I'LL EAT YOU UP, I LOVE YOU SO

Believe me, I cried repeatedly during Spike Jonez's adaptation of Maurice Sendak's beloved children's classic Where The Wild Things Are, so often I couldn't even count the number of times. But I can pinpoint exactly when I knew it was going to be a rough ride, emotionally: At the very beginning, when I realized Jonez had given the story's young protagonist, Max, a sister, who looked to be about five years older than him. A sister that age increases your feeling of isolation when you're a kid, the sense that you have no peers in your own family. I know this, of course, from experience. At that point I knew this movie, which is a journey into the emotional landscape of a little boy, was inevitably going to be a journey into my own head as well.

So it may be a little difficult to offer any kind of objective assessment of this film. It gets so much right, emotionally and otherwise, that any flaws it may possess fall away. (If flaws it has. Honestly, it seemed pretty much pitch-perfect to me.) But clearly Where The Wild Things Are deserves a spot at or near the top of any list of the greatest films ever made about childhood. It is being marketed (at least to some extent) as a kid's movie, and that's true, but it's a movie for all the kids who don't quite fit in, who spend most of their time living in their own worlds. It explores those worlds, what they are like and how they came to be. It remembers exactly what it was like to be eight or nine and feel like the only person in the world who has ever been so insanely happy or miserably sad, how the world is full of mysteries that must be explored, how scary it can be to feel things when all of your emotions are as raw as your skin.

Oh, and it has monsters, because little boys instinctively love monsters, and any fantasy world they conjured when inevitably include some. And these monsters all reflect some part of Max, including the parts he can't quite understand. They are loving and warm and angry and ignored and terrifying and mysterious and sweet and kind. They make him their king, then later admit he was never really a king, at just the same time Max realizes it as well. So he must leave them and return to his own world, where he isn't a king, but a little boy with a mother who loves him very much.

And I'm crying right now because I'm thinking of the final scene, but also an earlier sequence where Max comes across his mother, fearful of losing her job, and tries his best to cheer her up. She ask him to tell a story, and he does, and she dutifully transcribes it, preserving this moment in his life, in their lives, in a scene that is as perfect a depiction of love as the movies have ever given us, and which of course inevitably reminded me of my mom, who gave me endless reams of Big Chief tablets, encouraging me to fill them with whatever I might imagine, who appreciated me for what I was no matter what and holy crap, see what I mean? I can't evaluate this movie because it intersects too closely with everything I've ever been.

I can't even discuss the beautifully understated visual style Jonez brings to the film, because its enchanting images of a forest playland reminded me so much of the row of evergreens I used to run and hide in whenever my emotions got out of hand, and I'll just start rambling about my past again, or how the only other movie that so perfectly captures the outsized emotions of childhood is Meet Me In St. Louis, because then I'll go off on another Vincente Minnelli tangent.

So let me just say this: See this movie.

SORRY FOR ALL THE DOWNTIME LATELY, FOLKS

Oh, I've been meaning to write. I've had things to say about the Roman Polanski affair, about my favorite non-animated film of the year so far (The Informant!), about NBC's inexplicable decision to name Jon Bon Jovi as "Artist In Residence," whatever the hell that means. And the cats have been seriously messing with my mind lately, and I thought I could use this space to try to figure out why.

But I haven't done any of that, and in fact my presence here has been increasingly sporadic. Eh, what can I say? The usual mix of anxiety and depression, plus a lot of other stuff that I just don't want to get into. (Two words: Bad dates.)

So by way of entertainment, here's a Spike Jonez-directed Beastie Boys video, three minutes and change of pure genius. (Have I mentioned that period in the nineties when Ill Communication was pretty much the soundtrack of my life as I wrote in a white-hot fury I'd never known before? Have I mentioned I really miss those days?) Jonez's film of Where The Wild Things Are opens today, of course, and I can't wait. Hell, maybe it'll even inspire me to write something.

ALL THE PRETTY HORSES

It comes out of nowhere, as it always does.

This time it happened while clicking on an entry at The New York Times website. When it appeared, it carried a banner ad for a performance by the Lipazzaner Stallions at Madison Square Garden. And I fell back.

I can't even remember how old I was, but let's say I was in high school. The Lipizzan Stallions were a regular attraction on the local stadium circuit, showing up at least once a year at Vet's Auditorium in Des Moines or Hilton in Ames. The commercials heralding these appearances were ubiquitous, and rather cheesy, as corny and easily-mocked as ads for Holiday On Ice or some such. Once, while the whole family sat around the TV, I made some snotty comment, something along the lines of, "Who would ever want to see that?"

"Oh, but they're so beautiful," Mom replied. "I remember reading about them when I was little, and I've always wanted to see them in person."

I didn't respond. I couldn't respond. What could be said? The commercial ended, the program resumed. It was never discussed again.

Just a moment in time, lost, forgotten. Except I could never quite forget it. It stayed, it lingered, all the rest of my life. For one moment, my mother had shown a part of herself I had never sen before, a part I could never have guessed existed. It made her more complicated, more human. And I had mocked it, unintentionally, sure, but still, I had hurt her on some level, and I could never bring myself to apologize.

Instead, I did what most people do: I hid it away and pretended it never happened. It worked at the time, and it still does, mostly. After all, how often in the course of my day-to-day existence am I going to encounter a reference to the Lipizzan Stallions? It almost never happens. Almost.

