The Slog

Want More Freelance Dramaturg?

2009-09-22T16:16:00.005-06:00

You got him!

I promise to one day provide real, honest to god Slog-tent sooner or later. I have been plugging away over at Thunder Matt's Saloon, though, so if you need your Wolter fix, remember to check there (usually on Tuesdays).

But until then, have a little Freelance Dramaturg on me...

As usual, click to enlarge.

Standard Disclaimer No One Believes: though FD bears superficial resemblance to me, he is not me. Nor is FSO meant in any way to represent the always charming and vivacious Alibear. She would have been attentive to a fault if I came home like that. Also, she has a nose, and is drawn a lot better than that in real life.¹

Coming soon: The Slog's Album of the Year!²

One of the "rules" I've set for Freelance Dramaturg is that I don't lay these out or sketch them in any way first, so any weird proportion issues or odd panels are explained by that perverse self-discipline.
I swear it's not Damn Right, Rebel Proud again. Honest.

Freelance Dramaturg Returns! Again!

2009-08-07T11:16:00.006-06:00

That last post was a real bummer, huh? Cathartic for me, but it can't have been too fun for the rest of you.

Here's something a little more frivolous: a Freelance Dramaturg cartoon I drew last weekend, when I was far too drunk to actually draw well (thank goodness he's easy). Click to enlarge:

For those "in the know," I'm not actually a fan of Rebecca Gilman¹ - so Freelance Dramaturg isn't really just a noseless caricature of The Slogger.

So there.

Theatre Geek Footnote: I think Gilman hides behind shock value and would not be half as critically acclaimed if she were a man writing the same Neo-Websterian Grand Guignol pieces of cod-Mamet. In fact, her writing reminds me of that guy in every first year playwriting class who thinks that staccato dialogue liberally interspersed with "fucks" and "cocksuckers" makes him edgy. But she's the one getting awards and critical acclaim, whereas I haven't even been paid for my writing in almost 9 years, so I'm certainly no judge... Also, I've never even read or seen Spinning Into Butter, which is usually considered her best work. ...Hell, I guess I shouldn't throw stones.

My Little Buddy is in a Bad Way

2009-08-05T10:40:00.014-06:00

Serious one again. I hate serious ones.

Far be it from the Slog to only post about those suffering from cancer, but my remaining rat, Dante is on his last legs. He was recently diagnosed with a malignant, aggressive sarcoma. It's been over a year since I lost my last rat, Dante's little brother Wilson, to a sudden respiratory condition, and it hasn't been any easier this time around.

This time around, I refuse to write a post when Dante passes on, though. While he's still here, I'm going to talk about my special little guy, and why he's my favorite pet rat of all time (and I've had eight of them in the last 12 years).

I got Dante (and his brother Wilson) about 2-1/2 years ago (I'm guessing here, my personal sense of time is a little screwy), when Ali and I were in the early stages of dating. Ali had just lost her own rat, Ezzie (short for Esmerelda), to mammary tumors (a common occurence in female rats at a certain age).

As I usually say when faced with an impending rat death, I swore up and down, "I'm never getting another one. Never again. They don't live long enough, and it's just to hard to watch this."

So, of course, we ended up getting two rats within weeks.

The backstory: Ali and I were picking up food and bedding for her chinchilla (we have a lot of animals. A lot) when we happened to go by a cage with 4 male rats frolicking about. They all had really great personalities, and we were hard-pressed to tear ourselves away from the cage.

We left the store, ran a few more errands, and realized we forgot something. We went back to the pet store to discover that two of the rats were gone. We mentioned to an employee that at least the person who bought them knew that rats, who are social mammals, do better in pairs.

"Ugh," said the employee. "I hate when people buy the rats here for snake food. They're intelligent animals. It's sick the way people feel the need to feed snakes live food to watch, when you can get them prekilled items, which are healthier and safer anyway."

Ali and I looked at each other. As one mind, we said "we're getting them."

So, we ended up with two rats. We justified our purchase with the statement, "At least they're male. We won't have to worry about mammary tumors" (which are, more or less, breast cancer for rats). We decided that each of us would name one. Ali, named the (much, much) smaller one "Wilson," which I have always assumed was after Dr. James Wilson on House, MD. I named the lumbering, gentle giant Wilson shared a cage with "Dante," after the Medieval poet, not Dante Bichette as some of you no doubt expected.

We lost Wilson last June, but Dante lumbered on, getting fatter, lazier, but friendlier all the while. He is, by a long stretch, the friendliest little (huge) rat I've ever met. He would, if you let him, spend literally hours licking your hands and grooming your nails (rat ways of showing affection). He spent almost any other moment out of his cage engaging in the curious rat behavior known as bruxing, a tooth grinding that is roughly akin to a cat's purr. In fact, I'm going to go out on a limb and say he is the friendliest pet I've ever owned.

And the laziest.

Lord, how he loved to just sit there on your lap, or chest, or shoulder and be petted. Take any other rat I've ever had out of the cage, and within minutes he or she had explored the entire area around, and probably wouldn't sit completely still until every fun thing was exhausted, and it was time to take a nap.

Then there's Dante. I think in the past two years, Dante never went more than two feet away, and inevitably waddled back to his starting point, to be petted and scratched between his shoulder blades (which he adored - I don't think he could reach there, otherwise). He often dozed off while I sat with him watching TV - and I often came close to joining him.

But there is one thing the little guy has shown more love for than sleeping: eating. He could pack it away in better times. Clever little guy that he is, he figured out that if he banged on the roof of his cage in the late evening, it would remind me that it was feeding time...so he started banging earlier and earlier every day. His feeding time started creeping sooner and sooner. By the end, he was usually eating a full two hours earlier than he did at this time last year.

He also took advantage of my ADD-ravaged memory to, on more than one occasion, trick me into feeding him twice in one night. I spent much of the last year complaining bitterly that the rat was going to be softball shaped before much longer.

