Showing posts with label Obscure References. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Obscure References. Show all posts

Tuesday, June 16, 2009

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now contrast the following lyrics with what goes before:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dye your hair black
Never look back
My past is my business
We have two songs about more-or-less the same subject by bands that aren't massively musically dissimilar. But what a difference a generation makes. A specific denouncement of irony (at least the humorless kind), and a bouncy statement that despite their admitted shortcomings, Art Brut (whose very name means, more or less, "Primitive Art") will take the world by storm and solve everyone's problems. The Adverts seems to be saying "You probably will hate us, but screw you, we don't care what you think...much...." Art Brut is saying "You don't know it yet, but we're your new favorite band. And we love that about you." There's a bit of a twist of the knife at the end, but no true darkness pervades this song.

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

Tuesday, May 5, 2009

Blogging About Blogging About Not Blogging, Part 2

More TMS insanity.

Or, "This Isn't Working, But If I Talk About How Talking About It Not Working Isn't Working...It Just Might Work."

When last we met me, I was remembering how I came up with the idea to write about the sheer genius of Iron Maiden's Powerslave album vs. the sheer Power of Apples. And then I promptly passed out in a haze of "inspiration."

Which brings me to:

12:11 PM, Tuesday, May 5th:
After microwaving my lunch and sitting down to start composing the next chapter in this masterpiece, I decide how to begin this, and end up settling on:

1:24 PM, Monday, May 4th:
I give the following update to my fellow bartenders: "I ran out of lunch time. This will be at least a 2-parter.

Also, it probably makes no damn sense. "

I shortly receive this response:

1:26 PM, Monday, May 4th
Brant Brown:
"Jon, brevity is a virtue."

I immediately snark back. This devolves into one of our numerous pissing matches (I think he is trying to haze me or something). Nothing witty is said on either side, so I will not recount it here, and only mention it as a bit of local color (and proof that it was my negative attitude that killed Pomp Culture not some "editorial decision," as the press release stated).

3:00 PM, Monday, May 4th:
Part 1 is published according to schedule and meets with the following critical response:

3:03 PM, Monday, May 4th:
Jordi:
"My personal guideline:

The Serious Tip: 500 words or more
all other blogs: 300 words
Less than 144 characters: I'm Twittering that bitch"
That's right. Jordi even pushes his blog in our private conversations. What a whore. Wait: don't tell him I said that, though. He will totally suplex me.

3:10 PM, Monday, May 4th:
Brant Brown:
"Jon, I don't care for the direction of your post, but I do appreciate you working in the Tyler Perry quandary."
I take this as the effusive compliment it clearly is.

3:41 PM, Monday, May 4th:
Chaim Witz:
"Jon, though that post may not be fully appreciated until well after you've passed on from this Earth (quite possibly at the calloused hands of Brant Brown), let me be the first to recognize the tortured genius that emanates from those disjointed words. "
I am momentarily flattered, then realize that Chaim also thinks the finest work of Western Literature is the 1970s KISS Adventures comic book, because "it uses real KISS blood in the red ink. Let's see Tolstoy do that."

6:41 PM, Monday, May 4th:
In our comments section, Nick V states "It took a few minutes to realize what you were talking about Wolter, but by the end I chuckled"
By the end he chuckled. Exactly the response I wanted! Emboldened, I renew my vow to finish this, come hell or high water.
12:31 PM, Tuesday, May 5th:
I sit back for a minute and try to remember where the hell I was going with this. Oh yeah:

1:01 PM, Monday, May 4th:
I write something to this effect before stopping:


3:03 AM, Monday, May 4th:
I totally pass the hell out drunk, thinking I had a great idea for a blog post.
(I am paraphrasing here).
12:35 PM, Tuesday, May 5th:
I'm back on track!

6:48 AM, Monday, May 4th:
Oh god. Is that my cell phone alarm? Jesus Christ! I need to get up and go to work...holy god, my mouth tastes like country fried ass. Why do I do this to myself...

This goes on for some time, until...

10:13 AM, Monday, May 4th:
I step out of a near-endless staff meeting, still haggard and not-a-little-hung-over, yet determined to write the best possible blog entry on my lunch break.

