This Filled My Tiny Heart With Joy

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.

So, yeah...

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

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.

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1. 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).
2. Eat your heart out, Barney Miller.
3. These gypsies will be the broadest stereotype of the Roma possible, in order to spark some controversy that will increase viewership.
4. He's irritable.

The Golden Girls House Claims Its First Victim

RIP, Estelle Getty.

How My Back Ruined My FOUR Day Weekend

Or, Even I Can't Blame the Dog For This One¹

Greetings from the Slogosphere! Though I have never yet gotten to the point of writing The Slog Manifesto, there is a reason for this blog's title. And it's hints are in the definitions on the corner of the page, and how they relate direct to My Sad Little Life.

Even barring the surprisingly common occurrance of Unauthorized Canine Fecal Matter in my apartment,² I am not known as either

• A particularly lucky person
• A particularly level-headed³ person when my luck is bad

In other words, bad shit⁴ happens me to a lot, and I like to complain about it.

I suppose I should "man up" and take charge of my own destiny. But no. In the case of my back, I think it's entirely fair to whine and moan like an 11-year-old that's just been told she can't get tickets to see Hannah Montana.⁵

As eagle-eyed Slogophiles might well be aware, I am 31 years of age. When I was about 26 or so⁶, I developed sciatica. Your mid-to-late-twenties is always a fantastic time to develop a lower back problem. Because, since youth is wasted on the young, why not just take it away from them, and give them a disorder that makes them feel like they're 78 years old?

Honestly, "sciatica" sounds like something your Granpappy complained about just before Mom and Dad made the so-called "tough decision" to ship him to some raisin ranch with a name like Sandpiper Estates or Pleasant Hill Cove. Maybe we could come up with a more "youth-oriented" or "Xtreme" name for it? Or name it after someone kinda cool? I'd much rather tell people I had "David Cross Syndrome" or "a Bulging Chiklis."

Where was I? Oh yeah.

Pain.

I has it.

Anyway, my sciatica has been an on-again, off-again phenomenon since then. Mostly off, as one of my Top Three Deadly Sins to commit is Sloth,⁷ so it's usually easy for me to follow doctor's orders and lay off lifting more than 20 pounds at a time. However, there comes a time in a man's life when he's sick of paying 108 bucks a month to store his excess crap. So Teh Aly-Baerz⁸ and I went on a trip to Public Storage this weekend, and sorted through the Lion's Share of Wolter's Library.

Other facts about me that I could share right now:

• I am a compulsive book reader
• I am a compulsive book buyer
• I am a compulsive book hoarder
• This makes me a jackass

So, I had to sort through roughly 700 pounds of Assorted Printed Material, deciding what to keep and what to give away to Goodwill. I managed to actually give away something like two boxes worth, which is a serious victory in My War on My Compulsions.⁹ However, the specific gravity of paper is high. Oh, so very high.

Before anyone says anything: I (mostly) lifted with my legs, I swear. The problem with that? Oh, the next day, when my legs were killing me and we had to move the boxes into our apartment. Because I then favored my legs. At the expense of...well, I think I've spelled that out enough.

Anyway, yesterday, I couldn't walk, and wasted some Paid Time Off to rest it off. I basically spent the whole day in or around the bed, pestering La Alejandra del Hombre Bueno and complaining. I was moderately better this morning, so I decided to cut off what was rapidly becoming The Worst Unplanned Vacation in History. And since you can't get heroin over the counter, in order to rejoin the work¹¹ force I had to take (to paraphrase Bill Hicks paraphrasing someone else) An Heroic Dose of ibuprofen this morning.

Interesting fact about ibuprofen: it's not a miracle pill.

So, the Slog Status Report for March 18th, 2008:

• I am in excruciating pain
• It is largely my own damn fault
• I have tried and failed to blame The Spark
• In retaliation, he will no doubt crap on something I love while I am at work
• I will be powerless to clean it up, as it took me over 5 minutes to put on a shoe yesterday.