Given that he was always a fat, male rat, his current condition is particularly hard for me to bear. He's lost a lot of weight, and has a ghost of his old appetite. His former lumbering gait has turned into a limp (surgery scars and and a series of abcesses near his pelvis, combined with the stunningly fast reappearance of a tumor have rendered his back legs nearly useless). And the ultimate cause of this? A mammary tumor. That's right. The gentle giant of a rat that I used to pretend talked like Barry White ended up having more in common with Quincy Jones. And now he looks small and frail.

I'm going to go home tonight and take him out, let him sit in my lap and give him a scratch between the shoulder blades. Maybe a little baby food will perk his taste buds up a bit. When he passes, which won't be long, you won't hear about it here. I'm going to talk about Ghostbusters or sleazy Glam Punk bands or Stan Lee's progressive views on females next time I log in to blogger. But I had to get this off my chest, and this lunch break seemed the best time.

I love you Dante. And you are the last. This time I mean it.

It's just too hard.

RIP, Billy Lee

2009-08-03T19:38:00.000-06:00

http://www.commercialappeal.com/news/2009/aug/02/sun-records-giant-billy-lee-riley-dead-75/

Damn.

Billy Lee Riley needs help!

2009-07-07T19:14:00.004-06:00

Not one of my usual jokey, frivolous posts. Bear with me, and if you can, help.

I found this out here, which in turn got the following from the Rockabilly Hall of Fame site:

Billy Lee Riley ...
one of the remaining original Sun Records artists, Is in VERY bad need of help! Billy has had his share of health problems, and is now battling Stage FOUR bone cancer. Although musicares is helping with house payment, car and such, He and Joyce are totally out of money and can barely afford to eat. This is a CALL FOR HELP to all musicians and fans. Please remember, twenty bucks from all of us would make a HUGE difference in Billy's life! What if this was you? Let's all get together and send something today to Billy and Joyce and show them that he means alot to us. If you have a website, a facebook or myspace, please post this need for help on it! We can't save the world, but it will mean alot in Billy Lee's life!

His Address is:

Billy Lee Riley
723 Crest Drive
Jonesboro, Arkansas 72401

I don't have much to add to the blog above (read the link, it's short and to the point), but Billy Lee Riley is a living legend, and his "Flying Saucers Rock and Roll" is as close to perfect as any music can be. In an ideal world he would have been as big as Jerry Lee Lewis, Carl Perkins, or really any of the great Sun artists.

If you can help him, please do. I know I can't afford much, but he's worth it.

My First Foray Into Electoral Politics....

2009-06-25T16:47:00.002-06:00

Okay, this is less of a blog, and more of a link to Thunder Matt's Saloon, where I actually wrote a blog entry.

I guess that earns a lazy blogging tag, even if I worked on it elsewhere...

If I May Be Pompous For a Moment....

2009-06-16T12:00:00.003-06:00

Note: In lieu of writing TWO non-Hitler-Punch-Related Blog Entries in the same month, I am dual posting this entry on TMS and right here on the sadly-neglected-of-late Slog. You know...in case you give a rat’s ass.

Welcome to Wolter’s Music and Pop Culture Theory Corner, a feature deemed “Too Pseudointellectual Even For Pomp Culture” by a volunteer panel of U of C grad students.

Today’s discussion is based on aspects of the Generational Theory first espoused by William Strauss & Neil Howe in their seminal work, Generations (not to be confused with the incredibly bad Star Trek movie of the same name), and how they related to the lyrical content of the debut single two unrelated UK bands from roughly a quarter century apart (The Adverts and Art Brut).

Generational Theory is a more or less cyclical explanation of long-term historical trends based on each generation’s relation to and reaction at the previous generations throughout the phases of their life. It’s a very fascinating tool that, while not fully accurate as a predictive device, is very interesting as a means of analysis of events. You can get a decent quick-n-dirty overview in the wikipedia link above, which I strongly recommend reading as a background material (I'm going to be relatively brief in my reasoning, so if you find flaws with this theory, remember that Strauss & Howe wrote several books on the topic, and it's worth reading more about it).

At any rate, the short version is each generation has an overall character that is the result of its environment (though obviously there are always members of each generation that defy the prevailing norms). The two generations that matter for this discussion are Generation X (also known as 13th Gen) and the Millennial Generation (also known as Generation Y).

The Adverts formed in 1977 as part of the slew of punk bands that appeared in the wake of the Sex Pistols (and to a lesser extent, the Clash and the Damned) rise to notoriety in the UK. Their debut single, “One Chord Wonders” is a marvelously paranoid ode to the bravado and gallows-humor of musicians with low-self-esteem everywhere who know in their hearts they are doomed to failure. For the purposes of this discussion, please feel free to download a copy here.

And, for your perusal, here are a copy of the lyrics (hopefully correct, as god knows I don’t want to search too deeply for lyrics sites, and the requisite computer viruses they seem to contain):

I wonder what we'll play for you tonight.
Something heavy or something light?
Something to set your soul alight?
I wonder how we'll answer when you say,
"We don't like you - go away,
"Come back when you've learnt to play"

I wonder what we'll do when things go wrong,
When we're half-way through
Our favorite song,
We look up and the
audience has gone.
Will we feel a little bit obscure?
Think "we're not needed here,
"We must be new wave
- they'll like us next year"

The Wonders don't care
- we don't give a damn (repeated to end of
song)

Note the outright pessimism and cynicism of these lyrics. This is a band that fully expects to go nowhere, but plans to do so defiantly. This is very indicative of the Nomad Generation mentality, which describes both Generation X (born c. 1960-1982 – opinions differ on the exact dates) and preceding similar generations (such as the Lost Generation). Of course, Adverts lead vocalist TV Smith was born in 1956, a few years before the first Generation X cohort, but this song’s worldview is much more Gen X than Boomer (and most of the fans he was reaching for were first cohort Boomers). Indeed, most of the idealized notions of the Punk subculture are overwhelmingly suited to the first stirrings of Generation X – rebelliousness tempered with nihilism, a belief that there is no future and very little hope. Irony is the shield of the Nomad Generation, defending it against the dark pessimism ingrained in most members.

