Showing posts with label Footnotes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Footnotes. Show all posts

Thursday, July 9, 2009

It's Pop Culture Quiz Time!

TMS archive. Again.

Featuring: The Exquisite Existential Horror of 16 and Pregnant

Ok. First and foremost: I am not here to praise this show.

I know TMS has a long and storied history of promoting incredibly crappy television. But that isn't my style.

This nightmare is merely on while I am in the room (actually, in the interest of full disclosure, it just ended and my fiancee changed the channel to the slightly less hateful Chelsea Lately). But it is the single bleakest thing I have ever been exposed to. And I have read almost everything Samuel Beckett ever wrote, and own Joy Division's complete discography.

So I did what my father taught me to do when encountering a tough chore. I made a game out of it.

The rules: Pick out the false statements from these random true facts about this show. Every right answer earns you $50 in TMS Fun Bucks, which can be redeemed for Mustache Rides from Chaim Witz1

The "Facts":

1. Whitney is 16 years old and pregnant.

2. She has dropped out of school to have the baby, because she is ashamed of being pregnant.

3. Her mother is also pregnant.

4. Both she AND her pregnant mother are living at her "Mee-Maw's" house.

5. Her "Mee-Maw" is renting said house.

6. Said house is already overcrowded. Before Whitney's son and her brother are even born.

7. Her "Mee-Maw's" landlord is selling the house.

8. Once the house sells, they are evicted, meaning the only good thing about the crappy housing market is that maybe the depressed economy of whatever backwater community they live in will actually keep a roof over their head.

9. Since dropping out of school, Whitney was a social recluse. Because her friends will not hang out with her for fear of "getting pregnant theyselves."

10. Did I mention everyone in East Dogpatch, or Hooterville, or St. Louis, or wherever this takes place sounds and looks like an extra from Deliverance? Because they hella do.

11. When she ran into her friends at the mall on the first day she left the house in weeks, it was more awkward than discussing "Black Quarterbacks" with my extended family...

12. Oh, remember that House of Despair currently on the market? "Mee-Maw" has to sleep on the couch.

13. Whitney and her Babydaddy Weston (WESTON?) go looking for an apartment. Despite the fact that they live far enough from human civilization that the rent for AN ENTIRE HOUSE costs less than an efficiency in Lincoln Square, they still couldn't afford it. Because they are sixteen.

14. Weston.

15. Weston has a job, but his hours are being cut gradually...

16. While clearing a drawer out in "Mee-Maw's" old room (remember, she's on the couch now!), they found her New Orleans souvenir mug with a ceramic penis for a handle.

17. This made "Mee-Maw" so angry that she told them they had to move out. To recap this one: Whitney's grandmother kicked her pregnant granddaughter out because she found her mug with A CERAMIC PENIS FOR A HANDLE.

18. In an hilarious twist of fate, Whitney goes into labor on what would have been her Prom night. If she hadn't dropped out. Because of her baby.

19. Oh, and there were complications with the labor, necessitating a C-Section. Even after the labor inducing drugs were given.

20. Oh, lest I forget, the baby was not moving enough before delivery, which necessitated being placed on a Fetal Heart Monitor.

21. I still almost forgot...she was just going in for a check-up. The baby wasn't actually due.

22. The baby was born healthy, and Weston actually ended up being good with him. Which is fortuitous, because Whitney was clearly suffering from post-partum depression.

23. The notion of a happy ending was introduced, when Weston's parents offered to let them move into their storage room.

24. A few weeks later, Whitney sat with her baby, and stated in a flat voice "I was too young to have a baby. Thank goodness I had help."

25. The baby looked like a Gray with a pignose. Or, I guess...Sean Marshall.

26. Did I mention the baby is named Weston, Jr.?

27. In celebration of their life maintaining subsistence levels, Whitney ends up baking a cake. Which looks like the easter bunny had diarrhea. Only more depressing.

28. I was just reminded on re-reading this list that Whitney cannot tie her own shoes. She has reproduced.

29. Weston, Jr.

Answer key: If you said every single one of these things was absolutely true, give yourself a mustache ride!

Tune in next week, when a weeping teenage couple decides to re-enact the plot of Juno, only with more heart-wrenching despair, as they decide to bring a baby to term for adoption!

MTV, you truly are devoted to the joy and fun of youth!


1. The Chaim Witz Wild Mustache Ride is unfortunately closed for repairs.

Thursday, May 21, 2009

Double-Fisting At Minifist

Yet another Thunder Matt's Saloon archive piece.

An Attempt At Remembrance

Chaim's memories of last Friday has inspired me to dust off my keyboard and participate in this blog like an actual writer, as opposed to just drawing a salary and commenting on every fifth article written by someone else. So here's what I'm capable of remembering from the 2009 Minifist:

To catch those just joining us up, last Friday was the long-awaited Annual Thunder Matt's Saloon Gathering of Bartenders That Could Actually Make it To Chicago, or "Minifist" for short. I have been told this is a reference to a previous full gathering of bartenders known as "Thunderfist," but I suspect it's actually named after a midget porno that Dave Thomas kept trying to get us to go back to his house to watch.1

The reason for this gathering was to watch the Cubs play the hated Houston Astros. I'm not kidding when I tell you that the Astros are my "least favorite team that I shouldn't give a shit about" ever. I really hate the Astros. A lot. I'd be more eloquent about it, but the white-hot rage that fills my veins when I think too much about them is making it difficult to type, so I'm going to change the subject.

