Category Archives: Popular culture

Hubba-hubba on the obit page

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I was really glad to see our front page follow up on the death of the former pin-up girl out of Myrtle Beach.

My eyes really lit up when I saw the image at rightJewel_evans_2 Wednesday. I’ve been in this business more than three decades now, and I had never seen anything like that on an obit page. My first reaction was, well, sort of like in those old cartoons, when Bugs Bunny’s or Porky Pig’s face turns into a reasonable facsimile of the Big Bad Wolf, complete with drawn-out whistle, eyes bugging, and tongue hanging.

My second reaction was, "What happened? She looks plenty healthy to me."

My third was to realize that this was a 1940s style pinup, of the type that used to appear as nose art on WWII bombers — an art form I’ve always appreciated. I wasn’t alive then, but somehow my tastes — with regard to some things — seem to be very compatible with that period. Some of my ideas do, as well. I was extremely disappointed
when 9-11 failed to produce the kind of nonpartisan national unity that Pearl Harbor did. I’ve always wanted to experience that.

Anyway, back to the pinup: My next reaction was to go to the Web and see whether this woman really had been a big-time pinup. In my haste, I typed "’Jewel Evans’ pinup" instead of using what was apparently her maiden name, "Jewel FLOWERS." The first search pulled up an entirely different sort of image, the kind I won’t link to on a family blog.

I did find her, in connection with Vargas-style artist Rolf Armstrong. The image reproduced above seems to have been the favorite, although others can be found.

If I had been one of those WWII soldiers (something which, if reincarnation is for real, I probably was) who wrote to her, I probably would have told her I liked her better than Betty Grable. I think that’s because Betty’s most famous pose tends to call attention to assets beyond her legs, while Jewel’s is all about her pins (well, and her face, which was also more attractive than Betty’s). You see, I disagree entirely with Jerry Seinfeld, who famously said:

"A leg man? Why would I be a leg man? I don’t need legs. I have legs."

Not like those you don’t, Jerry.

Are transvestites so bad?

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This first struck me in reading Wednesday’s letters to the editor (if you follow the link, it’s the first letter), but when I saw the very same argument being made in a letter in today’s paper (in this case, the last one), I had to say something.

Both letters complain about our having run a Pat Oliphant cartoon making fun of all the hoo-hah overOliph_2 "Brokeback Mountain." For those too lazy to follow the links, here’s an excerpt from the first letter:

The comment from the “cowboy”: “Of course, they’re pearls, silly — what
else would I wear with basic black?” is what puzzles me. I know a
thousand gay men, including many in Darlington County, and not one of
them speaks this way, owns a set of pearls or has any interest in
women’s jewelry. That’s quite a slur.

It is?, I thought. Anyway, I set that aside until the Thursday letter, which in part said:

The cartoon appearing on the Saturday Opinion page regarding the harm
done to the cowboy image by the film “Brokeback Mountain” was a cheap
shot aimed at perpetuating insulting stereotypes of gay people.

Do you see the common thread (aside from the fact that neither writer is overly blessed with a sense of humor)? In both cases, the cartoon supposedly insults gay people by associating them with transvestites. This suggests that there’s something wrong with a man who wants to wear women’s clothing (or in this case, accessories).

This seems kind of judgmental to me. Did it seem that way to you?

This forced association of homosexuality and transvestism, which Mr. Oliphant is obviously using to ironic effect to mock the controversy (stereotypes are a fundamental part of the language of cartoons; the more absurd, the better), reminds me of a previous work of humor. I’m thinking of a particular sketch in Woody Allen’s "Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex (But were Afraid to Ask)," the one titled, "Are Transvestites Homosexual?"

It certainly wasn’t the best bit in the movie. I vaguely recall Lou Jacobi being mildly amusing when, having snuck upstairs to the master bedroom, he pranced about in great delight wearing a dress belonging to his hostess. I don’t recall the putative question ever being answered, except that it seemed obvious that he was not supposed to be gay, but was a "regular guy" who got off on cross-dressing.

But that title, which I suppose came directly from the original book, seems in retrospect to contain a judgmental suggestion aimed not at transvestites (comical as they may presumably be), but at homosexuals. In "Are Transvestites Homosexual?," there’s a certain hint of, "Is there anything really wrong with transvestites?"

That was 1972 — well before it became unacceptable in Hollywood to suggest that there’s anything wrong about being homosexual. Much has changed since then. Today, we’ve got folks sticking up for homosexuals (defenders of tolerance, in other words) who call any suggestion of transvestism — even an ironic one — a "slur."

