tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74274190786753066542024-03-12T20:01:32.206-04:00Dennis PerrinKILLING TIME BEFORE THE ASTEROID HITSDennis Perrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11172130276552085506noreply@blogger.comBlogger860125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7427419078675306654.post-38050860529554477582016-12-11T15:54:00.006-05:002016-12-11T15:54:59.269-05:00Trump Era FreshFor those who still swing by to see if I'm around, you might want <a href="https://dennisperrinblog.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">to go here</a>. Yes, it's a new site for a New Day. Let's learn together. Dennis Perrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11172130276552085506noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7427419078675306654.post-30739572232540680782016-03-25T09:31:00.000-04:002016-04-07T15:06:53.999-04:00It's Garry Shandling's Life<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgws-OWGZxEfXwbsHYiIK2L_Q2Yn_SvIwRd5YAVggaHGQTH6FLPzGaZqbQVG6kgDb3IsK2L3XPr6rJIyb9O8ODXN_kTVbnYnmEE6cQpmgetWV0v9PfiTgH4tbvIWurNWIw-t7Jp3CnIAU8H/s1600/Larry-Sanders-Show.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgws-OWGZxEfXwbsHYiIK2L_Q2Yn_SvIwRd5YAVggaHGQTH6FLPzGaZqbQVG6kgDb3IsK2L3XPr6rJIyb9O8ODXN_kTVbnYnmEE6cQpmgetWV0v9PfiTgH4tbvIWurNWIw-t7Jp3CnIAU8H/s400/Larry-Sanders-Show.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
If Garry Shandling did nothing else, THE LARRY SANDERS SHOW would be his perfect comedy statement. Anyone who's written for or been around talk show hosts immediately recognized Larry Sanders. Vain, insecure, petty, funny, and cocksure, reliant upon an unseen backstage army, constantly worried about his place in the food chain. Who would want to live like that? Well, Larry Sanders, for one.<br />
<br />
Showbiz is a generally awful place, filled with genuinely awful people. Shandling made this his centerpiece, and there were more than a few cringe-inducing moments on LARRY SANDERS. Yet, despite the shallowness of his character, Shandling made him funny and compelling. As bad as Larry could be, he was often outpaced by his celebrity guests. You almost felt sorry for him.<br />
<br />
Like Roseanne and Seinfeld, Shandling surrounded himself with first-rate character actors. Rip Torn as Larry's producer and Jeffrey Tambor as his announcer gave the show its kick. Penny Johnson, as Larry's personal assistant Beverly, convincingly showed how frustrating and maddening that job would be. The rest of the revolving cast -- Janeane Garofalo, Mary Lynn Rajskub, Jeremy Piven, Scott Thompson, Wallace Langham, Sarah Silverman, Bob Odenkirk, among others -- added texture to Larry's tortured world.<br />
<br />
I don't know if Shandling was looking to influence the likes of Tina Fey and Larry David, but their respective shows bear the LARRY SANDERS mark. Shandling simply did his best work about a world he intimately understood. And while he was considered cutting edge for his time, Shandling owed much to the comedy before him.<br />
<br />
IT'S GARRY SHANDLING'S SHOW, his first series, is often lauded as being meta -- breaking the fourth wall, acknowledging the medium, playing with form. But as I'm sure Shandling knew, this was done at television's dawn.<br />
<br />
THE BURNS AND ALLEN SHOW offered the same conceit, though at a time when most Americans didn't own a TV. George Burns, as himself, talked to the audience, set up subsequent scenes, even watched his own show on a monitor in his office, commenting on the characters. As contemporary as Shandling was, he also honored the classics (Jack Benny, too).<br />
<br />
In an age of interchangeable, frenzied comedy, Shandling seems almost sedate and measured. Not many comics find that quiet voice. Rest in that peace, Garry Shandling.Dennis Perrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11172130276552085506noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7427419078675306654.post-37557254879402017462016-02-12T01:04:00.002-05:002016-03-21T13:42:29.545-04:00And A One, And A Two . . .<img src="https://scontent-iad3-1.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-xfp1/t31.0-8/12694931_10153948343171079_9140054119513594402_o.jpg" height=300 width=422><br />
<br />
(From SAVAGE MULES. I keep reading how Bernie Sanders is George McGovern. Maybe he is.)<br />
<br />
<b>ANTIWAR MULE CAMEO</b><br />
<br />
As the Nixon era commenced, larger sections of the public turned against the war, with increasing numbers of Democrats joining them. While the language remained polite in most political mouths, Senator George McGovern of South Dakota provided spicier rebukes to the war-makers. At the Chicago convention, disaffected McCarthy and RFK supporters turned to McGovern as their antiwar symbol, none more passionate than Abe Ribicoff, a senator from Connecticut, who blasted Richard Daley's mini-police state by saying on national television, "And if George McGovern were president, we wouldn't have these Gestapo tactics in the streets of Chicago!"<br />
<br />
McGovern wasn't president, but he stood in stark relief not only to Nixon, but also to pro-war figures in his Party like Henry "Scoop" Jackson, the "Senator from Boeing" (and often-cited godfather to the neocons).<br />
<br />
Abe Ribicoff's wish for a McGovern presidency moved a bit closer to reality in 1972, as McGovern upset Party fixtures Edmund Muskie and Hubert Humphrey to grab the Dem nomination. But a seemingly chaotic convention, followed with VP choice Thomas Eagleton's admission that he had suffered depression and received electroshock treatments, sank McGovern's campaign before it took off. His attempt to unseat Nixon was probably quixotic at best, given that many mules were wary of McGovern. And the lack of presidential debates, in which McGovern would doubtless have gained strength, didn't help either. Still, in the face of these and other obstacles, McGovern ran an inspired campaign, and was the last Democratic nominee to take such an open antiwar stance. One of his commercials, where a Vietnamese mother carries her dead child down a deserted road, remains one of the strongest ads in American history.<br />
<br />
Of course, Nixon buried him. With McGovern's loss, antiwar Dems were cast adrift both in their Party and in the national culture -- the term "McGovernite" seen as the political kiss of death. The Democrats never again dared to reach so far.<br />
Dennis Perrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11172130276552085506noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7427419078675306654.post-59169067297331926452016-01-11T10:17:00.000-05:002016-03-21T13:43:48.533-04:00Oh! You Pretty Thing<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs0KA1uXld6WPRydCGUsrDwQ5YkX-hrUAvSS8Nz3EDdH37PjNLgCqCcmWvgPWQwya4JNdIzuvFhZeXJnBcVyNzKo1VgSMlNmh-RL6xaziMjNDLfCiPZWnQXH9CMpdcS7u0_DYOyif9aU6Q/s1600/David_Bowie_Shades.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs0KA1uXld6WPRydCGUsrDwQ5YkX-hrUAvSS8Nz3EDdH37PjNLgCqCcmWvgPWQwya4JNdIzuvFhZeXJnBcVyNzKo1VgSMlNmh-RL6xaziMjNDLfCiPZWnQXH9CMpdcS7u0_DYOyif9aU6Q/s400/David_Bowie_Shades.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
"Can you do Bowie for my 5th period class?"<br />
<br />
Paris Goodrum, my high school drama teacher, loved my David Bowie. It emerged from a class assignment in lip syncing. Paris stressed that he wanted something more than just mouthing lyrics. He wanted performance, and this I took seriously.<br />
<br />
This was 1975, Lawrence, Indiana, as far from Swinging London as you could get. The majority of students were pretty conservative. Theatricality was fine if you were Robert Plant or Ted Nugent. Bowie was entirely a different flavor.<br />
<br />
I rehearsed endlessly in my basement bedroom. Since my hair was long, I went with the Ziggy Stardust look. My father made fun of me when he wasn't rolling his eyes. (And he was a rock club owner! Oh, Dad.) I forged ahead regardless.<br />
<br />
Just before drama class, I prepped in the men's room. Applied rouge, lipstick, and eye shadow. Covered my face in glitter. Wore a frilly blue shirt with bright red suspenders and denim shorts. Yellow knee socks and platform shoes. Feather necklace and hoop bracelets. Naturally, there were stares on my walk back to class. But I felt empowered.<br />
<br />
My classmates laughed and hooted when I stood before them. Paris told them to zip it. I began to lip sync to "Future Legend," standing still, eyes unblinking. Then I tore into "Diamond Dogs," affecting Bowie's moves while improvising a few of my own. The class loved it, Paris especially.<br />
<br />
I did my Bowie for a couple of Paris' classes. He'd turn to his students and say, "Now THAT'S how you do it!" This gave me a weird, brief popularity, as well as feeding rumors about my sexuality.<br />
<br />
A few months later, the drama department put on a revue for the entire school. Paris requested my Bowie. I accepted, but instead of reprising Ziggy/Dogs, I cut my hair short, as Bowie had done, and eschewed the glitter and flash. I dressed in a blue denim jumpsuit, slicked back my hair, and synced to "Young Americans."<br />
<br />
It was a subtler performance, which the students didn't like. They wanted early, wilder Bowie. Paris felt a bit let down, but years later when I bumped into him, he mentioned my Bowie with a smile.<br />
<br />
David Bowie wasn't a rock star or a celebrity -- he was a cultural force. His work inspired countless people, even rednecks like me. He gave hope to gay teens at a truly closeted time; he played with gender before it became a sociological category.<br />
<br />
His music and style changed and evolved, not always successfully. He made music videos years before MTV. He collaborated with greats from rock, soul, and techno. He was the shit.<br />
<br />
Goodbye, David, and thank you.Dennis Perrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11172130276552085506noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7427419078675306654.post-79942397939566311042015-08-10T10:37:00.001-04:002016-02-12T00:58:40.117-05:00Supposedly Fun Things<img src="http://media.aintitcool.com/media/uploads/2015/capone/tour_4_large.jpg" height=300 width=422><br />
<br />
David Foster Wallace never meant much to me. When his opus INFINITE JEST was critically acclaimed as the Great New Thing, curiosity led me to read the first fifty or so pages, chip on my shoulder, skeptical eyes. While it was clear that DFW had talent and a gift for unexpected sentences, his approach left me cold. It felt too academic, too writerly. (I did enjoy some of his reportage, particularly his piece on David Lynch.) I expected more pow from this reported genius.<br />