Then when it does, it's always unexpected, and I can never prepare. But really, what could I do to shield myself from a thirty-year-old memory, something most people would have long forgotten? But I can't forget, and I shouldn't: Sometimes I feel my memory of Mom is slipping away, but then this or something like it pops into my head, a chance to recall how human she was, a small, defining trait that seemed so unlike her, a reminder of how much I will always miss her.

I...I HAVE NO EXCUSE

Swear to God, I have no intention of turning this space into an endless, tedious recitation of the previous night's dreams. But...

So I dreamed I was watching Jay Leno's new show (which right away suggests this is something more closely resembling a nightmare), and he had a whole panel-ful of guests. There was some anonymous black guy who never said anything and received no camera time, Billy Bob Thornton and Dan Aykroyd. Thornton rambled on and on, making some psuedo-philosophical point in a rather belligerent manner, then kind of ran out of steam, and sat in awkward silence. Aykroyd brought up a bullet-ridden death scene Thornton had in a recent movie, and asked what gauge wire he used to set off the squibs. Thornton started raving incoherently, and as he did so, began frothing at the mouth, great waterfalls of some chalky white substance cascading from his mouth with every word spoken.

Aykroyd tried to stifle his laughter, but Leno, Anonymous Black Guy and the studio audience roared with laughter. Finally, as Thornton realized what was going on, he smiled, reached into his jacket and produced the bottle of Mylanta he kept gulping during commercial breaks. Aykroyd announced, for viewers at home "and the olfactorily-challenged here in the studio," that one of tonights guests reeked of cheap booze, "but decorum prevents me from saying which one." Thornton began laughing so hard he pissed his pants, and Aykroyd and Anonymous Black Guy dragged him off stage.

At which point, sadly, Leno was left with nothing to do but mug for the camera and launch into a pretaped comedy bit. Such a prospect was so horrifying, I had no choice but to wake up.

Is this what my life has come to? My dreams involve Billy Bob Thornton peeing his pants in front of Jay Leno? What the hell is wrong with me?

BABY, THAT'S THE WAY IT'S GOTTA BE

Wow, posting has been even more sporadic than expected. Apologies, and I'll try to do better, but honestly, things are kind of wacky around here, and it's going to be awhile before any kind of normalcy settles in, so wait and see, I guess. Not that it matters, since a helpful article in a recent Des Moines Register article explained some easy tips for blogging--keep it short, and never write about personal matters--that I violate routinely, so maybe I'm doing this wrong. (But probably not. Don't all authors, web-based or otherwise, mostly write about themselves? Then again, if you've ever read The Register, you'll quickly realize no one on staff knows jack about writing.)

Anyway, the point is...well, there is no point, I just wanted to put up some new content. And for me, that usually involves a clip job, and when resorting to such things, who better to showcase than Noted Cult Rocker Marshall Crenshaw, from back when he still had a full set of hair. So here's everyone's favorite erstwhile Beatlemania star with a cover of Soldier Of Love. Oh, and Fun Fact about this song: If you use selected lines from this--"surrender to me," for instance--while arguing with your wife and/or girlfriend, you will only make the situation worse. It's true!

MAKE LOVE TO THESE WOMEN, LANGUID AND BITTERSWEET

She reaches to the floor, picking up her boots, pulling them on over her black-and blue striped tights, which, combined with her sky blue minidress and emo-girl haircut, suggest she is trying to look much younger than she is. Not that she's old--mid-thirties, maybe--but her age is too advanced to be parading around like this. "Good morning," she smiles. I have no idea who she is.

I actually slept well, I say.

"Then we both got what she wanted." She smiles again, mechanically, and says, "It's time."

Yeah, I say, even though I have no idea what she's talking about.

"I wish it didn't have to be this way. But..." Her voice trails off as she looks at her watch. A second ago she wasn't wearing a watch. She rises from the bed and heads into another room. I follow.

Turn out it's the bathroom. She sits on the toilet, removing the boots she just put on, pulling her dress off over her head. "I really do like you. I wish you weren't a patient. If the clinic knew I was here--"

Yeah, but how are they going to find out?

"Well, exactly. I can't wait until next week." She rises from the toilet and backs me out to the living room. She is very thin, almost skeletal. A skeleton with sweet, sweet breasts, which press against my chest as we share what I fear will be one last kiss. "Take care," she says, and walks back through the bathroom door.

Again, I follow. Only this is no longer the bathroom. I'm standing in the hallway outside of the apartment, all glass and sunlight, and she is nowhere in sight. Must be a nice apartment, whoever lives here. I turn, walk back through the door, and for one split second all is sweet oblivion, nothing but darkness and this familiar sound.

MWOR! MWOR! MWOR!

My eyes open.

MWOR! MWOR! MWOR!

Delmar sits at the foot of the bed, facing away from me, yowling his heart out, his stumpy tail furiously thumping the mattress. My eyes shift to the clock--4 AM. I have to be at work in three hours. This, regrettably, is not a dream.

I CAN'T REMEMBER THE LAST TIME I WORE A WHITE SHIRT

1) Ah, yes, the capriciously-chosen Larry King quote signifying another fresh-baked batch o' Random Thoughts. I've upgraded; instead of recycling Larry quotes from his old USA Today column, I'm using fragments from his Twitter page. Rest assured, the title of today's post makes no more sense in context. In fact, there is no context.