Is this progress?

And you thought Vegas couldn’t get any tackier…

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I’ll give you a little rest from writing your own captions. Here’s a real-life photo and caption from AP. Leave it to an operation with Myrtle Beach ties to teach tacky to Las Vegas. Maybe this could be taken to the next level if they made a "reality" TV show about it, but that’s about the only way I can think of.

Hooters

Bartenders gather at the bar area for training at Hooters hotel-casino
in Las Vegas on Wednesday, Feb.1, 2006. Hooters’ first ever
hotel-casino, featuring 696 rooms and a 30,000 square foot casino with
more than 200 Hooters Girls, officially opens on Friday. (AP Photo/Jae
C. Hong)

New category! Top five lists

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So I was reading our special section last week on this year’s "20 Under 40," and thinking what a fine, upstanding groups of youngsters this was, when I got sidetracked — I started checking out what they listed as their "favorite movie," and suddenly the popular-culture snob in me came out for a romp, and I started looking only at that criterion, and began to judge them much more harshly.

Note that I realize full well that what this illustrates is shallowness and misplaced priorities on my part, rather than reflecting negatively upon our 20 honorees. Obviously, these folks spend their time and energy on more serious matters. This is why they are on a "20 Under 40" list, and I never was.

But indulge me here (which, come to think of it, is something you do every time you waste valuable time reading this blog). I mean, don’t get me wrong; I enjoyed "Red Dawn." I’m not one of those left-wingers who dismiss it as mere right-wing Cold War paranoid propaganda. (Of course, it was right-wing Cold War paranoid propaganda, but that was part of its charm; it wasn’t afraid to be what it was.) But favorite movie of all time? I don’t think so. Still, this young gentleman should get points for taking a risk with his pick (something I utterly fail to do with my own list below, I’ll admit), and that’s worth something. But risky choices need to be defensible.

Far more impressive was Mary Pat Baldauf‘s esoteric selection of "A Face in the Crowd." Now there’s a film buff. I mean, even though I’ve heard great things about it, I haven’t even seen it myself (although I just got it from Netflix and hope to watch it this weekend), but it’s got great snob appeal. Think about it — Andy Griffith, before he was famous, shining in a serious, dark role. And don’t forget it’s got Patricia Neal in it. So way to go there, Ms. Baldauf. And please note, she dared to list "old movies (especially from the 1950s and 1960s)" as a personal passion, which raised the bar on the discriminating reader’s expectations. So this was quite a high-wire act, and she pulled it off beautifully.

I would applaud Cynthia Blair‘s choice of "The Usual Suspects" (although, being more obvious, it’s not as cool as Ms. Baldauf’s), but it’s listed as "last movie," rather than "favorite," which just doesn’t count for as much.

So where am I headed with this? Well, as an ardent admirer of Nick Hornby‘s masterful High Fidelity — and as one who also thoroughly enjoyed the film adaptation (in spite of their having moved the setting from London to Chicago, it was rescued by a stellar cast, with Jack Black turning in a mind-blowing performance as Barry) — I have been tempted for some time to start a "top five" category on this blog.

What’s stopped me? Well, fear, I suppose — fear of being savaged by the real pop culture snobs, because I know my own tastes are fairly pedestrian, truth be told. There are an awful lot of Barrys out there ready to tear into my picks the way the original Barry dissed Rob’s and Dick’s. But ultimately, as a reader-participation exercise, this could be fun. So let’s do it.

I had wanted to start this with something less obvious, such as "top five movie endings," or "top five cover songs that feature the original artist singing backup," or some such. But since I just got on the under-40 crowd about favorite movies, let’s start with that very vanilla sort of list:

1. "It’s a Wonderful Life."
2. "The Godfather."
3. "Casablanca."
4. "The Graduate."
5. "High Noon."

Or maybe number four or five should have been "Saving Private Ryan" or …

Yes, I know. I’m stretching the concept of "vanilla" until it screams. Barry would call that list "very …". Well, never mind what Barry would call it, since this is a family blog. But hey — the best movies of all time are obvious, if they’re really the best. I could have thrown in "Life is Beautiful" or "36 Hours" or "Office Space" or something that had a little individuality to it. But I had to be honest.

I promise to do something a little more intriguing the next time I visit this category.

Meanwhile, I’m anxious to know what y’all think — not only your own "top five movies," which I’m sure will put mine to shame. I’d also like your suggestions for future lists.

Assuming, of course, that you dare…

Did I miss anything?