<br />
After seeing THE END OF THE TOUR, my assessment of DFW softened. Part of this is age (I'm not as combative as I was 20 years ago), but mostly I was moved by Wallace's inner-struggle, at least as it was depicted in the film. Jason Segel does an excellent job conveying what it must have been like to go from literary obscurity to fawning profiles in Time magazine.<br />
<br />
DFW appeared to be painfully shy, tormented by self-doubt, haunted by depression. His intellect provided little balm. He sought whatever peace he could find through attempts at normalcy, being an average guy aware of his limitations.<br />
<br />
Fame, to the degree that American writers are famous anymore, did Wallace in. He was too perceptive to ignore the trappings. In this, he reminds me a bit of Jack Kerouac, who faced the fame machine when its blades were newly-sharpened. Instead of hanging himself, Kerouac drowned his liver in booze. (The distance between Kerouac's fame and his desire to live was captured in BIG SUR, perhaps the best of the Beat movies.) Not many people can handle being legends, not in this culture, anyway.<br />
<br />
While he had early bouts with the bottle, DFW preferred fast food, candy, soda, cigarettes, and whatever TV he could watch. Segel's Wallace embraces this with adolescent joy, much like his love of reading books on rainy days. Again, seeking comfort through normalcy, however illusory. American commercial culture offers numerous, limited comforts; Pop Tarts and action films provide only so much relief.<br />
<br />
DFW groupies probably hate THE END OF THE TOUR, which, I suppose, is understandable. But I enjoyed it more than I thought I would, and if nothing else, it's nice to hear intelligent people converse. It also inspired me to re-engage INFINITE JEST. We'll see how far I make it this time.Dennis Perrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11172130276552085506noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7427419078675306654.post-73944885115188008262015-02-12T11:25:00.001-05:002018-12-08T10:50:23.265-05:00A Censored SNL 40 MomentWhen Chevy Chase hosted the second show of SNL's 1985-86 season, Michael O'Donoghue penned a monologue that, for some reason, wasn't used, despite Chevy's desire to deliver it. <br />
<br />
"Right after I stopped doing cocaine, I turned into a giant garden slug and, for the life of me, I don’t know why.<br />
<br />
"Hi, I’m Chevy Chase. Have you noticed that, in the years since I left Saturday Night Live, my eyes have actually gotten smaller and closer together so they now look like little pig eyes? Why? Again, I don’t have a clue. As I was saying to Alan King the other day at the Alan King Celebrity Tennis Tournament, ‘Alan, I need more money. What I can’t fit in my wallet, I’ll eat or I’ll shove up my ass, but I must have more!’ And when I looked in the mirror, my eyes were the size of Roosevelt dimes and had moved another inch closer to my nose. ‘What is going on here?!?’ I exclaimed to my new wife, who looks like my old wife except she’s new.<br />
<br />
"Still, the fans showed up for my last movie – The Giant Garden Slug’s European Vacation – a movie any man would be proud of, particularly if that man was Cantinflas. There’s much more I can say but I have a twenty lodged in my lower colon and it’s just driving me crazy. My next film is called The Giant Garden Slug Blows Eddie Murphy While John Candy Watches and it opens tomorrow at Red Carpet Theaters everywhere. Don’t miss it."Dennis Perrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11172130276552085506noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7427419078675306654.post-65083025811390223722015-01-13T07:38:00.000-05:002015-02-12T11:18:46.116-05:00Satired<img src="http://jonathanturley.files.wordpress.com/2009/12/p1070618.jpg" height=280 width=410><br />
<br />
I had my life threatened once. Clearly, it wasn't serious, but for a few minutes it seemed possible. Piss off the wrong American and who knows?<br />
<br />
I'd written an editorial in New York Perspectives, a Manhattan weekly I edited, titled "Sinead Eats Pope!" I defended Sinead O'Connor who, on the most recent SNL, ripped in half a picture of Pope John Paul II, adding "Fight the real enemy."<br />
<br />
Partly a parody of NYC's tabloid press, rabidly fueled by Sinead's stunt, the editorial was also autobiographical. I shared some of my Catholic upbringing, my early disillusionment and eventual exit from what felt like an ancient death cult. This proved too much for a troubled young man.<br />
<br />
He said he was calling from a phone booth down the block. As a Catholic, he was appalled by my editorial and couldn't believe I had the nerve to write it. He calmly informed me that he had a gun, and if I didn't explain myself to his satisfaction, he was coming up to kill me.<br />
<br />
I was brasher then, pushing whatever buttons I could find. But here I spoke softly, confessed that perhaps I was wrong. I was trying to make sense of a confusing childhood, and besides, wasn't God in favor of free speech?<br />
<br />
The guy backed off and began weeping for the Church. It hurt him that so many people mocked his faith. I suggested that perhaps his faith was being tested, that shooting writers was no way to honor God.<br />
<br />
"Maybe you're right," he sniffled, and hung up.<br />
<br />
I mentioned this to Christopher Hitchens who said, "It's the ones who <i>don't</i> call that you worry about."<br />
<br />
Perhaps the killers in Paris didn't phone Charlie Hebdo to warn of an impending massacre, but the cartoonists and editors there knew that was a possibility every time they went to work. They literally played with fire.<br />
<br />
By now, countless writers, pundits, bloggers, and Tweeters have scoured the scene, picking through racism, fanaticism, heroism, hypocrisy, and martyrdom. Previously unknown to most Americans, Charlie Hebdo instantly became the measure of creative freedom. Call yourself Charlie and march with the civilized.<br />
<br />
I'm not going to argue whether or not Charlie Hebdo is racist; its humor does little for me. (Then again, I'm not its target audience, despite being of French descent.) What happened was obviously horrific and indefensible. The world is filled with bad images and even worse people. Communication is bound to get fucked up.<br />
<br />
I'm more interested in the limits of satire, something I've thought about long before the Paris killings. How truly effective is satire? How far can you take it before it loses meaning? Is it a tool, a weapon, or a glamorized pose?<br />
<br />
Dave Chappelle's case is instructive. Not since Richard Pryor has a comedian tackled race with such organic fury. Chappelle's Comedy Central show cut so close to the racist bone that Chappelle lost sight of the joke; all he could see was the pain and humiliation. He reached his satirical limit. That's when he checked out.<br />
<br />
Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert dance further from the fire, extending their satirical lines while softening their jokes (Colbert's White House Correspondents Dinner set notwithstanding). A necessary trade off if one is to survive in corporate comedy. Stewart gets solemn when the heat comes too close, but otherwise he plays the reliable jester who gives his fans what they expect.<br />
<br />
Bill Maher has more or less moved toward direct advocacy, primarily against Islam. Indeed, it's all he seems to think about, though not too deeply. A nuanced understanding of religion and history isn't as much fun as making wild generalizations. Maybe Maher's playing a character, a Muslim-bashing Tony Clifton. But I doubt we're that lucky.<br />
<br />
The Onion chugs along, churning out fake news that at times seems indistinguishable from the real thing. And the less said about Weekend Update, the better.<br />
<br />
The problem may be that America isn't really built for satire, especially in this distracted age. Context and meaning can't keep pace with accelerated media, so the stage belongs to the loud, the literal, and the obvious. Satire requires reflection, not selfies. Education and knowledge help, too, but let's not get greedy.<br />
<br />
Satire is an extension of will; it doesn't exist the way popular comedy does. Space must be carved out, grain gone against. In the wake of the Paris massacre, some say that satire is a universal right. In a corrupt, violent world, no right is guaranteed, something that earlier satirists recognized, and Charlie Hebdo's staff presumably understands.<br />
<br />
Satire is not medicine, it's mockery; and when you mock those who deserve it, reaction is possible, though ideally not via bullets. Depends on who you're mocking. The smart response is none at all, leaving the jokes to wither. Corporate co-optation works as well. Ask a few SNL alums.<br />
<br />
Attacking the powerless while calling it satire is perhaps the crudest approach. In many cases it's educated, fairly privileged humorists who find marginalization hilarious. The upside, I suppose, is that few of those under attack have any idea that they're being mocked. They're not part of the same, smart crowds. I've been in both worlds. Different oxygen.<br />
<br />
In closing, I leave you with the only Muslim joke I've written, which was delivered by (surprise!) Bill Maher. It dealt with Mike Tyson's prison conversion, and it received laughter, a few stray claps and groans. My favorite combo:<br />
<br />
"Mike Tyson was released from prison this week, and as you know, he is now a Muslim. Tyson is considering two opportunities: he's either going to fight Riddick Bowe, or kill Salman Rushdie."<br />
<br />
That's my time. I'll be here all week, not answering my phone.Dennis Perrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11172130276552085506noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7427419078675306654.post-70048503126935299132014-08-10T07:29:00.001-04:002015-01-13T07:36:59.256-05:00Downfall II: Oval Delirium<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKXYu8BDUrWb_jF2ZdiMXvakgLKQo89pBhqsm_HQVHrOXaYV3Kd2f0Yck7N1nfXthX3C1ZI0WyUouoghM8UVaDSDqLivO2DmEABsBS3bS3VHFkHPKMhEaQn4ZfJTeVkcMhUbu_0LoLz8Ye/s1600/richard-nixon-vsign.jpg" height=265 width=420><br />
<br />
Watched NIXON BY NIXON: IN HIS OWN WORDS on HBO. If you need a reminder of what criminals presidents are, check it out.<br />
<br />
I remember Nixon in real time. He resigned when I was 14, my liberal stepmother choking up and feeling sorry for him as he quit in self-pity.<br />
