Candy Apples and Razor Blades…

Or, “The Misfits, Halloween, Sincere Irony™, the Neo-Kissian Commodification of Exploitation, and Me”

I. Night of the Living Dead
“This Ain’t No Love-In…Ok, Well, Maybe It Is”

The Misfits are the Official House Band of Halloween.

This is not a bold statement by any means. Everyone loves “The Monster Mash,”¹ but honestly, how many Slogophiles even remember any of Bobby “Boris” Pickett and the Crypt-Kickers’ follow-up novelty hits, like “Monster’s Holiday” or the eco-themed “Climate Mash?”² I mean, I had to check his Wikipedia page to name one. And while other bands have songs about horror and Halloween, not too many of them have actually devoted pretty much their entire existence to the concepts. And most of the ones that do are really just ripping off the Misfits.

This being Halloween, and in keeping with the (coincidental) recent string of music-centered posts, I thought I’d reflect on the personal, cultural, and symbological³ significance of (I can only assume) the only band to write a song about a Tura Satana movie,⁴ and maybe explain why I still wear my ratty old “Crimson Ghost” shirt and listen to “Halloween” (both the original and the fake-y “exorcism” version) every October 31^st.

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Notes to Section I (no need to scroll!)

1. Okay, I’m making an assumption here, but if you don’t love “The Monster Mash,” then I think the burden of proof is on you to explain why.
2. To be fair, how many “Slogophiles” can there possibly be anyway.
3. Not a real word, but an amazing facsimile of one.
4. I have no less than six different-but-not-by-much versions of “Astro-Zombies” on my iPod right now. I also have no more than six. Basically, I took no less or more than three sentences to tell you I have six versions of the song. Amazingly, only one version is live.

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II. She Looked So Good in Red…
Or, “How I Learned to Stop Taking Ian Mackaye Too Seriously and Love the Sleaze”

I first heard the Misfits in High School, as part of my early education in punk music. I liked them well enough, though I wasn’t a fan of how thinly produced the first album I owned (“Legacy of Brutality”) sounded.⁵ I occasionally popped the tape into my “stereo,” if the existence of more than one speaker made a tape-deck earn the term, but never really paid it much mind.

Then, exactly 14 years ago today, I had a revelatory moment.

It was afternoon on Halloween day, my freshman year of college. I was on the tail end of a particularly rough stretch of my life which included a traumatic and sudden break from a circle of friends (one that made me retreat into several months of self-imposed exile) and a seriously life-changing family issue that I’d rather not go into here.⁶ I was bitter, sullen, and rejectionist about almost everything.

Musically, I still loved nothing more than punk from the 70s and 80s. I was getting deeply into Minor Threat⁷ and as I didn’t smoke, do drugs, or even drink (at the time) and my prospects for ever having casual sex again⁸ seemed slim-to-nil, I decided to “go Straight Edge.” And like most Straight-Edgers, I was humorless about it.

I was probably humorless about a lot of things. I mean, I was in an angry place – and moving out of the house wasn’t really helping like I’d hoped. So, I was walking around that afternoon, listening to music, and trying to find a costume for a party that night.

Although Charleston, SC is not a particularly cold climate in October, I remember that day being chilly and grey. I had grabbed a tape at random for my Walkman (I didn’t get a CD player until 1996, believe it or not). It was Legacy of Brutality. The pounding, rudimentary down-strummed chords were exactly what I needed that day. I ended up wandering aimlessly, having given up on finding a costume.⁹ Then, while I took a shortcut through the hatefully touristy Market, “Halloween” kicked in. Brutally, I might add.

I suppose the fact that it was Halloween helped. But it was at that moment that I actually started listening to the lyrics. Or at least, listening to what I could decipher. And I realized how hilariously silly the posturing was. And then I realized it was probably on purpose. And it is entirely possible that this is where Sincere Irony™ as a lifestyle first entered my mind.

Here was a band that loved the same crappy monster movies I did, and sang ridiculous lyrics about them with a straight face. They meant it, man. Only they didn’t, not really. Except that they did. Cosmic, huh?¹⁰

I was put in a much better mood by this. And I started to remember that life could be enjoyed, not just endured. I ended up leaving the party with an attractive redhead, and within a few hours of my Misfits epiphany, my brief flirtation with sexual asceticism ended rather abruptly.¹¹

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Notes to Section II:

5. An opinion that would lately be rendered quaint as, over the years, I delved deeper into punk. Bands like Flux of Pink Indians or Oi Polloi make Legacy sound like it was produced by George Martin by comparison.
6. That sort of discussion is really best reserved for a Slog entry about The Goonies.
7. A band I still love, even if the lifestyle they espoused is not for me.
8. Honestly, even though most people do in this day and age, I am stunned that I actually managed to lose my virginity in High School. Heck, there are days I’m kind of amazed that I’m still not living a life of unwitting celibacy (see: Comic Books, My Love Of).
9. I ended up teasing my hair up and getting my roommate to loan me some eyeliner and black lipstick, and went as a pisstake parody of a Cure fan (a band I really don’t care for, despite liking most of their contemporaries).
10. Not really, but that isn’t the point.
11. That relationship ended horribly, by the way, and made me bitter again for some time. But that’s hardly the Misfits’ fault.

---

III. Too Much Horror Business
Danzig Needs To Lighten the Fuck Up and Jerry Only Needs To Just Stop

The Misfits are clearly Fellow Travelers on the Road to Sincere Irony™. However, as mighty as their original output is, there is strong evidence that the founding members either never truly grasped what made them great, or lost the plot so long ago that appreciation of their recent output is best left to everyday irony of the least sincere kind.