I was originally scheduled to attend this game, but had to cover for our receptionist, who was out of town. So I was limited to meeting up "after the game," where I expected to meet either several very annoyed or very excited bartenders for a post-game Celebration/Drowning of Sorrows. Then I learned the game had been postponed to another day due to the weather, which was about 10 different kinds of ass that day.

So, at about 4:30, I texted our very own Chaim Witz to ask if they were still at the Gingerman (on account of I was dreadfully sober), and received the following text:

Oh god yes
That's always a good sign. When I finally arrived at the Gingerman (at roughly 5:30, for those keeping score), I found Chaim (who was heroically warring with Sobriety and winning at this point), as well as fellow bartenders Chip Wesley and Dave Thomas in fine spirits. With them were Valued TMS Reader Nick V (whose real name, it turns out is Steve V), a friend of Chip's that I will call "Mark," to protect his identity, and my good friend, Dr. Scotch, whose company I greatly appreciated, considering that I was at least 5 hours behind everyone else on the booze front.2

Not in attendance was the legendary Tommy Buzanis, who had apparently left some hours before I arrived, muttering something about "ditching this sausage party to look for a steak and some broads." I still have yet to meet this mysterious, near mythical man, but his empty seat was treated with the greatest of reverence.

A raucous conversation ensued, whereupon I learned much about how to administer a throat-jab properly, the most obscene insults Lingering Bursitis had used in private correspondence, and the proper way to eat at Wrigleyville Dog (answer: apparently Not at All). At some point (about 3 pitchers in from my arrival), Chaim's head finally hit the table, and we all knew he had defeated Sobriety handily. We bundled him in a cab pointed towards his house, and staggered into the still sunlit evening to find the next bar.

This being Wrigelyville, the bar selection was wide, but shallow. Pretty much the only non-sports bar left open was The Irish Oak (where, incidentally, I spent a fascinating night last fall listening to the Clash's excreble Cut the Crap album and watching a friend of mine get hit on by a DEEPLY RELIGIOUS group of Suburban Cougars). So we went there, Chaimless, but proud. Dave Thomas and I shared a shot of Rumple Minze3, and I trace my ultimate downfall to this point.

Eventually, we left the Oak, losing Nick V and Dave Thomas in the process, and the remaining three (Chip Wesley, "Mark," and myself) decided to go to the Wrigleyville North (a delightfully rednecky and cheap bar not far from the Sheridan stop). Every trip I take to the Wrigleyville North is either a disaster or not memorable at all, so I don't know why I get drawn to it so readily. Unless it's because the drunker I get, the more I want to listen to country cover bands.

We had barely settled in when I got a series of texts from my fiancee, who was in nearby Boys Town, singing Karaoke with her friends at a relatively seedy gay bar named Bobby Love's:

Worst version of tiny dancer ever on the karaoke stage EVER! ;)

And I'm babysitting a sox fan glass. HELP!!!
So, I asked my companions if they minded swinging by, and when I assured "Mark" that there are tons of chicks at karaoke night at a gay bar (there are), and Chip that I wouldn't tell anyone about this (I did), we staggered drunkenly there. On the way, I almost got us lost twice, recieved a text that my fiancee was leaving soon, made it there in time for one more round, coninued to be collossally drunk, watched "Mark" make out with a friend of my fiancee's and mine, failed to sign Chip up for a song (I assume he was planning to sing "Two Minutes To Midnight" or something, but my memory is swimmy by this point), and finally left.

All in all, a fine night out.4


1. Not strictly a "fact," but I've never let that stop me before. In fact, anywhere from 50-95% of these remembrances might not be literally "factual." But dammit they are still The Truth.

2. Of course, I now know that any less than a 10 hour head start for Dave Thomas is not fair to the rest of the group...

3. I just googled the spelling. Huh. Two words. Weird.

4. Well, if you don't count the huge argument I started with my fiancee on the way home (entirely my fault; I was a mess), the fact that I had to get up at 6:30 am to work a convention, and that I spent all the next day shaking and covered in a thin, clammy layer of beer-scented sweat.

Friday, March 20, 2009

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.



  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.

Friday, November 21, 2008

W. Axl Rose Goes Upside1 the Slog's Head

I cannot believe how much he looks like Norm MacDonald dressed as an Irish Stevie Wonder.Note: I promise to stop putting footnotes in the title after this. Even I find it annoying.

Axl, you magnificent bastard. I keep promising to release my Goonies article before you release Chinese Democracy, and what do you do?

You go and release Chinese Democracy. Hat's off to you, sir.