<br />
Fuck him, I thought. I knew little about politics then, but I recognized nastiness when I saw it. (Plus, my mother and stepfather were big fans, as were their friends, so that added to the indictment.)<br />
<br />
As American politics verged to the right, with Clinton and Obama appropriating and implementing reactionary policies, Nixon seemed in retrospect almost benign. But his taped conversations reveal him for the venal piece of shit he was.<br />
<br />
Anti-Semitism. Misogyny. Racism. Queer bashing. A complete disregard of and active hostility to political pluralism. And perhaps most distasteful of all, bloodlust for the Vietnamese.<br />
<br />
The blood on Nixon's hands hardened into crust. Kissinger's too; listening to his banal endorsement of carpet bombing is particularly sickening. But it was Nixon who set the bar.<br />
<br />
He berates his generals for not being savage enough. He openly wishes he could wipe out Vietnam altogether -- "level it," as he repeatedly says. None of his aides dissent. All go along with the slaughter.<br />
<br />
None of this brought down Nixon. However weary the country was with Vietnam, it was regarded as standard, if misguided, policy. Only when Nixon attacked a powerful target did his political career collapse.<br />
<br />
Unlike antiwar dissidents, the Democratic Party had serious mainstream pull. It was one thing to spy on the Black Panthers and the Yippies; it was quite another to wiretap people connected to corporate and private wealth.<br />
<br />
Early on, Nixon brushes off Watergate. At best it'll be a footnote. But after his re-election, more and more emerges about the operation. Nixon can't believe it. He rails like a madman in his bunker, seeing enemies everywhere.<br />
<br />
They did exist. Nixon had baited powerful people for too long, and this was their revenge.<br />
<br />
Of course, Nixon was never punished for his crimes. US presidents never are. He was allowed to retire and write books about grand strategies. His apologists appeared throughout the media, scolding us for destroying a great man.<br />
<br />
Nixon destroyed himself. He became a cautionary tale for future presidents. (Iran/contra was much worse than Watergate, yet Reagan survived untouched. Appropriately enough, they named an airport after him.) Still, imagine how Nixon would enjoy Obama's NSA and drone wars.<br />
<br />
He'd be right at home, along with the rest of us.Dennis Perrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11172130276552085506noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7427419078675306654.post-6763610430501571292013-04-15T14:30:00.002-04:002014-08-10T07:13:22.963-04:00The Other Johnny AceI loved Jonathan Winters. I share some of that love in <a href="http://splitsider.com/2013/04/there-will-never-be-another-jonathan-winters/" target="_blank">my latest Splitsider piece</a>. Or peace. Dennis Perrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11172130276552085506noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7427419078675306654.post-54022081581473138472013-04-12T06:30:00.001-04:002014-08-10T07:14:10.250-04:00Here, Queer, Etc. <img src="http://www.greenprophet.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/05/blindfold-typing-contest-france-climate-change.jpg" height=280 width=410><br />
<br />
Un-friending someone on Facebook is the new Fuck You.<br />
<br />
Social media has forged fraudulent ties. Relationships based on fantasy and nostalgia. A delicate ephemeral balance. Upset that, watch anger rain down.<br />
<br />
I discovered this recently after banishing a handful of Facebook friends. Some for being boring. One for racist jokes. One relative (we've since reconnected). And my ex-wife.<br />
<br />
It took her nearly two weeks to notice, but when she did, she expressed shock. <i>Why?!</i> What did it <i>mean</i>? It seemed to her an act of aggression.<br />
<br />
Not quite. Fact is, I'm currently writing about her and us in JANITORGOD, my next book. My ex haunts me more than I care to admit. Getting it down is ripping me up.<br />
<br />
This is a good thing. Necessary and long overdue. Dealing with her on Facebook clouded my creative judgment. So, click click, goodbye!<br />
<br />
Many of you have asked if I've done the same thing with this space. For a time, yes. The idea of blogging bored me. What more to say?<br />
<br />
I've put most of my creative juice into the book, with energy leftover for casual Tweets. This sharpened my focus and prose. I look at old posts, disgusted by the fat. Taking a break was the right move.<br />
<br />
Does this mean I'm back? Maybe. Depends on my mood.<br />
<br />
There's so much pious bullshit to counter. America has always been cracked, but the symptoms are getting worse. We truly are a lunatic nation.<br />
<br />
Who wants to immerse themselves in that? There's no real escape, but one can lower the temperature. A bit, anyway. The flames still burn.<br />
<br />
<b>Speaking of friends</b>, I've reconnected with Mark Neely, whom I knew in my early NYC days.<br />
<br />
Mark was a working actor. Appeared on TV and in films (he's Julia Louis-Dreyfus' boyfriend in SOUL MAN). He introduced me to 1920s jazz. Had an intense, infectious laugh.<br />
<br />
Mark and I laughed a lot together. His sense of humor was even weirder than mine.<br />
<br />
He'd made several short films for his amusement. I must have watched them a dozen times. Then he suggested we make one together.<br />
<br />
It was largely an improvised shoot. We were inspired by the early Keystone shorts. Comedies made in public with passersby staring into the camera and at the actors.<br />
<br />
It's an odd little movie. Not much to it. Brings back memories of that time more than it raises laughs.<br />
<br />
I lived on the Upper East Side with my girlfriend Mary. We were macrobiotic, which explains my rail-thin figure.<br />
<br />
I performed improv in the West Village. Was about to write my first Letterman submission. Thought I was the shit.<br />
<br />
Within a year, Mary left me. I moved to LA and wrote for Ray Combs, staying for a time with Mark. Life seemed more serious out there.<br />
<br />
Hoo haw.<br />
<br />
Anyway, here it is. Shot in September 1984. A few weeks before I turned 25. My Echo and the Bunnymen haircut was growing out. And at 1:18, I was nearly hit by a car. Art!<br />
<br />
<iframe width="400" height="310" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/3SANZlDC9d4?list=UUrew5_QsBv8LzsiqlsC-tPw" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Dennis Perrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11172130276552085506noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7427419078675306654.post-50868872775420425892012-12-07T14:27:00.001-05:002013-04-15T14:31:43.156-04:00As SNL FadesLast Monday, I popped up to NYC to attend a memorial for Tom Davis in SNL's Studio 8H. It was a very emotional evening, in more ways than one. <a href="http://splitsider.com/2012/12/saying-goodbye-to-tom-davis-and-letting-go-of-snl/" target="_blank">Here's how I saw it</a>. <br />
Dennis Perrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11172130276552085506noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7427419078675306654.post-47257976948249047382012-11-26T09:55:00.001-05:002013-04-12T06:25:38.307-04:00Mystic Memory Chords<img src="http://www.google.com/url?source=imglanding&ct=img&q=http://www.joblo.com/newsimages1/lincoln-daniel-day-lewis-rain.jpg&sa=X&ei=Nn6zUNT0CKa-0QHEloEQ&ved=0CAoQ8wc&usg=AFQjCNF8N9Z01isueJai7IzJNgesQAC1uQ" height=271 width=410><br />
<br />
My hair smelled like ketchup for a week.<br />
<br />
To animate a fifth grade history report, I staged a reenactment of Lincoln's assassination. Promises of stage glory snared fellow students; but since it was my script, I got to play Lincoln.<br />
<br />
A girl I had a crush on was in this class. Janet was ahead of the other girls in overall maturity. She seemed like a woman to me. Impressing her required Method-like attention to detail.<br />
<br />
It was a compressed production. I breezed through Lincoln's more memorable quotes, fake beard, construction paper stovepipe hat, and long overcoat adding to the effect.<br />
<br />
Then came the action sequence. Sitting on a foldout chair watching an invisible play, my Lincoln nodded appreciatively, unaware of lurking doom. The kid who played John Wilkes Booth had trouble with the cap pistol in rehearsal, and I feared that his ineptitude would ruin the crucial moment.<br />
<br />
Thankfully, the pistol fired, making a loud pop. Concealed in my hand was a glob of ketchup. I slapped my head in reaction to the shot, ketchup squirting through my fingers and onto the floor. A low <i>ohhh</i> came from the students. I caught a quick glimpse of Janet smiling.<br />
<br />
Go to black. Battle Hymn of the Republic plays on a cassette machine. Behind a partition I wrapped my head in a white cloth soaked with ketchup. Lights slowly up. I'm lying on a bench serving as a death bed. The kid over me said "Now he belongs to the ages" as my head slumped to the side, ketchup dripping on the tile.<br />
<br />
Dennis Perrin's Sam Peckinpah's Lincoln.<br />
<br />
My teacher thought I'd sacrificed historical importance for special effects, but the kids seemed to like it. Until the next day and several days after that.<br />
<br />
"Your hair stinks, Perrin! Ever hear of shampoo?"<br />
<br />
Yes, but it took over a week to finally erase the smell. By then, whatever minor inroads I'd made with Janet vanished. But skinny nerdy Shannon with glasses and retainer followed me around for a bit.<br />
<br />
Growing up, Lincoln was shoved in our faces, far more than any other president. At the time of my staging, Nixon was president, so Lincoln stood in even sharper relief.<br />
<br />
No one I knew questioned Lincoln's greatness. It took Gore Vidal to show his darker side, drawn largely from Lincoln's law partner and friend William Herndon. This inspired nasty reactions from what Vidal called the "Lincoln priests," academics devoted to a more uplifting version of Honest Abe.<br />
<br />
In the end, it seems the Lincoln priests have won. Obama's shameless evocation of Lincoln provided them fresh juice, and I suspected that Steven Spielberg and Tony Kushner channeled this into their film.<br />
<br />
Much of it is there. As others have noted, Spielberg bathes Lincoln in near-holy light. The monument made flesh. Lincoln's haggard, worn features seem to glow. He is man, myth, and deity.<br />
<br />