Hope you liked this bitter, largely unfunny rant about My Defective Body. Next one will be less self-centered and have more Synthpop Stars and Mogwai Feeding Tips.

---

1. But Lord how I tried. I really did.
2. Located in stately Slog Towers ("You don't have to be Section 8 to live here, but it helps.")
3. I was going to put sanguine, but I suddenly remembered that I can't remember if sanguine means calm or belligerent. If only I had some way to look up words and their meanings. Oh well, back to writing about myself on the internet.
4. I still can't believe he shat the bed. THE BED!!!
5. I'm not sure who this is. But I'm following the time-honored old-guy tradition of making an attempt to appeal to the youth demographic ('cause kids love reading blogs where 30-somethings rant about how much Citizen Kane could have been improved by adding a scene with a young Bea Arthur and a Talking Rhino singing a show tune [and you KNOW it would have been]. Or at least they do when you mention some pop star and/or actress they like).
6. It might have been 27. I honestly can't remember much that happened in my life before last Tuesday or so. Every now and then I have to consult this blog just to remember what I'm mad at lately.
7. The other two? Gluttony and Wrath. I would have put in Lust, but honestly, thinking of Lust just makes me commit either Envy or Pride, depending on my current status. And Greed is pretty awesome as well. Really, all of the Deadly Sins are pretty good. But I try to stick with my Top Three for most occassions.
8. See my new line of "Loljew" merchandise, soon to be available at a cafepress store near you.
9. Up next: I tackle My Irritating Need To Put Footnotes In Blog Entries¹⁰
10. And after that? Randomly Capitalized Terms.
11. I admittedly use that term loosely (see "Seven Deadly Sins, My Top Three" above)

About Me, or What? No Hitler Picture?

I know I'm breaking both the "No New Content" rule and my amazing streak of Hitlarious¹ Photos, but I think it's about time to really get to know me, The Slogger. I should probably fill all this crap out in the profile section, but that's kinda lame. But a Cult of Personality isn't built in a day, so let me get cracking.

As you may have guessed, I am a reasonably heterosexual² male, I live with my girlfriend, who is a [note to self: come up with clever synonym for "Jewish Person" that is Not At All Antisemitic and Done in Good Fun before you post this], in the city of Chicago (Pennant Loser To the World).

I grew up in Charleston, SC ("Now Slavery Free for 143 Years!"), where I spent the first 28 years of my life, including a nine-year stint at the College of Charleston³, where I majored in Theatre⁴, with a concentration in Dramaturgy⁵ and a minor in Studio Art. Needless to say, I am now working as a receptionist.⁶

I'm tone deaf, which leads me to a passion for music. I've got a soft spot in my heart for any punk or post-punk band formed before 1982, and at least 10 that formed after that. I believe that Bowie is God⁷, and the Clash are The Greatest Thing In History.⁸ I cannot think of a genre that I don't like any representative piece (other than Anything Some Dumb Hippie Likes). For the most part, however, I prefer songs with Loud Guitars and/or Memorable Hooks.

God? You bet.

In my estimation there is One True Sport. That sport is baseball⁹. For reasons Bowie only knows, I have been a lifetime supporter of the Chicago Cubs.¹⁰ I would blog more about my feelings about the Cubs, but numerous other sites do it better, smarter, and funnier.¹¹

I'm not really interested in blogging about politics, but my general sympathy to the anti-authoritarian left will probably shine through from time to time. I'm neither liberal nor conservative, but I'm not really a fan of the middle either. I'd be an activist, but I can barely get up the energy to write a blog about the Goonies, much less overthrow the Capitalist System.

