The 10 Best TV Shows EVER!

My last communication got me in some trouble. (Who knew there were so many Bristol Palin fans out there.) So, I decided to undertake a safer topic this time around. Television. Most of it sucks more ass than Sasha Gray, but occasionally—just occasionally—a show trickles out on the airwaves that deserves a place in history.

So, in no special order, here are the 10 best television programs of all time. Read em and weep.

The West Wing (1999-2006)
Featuring what is arguably the best writing ever on television, especially the dialogue, West Wing also demonstrated a laudable civic-mindedness that has never appeared on TV. Viewers were treated to a lesson in democratic governance in almost every episode. Add in the fact that it had a sublime sense of humor, and the entire combination made for TV nirvana. It was sometimes corny, sure, and more than a bit idealized, but given the current state of our political discourse, it’s nice to reflect from time to time on what might be.

I Love Lucy (1951-1957)
A groundbreaking TV comedy, Lucy solidified the three-camera production format, and was the most-watched show in America for four years running. It’s best comedic bits fare just fine today. Among the finest are: “Lucy Does a TV Commercial” where she gets loaded on Vitameatavegamin (“Are you unpoopular? Do you pop out at parties?”), “Job Switching” where Lucy and Ethel can’t keep up on the chocolate candy assembly line and start stuffing the excess candies in their mouths; Lucy’s classic “mirror” routine with Harpo Marx; and “Lucy Does the Tango” which was responsible for the longest recorded live laugh in TV history. Netflix the first four seasons ASAP.

South Park (1997-present)
Rude, crude and socially unacceptable, the show was once referred to as a “threat to American democracy.” It’s also sly, clever, irreverent, socially relevant and, entering its fifteenth season, still freakin hysterical. Trey Parker and Matt Stone, bless you boys. Red rocket! Red rocket!

The Sopranos (1999-2007)
Quality writing and some of the finest acting in the history of the medium (though I worry that Gandolfini will be able to escape Tony’s shadow). It managed the amazing feat of getting viewers to turn in week after week to watch the actions of a group of sociopathic morons—and to care about them. It also had a demented sense of humor (“Pine Barrens,” the episode where Paulie and Christopher get lost in the woods, is sublime). Mafia pop-culture on a par with The Godfather movies and Goodfellas.

Battlestar Galactica (2003-2009)
For five seasons this was the smartest show on TV. It went places few shows have gone, asking important questions about religion and the nature of life, without becoming pedantic, losing its fast pace, or scrimping on the action. Gaius Baltar was, I believe, a dream role for an actor, and one of the most intricate characters on TV. Plus, Katee Sackhoff is a full-on scorch-cake. Smarts and hotties. What more could anyone want?

Hill Street Blues (1981-1987)
The first major offering from Steven Bochco, HSB completely revolutionized the cop drama by presenting cops and their jobs in a much more realistic light. It plays a tad dated today (“Drop the gun, you turkey!”) but its grittiness was considered downright offensive by some pundits when it debuted. The acting was superior, and several characters—DA Joyce Davenport, Captain Frank Furillo, Detective Mick Belker and Officer Andy Renko—are now icons of ‘80s TV. Sadly, due to legal wrangling, only seasons 1 & 2 are currently available on DVD. I wish FOX would get off its ass and get the remaining seasons ready to go. “Hey, let’s be careful out there.”

The Bob Newhart Show (1972-1978)
I personally think Bob Newhart is one of the funniest humans ever. His dead-pan delivery can render even a silly line a thing of comedic beauty. Many of the show’s best moments came in the office scenes (Newhart, you’ll recall, played a psychologist) and his endless stream of goofy patients, notably the sarcastic Mr. Carlin, as well as Newhart’s office-mate, Jerry the dentist, and the secretary Carol Kestrel, played by the wonderful Marcia Wallace of later Simpsons fame. Watching Newhart do his classic bits on the telephone makes the world a little bit sunnier.

The Ernie Kovacs Show (1952-1956)
Only after his death did the world wake up to the genius that was Ernie Kovacs. His show broke all kinds of new ground and his surreal, visual style influenced, among others, Dan Rowan & Dick Martin, the members of Monty Python and Saturday Night Live (especially Chevy Chase), and, in a big way, Sesame Street. Lots of Kovacs’ work was ad-libbed, born of his creative philosophy: “I do my best work when it’s three o’clock and I have a production meeting at three-thirty.” Words to live by.

Monty Python’s Flying Circus (1969-1974)
What is there to say? When you mention “British Comedy,” it’s the Pythons who first spring to mind. They are responsible for more giggles than most other TV comedies combined. It’s hard to trace their influence, though you can hear their echoes in the work of Douglas Adams, Rowan Atkinson, The Kids in the Hall, and, albeit in a much more ham-fisted and less witty vein, Will Ferrell. But they were, and remain, pretty much beyond anything but direct imitation. The years of the Pythons formed a perfect storm of comedy perfection.

The Daily Show (1996-present)
Some might argue that the show’s success is a troubling development in our country, seeing as how it’s one of the only sources of edgy political commentary on the air. During the bleak Bush years, the Daily Show did the work that should have been done by our national news media. And that is sad. But the show is also damn smart and damn funny. Here’s to another fifteen years.