But that's lighting and framing. Daniel Day-Lewis gives Lincoln unprecedented life. Not even Sam Waterston's 1988 revisionist portrayal comes close.<br />
<br />
Day-Lewis' Lincoln speaks in a higher register than previous interpretations, rural twang evident but not overwhelming. According to Herndon, Lincoln and wife Mary Todd engaged in furious arguments. Day-Lewis and Sally Field's recreation is absolutely riveting. A pissed off Lincoln must have been intimidating. But it appears that Mary Todd gave as good as she got.<br />
<br />
Hints of the reluctant abolitionist Lincoln are present, yet Spielberg and Kushner spend more time on the passage of the 13th Amendment than on Lincoln's view of slavery. This frees Day-Lewis to concentrate on personality instead of politics. And he does a damn fine job of it.<br />
<br />
I ended up liking this Lincoln more than I'd imagined. He was, as Vidal showed, an ambitious, depressed, brilliant man. I doubt that many American moviegoers would enjoy or appreciate Vidal's version. But the thought of Day-Lewis playing <i>that</i> Lincoln entices beyond words.<br />
<br />
As for the politics of the film, I recommend friend <a href="http://coreyrobin.com/2012/11/25/steven-spielbergs-white-men-of-democracy/" target="_blank">Corey Robin's essay and links</a>. For me, Spielberg's Lincoln was an entertaining historical drama that stirred warm feelings I thought long ago dead.<br />
<br />
The boy who loved American history remains. Ketchup bottle in hand. Dennis Perrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11172130276552085506noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7427419078675306654.post-79275180719520137242012-11-18T09:12:00.000-05:002012-11-26T09:32:20.842-05:00Blood On The Wind<img src="http://samsonblinded.org/news/wp-content/uploads/HLIC/b5e74d7c9903be13af7c4e989b3af7ea.jpg" height=320 width=400><br />
<br />
All state leaders are crazy to one extent or another. Part of the gig. Impossible to avoid.<br />
<br />
But Benjamin Netanyahu enjoys his own personal brand. He's easily one of the most unbalanced men currently in power.<br />
<br />
Netanyahu seems to enjoy his reputation. He takes great relish in meting out murderous violence, justifying it with a sly grin. His hatred and contempt for the Palestinians is unmatched.<br />
<br />
A great number of Israelis appreciate and support Netanyahu's act, which is why he has no hesitation in terrorizing Gaza. It wins him votes, sharpens his renown.<br />
<br />
The cruel irony is that every time Israel flips out, it further weakens its ultimate power. Without US protection, money and weapons, Israel would be in worse shape. It's not doing well as it is.<br />
<br />
Would a humbled Israel behave more humanely? I've read arguments that say yes, but I doubt it. At least in the short run. It's hard to turn off a killing machine that essentially defines your culture. Changing a brutal nationalist mindset is tougher still.<br />
<br />
So, for the time being, we have a heavily-armed rogue state doing pretty much what it wants without fear of serious repercussions. This forces its backers to beat and strangle the truth more than they usually do, primarily in the States.<br />
<br />
Major media reporting on Gaza isn't just bad, it's macabre. To hear the New York Times, NPR or CNN tell it, <i>Israel</i> is the nation under siege. Like London during the blitz. Gazan firepower is relentless and forever deadly. How embattled Israelis hold up under such pressure is a testament to their strong values and national pride.<br />
<br />
This narrative has been in place since I first wrote and spoke about the Middle East over 20 years ago. Time has not been kind to the official narrative; more and more people have studied the actual history, spread further by social media.<br />
<br />
Instead of democratizing major media minds, this expanding awareness compels corporate outlets to pound harder the official narrative. The result is beyond ridiculous. Reporters and commentators appear as liars and fools. Since they serve interests more lucrative than truth, I doubt this keeps them up nights.<br />
<br />
Also, anti-Palestinian racism plays a large role, but unlike the stale narrative, that hatred remains fresh.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, the slaughter continues on our dime and with our acquiescence. Reactionaries love Israeli violence, especially if it coincides with Biblical "prophecy." Liberals are too in love with Obama to raise their meek voices.<br />
<br />
That leaves the rest of us. Whoever we are.Dennis Perrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11172130276552085506noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7427419078675306654.post-63823104977047299692012-11-13T12:13:00.000-05:002012-11-18T08:42:10.753-05:00Second Time As Tragedy<img src="http://worldofwonder.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/03/Obama-Quiet-on-ENDA1.jpg" height=290 width=400><br />
<br />
Spent the final week of election season in Paris. Apart from peeks at CNN Europe and the BBC, I was mercifully free of American hysteria.<br />
<br />
Taxi drivers preferred Obama over Romney, whom they'd never heard of until recently. But overall there was indifference to the contest. American electoral politics appeared distant and strange to them. They didn't display the envy our media insist is shared globally. Instead, I envied their detachment.<br />
<br />
Obama won easily, as this space predicted months ago. I told liberal friends to relax, that their flawed savior would sail to victory. They didn't want to hear it. Many whipped themselves into bizarre frenzies, fretting about the coming Romney Reich, the GOP Gestapo, and related apocalyptic visions.<br />
<br />
I know that contemporary liberalism defines itself primarily through fear, but this was borderline insane. An Obama supporter emailed to ask that I stop predicting Obama's win. "You're scaring me," she said. I replied that she was scaring herself. She said that kind of thinking might jinx the outcome.<br />
<br />
That's what amused me most about the election: I absolutely despise Obama's behavior, yet I had more confidence in his campaign than most of the Democrats I know.<br />
<br />
Once the inevitable occurred, liberals became as delirious as they had been afraid. Suddenly, everything was right. They knew it all along. Americans weren't as stupid as they had assumed.<br />
<br />
In reality, nothing changed. A few hours after his victory, Obama bombed Yemen, killing who knows how many people (or "terrorists" as the bodies are officially tagged). The next day he began pitching his Grand Bargain, a new deal where Medicare and Social Security are expected to receive the kind of cuts that Dems warned would happen had Romney won.<br />
<br />
The rest of Obama's corporatist agenda, from widening surveillance to extrajudicial executions to privatizing public education, is laid out before him. He's free to be the Real Barack, which he's pretty much been up to now.<br />
<br />
There will be no significant liberal resistance to this. Unlike Obama's first term, when libs could feign a betrayed innocence, there is no hiding from what is obvious. Obama's grisly record can be justified, explained away, downplayed or ignored, but it cannot be suppressed.<br />
<br />
Obama is the first true 21st century president: a corporate technocrat streamlining authoritarian rule. Eventually, a Republican president will be elected to enjoy the expansive power Obama has given the office. Liberals might take notice then, but it'll be more about personality than policy. <br />
<br />
Hate the sinner. Tolerate the sin. Dennis Perrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11172130276552085506noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7427419078675306654.post-76140284370551891012012-11-06T08:07:00.001-05:002012-12-07T14:24:02.449-05:00Suffocate The VoteThe happiest day of every four years is here! Feel the pride! Love the envy! Drink and sob at the returns! <br />
<br />
Fear not -- I'll probably write something once the glorious high has faded. Until then, luxuriate in my mellifluous voice as Doug Lain asks <a href="http://douglaslain.net/diet-soap-podcast-162-election-day-blues-blue-sky/" target="_blank">what makes US elections so goddamned special</a>. Then, as an added treat, <a href="https://twitter.com/DennisThePerrin" target="_blank">I'll be live Tweeting</a> the countdown to Obama 2.0 sometime after cocktail hour. So all of your Perrin needs are met.<br />
<br />
Now get out there and make America even better -- or crazier. The Founders are watching. Don't test their wrath.Dennis Perrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11172130276552085506noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7427419078675306654.post-45272093759483724562012-10-11T13:32:00.002-04:002012-11-13T11:54:37.628-05:00This Could Be Heaven <img src="http://www.google.com/url?source=imglanding&ct=img&q=http://images.triplem.com.au/2010/10/19/475563/john-lydon-tony-mott-rock-photos-gallery-600x400.jpg&sa=X&ei=YgF3UNiJAbS50AGx_oC4DA&ved=0CAkQ8wc4KA&usg=AFQjCNF81Nooyd6kSs3xo7tpvNgIhhSkkQ" height=240 width=400><br />
<br />
A young woman leans on the barricade facing the stage. She resembles Bjork. Short ginger hair. Blank expression. She wears a tight sweater, cowgirl skirt and saddle shoes.<br />
<br />
To her right, an older man, perhaps my age. White beard. Bald. He wears a tan suit with brown tie. He reaches for the young woman's hand. Squeezes it. She smiles, stares ahead.<br />
<br />
I don't know if they're lovers, relatives, doctor and patient. There's a coolness to their affection. They say nothing to each other, but seem close.<br />
<br />
I wasn't sure who would show up to see Public Image Ltd. While the band, in its prime, represented post-punk experimentation, PiL has long been John Lydon's solo act.<br />
<br />
Lydon's evolved past the snot-faced caricature that defined his early years. Genuine passion remains, though it surfaces in unexpected ways. <br />
<br />
His tearful reaction to Donna Summer's death might have surprised those still hooked on his Rotten persona, but in the long view made sense.<br />
<br />
Summer and Lydon hit the zeitgeist at roughly the same time, yet back then, you wouldn't have connected the two. When Lydon praised Summer's originality and power, he meant it. One wonders if young Rotten secretly listened to "Last Dance."<br />
<br />
The club fills up. Middle-aged fans in PiL t-shirts. Young people with spiked dyed coifs in black leather jackets, plaid pants, Doc Marten boots. <br />
