And in honor o' that very special occasion, I present t' miraculous Pirate Translator. Be aye t' run all email drafts through this puppy tomorrow before sendin' them out!
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Friday, August 24, 2007
My Favorite Movies: Them!
Hey, folks. Brian here…It’s been a very tumultuous and busy summer! And right now I’m pretty bogged down at the moment inventorying my extensive comic collection in my mother’s perpetually damp basement (I seriously need to grow up, stop being an apartment dweller, and buy a house so I can store these myself…one of the many life-changing decisions I’ve been grappling with as of late). The toxic mold I’ve been exposed to over the past few days has left me feeling like Indiana Jones looped on Thuggee skull juice, so there will be a guest reviewer for this installment of My Favorite Movies. His name is Earl…Gampa Earl to be more precise (my father’s father). He’s an old-time movie dork and once he saw my selection for this write-up he insisted on making his journalistic debut via my blog—that and come to find out, his old persuasion technique of dragging me out to the front yard in a headlock and forcibly rubbing grass on my teeth still proves particularly effective. Hey, he may be 82 but the man is strong as an Ox and used to be a Marine! So here is Gampa Earl in all his glory. I’m gonna go floss and crawl into bed and pass out to the stirring strings of John William’s Superman score….
Thank you Skeeter. Make sure to let your Ma, I mean your roommate know if your assma kicks in. That mold can be deadly stuff, but then I’ve seen you eat 2 month old Olive Loaf and not suffer so much as a case of the hershey squirts.
Hello people, I am here to talk about Them! The big ants who crush people in their big pincher things. Skeeter won’t go near this because bugs make him scream and prissy-prance on a chair like those dames in the mice cartoons. I used to chase him around the backyard with a rubber spider whenever his high school buddies dropped by. That all stopped when I broke my hip in ‘92, but now that those Medicare basturds finally coughed up the dough for my Invacare Panther OX-4 four wheel Scooter, I can keep up with him much better!
Them! was made after World War II, the meat and potatoe days when toddlers could puff through a pack of Lucky’s before their noon nap, real wool ran like water through the streets, and women got their assess back into them kitchens! It was also the days when Uncle Sam stepped up to the plate in the ultimate World Series and made enough nukes to allow every God-fearing American to sleep like Bourboned-up babies (just ask Skeeter) under the comforting umbrella of the nuclear deterrent. Those commie bastards didn’t stand a chance. And I spent three years in Korea to make sure they didn’t! M*A*S*H my ass!
Those big commie ants didn’t stand a chance either. Them! starts with a little trailer park girl wandering out of the desert in New Mexico. She happens to live by where they did that nuclear testing. Some cops pick her up but find her sardine can of a home destroyed when they take her back. They also find a local store keeper murdered in his ransacked establishment. A murder mystery unfolds. But a bunch of wimpy scientists and men from the FBI and the Army soon discover who the real murderers are--giant nuclearized ants! One of those G-Men is James Arness, the next best thing to The Duke hisself by golly.
This movie shows you snot-nosed punks that all it takes is that Red White and Blue pride and strength to defeet any enemy of this grate nation of ours. You college pansies need to remember that. I’d like to see you hold hands and sing Peter Paul and Mary songs when these bugs come a calling. I may only have a 9 grade educasion, but I know when it is time to kick some ass!
And, thanks to a retired buddy of mine who spent time stationed at Groom Lake back in the day, I will divulge that this movie is based on a true story that happened in Nevada in ’44. Sure, don’t believe me--but just wait until giant Locusts start tearing apart our boys in Baghdad, leaving a path of destruction that starts in Tehran!
Oh yeah. Skeeter told me to tell you to watch for a young Spock in this movie as a Army sergeant. What a limp wrist! I made Sergeant First Class in no time for my world famous chipped beef gravy. The men loved me--but not in that way!
Skeeter also said I should tell some kind of half-assed personal story that imitates some part of the movie. I got a story for you boy. I picked up a smoking dame to take to see Them! when it came out in ’54. Her parents wanted me disemboweled with a Swiss Army knife, but that did not stop Earl the Pearl! Anyways, when I came to get her I gave her a light poke in the breadbasket and said “You ready to roll?” But when I did that she accidentally blew a fart and ran behind a tree and bawled like a baby. Being the man I am I walked over to her and ripped an Earl Special, the kind that made the birds fall out of the tree--just to show her it was natural and all. That dame spent the rest of the night clutching Earl’s guns as them ants scared her closer and closer to me. And that’s how I forever won the hart of your grandma.
So Them! will always have a special place in this old man’s hart. It is a good movie and the Ants aren’t as scary as they seemed in ‘54...unless you happen to be a 160-pound, sissy-fied former kids show host who is scared of his own shadow!
Hell, his fear of bugs all started because when Skeeter was eight a mosquito bit him on the knob and he scratched the bite so much it became infected. I told him something like that would happen if he kept running around the backyard in nothing but his underpants and cowboy boots with a blanket tied around his neck. Look out world, here comes Sissy Man!
Anyways, the neighborhood kids got wind of it when I told them and used to taunt him with, “I gotta Skeeter on my Peter...I gotta Skeeter on my Peter!” And the name stuck like a pair of Skeeter’s tighty whiteys to the laundry room wall.
That’s it, you Satan worshiping, pierced and tattooed freaks. If you don’t like what I’ve had to say then to hell with you!
Back to you, Skeeter.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Roseanne: The Musical
I’m kinda ashamed to admit it, but I got hooked on this year’s American Idol. I’ve always been keenly aware of the wildly popular intellect-sucking diversion (how could one not be aware!), but I’ve never possessed the patience to devote my time to it other than a casual glance at some of the freak-show auditions. But since life recently slowed up a bit, I found myself thoroughly ensnared by Simon and Ryan’s sexual tension, Paula’s bat-guano craziness, and Randy’s faux African Americaness (dawg).
It was the night of the finale I bolted up from a sound sleep, grabbed my trusty Olympus VN2100PC Digital Voice Recorder off the nightstand and…mumbled incoherently. Luckily I recalled my inspiration the next morning and after working out some of the creative details, I’m ready to share it with you as a means of starting a groundswell of support that is sure to grab the combined attention of Simon Cowell and Rosanne Barr more than Ryan Seacrest dressed as a giant hot dog ever could.
It seems every day the trades announce yet another television or film property being turned into a musical…so why not take advantage of the trend while at the same time tapping into America’s love of AI and current enthrallment with all things pallid refuse.
Thus, I present the fledgling idea of…
Roseanne: Frenchie Davis
There was only one woman I could envision that could ever fill Rosanne’s beer stained Keds (let alone her brazier). Granted, Frenchie was dumped early on from a long-ago season, but she’s went on to make a name for herself on the stage and would bring a lot of attention to the production…not to mention real talent.
Dan: Sundance Head
It was the night of the finale I bolted up from a sound sleep, grabbed my trusty Olympus VN2100PC Digital Voice Recorder off the nightstand and…mumbled incoherently. Luckily I recalled my inspiration the next morning and after working out some of the creative details, I’m ready to share it with you as a means of starting a groundswell of support that is sure to grab the combined attention of Simon Cowell and Rosanne Barr more than Ryan Seacrest dressed as a giant hot dog ever could.
It seems every day the trades announce yet another television or film property being turned into a musical…so why not take advantage of the trend while at the same time tapping into America’s love of AI and current enthrallment with all things pallid refuse.
Thus, I present the fledgling idea of…
Roseanne: The Musical
Roseanne: Frenchie Davis
There was only one woman I could envision that could ever fill Rosanne’s beer stained Keds (let alone her brazier). Granted, Frenchie was dumped early on from a long-ago season, but she’s went on to make a name for herself on the stage and would bring a lot of attention to the production…not to mention real talent.Dan: Sundance Head
I envision a scene where Dan serenades Rosanne with “Nights In White Satin” while clutching an unopened condom in his teeth in their bedroom on the night of their honeymoon. He dances around her seductively, dressed in football jersey and sweatpants.
Jackie: Haley Scarnato
The character of Jackie is a neurotic, pathetic mess…very much like Haley’s performance style.
D.J.: Kevin Covais
Obvious casting choice.
Becky: Kellie Pickler
Who else could convincingly portray a troubled girl who runs away from home and marries a dim-witted, troubled grease-monkey all at the ripe old age of seventeen? I'm just concerned that she could have trouble remembering her lines.
And, last but not least….
Darlene: Constantine Maroulis
My old agent is flying in to Capital City Airport this weekend to go over this with me.
Wish me luck, and feel free to post your thoughts/feedback.
Friday, April 27, 2007
Stinky Spud and the Degradation of America’s Youth
Anyone who reads my blog can easily surmise that my sense of humor knows few boundaries. As corporeal beings we must regularly contend with a never ending array of various bodily emissions, odors, fluids and other icky gunk (both our own and that of others). Our choice is simple: we can either embrace the underlying filth of the human condition or vainly rally against it. I choose the former, but even I have my limits as I discovered this past weekend while catching a few minutes of my nephew’s latest DVD acquisition via the Easter Bunny:
Being a former host of a moderately successful children’s show, I take serious issue with anything I perceive to be detrimental to those fragile, impressionable young psyches. Bob the Builder has been around long enough to earn a rightful place in the same pantheon as Barney the Dinosaur and Fred Rogers, but in my expert opinion, the folks who produce the show really blew it this time by offering up a conspicuously flatulent Spud (the mephisto-like, mayhem-causing anthropomorphic scarecrow of Sunflower Valley).