10:16 AM, Monday, May 4th:
I realize that Powerslave vs. Powersauce is the stupidest idea I've ever had. Even stupider than those damn NES reviews.

10:18 AM, Monday, May 4th:
The following idea passes through my brain and is quickly discarded:

Iron Maiden:

1:55 PM, Tuesday, May 5th: I have no idea what to alt-text here.
vs.

...THE IRON SHEIK

1:56 PM, Tuesday, May 5th: I consider a Mario joke, but discard it.

Again, Jordi would totally nail me if I didn't fact-check this one.

10:37 AM, Monday, May 4th:
I come close to googling pictures of Iron Chef before banging my head on the desk in frustration. Bad idea, as it re-activates my fading hangover.

10:53 AM, Monday, May 4th:
I hit a spark of inspiration, moments after I nix a plan to write about the incredibly awesome religious NES game Exodus (in which one plays Moses and Smites Pagans With the Power of the Lord). That one will come back. Trust me.

The plan is simple: I will write a "behind the scenes" look at how one of my posts comes to be. The only problem is: I don't have any good recent posts that I could possible remember the conception of. But I always say "when life gives you lemons, make crap up until you've filled the blue book." So I decide to write about the fact that I'm writing about the fact that I'm not writing anything at all. And by using dates, times, blockquotes, and different fonts, I can make a silly and pointless verbal puzzle that will both confuse and annoy all readers, while still making some semblance of sense if the reader wastes the time reading it.

And if anyone questions it...I'll say it's postmodern!

Armed with this confidence, I get back to doing my actual job until my lunch break.

12:54 PM, Tuesday, May 5th
I check the original entry again to make sure I know what the hell I'm talking about before starting to wrap this up:

12:11 PM, Monday, May 4th:
I begin typing the following:
I am not a prolific blo
...before spilling hot soup on my desk.

Monday, May 4, 2009

Blogging About Blogging About Not Blogging, Part 1

From the Thunder Matt's Saloon archive. This one's a doozy. As is the next one.

This picture is worth every word I wrote below.Or, "The Making of "The Making Of "Iron Maiden vs. [TBD]"""

I am not a prolific blogger.

There. I said it.

Some would theorize that the reason behind this is that I am simply lazy. Others might say that, when I do write, I pour so much of my heart, soul, and limited html programming skills into it that I'm bound to put out less posts than most. The latter group is being charitable. I'm pretty damn lazy.

I note that it has been ages since my last post here, and that was a list post. Ugh. Shame on me. Well, actually, shame on Neal Cotts. What a turd he is.

But I digress.

Anyway, one thing I think I can provide to the TMS reader is a free peek behind the scenes at TMS - what makes us tick, how we come up with what we do. And an that note, maybe I can give you a look inside the process of how looking into our process has affected me, both as a TMS bartender, and as a man.

And the best way to do that is a diary of my thoughts about the diary of the events that shape a typical blog entry on TMS:

11:47 AM, Monday, May 4th
I decide I should probably write that "Behind the Scenes at TMS" blog entry, as my lunch time is fast approaching. I then realize that I need to get something to eat.

12:10 PM, Monday, May 4th
A quick trip downstairs for a Coke and to the kitchen to microwave my soup, and I'm ready to begin. I start thinking about the events I'm going to have to recall to make this blog make sense...first I need to start remembering when the idea for a blog post about writing a blog post first came to me, then I'll have to OH HOLY CRAP!

12:13 PM, Monday, May 4th
I finish cleaning the hot soup off my desk, and get back to writing. I decide to start back last week, when Brant Brown was being a total Nazi about the "Gists," and my lack of particiaption in them. I begin to type:

Sometime Last Week
Brant Brown starts being a total Nazi about the "Gists," and my lack of participation in them.
I then look at that and realize that's a crappy thing to say and decide to cut that part. I decide a better place to begin is to start is my growing realization that I have not been adding much to the TMS landscape lately. I modify my statement:

Sometime Last Week
I begin to realize that I have not been adding much to the TMS landscape lately.

11:32 PM, Saturday, May 2:
Brant Brown writes: "Mookie. Write 200 words on how Tyler Perry's "House of Payne" differs from Tyler Perry's "Meet the Browns". Due Monday, via TMS post."
[Note: Brant has taken to calling me "Mookie Blaylock," probably because he's bitter that I'm able to blog under my own name, whereas his real name (Perez Hilton), has apparently already been taken].