<br />
It's the kids who make me smile. Not only are they latching on to their parents' music, they resemble mascots at a punk rock theme park.<br />
<br />
Few people I knew back in the day could afford such threads. There were some who adopted the safety pin look, but most wore what they owned: t-shirts, ripped jeans, scuffed boots.<br />
<br />
Lydon has consistently dismissed the standard punk uniform, urging his fans to be individuals. Clearly, many of these kids either missed or simply ignored Lydon's pleas. They want to play punk dress up, based on the stereotypes from that period.<br />
<br />
Why not? Given what young people face, there are more destructive modes of escape. Besides, in our post-post-post world, what is timeless and what is tired?<br />
<br />
Lights dim. The reggae playing overhead fades. PiL takes the stage. The audience loses it.<br />
<br />
I'm right in front of Lydon. Maybe 20 feet away. This is the first time I've seen him in person. I'm genuinely thrilled.<br />
<br />
PiL plays songs from their new album. Many people around me, primarily the kids, sing along. They know the new stuff.<br />
<br />
But I'm not really listening to the music. I'm studying Lydon.<br />
<br />
For a man in his mid-50s carrying a paunch, Lydon's spry. He attacks the mike, voice soaring, crashing, screeching along. He uses every octave he owns, sometimes reaching for sounds that defy categorization.<br />
<br />
Whatever else you can say about him, Lydon doesn't phone it in on stage. His facial muscles clench and twist. His eyes pop open, his hard stare impossible to deflect.<br />
<br />
We lock eyes a lot during that two-hour show. For Lydon, I'm sure that most audience faces are interchangeable. For me, it's exciting and a bit nerve wracking.<br />
<br />
Staring into Lydon's eyes is not a calming experience. You plug directly into him, get a taste of his mad energy.<br />
<br />
I search for early Lydon in those eyes. Johnny Rotten as the Pistols fell apart. But my projection is thwarted by Lydon in the moment. There's no nostalgia present. He is as you see him. And that's plenty.<br />
<br />
PiL launches into "Albatross," "Flowers of Romance," "Religion" and "Chant." Nostalgia overtakes me. I sing along, heavy bass vibration pounding my chest. I cease staring at Lydon and let the music consume me. For the first time in ages, I'm transported among strangers.<br />
<br />
Then the band plays "Rise," one of my least favorite PiL songs. But I'm in an extreme minority. The crowd screams, applauds, and led by Lydon sings to the rafters.<br />
<br />
"ANGER IS AN ENERGY!" they shout again and again as Lydon conducts them. But they aren't emitting anger. They're deliriously happy.<br />
<br />
In this space, anger is a lyric. A concept that applies elsewhere. Everyone is in a smiling, wavy trance.<br />
<br />
After an extended encore, PiL finally stops. Lydon, who has said very little between songs, tells us, "We do this because we love it. We're happy you shared it with us. Goodnight."<br />
<br />
Love is an energy, too. Tie me to the length of that. <br />
<br />
(Photo by <a href="http://www.tonymott.com/" target="_blank">Tony Mott</a>) Dennis Perrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11172130276552085506noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7427419078675306654.post-85218752363549153992012-09-27T08:32:00.000-04:002012-11-13T11:54:42.688-05:00All Crowds Left<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRaKcgomKPWxlR2P2zjF2cJhcIAVFufIcDIDhpnZd108O4_Wbg8wy10eJghV3HqMwu0rXgYhgwBSZKfgvQHlPOdzKQSzYOLTERcIxbLvXiAFzXyfvhvo7nz69R7ApHL3qZIyWN4DpaY0Vl/s1600/Cockburn+Postcard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="254" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRaKcgomKPWxlR2P2zjF2cJhcIAVFufIcDIDhpnZd108O4_Wbg8wy10eJghV3HqMwu0rXgYhgwBSZKfgvQHlPOdzKQSzYOLTERcIxbLvXiAFzXyfvhvo7nz69R7ApHL3qZIyWN4DpaY0Vl/s400/Cockburn+Postcard.jpg" /></a></div>(<b>Postcard from Alexander Cockburn, 1988</b>)<br />
<br />
Steve Rendall reminded me. Not that I needed it. But it was nice.<br />
<br />
I met Steve around 1988. He brought musical energy to FAIR, the media group that was then my home. He smiled, had intensity, and with guitar sang.<br />
<br />
We were part of a loose-fitting close-knit family. Lots of love and plenty of fights. We had opinions. Issues. <br />
<br />
Central America wars. The anti-apartheid struggle. Emerging Palestinian rights. AIDS activism.<br />
<br />
These were on the front burners. This is what provoked us.<br />
<br />
The 80s were a golden radical time, Steve said. We were all engaged, determined, and decidedly younger.<br />
<br />
Despite the obvious nostalgic lure, I tend to agree with Steve. Dissent went wider and deeper than in the 60s. A bustling alternative culture emerged. This included journalism and polemics.<br />
<br />
Alexander Cockburn had a big hand in that. His Nation column was perhaps the most radical of that time. Stylish, penetrating, at times maddening. But singular.<br />
<br />
Last Saturday night in Brooklyn, there was a memorial for Cockburn organized by his niece Laura Flanders, held in her partner Elizabeth Streb's performance space, SLAM.<br />
<br />
Old timers' night in young, hipster Williamsburg.<br />
<br />
I've never attended a high school reunion. The memorial was as close as I'll probably get.<br />
<br />
Numerous friends, family and comrades shared personal anecdotes and read passages from Cockburn's work. Not all of it came across smoothly. Cockburn's words need some theatrical flourish to fully soar, but several people stumbled on sentences or were barely heard.<br />
<br />
Others conjured Alex's spirit. Kevin Alexander Gray humorously recalled Cockburn's love of Southern barbecue and classic American cars. Noam Chomsky spoke of when he and Cockburn sang ballads in an Irish pub. Alex's daughter Daisy played a sweet song that she sang to her father on his deathbed.<br />
<br />
Steve and Laura read from Cockburn's 1982 parody of the MacNeil/Lehrer Report -- "The Tedium Twins." Beforehand, I suggested that Steve try to mimic Jim Lehrer's voice, offering my interpretation. But like Tom Braden, a Lehrer impression is lost to the ages. Steve opted for straight naturalism.<br />
<br />
Toward the end, the Cockburn family took over the proceedings. They are a striking bunch. Confident. Intelligent. Intimate. They exude an air of entitlement, yet are approachable. They appreciate classical tenors and gritty blues singers. They trash the empire while embracing much of Americana.<br />
<br />
I envied them back in the day. What was it like to grow up in a literate, politicized environment where you were expected to form and express opinions? To share in a distinctive tradition?<br />
<br />
I couldn't imagine it. Another reality. I got a close glimpse over a number of years, but the Cockburn mystique remained distant. At least to me.<br />
<br />
Afterward, I reconnected with a number of old political friends and colleagues. Talked briefly with Andrew Cockburn, Tariq Ali, and Noam, whose mind remains sharp as his body slows down. <br />
<br />
Then I hooked up with James Wolcott, whose <a href="http://www.vanityfair.com/online/wolcott/2012/07/The-Summer-of-So-Many-Sad-Goodbyes" target="_blank">remembrance of Cockburn remains among the best</a>.<br />
<br />
Jim joined me, Scott P. and Laura G. in a car ride back to Manhattan. We discussed the NFL's degradation, Burt Reynolds movies, forgotten comedians like Shecky Greene and Pat McCormick, JonBenét Ramsey, and whether or not Robert Blake was guilty of murder.<br />
<br />
Another slice of Americana. Something Alex C. might have appreciated. Dennis Perrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11172130276552085506noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7427419078675306654.post-22744819326706449102012-08-15T11:46:00.000-04:002012-11-13T11:54:55.969-05:00Keeping It Down<img src="http://bit.ly/NpzgFX" height=368 width=368><br />
<br />
August is a slow month. Not for me, but certainly for this site.<br />
<br />
Do I want to write about the election? No. Have I jumped on a chair in reaction to Paul Ryan? No. Do I especially care who wins in November? Not really (though it'll be Obama).<br />
<br />
You see my dilemma. Sure, I could opine about numerous topics. I could even get retro and write satirical, whimsical posts. But I'm just not feeling it.<br />
<br />
Part of it is me finishing this manuscript. Part of it is social fatigue. There's so much partisan noise, so many ugly opinions, that I prefer to pull back.<br />
<br />
Do any of you ever feel this way?<br />
<br />
The Summer of Death recently added Robert Hughes and Mark O'Donnell to the pile. I've enjoyed much of Hughes' work, though at times his art critiques were too conservative for me. And I'm bored with older white men trashing what they consider PC. Fake heroics from a privileged perch.<br />
<br />
O'Donnell was a noted playwright and humorist felled by a heart attack. He was only 58. I have friends who knew him well. He came to my Mr. Mike book party and asked me to sign his copy. He was friendly in an odd way. I wasn't sure if he was putting me on, but in those days I drank gin. That shit fucks with your head.<br />
<br />
I'll return relatively soon. Until then, <a href="https://twitter.com/DennisThePerrin" target="_blank">follow my Twitter feed</a>, and try to be nice to each other. Aloha. Dennis Perrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11172130276552085506noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7427419078675306654.post-23848223886138474982012-08-01T14:31:00.001-04:002012-08-15T11:31:47.558-04:00Whom No Man Will Ever Possess<img src="http://bit.ly/OoVcfK" height=370 width=370><br />
<br />
Gore Vidal taught me how to write a sentence. Not through diagrams or how-to manuals, but through his voluminous work.<br />
<br />
Many samples exist; but for me the opening chapters of Myra Breckinridge are about as perfect as one can get. Sharp. Precise. Vivid. Myra still inspires.<br />
<br />
At the height of Vidal's influence I scored Mr. Mike, which owes much to his example. Perhaps too much. I took a literary approach to what most comedy fans view as passing entertainment. A friend suggested I go more in a Nick Tosches direction. Maybe he was right.<br />
<br />
Vidal introduced me to writers like Dawn Powell, Montaigne, Logan Pearsall Smith, William Dean Howells, Elaine Dundy, George Meredith, George Saintsbury, and V.S. Pritchett. If Vidal liked them, then they must be good. And they are.<br />