That's right, the long-awaited (well, long-awaited by Chuck Klosterman and like 12 other people) follow-up to the seminal The Spaghetti Incident? is finally hitting the shelves. So, I guess I will have a free Dr. Pepper after all.

In all honesty, calling this a Guns'n'Roses album is like calling "Centerfield" a Creedence Clearwater Revival song, but I'll play your game Axl. I will refrain from reviewing it as a solo debut. Yes, reviewing. For I have managed to procure a copy of this album through COMPLETELY LEGAL CHANNELS SOLELY FOR THE PURPOSES OF REVIEW.2

And, to that end I present:

THE OFFICIAL SLOG RAMBLING, HALF-ASSED REVIEW OF CHINESE DEMOCRACY!

Overview

Eh, it's not half as bad as I thought it might be. I mean if you really like the Use Your Illusion albums3, it's not altogether that bad. In fact some songs compare favorably, though others drift into the heinous territory that is "November Rain." However if you think the only 100% worthwhile contribution GnR ever made was Appetite,4 then it probably comes of as overwrought and overblown. Which it is.

But I do take into account the fact that Axl is, and always has been, a maximalist. If you let him, he will put in an orchestra, an industrial dance beat, a Halford scream,a piano interlude, a fretwanking solo, a vocoder, and a series of samples from movies he kinda likes. So, I didn't exactly expect this to be an album of stripped-down, AC/DC style metallic rock.

Which is a good thing not to expect, or I would have been SORELY disappointed.

Was It Worth Waiting For?

Long Answer: Did you ever know any really hardcore fans of Brian Wilson? The kind of people that would talk about his revolutionary studio approach, and deeply lament that he went all batshit and destroyed all the work he did on the legendary, unreleased Smile. And they might go on about the snippets that had been released, and how they showed the potential to be one of the defining albums of a generation?

And then do you remember how Wilson decided to finally re-record and release Smile with a group of very talented musicians and singers that came very close to replicating the sound of the Beach Boys, circa 1967. And because you were a slightly more than casual, but far from obsessive fan of the Beach Boys, you decided to buy it?

And when you listened to it, you enjoyed it, but ultimately decided it really wasn't the Beach Boys as you remembered them? And how it was very good, but really didn't hold a candle to Pet Sounds as an album or the fun and delight of the great mid-60s singles?

Short Answer: Not really.

Classic GnR?

Hardly. But it really isn't very bad, if one goes into it positively disposed towards Axl and company. It's not particularly embarassing when measured against "Get in the Ring" or "My World" or the concept of GnR covering punk songs. Or when measured against Axl's current hairstyle. Several songs (the title track, "Shackler's Revenge," and "IRS" spring to mind) are straight up rocking songs in the manner that one might expect. And that's what GnR was always best at.

Of course, there are embarassing sentimentalist drivel moments. That's always been Axl's weak spot. When he can get it to work ("Sweet Child O' Mine") it's not downright awful. But when it veers into the aforementioned "November Rain" territory (as chunks of this album threaten), I'm less amused. "Street of Dreams" has an intro that makes me think that Axl was trying to fuse Springsteen, Air Supply, and a Peter Criss solo album into one huge mishmash. Also, during the solo, I could only imagine that had Slash been a member, he would be standing on a water tower or boxcar or something in the video (if that makes sense).

Perhaps the weirdest realization I had about this album is that several songs sound like Axl trying to sound like Gold Against the Soul-era Manic Street Preachers. And considering that the Manics were still trying to rewrite Appetite For Destruction at that point, it makes for a listening experience I can only describe as "meta."5

The Final Verdict?

It's not a long-awaited must hear album for metal and hard rock fans. It's not classic GnR. It's also not a sad embarassment to all connected. It sounds like a competently made album of bombastic metallic music. If Axl had been constrained by an actual band, it would probably have been a lot more focused, but it might have been less charming.

I apologize for anyone expecting more mockery and random silliness in this entry. I promise that I will atone for that by eating a McRib or two this weekend.



  1. Metaphorically speaking, only. In truth, the relationship between the Slog and Mr. Rose has always been cordial.
  2. And that's all I will say about that.
  3. I don't particularly.
  4. I do, um...particularly.
  5. The reason I can only describe it this way is that I have no imagination.

Thursday, November 20, 2008

A quick observation from my sickbed1

So, for the last two days or so, I have had have a pretty bad flu or an incredibly awful, almost biblically epic cold. And I'm taking (among other things) Theraflu2 for it. Since I also have a scratchy throat, it's the Flu + Sore Throat version, which is some sort of spiced apple flavor.

My observation is this: this sore throat version has a narrow margin over the original flavor. The reason being that it does not taste like hot, mediciney lemon juice. Instead, it tastes like THE ABSOLUTE WORST HOT APPLE CIDER YOU'VE EVER HAD.

Goddamn, I hate being sick.


P.S. - If you're stalking me, don't forget to check my "101 things" list periodically. I will be marking them off as I do them. I've been making more homemade soup to combat this vile illness that afflicts me, so I'm down to 99!






