Chapter Seven: There and Back Again First things first. There is a magnificent article about Frank Gorshin at this month's Interesting Motherfuckers section of Acid Logic. Go read it now, then come back here. Jennifer and I went for a drive this past week. Four solid days of mad-dashery and marathon pushes across the terrain punctuated by frantic bursts of activity. We slapped 1400 miles beneath the wheels of Jen's new car. It was a long weekend on the road living only by our wits, credit cards, seven bags of personal amenities, a fair-to-adequate comprehension of the US Highway system, and easy access to coffee. We left around noon on a Saturday with a packed trunk. The agenda was to head for the Poconos in search of all things tacky. We stopped at an Applebee's in Orange County New York for some grub. I found signs along the road calling for the re-election of Sheriff H. Frank Bigger. Gotta love the name, like something out of a Hal Needham movie, some guy waving his fat finger in the air growling "I'll git you or mah name isn't Sheriff H. Frank Bigger!" We found nothing much of interest in the Poconos so we headed down the Pennsylvania Turnpike, a road full of billboards, long tunnels, giant hills through farm country, and rest stops full of ugly, ugly people. At the end of the road I lived out a twenty year old dream by visiting Frank Lloyd Wright's Fallingwater. It was a perfect moment, standing in a domicile designed by a staggering intellect and seeing the lines radiate away at such powerful angles. Our tour guide was an affected drama queen named Dilia who spoke (and gestured) at length about the structure. I have a soft spot for women who can pontificate masterfully on the subject of architecture. After that we headed cross-country to Baltimore where we hung out at the Inner Harbor. The National Aquarium is hosting a really fun exhibit about seahorses and had such freakish examples such as the Weedy Sea Dragon. Quite unearthly. From there we hit Atlantic City. Did the whole themed casino thing, visited the Giant Elephant, and hung out in a jacuzzi where an attempt at frolicking was laid low by the size and slippery nature of the tub, and led Jen to utter the line "porn stars make this look so easy." All in all it was an exciting, exhausting voyage. We visited a variety of dollar stores, dodged jellyfish, added several specimens to my shot glass collection, and went trolling for crab legs. It provided a much-needed coda to an otherwise lackluster summer. Next week Jen goes back to teaching and I go back to work. Ah, work... There is something just ominous about watching the birth of monster: Victor Frankenstein screaming "It's Alive!" or Jack Nicholson's Joker seeing his bleached face in the mirror for the first time. I have been shackled to the gears of the TV industry for many years and the arrival of the new fall season always reminds me of those frightening moments. There are things in television I always dread, like post-season baseball and the over-the-top May sweeps, but nothing triggers the chills like the new fall shows. We watch helplessly as these blossoms of mediocrity and bad writing unfurl across the screen. It soon sinks in that something new and terrible now exists to eat away at our brains. It's like watching the Nazgul in Fellowship of the Ring, this snarling juggernaut of darkness and iron cresting the hill of September and descending into the airwaves. And this happens every year. Remember TV Guide's 50 worst shows a while back? In my career I have aired over half of them. No, I have no soul left, at least not one worth speaking of. (By the way I'm talking about dramatic TV here, not reality shows. Those are a different medium altogether and far too gruesome to discuss without accelerating the onset of madness. They bring society closer to being a toe-headed stepchild that drools too much.) I go through this patch of trepidation every year about this time. By mid-winter it will pass, and the networks won't appear quite as scary. They'll be more like monkeys flinging feces, and that's always funny. As for post-season baseball, I understand fans are upset that there maybe a strike this year. Fuck 'em all. Goddamned crybabies. Go get a hobby. See that building? It's called a bookstore. Learn to read and go visit it. Less games makes my job easier. Let joyful noises resonate! Bring the wine! Let the children dance! Speaking of children: Jen's returning to work reminds me it's Back to School time! HAHAHAHAHA! Coral the little punks off the street and strap 'em to their desks! Let the school system sodomize their minds! Learn, you little ingrates, LEARN! Unholy forces are conspiring against me as the countdown to my 40th birthday continues. I got my first credit card offer from the AARP this week, and there are these commercials for low-cost life insurance that open with the line "If you were born between 1917 and 1962..." The only thing really bothering me is the growing contempt I am beginning to harbor against baby boomers, especially at concerts. Starting last summer at the Roxy Music show and leading up to the Todd Rundgren gig a few weeks back I have noticed a distinct and unpleasant inability on the part of the 40-and-50-somethings to conduct themselves in a civil fashion at live shows. They get too drunk