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.

A Slog Miscellany

Time to fire up the old "Back From Indefinite Hiatus" tag, as I'm ready and raring to go with another exciting installment of The Slog (now with 50% less Adam Ant references¹).

Today, I thought I'd give a miscellany of random Slogger thoughts, as I am kind of burnt out from Attempting to Make More Money Than I Do Now. Basically, I am in my 30s. Actually, literally, I am in my 30s. And I am tired of living paycheck to paycheck. If that means growing up and selling out, then so be it, but my Spring Resolution² is to improve my financial situation to the point that I can actually afford to purchase the occasional David Bowie CD³ or Jack Kirby Omnibus⁴ without worrying about Not Having Groceries For Five Days.

So, I'm throwing myself into a job hunt. And I'm looking for one that will actually last. It would be a plus if I actually could find one doing something I belived in.⁵ So I'm going to shed my 20-something slacker veneer for the glossy undercoating of a Determined and Successful Member of Society Who Happens To Be Over Thirty. I'll still be the same lovable bum that I've always been. Just not on the clock.⁶

Anyway, on to The Random:

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The Chicago Cubs are doing their damnedest to keep me from getting excited about what has the potential, at least on paper, to be The Best Chicago National League Team in my Lifetime.⁷ As detailed elsewhere by people better at writing about the Cubs than I'll ever be, their bench has the potential to break my heart on any given day. Other than, of course, Daryle Ward, who is made entirely of pure concentrated good (like Dick Miller). He's like the McRib in human form⁸

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I spent my entire lunch break sitting alone at a conference table with a co-worker's Giant Birthday Cookie⁹ and a plastic knife sitting in front of me. Long story short: I will need to buy new work pants this week.

Impulse control is overrated.

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I am officially tired of the cliched storytelling trope (especially in comic books) of "the vampire that hunts other vampires." It's been done. What I'd like to see is a Frankenstein that hunts other Frankensteins.¹⁰

On the moon.

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I've heard a few clean limericks in my day, but I've never read a dirty haiku.

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I was really looking forward to seeing Carbon/Silicon on Monday, but the show was cancelled. I didn't cry over it, but I was really annoyed for some time. Still waiting for the theiving swine at ticketmaster to refund my money for that. It takes them SEVEN TO TEN days to do this, and they have the nerve to make their processing fee non-refundable? If I can transfer funds from savings to checking in less than 30 seconds at my bank, you'd think they could pay me back for providing me with ABSOLUTELY NOTHING without my having to wait practically a fortnight.

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I received a letter for Oprah Winfrey (or, more specifically "Ms. Oprah") today at work. The false rumor that she lives in the building where I work at has apparently made it all the way to Mississippi. I returned it to sender.¹¹ It was labelled "Open, Very Important" and "Open as soon as possible." I sure hope it wasn't Ms. Oprah's prescription or anything. Because that would be unfortunate.

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Thank you for stopping by The Slog.

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1. Not counting this one.
2. Not just for New Years anymore.
3. Heathen would be nice to have.
4. I don't have ANY Fourth World stuff now, for those people planning for my 32^nd birthday (June 5^th). I'm just saying.
5. Although, for the right salary, I'll learn to believe in anything. Except cilantro. Never cilantro.
6. Unless someone wants to pay me in the high five figures to do this for a living (on the off chance an eccentric billionaire reads this).
7. Not saying much. Sort of like being the Funniest Wayans Brother or the Most Sober Pogue.
8. In more ways than one (ZING! Daryle Ward, you've been Slogged!^TM).
9. Save your money and get me Kirby, folks. Just saying...
10. I know, Frankenstein's the Doctor, not the Monster. Pointing it out doesn't make you any smarter, pal.
11. I thought about opening it and reading it, but that's not how I roll.

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.