  1. I say "sickbed," but that's actually just where I belong. I am actually at work.
  2. Which probably warrants a trademark or restricted symbol, but I'm too spacy to figure out which or remember how to make them.3
  3. I do remember how to make superscripts.

Friday, October 31, 2008

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 31st.


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.


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


Notes to Section II:

  1. 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.
  2. That sort of discussion is really best reserved for a Slog entry about The Goonies.
  3. A band I still love, even if the lifestyle they espoused is not for me.
  4. 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).
  5. 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).
  6. Not really, but that isn’t the point.
  7. 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.


Notes to Section III

  1. 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?
  2. 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.
  3. If none of this makes sense to you, search for Danzig on youtube. You’ll be glad you did.
  4. 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.
  5. 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…



Notes to Section IV:
  1. I have 6 versions of this one, too. Each is clearly essential and distinct...

Wednesday, October 15, 2008

Comics Ideas That Never Were: The Knight Owl

Here at the Slog, we are fascinated by history of all kinds, especially the kind that never existed. And even more important than that, the kind that is particularly geeky and stupid. With that in mind, we bring you the first installment in the ongoing Secret Apocryphal History of the American Comic Book.
The Knight Owl
Vol. 1
#6
August 1965
Cranston Press
Gary, Indiana



Red & Blue = Hero, Purple & Green = Villain. See for yourself!

The Story Behind the Story.

"A Hero both Nocturnal and Chivalrous"

This was the mandate of the idiosyncratic publisher Norman Cranston1 when he "created" his flagship title in the spring of 1964. Hoping to cash in on the popularity of the Silver Age of comics, specifically the Marvel House style, Cranston (then a struggling publisher of romance novels) assembled a team of the most desperate artists and writers in the Gary, Indiana area. Though Cranston would take credit for the creation of all 4 comics published by "CP" in its heyday (The Knight Owl, The Top-Notch Three, The Mechanical Man-Wolf, and Jericho Jewel - Amish Alien),2 he almost certainly did no more than string a few adjectives together and provide a spate of work-for-hire contracts to his stable of "talent."

Per industry legend, writer "Winston Wycliffe"3 and an un-credited artist4 created The Knight Owl at a 24-hour diner near the Cranston Office - inspired by their own plight, the pair quickly turned a hideous pun into a hero "with One Talon in the Past, and One in the Future." The distinctive medieval armor and fluffy owl suit were apparently designed in a matter of moments - which caused a great deal of trouble in future issues, given the pointless level of detail was difficult to reproduce in the budget methods used by Cranston, and led to constant deadline issues.

The debut issue was dated December, 1964 and hit the newsstands that October, in accord with the dating standards of the day. It would be the last time the issue came out anywhere near on time. The story in the first issue was pretty standard fare, involving the character's origin.

Origin

"The Screeching Sword of the Celestial Sentinel of Chivalry"

John Owlsley, an antiquarian of the Castleton Museum of History, is a quiet and shy man. Afraid of almost everything from the dark to heights to his own shadow, he spends most of his time reading ancient books of Knight Errantry in the manuscript wing. One evening, a loud thunder crack during a storm startles the timid Owlsley, who drops his glasses. They shatter, leaving him practically blind. He fumbles around, and pushes in a book on one of Museum Library shelves. This in turn opens a trapdoor beneath his feet. He falls into a mysterious tunnel under the building, and staggers about looking for help. A mysterious and silent stranger, who appears only as a silhouette leads Owlsley to an underground grotto, whereupon he discovers a sword and shield resting on a throne. The stranger then disappears - prompting the nervous Owlsley to pick up the weaponry.

In a flash he is transformed into a mighty armored warrior whose feet are the talons of a mighty owl. He discovers that while he holds the sword and shield, he has enormous strength, enhanced senses, and superior wisdom. These powers, he soon learns, disappear (along with his talons) if he loses contact with either item for more than a minute. As is the custom of the day, he decides to use his newfound powers to battle evil, dubbing himself "The Knight Owl."

Later issues revealed that Owlsley is the direct descendent of the mighty Sir Roger Owlsley, defender of the Sacred Shrine of Nocturnia - a fictional Medieval kingdom that appears every 100 years, like an Arthurian Brigadoon. His sword also develops the ability to "screech," sending waves of solid sound into his enemies.

This rather hackneyed origin, with elements lifted from Captain Marvel, Thor, and countless other tales, led naturally to the lackluster writing of the first 5 issues of the series, where the Knight Owl mostly battled bankrobbers and jewel thieves (including the bungling Gypsy King, who later reformed and became a rather humorously portrayed Private Investigator in issue 12 after his gang of baby-stealers betrayed him to the police).

However, with issue #6, either a new "Winston Wycliffe" was hired or the original one figured out what the Knight Owl was missing: a Signature Villain, one with panache.