2) Since the Interweb tells me it's what Everyone's Talking About, I should probably make some mention of Mackenzie Phillips' claim that she had a ten-year sexual relationship with her dad. But really, what is there to say? Beyond ICK, I mean?

The thing is...well, there's two things, actually. The obvious one is, Is this even true? Not that it couldn't be--Phillips' dad was noted satyr and drug vacuum John Phillips, as morally reprehensible as any man could be (although kudos to his great score for The Man Who Fell To Earth!)--but, well, he's conveniently dead, nobody else can verify the claim and Phillips is most famous as a wackjob and publicity whore who has regularly used her image as a perpetually recovering junkie as an opportunity to score TV gigs she'd probably never receive otherwise. A look at her filmography reveals more guest appearances as herself (inevitably offering yet another hard-luck story designed to make us feel for her) on TV talk shows than as a character on dramatic TV. She's told us far too much about herself already, yet she's only bringing this up now? Sounds...suspicious.

But fine. Even if it's true, why does anybody need to know about it? She's the former co-star of One Day At A Time, for God's sake. Does anyone care? Yeah, she says she's trying to put a human face on the very real nightmare of incest, but there's such a creepy air of opportunism and desperation about everything she says and does that Phillips is actually only perpetrating the myth that incest survivors are damaged goods. Not to sound insensitive, and I'm sure she's had a plenty fucked-up life with or without her dad's sexual advances, but she really needs to just go away and deal with it in private.

3) Anyone remember that brief post-election period of optimism, when Obama seemed to be making all the right moves, including the announcement of his plan to close the detention center at Guantanamo Bay? Seems like a long time ago, doesn't it? Especially in light of his decision to use a half-assed law enacted by the Bushinistas to continue holding 50 prisoners at Gitmo without bothering to obtain congressional approval for doing so. True, Obama's people are putting some kind of touchy-feely bullshit trimmings on this, claiming that the detainees will be granted full habeas corpus hearings, blah blah blah, but it's still a blatant reversal of his stated intention, not the first and surely not the last. Possibly the most depressing, though.

4) Wow, I guess I had fewer Random Thoughts floating about my head than expected. Maybe the only reason I structured today's post in this particular fashion is because I simply didn't want to devote an entire piece to Mackenzie Phillips. That, and I was pissed about the whole Obama thing, and just wanted to mention it. But beyond that, I got nothing. Oh, except to note that this week's run of Mary Worth has been action-packed, and how often can you say that about Mary Worth?

5) And the cats, of course, because I always mention them when I write one of these. Monika's her usual self, but Delmar--I'm kinda worried about Del. He's taken to snuggling up with me when I sleep, and he curls up on my lap and purrs, and he's far less prone to violence or odd behavior than he used to be. He's acting...normal, almost. If you didn't know him, you'd think he was an ordinary cat.

Mother of Mercy, is this the end of Psychokitty?

IT WILL COME BACK TO YOU

I suppose one of the reasons I've stayed with the same insurance agent for many years is because anytime I have to deal with her one-on-one, it means a trip back to my old home town, which somehow turns into a different experience every time I return. This weekend involved a vehicular misadventure which prompted just such a trip, and I found myself lost in time, shuttling back and forth between past lives.

I took the back way to Perry, from through Waukee and Adel, a route I used to drive every day when I shuttled children from all over Dallas County to Head Start in Adel. There weren't that many kids on the route, and they weren't too talkative, so they were forced to just sit there and listen to whatever music I liked, Siamese Dream and Melon Collie-era Smashing Pumpkins, Automatic For The People-era REM, and lots and lots of Beck. None of that shows up in my personal playlist these days, but I could hear it all in my head as I drove down the hill along Highway 6, 1995 fading into early '96, a period where I could feel it in my bones, that finally my life was building to something, when anything seemed possible.

In a sense, that was true. The spring, summer and autumn of '96 were marked by my belated efforts at a libertine period, living life with an abandon I'd never known before, and early in '97, I met what I thought was the perfect woman, and embarked on a whole new life, far away from the places and people I'd always known.

But that life fell apart, and the only safe place to pick up the pieces seemed to be back in Perry, where, due to dire financial straits and a period of unemployment, I moved in with Mom, who had returned to the house I had briefly called my own in that wild period in the mid-nineties. It was many years down the road, but Mom hadn't changed the alterations I'd made to the house: The walls in the living room were still painted gray and the ceiling black, and the chalky white image of a sword-wielding skeleton continued to welcom you into the bathroom, where the walls remained adorned with favorite quotes from James Joyce and Hunter Thompson.

Lord knows why Mom hadn't had somebody paint over all that (though I believe she was particularly tickled by the Thompson quote, which I'd illustrated with a garish charcoal crayon scrawl of a nightmarish clown), but when I found myself back in the house in the late summer of 2002, all those signifiers of my previous life seemed to mock me, to remind me of the person I was, the person I'd never be again.

Life continued there for several months. I got a job, put away some money, made plans to escape. But unlike before, I couldn't quite imagine a future this time. The person who'd painted those walls was someone who pounded out endless streams of wordage, for payment or for his own amusement, while draining six packs of Rolling Rock as The Replacements blasted in the background. But he'd been replaced by a person who no longer felt the ability or desire to write, and who hardly even listened to music anymore. Joy was a thing of the past. Mom tried to keep my spirits up, but I was too old to be mothered, and after striking out in the world, this small town seemed like nowhere.