And the Most Overrated:

Buffy the Vampire Slayer
     Ruined vampires for the whole world.

Friends
     The six most annoying people in the whole world.

Twin Peaks
     Good twitchy fun for over-caffeinated semiotics majors.

NCIS
     It’s physically impossible for me to suspend my disbelief to the degree required to watch this.

American Idol
     Scales aren’t singing. Anti-art trash. (Except for Jennifer Hudson.)

Jersey Shore
     The next six most annoying people in the world. I just keep whispering shark attack to myself. And smiling.

Six Feet Under
     Characters with lives even more morose than death. It’s enough to make Baal suck on a shotgun.

Desperate Housewives
     Why are they desperate? Cuz that’s the only emotion their programmers loaded in them.

Sex and the City
     They never find true love because they are self-centered, shallow, vapid idiots.

The X-Files
     Treating logic and reason like Booth treated Lincoln.

Til next time, friends: treat yourself to some good TV.

Oh, and by the way, Bristol Palin is still a cum-belching gutter slut.

Cheers.

When Did Stupidity Become a Virtue?

I try to be a reasonable guy. You know, think carefully, weigh my words, see varying sides to an issue, attempt to debate in rational way by skipping the hyperbole, etc.

Well, not anymore. I’ve had a few cocktails, and I feel like screaming about a few things.

There’s shit going on in this country that boggles my fucking mind. When did stupidity become a virtue? FUCK!

Mike Huckabee & Michael Medved

This pair of fuckwits spent March 4th bashing Natalie Portman for being pregnant out of wedlock, and for having to audacity to appear at the Oscars in her inflated state. Seems Ms. Portman (who is engaged, if that matters), is setting a bad example. “It's unfortunate” Huckabitch said, “that we glorify and glamorize the idea of out-of-wedlock children,” before going on to call such women no only unwed, but uneducated and unemployable.

Where were these two elephant dicks when Bristol Palin was dragging her fat, pregnant, out-of-wedlock ass all over the country? Contrary to Natalie Portman, Bristol is uneducated and unemployable. Portman has something real and wonderful to offer the world. Bristol Palin is a waste of mass and density that could surely be put to better use at a hog farm. Fuck that skanky cunt.

And fuck the elephant dick twins, too.

Scott Walker

When he’s not busy getting a reach-around from the Koch brothers, he’s busy lying his fucking eyes out. Hey, Governor Douchebag: Public sector workers make far less money than those in the private sector. Look at the studies. Look at your own state’s payroll and do a comparison. Or, hell, ask a twelve-year-old. You could even ask the guy who punked you on the phone and let us see your true, despicable colors.

I mean, talk about abuse of power! This weasely little twat sicced the Wisconsin State Patrol on the 14 democratic patriots who are holding up his foul, anti-worker legislation, and when that didn’t work, he tried to issue arrest warrants for them! And now he has threatened to lay off 1,500 state employees if the senators do not return to Madison. What a colossal prick.

But here’s the thing: If you like a 40-hour work week and an eight-hour day, thank a union. If you are one of those rare Americans who make a living wage, thank a union. If you get overtime pay, thank a union. If your company picks up some or all of your health insurance, thank a union. If you enjoy the occasional paid holiday, thank a union. If you got decent job training, thank a union. If your company offers a pension plan, thank a union.

If you do not like these things, thank people like Scott Walker and his un-American, atavistic, Tea Bagger, leash-holders.

Scott Walker: You are a ridiculous buffoon. You are a joke. You are undeserving of what America has to offer. No matter how wide the Koch Brothers stretch your anus.

Rev. Grant Storms

Another of the “God hates fags” kind of Christian, the good reverend from Louisiana loves to arm his flock with bullhorns so they can disrupt gay-pride events and funerals. I wonder what his “God” has to say about fucking pedophiles? He’d better be wondering, too, seeing as he got busted this week for masturbating in his van while watching children playing on a merry-go-round. In true Christian fashion, his supporters were quick to come to Storms’ defense. It seems that he merely had to have a pee and chose to urinate in a bottle rather than walk to a restroom. Yeah, well, guess what? Two different people witnessed, up close and oh-so-horribly personal, Storms choking his wrinkly chicken. He's guilty. He's a scumbag.

Fuck him and fuck his scraggly-ass, cracker God.

John Boehner

What can you say? The man in an emotionally unstable train wreck. He cries all the time. I’m all for a good old-fashioned vent, but come on. There’s venting, and then there’s the fucking abyss. My 84-year-old Uncle, a combat helicopter pilot and rancher, refers to Boehner as that "Yellow Man.” Truer words have never been spoken. And just once, wouldn’t you like to see the Weeper of the House get all wet-eyed over something worth-while? For poor people he has nothing but loathing, but a picture of an apple pie superimposed over a waving American flag sends him into paroxysms of soggy emotion.

If he’s faking, he’s a loathsome toad. If it’s all on the up-and-up, he’s a fucking basket case.

And either way, America deserves better.