On the other hand, Art Brut (who formed in 2003 at the cusp of a Post-Punk revival in the British charts, are staunchly part of a Hero Generation (The Millennials who followed Generation X and are most closely analogous to the GI, or Greatest Generation born c. 1900-1924). Team oriented, optimistic, and usually hard-working, Millennials are often thought have no use for the cynical irony of the Gen X-ers (which irritates Gen X-ers almost as much as being called "Gen X-ers"). They have the sense that they are special and have been brought up for a purpose, which can be seen in the debut single "Formed a Band" which can be found here (well, the album version). Also, note (like T.V. Smith) that Art Brut's lead vocalist Eddie Argos was born just before the technical beginning of this Generation, but is singing to an audience of first cohort Millennials. I think some artists on Generational cusps are the canaries in coal mine who feel the shift as it's happening.

Now contrast the following lyrics with what goes before:

Formed a band
We formed a band
Look at us
We formed a band
(x4)

Honey pie, I don't know when it started
Just stop buying your albums
from the supermarkets
They only sell things that have charted
And Art Brut?
Well we've only just started

And yes, this is my singing voice
It's not irony
And it's not rock and roll
I'm just talking
To the kids

Formed a band
We formed a band
Look at us
We formed a band
(x4)

I want to be the boy
The man
Who writes the song
That makes Israel and Palestine
Get along

I'm gonna write a song
As universal as Happy Birthday
That's gonna make sure
That everybody knows
That everything's gonna be ok
I'm gonna take that song
And we're gonna play it
Eight weeks in a row on Top of the Pops

Formed a band
We formed a band
Look at us
We formed a band
(x4)

Dye your hair black
Never look back
My past is my business

We have two songs about more-or-less the same subject by bands that aren't massively musically dissimilar. But what a difference a generation makes. A specific denouncement of irony (at least the humorless kind), and a bouncy statement that despite their admitted shortcomings, Art Brut (whose very name means, more or less, "Primitive Art") will take the world by storm and solve everyone's problems. The Adverts seems to be saying "You probably will hate us, but screw you, we don't care what you think...much...." Art Brut is saying "You don't know it yet, but we're your new favorite band. And we love that about you." There's a bit of a twist of the knife at the end, but no true darkness pervades this song.

Ultimately, of course, this is just an observation I made while listening to my iPod on shuffle. But it gave this late-cohort Gen X-er (God, I hate that term) some food for thought about two songs he happens to enjoy quite a bit for very different reasons.

Captain America: Man's Man

2009-06-01T16:40:00.005-06:00

Or not.

Cry me a river, Captain Emo.

The Ignominious Return of Freelance Dramaturg

2009-05-25T23:25:00.004-06:00

One more exciting, halfassed cartoon for the Freelance Dramaturg series! I drew this in an attempt to avoid clawing my eyes out from boredom last weekend at the National Restaurant Association convention.

Collect 'em all!

Stan Lee: Still a Feminist

2009-05-15T12:22:00.003-06:00

Why aren't more women reading comics?

Because they're too busy doing their hair.

Am I right, guys? Huh? Am I?

Captain America's viewpoint is particularly disheartening. If I were his girlfriend, I'd shoot him for this:¹

1. Topical.

Freelance Dramaturg

2009-05-09T12:20:00.005-06:00

A Poorly Drawn Comic Strip By Someone Who Normally Draws Better Than This

Some time ago, I drew a couple of halfassed comic strips on a sheet of 3-hole typing paper, reflecting my own semi-jaundiced view of my experiences in theatre. And this morning, I decided to do a third using my el cheapo pen tablet. I figured I'd share them.

Who knows? Maybe I'll make more one day.

If you click on them, you can see them at legible size. I particularly like the way FD looks in the last few panels of the third one.

Disclaimer: Freelance Dramaturg is not NECESSARILY a self-portrait without a nose. For one thing, I hardly ever actually work as a dramaturg anymore. However, it's not NOT a self-portrait either.

EDIT: Jesus fuck, the spam commenters had a field day here (well, 3 comments, which is a field day by my standards). Seriously, spammers: this site averages about 40 hits a day, mostly from people doing image searches and not reading the words. It's not worth the effort to even run a bot.

This Filled My Tiny Heart With Joy

2009-05-06T12:01:00.000-06:00

I'm sorry I've been neglecting this place lately (I didn't even mourn Bea Arthur yet, as the pain is still fresh), but I've been too busy Punching Hitler and slowly losing my mind over at Thunder Matt's Saloon.

But I saw this, and thought: "What an easy way to put up a lazy post!

That is all.

Friday Morning Spew

2009-04-10T08:49:00.003-06:00

I figure if ladies man and inhuman freak of nature Larry King could spend 20 years working for USA Today as a syndicated columnist by vomiting stream of consciousness statements and the occasional plug for a celebrity project,¹ then this can't be too hard. Let's see how I do. Note: this blog is also posted on Thunder Matt's Saloon, but not Hitler Getting Punched - at least, not yet.