2:54 AM, Sunday, May 3:
I respond: "Perez: No." But the need to write something soon festers.

12:23 PM, Monday, May 4:
I realize that I should probably mention my current mental state, as a way of explaining this entry. I take a second to find the right phrasing, then type:

7:30 PM, Sunday, May 3:
I attend my fiancee's graduation from her acting conservatory.

9:36 PM, Sunday, May 3:
The word goes out that everyone is leaving the after-graduation reception to get a few drinks at Brehon Pub. I tell my fiancee, "You can stay out as late as you want tonight, but I'm want to be home and in bed by 11:00, because I have to work tomorrow."

1:17 AM, Monday, May 4:
I do a shot of Jameson's with all of the members of her graduating class that are still upright.


12:30 PM, Monday, May 4:
I stop to reflect on my hangover for a moment.

12:52 PM, Monday, May 4:
I remember what I was doing with this blog, and start writing about the moment I remember that I haven't written jack and/or squat on TMS for some time.

2:47 AM, Monday, May 4:
I decide that I need to write a TMS post. But about what? I think about maybe getting up to play a little NES, but someone apparently set the room to "spin," so I decide against it.

2:55 AM, Monday, May 4:
I have a brainstorm. Mentally, I begin typing out the following Genius Idea:
Powerslave....


Eddie!

vs.

Powersauce!

McBain!

3:03 AM, Monday, May 4:
Satisfied with this incalculably brilliant concept, I drift into a dreamless slumber.

1:02 PM, Monday, May 4:
I realize that I need to stop writing this, as my lunch break is over. I decide to continue writing this one later, and break this entry into multiple parts. The next part will commence with my morning-after second thoughts about this formerly "incalculably brilliant" post idea. It will also include the angry responses from other bartenders that this entry will no doubt provoke.

End of Part 1.

Tune in tomorrow (no really) for the continuation of this in-depth look into my thoughts about my thoughts about something no one cares about,. Unless I am murdered by my fellow bartenders before I can finish it.

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"

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...

Thursday, April 3, 2008

The Dark Underbelly of the 80s - Part One, Section C (Subsection i)

Well, Spring is finally sort of here in Chicago,as one can tell from the following harbingers:

  • The Cubs are currently 0-2 (as of 9:16am CST). Chicago baseball overall is 0-4, if you count the White Sox, which I assure you, I don't.
  • There is hardly any snow remaining on the ground.
  • Construction has replaced icy roads as the main reason traffic moves at a snail's pace.
  • The Slog's thoughts are once again turned to the effects of 80s movies on the fragile psyche of The Slogger.
Oh yeah. That's right, Slogophiles.

It's our time. It's our time down here in...

The Dark Underbelly of the 80s - Part One,1 Section C

CLASS WAR, RACE BAITING, AND CHILD ABUSE...NOW WITH DICK JOKES!

Parts one and two are avaiable in the Slog Archive for your reading convenience. Unfortunately, I have so much to say on this vast topic (this movie contains multitudes), that I believe it wise to split this behemoth into more manageable chunks. Hey, it's been about a year since I promised this. What's a few more days among a readership of 7 people?

Anyway, on with at least 1/3 of The Show:

..................................................

Oh, Goonies. You hurt me so.

Not in the same way that say, Monster Squad2 or Dragnet3 (the movie) hurts. No. And to understand why, we need to get a little more "retro" than the occasional Garbage Pail Kids or Sectaurs4 reference the average Slog post might try to cough up. We need to go back to a person most people first hear about in a book of knock-knock jokes they found at their grandparents house: Euripedes.6

I. Something's Rotten in the State of Oregon

You know what would be a great cliche to do now? Talk about the Greek conceot of κάθαρσις.7 I might get back to that, probably in Subsection III. I can't guarantee that, as I basically just make this shit up as I go along.9 But it's not the Glorious Purging of Negative Emotion10 that I am interested in here. It's the element of social criticism. Masked as it is by cheap ethnic stereotypes and dick jokes.