I’m going to speak only of Glenn Danzig and Jerry Only, and not the roughly 173 other people who can claim to be Misfits Alumni. They were there when it started, and there when it ended. And they were still there when it rose from the dead, collapsed, rose again, collapsed, and finally settled into a merchandising cash cow.

A. Danzig

Danzig, of course, has technically not been involved with the Misfits since at least a decade before my Halloween epiphany. Of course he moved on to make similar horror music, first with Samhain¹² and later his eponymous solo band. Of course, these things are “similar” to the Misfits in much the same way that Jim Belushi is “similar” to John Belushi – the former is an unfunny product that exists largely due to its relationship to the latter.

Don’t get me wrong. I like some of the post-Misfits Danzig oeuvre. And early Samhain isn’t appreciably different from the later Misfits’ relatively weak thrash songs on Wolf’s Blood/Earth A.D. But I think the difference between the Sincere Irony™ of the Misfits and the Earnest Sincerity™ that came afterward¹³ can be best appreciated by a comparison of two representative songs.

• Earnestly Sincere™: Danzig, “Mother.”


• Sincerely Ironic™: The Misfits, “Mommy, Can I Go Out and Kill Tonight?”

While the former is not a “bad” song, the latter shows the truly developed outlook of the Sincere Ironist™. “Mother” is a grim manifesto of a dark man warning others away from his darkness that never fails to make me chuckle. “Mommy…” is a slice of silly fun that sticks in the knife when we realize that we’re secretly celebrating a vengeful maniac who begs to be allowed to break curfew to commit his trophy-killings. Of course we still don't care, because it’s the fucking Misfits, and it’s not really fun and games until someone loses an eye (or twenty).

The Earnestly Sincere™ latter day Danzig seems blissfully unaware of the outright silliness of his pseudomacho shirtlessness, his wolf-laden videos that resemble nothing more than a direct-to-video adaptation of the Clan of the Cave Bear, and his pretentious revelation of his favorite occult books, which he apparently keeps by a kiddie pool.¹⁴

The Sincerely Ironic™ Misfits knew good and damn well that the main reason they were so badassed is that they looked comical, acted like cartoons, and sang about the ridiculous as if it were sublime. Well, actually they probably don’t, but self-awareness is the realm of the cynical ironist. And those guys are total douchebags.

B. Jerry Only

Of course, when I speak of the Misfits, I need to clarify: I mean the first incarnation of the band. While there’s nothing outright “awful” about the music of the second incarnation of the band, there is also none of the joy and fun. Jerry Only and his revolving cast of hired guns do not amuse me much. They come off as a pale imitator of the original, like a photo that has been Xeroxed until it is recognizable, but ugly. But I actually have no beef with “ugly, derivative crap qua ugly, derivative crap.”

I have a partial beef with the New Monkees…er…Misfits…on the issue of violating the 50% rule of Band Identity. This rule, commonly shattered by aging musicians clinging to their past successes at the expense of any growth or change, is a guideline I first postulated when I saw the “Beach Boys” a few years ago. Said “Beach Boys” consisted of original member Mike Love and mid-60s addition Bruce Johnston and a group of (admittedly competent) session men. While nothing was intrinsically wrong with the performance, it was beyond odd to think that one of the original five members could lay claim to being an equivalent experience of seeing the original band.

Essentially, I believe you have to have at least half of your original membership still in the band (rounded up for bands of 3, 5, or 7) to be able to use the original band name. Some exceptions may apply if a band didn’t really “gel” until a key member joined (case in point, the “classic” lineup of the Clash is actually the one with Topper Headon on drums, even though he did not appear on their still-legendary debut), or if only one member of the band provides nearly all of the music and lyrics to every song.¹⁵

The original Misfits were a revolving door outfit, to be sure, but as long as both Danzig AND Only stayed along for the ride, the name was fine. But once Glenn hit the bricks, the band was dead.

I am willing to let this quibble slide, as Doyle Von Frankenstein was part of the last several years of the original Misfits (though clearly he had not gained his German Barony until some time between 1983 and 1996, as he just went by "Doyle" then). However, there are some crimes that I cannot let slide – some actions are simply unpardonable. And the blame for that isn’t just on the reunited Misfits, but must also rest at least partially on some of their more oblivious fans.

“So Wolter,” you may ask. “What real crime did the post-Danzig Misfits (and the less-observant fans thereof) commit?”

Well, I’ll tell you, anonymous reader:

Forgetting that the world only needs one Kiss.

You’d think this would be evident. But you’d be wrong. The world already had a metal-tinged, not-altogether technically proficient, make-up-laden foursome of ostensible musicians that in actuality were a front for an enormous merchandising campaign. The Hot-Topic-ization of the punk world was one of the sad and ultimately inevitable side effects of mainstream acceptance of the genre. No use railing against prefab bands and pre-studded leather jackets. It’s just what happens in a commodity society.

However, when a band formed in the earliest days of punk that staggered through about 7 years in the legitimate underground, which had been defunct for over a decade suddenly reforms and immediately starts releasing a spate of merchandising, from skateboards, to bookbags, to lunchboxes, to sweatbands, to home pregnancy kits, on and on, ad infinitum…well, that just doesn’t sit well.

Especially when that band, which is admittedly aging rapidly, starts slathering on the clown white in a manner not seen in its original incarnation – sure they had a shock horror look, but it was far from the kabuki/clown hybrid that was displayed upon their rebirth – and attempt a FUCKING WRESTLING CAREER.

