*

I've had blog-worthy thoughts lately, but I am writing a screenplay right now, so I've been spraying my creative juices in that direction.  Let me get through that, and then I'll write some more stuff here.  

Also, if any of you want to buy a screenplay, let me know.  

*

Language is overrated.  A few years ago I was on the T heading toward Kenmore Square when the preceding sentence was dramatized by the passengers sitting opposite me.  (This was right when they were introducing new T-cars on the green-line with the weird steps to a second level -- I didn't understand the new design, but I suppose that they might all be like that by now, so I should get over it.  I THINK that my particular car was a big painted advertisement for Code-Red Mountain Dew  -- that might not be right -- it was something like that though.  This parenthetical statement may seem like the mother of all non-sequiturs, but Boston insiders will recognize this as a unique moment in time and imagine passing The Elbow Room, Viper Video, The Avenue, Lee's 2 convenience store, that one bum who looks like an African American Abraham Lincoln near Harvard Ave, and stuff like that.)  The passengers across from me were a young couple in love.  They had big backpacks and I overheard references to Europe, so I think they were on their way to the airport.  The guy had rimless glasses and seemed like the kind of nerd who becomes an engineer: i.e. he had tendony forearms and seemed confident, but he didn't care quite enough about humans to be socially talented.  He probably ran exactly 6.2 miles a day and knew how to use every feature on a graphing calculator.  He was going on and on and on about the locations of various pieces of camera equipment that he had carefully packed and he was very pedantic about it.  I guess he wanted the girl to be able to repeat his packing method in the event that he was incapacitated and she became responsible for the luggage.  The girl had one of those black leather rocker belts with silver studs on it.  She had a pixie haircut.  She had an ironic T-shirt.  And, she wasn't listening to a word that he said.  She just stared at him with adoration.  Sometimes she would sarcastically say "uh huh uh huh . . . that is VERY interesting."  Sometimes she would kiss him while he was in mid-sentence.  He would pause to kiss her back, and then proceed talking about a lens.  At the time I was dumbfounded.  I couldn't figure out how this relationship happened.  They don't communicate AT ALL.  Then I realized that language doesn't matter.  Very little that anyone says is probably ever heard, and if it is, it's probably not interpreted correctly.  The couple on the T communicates just fine -- just not their thoughts.  

*

Dinosaurs are made up.  Paleontologists are frauds.  Paleo means ancient or prehistoric; and, ontology is the study of "being".  So, paleontology is the practice of naming ancient things.  But, of course, paleontologists don't name EVERY ancient thing -- rocks are old as hell, but paleontologists steer clear of naming rocks.  Why?  Because rocks already have names.  Geologists got there first.  And, if your whole job is naming things, you'd be pretty silly to name something that already had a name.  So, paleontologists needed some ancient non-rock thing to name and they chose ancient beasts -- they called the beasts that they "discovered" "dinosaurs."  The problem is that, like rocks, "dinosaurs" already had a name.  Dragons.  

Religion is generally very silly.  And, mythology that isn't Judeo-Christian is treated so much like fiction that it is difficult to distinguish it from fiction.  The reason is that the intelligentsia is fond of empirical evidence in advance of belief.  The more fantastic a belief, the more rigor they require for proof.  (One of my favorite comedians, Dana Gould, was talking about a recent question posed to Barak Obama about his prayer habits.  Barak said that he prays once or twice a day.  With the caveat that he understands the near impossibility of any sort of American political career for an admitted agnostic or atheist, Dana pointed out the silliness of such a prayer requirement.  Why should we be MORE comfortable to know that our president "mutters his desires to an invisible giant" at least two times a day?)  For the most part I'd count myself as a member of the camp composed of comedians and scientists.  However, the thinkers shouldn't let their egg-heads get too big.  Science should not have inherent value.  Science is an important tool for discovery and description but in the event that a myth rears it's majestic bony head, science doesn't get to pretend that it has made a discovery -- science has to play it as it lays, and it should admit the FACT that Dragons were real!  We haven't found griffin bones.  We haven't found halos.  We haven't found centaur pants.  But, we have found dragons.  Maybe we didn't live among them and maybe they weren't breathing fire, but they were legit mythical monsters, and I resent a field of study that diminishes their cred.  

The earth is flatter than you think.  

 

*

Hotbodypeebed Epilogue:

A few weeks ago, I attended a party in Boston (it lasted until dawn and we had to change locations before it was done because the police broke up the first half . . . it would have seemed wild if the arrival of the fuzz didn't prompt commentary about the 4th amendment by several of the party-attendees.  No amount of beer can ever fully suppress a lawyer's inner nerd.)  As I was leaving the party, the lovely hostess held my face in her hands, kissed me goodbye, and whispered "I am well with words."  Cracked my shit up.  I'm glad that line is the legacy of the Hotbodypeebed story . . . and not the pee part.  

And, now a new blog entry -- if anyone is still reading this, sorry about my hiatus. 