When I was a child manners still meant something and were adhered to with almost religious fervor. Flatulence was not wafted about so freely in popular culture—and it definitely was not aimed at young children. Imagine for a moment Moose showering Captain Kangaroo in a sulfuric volley of gas rather than ping-pong balls…or Ernie jumping into bed with Bert and subjecting him to a Muppet style Dutch oven…or Steve Burns ripping a wet one in celebration of discovering the third Blue’s Clue. Doesn’t seem right, does it? I remember one particular writer on Peter’s Playground who once suggested that Pumpernickel, my little worm sidekick who resided in my pant’s pocket, belch after slurping down a quart of wholesome milk. Not on my watch!
Perhaps my insistence on prepubescent etiquette stems from my Grandmother, a saintly woman who considered the very term f*rt the most vile word in the English language (see, I can’t even type it!); or perhaps it’s due in part to being tormented by my own 'Stinky Spud', a pudgy grade school classmate who epitomized adolescent obnoxiousness.
From 4th through 6th grade I, for some inexplicable reason, found myself the target for Craig Blackburn’s passive-aggressive personality, which usually manifested itself through his anus. Craig’s compulsive urge to “backfire” (as my Grandmother preferred to call it) either within close proximity to or on me directly seemed to fill him (and the rest of the class) with a never-ending sense of glee. And the fact that I usually ended up right next to him on the seating chart didn’t help matters.
Our proximity meant that we were often paired during daily training sessions for the President's Physical Fitness Challenge, where I was forced to endure shot gun blasts of Craig’s pungent, hot intestinal air while holding his feet during sit ups. Worse still was the humiliation I suffered while attending the annual Halloween assembly with the rest of the Pleasant Grove Elementary school body, tightly packed into the small gymnasium to watch the usual grainy trick-or-treating safety film. Craig (seated on the floor next to me, of course) strategically waited for a lull in the projected action before leaning away and unleashing what would be his crowning achievement: Over a period of close to ten seconds, what began as a low moan quickly lifted into what sounded like bare hands repeatedly and rapidly slapping against the polished wood floor before rising to a crescendo akin to cooked oatmeal being blown through a trombone.
As the nauseating call echoed loudly throughout the acoustic gym, a sea of small heads snapped around in what surely must have been the largest case of mass whiplash in recorded history. Within seconds I was violently jerked off the floor by Mrs. Javoroski (our 6th grade teacher) and escorted to the sidelines as Craig casually pointed at me during her stride towards us. For the rest of the school year I was known by the scarring nickname Splatter Pants, despite my best efforts to convince everyone I wasn't the offender.
As Craig demonstrates, children can be rather ruthless, and exhibiting bad manners is not always a victimless crime. So why promote such behavior in our children? Yeah, I’m looking at you Bob the Builder! However, being an obnoxious kid does not always go unpunished either, as Craig learned a short time after the gymnasium incident. It was his turn to be dragged away in the talon-like clutches of a school employee. It was Mrs. Buntin, the lunch lady, who descended upon Craig and dragged him off to the principle’s office after catching him wagging a particularly phallic-looking Cheeto in front of his fly.
And he cried like a little bitch!
Being a former host of a moderately successful children’s show, I take serious issue with anything I perceive to be detrimental to those fragile, impressionable young psyches. Bob the Builder has been around long enough to earn a rightful place in the same pantheon as Barney the Dinosaur and Fred Rogers, but in my expert opinion, the folks who produce the show really blew it this time by offering up a conspicuously flatulent Spud (the mephisto-like, mayhem-causing anthropomorphic scarecrow of Sunflower Valley).
When I was a child manners still meant something and were adhered to with almost religious fervor. Flatulence was not wafted about so freely in popular culture—and it definitely was not aimed at young children. Imagine for a moment Moose showering Captain Kangaroo in a sulfuric volley of gas rather than ping-pong balls…or Ernie jumping into bed with Bert and subjecting him to a Muppet style Dutch oven…or Steve Burns ripping a wet one in celebration of discovering the third Blue’s Clue. Doesn’t seem right, does it? I remember one particular writer on Peter’s Playground who once suggested that Pumpernickel, my little worm sidekick who resided in my pant’s pocket, belch after slurping down a quart of wholesome milk. Not on my watch!
Perhaps my insistence on prepubescent etiquette stems from my Grandmother, a saintly woman who considered the very term f*rt the most vile word in the English language (see, I can’t even type it!); or perhaps it’s due in part to being tormented by my own 'Stinky Spud', a pudgy grade school classmate who epitomized adolescent obnoxiousness.
From 4th through 6th grade I, for some inexplicable reason, found myself the target for Craig Blackburn’s passive-aggressive personality, which usually manifested itself through his anus. Craig’s compulsive urge to “backfire” (as my Grandmother preferred to call it) either within close proximity to or on me directly seemed to fill him (and the rest of the class) with a never-ending sense of glee. And the fact that I usually ended up right next to him on the seating chart didn’t help matters.
Our proximity meant that we were often paired during daily training sessions for the President's Physical Fitness Challenge, where I was forced to endure shot gun blasts of Craig’s pungent, hot intestinal air while holding his feet during sit ups. Worse still was the humiliation I suffered while attending the annual Halloween assembly with the rest of the Pleasant Grove Elementary school body, tightly packed into the small gymnasium to watch the usual grainy trick-or-treating safety film. Craig (seated on the floor next to me, of course) strategically waited for a lull in the projected action before leaning away and unleashing what would be his crowning achievement: Over a period of close to ten seconds, what began as a low moan quickly lifted into what sounded like bare hands repeatedly and rapidly slapping against the polished wood floor before rising to a crescendo akin to cooked oatmeal being blown through a trombone.
As the nauseating call echoed loudly throughout the acoustic gym, a sea of small heads snapped around in what surely must have been the largest case of mass whiplash in recorded history. Within seconds I was violently jerked off the floor by Mrs. Javoroski (our 6th grade teacher) and escorted to the sidelines as Craig casually pointed at me during her stride towards us. For the rest of the school year I was known by the scarring nickname Splatter Pants, despite my best efforts to convince everyone I wasn't the offender.
As Craig demonstrates, children can be rather ruthless, and exhibiting bad manners is not always a victimless crime. So why promote such behavior in our children? Yeah, I’m looking at you Bob the Builder! However, being an obnoxious kid does not always go unpunished either, as Craig learned a short time after the gymnasium incident. It was his turn to be dragged away in the talon-like clutches of a school employee. It was Mrs. Buntin, the lunch lady, who descended upon Craig and dragged him off to the principle’s office after catching him wagging a particularly phallic-looking Cheeto in front of his fly.
And he cried like a little bitch!
Friday, April 13, 2007
Join Us!
If you happen live anywhere near the Holt (Michigan) area, you’ll definitely want to clear your calendar the afternoon of Sunday April 22.
http://www.lsj.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20070408/HOLT01/704080550/1212/HOLT01
Funeral home open house planned
Palmer Bush & Jensen Family Funeral Homes are planning a Community Open House celebrating the opening of the new Holt Delhi Chapel located at 5035 Holt Road. The new home is on the corner of Holt Road and Eifert Road. The open house is scheduled for April 22 from 1 - 4 p.m. A ribbon cutting ceremony will be held at 1 p.m.
In addition, there are activities planned for the entire family:
- Make-up and styling tips
- A seminar on the many household uses for Formaldehyde
- Free Hotdogs and S’mores (available in the basement crematorium)
- A wreath toss
- Piñatas
- Face painting (with a veritable cornucopia of skin tones to choose from)
- Helpful tips on changing your vehicle’s engine oil and maintaining proper fluid levels from the fine folks at Jiffy Lube
- And the hermetically preserved remains of 70s funny man Avery Schreiber (on loan from The Gag Factory Museam of Yucks, Ontario Canada):
- But that’s not all…get there early to have your picture taken with The Tall Man himself, Angus Scrimm:
- Fox 47 news anchor Jason Colthorp:
- And Yours Truly!