Congressman Paul Broun

Last week, this Georgia ‘Bagger held a town hall meeting, during which one of his inbred constituents asked “Who’s going to shoot Obama?” Instead of jumping down the guy’s throat for threatening to assassinate the President, he simply oozed on by and continued taking questions. Oh, he was upset, though. He claims. So upset, in fact, it took him three fucking days to come out and say so. Three days. What was he doing during that time? He was paralyzed with shock, I guess. Or, and this is mere speculation, of course, could it have been the three days of public outcry that finally got him off his worthless ass? Hmmmm. Guess we’ll never know.

Is Paul Broun the sort of man we want leading our nation? Of course not.

Paul Broun isn’t the sort of man I want washing my car.

The Tea Party vs. The Founding Fathers

The Tea Baggers have pick-pocketed the name of their “movement” from a seminal event in American History, and they giggle like little girls when comparing themselves to the Founding Fathers.

Here’s a news flash for ya, dickheads: the Founding Fathers would’ve hated you. Our Founders were the very definition of the “elites” that ‘Baggers hold in such black esteem. They were some of the best minds in the Western world—statesmen, orators, inventors, philosophers, scientists—and they would’ve seen you for exactly what you are: rubes—disinterested, sloppy-minded, uncurious, arrogant rubes. Hillbillies in BMWs; klanners gone Wall Street.

Some poll results came out over the weekend indicating that the ‘Baggers now see themselves as an oppressed minority. I’m sorry that was my bad ear. White middle-class men an oppressed minority? Guys: you aren’t oppressed, you are the oppressors.

If you “Baggers love America as much as you claim (and as much as Boehner snivels), stop dividing it. Stop applauding the stupid and reviling the intelligent. Grow some better expectations. Join the democracy.

Or, you know, you can always go fuck your mother.

Ciao.

(That’s Foreign-Talk for goodbye…)

Adventures with Nature, Part II

Once again, I find my thoughts turning to our furry chums in the animal world. This time, though, I’m not interested in how the redneck doofwads around here treat them, but more in the critters themselves. How they behave, to be exact. Puzzling out what motivates their often mysterious and weird behaviors is a constant source of happiness for me. Yeah, I’m a geek. So what.

The Great Polecat Massacree

I had reason to leave my little town this week for a drive down to the throbbing, visceral metropolis of Oklahoma City. Couple of hours there, couple of hours back. No biggie. It’s an easy drive along friendly roads. Easy for me, at least. I’d wager that the local skunk population, if polled, would offer a different and much darker view of the thing. See, over the course of my drive I counted no fewer than twenty-one dead skunks on the road.

Roadkill is far from unusual here in Oklahoma (it is, I believe, the State Animal), but the only dead beasts I saw were skunks. There wasn’t a single porcupine, raccoon, armadillo, or deer to be seen. I saw three in one 150-yard stretch of highway. What exactly is happening with les skunks de pew?

Driving along, I formed, and rejected, numerous hypotheses. Just for fun. An outbreak of suicidal stupidity in the polecat community? Nah. Daredevil teenaged skunks playing chicken with the iron horses? Nah. A mass migration—a sort of new Okie Land Rush—waddling forth to establish a new Skunk Frontier? Nah, and nah again.

The answer, I think, is fairly simple. We had a cold spell a few weeks ago where temperatures quite unreasonably refused to climb above single digits. When that pattern broke, the highs abruptly soared into the seventies. Trees started to bud and the wheat fields sprouted a carpet of green fuzz. Spring is awake and stretching the kinks from her muscles, even if, according to the calendar, she’s just a hair premature.

Ma Nature’s precipitate arrival has roused the local skunk population from its long winter doze, and the first thing on the minds of newly-awakened mammals is finding some nosh, followed immediately by getting busy making more mammals.

Skunk populations rise and fall naturally, due to all sorts of factors, and they occasionally spike, which is what seems to be happening now, leaving us with a surplus of the randy little stinkpots, all of them rampaging around looking for groceries and a bit of the ol’ slap-n-tickle. Their pursuits lead them far and wide, which means encountering the random motorway or two, and, well, the rest is street-pizza.

And there it is—the Great Polecat Massacree, explained.

I guess.

Leapin’ Largemouths

I’ve mentioned in past missives that my favorite Aunt and Uncle own a farm near my little town, and on that farm is a marvelous spring-fed pond, where, since I was six years old, I’ve spent as much time as humanly possibly, extracting largemouth bass.

Over the years I’ve noticed a growing predilection among the piscine masses. After you hook them, they jump. Just like they do on those goofy Saturday afternoon programs ESPN 27 shows in between the slam-dunk challenge for the infirm and extreme curling from Zimbabwe. They used to jump every so often, but rarely with much gusto. Nowadays, them come clean out of the water, shaking and thrashing like Fred Phelps at a drag club.

What we have here is an example of, not adaptation, but evolution in action. Non-jumping fish are more easily captured than their jumping brethren. When a fish jumps it lessens the tension on the line, making it easier to shake free of the hook. Getting off the hook means staying out of the fry-pan. So, the instinct to jump is a valuable one to have for a fish who wishes to hang around a while longer, engaging in his fishy business. One of the more vital items on a fish’s agenda is getting together with a fetching lady fish and cranking out a school of fingerlings. Jumping fish are more likely to stay waterbound long enough to accomplish the task, at which time they genetically pass the jumping behavior along to their young ‘uns. And so it goes, until you get a pond full of harder-to-land jumping bass, and thus a healthier local ecosystem all the way around.