Sigh.

Honestly, if the Misfits Starship would just start covering “Strutter” and “Detroit Rock City,” instead of whizzing their legacy down their embossed bonded leather pants (on sale at Gadzooks for $199.99), I wouldn’t need to write this section.¹⁶

Instead, a band that made consistent effort to turn the trashy, dark, exploitive underbelly of American Pop Culture into redemptive anthems of noise and fun – a band that extolled the virtues of fringe culture heroes like Vampira, “Big Daddy” Roth, and Vincent Price, committed the one cardinal sin in punk: they exploited their own target audience.

It’s been a couple of years since I’ve heard anything new from The New Original Misfits. Please keep it this way, Jerry.

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Notes to Section III

12. Per the redhead in the story above, this should be pronounced “SAW-ehn.” And who am I to question a practicing Wiccan about the pronunciation of obscure and ultimately stupid Celto-Pagan BS?
13. While not always an unnecessary mindset in daily life, Earnest Sincerity™ is responsible for most of the truly execrable “rock” music. Bands such as Counting Crows, Creed, and Live once ruled the airwaves because music fans mistakenly embraced them as representative of a “mature” outlook on life.
14. If none of this makes sense to you, search for Danzig on youtube. You’ll be glad you did.
15. John Lydon can claim that Public Image, Ltd is exempted for this reason, but the quality latter albums suggest that the moment Keith Levene left, PiL ceased being PiL, being down from 50% to 25% of the original lineup.
16. Okay, I guess I never needed to write any of this...you sure are picky, anonymous reader.

---

IV. Come Back
It’s Still Ghoul’s Night Out

Despite their best efforts at becoming a caricature of a caricature of a caricature, the Misfits are still a must-hear every October. Ultimately, their complexly overlapping and joyously redundant back catalogue still packs a wallop that merchandising and self-importance cannot dilute.

I urge every reader to put the Misfits album of your choice on the turntable, or the CD tray, or the tape deck, or your iTunes library and turn it up LOUD. As far as I’m concerned, it’s never Halloween until you’re shouting along with Glenn:

“I AIN’T NO GODDAMN SON OF A BITCH!
YOU BETTER THINK ABOUT IT, BABY!”¹⁷

Unpleasant dreams…

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Notes to Section IV:

17. I have 6 versions of this one, too. Each is clearly essential and distinct...

Red, Gold, and Green

So, Ali and I were sitting at a gay bar in Boys Town a few Tuesdays back, drinking some fruity¹ blender drinks, while watching videos for some of the gayest² music ever made. That probably requires some backstory, but you're not going to get it, because The Slog always hits the ground running.

Most of the music was of the generic thumpa-thumpa-thumpa repetitivo crap, but mixed in were a few 80s songs that had, oh, I don't know...a rudimentary song structure. The best of the night was "She Blinded Me With Science," if that helps you get a notion of the range of quality I had to work with. I'm not quite the nostalgic 30-something that some are about the 80s. I know they have a dark underbelly, best left unexamined.³ But, man-oh-man, each blessed slice of pre-1986 music played was like an oasis between large stretches of single-word-named women with pitch-shifted voices warbling over a drum machine.⁴

One such song was the ever popular "Karma Chameleon," by Beauregard Quentin "Boy" George, Esq. When its familiar strains of relatively inoffensive pablum hit my ears, I was overjoyed that for at least 3 minutes I wouldn't have to see The Undead Corpse of Madonna kickboxing Justin Timberlake on a car. Or whatever the hell I had just witnessed. By this point I was in some sort of stupor that was only marginally caused by the booze slurpee I was nursing.

At this point Ali, who wasn't nearly as tanked as she would later get,⁵ asked me: "So, what the hell is this actually about?"

Me: "The song?"
Ali: "The song. The video. Everything. It's kind of like Showboat, but..."

I fumbled about for an answer. I spouted some junk about it being about Boy George singing about nothing because he was Boy George (or something like that - I forgot to bring my stenographer with me. Again.)

But you deserve more than that, Alexandra. Not much more, but a little more. So here goes. My half-assed analysis of "Karma Chameleon."

To begin with, I will unfortunately have to gloss over the video aspect. Yes, the video is basically Showboat mixed with Roots mixed with "The Safety Dance" mixed with what appears to be Adam Ant's⁶ Wedding Party. But that actually makes it one of the more cohesive videos of its time. So, I can't help you there, Alibear.

I also can't help you with any musical questions, as you well know I am tone deaf and essentially unable to learn the simplest information about composing. But this is Boy George we're talking about here, so I'm going to assume that no one reading this gives a wet fart about his song structure.

So we move to the lyrics. Now you're talking my language. English. More or less. So with only a little further ado, I give you:

The Annotated "Karma Chameleon"

The words of B. George are blockquoted in "Arial," the Official Blog Font of the New Romantic Movement.

Desert loving in your eyes all the way

Clearly, Mssr. le Georges' is having an encounter with a lover that withholds affection, analagous to the way a desert withholds adorable kit foxes from the rest of the world. Either that or the lyrics site I visited has a typo and the proper line is "Dessert loving in your eyes all the way," which could mean that the song is an ode to what's left of Val Kilmer's career:

I suppose I should not throw stones, as that could well be me in a few years, if the McRib is ever put into full seasonal rotation.⁷

Moving on, let's look at the rest of the stanza, which really needs to be parsed out. Here it is in its entirity:

If I listen to your lies would you say
I'm a man without conviction
I'm a man who doesn't know
How to sell a contradiction
You come and go, you come and go

Ok. Now lets look at this line-by-line.