Perry had nothing to offer me at that point in my life, no comfort to give. Yet today as I drove away from the insurance office, I ate at the Chines buffet at the strip mall by the bypass, then drove through downtown and stopped at the library. And it was all exactly the same, but the feeling was different. For maybe the first time, I remembered that brief period with some measure of fondness. My situation then seemed so hopeless, all I could see, all I could feel was negativity. But now I remembered how good the food was at this particular restaurant, and as I walked through the library, I noticed the shelves still held a copy of Jamie Farr's autobiography Just Farr Fun, which I had checked out once as a joke, and wound up...well, not enjoying, but at least reading. (Skimming, actually.) It was a pleasant memory of a more pleasant time, or at least more pleasant than I'd ever allowed it to be.

I ended my trip by stopping into Alco, the discount store that opened with much fanfare back in '76, part of a regional chain that was once seen as a threat to Main Street businesses, much as Wal-Mart is viewed now. And at the time, Alco was something new for a small town, offering one-stop shopping for everything, toys and electronics and clothes and hardware. You couldn't find everything there, but you could find most of what you'd need for day-to-day living.

Alco today is much like it was then. The clothes they carry are still mostly from Wrangler and Haggar, the electronics are still manufactured by Emerson, and even the piped-in music hadn't changed: Peg, Steely Dan's inescapable radio hit from '77. That was the summer I started really listening to music, and began writing and drawing a comic strip solely for the amusement of my brother, and where, in this very store, I bought a paperback of Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451, and LPs of Aaron Copland's Appalachian Spring and George Gershwin's Concerto In F, and of course, the novelization of Star Wars, and I was struck then as I am now by the fact that this place, so mundane and provincial, contained so many things which would point me to another, better world, which would take me away and, ultimately, bring me back home.

ANOTHER REASON TO HATE CANCER

Just wanted to note the passing of one of my all-time favorite character actors, Henry Gibson, who lost a brief bout with cancer at the age of 73.

He shot to a weird kind of fame as a cast member of Rowan & Martin's Laugh-In, the popularity of which seems almost incomprehensible today. But Gibson had been around before that, of course--his movie debut came under the direction of Jerry Lewis in The Nutty Professor, and he had a hilarious part as a hipster Indian in the late-period Three Stooges epic The Outlaws Is Coming.

He was one of the few Laugh-In performers to have a career beyond that show, mostly courtesy of Robert Altman, who cast him as a sinister "wellness expert" (and probable Scientology rep, though that isn't explicitly stated) in The Long Goodbye, and gave him the role of a lifetime as Haven Hamilton, a powerful, ego-crazed country star who inadvertently rediscovers his humanity in Nashville. Right there Gibson gave outstanding performances in two of the greatest films ever made.

He found himself a working character actor, doing everything from sitcoms to cartoon voiceover work, and he could play sinister as well as sweet. He became a member of Joe Dante's repertory company--he was the best thing in The 'burbs and was hilarious in a Dante-directed episode of Eerie, Indiana--and will always be beloved as the head of the Illinois Nazis in John Landis' The Blues Brothers.

He was one of those people who could make any movie or TV show better just by being in it, and he will be sorely missed.

PAIN DON'T HURT

The headlines have all been pretty much the same: DIRTY DANCING STAR PATRICK SWAYZE DIES AT 57.

Honestly, I've never even seen Dirty Dancing, but even if I had, I'm still pretty sure I'd still think of Swayze first ande foremost as Dalton, his iconic character from Road House.

Ah, Road House. That movie has been ironically appreciated by hipsters everywhere ever since its release in 1989, celebrated for its goofy dialogue and outrageous characterizations. But as so many internet chat boards this morning seem to reveal, maybe the joke was on us the whole time, or better yet, maybe our appreciation was never wholly ironic.

Maybe the endlessly quotable, easily mocked dialogue in Road House ("Do you always carry your medical records around with you?" "Saves time.") amounts to its own deconstructive text, even as the philosophical beliefs ("Man's search for faith, that sort of shit") of our mullet-sporting, tai chi-practicing hero are entirely sincere. And after all, as an action movie, it's extraordinarily well-made. And Swayze...dammit, Swayze is great.

In fact, Road House wouldn't be the action movie of choice for Gen Xers everywhere were it not for Swayze's perfectly-judged performance. He's nicely self-aware but perfectly serious, even sincere, and he single-handedly keeps the whole thing from tipping over into parody. No matter how silly the situation, Swayze utters every line as if he means it, and we believe him. Dalton's a man of action anyone would want on their side.

Just as Swayze himself would ultimately become one of the few celebrities anyone could admire. He stayed married to the same woman for decades, a rare feat for a movie star, and he never let fame go to his head. He took his life and his work seriously, and by all accounts was a great guy.

And then, of course, there was his well-documented battle with pancreatic cancer, during which he became--corny as it may sound--a real-life hero. Told he had less than five months to live, he handily outlasted his grim prognosis, determined to fight a battle he ultimately couldn't win, all to enjoy the beauty of one more day, one more sunrise, one more moment on earth.

Dalton himself couldn't have done any better. Pain don't hurt, indeed.

ENSLAVED TO EVERY CRUEL WHIM AND DESIRE OF A RUTHLESS MADMAN!

Whatever else I may have been planning on writing about is significantly less important than this breaking news: Roger Corman is getting an Academy Award!