I am willing to admit, however, that they might just be acting smart-alecky. You know how fish can be…

The Sociopathic Turtle

The ponds and rivers of Oklahoma are rife with turtles. We have ordinary (read: non-alligator) snapping turtles, unbelievably ugly smooth softshells (they look like slimy brown cake platters with clawed feet), and, the most common of the bunch, red-eared sliders.

Every healthy waterhole needs a few turtles (not to mention frogs, mosquitos, fish and predatory mammals and birds). But let me stress the word few. Too many turtles and they throw the whole balance of the place out of whack. They eat carrion, which is all to the good, but they also feast on fish eggs; can’t get enough of ‘em. Their dining habits can all but depopulate a fishing hole in no time. So I’m a bit ambivalent on the testudines. Though I remain openly hostile toward one particular member of the order.

One bright afternoon I was standing in my favorite spot on the shore of my Uncle’s pond, casting and reeling, casting and reeling. I was using a rubber lure, designed to look like an immature bass-trout-perch, and its action in the water imitated a wounded fish. Silly as they sound, they are pretty effective—and at $6 each, they’d better be. Some few minutes had elapsed between strikes, and I let the lure come to rest in a couple of inches of water at my feet while I lit a smoke. In the time it took me to tug a cigarette from the pack and put fire to it, a red-eared slider glided up from the muck, homed in on the lure, and, with one snap of its scaly beak, bit it in half.

“Hey!” I hollered. “You little bastard.” And I swatted him with the tip of my pole, which sent him flailing back into the deeps—like most living things, turtles look completely ridiculous when they hurry—the tail end of the rubber fish flapping in its jaws.

I examined my exenterated lure, chalked it in the loss column, and fitted another like it onto the swivel. Aiming for a new patch of shoreline, I maneuvered along the bank about fifty yards, and started casting again. No more than two minutes expired before I happened to glance down at the water beneath me, and there he was. That same damn turtle; looking up at me with his oil-bead eyes. How’d I know it was the same turtle? Don’t they all look alike? In their gross anatomy, yes, they do, but since they spend most of their time frolicking in the bottom-ooze, they often develop individualized patterns of moss on their shells. The Lure Biter had a distinct scalloped-shaped design in the back half of his carapace. Oh, it was him, alright.

And he seemed to be waiting for another snack.

“Piss off,” I said. He did not. “Go on. I got nothin’ for ya.”

I moved another few feet along. He followed, never lowering his head below the surface. I moved again. So did he. I threw a stick at him. He pinwheeled away. I relocated. He returned. I cursed at him. He remained unfazed. This went on for—I kid you not—nearly 45 minutes, as I fished my way around the pond. If my lure came near him, he attacked. If it slowed in the shallows, he went for it like a homing reptile. Once I got him to crawl all the way onto the bank by twitching the rubber fish along in front of him through the mud, at which point I pinged a rock off his shell and he left me alone…for nearly three minutes.

By this time he’d twisted my entire angling outlook sideways. I was being stalked by a turtle. I couldn’t concentrate on accuracy or control because I kept watching for his inevitable return. And though I am not proud of what happened next, it is what happened. Back at my tacklebox, I rummaged my .22 revolver from its leather holster and waited, turtlecide on my mind.
He appeared only moments later, totally unaware of his impending journey to Turtle Heaven. I raised the pistol…

…and my phone rang.

It was my good friend Cal. We chatted for a few minutes (the turtle maintained his ceaseless vigilance) before she asked why I sounded distracted. I explained about my harasser, and she burst out laughing (which is what I should’ve been doing), and said “Oh, that’s so cute! You have a friend!”

“I don’t want a friend,” I said. “I have all of those I require.”

We went on for some few minutes debating the pro and cons of turtle camaraderie, until I came to my senses. That turtle should thank Cal for saving his reptilian biscuits.

I’ve fished that pond two dozen times since first meeting the sociopathic young Yertle, and I’ve seen him almost every time. Seen him, yes, but not been stalked by him. These days he ignores me totally. Once, when the fish weren’t biting I tried to entice him with a rubber fish, but he was having none of it. Disdain, about sums it up.

If there’s an explanation for his behavior on that singularly bizarre afternoon, I’m damned if I know what it is. I’m guessing he was just really hungry. If that’s the case, I’m glad they don’t hunt in packs. It has ‘70s B-movie written all over it. And I'm not sure I'm in good enough shape to outrun a turtle...

Cheers.

Carnival of the Animals

Weird ideas abound here in my little stretch of the Oklahoma landscape. My fellow citizens think some really silly things. And in no other arena (apart from perhaps politics) will you find the Silly Things strutting about and flexing their muscles with more vigor than in the arena of animals—what they mean to us humans, how they ought to be treated, etc.