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In spite of all the hype — something that usually puts me off and makes me choose to spend my time in other ways — I had intended to watch "The Book of Daniel" Friday night, and completely forgot.

What I want to know is, did I miss anything? I sort of suspect not. I see that The New York Times pretty much panned it. The reviewer was unbothered by the overdone dysfunctionality (and it’s really ridiculous, when you read a one-or-two-paragraph synopsis) of the characters or perceived mockeryDaniel of faith, but basically thought it just wasn’t very well done:

The real mark against "The Book of Daniel" is not any antipathy it
might show toward the family or sympathy for the devil. The real
objection is that it’s just not very good.

Only one thing had made me want to watch it. In the promo I saw on the boob tube, the title character is having a chat with Jesus, and complains, "Aren’t you supposed to comfort me?," to which an amused Christ replies, "Where did you read that?"

I liked the understanding that seemed to show of the concept that Christian faith is supposed to challenge us, not make us feel comfortable with ourselves.

Of course, I strongly suspect that was the best bit in the show — although I’ll wait until I have a chance to see it before assuming that’s true. That’s often the way with promos and previews. In fact, that was the case with the movie I watched on DVD Friday night instead of watching "Daniel."

That was "The Island," and the line that pulled me in — and unfortunately, by implication pretty much gave away the plot — was when Steve Buscemi said to Scarlett Johansson, "Well, excuse me, Miss I’m-So-Smart-I-Can’t-Wait-to-Go-to-the-Island." (At least, I think that’s what he said. I’ll check the DVD when I get home and correct as needed.)

Mr. Buscemi was good as always, and all things considered, it wasn’t a bad bit of escapist entertainment, once you accept that it’s little more than an updated version of "Logan’s Run" with higher production values.

But since I missed "Daniel" while watching it, help me out: What did y’all think of it?

Don’t be a FREAKIN’ IDIOT!

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While most of my readers seem to get more into Serious Issues of The Day, I try to leaven my offerings with a little fun. Sometimes that falls flat. But I’ll try once again, by sharing this item, which a colleague brought to my attention, knowing my fondness for the movie in question.

It seems that lawmakers in the state of Idaho — which doesn’t really spend a lot of time in the national limelight — passed a resolution showing their appreciation to the makers of "Napoleon Dynamite," the phenomenally successful little indie film, set in a tiny Idaho town, about a geeky high school student who finds acceptance by following his heart. At least, I think that’s what it was about. If you ask the makers, they’ll probably say, "It’s about what I FEEL like makin’ it about, what do you think? GOSH!"

I realize this is gibberish if you haven’t seen the film; it may be gibberish if you have seen it. Anyway, my favorite part of House Concurrent Resolution 29 is this:

WHEREAS, any members of the House of Representatives or the Senate of the Legislature of the State of Idaho who choose to vote "Nay" on this concurrent resolution are "FREAKIN’ IDIOTS!"

Hence my headline.

The Idaho Falls Post Register‘s report on the legislative action ended with this:

The only "freakin idiots" in the Senate, by the way, were Davis and Assistant Majority Leader Joe Stegner of Lewiston.

It DOES mean something, Mr. Natural

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Totally off any subject at hand, and probably not worth reading, but I’m still reeling from having wasted two hours of my life, so why should you be spared…

In a post toward the end of last month, I made a completely superfluous reference to underground cartoonist Robert Crumb’s Mr. Natural character. I won’t be making such casual links in the future, at least, not to that individual’s creations. Last night, my wife and I watched "Crumb," the David Lynch-produced biographical documentary. We had sort of enjoyed "American Splendor," in which Paul Giamatti managed to make Harvey Pekar‘s excruciatingly mundane existence interesting. Since that oddball flick was based in the "reality" comic book illustrated by Mr. Crumb, we thought (no, I thought; I take full responsibility) the 1994 film about him might also be engaging. We were (I was) wrong.

I came away from the film with one overwhelming impression:

Boy, that R. Crumb is one twisted (expletive).

Excuse my implied language, but I just had no idea. And yet I should have. It’s right there in his work, and if there’s ever been a better illustration of the truism that "by their fruits ye shall know them," it is the work of Mr. Crumb. (And yes, I read the part of that chapter that said "judge not," but read on.)