You can't judge quality by a premise.  In the vacuum created by Seinfeld's departure from prime-time, producers began looking for the next young single Jewish comedian to fill his shoes. Absurd.  Jerry's heritage didn't make Seinfeld funny; it wasn't a Zionist conspiracy; there is no secret combination of backgrounds and genders; 99 out of 100 "shows about nothing" will probably just be painful -- Jerry Seinfeld's religion didn't make the show funny -- his funny made it funny.  For some reason, people think that the secret to entertainment is wrapped up in a formula.  They think that genres matter.  In reality it's all execution.  Any premise can make a good movie (like, what the fuck was Being John Malkovich about?) -- (and, no matter how awesome it sounds, Alien vs. Predator sucked.)  With two exceptions, there are no inherently interesting subjects.  Ultimately we're all just looking for a buoy in our private seas of ennui, so a story is good when it stirs our emotions: if it creates tension and we feel anxious or if it offers an intellectual puzzle and we feel like smarty-pantses, then a given story successful.  So, don't resist chick flicks just because they are chick flicks -- the Notebook wasn't bad.  And, you should also Netflix the whole Firefly series even if you think Science fiction is weird.   

The exceptions I mentioned are sex and violence.  If there is enough quality sex or violence, a program will be entertaining.  Swordfish, for instance, is a shitty shitty shitty movie, but its famous topless Halle Berry scene allows it to break even.  Sex and violence provoke emotions no matter what else is going on (ideally not the same emotion), so a story will be entertaining -- maybe not good, but definitely entertaining -- as long as somebody is moaning.  (The same logic may apply to relationships.)  

I advocate the abolition of the genre.  Aliens should land in our inspirational sports movies and our giant monsters should struggle with adolescent angst.  At the very least, just to be on the safe side, every movie should have an underground kung-fu tournament hosted by nude sunbathers.  

  

*

Errata: In the post with all of the youtube 80s cartoon themesongs, Transformers was the last entry. That honor should have gone to He-Man. Obviously. Don't worry. I fixed it.

And now . . . Hotbodypeebed Part The Last wherein our buxom heroine earns her distinctive moniker.

So, when we got to my apartment, I realized that I didn't have anything to offer her except for diet coke and water, and I was a little worried that I wouldn't seem sophisticated. I know that sounds dumb since I wasn't really into this girl -- but I was aware that her previous boyfriends had been millionaires, and even if she was a drunken narcissist, I still didn't want to be disappointing. But, out of nowhere she produced a bottle of wine. I was taken aback -- where had she kept that hidden? Her clothes were so tight. Then I realized that she had snagged it from my office on the way through the front door. It was a Christmas present from my boss that I had forgotten about -- she was like an alcohol bloodhound. I poured us each a glass of wine.

--Flash forward to the next morning: I was in my kitchen and I noticed that the wine bottle was completely empty. I never poured more than those first two glasses, so at some point during the date she went into my kitchen and killed the whole bottle. Now back to the date --

We sat on the couch. She continued to tell me about her beauty. By 11:00 I was bored and tired. I had to be at work in the morning. The novelty of the date's events had worn off. I was done. So, I said as much: "I have to get up early blah blah blah. Let's call it a night blah blah blah." Then this conversation --

HBPB: "I'll just sleep here."

Me: . . . uh . . . okay . . . I can just stay on the couch I guess.

HBPB: We'll share your bed.

Me:. . . uh . . . Do you need a T-shirt or something to sleep in.

HBPB: (Stands up, takes her shirt and pants off, and walks toward me room.)

Me: . . . (Follows)

HBPB: Introduce me to your room!

Me: . . . uh . . . HBPB this is my room, room, this is HBPB (I used her real name at the time).

HBPB: No!

Me: . . . uh . . . HBPB this is my bed, this is my closet and this is my rug.

HBPB: (nods her head once and gets into my bed)

Me: (shrugs, disrobes, joins her)

I know that I seem like a great big prude so far. The "I'll just sleep here" line should have clued me in that action was imminent. And, we had already kissed. But, it was pretty abrupt for one thing; I didn't really like her for another thing; and, also, I can be super dense. To the shock of my womanizing friends, I have failed to see the nipples of several girls whose beds I have shared. (Interesting corollary -- many of the nipples that I HAVE seen came to me by surprise. Sometimes dense is the way to go I guess. For example . . . we resume the story with a super hot mostly naked girl in my bed.)

We started making out. The remaining clothes came off. &c. &c. &c. Then I noticed that she was still wearing her socks.

Me: It's cute that you're still wearing socks.

HBPB: (Eyes suddenly glowing red, fingernails extending into claws) Why? Are you saying that I can't be HOT with socks on? (She threw me down and straddled me) HOT WITH MY SOCKS ON! (Grinding and writhing) HOT WITH MY SOCKS ON!

HOT WITH MY SOCKS

SOCKS HOT

HOT WITH SOCKS

SOCKS WITH MY HOT

HOT SOCKS

SOCKS ARE HOT

I was turned on I guess . . . but mostly very nervous. In addition to the sock talk, she was also making animal noises and panting like Sigourney Weaver in Ghostbusters when she was possessed by Zuul. But, I was gamely trying to get my head in the game when, without warning . . . she fell asleep and started snoring loudly . . .

70% confused, 15% disappointed and 15% relieved, I went to sleep too.

Then . . . 3:00AM . . . I woke up.

I woke up because me knees were cold.

My knees were cold because they were wet.

They were wet because she had peed in my bed.

!!!!!!

The way the covers were situated, most of the biohazard was contained in one comforter, so I wadded it up and threw it across the room. The next morning, I woke up before she did, got dressed and got ready for work. She continued to snore. At about 6:30, while I was watching TV, she came into the living room (totally naked) and asked me where her clothes were. I told her. She sat in my lap (which made me uncomfortable since I assumed that there was probably now urine residue on my pants). Eventually, she got dressed, and I took her home. In the car, in a much more sober voice, she continued to tell me that about the power of her looks. I dropped her off, and despite her lengthy campaign in support of its irresistibility, never saw her moist beauty again. 