The Arch-Nemesis

"The Hideous House Call of the Diabolical Dr. Deadline"

In issue #6 (shown above in the 1992 "Cranston Classics" reprint with computer colored cover - sadly I could not locate any of the original hand-colored issues), we are introduced to the "Diabolical"5 Dr. Deadline. Clearly a bogeyman based on the nightmarish ticking of our own internal clocks, Dr. Deadline is the most nefarious and indeed only "successful" villain to face the Knight Owl. Though colorful and fun in a silly Silver Age way, such also-rans as Sir Shade Sinister, the Insomaniac, and Baron von Batt never struck the primal chords of mortality and the fear of loss and change like Dr. Edward Lineman, erstwhile Nobel Prize-winning Physicist, and his errant time controlling curse.

For, "due to a hideous accident, Dr. Deadline is a slave to an unpredictable personal timeline in which certain moments seem like eons and weeks pass in a instant - beyond his subjective perception." While the sophisticated goggles he has designed enable him to project his affliction on to others, "it takes a monumental effort of will to exert the mental control needed to ensure that the goggles keep him in sync with the rest of the world. " Every tick of the second hand of every clock on earth resonates in Dr. Lineman's mind, for if not, he could lose his tenuous grasp on linear time and suddenly realize that he is hour, days, or possibly years closer to death.6

The Rest of the Run

"Tempus Fugit, My Dear Owl"

The Knight Owl's initial run lasted for 36 issues (averaging about 7-8 "monthly" issues per year), facing Dr. Deadline on 4 other occasions spread out over six additional issues. After the final time they faced each other (Issue #34, "Knights of Our Lives, Part 2"), Dr. Deadline was presumed to be dead when his clockwork lab assistant/bride-to-be "2 P45t M1dn1gh7"7 accidentally set off the self destruct sequence in Dr. Deadline's flying hourglass fortress, burying the Diabolic Doc under several tons of white diamond sand.

The final issue of The Knight Owl, "Blade of Democracy," (February 1970) was a disturbingly pro-war piece in which Owsley foils a plot by a group of Vietcong agents (disguised as a popular "Peacenik" band) to drug the President and brainwash him into withdrawing troops from Vietnam. Of note: The issue ends without fanfare, with the caption: "Next Issue - Diabolical Doc D Returns from Death!!!" Clearly, the cancellation of the issue was a surprise to many involved.

In the 1990s, Cranston's son Ernie and his widow, Beverly, launched an updated "grim and gritty" version of The Knight Owl in an attempt to cash in on the Mylar-bag, chromium cover collector's boom (this time starring John Owlsley's nephew, Mark, a recovering junkie who inherited the title after the former was assassinated by a terrorist group led by a recidivist Gypsy King). The overly crosshatched and needlessly violent issues blended in with the times without making much of a splash (and indeed alienated any longtime fans that might have read it for nostalgia value by replacing the "Screeching Sword" with a spike-knuckled, two-bladed katana and giving the "New Knight Owl" a cybernetic arm with a force field in place of his shield. Dr. Deadline returned as an AIDS-ravaged serial rapist that Mark Owlsley eventually beheads with a gear from Big Ben. This revamp lasted 7 issues before folding ignominiously.

On the bright side, a trade paperback collecting the first 7 issues of the original run was released at this time. Although its garish re-colorization was not in the spirit of the original run, it served as an introduction to an often overlooked chapter of the Silver Age for a whole new generation of readers.



  1. Born Norman Wojtkowski-Royall, it is rumored this enigmatic man took his nom-de-publisher from the old Shadow pulps.
  2. Of those, The Knight Owl is the only title to last more than a few months, as The Top-Notch Three and The Mechanical Man-Wolf folded after 4 issues. Jericho Jewel ran for only two issues and ended with an unresolved cliffhanger that was legendarily completed by Grant Morrison in the secret "Lost" issue of Doom Patrol. This issue, which takes place at an unspecified time in DP continuity, remains unpublished at Morrison's request. He claims that though the script was "satisfactory" and the art (by comics legend Gil Kane) was "phenomenal," the comics world "needed Jericho Jewel's story to end in a "quantum fashion," with Jewel "both Alive and Dead, with his wooden starship adrift in the spaces between our thoughts." More cynical observers claim that since the rights to Jericho Jewel are still held by Cranston's increasingly senile and overprotective widow, Morrison may never have even written a script. The fact that no paperwork can be located at DC that even attests to the existence of this issue, combined with the death of Gil Kane in 2000 makes this a tantalizing, but unproven theory.
  3. Almost certainly a pseudonym, but no record of his real name. "Winston Wycliffe" was the name of the so-called "Sage Minstrel" who answered the incoming letters from readers; he is assumed to be the writer of the series.
  4. None of the artists at Cranston have ever been identified. While at least 3 different styles have been identified, Cranston refused to allow artist credit, and if any of his staff ever managed to sneak in a hidden signature, it has never been isolated.
  5. "Diabolical" precedes the name "Dr. Deadline” 89 of the 156 times the character is mentioned by name in the initial run.
  6. Of course, in his first appearance, he mainly just ties the Knight Owl to a giant candle and shouts expository dialogue.
  7. Oddly enough, a character name invented a full generation before "l337"

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

Zen and the Art of Procrastination

Or, Is Anyone Still Even Writing This, Much Less Reading It?