The following is a quartet of—as always—true tales, which I hope will shine a few rays on the Silly Things and, if we are lucky, send some of them scurrying back into the dark recesses from which they came.

Ditching the Dog

There is a perfectly splendid walking trail near my house. It winds its way through dense thickets of scotch pine, ponderosa, cottonwood, lacebarks, and blackberry bushes. I enjoy a stroll many afternoons, and almost always encounter someone walking his or her dog.

Maybe two weeks ago I came upon an elderly gent outfitted for his constitutional with a walking stick and pooper-scooper. In point of fact, I first met his dog, a chubby gray-and-white border collie whose name turned out to be Bud, and who, in dog years, was of a similar vintage as his owner.

Bud waddled up, his whole podgy hindquarters wagging happily, and gave me a thorough olfactory going-over. The elderly gent toddled along about this point, grumbling at “Bud” to leave “that big fella” alone. I told the guy that I didn’t mind, having once owned a border collie myself, and continued scratching Bud’s ears.

“You want ‘im? You kin have ‘im,” the ancient one said.

“Oh, well…” I mumbled. “No thanks. But he seems like a great dog.” Bud licked my hand in apparent acknowledgement of my compliment.

The old guy grunted noncommittally. “I had a black lab. Died two years ago. My son figured I needed another dog and got me this one.”

“Nice of him,” I responded, which earned me a second noncommittal grunt from Old Methuselah.

“Well, I didn’t want ‘im. Brought ‘im out here the first day and tried to ditch ‘im, but he found his way back to the house.”

“Oh?”

“Stupid dog.”

I didn’t bother mentioning that Bud finding his way home was actually a sign that he was a pretty smart dog. Didn’t really have the chance to, actually, because the aged dude grunted one more time, hollered at Bud to get a move on, and thus the happy couple plodded off along the path into the trees.

After asking around a bit, and recounting the story of the guy’s attempted ditching of his dog, I discovered that “ditching” is quite the common practice in these parts. Don’t want that dog? Heck, just drive it out to the country and leave it to its own canine devices.

If only the same practice were routine vis-à-vis some of our local children…

Raccoons

About a week ago I drove my Mom down to the local tag office so she could renew her license plates. We arrived a few minutes before they opened, and were loitering on the sidewalk when a flatbed pickup rolled in next to Mom’s little Chevy. A man climbed from the cab, the whole lower half of his face distended by enough chewing tobacco to stuff a Christmas turkey, and joined our small gang of lingerers.

Lighting a cigarette, I glanced at the contents of the flatbed. Then I glanced again, counting silently. Yep, nine dead raccoons in an untidy heap, oozing.

The man followed my eyes, then looked back at me.

Nodding at the spoils of what could only have been an epic and majestic hunt, I said “What’s that all about?”

“What’a’ya mean?”

“Were they getting in your garbage or something?”

The man chuckled and voided about a quart of tobacco spit into the gutter. “Naw,” he said. “I jus’ like killin’ ‘em.”

Then the tag office opened, and we all went inside, where, ironically, my Mom was assisted by a woman who bore a striking resemblance to a dead raccoon.

OK, yeah, I made that up. She was much less pleasant to look at than a dead raccoon.

Playing Chicken

Fifteen or twenty years ago my pan-shaped state enacted a moratorium on all sorts of hunting. At the same time, state and federal authorities started enforcing anti-poaching laws and laws protecting endangered species. And now, as a result, my little slice of the state is a much different place, fauna-wise, than it was when I visited it as a kid. We have armadillos again. We have gray herons and Rio Grande wild turkeys and roadrunners. We have alligator snapping turtles, and mountain lions. We have so many whitetail deer they are becoming a public nuisance. And, lastly, we have prairie chickens again, back from the very brink of extinction.

The reemergence of our native critters has been greeted with a variety of attitudes. Predictably, the farmer/rancher camp has its coveralls in a twist over the mountain lions (they occasionally eat cows), turkeys (they eat grain shoots and wreck havoc on hay bales), and deer (which eat what the turkeys miss and reproduce like Baptists). Truck driver’s and highway patrol personnel also take a dim view of the surging deer population, mostly due to their (the deer) unendearing habit of inexplicably leaping out in front of fast-moving vehicles. Fishermen and noodlers, those whack-a-dos who catch catfish by hand, hate the snapping turtles, because the turtles eat fish eggs as well as noodlers’ fingers. And almost everyone abuses the lowly armadillos since, like the deer, they apparently can’t resist engaging in suicide-by-Frogger, and also, I think, because they are just plain silly looking.

Ah, yes, but my hunk of Okie Nirvana also has a small, but growing and quite vocal, number of animal rights types. Which brings me back to the prairie chickens.

It seems that one of our resident PETA-files has made it her mission to stick up for the strange little birds. She is deeply worried, you see, that the prairie has changed too much since the last time the chickens called it home. Most notable among the changes are the increased number of barbed wire fences criss-crossing the terrain, fences she believes pose terrible dangers to the chickens. And her solution to the problem? She would like the State to pass a law forcing all farmers and other owners of barbed wire fences to hang colorful flags on them so that the prairie chickens will see the fences in time to avoid a prickly doom.