I have friends who were furious with me when I didn't call her. They said that wild animal sex with a super hot girl should trump the casual urine issue, so I'll concede that my standards might be too high, but it's one thing to go on safari -- it's another thing to go native . . . I'm just not ready for that. 

The end.

*

Hotbodypeebed unabridged . . . part the third.

When I tell this story, I usually leave out a part.  I tend to paint my date with the crazy-blotto-brush throughout my whole description.  That's what the people want.  But, if you want the whole truth, there was a sentimental moment . . . I'm not saying that she SHOULDN'T be painted with the crazy-blotto-brush.  She gets that brush.  There is no question.  But, for a second, she should also be accented with the sweet-brush.  About half-way through dinner, she stopped in mid-delirious-sentence, looked me in the eye and sincerely asked me to tell her about myself.  I made some glib deflector joke (as I'm wont to do) and waited for her to start talking about herself again . . . but she didn't.  She continued to look into my eyes.  She was waiting for me to ACTUALLY reveal something about myself.  I was genuinely touched.  I didn't really know what to say.  I'm used to sharing my opinion.  But, just talking about my life with no irony or attempt at humor simply because a girl want to know me better? Unheard of.  So, I kissed her in the parking-lot after dinner.  (For the record, that's a standard move of mine if I like a girl.  I think it's a good first kiss moment.  There is a pause in the dinner conversation when you're walking back to the car, so you don't have to wait for your opening.  But, unlike the END of the date, the girl doesn't see a kiss coming -- less pressure.  Also, if you kiss a girl in the middle of the date, you can almost certainly make-out with her at the end of the date, but since the ice is broken, there is again less pressure.)  

In the car, I asked her what she wanted to do next, she said that it wasn't her job to decide.  So, I took her to my apartment.  

Onward!

 

*

Hotbodypeebed unabridged . . . part II. 

I'm sorry for the delay.  I was moving to Arizona.  Arizona is pretty cool -- it looks just like Rygar. 

Anyway -- the plan was to pick up the myspace girl at 7:00 and then go to dinner.  Girls are funny about going out for the first time.  Half of them want to meet at a neutral location because they don't want to get into a car with a stranger.  The other half likes it when the guy picks them up.  There is nothing wrong with either point of view.  What makes the male point of view intrinsically different is that we don't care about a date's logistics at all.  Meet 'em . . . pick 'em up . . . whatever, let's just get on with it.  Speaking of getting on with it . . . 

When she answered the door, I was simultaneously struck by three powerful impressions: 1) her proportions were eye-popping; she's 5'8", size 2,  DD (shirt popping? . . . zipper popping?); 2) her giant mastiff was drooling and growling at me; and, 3) she was DRIIIIIZZZZZZZZUNK . . . stumbly-wumbly, one-eye-closed, SLOSHED.  She grabbed my hand and explained that we had to leave quickly before her amateur cage-fighter cousin came home because he probably has an incestuous crush on her (he punches guys who show interest in her amazing body).  Ordinarily, early handholding makes me happy, but I was dazed by the sudden anxiety about her violent cousin and relief from escaping her violent dog.  

I felt much more at ease once we got into my car, so it surprised me when she slurred, "you're nervous aren't you?"  I wasn't.  I said that I wasn't.  She wouldn't believe me.  I guess that most guys who go out with her either try to get into her pants immediately or quiver in fear.  Since I didn't try the former, she assumed the later.  This theme (the power of her physical appearance) would be the dominant subject of conversation for the remainder of the time that I knew her (the term conversation is misleading -- I didn't say more than a few sentences the entire night).  She explained that she lost 100 pounds when she was 21 and went from zero male attention to constant male attention -- the shock may have caused some brain trauma.  NBA players and real estate millionaires come on to her on a regular basis -- that would mess me up too.  

At dinner the conversation briefly changed from her looks to her mind.  Evidently, she is a genius.  Her IQ is off the charts.  She especially loves language . . . I quote:

"I am litter . . . I am littery . . . I am literary . . . (sigh) . . . I am well with words."

More to come. 

*

I apologize to those who expected the conclusion to the Hotbodypeebed story today.  I just finished writing it and then I lost my internet connection -- stupid blogger didn't save!  I don't feel like rewriting it tonight, so please come back in the next couple of days . . . 

*

Hotbodypeebed -- unabridged

This is the story of my most memorable date.  When I tell it in person, I spin it to make myself look good, and/or I adjust it for the audience -- but, I'll try to recount the complete version here.  

A good friend of mine had a contract job where he met a guy named Rudy.  Rudy is a lawyer from New York who moved to Denver in order to break into legislation.  That move doesn't make a ton of sense.  That's like thinking: "I'd like to get good at riding horses, so I think I'll eat more M&Ms" -- random.  (Ooh -- Bob Dole is on Steven Colbert . . . I'll be back . . . I lean leftish, but Bob Dole is a funny man.  Okay -- it's over.)  Okay, so Rudy . . . Where Rudy's professional instincts were a little haywire, his instincts for finding shallow sex were top flight.  Which is all the more impressive because he had a vibe that could creep girls out.  Maybe those traits go together -- I don't know.  I liked Rudy, don't get me wrong, and I was intrigued by his method.  

