JUST ANOTHER NEW YEAR'S EVE

We holed up in his room, John and I, as we had the year before, with only the light from his cheesy duck lamp (named Howard, of course) and the soft glow of the cathode ray tube, into which we gazed. Dad had gone to bed, and Mom was downstairs, finishing the crossword puzzle in the paper before she joined him.

No champagne, no refreshments or snacks of any kind, just a willfully ironic celebration of the very idea of a new year having any significance. After all, what could be a bigger joke than watching New Year's Rockin' Eve? What could be a more trivial, more demeaning way of celebrating the coming of a new decade than to spend the evening with The Village People and Barry Manilow, to say nothing of our hosts, John Schneider and Erin Moran? Erin Fucking Moran--seriously?

The festivities were delayed by five minutes as Frank Reynolds hosted his nightly update on the hostage crisis in Iran, making sure to inject some veiled right-wing politics into his ostensibly objective report, and then we went right to Dick Clark standing in Times Square, the cameras prowling the grimy, beaten-down streets of Manhattan in the last moments of the seventies, and I thought, Good God, is Grease going to run forever?

Dick threw it to the pre-taped studio segments, and the performers lip-synched like good performing monkeys, and Debbie Harry's miming of Dreaming was so bad she seemed to be doing it on purpose, and Erin Fucking Moran was as vacant as expected, and John Schneider--who performed a number himself, unfortunately--seemed like a fountain of charisma by comparison.

And Dick did the countdown as the ball dropped, and every commercial David Naughton sang and danced about being a Pepper, and they cut to live feed of Manilow doing Just Another New Year's Eve, which apparently was some sort of tradition. And the performing monkeys did their thing some more, and we cut back to a now flaccid Dick in Times Square after the party had passed him by, and John Schneider and Erin Fucking Moran wished us goodnight and happy new year.

Then WOI signed off the air, the Thought For The Day followed by the usual ISU promo film followed by the National Anthem. John and I shrugged, made some final sarcastic comments and I went to bed, spending these first moments of a whole new decade listening to the wind howl through the trees, wondering what I was supposed to feel.

AND THAT'S HOW HE WANTED TO STAY

Computer hiccups this morning meant that I couldn't even get around to posting until much later than usual, so no time for incisive commentary. Or even long-winded, thuddingly obvious diatribes.

Instead, I'll bring you a great song from The Kinks. Honestly, in their mid- to late-sixties incarnation, these guys could nearly lay claim to topping The Beatles for sheer creative genius. (In the seventies, their sound changed, and though Ray Davies would always remain a brilliant songwriter, things would never be quite the same.) This song, Phenomenal Cat, is everything great about these guys: An instantly memorable melody is paired with an unusual, ear-catching arrangement. The lyrics are whimsical without being twee. Best of all, it's a song about a cat!

DON'T LET ME DOWN

Israel's in another pissing match with Palestine, firing off U.S.-made missiles at alleged Hamas targets, but if civilians happen to get killed instead, hey, collateral damage and all that. Obama has already pledged vague fealty to Israel, setting off righteous anger in the Arab world, and...

The economic crisis is forcing local governments in all fifty states to drastically curtail spending at a time when its most needed, slashing benefits for the poor, closing group homes and juvenile detention centers, letting roads and bridges languish unrepaired. Here in the real world, things are about to get very ugly, and...

Everywhere unequaled misery, everywhere unbearable despair. Where can a person turn for some good news?

Why, to Reuters, of course, reliable purveyors of unneeded showbiz news, who breathlessly report the following:

MTV premieres "Hills" spin-off "The City," starring Whitney Port, at 10 P.M. Monday. "Bromance," a competition series starring "Hills" staple Brody Jenner, debuts an hour earlier. New episodes of "Hills" are set to air in the spring.

Whew! I don't know about you, but that news sure cheers me up. I mean, I've never heard of these Whitney and Brody people, and would avoid a show called Bromance with every fiber of my being, but thank you, Reuters. Thank you for reporting what's really important at times like this!