I never was a fan of Zap Comix or any of Mr. Crumb’s other work, but I was exposed to some of it at the time (although not much more beyond the ubiquitous "Keep on Truckin’" thing, and the Janis Joplin/Big Brother and the Holding Company album cover and such). And back then, I just thought this was a guy whose imagination was a little out there on the fringe of the kind of countercultural stuff that shocked our parents but that I tended to shrug at. I didn’t embrace it, but I wasn’t all that horrified, either. I was very young, and had not yet figured out that in one sense of the word (see sense 2), "discrimination" can be a healthy thing.

If the documentary got it right, the stuff in those comics was not just the product of a warped, hyperactive imagination with a penchant for mocking social mores. The problem was, he wasn’t entirely making this stuff up. According to those interviewed for the film, those twisted characters acting out abnormal, fetishistic sexual obsessions with a complete lack of regard for the human objects of their perversions actually were R. Crumb, in a real sense. As former wife after former girlfriend (one of them a professional pornographer) after family member, and Mr. Crumb himself, repeatedly asserts in the film, he not only thought like that, he acted like that. At one point, he acknowledges that he doesn’t think he has ever actually loved any woman. His relationships — or what we learn of them — tend to bear this out. As for some of the other twisted stuff — such as the drawings that pushed extreme racial stereotypes far beyond mere satire — the viewer is left without any satisfactory explanation.

All of that said (and here’s where I get to the "judge not" part), the film also made clear that the tree that is Robert Crumb was severely bent as a twig. No, it’s not an excuse, but it does appear to be part of the explanation. As Mr. Crumb and his brothers related, their father brutalized them (breaking the artist’s collarbone one Christmas) and their mother was an amphetamine addict who attacked the father (to the point that he wore makeup to work to cover where she had clawed his face). Both of the brothers were withdrawn and dysfunctional — neither was able to make his way in life in even the unconventional manner that their famous sibling has. One of them, who lived with their mother, never ventured forth into the world and spent his days in a psychiatric prescription drug fog, committed suicide a year after the filming.

There were also two sisters, but they declined to be a part of the film, indicating that at least someone in the family was capable of making good decisions.

It was profoundly depressing. And if I ever found anything in Mr. Crumb’s work even mildly amusing before, I won’t in the future, knowing where his "art" comes from.

Come to think of it, the fact that I watched the film all the way to the end makes me wonder a little about myself. And if you read all the way to the end of this, I sort of wonder about you, too.

Back to work.

It’s even gotten to ME

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How exciting is tomorrow’s matchup between the Gamecocks and the Tigers? This exciting: Even I am caught up in it. Kinda. Sorta.

I am just about the last person you would ever call a football fan. Baseball, yes. Sometimes even basketball. But mostly, my interest in sports extends only to those that I can play, such as golf and tennis. And I have little interest in watching other people play those. If I watch a tennis match on television for five minutes, I want to turn off the tube and get out there myself. (Meaning that I’m either more of a doer than a watcher — which is doubtful, given my love for reading and watching movies — or I’m just a self-centered cuss.)

Anyway, I’ve been sufficiently caught up in the contact high of excitement about the Gamecocks — something that started about the time of the win over Tennessee, I believe — that I actually watchedSpurrier part of last week’s game on the tube. And enjoyed it.

More than that, I actually read one of the advance stories about tomorrow’s big game in the paper this past week. Not a people feature or anything like that, but this story about a real football-geek facet of the game, built around stats. I started reading just out of curiosity, wondering what a "red zone" was (and unlike many such stories, geared only to the cognoscenti, it actually told me, once I got to the jump page), and then got caught up in the fact that it seemed Steve Spurrier’s approach to football was much like my approach to life (or what I like to think is my approach to life): Never give up, and never settle. He doesn’t go for the field goal when there’s a chance for a touchdown. Neither would I. Of course, I would never punt, either — but then, I tend to take things to obsessive extremes.

So, having done the required reading and whipped myself into an appropriate state of anticipation, I’m all set for the big game. And if I had ESPN2 on my TV at home, I’d watch it. I really would.

But lacking that, I’ll have to settle for the radio. If it’s on the radio. I assume it will be.

Anyway: Go, ‘Cocks.

Cleaning up the nation

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A remarkable thing happened at precisely 7:47 p.m. yesterday, as I was driving home from work and "tuning in the shine on the light night dial."

A local radio station played Elvis Costello‘s indictment of the sterile radio industry, "Radio Radio." You may have noted previously that I have a certain affinity for this song, as I do for the work of Declan MacManus in general.