If I listen to your lies

We've hit our first genuine snag. One interpretation (the one I personally subscribe to) is that this desert-eyed rogue is an inveterate liar, and therefore never to be trusted. Under this implication, it is clear that Boy has never really listened to his lover's words. Which makes the relationship a hollow lie, and reveals a truly dark and hideous worldview that would be better reflected if it came out of the mouth of William Atherton, or some other bearded functionary. The other interpretation is that said lover is occasionally dishonest, as we all are.⁸ However, to read this into the song is to say that somehow Chico Jorge⁹ is subconciously aware of the lies, and filters it out. This is evident, because the second half of the line,

would you say

proves Steve¹⁰ has no idea what this person says when lying. So I must ignore this interpretation as needlessly convoluted.

I'm a man without conviction

Steve's lover is saying that Steve is a man without conviction. However, as established in the the first line, Steve's lover is lying (either situationally or constantly, this holds true for both interpretations above). This is a clear case of Material Implication, which is as close to a logical truth as anything, as shown in the following syllogism (wherein A=Steve's desert-eyed lover [hereafter DEL] is making a statement, and B= The statement is a lie):

If A, then B
A
Therefore B

So Steve is making a claim that DEL is actually claiming Steve is a man of convictions. Clearly, Steve is an arrogant ass. Note I put the syllogism in Courier, the Official Blog Font of Logical Verities.

I'm a man who doesn't know
How to sell a contradiction

Again, DEL is a liar, so Steve is, in truth, a masterful salesman, who knows exactly how to sell a contradiction. However, in a very strange way of recursion, that means that Steve himself sells conflicting truths in the same manner as DEL. Which means nothing Steve says can be trusted. And it also means that you can trust Steve implicitly. Which means this song is either profoundly stupid or the pinnicle of Sincere Irony^TM.¹¹

You come and go, you come and go

The first of Steve's contradictions for sale. Who knows who's coming and going at this point? Well, Steve does. But that aint for sale.

Now we hit the very crux of the dilemma:

Karma karma karma karma, karma chameleon

This is indeed fascinating, as it clearly combines High Medieval Christian numerology with Hindu mysticism and herpetology.

Note that Karma is repeated five times. As anyone who read Sir Gawain and the Green Knight in High School knows, it's got a lot of alliteration and is really hard to read, so you might as well skip it and copy off the D&D nerd who actually read it. And as anyone who read Sir Gawain and the Green Knight in college, where they actually had to write a paper on it knows, five is a highly significant number, which represents (in the form of the Pentagle on Gawain's shield):

Fyrst he watz funden fautlez in his fyue wyttez,
And efte fayled neuer þe freke in his fyue fyngres,
And alle his afyaunce vpon folde watz in þe fyue woundez
Þat Cryst ka3t on þe croys, as þe crede tellez;
And quere-so-euer þys mon in melly watz stad,
His þro þo3t watz in þat, þur3 alle oþer þyngez,
Þat alle his forsnes he feng at þe fyue joyez
Þat þe hende heuen-quene had of hir chylde;¹²

Okay...um...that really didn't help my point. Let me provide a translation for those of us who don't speak the Midlands dialect of the 14th century (italics mine):

For first he was faultless in his five senses; and his five fingers never failed him; and all his trust upon earth was in the five wounds that Christ bare on the cross, as the Creed tells. And wherever this knight
found himself in stress of battle he deemed well that he drew his strength from the five joys which the Queen of Heaven had of her Child.¹³

Much better, right? Right? Note that there are four "fives" in the quote, much like the four "Karmas" before the comma separating them from the fifth in the lyric above, this is a nod to the notion that perfection of fives is only allowed for Christ.

Add this numerology to the concept of Karma, which I believe any of my readers should be familiar with, and you see that Steve is playing a deep game about the nature of inner gifts versus outer pride. And all of this will soon come back to haunt both Steve and DEL as Dame Fortune Spins her Wheel.

And really, who doesn't think chameleons are neat-o?

For the record, both of the preceding quotes were in Verdana, he Official Blog Font of Arthurian Source Material.

You come and go, you come and go

Oddly, this line is now redolent with the meaning missing from its first occurence. Fortuna lashes against Steve.

Loving would be easy if your colours were like my dream

Per Wikipedia, the Official Source of All Truth and Knowledge In Our Current Dystopian Climate, red-green colorblindness is prevalent in roughly 7% of the male population. It's a somewhat safe bet to assume both Steve and DEL are male (This is Boy George we're talking about here), so it is not a large leap to assume that one or both of them suffer from some inability to percieve color¹⁴ in the same fashion. It is also safe to assume that Steve and DEL both dream in color,¹⁵ despite Old Wives Tales To the Contrary.

Red, gold and green; red, gold and green

Note two of the three colors are red and green, the most commonly confused hues in colorblind subjects. They are also the traditional colors of Christmas, a holiday originally founded on the notion of generousity and giving, but since given over to the Gods of Commodity Consumerism. The third color, gold, which is clearly equally discernable to both parties is so obviously symbolic that it is almost an insult to the reader's intelligence to note that this verse is clearly a counterpoint on the failure of modern consumer culture to meet the spiritual needs of the participant. Everything is indeed for sale, and Steve (like his spiritual predecessor, Willy Loman) is being crushed by Fortune's Wheel, as evidenced by the events that spiral out of his control.

Of course, the repetition of the phrase within the line is simply to make the song catchy.