True, it's one of those lame-career achievement Oscars, and presumably mostly in recognition of all the people (Martin Scorsese, Jonathan Demme, Joe Dante, Peter Bogdanovich) who toiled in Corman's exploitation factory early in their careers, but I'd like to think the Academy is finally coming around to appreciating real movies. Which would you rather see? Some lame thing with Gwyneth Paltrow in a corset, or this?



The choice seems clear.

WHY DON'T YOU SPEND YOUR WHOLE LIFE SLEEPING?

3 AM, and maybe I can get another half hour of sleep, a half hour of quiet and calm--

WUMP! patpatpatpatpatpat SKRETCH SKRETCH SKRETCH patpatpatpat

Pause.

patpatpatpatpat CRASH!

Monika again, the pitter-patter of her feet echoing loudly in this small apartment, and punctuated by sounds of God knows what. She's taken to leaping about wildly, getting into everything then moving quickly on, and generally acting like an inquisitive kitten.

But according to the cat age to human age conversion chart, her equivalent age would be eighty. How many eighty-year-olds go running and leaping like this? Mall-walking, sure, but Monika is jumping on everything in sight, caroming off the walls like Donald O'Connor. It's kind of cute--hell, it's adorable--but it's also incredibly irritating, because she leaves an inevitable path of destruction in her wake.

Also, she's very loud. And she insists on doing this now, when I'm trying to sleep.

And what can I do to stop her? Pick her up and hold her? She'll squirm out of my arms. Throw her in her carrier? She'll yowl furiously and tip the thing over. Shut her in another room? She'll scratch at the door.

So I get up and go about my morning business, a bit earlier than I'd like to. She continues to leap and cavort. I fill her water dish, and she sticks her front paws in and splashes the floor. I change the litter box, and she hops into it and starts literally punching the litter.

Finally, I sit down, figuring I might as well relax and watch her play. Naturally, she picks that moment to hop up on the bed and go to sleep. Was this all some elaborate plan to get me out of the bed, just so she could have the whole thing to herself?

Knowing Monika, I'd have to say yes.

WALK ON, WALK ON

As recently as ten years ago, Jerry Lewis' labor day telethon extravaganza still had some sort of cultural relevance. Sort of. The local stations carrying it--The Love Network--were network affiliates, willingly bumping ad dollars in prime time, giving themselves over to Jerry through the night and all the next day.

True, it was a far cry from the glory days of the sixties and seventies, when top singers and comedians would stop by and entertain live, and big-name stars would join Lewis on stage. Still, you'd get to see imported performers from lesser Broadway shows and second-tier musical acts like Ringo Starr's All Star Band, and co-hosting duties were handed to the likes of Ed McMahon, Tony Orlando and Norm Crosby, who admittedly failed to amuse or enlighten on any level, but at least they were there, familiar TV faces you had seen in the past, providing some level of comfort by their very presence. More importantly, the whole furshlugginer ball of wax still showcased the awesome spectacle of Lewis himself, cranky as ever, lurking about the stage like an aneurysm waiting to happen, self-righteously lambasting any critics who failed to appreciate his work, routinely chastising anonymous assistants who failed to cater to his whims with all due speed.

Things had already gotten pretty dire in the past decade--for one thing, few network affiliates bother carrying it anymore, and those that do seldom run the whole thing--but the program this year was absolutely painful to behold. Third-rate Vegas magicians were introduced with embarrassing superlatives, and much of the show was given over to sub-America's Got Talent singers and dance troupes, many of which the co-hosts couldn't even bother introducing by name.

Ah yes, our co-hosts, Jann Carl and Nancy O'Dell, perky blond "correspondents" from rival TV infotainment programs, here united by both their fealty to Lewis--expressed over and over and over again--and their utter vapidity. This was it? This was the best they could get? Sure, Ed McMahon is shilling Budweiser in Heaven, but what about Tony Orlando? Did he really have better things to do?

Saddest of all was our host, a shambling, pathetic old man, rambling incoherently, blinking incessantly. Jerry Lewis was once one of the most famous men in the world, and dammit, he really was a great comedian and a brilliant filmmaker. But he was also always an arrogant prick, and this year his telethon seemed to represent some sort of ironic come-uppance: All his friends have either died or deserted him, and he had nothing to fall back on but his increasingly frail comic gifts, and they simply weren't enough. In that sense, his final, ritualistic performance of You'll Never Walk Alone took on an unexpected poignance: Lewis seemed to be singing to himself.

YOU WOULDN'T ACT SO ADULT NOW

I'm not too proud to admit I just spent way too much time searching for clips from some of Mitzi Gaynor's variety shows from the seventies, ostensibly to use as illustration for another of my ongoing explorations of how weird, inexplicable things from my childhood take on other forms in adulthood.

Such an urge may have been inspired in part by a trip back to my hometown yesterday, a place I've managed to avoid for probably a year or so. Whenever I do this, I'm always visited by ghosts from my past, apparitions I'd prefer to avoid, thank you very much. And more often, I find myself struck by how nothing is quite as I remember it, how memories distort reality, how everything is subjective, how nothing is objectively true.

Which, you know, is kind of a bummer.

And while Heaven knows I'm more than willing to write about incredibly depressing things around here, hey, it's a holiday weekend (even though I have to leave for work in forty minutes or so) and, really, who wants to spend it brooding? It's been awhile since I indulged myself with a good old-fashioned clip job--and by "awhile" I mean since my last post--so let's enjoy, shall we?