Euripedes' masterpiece, The Trojan Women, is, among other things boring as hell a stern warning to his fellow Athenians about the fact that the horrors of war do not end with the last battle, and that a lust for vengeance and lack of mercy in victory is a scourge on even the victors. In stating this, he became one of the first in a long line of artists that couch their social criticism in their tales. And Goonies is so obviously a continuation of this lineage that I'm amazed there is less scholarly material on this than on other, far lesser films.

Astoria, Oregon is, like similar 80s towns such as Kingston Falls, Hill Valley, and Duckburg, a dystopian nightmare brought to the present day, where cruel (and yet oddly beardless) developers (Fig. 1) worshiping the crassest form of Mammon drive the innocent and hardworking from their homes. And, they're totally dickweeds about it, man. Especially Elgin Perkins. Seriously, when you've broken a man's livelihood and emasculated him in front of his family, the least you could do is not mention he's only one of 50 others you're going to do the same to. Even the consummately evil and malicious Iago11 had the decency to go after Othello alone, and not pencil in a few other Moors to destroy later that afternoon.

Fig. 1: The Plutocracy

And this same wretchedness extends to the reprehensible Troy, who manages to turn much of the first half of Goonies into a really confusing sequel to The Outsiders. Thankfully, he's dispatched in a Mrs. Deagle-esque fashion via explosive toilet12 at around the midway point, because frankly, the 80s were littered with jock douches already.

Unfortunately, the Goonies doesn't take the logical next step, and advocate the overthrough of a corrupt system through Propaganda of the Deed.13 No, like most decadent societies, they expect us all to hope for a deus ex machina14 like pirate treasure hidden 3500 miles (mostly across a landmass, no less) from the most common trade routes of the Golden Age of Piracy. Keep buying those lottery tickets, folks! You'll be able to pay off that mortgage one day!

So, in hindsight, the Goonies are a Cassandra that not only is not believed, but is not to be trusted. A cynical servant of power that masks a genuine contempt for the lower classes under a false populism (Fig. 2).


Fig. 2: Age-progressed photo of The Gerber Baby.

Now, this photo of Lou Dobbs will provide the perfect segue to my next section, to be posted within a fortnight, or your money back!



  1. How much hubris do I actually have in implying that this series has more than one part after this?
  2. Yes, I know Wolfman's got "nards." That doesn't make this movie any higher than the low bar Citizen Kane sets.
  3. "Hey, I've got an idea? Why don't we allow the downward arc of Dan Ackroyd's career to intersect with the upward arc of Tom Hanks' career at the exact Suckiest Point in the Universe?"
  4. You don't even remember these, do you? You probably forgot "Visionaries: Knights of the Magical Light" and "Battle Beasts" as well.5 Well, the 80s weren't all cool shit like The Transformers and The A-Team, Sunny Jim. They were mostly pain and misery. Like The Go-Bots and Rip Tide.
  5. Holy crap. Was there any dumb toy idea in the 80s the inclusion of a hologram couldn't solve? Battle Beasts were essentially a fucking game of paper/rock/scissors in collectable form.
  6. ...pants, you mend-a these pants. Hiyo!
  7. Like all quasi-intellectuals, I like to put the occasional Greek term in, in the original Greek alphabet. This is despite the fact that I've never taken Greek, and therefore my airs to Classicism can be considered quite a praetensus. For the record, it's just the same damn mention of catharsis you'll always get when Greek theatre8 is mentioned.
  8. Also, for the record, the fact that I spell "theatre" in this fashion is a little praetensus as well.
  9. Just like Our Current Administration's Foreign Policy. Zing! That's right, W, you've been Slogged!TM
  10. The debut album from Trinity of the Damned
  11. It goes without saying that everything I say about the Shakespearian character of Iago also holds true for the animated parrot of the same name voiced by Gilbert Gottfried. Or really anything Gilbert Gottfried has ever done.
  12. Oh, sure. He survives this accident, unlike Deagle. But c'mon, you know Richard Donner totally pussed on him getting killed in an Hilariously Juvenile Tragedy.
  13. Trinity of the Damned's difficult third album.
  14. The third reference to common Greek theatrical terms in this, Our Most Educational Slog Post, to date.

Friday, March 21, 2008

You gonna cry now? Huh? Gonna cry?

There are certain things a man isn't supposed to do. Crying is high on the list.