See, Rudy would go on myspace and find a girl he thought was cute.  He'd read the page and learn some fact about her.  Then he would write a message and challenge her.  (i.e. if she liked old Nintendo games, he would tell her that he was better than any girl at any Nintendo game.)  The girl would usually write back, they'd go out, and he'd try to get her in bed.  The closer he got to sleeping with a girl, the higher he would place her among his friends on his myspace page.  So the girls he was sleeping with would be at the top and the girls he was just meeting for the first time were at the bottom.  When girls hear about this method, they tend to think Rudy is scuzzy.  I don't know why that should be inherently true -- but that's a different story. Ultimate shallow sex notwithstanding, no matter how the guy interacts with a girl once they have started dating, the WAY that Rudy MEETS women doesn't have any ethical problems as far as I can tell.  So, I decided to try it.  

I found a hot red-headed girl who said she was smart.  As a rule, I tend to like people who think they are smart.  It makes life easier.  You don't have to dumb anything down.  If you disagree with them, you don't have to worry that they will take it personally -- a person who is secure in his or her own wattage is generally willing to hear other points of view.  There is a weird taboo in our society about acknowledging ones own intelligence.  You can be proud of physical strength.  You can be proud of physical appearance.  You can be proud of professional success.  But, if you SAY that you are smart, people will take that as an insult.  Somehow the popular translation of "I am smart" is "you are dumb."  People are sensitive about "smart."  But, if you say that you are smart to a person who thinks that he or she is smart -- that person doesn't care what you think of your own intelligence.  So, I wrote to this girl and I said "Oh yeah?  How smart?"  And, dig it -- Rudy was right -- she wrote back.  

To be continued.    

*

Here is further support for that 80s cartoon post . . .


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=20BZID081Vk

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UbNHR1jM4Ac

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ldfBe75S9Q0

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OMBfm3vUB6M

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9VS6IaPGqWw

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1ju75XsCO4o

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O0cD2de_H-w

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1uS5b8aQ6z8



http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M0BzBFWt8V8

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qI0FbYe3lRE






And the grand-daddy of them all . . .


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fO1ChfM94yQ&feature=related

*

Sunken continents are great.  

Atlantis is fairly well known, but there are others.  Lemuria and Moo (sometimes Mu) were cool too.  Lemuria was the original home of the ring-tailed Lemur (best animal ever) and connected India to Madagascar.  It was destroyed because its pseudo-human denizens got into animal sex and pissed off the gods.  I'm not saying that I advocate sex with animals, but just because the inhabitants had some unsavory habits doesn't mean that the place wasn't interesting.  It had lemurs in abundance!  And, frankly, back then, gods were really flood happy, so until I hear both sides of the story, I don't think it's crazy to think that they overreacted.  (Similarly, I think we can all agree with the luxury of hindsight (ha!) that Sodomy, got a REALLY bad rap.)  I don't know much about Moo, but come on, it's called MOO -- the people living there MUST have been funny.  

But, Atlantis gets the press . . . and for good reason.  We've all had successes in our lives.  Graduations.  Promotions.  Certificates.  One night stands.  But, very few people have had the kind over-the-top-of-the-food-chain success that Atlantis enjoyed at it's height.  Wizard kings.  Advanced technology.  Lovely vistas.  Shiny buildings.  So, when the whole descent into the brine happened, conventional wisdom tells us that Atlantis was going to take it hard.  (The best American example of this sort of absolute drop off that I can think of is Mike Tyson: I just watched a youtube about his best knock-outs . . . that guy was awesome; now he's really sad and spends most of his time with pigeons.)  Ancient Rome wasn't even as amazing as Atlantis, but when Rome fell, what'd we get?  Dark Ages.  When the irresistible tides came for Atlantis though, Atlantis didn't get down -- not figuratively anyway -- Atlantis got better!  That civilization didn't give up.  It learned to breathe underwater.  Or, alternatively, it learned to build a big bubble that mimics the atmosphere of the earth's surface.  Either way, it did the impossible, and it did it fast.  (Not to mention the taming of giant sea-horses and marine life telepathy.)  THEY say that we should take lemons and make lemonade -- but, that's not a very ambitious platitude.  Lemons aren't THAT bad in the first place and lemonade isn't THAT much better.  But, taking an overwhelming natural catastrophe and making a utopia that challenges our perception of what is possible . . . much more impressive.  

  

*

I don't really believe in childhood -- or, anyway, not the conventional understanding of childhood.  But, that said, the 80s were the best decade to be a "kid" in the history of the world.  My contemporaries and I are not part of the most culturally powerful generation living right now, but we are the beneficiaries of the most powerful generation.  

The baby-boomers have been everything -- they were the baby-boomers to start in the 50s, then they were the hippies in the 60s, then they were the yuppies in the 80s -- by the 90s they ruled the world.  One might argue that this pattern applies to every demographic over the course of a century -- except it doesn't.  My cousins who were born in the early 70s didn't get a title. (eventually they were generation X, but that's not REALLY a designation, it's just a recognition of their angst over not having an identity -- and that doesn't count.)  The children of the 80s aren't really anything either, but when the all-powerful baby-boomers were focused on little-kids, we WERE those little kids.  So, our cereal was filled with marsh-mellows, our mornings were filled with cartoons, and ninjas were everywhere.  