too quickly, shout and hoot at ear-spliting decibel levels, and have apparently decided that it is acceptable to dance during everything including the performers' between-song banter. And I mean a real cerebal palsey/plagued by devils/lack-of-motor-control dance. Or they jump up and down trying to get the artist to notice the tour t-shirt from 25 years ago that they pulled out of the closet and managed to stretch over their hideous, mishapen bodies. I wish these idiots would go to a thrash metal show with their kids and learn how to fucking behave at a concert. You are there to listen to music, not celebrate the foolish mockery of a person you have become. I've been tooling around the web some more. Memepool recently listed a sight called Television Without Pity. Go there, and hang your head in shame. A few other sites are currently on my radar. There are trainwrecks aplenty at Disturbing Auctions, where strange and pathetic eBay entries are cataloged. I have become addicted to the Photoshop Phriday feature at Something Awful. Each week visual hobbyists unleash hell on a different subject. A rash of inexplicable new items have appeared on the Japanese Engrish site. There are few things as intriguing as guys with too much time on their hands, as exemplified by the boys at Retrocrush who have compiled a list of the 50 Hottest Cartoon Babes. Also, my inhumanly talented friend Lee Stranahan has launched a new erotica site dubbed Lust Never Sleeps full of thoughtful naughtiness. Gotta go. JP |
Eager Anticipations: New Seasons of Samurai Jack and Justice League The Moebius online series Arzak Rhapsody. (Has anyone heard any more news on this?) The Leonid Meteors Warren Ellis' Global Frequency The Out of Time exhibit comes to Springfield. A new Nancy Kress novel A new Jonathan Carroll novel. New Discs and/or Tours by And in 2003 Ars Nova The Terrastock Music Festival The Super Mega Fests in Newark and Boston Alan Moore's Magic Words A new Walter Jon Williams novel. Another Line of Todd McFarlane/ Clive Barker Tortured Souls figures. The SFX Expo in Boston The 2004 World Science Fiction Convention returns to Boston. Currently in My Various Stereos: BRMC Black Rebel Motorcycle Club Stewart Copeland The Rhythmatist Mastermind Angels of the Apocalypse Tear Garden Sheila Liked the Rodeo Dead Can Dance (a mix CD) Fripp/Sylvian Damage David Bowie Heathen Cave In Jupiter Placebo Without You I'm Nothing Rush Vapor Trails Djam Karet Burning the Hard City Morphine The Night Happy Rhodes Many Worlds are Born Tonight Gary Lucas Bad Boys of the Arctic Sisters of Mercy Floodland Gumhead Mediocre Follow Up Ozric Tentacles Waterfall Cities |
Eager Anticipations: New Seasons of Samurai Jack and Justice League The Moebius online series Arzak Rhapsody. (Has anyone heard any more news on this?) The Leonid Meteors Warren Ellis' Global Frequency The Out of Time exhibit comes to Springfield. A new Nancy Kress novel A new Jonathan Carroll novel. New Discs and/or Tours by And in 2003 Ars Nova The Terrastock Music Festival The Super Mega Fests in Newark and Boston Alan Moore's Magic Words A new Walter Jon Williams novel. Another Line of Todd McFarlane/ Clive Barker Tortured Souls figures. The SFX Expo in Boston The 2004 World Science Fiction Convention returns to Boston. Currently in My Various Stereos: BRMC Black Rebel Motorcycle Club Stewart Copeland The Rhythmatist Mastermind Angels of the Apocalypse Tear Garden Sheila Liked the Rodeo Dead Can Dance (a mix CD) Fripp/Sylvian Damage David Bowie Heathen Cave In Jupiter Placebo Without You I'm Nothing Rush Vapor Trails Djam Karet Burning the Hard City Morphine The Night Happy Rhodes Many Worlds are Born Tonight Gary Lucas Bad Boys of the Arctic Sisters of Mercy Floodland Gumhead Mediocre Follow Up Ozric Tentacles Waterfall Cities |
Chapter Seven: There and Back Again First things first. There is a magnificent article about Frank Gorshin at this month's Interesting Motherfuckers section of Acid Logic. Go read it now, then come back here. Jennifer and I went for a drive this past week. Four solid days of mad-dashery and marathon pushes across the terrain punctuated by frantic bursts of activity. We slapped 1400 miles beneath the wheels of Jen's new car. It was a long weekend on the road living only by our wits, credit cards, seven bags of personal amenities, a fair-to-adequate comprehension of the US Highway system, and easy access to coffee. We left around noon on a Saturday with a packed trunk. The agenda was to head for the Poconos in search of all things tacky. We stopped at an Applebee's in Orange County New York for some grub. I found signs along the road calling for the re-election of Sheriff H. Frank Bigger. Gotta love the name, like something out of a Hal Needham movie, some guy waving his fat finger in the air growling "I'll git you or mah name isn't Sheriff H. Frank Bigger!" We found nothing much of interest in the Poconos so we headed down the Pennsylvania Turnpike, a road full of billboards, long tunnels, giant hills through farm country, and rest stops full of ugly, ugly people. At the end of the road I lived out a twenty year old dream by visiting Frank Lloyd Wright's Fallingwater. It was a perfect moment, standing in a domicile designed by a staggering intellect and seeing the lines radiate away at such