There have traditionally been only a few circumstances where men (or even boys) can cry. And all of them should be limited to a single, significant tear:
  • When drinking and thinking about your late father, who never told you he loved you
  • When a sports legend playing for your team retires, especially if it's due to illness1
  • When you have to shoot your beloved dog because he has rabies
  • When you see someone litter on the highway2
Of course over the last few decades, as we as a culture have grown "Sensitive," the list has expanded greatly to include such notable reasons as:
  • Watching "Field of Dreams"3
  • Attending some sort of Wilderness Retreat where you get in touch with your Inner Man
  • Couples therapy
  • Getting eliminated on Project Runway
  • ...and many more.
And thank goodness. For most of my life, I have been a pretty soft touch. And I have some overactive tear ducts. I'm easily emotionally manipulated by movies that I should be cynical enough to laugh at. I even tear up when using baby talk. In fact, cutting more than one onion at a time is a nightmare for me (I used to have to do it in bulk when I worked at a pizzaria. That was hell).

I've gotten used to that fact, and try my damnedest to not be ashamed. But there are a few genres of entertainment that are just plain embarassing to cry over. And I have cried over them. More than once. In fact there are certain things that ALWAYS make me cry. Some of them make me cry just thinking about them.

So, without further ado, and with no further justification, I bring you:

The Top Things That Always Make Me Cry Inappropriately, By Genre

Pop Song
Runner-up:
"Veronica," by Elvis Costello
I know music is a powerful emotional force, but c'mon! This song is so upbeat I'm not surprised Costello had been working with McCartney on this album. Still, it's about his beloved grandmother's final years. Every time I get to the point where EC says:
But she always had a carefree mind of her own
with a devilish look in her eye
saying you can call me anything you like
but my name is Veronica
I just lose it. Comically. And pathetically.

Winner:
"Silver and Gold" by Joe Strummer & the Mescaleros.
Waterworks. The whole song saddens me in context, as it is a meditation on all the things the singer wants to do before he gets too old. Sung by a man who died suddenly about a year after it was recorded. Man, that's a bummer. That's like 10 bummers. The last song on his last album. Specifically the bit after the song ends when he says. "That's a take." Again: waterworks.

For a while, this song was playing every time I came into the local Chipotle. Nothing like stifling tears at your local high-end Mexican fast food joint to brighten up your evening.

Animated Television

Runner-Up:
The Simpsons
Specifically the episode where Homer flashes back to the birth of Maggie.4 Remember when Homer has to quit his dream job as a Pin Monkey to come literally crawling back to Mr. Burns after playing his head like a bongo on the way out? That part...doesn't make me cry. But at the end when he uses Maggie's pictures to make the Demotivational Plaque read "Do It For Her?" Oh god...I'm barely keeping it together now. If all I had ever seen of the Simpsons was the last few seasons, I would punch you in the scrotum5 for suggesting I could ever be moved by Homer's devotion.

Winner:
Futurama
If you watch this show with anything approaching the degree of fanaticism I do (and, admittedly few do), you already know what I'm talking about. The fabled Dog Episode, "Jurassic Bark."

True story: I have been told not once, but twice, that the person I watched it with would never watch it again. And with good cause. That last time-lapse sequence where--oh God...I can't--just move to the next section...I'll catch up in a minute...No...I'm fine. Just--Just skip ahead...

Superhero Comic Books
Runner Up:
An issue of Justice League America whose number escapes me

Okay. I'm back. And this may be the most embarassing section of all. I mean, if it were Maus, I'd have an excuse. Maus is about the Holocaust, so it's okay to be devastated. But what if it's about Super-Freakin'-Man?

This issue was the finale of The World War III storyline from like a decade ago. I'm not one for giving decent plot recaps, and it's been ages since I've seen it, but Chris Sims6 sums this up well:


Which is why the rest of the Justice League concocts a plot so complex that I can only tell you it involves a giant hamster wheel, the Purple Healing Ray, and the stone heads of Easter Island that temporarily gives every single person on Earth super-powers. And that's when the whole of humanity rises up as one to fight alongside Superman against the massive embodiment of despair and hopelessness, because after all the times that he saved them, how could they not save him when he needed them to?
Okay, the first part is exceptionally silly, but c'mon man: you'd have to be a Man of Stone not to be a little touched by that final part...I mean...right? Right?