Friday, April 6, 2007
My Favorite Movies: Close Encounters of the Third Kind
It was the most terrifying period of my life. And, as with any traumatic memory, the details are forever ingrained into my cerebral cortex, an excruciating synaptic snap shot of paralyzing fear and helplessness. To this day, when the sun capitulates to the encroaching gloom of night, I often lay huddled in bed, acutely aware of every sound and sensation. I’m eight years old on a sticky hot July night in 1978, in bed and near complete exhaustion from a walk up the street earlier that afternoon to purchase candy from the corner store, using change from returned empty eight-packs of Coca-Cola (have I mentioned I was a fat kid?). My bedroom windows are open…a hot breeze causes my Batman curtains to flail slightly. I envision the caped crusader’s midnight-blue cape unfurling in the night as he swoops down to wreak vengeance on Gotham’s…what is that! A blue light suddenly fills my room from outside! I dart up violently…the rumpled Snickers and Twix bar wrappers covering my Incredible Hulk bed spread flutter in every direction like a swarm of multi-colored moths! My first instinct is to slam my windows shut, but fear grips me…and speed was never in my vocabulary, let alone my nervous system! Then IT appears…at the window next to my bed. A hand rakes down the screen…a horrible face comes into view, pale with huge black eyes! Within minutes I’m at my bedroom door, pulling, pounding, panting, screaming. It’s locked from the outside! Why can’t my parents hear me! I turn in absolute horror to see the screen rise up…the being is climbing through my window!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I wake up the next morning on the floor with the sun flooding my room with warm, comforting brilliance, a welcomed contrast to the night before. The pungent yet sweet smell of my own urine fills my nostrils. I’m still here! The screen is down on my window! Did it really happen? I would plead with my parents to let me sleep in their bed…or to at least allow me to keep my bedroom door open, but to no avail. It was all in my head, my Mom would say. “Stop being a little pussy!” was all that my Dad would offer on the subject (which would become his standard response to any concerns I’d raise until I was about twenty!). And that, my friends, was my personal torment for several nights during that long July as my otherworldly tormentor would return to stalk me into panic-ridden unconsciousness.
I blamed myself. I brought this upon myself. Aliens were preying on my obsessive fears of THEM. I knew they were coming for me…I just knew it was gonna happen, and sure enough…it did! It was hard not to agonize over the threat of alien abduction at that tender age—especially after cowering in the theater for over two hours the previous winter, clutching my father’s arm temporarily before it was wrenched away with a huff, as a thirty-foot Richard Dreyfuss descended into madness in front of my eyes after his own encounter with strange lights in the sky! The 1977 release of Close Encounters of the Third Kind (Steven Spielberg’s triumphant and magical follow up to Jaws) made UFOs a hot topic in the media. Aliens were suddenly everywhere…watching…waiting…a prominent and foreboding fact of life.
I write about this now because I bravely added Close Encounters of the Third Kind (Single Disc Collector’s Edition) to my DVD collection. What can I say…I’m a movie lover and a glutton…for punishment, that is.My heterosexual love for this film is what compelled me to face my fears. I sheepishly slid the disk into my player and sat back on the couch, already hugging a pillow, yet leaving one arm free to scoop up copious amounts of Frito’s from the large Tupperware bowl next to me. This is what started it all…the film that would leave an indelible mark upon my burgeoning psyche and begin a downward spiral into my own close encounter.
Childhood scars aside, I rediscovered just what a beautiful film CE3K is, on several levels. It’s breathtaking visuals, fully realized story, and believable, easy to identify with characters make this a must have for any true film geek. The film broke with the popular rubber-tentacled approach to aliens from the 50s and 60s (a genre my grandpa Earl loves dearly) and ushered in a new era of Science Fiction/Fantasy cinema.
The story begins by spinning several intriguing threads on a global scale. Lost WWII fighter planes suddenly appear in pristine condition in the middle of a dessert; a ship appears in a barren sea of sand in India; commercial jets are forced to play a dangerous game of chicken in the night sky with unidentified flying objects…something incredible is happening. And a mysterious French researcher, Claude Lacombe (Francois Trufaut) attempts to discover what (or who) is behind the phenomenon with help of his assistant and the American military….At the same time, Spielberg shrewdly draws us into the mystery further by focusing on a select few who have an intimate connection to the strange occurrences. Roy Neary (Dreyfuss) is a power company lineman who’s sent out one summer night to investigate a sweeping blackout of the town and comes face to face with a blinding, gravity-defying beam that accosts his truck. Gillian Guiler (Melinda Dillion), a single Mom, and her precocious two-year old son Barry (more on him in a minute) also witness the odd occurrences and meet up with Roy by the roadside later that night. Roy has dragged his skeptical family out to see for themselves how he got such a wicked sunburn, and they discover that others have gathered as well. But Roy takes away more than just a sunburn. He soon embarks on a quest to unlock his resulting obsession with a mountain-like shape, a quest that will cost him his job, and his family, and will eventually lead both him and Gillian to Devil’s Tower in Wyoming, where they will find the answers they seek in one incredible, awe-inspiring sequence!
Roy is every man. He tows the line, he lives in the burbs with his wife and kids, he lives the whole nine-to-five American dream. But like a Midwestern version of Siddhartha Gautama, Roy is subjected to the ultimate awakening into extraterrestrial Buddhahood. He’s jarringly stripped of everything he thought he knew and thrust into new realities that far exceed his steadfast perceptions of life. Imagine if you spent your entire existence nibbling on those little frozen Bagel Bites and that’s all you knew about Pizza…but one night you unexpectedly have an encounter with a Dominoes Pizza delivery guy and realize there’s a whole universe of pizza out there just waiting to be explored! Blows your mind, doesn’t it?
Cognitively, Roy becomes a child again, with a child’s sense of wonder and curiosity that propels him to turn his back on the life he knows in order to fully experience these strange new modes of existence he has discovered. And we are left with a keen understanding that no matter how enveloped we may become in our day-to-day drudgery, there’s always something larger looming…just waiting to deliver a poignant dose of perspective. But if we cling to our childlike resilience we can learn and grow from the experience.
To drive the point home, Spielberg actually tosses in a child. A child not nearly as annoying as the children that would later mar Spielberg’s Jurassic Park films, mind you, but a child who isn’t the slightest bit afraid as a searing light penetrates his house and freaky beings snatch him through the doggie door and up into the stratosphere!! Gimmie a friggen break! I understand that little Barry furthers the morale of the story, but having experienced what I did, I can tell you that no kid is gonna giggle with delight at the prospect of abduction by a bunch of pasty little Larry Kings!
So you can imagine my utter shock as just last week I again came face to face with my childhood tormentor! There IT was…lifeless black eyes and shiny white metallic skin… not descended from the heavens, but retrieved from a dilapidated cardboard box of my Dad’s things in the garage…an old white motorcycle helmet with the black visor painted white, except for two large almond shaped silhouettes that allowed my Dad to visually savor my terror; oh, and a white turtle neck to complete the effect.
I commemorated my find by erecting my own tabletop monument to Devil’s Tower. Except mine was made from a delectable, muddy concoction of Betty Crocker brownie mix and whole milk!
Thanks Dad…you rotten SOB!
Man, I gotta get a grip. Between writing about this and Ghostbusters, I must’ve put on a good eight pounds.
I wake up the next morning on the floor with the sun flooding my room with warm, comforting brilliance, a welcomed contrast to the night before. The pungent yet sweet smell of my own urine fills my nostrils. I’m still here! The screen is down on my window! Did it really happen? I would plead with my parents to let me sleep in their bed…or to at least allow me to keep my bedroom door open, but to no avail. It was all in my head, my Mom would say. “Stop being a little pussy!” was all that my Dad would offer on the subject (which would become his standard response to any concerns I’d raise until I was about twenty!). And that, my friends, was my personal torment for several nights during that long July as my otherworldly tormentor would return to stalk me into panic-ridden unconsciousness.
I blamed myself. I brought this upon myself. Aliens were preying on my obsessive fears of THEM. I knew they were coming for me…I just knew it was gonna happen, and sure enough…it did! It was hard not to agonize over the threat of alien abduction at that tender age—especially after cowering in the theater for over two hours the previous winter, clutching my father’s arm temporarily before it was wrenched away with a huff, as a thirty-foot Richard Dreyfuss descended into madness in front of my eyes after his own encounter with strange lights in the sky! The 1977 release of Close Encounters of the Third Kind (Steven Spielberg’s triumphant and magical follow up to Jaws) made UFOs a hot topic in the media. Aliens were suddenly everywhere…watching…waiting…a prominent and foreboding fact of life.
I write about this now because I bravely added Close Encounters of the Third Kind (Single Disc Collector’s Edition) to my DVD collection. What can I say…I’m a movie lover and a glutton…for punishment, that is.My heterosexual love for this film is what compelled me to face my fears. I sheepishly slid the disk into my player and sat back on the couch, already hugging a pillow, yet leaving one arm free to scoop up copious amounts of Frito’s from the large Tupperware bowl next to me. This is what started it all…the film that would leave an indelible mark upon my burgeoning psyche and begin a downward spiral into my own close encounter.
Childhood scars aside, I rediscovered just what a beautiful film CE3K is, on several levels. It’s breathtaking visuals, fully realized story, and believable, easy to identify with characters make this a must have for any true film geek. The film broke with the popular rubber-tentacled approach to aliens from the 50s and 60s (a genre my grandpa Earl loves dearly) and ushered in a new era of Science Fiction/Fantasy cinema.