So, there was the baby-boomer thing.  Also, there was a lucky confluence of media forces.  The Production of cartoons transitioned from studios with strict codes of morality to toy companies who just wanted to sell toys.  The result was that creators had almost unchecked freedom so long as they kept the toy brands front and center.  Cartoons got really weird and violent and awesome.  But, because the creators had, themselves, grown up thinking about stories with strong narratives, the commercial aspect of their programs was just the McGuffin.  (By contrast, the people who were writing Pokemon grew up watching Transformers, so they were much more comfortable with the shilling aspect of cartoons than they were with the story part -- they didn't bother with heart or content . . . so Pokemon sucked.)

I have more to say about the 80s, so in that spirit, I'll have a sequel . . .  

*

We are not ready for time machines.  Before anyone even tries to rev up a time machine, he or she had better have a working teleportation machine.  It's imperative that the teleportation technology has all of the bugs worked out.  (Ha!  That was a totally accidental joke!  Honest, I didn't intend that . . . See, cause the Fly was about a "bug" in a teleportation -- get it?)  I got in a big nerdy argument about this with a friend of mine a few years ago.  He didn't think that a teleportation machine was necessary.  I never have understood his point of view.  Let me explain my thinking . . . Okay, so say you are sitting in your time machine on January 27th 2008; the flux capacitor is blinking; if you have the kind that looks like a big clock, then maybe you are winding it up; you haven't used it before, so you are just going to do a short test run -- not ancient Egypt or anything -- just 24 hours in the future; you don't want to end up getting hit by a car when you appear in the future, so you're out in the great salt flats or something like that; you turn the ignition or put coal in the furnace or meditate or whatever you have to do,  and you plan to appear in the exact same spot, but one day in the future -- January 28th . . . You have made a terrible miscalculation.  If it works, if you go 24 hours forward in time, but remain in the exact same spot, you would appear IN SPACE.  In 24 hours THE EARTH would have moved.  So, if you go to the same spot -- trouble.  Thus, I think that in addition to a time machine, it's necessary to have a teleportation machine that zaps you to a safe location.  That seems so obvious to me, but people disagree with me about stuff like that all the time.  Am I missing something?  (You know, other than science I mean.)

I ought to do something about my science/sorta-science credibility problem.  Unlike L. Ron Hubbard, I don't strike people as believable.  I thought that I had an awesome trivia question, and when I explained the answer AND my Nova program source, I STILL got flack.  The question was: from the time it's created, how long does it take light to get from the Sun to the Earth?  It's a great question because everyone will say 8 minutes.  But, that's wrong.  From the time that a photon is CREATED it spends MILLIONS OF YEARS bouncing around in the sun before it actually starts the trip to our planet (which takes 8 minutes).  The criticism that I got was that the photon changes forms while it's in the sun, so it doesn't count as light.  That strikes me as bullshit.  First of all, I'm not even sure if that's true.  Second of all, so what if it does change form -- it only counts as light if it's exactly the way it is when it gets to us?  How do I know that it doesn't change form at minute one two or three during its journey from the sun to the earth.  Also, people always talk about black holes and say that "even light can't escape" -- surely the "light" heading into the black hole is under conditions that are comparable in intensity to its experience during the week before it leaves the sun -- yet everyone counts the black hole stuff as light.  I think the truth is that people are very proud of their knowledge tid-bits, and when they don't get a chance to show off, they flip out.  

Or maybe people just want to wipe that smug look off of my face.  Bitches.  

 

*

Anger is fun!  Everyone tries to downplay this fact.  (Driving drunk has a similar stigma.)  To be honest, I resist the joys of anger myself.  But, anger MUST be fun.  Huge crowds of people pretend to be really stupid so that they have an excuse to be mad.  That's evidence.  For example -- several years ago, I was watching the Ricki Lake show, right?  (The topic might have been "Drop that Zero and Get with a Hero," or something like that.  I think that was a common Ricki topic . . . though, in retrospect, that might have been more Jenny Jones.  Maury did the paternity tests, so that wasn't his topic.  Montel rarely rhymed.  I guess it doesn't really matter.)  There was a girl on the stage who was complaining that her boyfriend was exactly like the stereotype of Puerto Rican men.  (I didn't know that there WAS a stereotype about Puerto Rican men before watching that episode.  Colorado doesn't have a large Puerto Rican community, so the stereotypes related to Latin America that I heard in my youth are more general.  Evidently, the Puerto Rican male stereotype has something to do with being lazy.)  So, when the girl said that her boyfriend's behavior resembled the stereotype, Ricki responded by asking -- in a really snarky tone -- "Are you saying that Puerto Ricans are lazy?"  The woman OBVIOUSLY didn't say that.  I heard her.  Ricki heard her.  The audience heard her.  It's not like her words were spun by pundits or taken out of context.  She had JUST spoken.  But, the audience went CRAZY.  BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!  I'm pretty sure that they were pretending to be stupid.  They can't ALL have been that stupid.  They just liked being mad.  The girl on the stage didn't defend herself -- she just sat their looking glum.  I think she was playing dumb too out of courtesy -- she knows how much fun being angry is, so she didn't want to deny the audience its opportunity.  