Anyway, it was a bit of a milestone. The new WXRY, 99.3 — first recommended to me by one of my children — is doing a very creditable job of living up to its stated mission as an "independent alternative station," to "make radio special again." The management says it believes that the following principles "are essential for a great radio station:"

  • Intelligent presentation, passion and respect for the music
  • No limits on the number of songs we play
  • Support local music
  • Treat listeners with respect
  • Intense community involvement
  • The courage to be different
  • Avoid the trap of playing the same songs 7 or 8 times a day

That’s from the Web site. On the air, it also promotes itself as a station that doesn’t run "adult entertainment" ads that send you lunging for the dial when you have your kids in the car with you.

I like that. I don’t like the fact that sometimes it’s a little hard to get the station without static, and I can’t say I like everything they play, but it’s worth checking out — you know, for when you’re driving in the car and it’s not safe to be reading the newspaper.

Missed opportunity

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I was trying to get a bit of work done just now — and yes, I do occasionally attempt that, even though, as Jake Barnes noted, it’s part of the ethics of journalism never to appear to be actually working (when you get to that last link, search for "newspaper") — and the mobile started buzzing.

I didn’t recognize the number, but answered.

Me: "Hello."
Female voice, with a tone as though there’s something wrong about my voice: "Gracie?"
Me: "No Gracie here. Sounds like you’ve got the wrong number."
She, sounding less accusatory: "Oh, I’m sorry."
Me, taking it like a sport: "Not at all. Quite all right."

She hangs up, and only then, when it is a second too late, do I realize that I should have said: "When you do find Gracie, say goodnight for me."

Feliz Nueve de Octubre

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Happy John Lennon’s birthday, all you fans out there! May you be a whole lot happier than he was, in spite of all his advantages.

And no, I’m not the kind of guy who goes around with totally pointless Beatles trivia in his head. Lennon Well, actually, I am the kind of guy who goes around with totally pointless Beatles trivia in his head, but not to the extent of remembering their birthdays. That’s like something chicks would do, man, like remembering their fave foods (John: corn flakes) or something. And as I age, I find I can’t perfectly remember all of the words to all of their songs any more, so there’s a good chance that’s been crowded out by more important stuff. Not a certainty, but a chance.

No, I remember that the ninth of October is John Lennon’s birthday because Nueve de Octubre is also Guayaquil Independence Day. Now, you might not find that credible — who goes around remembering anything beyond the Fourth of July and maybe Bastille Day, right? But I lived in Ecuador back when I was in the fifth and sixth grades, and not only was Nueve de Octubre the name of the main drag in Guayaquil, but we got a whole week off from school for it. We got a Scroogesque day-and-a-half for Christmas, but a week for the day that Guayaquil tried to secede from the rest of the country. Lest you think that means Guayaquil is more nationalistic than Catholic, I should probably point out that since we were south of the equator, the school year was backwards, and Christmas fell just days before summer began. There was little point in taking off a lot of time at the end of December when we were going to be off from early January until April. Besides, the week-long celebration also included the Día de la Raza, which we think of as Columbus Day.

And OK, I also remember that John Lennon was born during the Blitz, as German bombers were attacking Liverpool in 1940. That’s a pretty cool factoid, I always thought. But I don’t know his fave color. Or I didn’t until I looked it up (green).

Get a little respect

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Based on the fact that it garnered no comments, I’m thinking not many people bothered to read this little ditty from yesterday — probably because there wasn’t a whole lot of substance to it in and of itself, I’ll admit. (The Ron Morris column it was based on was much better.)

But if you didn’t read it, you probably didn’t follow the link back to this older (and marginally more substantial) posting, and that would be a shame. Because when I looked at that older posting, I noticed I had failed to provide an explanatory link for the phrase,  un’ uomo di rispetto, and so I went out surfing and found one. And I thought it was pretty cool, so I write this to draw your attention to it.

Of course, you’re not going to like it unless you’re a Godfather fan. I particularly liked it because it was so much like one of my many get-rich-quick schemes that I’ve never followed up on (probably because I don’t want badly enough to be rich). It came out of an idle conversation one day with a colleague while we were riding in a car and had the time to be idle. The idea was to do a self-help book that would actually sell to guys, rather than just to the Bridget Jones types out there. It would have been lessons for life gleaned from Mario Puzo‘s masterpiece — both the book and the movie. The title could have been something like, "Listen to Your Godfather." Or whatever.

Anyway, the lessons would be based on such pearls as, "Never tell anybody outside the family what you’re thinking," and "Spend time with your family… a man who doesn’t spend time with his family can never be a real man."