<br />
Politically, Vidal was more gadfly than activist or philosopher, but he made a mark. Sometimes in TV spats with William F. Buckley and Pat Buchanan. Sometimes as an acerbic guest on Johnny Carson and Merv Griffin's shows. Sometimes by saying quizzical, if not deplorable, things.<br />
<br />
His appeal to the Caucasian race to unify against the rising Asian hegemon seemed bizarre. He said it was a satirical critique of white people, but it didn't read that way. His coarse attack on Roman Polanski's rape victim was morally tone deaf.<br />
<br />
On the positive side, Vidal took on the Israel Firsters at a time when few dared engage them. Some of Vidal's fans winced, worried that he slid into anti-Semitism. I never got that impression.<br />
<br />
If he was a Jew hater, then his longtime partner Howard Austen, his close friends Jason and Barbara Epstein, and his Nation editor Victor Navasky had serious self-image problems. He tweaked Norman Podhoretz and Midge Decter by using their polemical style against them. Poddy and Midge weren't amused, but they weren't known for their sense of humor.<br />
<br />
As a prognosticator, Vidal was more miss than hit. Mercifully, many of his predictions did not come true, save for the decline of the American empire and our expanding police state. That's so obvious it's boring. Still, whenever Vidal mentioned this to TV interviewers, they invariably scratched their heads, as if wondering just how insane Vidal was.<br />
<br />
In the end, it's about the work. Vidal left us with plenty. I own 30 of his collections, memoirs, novels, pamphlets, inventions. More than any other writer on my shelves. My one regret is that I never met him.<br />
<br />
I came close twice, through friends with access. Neither opportunity panned out. I did meet and talk briefly with Norman Mailer, who had no influence on me whatsoever. Mailer was nice, but I would have preferred to shake hands with his friend and sometime nemesis.<br />
<br />
So this will have to do. Thanks, Gore. They don't write like you anymore. Perhaps they never did.Dennis Perrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11172130276552085506noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7427419078675306654.post-45787492165041681022012-07-31T10:22:00.000-04:002012-08-01T14:20:29.244-04:00Afghanistan Lost<img src="http://bit.ly/T1WEIk" height=260 width=400><br />
<b>Cockburn at the Village Voice (Photo: Sylvia Plachy)</b><br />
<br />
Several younger friends of mine have been searching for Alexander Cockburn's infamous Afghanistan column from 1980. Bits of it appear online, but no one I know has unearthed the entire thing.<br />
<br />
Lucky for them I have a thick file of early Cockburn clips. Some are faded and frayed. A few have been nibbled by mice. A handful are in excellent shape. But the Afghanistan piece is too worn to adequately scan, so I went old school and typed it up. By hand. Word for word. <br />
<br />
I've also included Cockburn's follow-up a week later. In full. If this doesn't show you my love, then you need extensive therapy. <br />
<br />
<b>Press Clips<br />
Village Voice<br />
January 21, 1980<br />
<br />
Iowa and Afghanistan<br />
by Alexander Cockburn</b><br />
<br />
We all have to go one day, but pray God let it not be over Afghanistan. An unspeakable country filled with unspeakable people, sheepshaggers and smugglers, who have furnished in their leisure hours some of the worst arts and crafts ever to penetrate the occidental world.<br />
<br />
I yield to none in my sympathy to those prostrate beneath the Russian jackboot, but if ever a country deserved rape it's Afghanistan. Nothing but mountains filled with barbarous ethnics with views as medieval as their muskets. and unspeakably cruel too.<br />
<br />
As a boy I read English Victorian child's fiction. The British had a hard time in Afghanistan in the florid era of the Great Game. They rushed into Afghanistan and soon realized their dreadful mistake. Adulterers were punished by having thorns inserted in their penises, and piteous were the roars of young dragoons stumbling in agony across the mountain peaks.<br />
<br />
Your Afghan's idea of a jolly good time is to cut off the balls of his foe, stuff them in his mouth and leave him as an object of derision in the local square. The British found this out, as they retreated pellmell across the passes, and so too has Ivan.<br />
<br />
The worst sort of hippie globetrotter always found his way to Kabul and loitered there, mingling his own form of occidental vileness with matching oriental hospitality.<br />
<br />
But why do the Afghans get a good press all the same? Because they are mountain folk, naturally. People who live amid mountains are always conceived of as more attuned to the mode of freedom than those who live in meadows, plains, valleys and other less craggy facilities. Mountain folk are always "fiercely independent," whereas plains or valley people tend to be "docile."<br />
<br />
It's odd to think that these Afghans, who do not even have the skill -- despite every conceivable advantage -- to produce rivals in senility to the old men of Azerbaijan, are dictating the course of the US elections. Yet out in Iowa the politicians were talking of Afghanistan at every turn. The Belgium of our days.<br />
<br />
But there we are. President Carter needs to win the Iowa caucuses, which means that matching funds have to go to Pakistan. The Iranian crisis would be solved tomorrow and the hostages released if the US merely indicated its interest in the possibility of a UN forum for examining the crimes of the Shah. But in the new age of guns before butter, such tractability is out of the question.<br />
<br />
The state of the union address planned by Carter, and only by the agency of O'Neill and Byrd still scheduled for after the Iowa caucuses, will inaugurate the new era of military boondoggle, armadas speeding their way to the Indian Ocean, and the globe armor-plated in steel.<br />
<br />
<b>Press Clips<br />
Village Voice<br />
January 28, 1980<br />
<br />
Again Afghanistan<br />
by Alexander Cockburn</b><br />
<br />
Some, who have never set foot among the <i>Pushtoons</i>, nor rambled in the Hindu Kush, were offended by my remarks about Afghanistan last week. My observations stemmed from an impatience with the notion of "freedom-loving rebels of Afghanistan," as expressed by <i>US</i> politicians and journalists, combining ignorance, hypocrisy and the renewed cold war fever.<br />
<br />
But never go for irony. People take you seriously. For the record, there are good Afghans as well as bad ones, and many of them were behind Taraki in 1978. There was even a good Afghan king, Amanullah, an excellent emblem of progress in the 1920s, who declared back then that "the keystone of the future structure of the new Afghanistan will be the emancipation of women" and whose wife Soraya was the first urban Afghan woman to appear unveiled in public. He was deposed in 1929 and ended his days in exile in Italy in 1960.<br />
<br />
Fans of the 1911 Encyclopedia Britannica should know that Sir Henry Yule was far more intemperate than I. But then he presumably supported the disastrous British expeditions. He wrote, with considerable emotion: "The Afghans, inured to bloodshed from childhood, are familiar with death, and are audacious in attack, but easily discouraged by failure; excessively turbulent and unsubmissive to law or discipline; apparently frank and affable in manner, especially when they hope to gain some object, but capable of the grossest brutality when that hope ceases. They are unscrupulous in perjury, treacherous, vain, and insatiable, passionate in vindictiveness, which they will satisfy at the cost of their own lives and in the most cruel manner. Nowhere is crime committed on such trifling grounds, or with such general impunity, though when it is punished the punishment is atrocious. Among themselves the Afghans are quarrelsome, intriguing, and distrustful; estrangements and affrays are of constant occurrence; the traveler conceals and misrepresents the time and direction of his journey. The Afghan is by breed and nature a bird of prey. If from habit and tradition he respects a stranger within his threshold, he yet considers it legitimate to warn a neighbor of the prey that is afoot, or even to overtaken and plunder his guest after he has quitted his roof. The repression of crime and the demand of taxation he regards alike as tyranny. The Afghans are eternally boasting of their lineage, their independence, and their prowess. They look on the Afghans as the first of nations, and each man looks on himself as the equal of any Afghan."<br />
<br />
Thus an old imperial Britisher. We progress of course . . . to Emmett Tyrrell in The American Spectator: "On November 4, the <i>Rev. Mr. Ruhollah Khomeini</i> returned to the TV screens of America. Life in old Qom can grow tedious, especially if one is surrounded by idiot mullahs and the abysmal yokels who aspire to mullah-dom, so the Holy Man set his bovine followers upon the U.S. embassy . . ." This passes for Menckenesque wit.<br />
<br />
The trouble is that Carter and the Rev will soon be allies, which will call for a dressing of the epithets. Perhaps we should be that the hostages will be freed by the Persian New Year, on March 21. Today's fanatic is tomorrow's friend.<br />
<br />
Item of curiosity: Newsweek, this week at least, is more restrained and even moderate than Time, which has reverted to true Fifties form. Read, too, Hugh Sidey and marvel that human hands could type such tripe. Monkeys could not do it.<br />
<br />
Such is the state of the union, message and all.Dennis Perrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11172130276552085506noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7427419078675306654.post-14680844356665855322012-07-30T11:13:00.000-04:002012-07-31T10:17:51.227-04:00Last Kind Words<br />
<img src="http://bit.ly/MVHfbC" height=240 width=400><br />
<br />
Baggage carousel at Detroit International. Dozens of bags spin and crash. The carousel's choked as more bags pour in.<br />
<br />
Weather delays caused this crush. Everyone's late, too tired to be testy. Resigned expressions above the stack.<br />
<br />
A guy to my left grabs then tosses bags. He's looking for his, but none look alike. Either he travels heavy, or has trouble discerning shapes.<br />
<br />
He's mid-50's. Sneakers, plaid shorts, white sports shirt. He grins a lot. An odd grin, more confused than amused. A decided overbite adds a comic touch.<br />
<br />