After Kevin James and Seth Rogen both took the plunge, who's the next Hollywood Heavyweight to star in a Wacky Mall Security Guard vehicle? The smart money is on Chris Farley's Painfully Unfunny Right Wing Lunatic Brother......Some people may prefer A.J. for his plus fastball and dazzling curve, but MSNBC's Erin Burnett's dazzling curves can be on my fantasy team any day.......Sure it was loaded with clever wordplay and knowing references, but I think Edward Everett Horton's voice work is what made the Rocky & Bullwinkle Show special......Jimmy John's may claim to be "America's #1 Sandwich Delivery," but faced with a choice, I would have Potbelly Sandwich Works......Rashida Jones seems to be a very pretty lady. I had no idea her father was famed producer Quincy Jones. Her mother must have been hot as hell......When one is an atheist raised by Southern Baptists participating in a passover seder with your fiancee's family, try not to switch Israel and Egypt. It doesn't go over well......For my money, a sciatica outbreak is the best way to remind yourself you aren't a teenager anymore. I'm glad I still have some leftover vicodin, but I hope it hasn't expired......Anyone else remember the song "A Deeper Shade of Soul" by Urban Dance Squad? Man that sucked.......The vicodin is kicking in. I can't feel my fingers......I am shocked and saddened by the death of Angels starter Nick Adenhart. But not a deep enough man to then speculate about how the Angels will fare in the first month of the season missing 3/5 of the planned rotation. If I believed in a hell, I would be going there......Hank Williams III is my favorite member of that celebrated country family, if only for his slam on Kid Rock for pretending to to be the heir to the legacy......I may be a godless heathen who hates the troops, but Captain America riding a motorcycle over Nazi lines while his sidekick shoots them with a tommy gun gives me what I can only call a "'F*&K YEAH' hard-on for the USA."......Why are ants with human faces crawling all over my monitor?......I think every Friday is Good, so why is the Roman Catholic Church so big on today? Must be sweeps week......The ants are shrieking accusations at me......Who ever expected Iowa to legalize gay marriage before California, or as I call it "America's Gomorrah?"......Do they still sell Teddy Grahams? I mean, I know Tato Skins are still around......Dixie Carter is a registered Republican that leans Libertarian. Think on that the next time you sit around in your underwear watching a "Designing Women" marathon on We and Julia Sugarbaker gets all Liberal and shit......I AM BECOME DEATH, DESTROYER OF WORLDS!......I can see why Hugh Laurie's American brother loves this stuff. I feel like I could make rude observations and diagnose the critically ill with aplomb......I'm sleepy. Wolter go bed now.

1. I know that link is technically to the Onion parody of King, but it's almost identical in style to what he wrote.

Shameless Self-Promotion of Sorts

2009-04-07T09:09:00.007-06:00

Like watching Hitler getting punched? Then I have just the halfassed side project for you!

http://hitlergettingpunched.blogspot.com/

I'm hoping that everyone will submit their own examples of Hitler getting punched (send them to HitlerPuncher AT gmail DOT com). I have a small library of pics that I will be gradually releasing on the world, but I need more. Special primacy will be placed on original works of artistic Hitler-Punchery, whether they be cartoons, sketches, photographic recreations, or short literary works.

I will, of course, give credit and/or links where they are due.

Won't you join me in punching Hitler?

P.S. - Artistic skill is not mandatory: I don't care if it's in crayon and done by a five-year-old; I just want to see and hear about Hitler getting punched. And I bet I'm not the only one.

So, yeah...

2009-04-02T18:45:00.005-06:00

I can't think of anyone who reads this blog who doesn't know this already, but to all the people who came here looking for pictures of Adam Ant, explanations of Boy George Lyrics, rants about Ghostbusters and/or The Golden Girls, or just some good old fashioned amputee horse porn:

I got engaged last night.

That is all.

In Which the Slogger Goes Prime Time

2009-03-20T12:06:00.020-06:00

Wow. Two posts in one week? I guess this makes it official.

I’m back.

After a long hiatus, contemplating that hideous soft-core amputee cheerleader mystery horse picture (and occasionally posting my random, mostly Iron Maiden-related thoughts over at ~~Pomp Culture~~ Thunder Matt’s Saloon), I’m giving all one of my remaining reader some more glimpses into my fevered psyche, and why I think it should be plastered on national television.

That’s right. National television.

I know what you’re thinking: “But Wolter (or “Slogger,” or “Jon,” or “Cuddles,” – I don’t know exactly what you’re thinking or what you call me in your spare time), you always struck me as too high-blown and arty for television. Isn’t that a vast wasteland?”

Yes, yes it is.

And I want a piece of the withered heath.

And speaking of withered, this plan (like most of mine) involves a Golden Girls spinoff. Also détournement. Because what would a Slog-based TV series be without Situationist Propaganda?

First and foremost, spinoffs often fail because just taking one or more of the original characters and putting them into a new setting isn’t a strong enough premise to carry a show. And, as Golden Palace taught us, putting 3 of the 4 GGs into a new setting is foolish – even if you replace Bea Arthur with the admittedly more feminine Cheech Marin.

And Bea, while powerful, is not even the strongest character one could carry over into a new series. No, as I have long maintained, and linked to on every occasion possible, the house itself is the true star for the discerning Golden Girls aficionado. My plan calls for the nightmarishly conceived set to be rebuilt¹ (preferably along a ley line) and utilized for what can only be the most brilliant television show in history.²

Here’s the pilot treatment for The Golden Ones:

Opening title: Visually identical to The Golden Girls' credit sequence. Except that every face on every original character is replaced with cut-out black&white photos of the The Golden Ones' 4 main cast members pasted over the corresponding retiree, and animated in a similar manner to Saddam Hussein on South Park. The saccharine title theme will be replaced by "Fish Fry" as performed by Big Black on their seminal album, Songs About Fucking. It's a sentimental choice on my part, but I think it's artistically valid.

Theme: I'm thinking sort of a cross between the Golden Girls, The Young Ones, and an issue of Weird Tales, circa 1934. This show will follow the hilarious and terrifying adventures of 4 aging hipsters who purchase a mysterious Miami house after its previous owner’s tragic death in a sex-swing related hip injury. Each episode, they laugh, love, and learn about nameless terror beyond their comprehension.