Basically, every other page would have elaborated for a few paragraphs on one of the aphorisms, with an appropriate still from the movie on the facing page — assuming we could get the rights. I think it was thinking about going through the hassle of dealing with all of those pezzonovantes in Hollywood and New York trying to get the rights that put me off the project.

I never figured out what to do with the most oft-repeated saying from the movie: "This is business, not personal." It probably would have required an introductory essay at the beginning of the book explaining that the reason you need to buy the book is that you might think you understand the significance of that phrase, but you really don’t. See, the movie actually failed on one level. The point of the book, revealed in a soliloquy by Michael just before he goes off to kill Sollozzo and Capt. McCluskey, is that all the things that people say are "business, not personal" are actually personal. He explained that understanding that, and living his life accordingly, was the secret of his father’s "greatness."

This is a major theme for Puzo, which he explored more transparently in The Fourth K, which is about a president who, because of a personal tragedy — the murder of his daughter by terrorists — uses the power of his position to launch a worldwide War on Terror that is in reality a personal vendetta. And no, all you antiwar folks out there, the president’s name wasn’t "Bush." It was "Kennedy."

“WORK!?!?!” Giving Maynard his due

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I was grateful to my colleague Mike Fitts for pointing this out to me. Mike had heard me moan about how Maynard G. Krebs had been slighted in the coverage of Bob Denver‘s death.

Imagine being remembered forever as Gilligan. Is that fair to anybody? I mean, Maynard may not have been television’s most outstanding citizen, but he was an original. He may seem in shallow hindsight to have done nothing more than present the TV stereotype of a "beatnik" (a term that itself showed an unhip cluelessness, since it was a mainstream columnist’s bastardization of Kerouac‘s more meaningful "Beat" coinage). But there was no such thing as a beatnik stereotype on television in 1959. Bob Denver invented it.

I don’t remember a lot of details from "The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis" the way I can recount episodes of "The Andy Griffith Show" or, yes, "Gilligan’s Island," but I do have one memory that had significant implications for my future profession.

Oddly enough, it was from Dobie Gillis that I learned of the concepts of voting and elections. As I recall, however dimly, there was an episode in which Dobie was being encouraged to run for class president, and he at first rejected the idea, saying something like, "How could I run for president? I’m not popular enough." I was confused, and asked my parents what being popular had to do with being president.

Understand that as far as I was concerned, Dwight Eisenhower had always been president. It had never occurred to me that there was a process involved in becoming president. So my parents explained to me about how you had to have enough people actually vote for you in this thing called an "election" to be chosen for such an office. I remember being shocked. I think it took Ike down a peg or two in my estimation, learning that his administration wasn’t simply something that was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be. It caused me to be a little less in awe of the office.

This had to have been in the first season of the show, because I remember following the 1960 election
pretty closely — once Dobie and Maynard and the gang had hipped me to what it was all about.

The Bene Gesserit way

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Deleted from my Friday column fairly early in the writing process. It just didn’t work, and wasn’t worth the digression. But I pass it along for any sci-fi fans out there…

    The Bene Gesserit Litany Against Fear from the science fiction classic Dune sort of sums up the self-congratulatory (and probably selective) memory I have of the event: “I must not fear…. I will face my fear. I will allow my fear to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone I will turn my inner eye to see its path. And where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.”
    Well, that’s all very well for fictional characters with superhuman abilities, but for ordinary folks living below sea level and facing a Category 5 hurricane, such a philosophy is downright stupid. In the aftermath of Katrina, I say take that litany, dry it out, and sell it as fertilizer.

You see? It just didn’t fit the tone, or anything. I was going to have to shoehorn it in with some transitional gyrations, so I just ditched it.

Out amongst ’em

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    Just a few more minutes — a precious few — and the mob will be sufficiently distracted by their bread and circuses that I can make my escape. Until then, I’m trapped…

Forgive me, but this situation brings out the very worst, most prejudiced, least tolerant elements of my character.

I was out amongst ’em today. By "’em," I choose a semi-articulate means of expressing my strong sense of "otherness" when compared to a certain very broad swath of the folk of our land.

I’m talking about football fans. Yes, yes, I know, many football fans are otherwise good and decent people in whom I would find many fine and admirable qualities. Many of them are friends of mine. (But we bigots always say that, don’t we?) But when they are in fan mode, I find them intolerable.

I suppose this is to some extent, like all prejudices, an irrational response. I have an excuse, though. I think I’m suffering from a mild form of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Football has been very, very bad to me.