Anyone?

Fine. Be that way.

Archetypes make me sob, okay!?!?!

Winner:
Watchmen

Specifically,


........SPOILER AHEAD7........





The death of the original Nite Owl, Hollis Mason.

After being mistaken for his replacement, the elderly Mason is attacked by gang members at his home. Despite fighting gamely, he is eventually beaten to death with a trophy given to him for his meritorious service. And as cold as that is, the scene is depicted with the panels alternating between a spy, kindly old man being pummeled by degenerate thugs and washed out panels depicting The Nite Owl in his prime, busting up "Ratzis" with a million dollar smile on his face, looking like the stereotypical Perfect Comic Book Hero. It's bone chilling, and one of about a thousand reasons I suspect the movie will be underwhelming. I'm not sure if the scene even comes close to being transferrable.




........OK, YOU CAN READ AGAIN........


And now.................................

The Ultimate Thing That Makes Me Cry:

Sure, I've established that a lot of silly stuff makes me cry, but nothing does quite like:

Gilda Radner.

Oh, how Gilda makes me cry. I remember watching the play "Bunny, Bunny" about a decade ago Off-Broadway. It starred Paula Cale as Gilda, the late Bruno Kirby as her friend, the writer Alan Zweibel, and Firefly's own Alan Tudyk as, well, everyone else. And basically I cried for the entire second act. Pathetically. Blubberingly. I felt hung over afterwards, I was so dehydrated. I have also wept openly during an SNL special when they did a tribute to her.

And, probably most embarassingly, while reading the Sunday comics.

When Bloom County's Opus said "Gilda Radner isn't supposed to end." I think it was the most heart-wrenching thing I've ever seen in a newspaper.

.............................................

There, admitting this was cathartic. It's good to admit you're a raging pussy sometimes. I hope you've enjoyed yourself at my expense. No if you'll excuse me, I think I have something in my eye...



  1. I am aware that Denis Leary pointed this one out in No Cure For Cancer. It doesn't make it any less true.
  2. This only applies to Native Americans.
  3. Which, of course, is two hours devoted to Never Playing Catch With Daddy.
  4. Ok, I used to remember episode titles. I'd look it up, but if you haven't seen that episode, there is no reason to be reading this: you and I have nothing in common.
  5. Or appropriate subsititute for any women or harem guards reading this.
  6. If you like kicks to the face and/or Jack Kirby half as much as I do, I strongly recommend The Invincible Super Blog
  7. There is a movie being made, after all, so this will probably be in it. God, I hope it isn't botched. Like every other movie connected with Alan Moore.

Thursday, March 13, 2008

The Whole World Loves Adam Ant, Damn It!

Man, this site's getting image search hits from all over the world just because I put a photo of Gozer the Destructor (in the form of Adam Ant, circa 1981) in one of my posts. Who knew the demand was so high? Apparently, Southeast Asia and large swaths of Africa long for photos of the leaders of the New Romantic movement.

So, in a shameless attempt to boost my hit count (and become The Next Big Thing in Malaysia), here you go, Third World. A trip down Synthpop Memory Lane:

First up is the ever stylish Midge Ure and his fabulous moustache. Ultravox is the probably the first band to have a hit on the pop charts with a lead singer that looks like a maître d' in a Peter Sellers comedy.

"Would sir care to see the wine list?"

Who doesn't love Spandau Ballet? Apparently their hairdresser. Who was probably the guy from Flock of Seagulls. This actually looks disturbingly like a yearbook photo.


"TRUE!!!!"

Remember Japan? I'm sure anyone searching from Manchuria does!1 Trivia: judging by this photo, a cane-brandishing Melanie Griffith joined the band in 1980.



A Candid Moment on the set of Working Girl

What the hell happened to Boy George? Seriously. What. The. Hell? I'm hoping someone in Senegal wants to know.


I DEFY you to name everything wrong with this picture.