This pattern happens ALL THE TIME.  I heard a good example today.  John McCain or one of his people or someone must have said that he is the Democrats' "worst nightmare".  In response, CNN posed the Ricki Lake-like question: "When a country is evenly divided politically, is it wise to call yourself the opposing party's worst nightmare?"  The question wasn't super clear, so ironically, anyone who would fall for it probably isn't smart enough to understand it.  The gist, of course, is that independent voters wouldn't want to vote for the WORST nightmare of democrats and that, for the purpose of the general election, McCain should be more centrist.  The problem is that McCain almost certainly didn't mean that he is THE MOST reactionary conservative on the planet or that his PRESIDENCY would be the worst democrat nightmare . . . he meant that his CANDIDACY is the worst Democrat nightmare because he has a really good shot at winning . . . duh.  But, people love outrage, so there you go. 

My favorite example ever happened when I was in high-school.  My friends and I were in the drive-through line at Burger King.  One of my friends thought that he recognized a girl in the car behind us, so he waved.  The driver of the car behind us got out, shouted, "what the fuck?!" and threw a penny at my friend's car.  (I always kind of wished that the police had shown up: Now, how did this altercation start? -- well, officer, the guy in front of us smiled and waved, so I had to defend myself -- yes, well that makes sense.)  Anger is so much fun that people will Rickilakeify friendly smiles.  I should really give it a whirl.  The next person who, oh I don't know, has ears in front of me is really in for some trouble!  

*

It's time for a new religion.  And, I don't mean the messiah story warmed over again with a new star or a Mormonesque prequel religion.  (I don't want to get into the details of the LDS church: there are cartoons on youtube that explain Mormonism pretty well; but, even though it was a neat idea -- and better than the Star Wars prequels -- it's still derivative, and that's not what I'm calling for.)  Scientology has the right idea.  Nothing but originality there.  But, something about Scientology doesn't sit right with me -- it feels superimposed.  It's not organic.  A good religion explains the origin of the world around us and makes a connection between the material world that we can experience and (for lack of a better term) the spiritual world that we intuit.  Scientology has some cosmological spiritual stuff, but it doesn't explain the big picture -- to my limited knowledge, the aliens who get stranded in a volcano don't explain the origin of volcanos.  (I could be wrong -- maybe there is something really compelling at the multi-million-dollar level.)  The next big thing ought to have Scientology's wacky newness while hitting the fundamentals: why are we here, where did reality come from, what should we be doing, &c.  

The authors of our next belief system have to avoid an easy trap -- feigned ignorance.  The last time we were explaining our surroundings, we didn't know much about them.  People who make new religions sometimes fail to distinguish the fundamental QUESTIONS from early-man's knowledge.  The big questions are keepers, but it's no longer necessary to pretend that we wonder where the sun goes when it sets.  In other words, it's silly to come up with origin stories to explain mysteries that aren't.  The new gods (if we're going to use the god model again) will need mysteries to matter -- let's anthropomorphize quantum physics.  Of course, it's not necessary to be scientific purists when we tell our creation stories -- scientists won't ever get to be in control of religion because science tends to lack a narrative, and it is not especially concerned with society.  However, our current experience of the world is largely informed by scientists.  The ontological chunk of religion should no longer begin from the knowledge we get with our senses . . . we can begin from the knowledge that we have acquired with beakers and telescopes and math.  

I think bees would be a good symbol for a new religion.  For one thing -- as you all know -- experts don't know why bees can fly, so that's a good source of mumbo jumbo.  Also there is honey.  But, the best part of bees is their vision (I love that people know things about bee vision but not about bee flight despite the fact that bee flight is the issue that has made it into common knowledge.  Stuff like that is great -- it's sort of like the exasperated "we can put a man on the moon, but we can't do X?!?" question.  The complexity of a problem does not have a relationship to it's popularity.)  Bee vision is cool because it extends well beyond our range.  They see patterns in flowers that we can't see.  We get Roy G. Biv -- they get %^&4roygbiv)(~#!.  That's a great analogy for a religion based in part on the physical world that is beyond our senses but is nonetheless sensible.  

Feel free to use the bee thing new-bible writers. 

*

I had a creative writing professor who said that there is good nonsense and bad nonsense . . . he didn't elaborate:  

Scraevo puh puh puh naft!

Fweenie wiloshkunumpsence.  

Aipho dullupskudug.

Piskerene daive dutter. 

With no criteria apart from my own aesthetic sensibility, I feel that the above is an example of excellent nonsense.  That is the only kind of which I am capable.  

I challenge anyone to come up with superior nonsense.  I will judge you and critique your attempt.  Bring it.  Hit that comment button.  Do it!  

*

In the battle of the sexes -- such as it is -- I've historically been a staunch member of the male team.  Always very black-ops and deep cover about it, I don't think that many would classify me as a misogynist or even the less aggressive male-chauvinist.  Not seriously.  But, in fact, I was a true patriot of the XY nation, and I was happy for any opportunity to challenge what I perceived as a Bond-she-villain-like thigh grip on the social spheres of the world (presumably ruled by an intricate network of covens and sororities).  In my campaigns, I've even made some converts.  