Holy hell, my poor Slog is on life support. I’ve just been too drained of purpose and direction and energy to update of late, I guess. Damn this ADHD, for getting me to make promises I can’t keep!

Here is the running tally of things I have utterly failed to blog about:
  • My facial hair Odyssey
  • My exciting trip to the Bristol Renaissance Faire® in Wisconsin and the extension of my streak of personal intoxication
  • The utterly ridiculous nutpunch end to the baseball season
  • My career and education goals update
  • My attempt to replace baseball with hockey in order to ensure the winter months are just as depressing for me as the MLB Postseason
  • My return to Appetite Theatre, this time sans beard
  • My near complete conversion from apathetic Taoist Atheist to apathetic Rinzai Zen Atheist with Taoist leanings
  • My conviction that, though not undoable, Sarah Palin isn’t altogether that hot
  • The new ongoing series: Comics Ideas That Never Were
  • Will Wolter ever buy the Clash Shea Stadium live CD, or is it too much of a cash-in?
  • The Dark Underbelly of the Eighties, Part 1, Section C (Subsection ii) – will it be out before Chinese Democracy?
I suppose I should work on making that list more manageable, in an attempt to get caught up and provide anyone who still bothers to check what passes for a blog in my neck of the woods. So, I will provide a status report/brief entry:

My Facial Hair Odyssey
On the way. Honest.

My Exciting Trip To the Bristol Renaissance Faire® In Wisconsin
…and the extension of my streak of personal intoxication
Also pending.

The Utterly Ridiculous Nutpunch End To the Baseball Season
I am still far too pissed and sad to formulate anything worthwhile from the experience. Again, this isn’t a baseball blog for a reason.

My Career and Education Goals Update
I am still trying to make this possible, but I am very seriously considering going back to school for an MFA in Biomedical Visualization.

Screw you…I’m not joking.

I’ll need a several undergraduate courses to catch up, as well as a decent GRE score, and probably some serious help with letters of recommendations and some form of financial assistance (if I can even get that – given my previous woes with student loans). But this actually seems like a very cool, and very fulfilling, career path for me, if I can actually jump through the hoops.

My Attempt to Replace Baseball With Hockey In Order To Ensure the Winter Months Are Just as Depressing For Me As the MLB Postseason
My adopted “home” team is now 0-3 – but I haven’t actually watched a game yet. Still, Chicago sports is nothing, if not consistent. Go Blackhawks! I think!

My Return to Appetite Theatre, This Time sans Beard
You can find the info here. I am in the first show of the evening. I will be playing the part of "Peanuts."

My Near Complete Conversion from Apathetic Taoist Atheist To Apathetic Rinzai Zen Atheist With Taoist Leanings
I also can kinda gloss over the Zen/Taoism stuff, as I am far too mystified and new to the processes and ideas to be an apt explicator – and I’m already driving Ali crazy enough. Anyway, my buddy Gene is a hell of a lot better at talking about the processes and he’s pretty much on the same path as I am right now. The most I can say is that it actually appears to be completely compatible with my Atheism and my love of the Tao, while giving me a sensible (or at least sensibly nonsensical) process to a state of understanding and living in the world that might just be what I need to keep from wanting to murder Ryan Dempster.

My Conviction That, Though Not Undoable, Sarah Palin Isn’t Altogether That Hot
Though not undoable, Sarah Palin isn’t altogether that hot.

The New Ongoing Series: Comics Ideas That Never Were
Soon, my dear Reader (can I call you Reader? ‘Cause I already did). Soon.

Will Wolter Ever Buy the Clash Shea Stadium Live CD, or Is It Too Much Of a Cash-In?
The answer to both parts of the question is: probably.

The Dark Underbelly of the Eighties, Part 1, Section C (Subsection ii) – Will It Be Out Before Chinese Democracy?
The answer to this question is: probably not.

So, my new to-do list is as follows:
  • My facial hair Odyssey
  • My exciting trip to the Bristol Renaissance Faire® in Wisconsin and the extension of my streak of personal intoxication
  • The utterly ridiculous nutpunch end to the baseball season
  • My career and education goals update
  • My attempt to replace baseball with hockey in order to ensure the winter months are just as depressing for me as the MLB Postseason
  • My return to Appetite Theatre, this time sans beard
  • My near complete conversion from apathetic Taoist Atheist to apathetic Rinzai Zen Atheist with Taoist leanings
  • My conviction that, though not undoable, Sarah Palin isn’t altogether that hot
  • The new ongoing series: Comics Ideas That Never Were
  • Will Wolter ever buy the Clash Shea Stadium live CD, or is it too much of a cash-in?
  • The Dark Underbelly of the Eighties, Part 1, Section C (Subsection ii) – will it be out before Chinese Democracy?

I hope that was helpful. See you in 3 months when I realize that I have not updated The Slog since this entry, and do this all over again!1



  1. This is the longest Slog entry I’ve ever done without a footnote.2
  2. Shit.

Wednesday, July 16, 2008

Wolter's Face Held Hostage - Day 7

Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Beard1

So, regular readers of this blog2 are probably aware that I'm in a play. I'm not going to complain about it here, as I think the flavor of how it's going can be found here and here.