The story begins by spinning several intriguing threads on a global scale. Lost WWII fighter planes suddenly appear in pristine condition in the middle of a dessert; a ship appears in a barren sea of sand in India; commercial jets are forced to play a dangerous game of chicken in the night sky with unidentified flying objects…something incredible is happening. And a mysterious French researcher, Claude Lacombe (Francois Trufaut) attempts to discover what (or who) is behind the phenomenon with help of his assistant and the American military….At the same time, Spielberg shrewdly draws us into the mystery further by focusing on a select few who have an intimate connection to the strange occurrences. Roy Neary (Dreyfuss) is a power company lineman who’s sent out one summer night to investigate a sweeping blackout of the town and comes face to face with a blinding, gravity-defying beam that accosts his truck. Gillian Guiler (Melinda Dillion), a single Mom, and her precocious two-year old son Barry (more on him in a minute) also witness the odd occurrences and meet up with Roy by the roadside later that night. Roy has dragged his skeptical family out to see for themselves how he got such a wicked sunburn, and they discover that others have gathered as well. But Roy takes away more than just a sunburn. He soon embarks on a quest to unlock his resulting obsession with a mountain-like shape, a quest that will cost him his job, and his family, and will eventually lead both him and Gillian to Devil’s Tower in Wyoming, where they will find the answers they seek in one incredible, awe-inspiring sequence!
Roy is every man. He tows the line, he lives in the burbs with his wife and kids, he lives the whole nine-to-five American dream. But like a Midwestern version of Siddhartha Gautama, Roy is subjected to the ultimate awakening into extraterrestrial Buddhahood. He’s jarringly stripped of everything he thought he knew and thrust into new realities that far exceed his steadfast perceptions of life. Imagine if you spent your entire existence nibbling on those little frozen Bagel Bites and that’s all you knew about Pizza…but one night you unexpectedly have an encounter with a Dominoes Pizza delivery guy and realize there’s a whole universe of pizza out there just waiting to be explored! Blows your mind, doesn’t it?
Cognitively, Roy becomes a child again, with a child’s sense of wonder and curiosity that propels him to turn his back on the life he knows in order to fully experience these strange new modes of existence he has discovered. And we are left with a keen understanding that no matter how enveloped we may become in our day-to-day drudgery, there’s always something larger looming…just waiting to deliver a poignant dose of perspective. But if we cling to our childlike resilience we can learn and grow from the experience.
To drive the point home, Spielberg actually tosses in a child. A child not nearly as annoying as the children that would later mar Spielberg’s Jurassic Park films, mind you, but a child who isn’t the slightest bit afraid as a searing light penetrates his house and freaky beings snatch him through the doggie door and up into the stratosphere!! Gimmie a friggen break! I understand that little Barry furthers the morale of the story, but having experienced what I did, I can tell you that no kid is gonna giggle with delight at the prospect of abduction by a bunch of pasty little Larry Kings!
So you can imagine my utter shock as just last week I again came face to face with my childhood tormentor! There IT was…lifeless black eyes and shiny white metallic skin… not descended from the heavens, but retrieved from a dilapidated cardboard box of my Dad’s things in the garage…an old white motorcycle helmet with the black visor painted white, except for two large almond shaped silhouettes that allowed my Dad to visually savor my terror; oh, and a white turtle neck to complete the effect.
I commemorated my find by erecting my own tabletop monument to Devil’s Tower. Except mine was made from a delectable, muddy concoction of Betty Crocker brownie mix and whole milk!
Thanks Dad…you rotten SOB!
Man, I gotta get a grip. Between writing about this and Ghostbusters, I must’ve put on a good eight pounds.
Monday, April 2, 2007
Remembering Dooie
After seeing this on CNN.com today...
http://www.cnn.com/2007/TECH/space/04/02/doohan.ashes.ap/index.html
...I felt compelled to pay further tribute to the great man via the words of an even better man, Mr. William Shatner. Take it away, Bill...I mean, Mr. Shatner:
http://www.cnn.com/2007/TECH/space/04/02/doohan.ashes.ap/index.html
...I felt compelled to pay further tribute to the great man via the words of an even better man, Mr. William Shatner. Take it away, Bill...I mean, Mr. Shatner:
Stardate: 07.20.05. A day I will always remember. Your Captain had willfully surrendered…to an overwhelming combination of nature’s splendor and masterful manipulation. The blazing sun cast golden beams through the swaying palm fronds on its placid ascent over the ocean front spa. A thin layer of white terrycloth was all that shielded the “Little Captain” from the warm, salty morning air as the pert-breasted and tanned Aliikai worked her ancient Polynesian masseur magic on my perpetually impressive pectorals (just one of the many amenities offered at the Ku`u Hoaloha `Oi Resort and Spa, currently featuring out of this universe deals on Priceline.com). As Aliikai neared the grand finale of our kneading session—a rapture-inducing technique known across the Sandwich Islands as the “Spurting Kilauea”—the nearby television abruptly torpedoed my tranquility: James (Dooie) Doohan had shuffled up the great Jeffries Tube to the sky. Fortunately, Aliikai was on hand to help me circumvent my sorrow…and now, over a year later, it seems my former Chief Engineer will ascend again as plans are afoot to blast a few grams Dooie’s powdered remnants into the upper atmosphere from New Mexico this spring. To commemorate the occasion, your Captain would like to share some Sorrian Brandy-saturated reflections on Dooie’s and my long, tumultuous association. After all, I happen to have some experience in eulogizing a deceased comrade’s expulsion into the cold, infinite void….
Although much attention has focused on the intermittent animosity between Dooie and myself over the decades—the expertly executed flying double leg kick in the Ihop parking lot in ’82; the bitch-slap onstage at the ’93 Grandslam; the wheelchair accident at the ’04 GalactiCon—it should be noted that we also shared a mutual admiration and respect that transcended the inherent hierarchical barriers between a commanding officer and his subordinate…or star and supporting player.
Well before the triumph of Star Trek V: The Final Frontier (available at WilliamShatner.com), and my own induction to the expansive realm of worldwide adulation, the crew of the legit U.S.S. Enterprise found themselves entangled in their most daunting undertaking yet: The Search for The Undiscovered Paycheck. Fortunately the Shat scored the spotlight as star of a traveling experimental Shakespearean diner theater troupe. Our production of The Taming of the Killer Shrew came to Reno in October of ’73. We rolled in at 0300 hours and I headed straight for our venue, The Golden Tooth, for some complementary steak and eggs in exchange for an autographed, slightly battered phaser (my last one).
I casually sauntered into the darkened, smoke-filled dive, dramatically back lit from the fiery headlights of my strategically parked pickup and clutching a cigar box containing the phaser under my arm. There was little fanfare, little notice. The place was as barren as Nichelle Nichol’s womb in the wee hours. The only other patron was a drunk, chain-smoking one-legged prostitute, seated at a table next to the empty stage. She drifted in and out of consciousness, roused only when the long ash from her dangling cigarette fell into her sequenced tube top—which more closely resembled a cumber bun on her gravity susceptible, National Geographic-like anatomy.
I took up position at a back table, placed my order, handed over the box…and almost pissed myself upon seeing none other than Jimmy Doohan lumbering onto the diminutive stage, toting the implements of his early career: a ventriloquist dummy and an accordion. In yet another attempt at wringing a few more parsecs out of his fictional Scottish heritage, he was dressed in traditional highland regalia from the waist down. That’s right, a kilt!
I maintained a low profile and sat transfixed at the display of ventriloquial proficiency. Dooie was in command that night, babies. He smiled broadly and winked as the vaguely familiar, plump, gold-shirted and pompadoured “Little Billy” flirted with the guffawing, snorting hooker. She was obviously ensnared in Dooie's tractor beam and ready to interface.
With a loud thump, Little Billy’s bulbous wooden head suddenly impacted loudly against the black painted plywood and up came the accordion from its tattered case. As the drunken hoar excitedly struggled to her foot, Dooie hopped off his stool and ripped into a scorching version of Lady of Spain, bellowed in a Scottish accent, no less. His fingers moved at warp speed and sweat began to soak through his red velvet dinner jacket. His vehemence only grew as he glared hungrily at the pogoing strumpet…unfortunately for him, his vehemence wasn't the only thing that grew.
As he triumphantly reached the crescendo of his ditty, Dooie suddenly winced, emitted a high-pitched pathetic squeal and sunk to his knees in agony…after a few seconds he bravely picked up where he left off, but with the same result…after six more agonizing yet strangely enthralling attempts, it was all over. Dooie crawled off the stage, his jowls stained with tears.
Your Captain witnessed a similar debacle at the ’67 cast party when Grace Lee Whitney performed an alluring ballet to Dooie’s accordion rendition of Amazing Grace. He obviously ignored my advice to either learn how to play the bagpipes or wear a pair of briefs under that goddamn dress!
I had seen enough. I threw down my plastic fork, wiped the gristle and yoke from my chin and set course for the stage.
There…would…be…no…disappointment...this…night!
With the help of a trusty eight-track of instrumentals I kept close for just such an emergency, your Captain launched into a near-flawless set of selections from my now classic Transformed Man LP (available at WilliamShatner.com). Aside from inadvertently belching the last line of Tambourine Man, just knowing I was helping a shipmate in need elicited one of my absolute best performances in a long line of excellent performances.
And the experience was gratifying in more ways than one, as the Shat performed a series of very unique docking maneuvers with the one-legged broad in my camper-topped pickup after the show.