My reasons for choosing the male side are many and varied.  Mostly, I didn't want to end up as a beast of burden.  Among numerous other places, I saw evidence of the female agenda at work in the routines of stand-up comedians during the 80s and 90s.  It's almost a cliche for a comedian to poke fun at the "fact" that women are intuitive, insightful, and high-minded while men are dull-witted and driven by purely carnal urges -- these jokes would get wild howls of approval from the female audience and, overtime, genial laughter from the cowed males.  (Stand-up comedians are an unconventional choice for propaganda machines -- ooooh, the covens are so insidious!)  I have in the last year or so, retired from the field of battle.  I've discovered that happy well-adjusted people rarely debate about which sex has it better -- they just live their happy well-adjusted lives and assume that everyone has it great.  I like that lifestyle better, so the XY nation will have to carry-on without me.  I've gone Ronin.  

However, I find myself in an unusual situation -- not unlike that of Frederick the Great of Prussia.  Frederick the Great, or Frederick II was kind of a fop in his youth and probably gay (we haven't reached the part that resembles me yet; this is just background).  His stern father, Frederick I, who had raised one of -- maybe the most -- disciplined and scary armies in the world at the time, did not approve of Frederick II's French speaking, flute playing, or poetry reading; and, they had a strained relationship until F1's death.  When Frederick II ascended to the Prussian throne, he was given the appellate "the Great" by his buddy Voltaire who regarded the Prussian king as the ideal ruler -- thoughtful, sensitive, a philosopher, probably gay, &c.  But, Frederick the Great inherited more than the throne; he inherited his father's badass war machine.  And, perhaps more significantly, he inherited his father's military genius . . . So, after tremendous inner turmoil and to the shock of the fancy salon attending world, Frederick the Great used his various gifts to attack weaker European countries, expanded Prussia -- and became just like his father (this would be an AWESOME movie.)  So, here is where this is like me: I have an arsenal of anti-feminist arguments at my finger-tips, and I have the talent to wield them like a Prussia of words (actually, I think that I have it even harder than FTG because my gay friends frequently agree with my barroom diatribes!).  But, I have chosen another path.  I am now a man of peace. 

This shit better get me laid . . . 

*

One would have to be kind of nutty to write out a zombie-attack preparation plan in any kind of detail.  "Zombie-attack?"  It's an absurd question.  Why would anybody waste time on something so impossible?  How could a planner even begin a strategy without knowing what KIND of zombie?  

There was a History Channel show (or maybe Discovery channel) about real life Voodoo zombies.  Voodoo is a real religion.  I don't know what it's all about, but there are evil sorcerers in it who kind of dress like Slash: top hat, dangily cigarette, open shirt -- the whole deal.  (Could Slash be a voodoo necromancer?  He was probably the top of his class in voodoo yeshiva or catechism or whatever they do; his parents were very proud; but, secretly he knew that his heart was in hair-metal -- put it underwater, and it's the plot of the Little Mermaid.)  These sorcerers make a concoction that kills you and then brings you back (A poisidote?) -- when you return from the grave, you're in the sorcerer's thrall.  There was a guy on the show who says that he is IS a zombie.  He remembers dying.  His family remembers burying him.  Now he's back.  I think he rents mopeds or snorkels or something to tourists.  He has a pretty impressive beer gut.  He's very sincere.  I guess he represents our "classic" zombie.  Beating this kind of zombie invasion is easy -- first of all, you have to take out the sorcerer in order to avoid new zombies.  To take out the sorcerer, you just offer him the chance to express himself artistically.  To take out the extant zombies, you have to appeal to their employers; with some creative scheduling, it's probably possible to give them each shifts that prohibit any chance to organize.  

Of course, the "classic" zombies are hardly the scariest.  The other breeds are the real trouble: brain-eating-supernatural-zombies and science-zombies.  The origin of the brain eaters isn't clear.  They definitely used to be dead, so they often have chunks missing.  Also, the rigor mortis makes them shamble.  For some reason, they like to eat the brains of living people. (The brain is also their weak spot.  They're probably symbolically anti-intellectual.  Unless brains really do taste good -- I'm no expert.)  They wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't for the fact that they are contagious.  Since they transmute everyone they bite, their numbers grow pretty fast -- also, they're already dead, so it's not like you can just force them to work double shifts.  Science zombies are similar in that they are contagious, but they aren't so brain focused -- they're usually just really really pissed off.  They come from government experiments gone wrong or freaky jungle diseases.  The good news about science zombies is that you can just kill them.  The bad news is that they run and and jump and fling themselves at non-zombies.  

The solution to the more dangerous zombie varieties is similar to the solution to the "classic" zombies.  It's just like removing the necromancers.  You have to get to the root of the issue.  Anti-intellectualism, government experiments, and all unknown plants and animals in the jungle must be eliminated.

*

Little kids say fuck.  They say it and they know what it means.  Or, anyway, they sort of know what it means -- they may have some outlandish theories on the details (when I was little, I had a tentacle theory of female anatomy that resembles a few Japanese animation movies I saw when I was 15 to such an alarming degree that I suspect the theory may be common among a lot of gynecologically ignorant young men.  Maybe it's some kind of ancestral memory -- could we all be related to the Octopus?)  Anyway, all ages are sure of the in-and-out part.  I'm basing my assertion on my own experience as a little kid -- that was in the 80s -- so, my knowledge came in large part from dirty jokes that I heard on the playground at the Little People's Landing daycare center -- like the one where the three soldiers comes back from war and stop at a farm house; there's a farmer who says, "you can stay, but don't put your dicks in any of those three holes"; the soldiers ignore the warning; the next morning, they find out that the farmer's wife was behind the first hole, his daughter behind the second, and . . . the butcher behind the third; hahahahahaha.  (That joke must have been on the playground since the civil war!  Since when do soldiers come WALKING home and pass farm houses?) Today, what with the internet and other porn outlets, I'm certain that little kids are on even more sure footing when they say fuck -- and, not only do they know the literal meaning, little kids know the more nuanced uses of the word too.  