I do want to point out that I am Super Not-Jewish. Like hilariously Goyish. I eat more pork and shellfish than anyone I know. I buy everything retail. And I've never sent a meal back at a restaurant in my life.3 And I've been asked to play a hasidic Jewish Satan.4

I assumed that that meant I would have a false beard in the show, which opened last Friday and prompted a Minor Binge Event. However, last Wednesday I discovered that the false beard was a no-go. So, I decided on the spur of the moment to grow a real one for the show. The show that opened in two days...

Needless to say, I didn't have one for the opening weekend. Which is where I squarely place the blame for my uninspired performance. I looked less like a dedicated yeshiva student studying the mysteries of the Torah, and more like someone who just bought The Miami Device5 And the white clothes did nothing to ameliorate things.

Of course, I am 32 years old, so I'm able to ALMOST grow a grownup beard. An itchy, hateful, Billy-Maysesque6 grownup beard. This marks the second time in three years that I have grown facial lameness for a play.7 The last time this travesty occurred I looked like a chubby James Brolin, circa Amityville Horror. And somehow, this time, I VOLUNTEERED myself for this hell.

A brief open letter to the Vice reading hipsters that might have stumbled onto this page looking for tight jeans to mail order (the rest of you can skip ahead a few sentences): ironic facial hair is not cool. Please shave. I would if I could.8

Okay, I'm back.

Another aspect of the beard that is annoying me is that I'm getting a couple of big white patches in the beard. My Advancing Age doesn't bother me altogether that much. I have no problem with the gray hairs in and of themselves. However, I have no desire to look in the mirror and be reminded of Mike-Freaking-Remlinger.9

My exceptionally vague resemblance to over-the-hill setup men notwithstanding, I figured The Slog would be a fitting place to chronicle this most marginal of my life's marginalia. So come with me on a month-long journey into my facial defilement, won't you?

Unfortunately, I don't have a photo of this travesty just yet. Or I would post it for your education. You'll just have to go with a sophisticated simulation of my progress, using the finest computer simulation 1988 had to offer:




Me, before Beard
Also: Me, Before Cheap-assed Margarita


Me, currently:
Note the incipient Remlinger coloring.

My goal:
Secondary Goal: Career as a hip-hop artist for other bearded hipster tools.

Shalom, y'all.



  1. I don't, in fact, love the Beard.
  2. Seriously, there can't be such a thing as a "regular reader" of this blog. Unless it's a goldfish or other creature with a memory of less than 3-4 seconds.
  3. But I kid The Chosen People. Please don't report me to the Anti-Defamation League.
  4. No really, I'm not anti-Semitic. Stop looking at me that way.
  5. So...is The Miami Device real? It seems so fakey and standuppy.
  6. I can't be the only guy who wants to kill this douche with a tire iron, can I?
  7. Okay, I normally have sideburns, but those are cool. Right?
  8. See note 7
  9. Really, I doubt even Mike Remlinger wants this.

Thursday, May 8, 2008

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:


Jim Morrison, the 'My Dad' Years.

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 IronyTM.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.


Bet you didn't know Vanna was so important to Human Destiny. Don't say The Slog never taught you nothin', kid.

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

If you don't like these guys, you're no Friend of the Slog.

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:


My eyes! They burn!

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 IronyTM 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...

Monday, May 5, 2008

In Which Wolter Urinates On a Highway and Does a Little Naked Plumbing

So, how was your weekend?

Me?

Well, I'm batting a thousand so far, thanks for asking.

Sure, I could be all Sabermetric and admit that it's a pretty small sample size. Two visits are certainly not an indicator of my entire potential. But right now I am 2 for 2 in getting tanked in the state of Wisconsin.1

It's actually surprising how little I've seen of WI. I live in Chicago, no more than an hour away. But, hell...it's an achievement to get me north of Lawrence these days, and I'm right by the 4400 block.2 In all honesty, it's an achievement for me to walk my damn dog some days. Especially if it's raining. Or below 50 degrees out. Or above 60.

And the drunken sample size is skewed even further when you realize that one of the two trips to America's Dairyland was for Germanfest3--an occasion where I managed through sheer willpower to be, quite possibly, the drunkest member of my family in attendance (no mean feat when the twin specters of copious beer and the societal acceptance of lederhosen are combined). The very notion of Germanfest may seem a tad...unsettling for some, given the poor track record the Teutonic folk have about going, well, a little "overboard" celebrating their culture. Thankfully, German Americans are far less likely to join a Bund these days, and Germanfest is--like any other gathering of tubby caucasians in America--largely an excuse to drink keg beer and Jäger bombs. Oh, and there's a far greater likelihood of spätzle. And oompah music.

Adding to the statistical anomaly, my second visit was for Ali and my friend Lisa's surprise birthday party. I think it would be incredibly rude if I ever failed to get embarassingly schloshed4 at a friend's celebration. It'd be like Radiohead refusing to play "Creep" live...oh, wait...