MORE NAMES ON THE LIST, SADLY

The great playwright Harold Pinter died Wednesday, and singer-actress-force of nature Eartha Kitt passed away on Christmas day.

And while neither death was unexpected--both had cancer, and Pinter's failing health especially had been known for some time--it is unfortunate to add their names to the list of people we now have to live without. Me, I'm still reeling from the death last week of the fine film director Robert Mulligan, who directed a couple of favorites around here, The Stalking Moon and The Other.

Pinter was 78, Kitt and Mulligan in their eighties. They'd lived good, productive lives, their whole careers behind them, and it wouldn't be so bad, except...who can replace these people? Pinter's plays (and screenplays, and if you haven't seen Accident, what the hell are you doing right now that's more important?) literally changed their art form, Kitt should have received residuals from Madonna from ripping off her persona, and Mulligan was the sort of old-school pro who could switch from a noble (but not stuffy) literary adaptation like To Kill A Mockingbird to a vivid siege thriller posing as a Western like The Stalking Moon to a tough, thoughtful gangster movie like The Nickel Ride and make it all look easy.

Yes, we have writers, performers and filmmakers today, many of them awesomely talented. But too many of them wear their influences on their sleeves, and ultimately, they just don't seem to matter as much. Pinter and Kitt were utterly original, and though no one speaks of Mulligan in the same terms as Murnau or Welles, you never watch any of his movies thinking, "Ah, there's the Godard hommage or the Hitchcock reference." They did things their own way, and they mattered, and the world is a lesser place without them.

WE'LL HAVE TO MUDDLE THROUGH SOMEHOW

This is Tom Waits with Christmas Card From A Hooker In Minneapolis.



Nah, Christmas isn't that bleak this year. Sure, I'm living by myself, and another year is ending without a sense of anything being accomplished, and my family is scattered to the winds. And yeah, the economy's tanking, and the bright shiny hope of Obama's presidency is already compromised by the business-as-usual cabinet he's picked, and the world is full of hatred and despair, and every passing day is just another reminder that our time on this planet is limited.



But hey, it's alright, it's alright, at least I can still laugh and cry, and I have people I care about and a job and a place to live. And even if I'm sad, at least I can feel something.

If you're a regular at this site, you know how much I love this movie, and you knew this was coming: an unimaginably sad song for Christmas, a remembrance of happier times when the present seems uncertain.



So Merry Christmas, everyone, or whatever you celebrate.

CHRISTMAS COUNTDOWN OF HORROR: RUN, CHILDREN, RUN!

I'm very happy I lived far enough from a movie theater (or thee-ATE-er, as the first ad would have it) that I never got dragged off to see any of these horrors (or those incredibly creepy Swedish Pippi Longstocking epics, for that matter) when they appeared at heavily-advertised regional kiddie matinees. Just seeing these commercials when they aired during Duane & Floppy was bad enough. I still have Magic Christmas Tree-related trauma, and I've never even seen the damned thing.

Watch these and shudder, and just try to have a Merry Christmas.

CHRISTMAS COUNTDOWN 2: DREAMS FALL AND DIE

Continuing my idiosyncratic approach to the holidays, here we have by far the most depressing song ever written for a Christmas special. This comes from the holiday perennial Mr. Magoo's Christmas Carol, a surprisingly faithful rendition of the Dickens warhorse. Though at first glance this would seem to be a kiddie-oriented version of the tale, it is in fact one of the most grim, retaining all the darkness usually scrubbed from most adaptations.

So here's Belle's lovely song of parting to Scrooge, a heartbreaking number written by Jule Styne and Bob Merrill, Broadway veterans who weren't slumming here--the entire score for this special is first-rate. Happy bleak holidays!

CHRISTMAS COUNTDOWN: THE BEGINNING

In recent years, this performance has become much more familiar. Apparently, it's a big favorite of Gen Xers like myself, and has become a campy staple for younger viewers as well.

But back in '74, when The Year Without A Santa Claus first aired, I was nine, and man o Manischewitz, did I hate this thing. The Rankin-Bass holiday specials (Rudopht The Red-Nosed Reindeer, Santa Claus Is Coming To Town) had always been favorites of mine, but this one had a convoluted, largely unpleasant storyline, and its physical production was downright ugly.