There are alternate interpretations that suggest that the colors relate to the mercurial nature of the chameleon's own outer coloration or that "red, gold, and green" is a veiled reference to the Rastafarian religion. On the first point, after being so lyrically astute, would Boy George be so damn obvious in the chorus? I think not. And as for the second, no amount of pot smoking would make someone want to dress like this:

Oh Jesus (no pun intended)...there's more to this song? Another frickin' verse? And a bridge? Ok...

Moving on:

Didn't hear your wicked words every day

As mentioned before, Steve refuses to hear what DEL says, deciding long ago that all is lies.

And you used to be so sweet

DEL once worked for a renowned Belgian chocolateer. You can look this up.¹⁶

I heard you say

Ah, selling us contradictions again, eh Steve. I'm beginning to doubt that you're even named "Steve."

That my love was an addiction

This line is troubling. How can love itself, as a concept, be an addiction? Love can be addictive, in theory. And an addiction can be mistaken for love. But Love qua Love <> an Addiction. Even Homer nods, so we must assume this is an error on the songwriter's part.

When we cling our love is strong

Clearly Steve (or Boy George himself) is being either naïve or disingenuous. Love clings when it is at its weakest. A strong lover can relax, confident that the object of his or her affection returns this affection. Another strong signifier that Steve's reality is a dangerous and shifting thing.

When you go you're gone forever

The mix of a Christian afterlife and the notion of of Karmic retribution from the chorus are suddenly and violently belied by this sudden rejection of the spiritual. I suspect this isn't meant to be a simple statement of an Atheistic or Agnostic worldview, achieved through soul-searching and application of science and/or logic to empirical data, but rather an expression of the nihilism inherent in what Steve likes to pretend is his soul.

You string along, you string along

Petty bitching from the now very unlikable Steve.

At this point the chorus is reprised. The juxtoposition of new knowledge on Steve's character and personal ethos adds a harrowing note to the original message.

Then we are taken to the bridge.

Every day is like survival
You're my lover, not my rival
Every day is like survival
You're my lover, not my rival

This is the point in the song where I differ from nearly all interpreters. As I have stated previously, Steve is a truly unreliable narrator when relating his relationship to DEL. The reason for this is clear to me, and can be truly grasped by following the simile:

Every day is like survival

to its logical conclusion and then juxtaposing it against the plaintive cry:

You're my lover, not my rival

Is every day like survival? If you define "survival" as the arc of a human life, then yes. The ancient Greeks were aware of the concept, in which the Ages of Man were converted to times of the day in the Sphinx's great riddle.

In the beginning of the day, the Sun (Son?) rises, and begins its arc to full Physical Maturity at Noon. From this point, though the height of Emotional Maturity (the Afternoon, the brightest part of the day), in to Decline (dusk) and Death (Night). And all of this is repeated, ad infinitum, as Vanna spins the Wheel.

Steve cries desperately to get this diurnal cycle to end with words, but the words:

You're my lover, not my rival

Are not really addressed to DEL at all.

For there is, in point of fact, no DEL to cry out to. Or rather DEL is a construct, a conflation in Steve's mind of his own vivid livng soul (as he percieves it) and the mortality of his body. He is, ultimately, trying desperately to learn to love the decay inherent in his own body and life, and not compete. The lines are repeated as The Wheel turns, in the vain hope that Fortuna will hear those words and stop long enough for those twin facets of Steve's shattered psyche to join in a "Lover's Embrace."

But Dame Fortune is as deaf as she is blind, and the cycle continues. Verse follows chorus again, like the waves crashing endlessly against the rocky cliffs of endless Time.¹⁷

So, I...hope that helped, Ali.

---

1. Fruity as in flavored like fruit, not in the sense of a slur.
2. This is also not meant as a slur, but the night's playlist was, objectively speaking, super-duper gay. Although the dance music cover of Pink Floyd's "Comfortably Numb" bordered on Sincere Irony^TM in its brash awfulness.
3. And that's my excuse for leaving the Goonies entry so-half-assedly incomplete after so long.
4. Which, when put that way, sounds oddly awesome to me. It isn't, however, when put into in practice.
5. As evidenced by her baseless accusations of Slogger Self-Urination on my previous post.
6. The most beloved person in the history of Laos, and the face of my Destroyer..
7. I also aopolgize for the not-so-funny alt text. I'm just pleased as punch that I actually figured out how to do alt text.
8. I really did break that mirror, Mom.
9. Okay, I'm officially out of ways to say his name. From now on I will refer to the narrator of the song simply as "Steve."
10. Hope you've been checking the footnotes as you go. The saps who haven't have no idea who Steve is. Losers.
11. You may ask yourself, "Can't it be both?" Well: yes and no.
12. Taken from the e-text of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight as edited by J.R.R. Tolkien and E.V. Gordon, and Revised by Norman Davis, which can be found here. The Slog provides credit where credit is due.
13. Taken from a modern translation of the same by W. A. Neilson, which can be found here.
14. Or "colour" as many of Our Friends In Foreign Lands Dealing With a Surplus of Vowels insist on spelling it.
15. Ibid.
16. This blatant untruth should be the canny reader's first clue that the nature of his-or-her own reality is suspect in this narrative. Perhaps The Slog itself is not the Dispenser of Ultimate Truth that it has to-date advertised itself.
17. Well, that ended a little differently than I had originally planned it when I started this blog entry two weeks ago...