For the life of me I don’t know who has the more bizarre outlook, the guy who just likes killin’ raccoons or this fluffyheaded twit. I do know this: it’s people like her that make animal-rights activists look ridiculous.

Hammer Time

This last story is not for the faint of heart. I mean that. It makes me feel all woogie inside just thinking about it.

Some months ago, when I still managed a local movie-rental joint, a customer arrived in the middle of a slow weekday afternoon. He browsed a bit and carried his selections to the counter, which was when I noticed the small flecks of blood on his shirt and fingers. (Longtime readers of these tales are probably asking themselves something like: What is it with that town and people walking around with blood all over them? I have no answer to their question. It seems to just happen. Like Dancing with the Stars.)

Anyway, here’s this guy with blood on him, and I felt compelled to comment.

“You have blood on your fingers,” I said.

“Yeah,” he answered, wiping them on his pants.

I asked why he had blood on his fingers.

“Oh, one of our barn cats had a mess o’ kittens. My dad told me to put ‘em in a sack and throw ‘em in the river, but I thought that was cruel. So I put ‘em in a sack and beat ‘em with a hammer. Some got on me.”

I gave him his change and he left.

There’s a lesson to be learned here, about the inner workings of the contemporary Western psyche, but I’m damned if I know what it might be.

And that’s the news from the wilds of Oklahoma. If someone wanted to pop by and kill me, that’d be OK.

Movies: The Best (and Worst) of 2010

Here’s what I think. How ‘bout you?

Inception

As inventive and dazzling a sci-fi movie to hit the screen in ages. Far superior to Cameron’s Avatar. Christopher Nolan has, like he came so close to doing with The Dark Knight, elevated the genre flick to grand art. It’s brilliant in every respect.

The Social Network

My personal favorite movie of the year. Excellent performance by Jesse Eisenberg, but the real star is the script by Aaron Sorkin (creator of The West Wing and SportsNight). Sorkin might be the best writer working in Hollywood today. I dream of being able to write dialogue like he can.

The Tillman Story

Pat Tillman was a star in the NFL who gave up millions of dollars to join the Marines after 9/11. He was sent to Afghanistan where he immediately saw how fucked up things were, and he transformed himself from Bush-administration posterboy into a vocal opponent of that war, as well as the fiasco in Iraq. He was killed in a friendly-fire accident, and subsequently had his memory corn-holed by the Republicans. This documentary made me sad and profoundly angry.

The Kids Are All Right

Annette Benning and Julianne Moore, alongside Mark Rufalo, conduct an acting clinic here, while Lisa Cholodenko’s direction is an understated marvel. She should get an Oscar nomination, but, alas, probably won’t. Funny, charming, socially relevant. Who could ask for more in a movie?

True Grit

I dig the novel by Charles Portis, but, personally, can hardly sit through the John Wayne movie version (Glen Campbell set a standard for hideous acting). Thankfully, the Coens came along to do the book justice. Terrific work by Jeff Bridges, and Josh Brolin somehow gets better with every movie he makes. Hard to believe he was the dorky big brother in The Goonies.

Micmacs

I’ve been a fan of Jean-Pierre Jeunet’s work since Delicatessen. Micmacs, the tale of two guys with a wildly elaborate plan to take down a weapons manufacturer, is simultaneously pure Jeunet, and something very new. The sight gags are hilarious, and the overall visual impact is stunning. You just never know what Jeunet is going to do next.

Howl

How do you make a movie of Allan Ginsberg’s decidedly un-cinematic poem Howl? Here’s how.

The King’s Speech

It doesn’t get much better than Colin Firth as George VI, the British king who overcame his stammer, with the help of a goofy Australian speech therapist (Geoffrey Rush), and rallied his country in defense of Hitler’s Germany. Watching two heavyweights like Firth and Rush work with each other is truly a wonder to behold. And even Helena Bonham-Carter isn’t as annoying as she usually is.

Winter’s Bone

A double prize winner at Sundance, this introverted little movie is an arresting experience. 19-year-old star Jennifer Lawrence gives an Oscar-worthy performance as a young girl in the Ozarks forced to care for her family. I look forward to seeing what she does in the future.

Jackass 3D

A place-kick to the face. Bee-hive tetherball. A feces volcano. A tavern full of brawling midgets. A sweat cocktail. A Port-O-Potty full of dog poo on bungee cords. Laughter heaven. The funniest movie I saw this year.

And, in no particular order, the worst…

Percy Jackson & the Olympians: Lightning Thief
How to ass-rape Greek mythology for fun and profit.

127 Hours
Amputation porn.

Knight and Day
Cruise still can’t act. Still isn’t funny. Is still really irritating.

The Twilight Saga: Eclipse
Metrosexual nancy-boy vampires. I hate them and want them to die.

Daybreakers
Heterosexual hipster-boy vampires. See above.

The Expendables
Careful, Sly! You’ll break a hip!

Legion
Ridiculous times at the Armageddon diner. Dopesville.

Grown Ups
So little comedy talent, so little laughter.

Hot Tub Time Machine
What the fuck is John Cusack doing with his career?

Alice in Wonderland
Someone please assassinate Tim Burton before he strikes again.