I haven’t been a football fan myself since 1969, when that snotty Joe Namath led the Jets to beat my team, the Baltimore Colts, in a drastic distortion of the natural order. I had waited what had seemed like forever (a year or two is like forever at that age) for Johnny Unitas and company to prevail over the hated Packers, and they finally had. That meant they had achieved their rightful place as the best team in the world. Sure, there was that mere formality of a post-season exhibition against the AFL, but everyone knew that the AFL was profoundly inferior to the NFL, so it hardly counted, right?

What that stunning experience taught me was that football is an unforgivably capricious sport. Too much rides on the uncontrollable flukes of a single game. In baseball, as in life, you’ve got to be good over the long haul to achieve the pennant. That builds character. In football — because the game is so insanely harsh upon its practitioners’ bodies — there are so few games that every single one is all-important. You can’t afford to lose a single one, if you want to be the champs. Such inflated stakes make each game ridiculously overimportant to fans. They lose all sense of proportion, which is very off-putting.

But I didn’t really learn to hate the game until I came to work at The State, and spent my first year here being the editor in charge on Saturdays. You can see where this is going, can’t you? It seemed that the sadists over in the Roundhouse had contrived to schedule every single home game that year to begin shortly after the time I had to be at work — meaning that there was no way I could get to work in less than an hour and a half. You’ll recall that back then, the newspaper offices were located in the very shadow of the Grid Temple. We’re a little farther away now, but not enough so to make it easy to get in and out on a game day. Oh, excuse me, isn’t that supposed to be capitalized — Game Day?

I would travel around and around a circle with a five-mile radius centered upon Williams-Brice, probing for weaknesses in the wall of flag-bedecked vehicles, looking for a way in to work, always frustrated. Up Bluff or Shop road? No. Around Beltline to Rosewood and back in? No. A frontal assault up Assembly? That was as mad as Pickett’s Charge. Through Olympia? Are you kidding?

By the time I was finally at the office, I was foaming at the mouth. Seriously, I wasn’t fit to talk to for hours, I was filled with such hostility for every single fan (you know the word is short for "fanatic," don’t you?) out there. I was in such a degraded, paranoid state of mind that I actually believed (temporarily) that they had all conspired to cause me this frustration intentionally (they couldn’t possibly be enjoying that gridlock themselves, so there HAD to be a nefarious motive somewhere). My embarrassing discourses on the subject to fellow employees were as profane as they were unwelcome. I think the worst day was the one when I was almost arrested by a Highway Patrolman who refused to let me up Key Road to The State‘s parking lot when I had finally worked my way to within 100 yards of it — an obstinacy on his part to which I responded with a distinct edge of barely-contained rage.

This afternoon, I had to go out a little after 1 p.m., and had to pass twice through the heart of the fan encampment. Folks were already tailgating. There was no yardarm in sight, but I’m quite certain the sun wouldn’t have been over it if there had been, and these folks were already getting a six-hour jump on the liquoring-up process. (They couldn’t really like football, if they need that much anesthetic before a game.) This shouldn’t have bothered me, but I couldn’t stop thinking thoughts such as these: This is Thursday, a workday. I’ve got more work waiting for me back at the office than I can get done by the weekend, and there’s a war going on in Iraq and Afghanistan, and the Gulf Coast from Texas to Alabama has just been essentially wiped off the map, the price of fuel has jumped practically 50 percent in a matter of days, and these people can’t think of anything better to do with their time.

But they’re not the problem. It’s me. My response is contemptibly irrational. I’m only harming myself. Case in point: I’ve been ranting about this so long, I’ve almost lost my window of opportunity to escape before the fair-weather types start slipping out at halftime and clogging Shop Road.

Gotta go. Bye. I’ll try to be more civil and tolerant of my fellow humans in my next posting. But I’m not promising anything.

Physicianow, heal thyself

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I was completely stunned when a regular correspondent shared this with me via e-mail. I could only respond thus:

What a presumptuous pile of pontification! How dare he presume to know the soul of another this way, and to pass judgment on it based upon such guesses? Does he think his literary license gives him the right to write omnisciently about real people the way he does fictional characters? Well, it doesn’t.

I’ve got major problems with this president, including many decisions he’s made (or not made) with regard to this crucial war. I often wonder whether I want us to succeed in Iraq more than George W. Bush does, and some days I’m quite sure I do.

But as healthy as my editorialist’s ego is, I would NEVER have the gargantuan gall to write something like this about another human being. I suppose one has to be a lionized author, sitting in the Hamptons contemplating in awe one’s own greatness, to produce rhetorical excess this extreme. Alas, we lesser lights must content ourselves with more humble assertions.