Anywhoo, believe it or not, I didn't actually make altogether that much of an ass of myself that night (as I acquiesced to being cut off after an indeterminate number of drinks5). I mean, at one point I insulted the Brewers a little bit (but I wisely steered clear of Farve) - but it was done in a good natured way. In fact, by the end of the night, Lisa's brother and I (as well as Dr. Scotch's assistants, Nurse Bourbon and Intern Lager) were contemplating the Cubs and Brewers melding their team into one super-team6 that would whip hell on the rest of the NL. Booze heals.

A couple of waters later, and Ali and I were ready to drive home (Ali didn't have very much at all, and was clearly stone-cold sober before we even hit the Taco Bell7).

Well, one spilled Mountain Dew later,8 we were flying down the highway towards The City Vienna Beef Built. I kinda had to pee a little, but I was okay. I could hold it. We were making good time. Really good. I mean, it was nearly 2am. Traffic was nonex--




GOD...DAMMIT!

Okay. Suddenly it's bumper-to-bumper for as far up as I can see. And it's not creeping forward. It's stopped. Moments later, we saw and heard the sirens.

Creeping through northern Illinois' newest parking lot was a huge fire truck, an ambulance, police cars, and a tow truck. Oy.

Did I mention I had to pee a little?

It was becoming, "I have to piss. A lot." Technically, it was becoming "I have to motherfucking piss. A lot." But this is a family blog, and I didn't want to offend anyone with my italicized stress.

I turned to Ali and said, "Man, it's a good thing I've sobered up, or I'd probably just stroll out onto the highway and whizz all over the median." We chuckled.

Time passed, slowly. Inexorably.

The median was calling me. I tried not to answer. By this point I was at least 97% sober. Not a good percentage for public urination. Especially with a built in audience of other cars.

I did what I always do in these situations. I complained. Ali said, "I think you should just do it. That way I don't have to hear you complain about this any more." Given that oh-so-supportive declaration, I decided to go ahead and do it.

I hopped out of the car and went to hop the concrete barrier. Hey, that's not a median. It's a closed off lane. I crossed the barrier, and went to the other side, where I decided to urinate across the second concrete barrier (to the lane with sporadic traffic going the other way. Screw 'em. They weren't stuck). This barrier was about 3 inches below my crotch, by the way, so I had to aim out a bit. But the alternative was stand out in the open with my junk flapping in the breeze, and as one can tell from this blog, I am an intensely private person.

So I start to go.

And go.

And go.

And a spate of cars came around the bend in that lane.

I moved instinctively to hide myself from view, which caused a bit of blowback. Grr. One they were gone, I resumed my position and kept going. This was getting comical. Well, not to me. As I was sitting there, wondering when I might, oh I don't know, RUN OUT OF LIQUID WASTE, I heard a roaring noise to my left.

It was a car zooming by me from behind.

The lane wasn't closed.

Which meant I was basically standing in the middle of a highway lane in pitch darkness, pissing on another highway lane in pitch darkness.

Eventually, the laws of physics asserted themselves, and I ran out of ammo. But not before three more cars, probably filled with nuns, or orphans, or every girl I had a crush on in high school, whipped behind me.

I should mention each passing car was another occasion for blowback.

I finally skulked back the car, fully expecting a round of applause from the inordinate amount of immobile cars. Thankfully, that was not to be. We eventually started moving, got past the wreck, 9 and made it home. I slept like a stone for many, many hours.

Oh, I also did some naked plumbing this weekend.



  1. I know. As of right now, I'm no better than when Tuffy Rhodes hit those three dingers on opening day for the Cubs, only to suck himself right out of American baseball. Although, old Tuffy still holds two homerun records: Most homeruns by a foreign player in Japan, and most homeruns by a guy named Tuffy anywhere.
  2. Chicago geographical reference placed by the Gideons.
  3. "Anschluss Free Since 1946!"
  4. Not to be confused with "Anschlussed."
  5. More than 5, but less than 10.
  6. Not really sure who would play first on the team, in hindsight. Derrekles is my personal choice, but where do we put Prince Spaghetti Night (sorry...Fielder)? I'd probably trade him for like 2-3 pitchers, as both teams seem to have a rotation composed largely of spun sugar. Oh, and we both agreed that the Cubs essentially ending Turnbow's career was a favor to our Sausage Racing Friends to the North. Like putting down a particularly untalented rabid dog.
  7. Did I mention we hit the Taco Bell? Not literally. But I needed sub-par pseudo-Mexican food to complete my transformation into Guy Who Is Actually Sober, Not Just Thinking He's Sober. Also, I needed a Mountain Dew. I always order a Mountain Dew at Taco Bell. This is because I hate myself.
  8. That did wonders towards putting me firmly in the Guy Who is Actually Sober category.
  9. On a down note, that looked like a really horrible accident. Hopefully no one was sitting in the passenger seat, as there really wasn't one left.10
  10. Here is a painting of Yoda with Bob Marley to help you get past that last, downer footnote:



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