So it failed to become a seasonal favorite in my household, and apparently in others as well--unlike other Rankin-Bass favorites, it didn't air every year. It kind of faded away, mostly forgotten.

Except of course, for Snow Miser and Heat Miser. For years ever after, my brother and I remained convinced we'd hallucinated this entire thing. Nobody we knew had ever heard of these characters, or remembered this song. Then, sometime, all that changed...

These days, everybody knows the Misers. They even had their own (awful) special on cable this year. Hipster bands record covers of their signature tune. You can even buy miniature figurines of them. (Mine are on top of the fridge.) And even though I somehow never associate them with Christmas, here they are, kicking off my festival of loopy Christmas clips. Enjoy!

AMERICA, AMERICA

True, this nation just elected its first black president. We've entered the "post-race" era, haven't we? A whole new world of tolerance and understanding. This is the twenty-first century, and this is America. We're not savages, right?

Right?

THE WORLD IS A TERRIBLE, JOYLESS PLACE

Going out to the movies these days is a nightmare for many reasons, but one of them is this: The fear that, before the actual movie starts, following the "pre-show" antics of soda company-based quizzes and E Network-sanctioned trivia challenges, and after the five or six commercials for SUVs and electronics, the trailers will begin, and I'll have to sit through something like this:



Oh sure, the obvious response to that is the overwhelming desire to slash my wrists, just to make the pain end. But instead, I wonder how and why a movie like this gets produced. Did anyone think it was a good idea, or did somebody owe somone a favor? Is there a reason it will be playing in 2000 theaters on its opening weekend, as opposed to going straight to video? Did the people on the set every day think they were actually producing something worthwhile? Is there anybody, anywhere, who would willingly sit through this? Does the despair this produces in me portend a downward spiral in my life, or am I being overly dramatic?

And after sitting through this thing, is there any way I can enjoy the movie I paid to see, when something like this makes me feel like I never want to spend time in a theater again?

ALL BY YOUR ONLY

Got home late--well, late for me--and wired, laid in bed until well past midnight, listening to the ice clack clack clack against the window. Somewhere along the line, caught some sleep, maybe an hour or so. Then woke up, prattled around, unable to concentrate on anything, wondering and worrying whether I'll get to work or not.

There are more productive things I could be doing, like seeing if my car door is frozen shut, so this post is basically a placeholder, put up here because...I dunno, it seemed like a good idea. And even though I've got nothing to say, I can at least bring you some music. Here's Janis Siegel.



CRAPPY WEATHER UPDATE: Where I live, I have to park on the street, so my car was totally covered in ice. I let it warm up for twenty minutes and still couldn't get it melted off, and a car going by on the cross-street spun out as i stood there. Taking that as a sign, I called in to work. My supervisor told me to come in later if at all possible (as she put it, "I made it in"), so...we'll see.

THINK I'M GONNA BE SAD

The sky is curdled-milk white, bright as the sun peeking through the cold, unforgiving layer of clouds will allow. It will darken soon, the forecasters say, and ice will fall, covering cars and power lines and lawns.

And streets, including the narrow, hilly streets of my neighborhood. Just as it did that day, when the three and a half-block drive to Methodist Medical Center became a slippery nightmare, but I had to drive it, I had to get there, since Mom lay dying in the hospital.

Not that I knew that, of course. I mean, I knew, but I couldn't acknowledge it. She was ill, yes, catastrophically so, and death would arrive soon enough. But not yet, not now, not on such a terrible, cold day, not on this day, oh no, that couldn't possibly happen.

Why am I thinking of this now? Why do I think of it every single time ice falls from the sky, when the streets become mirrored surfaces, like frozen tracks of tears? How does it grip me, the out-of-nowhere melancholy brought on by the occasional stray memory? Can't this weather conjure some alternative memories?