Here are The Replacements with Kiss Me On The Bus. Sure, Paul Westerberg will never be this great again, but the good news is, since he's found some measure of sobriety, he's less likely to go out in public with hair like this.



Beastie Boys with Hey Ladies.



Bernard Herrmann's magnificent title music from Hitchcock's underrated Marnie.



And a strong contender for Favorite Song Ever, Marvin Gaye's scarily intense Trouble Man.

IF YOU CAN'T TALK LOVE THEN YOU BETTER GET OUT

Ah, it's been awhile, hasn't it? I had a day off last week, and usually on days off I can devote time to writing, but eh, I was busy. And today's a day off as well, and I'm not particularly busy, but I've got a lot on my mind and...well, posting isn't exactly a priority these days.

Not that I haven't had things I wanted to discuss. In particular, I wanted to explore my sneering reaction to Teddy Kennedy's death to how I felt upon hearing of the death of songwriter Ellie Greenwich. She was best known for the teenage symphonies she and Jeff Barry wrote for in the early sixties, particularly The Ronettes' Be My Baby, which has to rank pretty high in the annals of Greatest Things Ever. And not to downplay Greenwich's contribution (she wrote the music, Barry the lyrics, and God knows the music is appropriately dreamy), but what makes the record isn't the song, or Ronnie Spector's haunted vocals, or the brilliant arrangement by Jack Nitzsche or the awesome drums of Hal Blaine--it's all these things together, as they were so awesomely assembled in the studio by genius producerPhil Spector.

And Spector was a genius, no doubt--if his Wall Of Sound masterpieces didn't prove it, the stark, intimate sound of Plastic Ono Band confirmed it. But he was also notoriously psychotic, abusive and, finally, murderous. And yet...everything horrible about him doesn't make his work any less great. Why, then, can I forgive him, and not Kennedy? Is it simply because we kind of expect artists to be terrible people, but politicians, being in charge of our lives, should be held to a higher standard?

An interesting point to ponder, but hey, I'm not gonna take the time to explore it in depth here. In fact, things may be more sparse around here than usual, since major changes are underway. (In my life, that is. Not at this site. Hell, I haven't even changed the format in all this time.) Well, "major" may be too grand a way to state it--it's not like I'm getting married or anything--but it's something that will keep me occupied for the next month or so.

Appy polly loggies, then, for such an uneventful post, but hey, I'll try to provide some entertainment. Here's the hilariously deadpan video for Gleaming Spires' Are You Ready For The Sex Girls, which should have been a smash but somehow wasn't. The Spires were an offshoot of the early eighties incarnation of Sparks, and anything affiliated, however tangentially, with Sparks is automatically aces in my book. A great song, plus pie and coffee...what more could anyone ask for?

DO YOU HAVE A PICTURE OF THE PAIN?

As a lefty in America, I guess I have to say something about the passing of Edward M. Kennedy at the age of 77, but really, does anyone want to wander down the sainted paths of the Kennedy Myth again?

We all know the legend of JFK, tragically struck down in his prime, and Bobby, killed by an assassin's bullet before he even had a chance to bloom. And so poor Teddy, the Kennedy who lived, whose memory could not be preserved in amber and revered as a symbol of something that might have been, had to deal with the consequences of living in the real world.

Where, not surprisingly, people are less forgiving. JFK's presidency was largely undistinguished, and sometimes regressive, and the True Believers who speak in hushed tones when they conjure visions of Bobby's imaginary presidency conveniently ignore his erratic youth and shadowy associations. (How a guy who went Commie hunting with Roy Cohn could ever become a liberal icon is beyond me.) But they died young, and nobody had to watch them compromise their supposed ideals, or come to terms with what awful people they were.

Because that, sadly, is Edward Kennedy's true legacy: All the progressive legislation in the world couldn't erase the fact that he was a horrible human being, who took privilege as his birthright and never felt the need to play by the rules enforced on lesser mortals. Mary Jo Kopechne's watery grave is but one of many reminders that Kennedy may have dearly wanted to fight the good fight, but he ran like a coward when the fight involved him personally.

So yeah, it's sad in a political sense that Kennedy's vote will no longer be cast in an increasingly conservative senate, but the death of this American aristocracy does not deserve the inevitable mourning it will receive.

SEPARATE WAYS

Despite my hyper-ironic hipster tendencies, I try not to be the type of douchebag who denigrates the tastes of others. If people want to enjoy the likes of Transformers 2, hey, fine, whatever. My life-long love for the art of film kicked into place during a pre-teen viewing of Where Eagles Dare on The ABC Sunday Night Movie, about as meat-and-potatoes a movie as you can get, and not dissimilar to a typical Hollywood blockbuster of today. (Guns! Explosions! A third-billed actress with nothing to do!) My tastes expanded and deepened, but I don't believe that I myself am a better, smarter person than somebody who has never even heard of Cutter And Bone.

It's an attitude I sometimes see in others much like me, an attitude perhaps latent in myself, to view those with different tastes or beliefs as somehow inferior, less enlightened. And I hate that attitude; all points of view are valid, and if someone sincerely laughs at a Sandra Bullock romantic comedy or finds some comfort in Sarah Palin's public persona, why question the sincerity of their response? I may disagree, but I can certainly appreciate the legitimcay of their reaction.

Having said that, I'm from Iowa, and this is August, so the question most frequently asked around here is, "Are you going to the fair?"