At daybreak I deposited the passed-out skank into the back of her El Camino and happened to gaze across the parking lot to see Dooie emerging slowly from the back door of the club, clutching an ice pack to his neutral zone. No words were spoken. None were needed. We stood across the divide, eyeing one another as two respectful adversaries. I then placed the closed fist of my right hand down briefly on my left pec as a sign of reverence. Dooie responded with his own unique gesture and disappeared around the corner.
He may have been too proud to show it, but I knew he was grateful…and that little scene between us provided the perfect inspiration for the moving acknowledgement between Captain Kirk and the Klingon Commander aboard the Enterprise at the end of Star Trek V: The Final Frontier (available at WilliamShatner.com).
You’re welcome, Dooie. Second bar to the right, and straight on ‘till morning…
Kirk out.
Thank's so much for allowing me to post this, Mr. Shatner. I'll see you later this summer at Galacticon '07. My booth, as always, will be at the back of the vendor's area next to the men's room. Please stop and say hi this year!
Brian
Friday, March 30, 2007
My Favorite Movies: Ghostbusters
It’s hard to believe, but it’s been over two decades since I sat in the front seat of the family ’79 Cutlass Calais at the local M-78 Drive-In and became instantly enthralled with the other-worldly, comedic exploits of a group of rag-tag paranormal exterminators as I peered over the top of my colossal bucket of steaming buttery corn. I was fourteen (and a pudgy kid!), impressionistic, and ravenous for the latest dose of biting sarcasm from my personal comedic God, Bill Murray. I would not be disappointed...nor would the rest of America as new catch phrases such as “He slimed me” and “Back off, man. I’m a scientist” were added to the popular lexicon (and countless T-Shirts). To this day you can walk into the snobbiest dining establishment or the trashiest fast food joint and simply exclaim, “Who ya gonna call…?” Somewhere amidst the chorus of “What an asshole!” and “Get lost, loser!” you’ll probably hear it…“Ghostbusters!”
Let’s face it, 1984 was the summer of Dr. Peter Venkman (Bill Murray), Dr. Egon Spengler (Harold Ramis), Dr. Ray Stantz (Dan Ackroyd), and Winston Zeddmore (Ernie Hudson). You couldn’t flick a sticky wall-crawler without hitting the familiar effigy of the “no ghosts” symbol, let alone surf the airways on your two ton boombox while scarfing down a couple of Klondike bars on a hot August day without catching Ray Parker Jr.’s infectious (yet ultimately annoying as the summer progressed) title track.
The guys in Khaki and protoplasm still have a loyal cult following who proclaim themselves “Ghostheads”. I have little doubt these folks dress in surplus jumpsuits and dishwashing gloves and chase the family pooch around their backyards with a garden hose coiled on their backs. You’d never catch me engaging in such uber-dork behavior. I don’t own a dog. Cue rim shot!
By now the story is as deeply ingrained in the collective unconscious as the origins of Superman (and if it isn’t, it should be!): Strange things are happening at the New York City public library; paranormal researchers Venkman, Egon and Ray show up to lead an ultimately unsuccessful investigation, only to return to their university offices to be thrown out by the Dean for questionable research practices. Unemployed yet intrigued by data collected during their brief encounter with the evil librarian specter, the guys convince Ray to take out a second mortgage on the house he inherited from his parents in order to finance an ad-hoc ghost extermination business. The guys promptly set up shop in an abandoned, run-down firehouse. Venkman promptly falls for their first client, Dana Barrett, (Sigourney Weaver), and hilariously attempts to worm his way into her heart. The rest of the team soon discovers that Ms. Barrett’s towering apartment building was built to serve as the dimensional entranceway for Gozer the Gozarian, an ancient Babylonian god prophesized to bring about the end of the world. A mini battle of Armageddon ensues atop the gothic structure as the Ghostbusters face their most horrific challenge to date…a hundred-foot marshmallow man!
I don’t think this film could have been more perfect. It was, after all, in good hands. Directed by Ivan Reitman, based on a script by Ackroyd and Ramis, Ghostbusters represents the most polished (and commercially accessible) product the collective brain trust had produced up to that time—the midpoint between the horny post-pubescent earlier classic comedies (such as Meatballs, Caddyshack, and Stripes, which also included some combination of involvement from Murray, Reitman and Ramis) and the toned-down, touchy-feely-ness of Groundhog Day (Ramis-Murray).
Ghostbusters unfolds logically and doesn’t seem forced or rushed (hardly the case with the frenetic Men In Black, which tried hard to be the 90’s equivalent of Ghostbusters) and, for an ensemble piece, each of the lead characters have many nice moments and are fully realized. Egon (Ramis) is the brains of the operation, Stantz (Ackroyd) the hands-on tech guy, Zeddmore (Hudson) the initially skeptical hired hand…but it’s Venkman (Murray), who steals the show! The one man who can make you choke on your corn dog by merely raising his eyebrows in that patented Murray incredulous look.
You can’t have a banana split without a banana…you can pile on all the ice cream and fruity toppings you want, but with no banana, you got nadda! And I don’t think Ghostbusters would have been the phenomenon it was without Murray’s fast-talking, car salesman-like, thumb his nose at the establishment, cynical yet lovable banana. Venkman is the kind of guy that would, well, do battle with a hundred foot marshmallow man and come out with hardly a drop of marshmallow on him while everyone else is covered in the stuff!
Ackroyd’s original intention was to have close friend John Belushi portray Venkman; however, Belushi’s death from a drug overdose a few years before production began brought Murray on board. And it has since been postulated endlessly that Belushi is present in the film…in the guise of Slimer, the disgusting green blob of a poltergeist that the Ghostbusters destructively entrap in a posh hotel. And I feel for Slimer every time…I’m not sure why…
There’s so much to like in this film—so many nice touches and comedic moments, both big and unobtrusive. Just try not to smile as Louis, Dana’s geeky neighbor (Rick Moranis), continually locks himself out of his apartment…just try not to spew Mountain Do out of your nose when the gum flies out of the hapless student’s mouth who Venkman subjects to electric shocks as part of a study on ESP (which quickly turns into an attempted pick-up as Venkman surreptitiously lusts after the hot, young co-ed who’s also participating…but somehow never receives a shock)…just try not to pee-pee in your pants a little with excitement as the crowd cheers on the Ghostbusters as they arrive for the big showdown.
I could easily fill ten pages of barely-coherent prose on my profound love for this film…but it’s time for lunch! (See...just talking about this brings out my inner fat kid.)
In short, I love this movie as much as a giant soft pretzel covered in salt and cream cheese! Despite some now creaky special effects, Ghostbusters has held up remarkably well over the years and still looks excellent on DVD.
Even as a young’n I knew that in the off chance my Love Turtle ever decided to stick its head out of its shell (and you other big poppas out there know what I’m talking about!), thus allowing me to reproduce, this would be one film I would make sure my kids loved as much as I do…or else!
Let’s face it, 1984 was the summer of Dr. Peter Venkman (Bill Murray), Dr. Egon Spengler (Harold Ramis), Dr. Ray Stantz (Dan Ackroyd), and Winston Zeddmore (Ernie Hudson). You couldn’t flick a sticky wall-crawler without hitting the familiar effigy of the “no ghosts” symbol, let alone surf the airways on your two ton boombox while scarfing down a couple of Klondike bars on a hot August day without catching Ray Parker Jr.’s infectious (yet ultimately annoying as the summer progressed) title track.
The guys in Khaki and protoplasm still have a loyal cult following who proclaim themselves “Ghostheads”. I have little doubt these folks dress in surplus jumpsuits and dishwashing gloves and chase the family pooch around their backyards with a garden hose coiled on their backs. You’d never catch me engaging in such uber-dork behavior. I don’t own a dog. Cue rim shot!
By now the story is as deeply ingrained in the collective unconscious as the origins of Superman (and if it isn’t, it should be!): Strange things are happening at the New York City public library; paranormal researchers Venkman, Egon and Ray show up to lead an ultimately unsuccessful investigation, only to return to their university offices to be thrown out by the Dean for questionable research practices. Unemployed yet intrigued by data collected during their brief encounter with the evil librarian specter, the guys convince Ray to take out a second mortgage on the house he inherited from his parents in order to finance an ad-hoc ghost extermination business. The guys promptly set up shop in an abandoned, run-down firehouse. Venkman promptly falls for their first client, Dana Barrett, (Sigourney Weaver), and hilariously attempts to worm his way into her heart. The rest of the team soon discovers that Ms. Barrett’s towering apartment building was built to serve as the dimensional entranceway for Gozer the Gozarian, an ancient Babylonian god prophesized to bring about the end of the world. A mini battle of Armageddon ensues atop the gothic structure as the Ghostbusters face their most horrific challenge to date…a hundred-foot marshmallow man!
I don’t think this film could have been more perfect. It was, after all, in good hands. Directed by Ivan Reitman, based on a script by Ackroyd and Ramis, Ghostbusters represents the most polished (and commercially accessible) product the collective brain trust had produced up to that time—the midpoint between the horny post-pubescent earlier classic comedies (such as Meatballs, Caddyshack, and Stripes, which also included some combination of involvement from Murray, Reitman and Ramis) and the toned-down, touchy-feely-ness of Groundhog Day (Ramis-Murray).