It could, but of what? Of childhood? Ah, but Mom was always there, offering me something to eat when I came in from playing in the cold, or offering soothing words when I slipped on the ice. Or other memories: I'm an adult, living far away, but Mom still faithfully calls to complain about being housebound because of an ice storm, or asks how I'm dealing with the ice she heard is falling where I am.

Try as I might, I can't banish the pain, the scorpion sting that lashes on days like this. Maybe such thoughts are inspired by the very nature of ice, shimmering on branches and rooftops, so pretty to look at but so dangerous and cruel, like a joyous memory that turns unbearably sad.

ONE MORE THING

A very sad story, if true: Peter Falk's daughter claims her dad is suffering from Alzheimer's.

There are a lot of performers I admire, but on my short list of absolute, absolute favorites, Peter Falk has a special place. Comedy, drama, whatever, Falk is the best of the best. He gave one of the greatest comic performances of all time in The In-Laws, and was absolutely heartbreaking as a good man cracking under pressure in A Woman Under The Influence. He's done great character work in films like Murder, Inc., All The Marbles, Lakeboat and Undisputed.

Then there's Lt. Columbo.

I'll accept no arguments here: Columbo is simply one of the greatest things in the world. I've been actually meaning to write about it for some time, but for now, let me just say that, of its many pleasures, the greatest by far is Falk's sterling work as the wily homicide detective. He's the main reason the show is endlessly rewatchable: No matter how many times you've seen an episode, it's always a treat to try pinpointing the exact moment Columbo knows the murderer is guilty, and when he knows he's caught him. Though the character is rather broadly conceived and written (he never changes his clothes!), Falk's performance is always sublimely subtle, always keyed to the rhythms of his co-stars. He can be angry or petulant or sympathetic. Sometimes, he's even a bit of a jerk. In every case, Falk provides a layer of humanity only hinted at by the scripts.

Within the confines of a somewhat formulaic TV series (though a brilliant, elastic formula), he created one of the finest characterizations any actor has ever done. If his current condition is such that he can never work again, he'll still be remembered for this. And that will do just fine.

THAT YOU MAY SEE THE MEANING OF WITHIN

I just deleted a post from this past weekend. I've never done that in all the time I've been writing here. You can crawl through the archives and still find me waxing rhapsodic about my deep love for a single mom and her adorable kid, or the misty water-colored memory of my ex-wife that managed to upset Tabbatha so much (and understandably so, in retrospect) it may have helped lead to our breakup, or those weird guest appearances from former girlfriend Katie, or me pitching a fit about stuff I frankly can't remember. All that is still here because...I'm not sure, really. I guess just to have some record of my life at any particular moment.

This piece, though, didn't quite say what I wanted it to say. It was abrupt and clumsy, and I couldn't fix it or make it better, so it went away, lost in the aether, never to be seen again.

Which got me to thinking about all the other things I've ever written that also went away. Reams and reams of short fiction, the victims of several moves. The published pieces that can't be accessed online, either because the publications no longer exist or have changed hands and refuse to make available any archives of their previous forms.

I could mourn their loss, but why? All things are impermanent, aren't they? We're here and we're gone, and the only real record of our existence lives in the memories of others, but soon enough, they are gone, too. Ultimately, we know our time here is finite, not just our individual lives, but the entire human race. The world will end eventually, along with the sum total of everything we've ever known or ever believed.

So why mourn? Why rejoice, or love, or cower in fear? Why do anything?

As happens so often, a fuzzy gray critter will provide the answer: Monika, perched on the chair beside my desk, front paws neatly folded under her chest, stares through me, like she knows something I don't. She's in her fifteenth year on the planet, elderly for a cat. Still, she bounces, she plays, she leaps and bounds all through the apartment, and clearly is happy with her life. She can't have more than, what? Five, six years left, tops? She has no concept of mortality, though. She lives for now.

THAT SOUND YOU HEAR IS MY HEAD EXPLODING

This performance by former teen sensation Martika (Anyone else remember Toy Soldiers? Anyone?), taken from the inexplicable eighties series Kids Incorporated, raises a number of questions:

1) Thunder Road? Performed by kids? Did anyone think this through?