So, I can't figure out who we are protecting from "bad" language.  The conversations that I had with my friends when I was 8 are not radically different from the conversations I have with my friends today.  Why am I the only one who remembers the first decade of life?  We weren't pure.  If anything we were MORE cruel -- when was the last time you and your adult friends captured and slaughtered a bunch of grasshoppers for no reason?  (In my defense on the grasshopper thing, I swear that I thought we were operating on them to save their lives -- which doesn't make any sense since I wasn't an entomology prodigy or anything, but that really is what I thought.  I can't speak for the other little sadists who are probably today's architects and firefighters.) We should drop the facade.  All language, including the F-word, is valuable (or at least interesting), and our culture's conventional beliefs about childhood are fiction.  I'll vote for the guy who advocates classes on effective swearing.  Poopy!

*

Our society does not have its priorities in order when it comes to alien abduction.  You can tell a culture's deep dark values by its knee jerk reactions.  For instance, whenever somebody mentions Soliel Moon Frye (Punky Brewster), six people chime in with the breast reduction factoid.  That reaction is indisputable proof that our society likes boobs.  This probably isn't a revelation to anyone, and I suppose that cosmetic surgeries make tabloid headlines frequently: the nose and chest on that chick from the Hills for one.  That doesn't really prove anything though -- the articles are just fun.  Breast augmentation stories will only last until the next gossipy blurb -- breast REDUCTION, on the other hand, becomes myth.  A willful transgression against a phenomenal rack?  Have the dead risen?  Is it raining frogs?  Clearly boobs mean a lot.   So, when discussions of alien abduction nearly always prompt somebody to mention anal probes, it says something -- it says that our society is missing the point.  

The anal probe knee jerk (9.8 degree of difficulty) basically tells me that people fear the asshole.  It's probably latent homophobia (though, to be fair, the asshole is stinky in its own right).  But, this asshole fear is clouding the issues -- if you are abducted by aliens, the probing is really the least of your worries.  Doctors probe for the sake of health.  Loving couples probe one and other recreationally.  Ultimately, anal probing is weird, but it is still potentially terrestrial.  A big eyed, thin necked, wobbily headed alien with long cold fingers -- THAT is messed up.  I submit that the abduction itself is inherently horrific: once you are dragged through your wall and on to a UFO, your freakout capacity will be in the red.  It's not like the experience will be pleasant up to and UNTIL the probing; at worst, an anal probe will take the terror from 99.5% to 99.7% -- nominal.  So, don't fail to see the cosmic forrest for the trees in your ass.  Get over your petty hiney prejudices and gird yourself for the REAL trouble ahead.  We can't lose focus.  If we can't tolerate a little personal invasion, what chance do we have when the invasion is on a planetary scale?  Go Team Earth!       

*

War war war.  It's obviously cool: swords, awesome explosions, flags, bonding . . .  You agree.  But, come on, we have plenty of source material around to create reasonable facsimiles.  So, we can mine what we've got for 1000 years and be fine.  War stories will abound forever.  (For example, as long as anyone can remember, mankind has been riffing on the theme put down by whatever it was that forged creation.  But, none of us have encountered any NEW deities recently, right?  So, obviously we're creative.  Similarly, new war stories don't actually REQUIRE new wars.)  In fact, if we are honest with ourselves, the wars that have already been fought and the wars that we imagine are, in most ways, superior to the wars that have been thrown together over the last 30 years by world governments anyway.  

REAL wars have reached their zenith. Vietnam was the last pop-culturally significant one: Doors music, homeless vets with cardboard signs, &c. The only good stuff to come out of the most recent military conflicts is a crop of badass Paralympic athletes. But, war doesn't justify super fast armored wheelchairs and bouncy metal legs -- shark attacks work for that too.  

There was a time when technology came from war -- that was a big argument for WWII's cache.  But, that era is over -- nowadays, it's the other way around -- the internet and whatnot enhances War's efficacy, but war itself doesn't actually generate any new toys anymore.  So, let's quit it.  We've moved from diminishing returns to net loss.  War is dumb now.  We don't even fight real stuff.  It's debatable whether Communism was a silly enemy, but Terror?  Really?  Even if someone is serious about that, the antidote to terror is not force of arms -- we should be using payloads of whimsy.  

People usually assume that there are reasons for war in addition to creating cool war stories and gadgets -- I sort of doubt that, but I'll entertain these "other reasons".  Those people also say that it's naive to call for the dismantling of the military.  That's what they said to John Lennon.  These people usually don't know anything more than John and I, so given a common ignorance, I don't see why it's MORE naive to believe that we aren't in any real danger from "enemies" than it is to believe that there are a bunch of bogeymen out to get us.  A more sophisticated bunch of people extend the argument from imminent but vague and nebulous threats to a discussion of the role military power plays in maintaining global stability.   I don't know.  Maybe.  But, if we're the ones making the best war gear, why do we need to continue to pump ourselves up?  Also, if we have an ethical obligation to use our might to fight tyranny abroad where others can't -- isn't that circular?  Can't we reduce that obligation by reducing our might?