Characters: What's in a name? Eh, who the hell cares. Each of the four main characters will take their name from one of the original members of Public Image Limited. They all have distinct personalities sure to make them household names:

Jim is the irritable argumentative one. He often argues with the other residents of the house, and is unpleasant to be around.
Keith is the irritable argumentative one. He often argues with the other residents of the house, and is unpleasant to be around.
Wobble is the irritable argumentative one. He often argues with the other residents of the house, and is unpleasant to be around.
John is the irritable argumentative one. He often argues with the other residents of the house, and is unpleasant to be around.

The Pilot: Our four main characters, each having been kicked out of their apartments by their respective roommates, meet at a grocery store bulletin board advertising a house for sale, and all agree to chip in together and buy it, sight unseen because it's so cheap. Their excitement is muted upon arrival, when they see The House, long left decrepit and in disrepair. There are odd pieces of graffiti spray-painted on the walls, several broken windows, and a group of local gypsies³ all make the evil eye when they pull up.

But does that faze our quartet? Not even John, the irritable one, complains. These four ne'er-do-wells are content to wallow in the filth, cursing at each other and breaking dishes…until, at the end of the first act they discover the garage. From that note on, the show takes on a decidedly darker spin, as more and more oddities involving the non-recursive space kick in, with hilarious results:

Wobble (the irritable one) wakes up in the middle of the night to use the rest room and ends up blinking confusedly in an open-air market in Cairo after a wrong turn into the linen closet. He turns around only to find himself falling out of the cabinet under the sink (where Dorothy encountered the lovable little mouse she couldn't hurt those many years ago).
Lovably irritable Keith keeps hearing an otherworldly disembodied voice in his closet telling tales of small-town buffoonery, and is only able to sleep each night after eating at least seven pounds of lutefisk.
John is irritated to discover that he keeps seeing odd tentacled creatures out of the corner of his eye every time he goes out for a job interview. But, by the end of the episode, he gets a job anyway, when he learns the ad agency he's applying for just got an account with a company that sells sashimi vending machines.
Jim⁴ has a wacky time trying to date two women at once while each night dreaming he's an eldritch priest committing vile sacrifices, then awakening with mud, blood, and other less identifiable viscous fluids across his sheets each morn. Did I mention the women are twins? He's on an express train to wackiness!

And that doesn't even cover the zany neighbor, Cyrus Wycheley - a retired Professor Emeritus of Parapsychology at venerable Miskatonic University, played by a heavily made-up Henry Rollins (who I'm going to sadly have to ask to lose enough muscle mass that he resembles his Black Flag days - also, he's got to cover those tattoos). Professor Wycheley's patrician "Old Arkham" ways will grate the irritable Wobble to no end, but delight and irritate Keith. Or the running gag that John has no sense of smell and cannot detect the odd odor of must that comes from the corner of his room that doesn't meet at a Euclidean angle! Or the work we're doing to get Charlie Manson furloughed for the Season Finale, where he plays Wobble's kindly Uncle Chuck, whose unstinting kindness will cause one of the cast members to commit the vilest and most unspeakable of crimes (I don't want to spoil the surprise, but here's a hint: the one who does it is a mighty irritable customer). Or the running joke where veteran character actor Dick Miller plays a series of different elderly gardeners and/or caretakers (each related to the previous in some way) who keep being found dead, with their gazes twisted into expressions of unimaginable horror!

Frankly, a show like this writes itself, so don't be surprised if I'm a household name by the next Emmys.

The original is currently under lock and key in a storage vault at an undisclosed New England university, being studied by masters of the occult).
Eat your heart out, Barney Miller.
These gypsies will be the broadest stereotype of the Roma possible, in order to spark some controversy that will increase viewership.
He's irritable.

An Essay on Liquor Puritanism and Predestination

2009-03-18T12:41:00.011-06:00

Or, "Come On! This Is Totally Unfair!"

Today is the day after St. Patrick's Day, and I feel hung-over as hell.

I'm sure you are shocked.

However, the honest truth is: I didn't have a drink last night. Not even one. No consultation with Dr. Scotch. No check-up from Nurse Bourbon. No snake oil purchased from my chiropractor, "Dr." Cheapvodka. Not even a back-alley abortion from a twelve pack of Corona that dropped out of Pre-Med.

I haven't gotten drunk on St. Patrick's day in a long time. I'm guessing 7-8 years. I don't like crowded bars to begin with, and I certainly don't like going out to capacity-filled bars loaded with part-time drinkers priming themselves to puke green-food-colored Miller Lite on my shoes.

St. Patrick's day is to the average social drinker what Easter Mass is to the lapsed Catholic. It's that one day a year to get dressed up in your finest faded Levi's 560s, green polo, and team-inappropriate-green MLB cap, snap on your snazziest puka-shell choker, and meander and sway obnoxiously in public at 3 in the afternoon, ready to pick a fight with no one in particular about nothing at all.

All that is well and good, if you're one of those idolators who think that one perfunctory and overwrought visit to church a year can save your soul,¹ or one of those drinkers that are into showiness and ceremony over the message.

But give me that Old Crow Religion. It's good enough for me.

Drinking shouldn't be all about who's wearing what beads, how to download which Dave Matthews song on the internet jukebox, or where to find the Morning After Pill after "What the Hell Was I Thinking." That obscures the message. The Word. ² The Price.³

Drinking should be a personal experience, between you and, ultimately, your Porcelain God. Those of us who have boiled booze down to it's purest message don't need the cheap vulgarity of sports bars and faux-Irish pubs to drink. Drinking belongs in simple, dimly lit rooms, with dark, simple wood and a bartender that can be reached in under 30 minutes. Sure, hot wings are a nice option, but a simple bowl of stale peanuts is just as holy.

So, much as the Puritans denouced Christmas as a pagan holiday with no relevance to their Lord, I denounce our current conception of St. Patrick's day as a false idol. Let us have a St. Patrick's day of the soul, one not bound by the calendar or Notre Dame shirts. Let every man, woman, and poorly looked-after child drink their fill in his or her own measure, and not bow to a tradition as meaningless as watching televised golf.