MySpace Archive: In Which Wolter is Disturbed

In an attempt to beef up this blog's appearance before I actually tell anyone about its existence, and also to relive some of my wacky antics over on MySpace, I am archiving all of my old posts over here at The Slog.

Nothing wacky today. In fact, I'm not going to even attempt to be funny about this.

The following is something that people I know find either disturbing or hilarious. For me, I was initially disturbed at this, then amused. Then I thought about it, and it is indeed disturbing.

[Originally posted on Saturday, June 23, 2007]

Ummm...yeah

The following letter was delivered to my office last week. It was addressed to the building, not anyone in particular. It was handwritten in a barely legible scrawl. I'm reproducing it in its entirity to the best of my abilities. Because I don't want to be the only one who was disturbed:

Dear Friend,

God is great, God is good, God is love and God forgives. All of us are guilty guilty of something & none is perfect but the father. people think God is the harsh judge who sits high and look low and out to get us but nothing could be farther from the truth. God is so harsh that he sent the Black panther gang by me after they repented.

We are living in the period of the first resurrection. people who have died are coming back. God the father, satan the Antichrist, demons demons and aliens from other planets are here on earth with us. In Moses day when problems were too hard for his workers helpers they took them to moses.

This time the Judges are God and me and I can solve most cases but when it comes to aliens that I don't understand and woman women sticking sticks up my sons rectum and giving him a shot in the penis, I leave in the hands of God. My mother was married to John the Baptist of the Bible. she needed a doctor in child birth and he didn't get her one killing killing her and leaving me with the comforts of a mother and he could get to me. He has tried to kill me since I was a baby and still at it.

John the Baptist is a demonic trick from hell who can be woman, man, or any nationality he chooses instantly. He can cause precision pregnacy pregnacy and has over a 170 babies. He change and people don't know who he is.

He is John Kennedy, Adolf Hitler, prince Charles, Richard Daley, Matt Hale, Janet Jackson, a few. The Jesus Jesus Christ of the Bible is the Antichrist. A priest got Mary pregnant and the lie lie went down in history that God did it. He did not die for our sins, he was crucifed crucified for telling the lie that he was the son of God. I am the real Christ. God permitted slavery so I could be born born in America. Stop lying, stealing, swearing, drugs, gambling, murder, robbery, sex out side of marriage, cheating, oral and rectal sex, smoking, drinking, repent, ask God to forgive you and do them no more. Read the Bible, pray, be Baptized and go to the church of your choice. The Bible say ye must be born a gain.

They took my children away from me to make them do oral sex on people so they could kill them. But the children are mine and no one can press charges just God and me, and we only press charges against the ones who took them.

Let me tell you a little about Congress these days. The sick Edward Kennedy posed as a doctor and examened me with a bottle washer and had me bleeding. He and a group put my brother under a toilet, took laxatives and let their bowels move on him. I was not permitted to go out all day once because Edward was waiting to throw feces on me. He has little boys doing oral sex in tuxedos while he Jack off in
[head?] at [cakes?]. Wait until I tell you the whole story in a book later. The Lord God planted a garden in Eden Eden – (Eaton John the Baptist named him self). The Lord God placed the man in the garden of Eden to tend and care for it. A river flowed from the land of Eden where gold is found. I found I found the gold at age 9. (Genesis 2-8, 10, 15).

John the Baptist worked for the Anti Christ taking care of his plantation making him Adam and the Antichrist God. Since we are living in the period of the first resurrection and the final eternal Judgment, creation started and ends with me.
may God Bless you.

yours truly
[Name withheld]

One thing is certain. This is definitely not a case of Sincere Irony.^TM But it is sincere.

I wonder about this woman (it was signed with a woman's name). I hope she has someone watching out for her.

I'm almost to the end of my MySpace archiving. I didn't post again on there for almost seven months. And then, it was only to comment on the fact that I hadn't posted for a while. I will be commenting on that commentary soon.

MySpace Archive: The Dark Underbelly of the 80s 1b

In an attempt to beef up this blog's appearance before I actually tell anyone about its existence, and also to relive some of my wacky antics over on MySpace, I am archiving all of my old posts over here at The Slog.

This is probably the most "me" of all my posts. It's convoluted, strange, discursive, and combines laziness and "trying too hard" in paradoxical ways. Plus, it has a paean to Dick Miller, and a slam on Christopher Hitchens.

It's also the debut of my exceptionally confusing philosophy, Sincere Irony^TM, which is the culmination of a lifetime of giving half-assed presentations of half-baked ideas (The Supremacy of Ghostbusters, The Nonexistence of Madagascar, The Godhood of David Bowie, etc.)

Strap yourself in for my rootin'-ist, tootin'est, footnotiest adventure to date.

[Originally posted on May 17th, 2007]

The Dark Underbelly of the 80s - Part One, Section B

SINCERE IRONY^TM AND THE NATURE OF GOOD AND EVIL

Anyone who sees the title above knows I could only be writing about one topic: Gremlins.

That's right, folks. My own personal Chinese Democracy, "The Dark Underbelly of the 80s - Part One, Section B, Movies That Begin With G (continued)" has arrived. And not a second too late, as our culture needs its soothing balm. Already, the Beatification of professional douchebag huckster/anti-Semitic elephant seal/decomposing corpse Jerry Falwell has begun. Any society whose news media can describe that bargain-bin racist carnival barker as, at worst, a "polarizing figure" is on a rocket sled to hell. And when the only pundit on CNN who speaks with half a brain about how much of a conniving toad that man was is pompous asshead Christopher Hitchins¹, then we are² in deep trouble (Fig. 1).