Okay, Duran Duran. I'm not going to make fun of Duran Duran. Their name comes from a softcore sci-fi skin flick starring Jane Fonda. Which, conceptionally speaking, rules. Also, two words: Seven. Andtheraggedtiger.2 The only real downside is, thanks to A View To A Kill, they occasionally make the image of Roger Moore schtupping Grace Jones pop into my head...3

"Sorry about that, Wolter"

Also, I have recently become aware of a little known requirement by blogger.com: if you have a blog, and you mention baseball, you must post a picture of Alyssa Milano in her cutesy little Dodger gear at least once a year. So this is as good a place as any:


There. Are you satisfied, Blogger?

Which reminds me, I have a lot of issues with the show "Charmed," which I may4 address here at a later date. Or in therapy.



  1. Everybody loves a good relatively obscure War Atrocity joke! Right, guys? Next entry, I'll be referencing the Armenian Genocide under Ottoman Rule!
  2. Sorry. I know. I cheated. It's technically one word and a number.
  3. Yeah. I know. It probably wasn't fair for me to mention that. I apologize for putting that image in your mind.
  4. I hate to make any promises, as I already feel like I've let down every single fan of The Goonies.

Friday, March 7, 2008

Home VCR Repair - A Journey in Pictures

The setup: On Thursday night, Ali and I watched a really boring movie made in England that some people in France love, which is about as multicultural as this McRib lover ever gets. It was a requirement for one of her classes at her acting conservatory. It seems to be fairly popular, but I fell asleep twice during it. Let's just say it was no Ghostbusters and leave it at that.

Anywhoo, we actually had to dust off the VCR for this, as Ali had to borrow a copy from someone else who borrowed it from the Public Library. And on Friday morning, when Ali attempted to eject the tape, the VCR wouldn't even power up long enough to do so. I secretly suspect it was because the movie was so boring it put the machine into a coma, but I'm no expert.

Well, Ali was all disturbed, because she is both:
  1. A decent person who hates to let a friend down by not returning something she borrowed,
  2. A cheap person that doesn't want to give a red cent to no damn liberry,
...I actually had something like this happen about twelve years ago, and successfully disassembled the machine to remove the tape, so I turned all Alpha Male and said "Don't worry your pretty little head, honey. I'll fix it after work." Okay, I didn't literally say that, but I'm sure I wasn't much less condescending.

I got about as far as removing the top and faceplate before realizing this was going to be a longer journey than I remembered. So I decided to record it for posterity, so Ali could bask in my victory when she got home from work.

This is the project: remove Secrets & Lies from its Outdated Media Playing Prison.



This is The Only Tool I'll Need (note stoic determination):



To work!



Current collection of screws removed:



And how much has changed? Not enough to take a new picture, that's for damn sure:



Oh! Here! A screw I missed! That should speed things along.



Don't fuck with me, screws. This fucker's magnetized.



Net change after that dramatic removal:



WHAT THE HELL, MAN?!?!?!



Okay...Okay...Calm down, Wolter. You just need to come at this from another angle. Maybe you need more than a screwdriver after all. You need an all-purpose Solution To Life's Problems...but what could that be...?



Hmmm.

Oh yeah!



How silly of me not to consult Dr. Scotch.



What's that, Dr. Scotch? You want me to take that screw out? Ok.

Well that accomplished...nothing.



I can't stay mad at you, Scotch. Let's check on our progress.



Screws removed?



Okay...let me try a few more.

Good. Something came off. That's satisfying. Just wish I knew what it was for. Oh well. Onwards and upwards...



Oh crap, the tape is still wound around the head. Fantastic.



This requires some deep thought.



And a consultation...



Okay, I just need to ease that little piece slightly over to return the tape to the hou--

GODDAMMIT!




It took surprisingly little pressure to snap this little guy off.



Time to regroup. What the hell do I do now? I kind of suspect that piece is necessary for the continued operation of this particular device. I suppose I should meditate on my options.



Oh, that's right!



BRUTE FORCE!



Won't be needing this!



Or this!



Thanks for the assist, Dr. Scotch. This is a breakthrough moment, and should be savored.



Okay...easy...easy...



And...



Gloria! In Excelsis Barbaria!



Hosanna in Excelsis!



Final score: Wolter 1, VCR 0

Unfortunately, it was a Pyrrhic victory, as Dr. Scotch was a casualty of war. But he will be remembered for his bravery, his sagacity, and his smooth finish.

The final outcome:



If anyone needs me to repair any other electronic devices, I am available. As is my new assistant, Nurse Bourbon.