THAT, my dear reader, is why I do not drink on St. Patrick's Day.

And yet I woke up with a hangover. One that hasn't gone away. I have the headache, shakiness, and vague sense of nausea of a bog-standard whisky-induced hangover. You know, the thing baseball players used to call "flu-like symptoms." But this ain't no flu.

All of this proves Calvin was right. I am predestined to suffer for my sins, whether I commit them or not. For booze is a harsh mistress, and demands much from her worsphippers. But who am I to question? Dr. Scotch moves in mysterious ways.

Peace be with you.

Or that you even HAVE a soul...but that's for another blog at another time written by another person than me.
Thunderbird
Forty twice.

A Spoiler Laden Watchmen Review

2009-03-04T14:47:00.013-06:00

The Slogger got a real treat last night when he got a chance to see the Watchmen preview with some of his fellow bartenders at Thunder Matt's Saloon (formerly Pomp Culture (formerly Thunder Matt's Saloon)). I'll be participating in a review there tomorrow, which will be relatively spoiler free and possibly entertaining as well. But in the meantime, I'm giving anyone who ended up here in a search for Softcore Amputee Horse Porn a patented Totally Spoiler-Laden Review.¹

Of course, I'd hate to ruin this movie for you, so all of the spoilers will be from other movies. And as an added precaution, spoilers are in bold, bright red, so if you want to avoid them, don't look at the most eye-catching spot on the page.

First and foremost, I think this was probably a good movie, maybe even a great movie, but it's really hard for me to tell, due to my familiarity and reverence for the source material. The reverence is shared by the filmmakers. From the opening scene where Cyclops is surprisingly killed off by Dark Phoenix in a total bullshit move, to the near shot-for-shot recreation of Jim Gordon faking his death to help Batman capture the Joker, this movie will delight fans of the original graphic novel with the opportunity to see breathtaking recreations of iconic moments from the original, like when Luke totally kisses his sister in that hospital room on Hoth.

Of course, not all fans will be pleased by some of the changes. The leaving out of all the Tom Bombadil scenes entirely and the changing the original ending so that Greedo shoots first are sure to grate on the more dedicated. But lets face it, these changes move the story along at a greater clip, and make it a little easier to understand. Frankly, I think we should just be glad we still get to see the rednecks gun down Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper at the end.

I think there are a lot of flaws in this movie. The fights are kinda out of the spirit of the rest of the movie, and the dense plot will possibly leave a lot of viewers a bit lost. I'm familiar enough with the story to see all the clues that point to Deckard possibly being a replicant himself, but unless you keep your eyes open you'll probably never catch all the hints that point out that Peter Graves is the real nazi spy, and he's framing William Holden to draw attention from the real plot: to replace the Red Car with a Freeway built by Cloverleaf Oil.

I do think it's a movie worth seeing, but if you're already familar with the comic book, you may have to explain to the person sitting next to you that Kevin Spacey IS Keyser Söze.

Patent pending.

In which The Slogger is flabbergasted...

2009-02-01T10:54:00.004-06:00

This isn't really much of an entry, but I just wanted to point out that this picture making the internet rounds is mystifying me:

Seriously, my mind is blown.

On every level.

I defy anyone to make sense of this.

The Gayest Song I Love

2009-01-21T08:17:00.006-06:00

Short entry today, I'm going to expend my creative energy on another Pomp Culture article (if you missed my last one regarding Iron Maiden's supremacy to the United Nations, by all means check it out here). And I need to once again make the disclaimer that I am not disparaging the gay community at all in this entry, as regular readers will know that It'd look like I was throwing stones from a glass (bath)house.

Anyway, like most people who commute on public transportation, I listen to music on headphones. An iPod nano to be exact, partly because I am attempting to transform, butterfly-like from post-punk hipster to yuppie sleazebag, but mainly because none of the Zunes I keep in a bucket by my front door seem to be working at present.

Like many who make the Geek "lifestyle choice," I often succumb to an axiom that my friend Susan and I uncovered more than a decade ago (note I am using Courier, the Official Font of Logical Verities):

"To the untrained eye, the line between a
well-groomed geek and a gay man is indistinguishable."

(Cf. Sweatervests, designer nerd glasses, unseemly public excitability, the inability to throw a 10-6 curve)

Yeah, I come off pretty darn queer at times. Over 15 years in theatre-with-an-"re" has not helped this, either. Or the fact that I spent Sunday night in a gay bar (my girlfriend was singing in a band, Your Honor!). Or that, in between songs, I actually overheard someone in that bar say "An honest to God GLORY HOLE. I shit you not!" with a lisp that rivalled Buddy Cole.

Anyway, as I rode in today, after I wrapped up listening to Kraftwerk's Trans-Europe Express (Note: believe it or not, that's NOT the source of the gayest song. And a day where Kraftwerk is the most macho music I have listened to so far is already red-letter), I decided to listen to the Associates collection I recently acquired.

Not to be excused with The Association (of "Along Comes Mary," "Cherish," and "Windy" fame), the Associates was a two-man Scottish band that had minor success in the early 1980s (mostly in the UK) in the height of the New Romantic movement (sorry Djakarta: no pics of Adam Ant this time). It consisted of a multi-instrumentalist (Alan Rankine) and a vocalist (the late Billy Mackenzie).

The song in question is, first and foremost, a cover of an exceptionally gay song: Diana Ross's "Love Hangover" (which happened to be the #1 song the day I was born). One might think that would be hard to top. One would be right. But that one has not heard the Associates.

Musically, the Associates, at least during the early period I'm moderately familiar with, had a sound that ranged from minimalist post-punk to Duran Duran-esque New Wave pop. And the music of this particular song is actually a pretty cool post-punk-white-funk that reminds me of Remain in Light-era Talking Heads with a more jangly lead guitar.