By which they mean the storied Iowa State Fair, a source of inexplicable pride for the Hawkeye State since 1854. Pretty much everything in Des Moines comes to a screeching halt while this thing goes on, and everyone attends, people from all over the state and all levels of the socioeconomic spectrum. Hell, many folks plan their entire years around the damned thing.

And as open-minded and accepting as I try to be, I've got to say, I don't get it.

I mean, it's a fair. There are rides on the midway, there's livestock on display, there are games of chance and tons of overpriced food. And really, that's about it. Sure, there are more rides on the midway than your average parking mall carnival, but it's the same basic thing. And the livestock competitions showcase the finest overstuffed pigs from the entire state instead of just, you know, one or two counties. But why should I care?

Again, different strokes and all, and I realize that people who receive blue ribbons for growing enormous eggplants are sincerely thrilled by the prize, but isn't that a relatively small subset of humanity? It's like my Mystery Science Theater 3000 obsession; if Joel Hodgson and Trace Beaulieu were in town for some reason, I'd be bouncing off the walls with excitement, but I'd still recognize that my reaction would not likely be shared by everyone I meet. I wouldn't ask casual acquaintances if they were attending, or reroute traffic on the freeway for it, or showcase endless tedious coverage in the local media.

And so, since I can't imagine the vast majority of attendees at the State Fair genuinely care about the winners of the Tall Corn Contest, or even know a guernsey from a holstein, the only conclusion that can be reached is that most people go to this thing ironically.

Not that they are consciously doing this, necessarily. But the thing most fairgoers tend to claim they enjoy most is "people-watching," and considering the mulletted, badly sunburned and regrettably-garbed masses of humanity passing through the gates, "people-watching" is essentially a euphimism for "watching the freaks," an excuse to feel superior to those of lesser tastes and, most likely, fewer brain cells. It's like half of the state has somehow transformed into overly sarcastic poseurs, the essence of hipster douchebaggery.

Sometimes it seems like the whole damned thing is a Magic Christian-like scheme dreamed up by some cornfed Guy Grand, designed to showcase just how gullible the rubes really are. Big ticket shows at the grandstand this year include performances by not only the likes of Brooks And Dunn and Kelly Clarkson--not my taste, but whatever--but Peter Frampton and, God help us, Journey. That would be the current incarnation of Journey, of course, showcasing That Guy Who Isn't Steve Perry alongside a bunch of other guys who may or may not have played on all those hit songs no one ever really liked. If they were performing on a free stage--alongside graduates of local dance schools, fifties cover bands and State Fair perenials Head East (apparently The Lamont Cranston Band was booked elsewhere this year)--I could maybe understand the appeal (again, in an ironic way), but asking people to pay money for this shit? And the kicker is: This show sold out! In these fragile economic times, people shelled out good money to see a hastily-cobbled-together assemblage of musicians churning out the songs of a band that was faceless and bland in the first place.

No matter how much I try to accept and respect the tastes of others, I can't help it: Anyone who would pay to see Journey is an idiot. And when I think about so many other things associated with the fair, such as deep-fried Twinkies on a stick, or that one of the livestock prizes is awarded to something called "Beef Of Merit", I can't help but chuckle derisively. As somebody who tries to appreciate the human race at its best, I avoid the Iowa State Fair like a plague, for it seems like nothing so much as a showcase for humanity at its worst.

ON THE CLIFF BY THE SEA

Just a few quick words to express how utterly gaga I am over Hayao Miyazaki's stunningly beautiful animated children's film Ponyo, just released in the United States in a somewhat shaky English dub. If nothing else, it is a crash course in all that we've been missing since hand-drawn animation has largely been replaced on screens by blandly representational CGI. Miyazaki is an artist--he's famous for retouching his films drawing by drawing until he's completely satisfied--and his preferred medium is pen and ink, handpainted cels and, oh, those gorgeous backgrounds, largely remdered with charcoal crayons. As much as I love Pixar's work--and I do--they can't do anything like this:



That was a French trailer for a Japanese movie newly released in American theaters, but of all the publicity material I could find, it was the one that best showcased another of Ponyo's formidable assets, its gorgeous score by Joe Hisaishi, which perfectly complements the wondrous visuals conjured by the wizards at Studio Ghibli.

But to concentrate solely on the visual and aural beauties is to sell short Miyazaki's magnificent script, which is the most successful attempt I've ever seen at putting a child's view of the world on screen. The story in Ponyo doesn't just revolve around a five-year-old; it seems to have been written by one. It has a naive simplicity, a belief that wondrous things can happen all the time, that magic is everywhere, that brewing tea and receiving a hug from your mom are just as amazing and wonderful as prehistoric creatures casually swimming below your feet, or the moon coming closer to earth. Miyazaki knows that the very young are able to view the entire world with a sense of awe, and he captures that fleeting innocence with a heartbreaking precision.

A great movie, is what I'm saying.

OWEN WILSON HAS TO BE ONE OF THE GREATEST COMEDIC ACTORS OF ALL TIME!

1) And with yet another pointless Larry King quote as title--this one a typical over-the-top blurb for a deeply uninteresting movie (Larry was waxing rhapsodic over You, Me And Dupree, in case you're interested)--we see the return of everyone's favorite placeholder, the Random Thoughts post. Or, to put it more accurately, Things I Wanted To Mention But Didn't Feel Like Actually Researching And Writing About In Detail. But that doesn't sound as snappy, does it?