Ghostbusters unfolds logically and doesn’t seem forced or rushed (hardly the case with the frenetic Men In Black, which tried hard to be the 90’s equivalent of Ghostbusters) and, for an ensemble piece, each of the lead characters have many nice moments and are fully realized. Egon (Ramis) is the brains of the operation, Stantz (Ackroyd) the hands-on tech guy, Zeddmore (Hudson) the initially skeptical hired hand…but it’s Venkman (Murray), who steals the show! The one man who can make you choke on your corn dog by merely raising his eyebrows in that patented Murray incredulous look.
You can’t have a banana split without a banana…you can pile on all the ice cream and fruity toppings you want, but with no banana, you got nadda! And I don’t think Ghostbusters would have been the phenomenon it was without Murray’s fast-talking, car salesman-like, thumb his nose at the establishment, cynical yet lovable banana. Venkman is the kind of guy that would, well, do battle with a hundred foot marshmallow man and come out with hardly a drop of marshmallow on him while everyone else is covered in the stuff!
Ackroyd’s original intention was to have close friend John Belushi portray Venkman; however, Belushi’s death from a drug overdose a few years before production began brought Murray on board. And it has since been postulated endlessly that Belushi is present in the film…in the guise of Slimer, the disgusting green blob of a poltergeist that the Ghostbusters destructively entrap in a posh hotel. And I feel for Slimer every time…I’m not sure why…
There’s so much to like in this film—so many nice touches and comedic moments, both big and unobtrusive. Just try not to smile as Louis, Dana’s geeky neighbor (Rick Moranis), continually locks himself out of his apartment…just try not to spew Mountain Do out of your nose when the gum flies out of the hapless student’s mouth who Venkman subjects to electric shocks as part of a study on ESP (which quickly turns into an attempted pick-up as Venkman surreptitiously lusts after the hot, young co-ed who’s also participating…but somehow never receives a shock)…just try not to pee-pee in your pants a little with excitement as the crowd cheers on the Ghostbusters as they arrive for the big showdown.
I could easily fill ten pages of barely-coherent prose on my profound love for this film…but it’s time for lunch! (See...just talking about this brings out my inner fat kid.)
In short, I love this movie as much as a giant soft pretzel covered in salt and cream cheese! Despite some now creaky special effects, Ghostbusters has held up remarkably well over the years and still looks excellent on DVD.
Even as a young’n I knew that in the off chance my Love Turtle ever decided to stick its head out of its shell (and you other big poppas out there know what I’m talking about!), thus allowing me to reproduce, this would be one film I would make sure my kids loved as much as I do…or else!
The best thing to come from AAFPZ
Mike Nelson is my hero...though I would've loved to have heard Joel's take on me. Come out of hiding Joel!
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Introspection and Revelation Part II
And the rest...
By late Thursday night I made up my mind to go on the date. It was the least I could do after the blond, twenty-something, mini-skirt ensconced seductress with toned, tanned legs and pert breasts boldly approached me in the video store the weekend before and expressed her long-standing crush on me (ironically as I just happened to be examining a DVD copy of Alien Assassin from Planet Zero to ensure the spelling of my name was corrected from earlier VHS editions). She admitted to watching Peter’s Playground well into her teens just to catch my gyrating performance of the “Treat Time” song and wanted to know if I remembered the routine. Of course I offered her a private performance after a nice dinner and drinks and she readily accepted.
Friday evening finally arrived and we met at a very busy Red Lobster. Since permanently leaving the glare of the spotlight a mere eight months before and relocating to my Great Laked home sector, Red Lobster offered the cuisine of choice for a night on the town. My taste for seafood barely went beyond simple shrimp and whitefish, but Red Lobster was impressively pricey and relatively free of shuffling hordes brandishing walkers and canes (Bill Knapp’s had folded a few years before, causing its clientele of geriatric nibblers to fan out in search of cheap, easily digested fare). My date snuggled in next to me as we waited for our table and casually placed a hand on the inside of my thigh. I was too mesmerized by the bubbling lobster tank to take notice. The poor, bottom-feeding little bastards didn’t have a chance. The lyrics to DOA by the Foo Fighters echoed through my weary consciousness:
It's a shame we have to disappear
No-one's getting out of here alive
This time
I could definitely relate.
Barring any unforeseen circumstances, I estimated that I had at most forty years remaining to experience the bountiful richness of this planet. In the grander scheme of the universe, that represented a mere fraction of a nanosecond, or something. And those fractions of nanoseconds were uncontrollably hemorrhaging into infinity.
My date excused herself and headed toward the restroom. The lobsters shambled aimlessly in their drab aquatic cell, bumping into one another, overlapping, searching, like some crustacean production of Night of the Living Dead. Several had piled mindlessly into a corner. That’s when Bub (as I shall call him) emerged. He wasn’t the biggest lobster; in fact I’d say he was the runt of the bunch. But he was soon tenuously perched atop the cornered heap, reaching towards the surface of the water…towards freedom!
“Put your hand in here.”
Unbeknownst to me, my date had returned and was surreptitiously holding open her tiny Hello Kitty purse. Unable to take my eyes off the self-emancipating, plucky Bub, I perfunctorily slipped my hand into the taught pink opening and immediately encountered soft, silky material. I gazed down just long enough to take in whatever it was I was handling. There, atop the Altoids tin, crumpled tissue, loose change, compact and several tampons, was a wadded up leopard print thong, still warm from being entrenched amongst her supple, fleshy docking ports (to put in familiar Sci-Fi terms). Normally that would have been enough for me to grab her and head for the nearest ATM kiosk for a quickie, but that night my heart belonged to the struggling Bub.
He now had one maliciously sealed pincer dangling precariously over the side of the tank! The rest of the waiting patrons had taken notice of Bub’s struggle and seemed to be silently urging him on.
My date whispered into my ear, her moist lips grazing my lobe, “What do you think?”
“I think he’s gonna make it.” Bub had another pincer over the side; his little torso legs flailed wildly! Of course he had no real chance of escape, but you couldn’t help but admire his tenacious will to live.
My date huffed and irritably mumbled something about putting her thong back on.
“No, no…I’m sorry. Leave it off,” I pleaded, attempting to properly acknowledge her naughty deed.
“I can’t…”
“Sure you can. No one’s gonna notice. We’re in a seafood restaurant.”
Oops!
My lax attempt at a joke landed as harshly as Bub, who was abruptly flicked back into the tank via ballpoint pen by a passing hostess. My disappointment doubled as my date’s peach-like derriere was briefly revealed beneath her fluttering miniskirt by her fervent, angry march towards the exit.
There was little time to wallow in my unrelenting depression. I happened to notice a young, happy couple being escorted to their table from the standing room only bar. Recalling my past celluloid heroics, I all but leapt across the hall toward one of the beckoning stools. The seat was still warm and a sign behind the bar proclaimed a weeklong special on “Lobsteritas,” an immense crustacean-inspired Cuervo Gold concoction, complete with red plastic lobster beads.
Perfect. Now I can wallow.
And that's as far as I got. To be continued?
By late Thursday night I made up my mind to go on the date. It was the least I could do after the blond, twenty-something, mini-skirt ensconced seductress with toned, tanned legs and pert breasts boldly approached me in the video store the weekend before and expressed her long-standing crush on me (ironically as I just happened to be examining a DVD copy of Alien Assassin from Planet Zero to ensure the spelling of my name was corrected from earlier VHS editions). She admitted to watching Peter’s Playground well into her teens just to catch my gyrating performance of the “Treat Time” song and wanted to know if I remembered the routine. Of course I offered her a private performance after a nice dinner and drinks and she readily accepted.
Friday evening finally arrived and we met at a very busy Red Lobster. Since permanently leaving the glare of the spotlight a mere eight months before and relocating to my Great Laked home sector, Red Lobster offered the cuisine of choice for a night on the town. My taste for seafood barely went beyond simple shrimp and whitefish, but Red Lobster was impressively pricey and relatively free of shuffling hordes brandishing walkers and canes (Bill Knapp’s had folded a few years before, causing its clientele of geriatric nibblers to fan out in search of cheap, easily digested fare). My date snuggled in next to me as we waited for our table and casually placed a hand on the inside of my thigh. I was too mesmerized by the bubbling lobster tank to take notice. The poor, bottom-feeding little bastards didn’t have a chance. The lyrics to DOA by the Foo Fighters echoed through my weary consciousness:
It's a shame we have to disappear
No-one's getting out of here alive
This time
I could definitely relate.
Barring any unforeseen circumstances, I estimated that I had at most forty years remaining to experience the bountiful richness of this planet. In the grander scheme of the universe, that represented a mere fraction of a nanosecond, or something. And those fractions of nanoseconds were uncontrollably hemorrhaging into infinity.
My date excused herself and headed toward the restroom. The lobsters shambled aimlessly in their drab aquatic cell, bumping into one another, overlapping, searching, like some crustacean production of Night of the Living Dead. Several had piled mindlessly into a corner. That’s when Bub (as I shall call him) emerged. He wasn’t the biggest lobster; in fact I’d say he was the runt of the bunch. But he was soon tenuously perched atop the cornered heap, reaching towards the surface of the water…towards freedom!
“Put your hand in here.”