And the resemblence doesn't end there. At first Mackenzie's voice sounds very much like David Byrne. Very much so. Until he belts a series of ridiculously sweeping falsetto yells, laden with vibrato. Add in some ridiculously cheesy female backing vocals, and the picture is complete. This song is, well, gay...

This is a song that ran away from home at 17 to go to New York to become a dancer, stays in touch with it's mother, but hasn't spoken to its father in 10 years. This is a song that wears men's capris and clogs when it shops at Treasure Island. This is a song that owns the Director's Cut of Moulin Rouge. This is a song that the average Pet Shop Boys fan would eschew as "a little too queer for me."

And this is a song I think is awesome. This is a song that I have already played 3 times today, at the expense of listening to the rest of the album, which I haven't heard.

I'm pretty sure I couldn't find a gayer song if I looked through my girlfriends collection of showtunes and asked Clay Aiken to cover the gayest one I found. I dare anyone to find a gayer song, in fact--

Oh, wait...I'm finally listening to the rest of the album, and a cover of "Heart of Glass" just came on. Wow.

You win again, Associates.

In which I spread myself even thinner...

2009-01-12T20:34:00.003-06:00

Just an FYI: Starting very soon, I will be contributing occasional articles at Pomp Culture, the less-baseball-centric spinoff to the late, lamented Thunder Matt's Saloon.

In fact, I just held a press conference there, if anyone's curious.

Soon, I plan to make some grandiose claims about Iron Maiden...

P.S. If you're ever in a jam and need some quick legal advice, the Law Offices of Panini & Rye have gotten me out of a few scrapes in the past few years. Sure, they're hitting some tough times right now, but aren't we all?

The Slog in Review

2009-01-05T14:10:00.011-06:00

Hello, Slogateers! Long time no write! I bet you're excited for new content!

Too bad! You're getting a clips show! And considering some of my clips are reposts from even older clips, you're getting the most recursive blog entry yet!

Okay, I've already used up my 2009 allotment of exclamation points. Oops.

A lot of blogs use this time of year as a way of reviewing the previous year's content, hitting all the highlights, etc. etc. ad nauseum, ad infinitum, ad hoc, post hoc ergo propter hoc, sic simper tyrannus, and so on.

But this isn't a lot of blogs. It's just my blog. My poorly written, almost never updated, confusing and insular rantfest. And I'm going to review the entire thing.¹

Here it goes:

The Prehistory of the Slog (also known as 2007)

January 18: Having joined Blogger solely to leave a comment here, I decide to make the most of my newfound platform by spending thirty seconds typing a placeholder entry about Runts. Apparently I had hurt my toe that day, as well

May 12: In what will soon become a pattern for The Slog, I apologize for not actually writing a blog entry for the preceding 4 months. Exhausted by this monumental effort, I take 8 months off of blogging.

The History of the Slog (2008 - ?²)

January

28: In a moment that displays my extreme skills of complaining and pocrastinating, I complain about an incident that had happened five days previously. This entry is also a stopgap. But it does take longer to read than the front of a Cheerios box. One year and ten days after its inception, The Slog has an actual entry. Later that day, because I don't want this fledgeling blog to look so sparse, I add an obscure reference to Mark E. Smith and the Fall in order to inform my as yet nonexistent readers that I will be reposting the contents of my quasi-popular myspace blog over here. Note the proto-footnotes. I'm using asterisks because I forgot the html code for superscript. I am still so young...

30: Worn out from warning people I would do so, I take 2 days to copy and paste my first Myspace archive, from October 15, 2006. It is about how I quit my horrible job, thus beginning my Unemployment Saga. To make myself feel better about things, I add some additional commentary. Much like I'm doing now. That being easy enough, I post two more short entries from October 16, 2006 where I discover that my two weeks notice has been truncated to what I can only assume is a firing. Also, I get a mattress.

31: On October 18, 2006 I prepare to interview at a temp agency. It is demoralizing. I end up practically begging for money. The first mention of My Hideous Dog, for those playing along at home.

February

4: We learn that apparently by October 20, 2006 I really wanted to create art, but could't. This repost is largely notable for the drawing of Golden Age Skye Sweetnam, a precursor to The Knight Owl. I then post two blogs from October 24th, 2006 about my hypochondria over weight loss and my absolute hatred of job hunting. The first complaint is a dark portent of things to come.

21: A miserable three weeks ensues in real time, before the Myspace Archive continues triumphantly with an account of my 2006 Halloween plans. I end up going as Morrissey, a costume that is so perfect that I am both uniformly praised and uniformly scorned by all who see it. Later that day, we all discover that by November 4th, my life was getting better. I also end up listening to London Calling several times over. Apparently, I have some free time this day - because I post yet another Archive about finally getting a job (on November 6th, 2006). Which I promptly celebrate by drinking beer and watching zombie movies.

23: I repost one of my all time favorite blog entries (November 7, 2006), in which I go to a free clinic and then expound at some length about the Golden Girls' House.

25: We learn that as of November 22, 2006 I don't have cancer. Despite my love of bourbon and McRibs. We also learn that on November 24, 2006 I forgive those who have wronged me and apologize to those I have wronged. We also learn that brushes with death make me pompous.

26: We mourn the December 21, 2006 passing of The Greatest Ruler in History. My commentary exceeds the length of the original entry roughly sevenfold.

28: We learn that I was blogging on MySpace for months after I had a perfectly good Slog when I repost this very tender moment of flirting with my future girlfriend via the time tested method of being prejudiced. Originally written on February 16, 2007. I then add ACTUAL NEW CONTENT when I somehow nearly kill myself sneezing.

March

1: March comes in like a lion with this repost of the first part of my quasi-legendary, never yet finished Dark Underbelly of the 80s series (April 12, 2007). My unholy love of Ghostbusters first rears its head, as well as my irrational need to prove it's better than Citizen Kane. As if that isn't already obvious.