powerful angles. Our tour guide was an affected drama queen named Dilia who spoke (and gestured) at length about the structure. I have a soft spot for women who can pontificate masterfully on the subject of architecture. After that we headed cross-country to Baltimore where we hung out at the Inner Harbor. The National Aquarium is hosting a really fun exhibit about seahorses and had such freakish examples such as the Weedy Sea Dragon. Quite unearthly. From there we hit Atlantic City. Did the whole themed casino thing, visited the Giant Elephant, and hung out in a jacuzzi where an attempt at frolicking was laid low by the size and slippery nature of the tub, and led Jen to utter the line "porn stars make this look so easy." All in all it was an exciting, exhausting voyage. We visited a variety of dollar stores, dodged jellyfish, added several specimens to my shot glass collection, and went trolling for crab legs. It provided a much-needed coda to an otherwise lackluster summer. Next week Jen goes back to teaching and I go back to work. Ah, work... There is something just ominous about watching the birth of monster: Victor Frankenstein screaming "It's Alive!" or Jack Nicholson's Joker seeing his bleached face in the mirror for the first time. I have been shackled to the gears of the TV industry for many years and the arrival of the new fall season always reminds me of those frightening moments. There are things in television I always dread, like post-season baseball and the over-the-top May sweeps, but nothing triggers the chills like the new fall shows. We watch helplessly as these blossoms of mediocrity and bad writing unfurl across the screen. It soon sinks in that something new and terrible now exists to eat away at our brains. It's like watching the Nazgul in Fellowship of the Ring, this snarling juggernaut of darkness and iron cresting the hill of September and descending into the airwaves. And this happens every year. Remember TV Guide's 50 worst shows a while back? In my career I have aired over half of them. No, I have no soul left, at least not one worth speaking of. (By the way I'm talking about dramatic TV here, not reality shows. Those are a different medium altogether and far too gruesome to discuss without accelerating the onset of madness. They bring society closer to being a toe-headed stepchild that drools too much.) I go through this patch of trepidation every year about this time. By mid-winter it will pass, and the networks won't appear quite as scary. They'll be more like monkeys flinging feces, and that's always funny. As for post-season baseball, I understand fans are upset that there maybe a strike this year. Fuck 'em all. Goddamned crybabies. Go get a hobby. See that building? It's called a bookstore. Learn to read and go visit it. Less games makes my job easier. Let joyful noises resonate! Bring the wine! Let the children dance! Speaking of children: Jen's returning to work reminds me it's Back to School time! HAHAHAHAHA! Coral the little punks off the street and strap 'em to their desks! Let the school system sodomize their minds! Learn, you little ingrates, LEARN! Unholy forces are conspiring against me as the countdown to my 40th birthday continues. I got my first credit card offer from the AARP this week, and there are these commercials for low-cost life insurance that open with the line "If you were born between 1917 and 1962..." The only thing really bothering me is the growing contempt I am beginning to harbor against baby boomers, especially at concerts. Starting last summer at the Roxy Music show and leading up to the Todd Rundgren gig a few weeks back I have noticed a distinct and unpleasant inability on the part of the 40-and-50-somethings to conduct themselves in a civil fashion at live shows. They get too drunk too quickly, shout and hoot at ear-spliting decibel levels, and have apparently decided that it is acceptable to dance during everything including the performers' between-song banter. And I mean a real cerebal palsey/plagued by devils/lack-of-motor-control dance. Or they jump up and down trying to get the artist to notice the tour t-shirt from 25 years ago that they pulled out of the closet and managed to stretch over their hideous, mishapen bodies. I wish these idiots would go to a thrash metal show with their kids and learn how to fucking behave at a concert. You are there to listen to music, not celebrate the foolish mockery of a person you have become. I've been tooling around the web some more. Memepool recently listed a sight called Television Without Pity. Go there, and hang your head in shame. A few other sites are currently on my radar. There are trainwrecks aplenty at Disturbing Auctions, where strange and pathetic eBay entries are cataloged. I have become addicted to the Photoshop Phriday feature at Something Awful. Each week visual hobbyists unleash hell on a different subject. A rash of inexplicable new items have appeared on the Japanese Engrish site. There are few things as intriguing as guys with too much time on their hands, as exemplified by the boys at Retrocrush who have compiled a list of the 50 Hottest Cartoon Babes. Also, my inhumanly talented friend Lee Stranahan has launched a new erotica site dubbed Lust Never Sleeps full of thoughtful naughtiness. Gotta go. JP |