2) The lyrics about Mary "dancing like a vision" make sense when Springsteen sings them, but here...Look, this site is all about diversity, and we celebrate lesbianism and all that, but clearly, since the lyrics were abridged but unaltered gender-wise, then given to a young girl to sing, the song magically transformed into an ode to the joys of underage chick-on-chick lovin'. Again, though we try to be tolerant and all...Did anyone connected with this show realize what they were doing?

3) If so, did they feel at least a little bit dirty?

4) Did somebody rouse Martika from a particularly restful sleep and drag her onstage? Is there any other explanation for her unkempt hair and the fact that she seems to be wearing pajamas?

5) The purple-clad moppet joining in on the chorus grew up to be Fergie. If the brain trust behind this show hadn't encouraged a wholly misguided belief in her talent, would we have been spared the song Fergalicious?

6) This show lasted for several seasons. Could a just and fair God have allowed such a thing to happen?

7) Did the producers of Kids Incorporated intend their show to provoke theological questions?

8) Did I inexplicably see this when it originally aired, and had I successfully repressed that shameful memory until YouTube brought it all flooding back? And having seen it again, and knowing I can never unsee it, can my soul ever be cleansed? Is there any spritual Bon Ami that will scrub away the sorrow and despair?

9) Why am I watching crap like this at 4 AM?

ONCE AGAIN, WHAT THE HELL ARE THEY THINKING?

Good news, everyone: An Australian production company has secured the rights to produce a sequel to The Phantom.

Though that news would produce mild confusion in the vast majority of people--"A sequel to what?"--to the literally dozens of people who spent good money back in 1996 to see it, the notion that someone wants to produce a follow-up to that misbegotten Billy Zane vehicle can only produce jaw-dropping, eyeball popping disbelief. "A sequel to that piece of shit?" they would cry, rending their garments and crying in despair to the indifferent heavens. "Why? For the love of God, WHYYYY?"

And while the concept of waiting for well over a decade to produce a continuation of a franchise that nobody wants to see may seem like a bad idea to civilians, to veterans of the motion picture industry, no idea is too stupid to warrant a follow-up. For instance, even though there had already been two movies produced involving B-level Marvel Comics character The Punisher, and both of those movies had flopped, earlier this month we were treated to The Punisher: War Zone, the third big screen outing for the gun-toting sociopath, and guess what? It flopped, too!

Of course it did, because nobody cares about that particular character and nobody has the money to waste on glorified B-movies. But some shadowy international consortium had the rights to the character, and a pile of money they couldn't legally spend on anything else, so...sure, why not? Another Punisher movie.

As for The Phantom, well, the AP story about it breathlessly explains that producer Bruce Sherlock "won" the rights to produce the sequel, as if filmmakers had been locked in some crazy bidding war to make another movie about a guy in purple tights and stripey underwear.

The sad thing is, they might have been.

HELLO? ANYBODY?

I'll be honest: My stats are down. Way down. As in, is-anybody-even-reading-this? down.

Which would be easy to take personally. People come here, and if they don't stick around, isn't a rejection of me? I mean, this site pretty much reflects my personality, my perspectives, my obsessions...

Oh! My obsessions! Maybe that's the problem. Maybe if I wasn't so obsessed with, say, seventies variety shows. Maybe if I didn't post clips of, I dunno, Jim Nabors' exquisitely awful 1971 summer replacement show (featuring special guest Vikki Carr!)--



--because maybe that actually repels more people than it attracts. So...maybe I should stop?

Yeah, right.

WHEN I WAKE UP EARLY IN THE MORNING

An assembly somewhere--a bowling alley, perhaps? Tables arranged lengthwise, checkered tablecloths covering them, metal folding chairs surrounding them. People gathered, a fair number but not so many that I can remain as anonymous as I might wish. After all, I barely know any of these people.

In fact, I'm only here because I'm a nodding acquaintance with a guy who knows the guy who's being honored. It's a birthday celebration, or at least, I think it is. Somebody stands and makes a speech, then throws it over to a little kid who starts telling some sort of inspirational story about...who cares, really?