I'm a huge fan of cartoons and cartooning (and may one day toss some art up here). I love a lot of intelligent, arty comics, but for the most part am satisfied if the issue has at least one jetpack riding monkey punching a dinosaur. I'd blog about that love more often, but at last count there are roughly sixteen thousand people doing ironic, silly comics reviews, and at least fifteen thousand of them have better collections and a more thorough knowledge of the minutiae of mainstream comics.¹²

Random assorted arty things I have been paid either money or beer to do:

• Drawing Caricatures at a Bat Mitzvah (Money)
• Stand Up Comedy (Beer)
• Acting in plays (Money and Beer)
• Designing posters for plays (Money or Beer)
• Designing a brochure for a Theatre Program (Money)
• Designing a logo for a set piece in a play (Neither money nor beer, I was young and foolish)
• Writing a play (Money)
• Writing sketch comedy (Beer)
• Drawing a Turkey (Money)
• Drawing a Dragon (Money)
• Designing a tattoo (Beer)
• Illustrations for some handbound books (Beer)

If you have something you'd like me to do for money or beer, feel free to contact The Slog.

There. That's enough about me for now.¹³

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1. I coined this specifically to be the "w00t" of 2008. Use it with my blessing.
2. My inexplicable non-sexual fascination with the Spice Girls (and for that matter Bea Arthur) notwithstanding...
3. Despite its reputation as a "party school," I have very clear memories of six of those nine years.
4. Spelled this way because we in The Theatre are pretentious.
5. After countless classes and at least two separate instances of working as a Dramaturg, I am still murky on what it means exactly. I think it's kind of like the Consiglieri of a play. At least, I hope it is, otherwise it was way out of order for me to leave that horse's head in the playwright's bed...
6. Straight! I swear!
7. That's the 1968-1982 Bowie. And c'mon, that's not weirder than any given major world religion. Hinduism, I'm looking in your direction.
8. Even greater than the McRib? Yes, fictional interrogator. Even greater.
9. Or, as the English call it, "Football."
10. "World Champions Every Hundred Years, Like Clockwork!"
11. "How is that different than any other topic?" you ask. "It's complicated," I answer. Then I stare knowingly into the distance until you feel a little awkward and leave.
12. A genre I stopped reading for over a decade due to the concerted efforts of one Rob Liefeld to destroy it utterly.
13. I actually think that's EVERYTHING about me. I may have no reason to ever blog again. Other than, of course, boredom fueled egomania.

MySpace Archive: My Brush With Death

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.

Welcome to part one of my exciting two part series "My Brush With Death." It would have been a lot longer, had I actually said anything about This Particular Brush while it was actually looming in my brain.

Of course, at this point, I had no idea that I was About To Possibly Die At Some Point In the Near Future If Certain Things Turned Out To Be The Case. The fact that they did not turn out to be the case in no way lessened the Personal Horror.

In any case, at this point my mind was more focused on the Nameless Fear of the Unknown that is usually brought about by contemplating the flagship series in the Lifetime Network syndication lineup. The fact that, despite being on Lifetime, the show did not contain a Judith Light appearance should in no way lessen the Personal Horror.

I will be presenting this particular Archive with limited editorial interruption, as it is one of my personal favorites.

[Originally posted on November 7, 2006]

Well, I'm going to a free clinic (plus Golden Girls house)

I have finally crossed the line from everyday pain to ridiculous pain in my shoulder (did I mention my shoulder has been feeling like it's full of cold fire for the past month and a half? I probably should have), and need to see a doctor. But (and this is a huge but - I should up the font, but I'm just not that Pomo) [But I am NOW.], I am not insured. And I won't be for at least 2 months.

So I get to trek my sorry hiney [Did I really write "hiney" here? I guess I did. Shameful] to the free clinic today, whereupon I can mention this pain, the weight loss, maybe get some baselines done, and while I'm at it, what better opportunity to get a cotton swab up my urethra and maybe a prostate exam. Just to keep the dignity at an all-time high.

Also, if they've expanded their areas of coverage to psychiatric disorders, I should really talk to a therapist about my increasing inability to comprehend the geography of the Golden Girls' house. This is a problem I've had for years (I'm a Bea Arthur fan, like all good-hearted people - and no, it's not prurient, you sickos).