Unbeknownst to me, my date had returned and was surreptitiously holding open her tiny Hello Kitty purse. Unable to take my eyes off the self-emancipating, plucky Bub, I perfunctorily slipped my hand into the taught pink opening and immediately encountered soft, silky material. I gazed down just long enough to take in whatever it was I was handling. There, atop the Altoids tin, crumpled tissue, loose change, compact and several tampons, was a wadded up leopard print thong, still warm from being entrenched amongst her supple, fleshy docking ports (to put in familiar Sci-Fi terms). Normally that would have been enough for me to grab her and head for the nearest ATM kiosk for a quickie, but that night my heart belonged to the struggling Bub.
He now had one maliciously sealed pincer dangling precariously over the side of the tank! The rest of the waiting patrons had taken notice of Bub’s struggle and seemed to be silently urging him on.
My date whispered into my ear, her moist lips grazing my lobe, “What do you think?”
“I think he’s gonna make it.” Bub had another pincer over the side; his little torso legs flailed wildly! Of course he had no real chance of escape, but you couldn’t help but admire his tenacious will to live.
My date huffed and irritably mumbled something about putting her thong back on.
“No, no…I’m sorry. Leave it off,” I pleaded, attempting to properly acknowledge her naughty deed.
“I can’t…”
“Sure you can. No one’s gonna notice. We’re in a seafood restaurant.”
Oops!
My lax attempt at a joke landed as harshly as Bub, who was abruptly flicked back into the tank via ballpoint pen by a passing hostess. My disappointment doubled as my date’s peach-like derriere was briefly revealed beneath her fluttering miniskirt by her fervent, angry march towards the exit.
There was little time to wallow in my unrelenting depression. I happened to notice a young, happy couple being escorted to their table from the standing room only bar. Recalling my past celluloid heroics, I all but leapt across the hall toward one of the beckoning stools. The seat was still warm and a sign behind the bar proclaimed a weeklong special on “Lobsteritas,” an immense crustacean-inspired Cuervo Gold concoction, complete with red plastic lobster beads.
Perfect. Now I can wallow.
And that's as far as I got. To be continued?
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Introspection and Revelation Part I
Greetings! For my inaugural blog post, I thought I would begin with posting a portion of the first chapter of my memoirs, which I've been working on the past few years. Perhaps someday I'll actually get around to Chapter II. Enjoy (?)
She had just come back into the examination room after a short absence to allow me to undress and slip into a gown. I did so quickly to allow plenty of time to stretch my Pumpernickel. The air conditioning was obviously set to freezing to counteract the oppressive Michigan summer, and I didn’t want to ruin her presumed first glimpse at a bona-fide celebrity schnitzel—not to mention a schnitzel under forty (years). The waiting room was filled with a pitiful gaggle of withered geriatric humanity. She was sure to appreciate my own firm form after staring at the human equivalent of beef jerky all morning.
She confessed to hastily gobbling down a sandwich while I was undressing and began to wash her hands at the sink before slipping into a pair of rubber gloves. I was then instructed to stand and lift my gown. I did so with a hint of showmanship, as if unveiling the latest offering from Craftsman at a trade show. Her conspicuous lack of makeup and hairstyle reminiscent of Bert Convey during his game show hey-day—rather short and tightly curled—was her only physical drawback that I could see. I found myself contemplating her other short, curly hairstyle, the one that resided within the hidden recesses of her silky womanhood…or did it?
Regardless, there wasn’t so much as a faint smile or slightly raised eyebrow as she knelt and began her methodical examination, eye-to-eye with the object of desire for many a bored house mom or full-figured geek girl. Was she a seasoned professional or merely oblivious to the rare opportunity that dangled before her? Perhaps she needed reminding...
“Have you ever seen Peter’s Playground?” I asked, attempting to jar her memory.
“Is that a kid’s show?”
“Yeah.”
“No. I don’t have children,“ she responded curtly.
“Oh…do you like movies?”
“Sure.”
Ah-Ha! “Have you ever seen Alien Assassin From Planet Zero?”
“Is that Science Fiction?”
“Um, yeah.”
“No. My husband’s the Sci-Fi nut. I can’t stand the stuff.”
“Oh.”
Damn! Just then my manhood began to shrink against the onslaught of cool air and similarly frigid handling. I quickly attempted to think of something that would elicit a fuller state without resulting in a full on, potentially embarrassing eye-poking protrusion! Ivana Trump in a thong...Ellen Degeneres and Jodie Foster making out…Diane Keaton wearing nothing but a black pair of gloves and matching turtle neck dickey…I watched as he began to respond—C’mon fella; come out of your shell!—then promptly wither again as she took hold of him and pried him open between her thumb and fore finger with all the allure of a hose factory quality control inspector. After that I couldn’t bring myself to look down. She was an ice princess, but I had one more trick up my, er, sleeve to melt her austere veneer. She may not have been familiar with my prodigious pop culture status, but few women could resist my honed sense of humor.
I caught a lingering whiff of bologna from her hastily consumed lunch as she stood and instructed me to lean over the table. I knew what was coming and I was prepared. She then plunged two delicate, elongated digits into her industrial-sized tub of personal lubricant and soothingly recommended that I try to relax. She gently spread apart my butt cheeks—so far so good. Then, with a little tickle at first…Holy Shit! Those delicate, elongated digits suddenly felt like the merciless intrusion of a double-barreled shotgun! I began to de-evolve on the spot, snarling and tearing at the cushioned vinyl as she began exploring in a broad circular motion as if polishing the inside of a test tube. Thank God she had short fingernails! I almost began to accommodate her for a moment, out of fear of cutting off circulation to her fingers, but quickly winced and pinched again as she probed deeper…
That’s when she hit it.
With all her rectal gusto I feared she would drive the object into irretrievable depths, but she immediately stopped her advance and worked the object out with her fingertips.
“You seem to have something—”
With that the object hit the floor and rolled under the stool in the corner. She huffed as she recovered it and began wiping away the accumulated deposits like Bob Ballard revealing a muck-encrusted oceanic treasure on the National Geographic channel. Anticipation swelled within me (or perhaps it was merely my tender rectum). This was undoubtedly my finest gag! She turned the small yellow sphere in the palm of her hand until the soiled smiley face beamed up at her. By this time I was grinning like the marble, but my glee was abruptly snuffed by her severe look of disgust and bewilderment. Dr. Fisher promptly deposited the anal artifact in the Sharps container mounted on the wall and whisked off her gloves. Perhaps I should have implemented my first idea after all: a tiny flag inserted into my penis emblazoned with the word BANG! in explosive letters. I would have to remember that one for next year’s exam. I was committed to taking better care of myself.
I emerged solemnly into the sun-drenched parking lot a while later (after enduring Dr. Fisher’s stern lecture on the dangers of inserting objects into my rectum), fired up my 2004 Obsidian Black Pearl Subaru Forrester and set course for home to the throbbing rhythms of The Ramones. The startling beauty of the day did little to dissipate the gloomy clouds darkening my consciousness. For the first time in my life I felt old…used up.
It was nearly noon by the time I had trudged to the reception desk and set up a tentative appointment for next year’s orifice intrusion, amongst a flurry of excitement. The pert young medical assistants rushed about, adorning the spartan office in a dazzling array of streamers and balloons. I was just about to ask what the occasion was when a particularly compact and stacked brunette glided by, pushing a cart containing a large sheet cake. I considered hanging around in the hopes of scoring a piece—and perhaps some cake too—until I noticed the words ‘Happy 46th Dr. Fisher’ scrawled upon the sticky sweet surface of the cake in red icing. The realization struck with all the subtlety of the countless times I’d end up painfully straddling the tubular steel frame of my BMX bike as a kid while trying to show off for the neighborhood girls.
Dr. Fisher, the ‘in-wonderful-shape-for-a-middle-aged-woman’ Dr. Fisher, was only nine years older than me. Nine years! It would’ve been different had it been an entire decade, but the fact that I had just celebrated my own long ago emergence into the world just days before severely closed the gap, putting me one step closer to marinating in my own filth and wearing black knee socks with baggy plaid shorts! Not even the primal chant of “Gabba-Gabba-Hey!” hammering forth from my car’s speakers was enough to divert my attention from my irreversible march towards doom.
And that pretty much set the tone for the week ahead.
A few evenings later while skimming through the two hundred or so insignificant offerings on my dish, I gleefully happened upon the apex of a modern classic! The first glimpse of Roddy McDowell, cloaked in a Sherlock Holmes-like Victorian overcoat, brandishing a wood crucifix and proclaiming “Back, spawn of Satan!” immediately sent the remote bouncing off the couch and onto the floor, its services no longer required--finally, a much-needed and appreciated diversion from my growing despair. Fright Night, a slick, funny, modernized take on classic vampire lore (with just the right amount of 80’s cheese), was absolute required viewing for me during its long run on HBO two decades prior. I could practically recite every line by the time I turned sixteen. But as the bloody action progressed, I became acutely aware of a disturbing cognitive shift. I no longer related to the teenaged protagonist, Charlie Brewster, the young man forced to destroy the suave, turtle-necked bloodsucker next door—who obviously shopped at Chess King and International Male—in order to save his girlfriend and in the process take a major leap toward manhood. Nope. I was all about McDowell’s character, Peter Vincent, the dejected, washed-up B-movie actor whose best days were firmly behind him. And I didn’t have any nefarious denizens of the night living next door to perforate with a wooden stake in order to bolster my sense of worthiness (unless I bought into the whole asinine Goth-vampire look of the couple in my apartment complex who haul their smoke-saturated heavy black clothing down to the laundry room every Sunday morning).