Fig. 1: Asshead.

But I digress.

Like all 80s movies, Gremlins posits a bleak and terrifying worldview. Unlike Ghostbusters, whose Lovecraftian scope is the vast and uncaring universe run by elder gods whose reign of unfocused terror (Fig. 2) is abetted by the vast and uncaring bureaucracy on earth, as embodied by a bearded man with no dick³, the enemy in Gremlins is the evil elements of our own culture. We are hell-bent on our own destruction here in the West. If September 11^th has taught us anything⁴, it's that jaded, hipster irony is insufficient to stem the forces of evil, doubt, and televangelism in our world. The only thing that can defend us from these elements is Sincere Irony^TM.

Fig. 2: Cthulhu.

To take the long way to my argument: recently, I have been a fringe participant in numerous online discussions on the nature of faith, religion, and how that relates to the Boston Red Sox and the drumming ability of Terry Chimes (do not question this – suffice to say that Deep Clash Theory^TM is a broad and all-encompassing area of debate). The general consensus reached is that faith is genuine, it must be held in concert with doubt. For certainly and the belief in finite answers is theologically untenable, and reveals the non-doubting believer⁵ to be an intellectual coward⁶. Sincere Irony^TM operates under similar lines as genuine faith.

Fig. 3: Way better than Apocalypse Now.

Simply put, Sincere Irony^TM is a genuine love of the otherwise indefensible. It's watching Spider-Baby because you think it is a genuinely good movie, while being aware that it's also exploitive trash. It's being a dyed-in-the-wool baseball fan while hating jocks. It's believing with all your heart that Ed Wood is a better director than Francis Ford Coppola (who honestly peaked with Dementia-13) (Fig. 3). It's listening to Wesley Willis and genuinely believing he saved Rock'n'Roll while being aware that in the long run the majority of his "fans" are patronizing jackasses, and that you were too the first time you heard him. It's arguing from the heart that the Spice Girls are more genuinely punk and less contrived than the Sex Pistols. It's B-movies, outsider culture, primitivism, and junk food. It's basically everything the Cramps have ever done. It's Orwellian Doublethink for a new generation not afraid to create a reality in opposition to what we're being force fed by Sinister Outside Forces⁷.

And its Messiah is Dick Miller. (Fig. 4)

Dick Miller is the lynchpin of Sincere Irony^TM. Like the Danube snaking its way through Europe, he snakes his way through All That Is Right About Pop Culture. He is Mr. Futterman. He is the cop at the end of Rock'n'Roll High School. He is the guy who realizes Audrey, Jr. is a big deal in The Little Shop of Horrors (not the musical, so stop checking imdb now). He is WALTER-FREAKING-PAISLEY⁸, for Chrissakes. He is the Alpha and the Omega of Movies Decent People Need To See To Be Complete Human Beings. And he isn't flashy about it. He's not some trust-fund crybaby. He's working class. He's blue collar. He's probably a great guy to have a beer with. Every time he gets a part in a film, an angel gets a Ferrari. Of course, that self-same angel probably rolls it, but Dick gets pretty steady work, so there's another Ferrari on the way, Gabriel.

Fig. 4: Our Lord and Savior.

Gremlins posits our Dick (and the worldview he represents) against the forces of evil. And to the observant, that isn't the Mogwai, even if they have eaten after midnight. The forces of evil in this movie are the bland and uncaring modern world, full of hateful machines, alcoholic cops, and Mrs. Deagle.

Mrs. Deagle is perhaps the finest example of what is wrong with America. Miserly, cruel, and humorless, she embodies all of the pettiness of crass consumer society⁹. She lives to wreak havoc and revenge on Billy Peltzer for the twin crimes of youth and dog-ownership. She is the modern (well '80s modern) incarnation of Raskolnikov's pawnbroker. As a villain, she reigns over such lesser film heavies (Fig. 5) as Ivan Drago, Cruella DeVil, and Adolf Hitler¹⁰. Actually, footnote 10 is more on point than I meant it to be, as Mrs. Deagle is very analogous to the Nazis in the first and third (or "good") Indiana Jones movies: you can kill them without arousing any pity.

Fig. 5: The Vienna Boys Choir.

The death of Mrs. Deagle¹¹ is one of the oddest of film anomalies. In an ostensible kids movie, a sad and pathetic old woman in a house full of cats is systematically taunted, then launched out of a window with cannon-like force by a motorized chair (thus indirectly saving the Peltzer homestead). This should be seen as a heartless act of depravity, but instead seems delightful and justified. If anything, the gremlins themselves are acting as agents of righteous vengeance (much like the mythical Furies, in their guise as the Eumenides, or Kindly Ones – but with more kickass mohawks). I don't know anyone who grieves over the sad demise of Mrs. Deagle. But if I ever meet someone who does, I will know that they are, at best, a pussy¹².

Other victims of the gremlins' rampages include the cold, analytical science teacher who takes secret delight in tormenting his test subjects, the alcoholic cops who pervert their promise to serve and protect the community, and Corey Feldman (for obvious reasons). In fact, Corey (Fig. 6) is largely to blame for the nightmare occurring to Kingston Falls, and should be fired out of a cannon-chair himself. Just because…

Fig. 6: War Criminal

Back on topic:

We are all slaves to our modern devices. Gremlins practically screams this at us. All it takes is a hideous army of reptilian saboteurs to render our orderly society a chaotic nightmare. During Christmas no less! This supposed time of brotherly love and familial celebration has been cruelly mocked by its own crassness and commercialization¹³. And yet, the seeds of our destruction are the seeds of our redemption. For every malfunctioning traffic light, roller-coaster chair, and wacky shaving kit, there is a juicer, a microwave, or a nifty remote control car that represents our salvation. These contradictions are inherent for any follower of Sincere Irony^TM, and only bolster our belief in its value.