I hesitate to explain my problems with the House That Blanche Built, for fear of spreading my own neuroses about the Non-Euclidean, almost Lovecraftian dimensions of that abode of the 60-something damned to those who have been innocent of this nightmare. However, I will make a few observations (and I would love to be able to provide visual aids, but I cannot draw dimensions beyond what the human mind and the set department at Buena Vista can envision).

I assume the reader has a basic knowledge of the set of this popular show, a mainstay of the NBC evenings of the late 80s/early 90s and the Lifetime Network mornings, afternoons, and late nights ever since. I also assume a basic knowledge of stage directions (a primer for my rare non-theatre acquaintances: all directions are from the standpoint of a performer facing the audience - stage right is to the audience's left - and downstage is closer to the audience, upstage is away).

There are three major set pieces in the house: the Living Room, with its front door on stage right, open Lanai windows upstage, unused breakfast nook (a mainstay of all shows featuring an all-woman cast - I refer to my monograph on the cast flux in Designing Women, first published in 1999) and hallway upstage left, and stage left kitchen exit; the Kitchen, with its stage right door to the living room and upstage right door to the garage; and the aforementioned Lanai (which is apparently some sort of patio, but I have never heard anyone use the term outside of Golden Girls studies - in much the same way that I've never heard the words Oleo or Erne used outside of crossword puzzles). There are also assorted smaller sets, including bedrooms, a garage, and a front patio area.

Here are my issues (not all of them, I have limited time and space and will have to wait until I have time to compose a full-length academic study to go in full depth). I apologize if some of these statements overlap, but this is part and parcel of the nature of the beast:

1. The Front Door: From the exterior shots, the front door in no way resembles the front door/patio (not Lanai) area. Also, what is the Cabbalistic significance of the exclamation point-shaped gouge on the inside of the door? Is it the set design equivalant of a fnord? If you don't know what a fnord is, please do not ask. You are safer not knowing.

2: The Bedrooms (Part one): The hall leads straight back to the four bedrooms. They are evidently set two to a side. However, that would mean that the two stage right bedrooms exist in the same temporal space as the Lanai. This is impossible in three-dimensional space.

3: The Bedrooms (Part two): The first stage left bedroom (Rose) seems harmless enough, but I refer you to point 5 where the illogical non-recursion begins to haunt my nights.

4: The Bedrooms (Part three): What the Samuel Langhorne Hell is the deal with the paint job in Blanche's room? Even if not technically impossible, it's hard to wrap one's mind around the mentality of one who would find that acceptable.

5: The Kitchen/Garage/Rose's Room Conundrum: This is almost too hard for me to bear. If I break down and start ranting about Elder Gods and Things Man Was Not Meant To Know, bear with me. The entrance to the kitchen from what I presume is the garage is upstage right. However, the window behind the sink clearly shows this garage (where, you might remember, the GG's tried their hand at Mink Farming, with hilarious results) must be off further to right. But that's exactly where Rose's room is. But even beyond this fact, that also means, given the spatial relationship of the front door (no matter how it's interpreted) to the rest of the house, that the driveway comes in from the back and center of the home (a patent impossibility). Especially considering it is supposedly coming from the stage left side of the exterior. Auugh.

In closing: if this house were designed by Dr. Calagari, it's dimensions couldn't be less sane. M.C. Escher on a peyote-fueled Spirit Journey into the Navidson residence from House of Leaves couldn't conceive of a less likely arrangement of living quarters. I fear for the basic sanity of those poor aging, yet still active, women, struggling to keep up in a young person's world while being subjected to physical laws so different than our own.

To the 2 people who will likely be still reading to this point, thank you for hearing me out, and thank you for being a friend.

I wish I could have found a bigger picture of Bea Arthur as The Starchild, but that picture has apparently disappeared from the interwebs. It used to pop up on the first page if you searched for pictures of Bea Arthur. And yes, I have done a lot of searches for pictures of Bea Arthur.

Technically, My Brush With Death occurred in between this post and the next. So, once again I have built things up for no damn good reason.