He wears a dark blue Romney for President cap. I almost feel sorry for him. Openly backing Romney? Who does such a thing?<br />
<br />
I try not to judge. Still, is this who Romney attracts? Someone who throws other people's bags around, smiling like a goof?<br />
<br />
Not that it matters to me. I'm watching this election underwater. Bullshit rises to the surface, floats out to sea.<br />
<br />
I'm also distant from the angry debate over Syria among various radicals. Is it a revolution or contra war? Those I'm closest to say the former, and I tend to agree.<br />
<br />
But I don't see NATO as a revolutionary force. Not even in a realpolitik way. But then I'm not on the front lines. There you take what you can get. Ask the Kurds.<br />
<br />
No matter what I or my friends think, we don't affect those front lines. It's grandiose to believe that we do.<br />
<br />
We help pay NATO's bills. Maybe some of that flows into rebel accounts. But that's the extent of it. Still, venomous exchanges continue. Being on the Right Side of history is not a happy task.<br />
<br />
I'm not blind to the shifts now occurring. The Arab world is shedding despotic skin, but for what? For whom? When the US claims something is "democratic," look for the sniper in the room. He's there. He always is.<br />
<br />
Less touted is Latin America's steady extraction from US influence. While not as dramatic as the Arab Summer -- though no less violent -- Latin America moves in a more independent direction. US power is waning.<br />
<br />
This is good. It may also prove dangerous. We are renowned sore losers. Heavily-armed. Favored by God. Simple lethal math.<br />
<br />
Resistance from within grows, emerging from the seeds planted by Occupy. That movement has been mocked and mourned, but it had an effect. The state crushed what it could. Yet these weren't fatal blows.<br />
<br />
Mainstream liberals fear that Occupy's example might hurt Obama's re-election. Pundits like Harold Meyerson and Sean Wilentz defensively dismiss radical critiques of Their President. I like it that they're scared, but they needn't be. Not yet, anyway.<br />
<br />
An American Spring at the start of Obama's second term? As Obama's predecessor and Terror War influence put it, bring it on. The mission is far from accomplished.Dennis Perrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11172130276552085506noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7427419078675306654.post-81962100082513491652012-07-23T08:59:00.000-04:002012-07-30T10:25:31.761-04:00The Golden Age Is Passing<img src="http://bit.ly/SQ8dCt" height=260 width=400><br />
<br />
Alexander Cockburn was never a friend. An influence, an occasional publisher, an uncle to my friend and political colleague Laura Flanders, yes. But we weren't pals.<br />
<br />
Still, for the longest time I admired him. Early on, I imitated him. A lot of young lefty writers did.<br />
<br />
In his prime, Cockburn was a first-rate press critic and stylist. Perhaps the best writer on the left. Certainly its best polemicist.<br />
<br />
When I moved to NYC in 1982, a coke-hungry communist I'd met turned me on to Cockburn's Press Clips column in the Village Voice. It was an electric read in a paper that offered James Wolcott, Ellen Willis, Andrew Sarris, J. Hoberman, Stanley Crouch, Gary Giddins, and more.<br />
<br />
One hell of a weekly line-up. Yet Cockburn's column, at times co-written with James Ridgeway, was the highlight. At least to my avid mind.<br />
<br />
Comedy was my main interest; Cockburn showed another path. I'd never thought of writing political pieces until I read Press Clips. <br />
<br />
Thanks to Cockburn, I began reading and researching history books, bound back issues of various ideological magazines, writers like Hazlitt and Chesterton, and his sworn enemies in The New Republic and Commentary.<br />
<br />
In 1986, back in NYC from LA, I joined FAIR, and that's where it really took off.<br />
<br />
When I was hired to write a weekly press column for Downtown, my main models were Press Clips and Beat the Devil, Cockburn's Nation column. My editor told me it was the most remarked upon part of the paper. Readers were drawn to my intensity and humor. <br />
<br />
Feeling confident, I sent clips to Cockburn and Hitchens. Both responded favorably.<br />
<br />
Cockburn said that my writing was "excellent." He invited me to visit The Nation's office anytime he was there and we'd chat. Summoning the courage, I eventually did.<br />
<br />
He decidedly stood out. Bright Hawaiian shirt. Straight-legged jeans. Red suede shoes. Longish brown hair uncombed. Aviator glasses. Wide smile.<br />
<br />
I introduced myself. He was friendly and gracious. We made small talk. He lightly chastised me for reading too many right wing magazines. I replied that that was my corner at FAIR. <br />
<br />
Alex said, "Oh yes! You're young! Ambitious! You want to read it all! Well, you have to make smarter choices."<br />
<br />
I wasn't sure if Cockburn was mocking me. If he was, I didn't care. Then a radio outside his office played Jumping Jack Flash. Cockburn grabbed a pretty intern and danced with her. The rest of the office looked on as if this was standard behavior.<br />
<br />
Through Alex I became friendly with his younger brother Andrew, who was equally intelligent but far less judgmental. We once met for lunch on the Upper West Side. Andrew said that Alex was out of town. He invited me along to pick up Alex's mail. Among letters and bills were Workers Vanguard, the American Guardian, Foreign Affairs, and yes The New Republic.<br />
<br />
Entering his apartment mesmerized me. Pure writer's chaos. Stacks of books. Papers and magazines strewn about. And then there was the desk.<br />
<br />
A long plank of wood resting atop two sawhorses. A large typewriter. Framed photos. Typed pages with hand-written corrections and edits. I stared on in awe.<br />
<br />
This is where the magic happens, I told myself. This is how a real writer lives. It was a jolt of pure inspiration.<br />
<br />
Over the years, Cockburn and I crossed paths, most memorably at a party in LA where I met and talked extensively to Noam Chomsky. Alex had two giggling young women hanging all over him. They whispered into each other's ears, then cackled uproariously. <br />
<br />
Alex broke free for a moment and whispered something to Noam, who chuckled to himself. I have no idea what he said, but Noam seemed to appreciate it.<br />
<br />
Then there were our spats in the letter's pages of New York Press. He had attacked Michael Moore and (pre-9/11) Hitchens, both of whom I defended. I baited Cockburn with sarcasm, suggesting that his time was nearly over. He replied with both barrels, denigrating my intelligence, taking shots at my sexuality.<br />
<br />
Alex did this several times when we clashed. It seemed like an odd tactic, doubtless rooted in his private boys' schooldays in England. And yet, if I had something he liked or needed to bolster an argument, he'd use it, giving me full credit.<br />
<br />
He posted several pieces of mine at Counterpunch, which boosted my readership. When I offered another piece, Cockburn delivered an ultimatum: if I wanted to keep appearing in Counterpunch, I had to stop writing about Hitchens on my personal site. <br />
<br />
I asked why. He thought I had a weird gay crush on Christopher which he didn't want associated with his site.<br />
<br />
This stemmed from my story about seeing Hitchens naked in his apartment. Christopher took it in stride. He didn't care that I saw him sans clothes. But for some reason it bothered Alex.<br />
<br />
I told Cockburn that I'd write whatever I pleased. If he didn't like it, that was his neurotic problem. So I never wrote for nor spoke to Alex again.<br />
<br />
Like many others, I was surprised to learn that he died of cancer. But then, I wasn't part of his inner-circle. Still, Alexander Cockburn helped shape a part of my writing life. For that I thank him and hope that he passed peacefully.Dennis Perrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11172130276552085506noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7427419078675306654.post-78451797882801494192012-07-20T09:55:00.000-04:002012-07-23T08:38:15.424-04:00The Light Dreams Are Lit With<img src="http://bit.ly/MzgJqn" height=370 width=370><br />
<br />
Two friends have died. Influences. Pals. Confidants.<br />
<br />
Tom Davis finally succumbed to the cancer that plagued him for years. Brian McConnachie, who phoned me with the news, said that according to Tom's wife, Mimi Raleigh, Tom slipped away with a smile on his face.<br />
<br />
Of course he did. Tom accepted his fate long ago. He still made plans (he recently invited Brian and I to a book party he was assembling), but he was realistic. He never lost his sense of humor. Did not surrender to self-pity. Conveyed a humane outlook.<br />
<br />
I've written about Tom many times and have nothing really new to add. My thoughts can be read <a href="http://bit.ly/MMi5J7" target="_blank">here</a>, <a href="http://bit.ly/LZWlyA" target="_blank">here</a>, and <a href="http://bit.ly/I6G9Z5" target="_blank">here.</a><br />
<br />
I loved and respected Tom. When I talked comedy with Tom, my inner-teen who grew up on the original SNL couldn't believe it. I was honored that he quoted me in his memoir and put my blurb on the paperback version.<br />
<br />
Tom will always make me laugh. Farewell sweet friend.<br />
<br />
<b>The other death</b> surprised me, though it really shouldn't have.<br />
<br />
<img src="http://www2.pictures.zimbio.com/gi/Nelson+Lyon+vu9nFPA_O5rm.jpg" height=250 width=370><br />
<br />
I haven't written that much about Nelson Lyon, apart from what I laid down in Mr. Mike. It was that portrayal that forged our friendship.<br />
<br />
When in LA, I stayed with Nels and his then-wife Angie Brown. Their hospitality quelled my early anxiety about the book. Nels helped tremendously with my research. He vouched for me, convinced doubters burned by Bob Woodward's Wired to trust me, opened up his past to me.<br />
<br />
Nels was large. Passionate. He shaved his head and dressed in black. He spoke quickly, musically, directly. Film and literary references flew about. There was nothing too obscure for Nels.<br />
<br />
He had one of the most precise minds I've ever encountered. I could see why Michael O'Donoghue valued him. They shared a certain sensibility, but Nels' energy was physical as well as intellectual. Not in a threatening way, but tangible. You knew he was in the room.<br />
<br />