FLAWS IN THE DIALECTIC

Okay, having said that, Gremlins is not a perfect movie. There's no reason to compare it to works of sheer cinematic majesty like, say, Ghostbusters. There are two major flaws in the movie:

1. Corey Feldman
2. The Rules of the Mogwai

Feldman goes without saying¹⁴, but I would be remiss if I didn't point out a few problems with the other point. I will be brief, as I will be venturing into bad stand-up territory¹⁵.

1. Do not expose them to sunlight – what the hell kind of crazy evolutionary dead end are Mogwai? I could understand skin sensitivity and light sensitivity, but melting like Velveeta¹⁶ at the slightest exposure to the sun seems to be a bit of a hurdle to overcome for the whole survival thing
2. Still, I suppose if the main goal of evolution is to survive until reproduction, the rule of Do not expose them to water cancels that out. However, given that water covers 70% of the earth's surface, falls from the sky on a very regular basis, and makes up something like 90% of all living creatures, the world should be alternately covered with either Mogwai or the goo left over after a sunrise. And what about condensation? Wouldn't morning dew guarantee an army of gremlins? Or the snow that covered Kingston Falls? What is the minimum viscosity of a fluid that would create more Mogwai? Gremlins look a little shiny; could their own slime self-pollinate them?
3. Don't feed them after midnight – holy Hell, this requires a subset of points:
   1. Midnight where? As the earth is a sphere, doesn't that mean a roving line of demarcation where Mogwai mustn't eat?
   2. Or is it based on time zones? Like, if a Mogwai in Chicago eats at 11:59 central, at the same time as one in southwestern Indiana. Would one remain cute and furry while the other grew a cocoon?
   3. And is daylight savings taken into effect?
   4. When is it safe to feed a Mogwai again? Shouldn't Key Luke have narrowed the criteria? Because Gizmo would have starved to death in my house.

POST SCRIPT

Assorted other observations that did not fit elsewhere:

1. I would be remiss if I didn't mention part of the reason I realized Gremlins was fighting the good fight in the culture war is a cameo by one of the single greatest humans in history. The Mr. Jones who compliments Billy's cartooning skills is none other than the legendary Chuck Jones, the single greatest director in history. Oh, sure, bring up Citizen Kane again…look, you film school jagoff, Chuck Jones was working with techniques, camera angles, and characterization that live action directors would take years to integrate. So take your fat, pompous, fishstick-and-wine-shilling hack Orson Welles and cram it. Chuck Jones is on the side of good. And I would rather watch "What's Opera, Doc" 18 times in a row than see tham damn snoozefest about the sled.
2. As a child, I thought Phoebe Cates was hot. I kinda still do.
3. I am one of about 6 people who enjoyed Gremlins 2: The New Batch. I'm not bragging or apologizing. Just stating a fact¹⁷.

Tune in whenever I feel like making Section C. I'll give you a hint: it'll be about "OUR TIME!"¹⁸

NOTES

1. The fact that everything Hitchins has said on this topic is fantastic does not make him any less of an asshead.
2. For some reason, MS Word has told me that this should be "is." As in, "we is in deep trouble because MS Word is a shitty program that can't speaks good grammar. Also, the joking "speaks" in my precious sentence was not flagged as bad grammar. AUUUGH!
3. It seems that the beard is the pinnacle of evil in 80s culture – Walter Peck, James Brolin (he stole Pee Wee's god-given role, dammit), ZZ Top – the list is seemingly endless).
4. It hasn't.
5. I resisted the urge to write "believer^TM"
6. Suck it, Falwell.
7. Patent pending.
8. I'm not going to automatically dismiss you for not knowing who Walter Paisley is, but if you don't watch the classic Bucket of Blood as soon as you can, you are less than human to me.
9. For anyone who thought my Falwell intro wasn't germane to the topic: Wolter-1, All Y'all Haters-0
10. I am of course, speaking of the Hitler from Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, whose major crimes seem to be burning books and autographing diaries. The real Hitler was probably at least somewhat nastier than Mrs. Deagle. But I bet he at least liked dogs.
11. Ok, I'm making an assumption here. Maybe she didn't die…somehow Mr. Futterman survived into Gremlins 2: The New Batch despite being apparently run over by a bulldozer. Nah. She's dead. Futterman had to survive because Joe Dante will never make a movie without Dick Miller. Joe Dante is on the side of good.
12. And at worst a Neo-Fascist Class Traitor.
13. If I were a more profound thinker, and less anxious to finish this ever-expanding monograph, I would point out that this whole crisis can be seen as a parable against commercialization, as it all began with the need to come up with a better, flashier Christmas gift, in lieu of spending more time with one's family. Shame on you, Hoyt. Shame on you.
14. Indeed, after a landmark ruling made in Geneva in 1992, his inclusion in the cast of any movie is considered a War Crime.
15. Why don't they make the whole plane out of the black box? Am I right? Who are these people?
16. Actually, per the commercial, I guess they actually melt like cheddar: lumpy, oily, and dribbling onto your doily or other placemat material.
17. I also liked Drop Dead Fred. With Phoebe Cates….
18. However, to date, it hasn't been your time to read it. 9 months and counting since I made this promise. Maybe I'll have the next installment done before the world ends in 2012.