Have a most excellent bunch of holidays, folks!

A Return to the Freaks of Freak Central

I’ve been out and about again in my little Oklahoma town, hobnobbing with the populace, and man, this place just keeps getting stranger and stranger. So, without further preamble, join me for another trip to Freak Central.

Weird Things

Late in the evening on Black Friday my brother and I ventured into Wal-Mart because, well, long story short: I wanted a footstool. And also because there’s not one other goddamn thing to do here, but anyway. I located the necessary piece of furniture, a cheap-ass boxy thing that doubles as a storage container and is upholstered in orange fur (yes, I am the very model of a modern pimp mack daddy), and we headed for the check-stand.

Upon alighting at that destination, the clerk there, a hobbit-like creature of the female persuasion, offered us the traditional Wal-Mart greeting: a tight grimace suspended beneath a pair of small, mean eyes. She grabbed my wooly cube, dropping the bottom part when the lid came off in her hands.

“Humf,” she said, her tone suggesting that never in all her long days had she encountered something quite so novel as this. “This’ll be a good place to hide your weird things,” she said.

“Weird things?” I asked

“Your weird things,” she affirmed. “You know, like when you have your lady friends over…?”

Had she winked at me right then my head would’ve exploded.

“Ah,” I said, and, giving voice to the world’s most unconvincing chuckle, shoved some money at her.

My brother was already edging for the exits in an obvious attempt to put as much tile between himself and Mrs. Baggins as possible. I collected my change and joined him. We made eye contact, but elected not to engage in a detailed rehashment of the episode. That way, madness lies…

Have it Your Way

We used to have a Burger King here in my little town. Not much to brag about in a village with something like one fast-foot franchise for every ten people, and an obesity problem that makes the whole place look like a summertime retreat for Macy’s floats, but it was an alternative. It shut down not too long ago for the simple reason that people stopped going there. Capitalism in action. Hell, I’m all in favor of a community getting all communal and giving a big corporation a boot in the backside, but I have a little problem with this particular instance.

Not long after the BK flung wide its doors a woman complained that she and her three kids had gotten sick from the food there. No doubt about it, the four of them were healthy and frolicsome as colts one day, a-swarm with vomit-provoking bacteria the next.

A health inspector was summoned to investigate. He white-gloved the joint and pronounced it clean and crisp as a winter’s morn. Yet that simply could not be, not according to the original claimant, nor to her rapidly expanding cadre of disciples. No, no, no, that restaurant, they shrieked, was nothing more than a pestilential swamp, a fetid bouillabaisse of filth and disease. And theirs was the view that took hold, because the citizens of my little town rarely allow something as paltry as the truth to interfere with their God-given right to think and say nasty shit about others.

So, slowly, the BK’s customer base dwindled away to nothing, and its doors are now chained shut.

Then it came to light—far too late—that the woman who started the whole affair might have bitched precipitously. It turned out that she and her brood lived in a squalid hovel out in the country, the condition of which would’ve sent the editors at Better Homes and Gardens into the midnight streets rending their garments. Dirty dishes adorned every horizontal surface, and the floor was carpeted with piles of old laundry and dog shit. The children were regularly sent home from school to keep them from contaminating the other students with their head lice.

Now, where do you suppose they got sick?

Wag the Dog

I got this information second-hand, but I’ve talked to enough of the eye-witnesses to stamp it “approved” from a factuality standpoint.

The local high school offers a seniors-only political science course. The instructor, by all appearances an enlightened sort of dude, decided to get the conversational juices flowing by showing Barry Levinson’s movie Wag the Dog, a satirical demonstration of the lengths our government will go to keep our attention focused anywhere but on what’s important. At some point near the beginning of the flick one of the characters drops an F-bomb. (David Mamet co-wrote the screenplay, so go figure.)

A female student, upon having her ears and psyche invaded by the dreaded oath, leaped from her seat, galloped from the room, and made like a homing gopher for the principal’s burrow, where she made her mental anguish plain to all and sundry. Her pitiable state apparently infected the boss, who vigored off to the site of the offense, and shut down the movie, praying, we can only imagine, that he had not been too late.

In the aftermath of the Expletive Incident, the students were left to their own ruminations for the remainder of the period, while the teacher was hustled away to the principal’s lair and subjected to a stern dissertation that covered the length, width and depth of his shortcomings as a Shaper of Youth. He must now have all of his lesson plans approved in advance and, in the coming weeks, as I understand it, the teacher must stand before the Superintendant of Schools and explain his poor judgment and taste.

How has it happened that our nation has turned into one that kowtows to the people with the thinnest skin? If that dopey chick got her granny panties in a twist over something as measly, as trifling, as a little F-bomb, she really needs to get her face out of wherever stuff she’s been hiding it behind, or she’s gonna graduate and, barring an immediate transfer to a convent, the world is gonna rear up on its hind paws and claw her face apart like so much whiney taffy.

Makes me want to hold her down and yell “Fuck!” in her face until she cries.