You know, he just plain looks a lot more intellectual than I do. Maybe if I grew back the beard, I could be more pompous, too. Not that I’d try to compete in HIS league.

You might want to leave this sort of thing to Dylan

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Sure, Mick, "You call yourself a Christian; I call you a hypocrite" COULD be made to rhyme with "Shut the door, you silly twit," but you’d really have to WORK at it, and I’m afraid the strain would show.

I’m just not sensing another "Honky-Tonk Women" here. You and Keith put your heads together (if Keith can find his) and get back to me…

What’s WITH these people?

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Celebrity worship is a mystery to me. This puzzlement is deepened by the case of Michael Jackson.

OK, I can sort of understand how someone might have become a fan of his at one point. In the early ’80s, he was a remarkably talented young black man. But now that he is no longer young, or black, or manly in any way you’d notice, and hasn’t put forth any striking evidence of talent lately, about all he’s got left is being remarkable. And not in a good way.

I’m not saying this to be mean or anything like that. I just don’t see how, beyond memories of some catchy tunes and dancing that seemed to defy physical laws, anybody would feel any sort of emotional involvement in anything that Mr. Jackson does, or anything that happens to him or doesn’t happen to him.

And yet there are people who really, really cared what happened in his trial. Michael_jackson_fans They were willing to put their whole lives in suspense over whether he was found "guilty" or "not guilty." They made it their business to be there at the courthouse, as close to his side as possible. They were ecstatic at the verdict.

What I want to know is, Why? It seems to me that even a cursory examination of the stipulated facts regarding Mr. Jackson would give any sensible person considerable pause. I mean, I can seeing pitying a man who lives in a fantasy world and sleeps with young boys to whom he is not related (even innocently), and has obsessively done bizarre things to his own body. But I can’t see how anyone would admire him, or hitch one’s own happiness to his fate.

I’d appreciate any insight that anyone out there has into this phenomenon. If I could understand this, maybe I could understand the whole celebrity culture.

Frood, where’s my towel?

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I’m totally befuddled — like some hapless twit who doesn’t know where his towel is.

I’ve been hesitating to go see "Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy" because I’ve waited so long for it, and I don’t want to be bitterly disappointed. I’ve read such contradictory reviews. The one we ran in The State made it sound awful, and it seemed to be written by someone who knew his way around Douglas Adams’ universe. Then The New York Times made it sound delightful. This made me hopeful. That’s a pretty good paper, right? And has Martin Freeman ever been in anything bad? (Then again, the Times had kind things to say about the awful American ripoff of "The Office." And the original version of that is the only thing I’ve ever seen Martin Freeman in.)

There are reports that true believers are split on the matter.

Help me out, froods. If you’re a true fan of Arthur, Ford, Zaphod and the rest — and you have to have read all five volumes in the Hitchhiker Trilogy, and read the first two repeatedly, to qualify — and you’ve seen the film, let me know.

Which is it? Should I avoid it like the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal? Would it cause me to walk out in the middle, gratuitousy muttering "Belgium" under my breath? It so, tell me now. But if it’s really hoopy, just say, "Don’t Panic!"

Meanwhile, back at Wernham Hogg

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"Professionalism is … and that’s what I want." — David Brent

I haven’t had time to post anything today because I’m really behind. Fridays are horrible around here — all those weekend pages to put out, plus write a Sunday column — and I’ve just complicated things by dropping one column idea and picking up another one that I’ll have to do from scratch.

Of course, I would have had to do the other one from scratch, even though I’ve had the idea for days. Trouble is, I’m behind on everything because I spent all yesterday afternoon in one of those management training things that they make you do every once in a while if you work at a large publicly-traded company. Basically, I spent several hours being warned yet again about avoiding sexual harrassment, age discrimination, oppressing the workers, etc. So I guess I’m not going to be doing any of that stuff any more. ("So what does that leave me?" I wanted to ask, but didn’t, seeing as how I’m a vice president and all, and supposed to set a good example.)

After the session, we had to fill out a critique form, and there was space to suggest ways to improve the process. At the time I couldn’t think of one, but now I have:

These things would be a lot more fun if they were like the training day episode on "The Office" — the original BBC series, of course, not the American knockoff. In fact, since I have to do a second half-day session next Tuesday (not to mention another a couple of weeks after that), I think I might bring in my acoustic guitar and lead the group in a rousing chorus of "Free Love Freeway." Assuming Debbie doesn’t think that’s too disruptive, of course. Professionalism is … and that’s what I want.