This is the most boring dream imaginable and not worth my time. The people and the setting all fade to gray as I speed through several states of consciousness, waking briefly, then right back to sleep.

I can do this? I can take charge of my dreams? Good to know there's at least one aspect of my life over which I have some kind of control.

OH, AMBULATORY PENIS, WE THOUGHT YOU WERE BETTER THAN THAT

You've always been well-liked by the general public, Ambulatory Penis. Adored by the masses and all that, even though there have always been rumors, and there was that devastating interview with Marilyn Chambers back in '76 or '77. As I recall, she claimed you were "squishy" and made no secret of her preference for the chocolaty goodness of Happy Ho-Ho. You must have been crushed--such a revelation of softness could have derailed your entire career--but did you have to respond with this?



Bad enough that you are wildly overcompensating in this spot, riding a motorcycle and swinging a lasso and saving the day while Happy Ho-Ho acts a fool, dithering in a most unseemly manner. Except, as we all know, that's not really Happy Ho-Ho, is it? You had him fired, just to make yourself look bigger. The guy playing him here isn't even really chocolate--it's your brother-in-law's cousin done up in blackface, trotting out his unloved Ed Wynn impression.

We know, too, that things turned out pretty well for Happy Ho-Ho. Sure, it was grim for awhile--after you had him bounced from the Hostess empire, he rode out his career by appearing in anonymous porno loops, while you continued to party with your friends at Studio 54, secure in the knowledge that his sell-by date was arriving soon. But Happy's rich, sonorous voice made him perfect for voice-over work, and his beloved spots for the SoulMaster 2000 have been widely sampled, making him a legend in the hip-hop world.

Whereas you, Ambulatory Penis...what have you done since your freshness seal expired? You have nothing to remember but your shame.

WORDS ON A PAGE

There's been quite a bit of hullaballoo in the state since The Des Moines Register axed seventy-some employees last week. That's not surprising, really. Times are tough for newspapers these days, with The Tribune Company filing for bankruptcy and The New York Times looking for a sugar daddy.

But the bloodbath at The Register stood out for its heartlessness, coming as it did smack dab in the middle of the holiday season, and base stupidity, with its high-profile firing of editorial cartoonist Brian Duffy, not a particularly shining talent but a guy who toiled at the paper for a quarter of a century, and was obviously well-known and liked by its readership. No, a staff cartoonist isn't important in the grand scheme of things, but his firing is bound to be seen as a betrayal by what's left of The Register's readership.

For me, the most poignant name among those fired was that of Juli Probasco-Sowers, listed at the time of her firing as an "outdoor writer". (She used to be a straight-up reporter, but The Register barely bothers with actual journalism anymore, so she gravitated to feature writing instead.) Before her name became hyphenated, Probasco edited The Perry Chief, and responded positively to my proposal for a regular column devoted to TV and film reviews.

So began my semi-professional writing career. True, The Chief was just a small-town weekly, but I had a regular forum to express my views, and to my considerable surprise, I acquired a (slight) following. This was in the nineties, not so long ago at all, and yet a time when people still read and cared about newspapers, and when writing for one seemed to carry a certain cachet. It meant something that my work was regularly seen in print.

Because, after all, someone had to decide your writing deserved to be read. Now, any schlub can put their work out on the interweb and have a larger potential readership than any ink-stained wretches of the past could dream of. I never made much in any of my semi-pro writing gigs, but if I worked this little enterprise hard enough, networked other bloggers and search engines in a naked bid to up my readership enough to justify selling add space or adding a tip jar, I could easily make more from this site than I ever did from my print jobs. Anybody could.

Which is great, and it democratizes the creative process and all, but...I miss the days when the craft of writing commanded a certain respect, when it was something done only by those who'd heard the calling and followed their dreams. The ongoing failure of The Register makes it clear: In only a few years, it will cease to exist in print form. Whatever new incarnation it takes on will surely rely more on graphics designers and bullet point presentations of factoids than such silly, archaic notions as coherent sentences and stylish form. Writers need not apply.