2) The supposedly liberal press that Republicans so endlessly decry only briefly mentioned the revelation that former Bush administration scumwad Karl Rove was indeed one of the driving forces behind the firing of nine U.S. attorneys whose politics didn't square with the Bushinista's views of the world. All along, Rove has denied involvement; other former Bush/Cheney lickspittles like Harriet Miers and Alberto Gonzales also proclaimed Rove's innocence. That they were all lying--sometimes under oath--should, in any fair world, lead to federal perjury charges.

Instead, Rove gets hired to do a cameo on Family Guy. In the immortal words of El Brendel, it's a vacky vorld.

3. Speaking of evil machinations cooked up by insane Hollywood types, word is Blair Witch Project directors Daniel Myrick and Eduardo Sanchez are contemplating a sequel. In other words, the creators of a well-known but widely-reviled movie that was notable more for its marketing than its content have done nothing of consequence in the last ten years, and are desperately making a quick grab for some easy green. Way to keep following your muse, guys.

4) This week's latest adventures in rib displacement led to a prescription to Soma, the U.S. brand name for carisoprodol. According to Wikipedia--which, of course, is never wrong--carisoprodol is similar to (but in a different family than) hydrocodone, which was the dangerously unstable drug I was prescribed last time I was in excrutiating pain. Apparently, carisoprodol has been taken off the market in Sweden because it easily leads to addiction and abuse, and though my Swedish heritage usually leads me to assume anything the emotionally distant, sex-crazed inhabitants of my forefather's homeland decide is for the best, I've got to say, this stuff hasn't been making me bounce off the walls the way hydrocodone did.

Of course, I've had unusually vivid dreams lately. But hey, who hasn't sat bolt upright in bed, covered in cold sweat, after dreaming of receiving a severe beating from Bill Cosby?

5) What's the only thing sweeter than yet another Yankees win? Knowing that the Red Sox lost! Not to gloat too much: Though they seem to be a mighty, unstoppable force, much as God intended, it's almost time for the Yankees' inevitable late-season period of suckage to kick in. Sure, they'll make the play-offs--and without resorting to any wild card shenanigans like those dicks up in Boston--but will they make it to the Series? And how will the Steinbrenner clan gouge the fans if they do?

6) Beloved kitty Monika was flopped in front of the door yesterday, on her back with her feet sticking straight up in the air, looking for all the world as if she'd found a quiet spot to expire. I was alarmed, and ran over to make sure she was okay. She seemed confused by my attention, and responded by following me around for the rest of the day, always watching me, always at my feet. It was weird, and seemed to suggest Monika has neurotic tendencies I'd never previously suspected.

Still, she has a long way to go before becoming a full-fledged Psychokitty. That's Delmar's job, and he performs it quite well, thank you very much.

7) While assembling yesterday's piece on Les Paul, I did a YouTube search for How High The Moon, and while Paul and Mary Ford's version was the first one that popped up, there were also covers from Ella Fitzgerald, Tony Bennett, Diane Reeves and many, many other people blessed with voices that don't make me want to stick my head in an oven.

And there was a version from Toni Tennille.

Naturally, I felt the urge to post that here. After all, that could be as awful as any Lynda Carter clip! But honestly, even I couldn't bring myself to sit through it...and I paid money to see Glitter. There's a fine line between laughable, unintended camp and sheer, unbearable pain, and I think we can all agree, Toni Tennille crossed it long ago.

This clip, though, is on the right side of that line--Joey Heatherton singin' and dancin' her heart out, accompanied by two useless tambourine-wielding appendages having what Crow T. Robot once referred to as a mince-off. Enjoy! Or whatever!

SOMEWHERE THERE'S HEAVEN

While driving down a crowded street, the news was blandly announced over the radio: Les Paul has died at the age of 94. Suddenly, I found it necessary to pull over and have a bit of a cry.

Not that tears are necessary, I guess. After all, 94 is a pretty good age, and he remained active until the end. And no once could have lived a more productive life--single-handedly changing the soundscape of the twentieth century is, after all, no small achievement.

It's not just that Paul's invention of the solid body electric guitar made the very existence of rock and roll possible, or his development of multi-tracked recording, without which (to name only one example) The Beatles' brilliant studio albums would never have been possible, or his discovery of how feedback, delay and reverb could be musical techniques in and of themselves--well, okay, it was all these things. But more, it was how in Paul's hands the guitar became a primary instrument, the primary instrument, of the coming musical revolution. Sure, there were great guitar players before him, but nobody else could coax the range of sounds Paul could from his Gibson. Chuck Berry and Buddy Holly, George Harrison and Eric Clapton, Richard Thompson and Jimmy Page, Frank Zappa and Pat Metheny, Thurston Moore and Tom Morello--hell, everybody who ever picked up an electric guitar owes a debt to Les Paul that they can only pay back by making it sing like he could.

Here's one of Paul's most famous recordings, How High The Moon, which shows his astonishing technique on his chosen instrument, but it's also a great showcase for his brilliant production techniques. He didn't just multi-track the vocals of his wife, Mary Ford, but experimented with putting the microphones in different spots while recording her, transforming her voice--good, but not great--into the sound of angels. (I particularly like the wordless "Aahh-aahh-aahh" in the middle of Paul's solo, ringing like a force of nature.) This is, essentially, the same process used to make contemporary pop tarts like Britney Spears and Miley Cyrus sound better through amplifiers than they do in real life. Which means Les Paul's legacy lives on in not so good ways as well, but let's not blame him for that.