Christ! I couldn’t enjoy anything anymore. My carefree happiness and firm belief that I was a perpetual (just) post-pubescent young man was rudely crushed under the merciless treads of the truth. And my body seemed intent on providing the physical evidence of my proliferating deterioration: Tendril-like wiry hairs began sprouting from each tragus; bending down to pick something up suddenly involved an involuntary, audible moan from the excursion…and why in the hell were my genitals turning brown!
Playgrounds and Planets: A Comfortable Cultural Niche and the Full Circle Phenomenon
by
Brian Kent
She was a runner. I could tell. Her name was Dr. Fisher. She came highly recommended by a friend after I mentioned that it had been years since my last physical. I’m glad I took his advice. Dr. Fisher was tan, lean and sinewy, in wonderful shape for a middle-aged woman. Her black polyester skirt embossed her taught walnut-cracking buttocks superbly.
She had just come back into the examination room after a short absence to allow me to undress and slip into a gown. I did so quickly to allow plenty of time to stretch my Pumpernickel. The air conditioning was obviously set to freezing to counteract the oppressive Michigan summer, and I didn’t want to ruin her presumed first glimpse at a bona-fide celebrity schnitzel—not to mention a schnitzel under forty (years). The waiting room was filled with a pitiful gaggle of withered geriatric humanity. She was sure to appreciate my own firm form after staring at the human equivalent of beef jerky all morning.
She confessed to hastily gobbling down a sandwich while I was undressing and began to wash her hands at the sink before slipping into a pair of rubber gloves. I was then instructed to stand and lift my gown. I did so with a hint of showmanship, as if unveiling the latest offering from Craftsman at a trade show. Her conspicuous lack of makeup and hairstyle reminiscent of Bert Convey during his game show hey-day—rather short and tightly curled—was her only physical drawback that I could see. I found myself contemplating her other short, curly hairstyle, the one that resided within the hidden recesses of her silky womanhood…or did it?
Regardless, there wasn’t so much as a faint smile or slightly raised eyebrow as she knelt and began her methodical examination, eye-to-eye with the object of desire for many a bored house mom or full-figured geek girl. Was she a seasoned professional or merely oblivious to the rare opportunity that dangled before her? Perhaps she needed reminding...
“Have you ever seen Peter’s Playground?” I asked, attempting to jar her memory.
“Is that a kid’s show?”
“Yeah.”
“No. I don’t have children,“ she responded curtly.
“Oh…do you like movies?”
“Sure.”
Ah-Ha! “Have you ever seen Alien Assassin From Planet Zero?”
“Is that Science Fiction?”
“Um, yeah.”
“No. My husband’s the Sci-Fi nut. I can’t stand the stuff.”
“Oh.”
Damn! Just then my manhood began to shrink against the onslaught of cool air and similarly frigid handling. I quickly attempted to think of something that would elicit a fuller state without resulting in a full on, potentially embarrassing eye-poking protrusion! Ivana Trump in a thong...Ellen Degeneres and Jodie Foster making out…Diane Keaton wearing nothing but a black pair of gloves and matching turtle neck dickey…I watched as he began to respond—C’mon fella; come out of your shell!—then promptly wither again as she took hold of him and pried him open between her thumb and fore finger with all the allure of a hose factory quality control inspector. After that I couldn’t bring myself to look down. She was an ice princess, but I had one more trick up my, er, sleeve to melt her austere veneer. She may not have been familiar with my prodigious pop culture status, but few women could resist my honed sense of humor.
I caught a lingering whiff of bologna from her hastily consumed lunch as she stood and instructed me to lean over the table. I knew what was coming and I was prepared. She then plunged two delicate, elongated digits into her industrial-sized tub of personal lubricant and soothingly recommended that I try to relax. She gently spread apart my butt cheeks—so far so good. Then, with a little tickle at first…Holy Shit! Those delicate, elongated digits suddenly felt like the merciless intrusion of a double-barreled shotgun! I began to de-evolve on the spot, snarling and tearing at the cushioned vinyl as she began exploring in a broad circular motion as if polishing the inside of a test tube. Thank God she had short fingernails! I almost began to accommodate her for a moment, out of fear of cutting off circulation to her fingers, but quickly winced and pinched again as she probed deeper…
That’s when she hit it.
With all her rectal gusto I feared she would drive the object into irretrievable depths, but she immediately stopped her advance and worked the object out with her fingertips.
“You seem to have something—”
With that the object hit the floor and rolled under the stool in the corner. She huffed as she recovered it and began wiping away the accumulated deposits like Bob Ballard revealing a muck-encrusted oceanic treasure on the National Geographic channel. Anticipation swelled within me (or perhaps it was merely my tender rectum). This was undoubtedly my finest gag! She turned the small yellow sphere in the palm of her hand until the soiled smiley face beamed up at her. By this time I was grinning like the marble, but my glee was abruptly snuffed by her severe look of disgust and bewilderment. Dr. Fisher promptly deposited the anal artifact in the Sharps container mounted on the wall and whisked off her gloves. Perhaps I should have implemented my first idea after all: a tiny flag inserted into my penis emblazoned with the word BANG! in explosive letters. I would have to remember that one for next year’s exam. I was committed to taking better care of myself.
I emerged solemnly into the sun-drenched parking lot a while later (after enduring Dr. Fisher’s stern lecture on the dangers of inserting objects into my rectum), fired up my 2004 Obsidian Black Pearl Subaru Forrester and set course for home to the throbbing rhythms of The Ramones. The startling beauty of the day did little to dissipate the gloomy clouds darkening my consciousness. For the first time in my life I felt old…used up.
It was nearly noon by the time I had trudged to the reception desk and set up a tentative appointment for next year’s orifice intrusion, amongst a flurry of excitement. The pert young medical assistants rushed about, adorning the spartan office in a dazzling array of streamers and balloons. I was just about to ask what the occasion was when a particularly compact and stacked brunette glided by, pushing a cart containing a large sheet cake. I considered hanging around in the hopes of scoring a piece—and perhaps some cake too—until I noticed the words ‘Happy 46th Dr. Fisher’ scrawled upon the sticky sweet surface of the cake in red icing. The realization struck with all the subtlety of the countless times I’d end up painfully straddling the tubular steel frame of my BMX bike as a kid while trying to show off for the neighborhood girls.
Dr. Fisher, the ‘in-wonderful-shape-for-a-middle-aged-woman’ Dr. Fisher, was only nine years older than me. Nine years! It would’ve been different had it been an entire decade, but the fact that I had just celebrated my own long ago emergence into the world just days before severely closed the gap, putting me one step closer to marinating in my own filth and wearing black knee socks with baggy plaid shorts! Not even the primal chant of “Gabba-Gabba-Hey!” hammering forth from my car’s speakers was enough to divert my attention from my irreversible march towards doom.
And that pretty much set the tone for the week ahead.
A few evenings later while skimming through the two hundred or so insignificant offerings on my dish, I gleefully happened upon the apex of a modern classic! The first glimpse of Roddy McDowell, cloaked in a Sherlock Holmes-like Victorian overcoat, brandishing a wood crucifix and proclaiming “Back, spawn of Satan!” immediately sent the remote bouncing off the couch and onto the floor, its services no longer required--finally, a much-needed and appreciated diversion from my growing despair. Fright Night, a slick, funny, modernized take on classic vampire lore (with just the right amount of 80’s cheese), was absolute required viewing for me during its long run on HBO two decades prior. I could practically recite every line by the time I turned sixteen. But as the bloody action progressed, I became acutely aware of a disturbing cognitive shift. I no longer related to the teenaged protagonist, Charlie Brewster, the young man forced to destroy the suave, turtle-necked bloodsucker next door—who obviously shopped at Chess King and International Male—in order to save his girlfriend and in the process take a major leap toward manhood. Nope. I was all about McDowell’s character, Peter Vincent, the dejected, washed-up B-movie actor whose best days were firmly behind him. And I didn’t have any nefarious denizens of the night living next door to perforate with a wooden stake in order to bolster my sense of worthiness (unless I bought into the whole asinine Goth-vampire look of the couple in my apartment complex who haul their smoke-saturated heavy black clothing down to the laundry room every Sunday morning).
Christ! I couldn’t enjoy anything anymore. My carefree happiness and firm belief that I was a perpetual (just) post-pubescent young man was rudely crushed under the merciless treads of the truth. And my body seemed intent on providing the physical evidence of my proliferating deterioration: Tendril-like wiry hairs began sprouting from each tragus; bending down to pick something up suddenly involved an involuntary, audible moan from the excursion…and why in the hell were my genitals turning brown!
To make matters worse, I had a date lined up that Friday night, usually a highly anticipated event to be passionately embraced and savored…not this time.
Part II coming soon...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