2: We learn that my Jewish girlfriend thinks swastikas are funny. This post becomes so popular, a spammer thinks this is the ideal place to leave a comment to increase ad revenues. Then I follow up with one of the most seminal works in philosophical history, part 2 of The Dark Underbelly of the 80s. This marks the May 17, 2007 birthplace of Sincere Irony^TM, which is bound to replace Scientology as the leading Hollywood Fad Religion by 2021.

3: I finally get around to letting readers know a little about me.

4: I add one more vital fact to the previous post.

5: We learn that not all my Myspace blog entries are very good. I try to make up for this May 23, 2007 entry with entertaining commentary about geeks and completism, but my ADD ends up taking over. A must read.

6: I am disturbed in this repost of the June 23, 2007 blog entry. Later, I toss off a throwaway entry that eventually gets more hits than any other on this site, eventually being viewed by every single person living on Mauritius.

7: I repost a filler piece from January 17, 2008 in which I promise to eventually write real content. Even the footnotes are irritating. Later that day, I actually create new content, in the now legendary Attempt to Repair a VCR. Dr. Scotch and I lose the patient, but find ourselves in this epic pictorial journey.

9: After a solid 8 days of mostly new content, I skip a day before tossing off this lazy piece of hackwork about my first google search hit.

13: My daily productivity starts to slow, but my hit count rises as the Third World recognizes me as A Prime Source of New Romantic Musician Pictures. Later that day, Sparky ruins my 3-day weekend using only his excrement.

16: Just when my weekend starts looking up, Sparky delivers the coup-de-grace.

18: Oh, wait. It wasn't over yet. The dog is not guilty this time. I continue to complain about my ruptured chiklis for the rest of the day.

19: I wrap up the Myspace Archive in this repost from January 22, 2008 making fun of my Dad and German hairstyles.

21: I admit I am a huge pussy and ruin the upcoming Watchmen movie for anyone who can't scroll past a spoiler without reading.

27: I spew forth a miscellany on such topics as my desire to find a better job, my distrust of the Cubs, giant cookies, and Frankenstein hunters. I also piss and moan a bit about the Carbon/Silicon cancelleation. In the comments I invent the term "haikurotica." I continue this pissing and moaning later that day, with another kvetchfest about my dog's waste, among other things.

April

3: Holy crap! I actually make an effort to continue The Dark Underbelly of the 80s. But I only get through a tiny bit of the planned post, and severely dissappoint my legions of fan. I then make some brief announcements.

30: I take another long break from blogging, then return to mourn Turkmenbashi once again.

May

5: I urinate on a highway and do some naked plumbing. A long entry in itself, this one's comments devolve into something even longer and more obtuse.

8: I spend more time interpreting "Karma Chameleon" than was probably spent writing AND recording it. Definitely one of my better pieces, and judging by the hit count, definitely confusing tons of people who are genuinely looking for meaning in that song.

29: Another throwaway entry in which I lose all hipster cred.

30: I drink like a girl, and if you follow the instructions in this photo-essay, YOU CAN TOO! Oh, from this point on, I figure out how to put rollover comments on the pictures.

June

12: Bullet points. Is there no laziness they can't mask?

15: R.I.P Wilson. This one is actually sad.

July

3: I find a reason to be patriotic. And we all know neither Captain Britain nor Union Jack have ever been that unmitigatedly rad.

10: I pimp my show. You know, the one where I played a gay, Hasidic, pedophilic Satan. I am later nominated for a Jeff Award.³

11: Opening night goes well.

12: The reviews are awesome.

16: I make grandiose plans to blog about my beard. They do not last long.

22: Damn you Golden Girls' House! When will the killing stop?

23: I am diagnosed with ADHD and see a Blind Albino^TM.

August

8: I Bleed Grizzly Pink for a while.

September

5: I dump a link about a possible Ghostbusters sequel. It leads to an inordinately long discussion in the comments.

October

14: In my monthly update, I try to catch my readers up with my plans, hopes, and dreams.

15: I actually post twice in one month again! I love this little piece of faux scholarship about a non-existent 1960s superhero. But judging by the comments, no one else did.

24: I endorse Hank Williams III's Damn Right, Rebel Proud as album of the year. Which it is.

30: I make some random comments about over- and underrated things. All readers are encouraged to listen to more Fugazi.

31: I go completely batshit insane in my analysis of the Misfits in honor of Halloween.

November

10: The McRib returns. I am overjoyed. I eat my first of the year later that day.

11: I defend myself against LIES! And do a little editing.

12: The time honored lazy blog tradition of listing searches used to reach me.

14: I eat another McRib. Later I make some big plans.

17: I eat yet another McRib.

20: I complain about being sick.

21: Axl Rose makes me look like a chump. I also eat my 4th McRib.

December

4: Holy crap! Ghostbusters video game!

12: Bettie Page dies.

18: Stan Lee respects the hell out of women.

Okay...that's it. So far. I'd like to thank all 7 of my non-Pakistani readers.

Not as hard as it seems. I really don't have a lot of content. Still, you know...
I'm guessing sometime in March of this year.
Not strictly true.

Stan Lee, Feminist

2008-12-18T11:19:00.005-06:00

Oh, and from the same issue:

Even if they had to work late, I'd like to imagine the Baxter Building, an immense skyscraper in the middle of Manhattan used almost exclusively by the Fantastic Four, had more than one bed. So...nice try.

Also, is the Thing pregnant?

Rest in Peace, Bettie Page

2008-12-12T08:28:00.005-06:00

If you couldn't guess The Slog was a fan, you need to pay more attention.

Oh. Your. God.

2008-12-04T09:14:00.003-06:00

I just learned this, courtesy of the ever delightful Mr. B:

http://www.dailymotion.com/swf/x7lkn0

June, 2009, eh? I have a birthday around that time...

I'm just saying.

Meanwhile, the Citizen Kane game is still mired in pre-production.