Nels also had a temper. He bristled at any perceived slight or sign of disrespect. He had a lot to be angry about.<br />
<br />
Most of his anger stemmed from his infamous final hours with John Belushi in 1982. Though he was hardly the only person to get high with Belushi, including that fatal binge, Nels was blamed by many in SNL circles for Belushi's death.<br />
<br />
It was and remains a bullshit charge. Nels was sacrificed. Thrown to the wolves. It was hypocrisy of the rankest order. His career was pretty much destroyed.<br />
<br />
Weirdly enough, it was Dick Ebersol who threw him a lifeline. At the time of Belushi's death, Nels was writing for SNL. A lot of his material got on, including gems like Executive Stress Test and The Mild One, where Bruce Dern and Tony Rosato played Zen bikers who disarmed opponents with koans and riddles.<br />
<br />
Ebersol invited Nels to return the following season. He would become a featured player, delivering satirical film reviews on what was then called Saturday Night News. <br />
<br />
Nels seriously pondered the offer. Being on camera would boost his career. But O'Donoghue scored a film deal with Paramount and wanted Nels to write with him. Out of loyalty to Michael and a desire to work in film, Nels left SNL and returned to LA.<br />
<br />
They wrote several screenplays together: The Dreammaster, which anticipated Nightmare on Elm Street and The Matrix; Biker Heaven, a sequel to Easy Rider which anticipated The Road Warrior; and Factory of Fear, a short film for HBO about alien dobermans who turn New York's Beautiful People into dog food.<br />
<br />
None were produced. Michael moved on and Nels was left on his own. He developed into a renowned photographer, produced spoken word albums for William S. Burroughs and Terry Southern, became creatively involved with Devo founders Mark Mothersbaugh and Gerald V. Casale.<br />
<br />
But the larger career, which Nels was on the verge of realizing, eluded him. Belushi's ghost trailed after him. He wasn't blacklisted, but his dark reputation kept him from jobs he would have excelled at. Years later, a number of SNL/Lampoon vets conceded that Nels was scapegoated. But it was too late.<br />
<br />
Nels and I spoke on the phone every few months. We had expansive conversations, punctuated by Nels' booming voice. "Den! What's the story behind this Iraq business? What's the dirty secret? Enlighten me, Den!" <br />
<br />
At Terry Southern's wake, Nels and I were stared at by Kurt Vonnegut, who was having a smoke. When I asked Nels if we should approach Vonnegut, he said, "One iconic writer at a time, Den. Today we honor the late T. Southern!"<br />
<br />
I last saw Nels a year ago. We had dinner at Musso and Frank, the old Hollywood restaurant where Nels held court. I noticed something wrong with his voice. There was a clicking, gagging sound when he spoke. When I asked if he was okay, Nels brushed it aside. "I'm fine," he insisted. But he didn't sound fine.<br />
<br />
Since then, we spoke intermittently. I told him about Tom Davis, who Nels hadn't seen in ages. As he expressed his admiration and regard for Tom, the gagging seemed worse. "You're sure there's nothing wrong?" I asked. Again, he dismissed it.<br />
<br />
It had been a few months since I heard from Nels. Then yesterday, a writer for the Los Angeles Times emailed, asking for a statement about Nels' death. I was shocked. On reflection it made sense, but I was unprepared for the reality.<br />
<br />
I immediately called Nels' cell, heard his recorded voice, hung up. Then I phoned the Times reporter. She confirmed it. I gave her my thoughts about Nels. <a href="http://lat.ms/NLm5hm" target="_blank">They appear in his obituary.</a><br />
<br />
I'm sorry, Nels. I wish we could have spoken one last time. But you know I love you. You were loving and generous with me. Goodbye vibrant spirit. Dennis Perrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11172130276552085506noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7427419078675306654.post-58747186625600035542012-07-16T10:29:00.000-04:002012-07-20T06:57:33.690-04:00Party Mask Party<img src="http://bit.ly/NMJOMI" height=285 width=400><br />
<br />
May we have the election now? Please? To save what's left of our sanity?<br />
<br />
I know: more naive optimism from yours truly, Mr. Glass Half Full. Hey, a smile costs nothing. Today is the first day, etc.<br />
<br />
The corporate class and its employees are shuffling reality again, attempting to show a massive gulf between governing philosophies. To them it's simply business. Part of the package. To consumers, it's a chance to pretend that they have political clout. A say in our envied system.<br />
<br />
To hear liberals tell it, Mitt Romney is Gordon Dracula Gekko set to drain us of precious democratic fluids. Only Barack Obama: Vampire Hunter can slay him. And since Obama is on the side of powerless mortals everywhere, his mission is crucial. Life itself teeters on the edge.<br />
<br />
I don't read or listen to much reactionary chatter. It ceased being interesting around 1987. I usually wait for rightist opinions to become liberal talking points before digging in. But I can't imagine much enthusiasm for Romney. Big money likes him, but will that be enough?<br />
<br />
To repeat, this is shaping up to be one dull contest. If Romney's handlers are savvy, they'll puncture Obama's populist rhetoric by showing <a href="http://bit.ly/Ntarrj" target="_blank">how compromised he is by corporate money.</a> How he's coddled bankers. How he's as invested in corporate rule as is Romney.<br />
<br />
This involves risk. By highlighting Obama's similarities with Romney, including giveaways to the insurance industry, the election would boil down to personalities. There Romney loses. But if he paints Obama as a mad socialist, Romney will look ridiculous, save to white reactionaries in the Bizarro World. And maybe some liberals who still wish it were so.<br />
<br />
Again, I don't see Romney winning. Not from this distance, anyway. Adding Condi Rice to the ticket might liven things up a bit, but Obama still wins. If big money decides that Romney gives them a better deal, he may have a shot. Yet Obama's proven himself loyal to private power. That's about as close as it gets.<br />
<br />
For now, endless blather. False choices. Hubris. Ideological bullying. Loud commercials. The vital ingredients for freedom.<br />
<br />
Are you more desperate than you were four years ago?Dennis Perrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11172130276552085506noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7427419078675306654.post-63489859618343625492012-07-09T11:38:00.000-04:002012-07-16T10:10:14.456-04:00Space Ghost<img src="http://bit.ly/OQwPu8" height=325 width=400><br />
<br />
(<b>With the Gemini IV capsule, from which Edward White walked in space. This is my re-creation.</b>) <br />
<br />
"You're like a fat kid in a candy store."<br />
<br />
Henry noted the bounce in my step. I don't bounce much these days, especially in public. Most especially among tourists.<br />
<br />
We'd been in the Smithsonian's Air and Space Museum for five minutes, and my eyes widened. The better part of my childhood surrounded us. Facts I thought I'd forgotten burst into flame.<br />
<br />
Space race artifacts orbited our heads. But it was the Apollo 11 display that got things bouncing.<br />
<br />
It's a corny set-up: mannequin Neil Armstrong watches mannequin Buzz Aldrin make a second giant leap for mankind. And the lunar module is a replacement. Yet it struck a primal chord.<br />
<br />
I remember the moon landing and walk in real time. I was nine. At my grandparents' house. The only light in the darkened room was the large TV. The lunar surface resembled a vacant lot. Armstrong and Aldrin looked like ghosts.<br />
<br />
The adults around me gasped and cried. I was mesmerized. Maybe a foot from the screen, soaking in the moon's rays. Normally my mother would tell me to move back. "You'll burn your eyes out!" But she wasn't speaking. No one was.<br />
<br />
I'd followed the space program since I was conscious enough to do so. I remember the end of the Gemini program. The first Apollo crew burned to death during a test. Mention Wally Schirra and I'll give you Alan Bean and Eugene Cernan.<br />
<br />
These frequent shots into space helped soften the harder blows of my childhood. I hated models and the smell of airplane glue. But I assembled and displayed models of Apollo 8 and 11. Bought albums of the transmissions between Mission Control and the Mercury and Gemini pilots.<br />
<br />
I studied as much as I could about the origins of the space program. Read about the Soviet program. Thought that cosmonaut was a cooler tag than astronaut (Astro was The Jetsons' dog). Neglected my schoolwork in favor of science fact. An autodidact prepares.<br />
<br />
It all rushed back on July 4th. Fitting, I suppose. My enthusiasm infected Henry, who was initially indifferent to visiting the museum.<br />
<br />
We smiled and laughed. I spilled all my facts on him. He offered his thoughts. Asked interesting questions. Made logical connections.<br />
<br />
For the first time in weeks, I felt some peace. Even the endless Old Navy Old Glory t-shirts didn't irritate me.<br />
<br />
The night before, I had a long conversation with <a href="http://tinyrevolution.com/mt/" target="_blank">Jon Schwarz</a>, who urged me to take Henry to the museum, in case my interest flagged. I didn't need added incentive, but Jon's enthusiasm for the possibilities of American creativity was invigorating.<br />
<br />
Jon is much more optimistic than me. He's made his case to me many times. I don't fault his reasoning; I simply don't share it. Usually. But this time Jon semi-hooked me.<br />
<br />
Our talk was a touch utopian, yet that didn't bother me. In essence, Jon is right: there is enough intelligence and talent to not only rebuild the US infrastructure, but to reform and possibly reshape American reality.<br />
<br />
Of course, there are massive corporate forces keeping us from having say, a 21st century rail system. But the know-how is there. Waiting. Dying on the vine.<br />
<br />
"When you look at the space program, you see what's possible," Jon said. True. Human ingenuity is constant. It's the political/financial context that dilutes much of it.<br />
<br />
Henry told me how lucky I was to have grown up during that time. "We've got nothing like that," he added. Not yet, son. But the possibilities are closer than you know.Dennis Perrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11172130276552085506noreply@blogger.com