I heard lamented the passing of Proposition 2 in Michigan, saying that it was a social step backward, something I've yet to hear with any regularity on the white lib shows. But then, it was hard to hear anything of substance amid the back slapping and related party noise.

Being white means never having to say sorry about Affirmative Action. Another lib perk.