Springtime for Hitler

About a week ago, I’m cleaning up after a show at the theater where I work as a projectionist, and I find a Blackberry on the floor. Thinking maybe the owner is one of those folks who puts their name on their phone’s banner, I poked the button to awaken the thing. No number, alas. I did discover, however, the very colorful swastika that was the banner pic. Yessiree. Right there—red enough, white enough and black enough to make a Tea Bagger leak girlie tears all up and down the barrel of his AA-12. Found out later that the phone belonged to a 14-year-old. A 14-year-old girl.

Can barely wrap the ol’ bean around that one, except to say that it does call to mind an image of Nazi symbols BeDazzled onto a Jonas Brothers backpack…

And that’s the news from the wilds of Oklahoma, where the men are atavisms, the women are hirsute, and the children should be kept chained to something heavy.

Cheers.

Free-Floating Hostility

Just in time for Thanksgiving, a little free-floating hostility.

I’ve been thinking about a few things lately that annoy the shit out of me. But I believe that giving them vent will go a long way towards giving me peace. (I should also mention my debt to the late Mr. George Carlin—the greatest comic who ever lived—for inspiring the title of this offering.)

Nirvana

I was listening to the radio the other day and the DJ just went babbling on like the dopiest of brooks extolling the world-changing position Nirvana holds in rock music history. I hear this silly shit all the time. Nirvana was warmed over Neil Young with a splash of ‘70s punk and a few obnoxious guitar effects. I will give Kurt and his gang credit for one thing: they are almost wholly responsible for the incessant goddamn bitching and whimpering you hear in rock music these days. “You lied to me! You don’t like me! I’m a miserable toe-rag! But I just loves me some heroin!” Oh, wah wah wah. Fucking grow up. Here’s the thing: the best thing that happened to rock music in the 1990s was the day Cobain tongue-kissed the business end of that shotgun. Huzzah.

The British Invented Punk Rock

This myth has been running rampant for nearly two decades. The British didn’t have jack to do with the invention of punk. They offered some material to the catalogue, sure. But, aside from perhaps the Clash, the Isles produced not one seminal punk-rock band (and the Clash’s first, and best, album, was nothing more than a ham-fisted rip-off of the Ramones). Most of what Britain provided to the music was cosmetic—goofy-ass mohawks, safety pins, in-concert spittle, and that goddamn stupid “pogoing” they were so fond of, which, incidentally, we brought to its fullest and most perfect expression, in the form of the mosh pit. In a search for punk’s precursors, the Brits can point to a couple of songs by the Kinks, and that’s about it. We have the Velvet Underground. We have the MC5 and the New York Dolls. We have Iggy and the Stooges. And most importantly, we have the Ramones. When Joey, Johnny, Tommy and Dee Dee first toured the UK in the mid-‘70s, members of the Clash and the Sex Pistols were in attendance. Johnny Rotten wanted to get backstage to meet the boys, but was frightened that they might beat the shit out of him. That’s right. Mr. Anarchist Tough Guy cringed like a little girl. Ding-ding! Ding-ding! The Brits lose. We win. Case closed.

Bicycle Pads

I am so tired of seeing kids out on their bikes wearing enough padding to play middle linebacker for the Denver Broncos. Haven’t we taken kid protection about as far as it needs to go? Exactly how long are parents supposed to keep their offspring swaddled in plate mail—both physical and mental—before allowing them a peek at the real world. When I was a kid we rode around barefoot in nothing but swim trunks. (I was much skinnier then so the sight wasn’t quite as horrific as it sounds.) And, yes, sometimes we fell off our bikes and broke our faces. That’s the whole point to being a kid. It’s how we learn. You tried to jump that canal ditch, but shorted it and broke your face? Well, maybe you won’t be in a hurry to try it again, or you’ll build a better ramp…or talk your little brother into doing it. The world is dangerous. Insulating kids from it too stringently is, in my humble opinion, one of the main reasons our young people are, too often, pampered, mewling little shitbags. Let ‘em ride without armor, for God’s sake. Let ‘em break their faces. They’ll heal. They’re tougher than they are generally given credit for being.

Fortune Cookies

Why don’t they make fortune cookies anymore? My most recent cookie contained this: “You are intelligent and people like you.” That’s not a fortune, that’s an aphorism. And sometimes they aren’t even directed at a person. “A smile is a rose on a rainy day.” Really? Fuck you! I want a fortune. Used to be, you got a fortune every time, a pithy little prediction of what your future might hold. Not these days. And I want to know why. Can it be that there is a world-wide fortune shortage that has so far gone unreported by the major news outlets? Shit, if there is I’m here to help. Try this on: “You will find out the hard way that Sarah Palin has teeth in her honey-hole.” Not pretty, but at least it gives you some idea of what might be careening down the highway at you. And besides, who says a fortune should be all sweetness and light? Can’t they just as well be weird and disquieting? For instance: “In the spirit of unalloyed wantonness, you will run over a chicken.” Gives you something to watch out for while motoring. In closing, I’d like to say this: the last honest-to-Nostradamus fortune I can remember finding in my luncheon cookie fucked me up for three goddamn days. I got it on September 12th, 2001. It read: “You will own one of the tallest buildings in New York City.”

Now that’s a motherfucking fortune, man.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Cheers.