Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Perrin Classic Pictures (PCP)

While not in the same league as Walter Kerr or Vincent Canby, A.O. Scott seems secure as the New York Times' senior film critic. Scott takes a steady, middlebrow approach to reviewing, somewhat insightful but never alarming or unpredictable. This is less Scott's fault than the era we inhabit, where the written word disintegrates and films are extensions of corporate branding campaigns. A young James Agee would starve in this environment; a Pauline Kael would rattle and confuse her twentysomething editors. So it makes professional sense for Scott to be modest, but even that footing will give way in due course.

Scott has been reassessing older films, searching for something new to say. Given what's shoveled out on a weekly basis, I can't blame Scott for this: anything to keep the mind moving, though "Jerry Maguire" remains a muddled effort, I don't care how many times you watch it. Still, it's fun and more importantly time consuming to re-review movies you remember from whenever. And while I despise the Times and all that it represents, I'm going to follow Scott's retro lead, revisiting those films that influenced or moved me, making me who I presently am.

Today's specimen is "Freddy Got Fingered," Tom Green's intimate look at a young man's attempts to find himself creatively while hoping to please his stern, profane father. It's a classic coming-of age story, an exploration of identity, fidelity, social relations, and familial anxiety, released just before the 9/11 attacks shifted the national focus. Today, Green's alter-ego Gord might be in Afghanistan or wrestling with foreclosure, buried in debt. His concerns would be more life-and-death than the relative pastoral pursuit of a career in animation.

But Gord's dream of becoming a TV animator boasts nightmarish colors of its own. For him, it's all or nothing. Success must be immediate. Gord does not want to pay his professional dues, believing that his hellish home life is preparation enough. Here he confronts an animation executive (played by Anthony Michael Hall, a nod to a simpler America envisioned by John Hughes), demanding that his concept be purchased on the spot. Hall gives Gord some sage advice, which Gord follows in his personal, literal way.

Until he integrates this new awareness into his work, Gord must make ends meet, taking a job in a cheese sandwich factory. As Chaplin did in "Modern Times," Tom Green exposes the anti-human grind of mechanization, where workers are faceless cogs, easily disposed and replaced. Being an artist, Green's character rebels against this suffocating reality, attempting to inject some humanity in an environment that long ago erased any vestige of common emotion.

Unable to create for a living, Gord turns the family home into his personal sketchbook, making himself a character in a story only he understands. When he tries to bring his father along, Gord is met with philistine hostility.

Rip Torn plays Gord's dad Brody, a guy yearning to take pride in a son he doesn't comprehend. Torn is Green's straightman, an abusive Bud Abbott who believes that beating up the boy will turn him into a man. And as brutally antiquated as that notion is, Brody's relentless attacks eventually help Gord find the missing piece in his creative puzzle.

For centuries, violence has inspired art. Tom Green places this historical constant in American suburbia. The results are no less illuminating, if on the surface frightening and ominous. We are born into madness (a point colorfully made by Green as he whirls a newborn over his head, using the umbilical cord as a life-saving lasso). Art cannot overcome this, but it can soften the sting, and in Green's blood-coated hands, we laugh at the inevitable while acknowledging its primacy.

There are numerous other sub-plots in "Freddy Got Fingered." The title alone refers to a false charge of sexual abuse that is in reality a cry for love and recognition. Toward the end, Green shifts the film to Pakistan, where he and Torn arrive at a rough, mutual understanding, against a backdrop that would soon erupt in regional, if not global, chaos. The terror Gord endures is part of a larger condition. Green clearly sensed that something awful was approaching, yet did not allow it to overwhelm or cheapen his main characters.

Predictably, "Freddy Got Fingered" was reviled by critics. Most found the film tasteless and unwatchable, calling it one of the worst movies ever made. There was one major exception: A.O. Scott. In the April 20, 2001 New York Times, Scott observed:

"Like any mature artist, Mr. Green bows to the traditions that fed him while refusing mere imitation. His love interest, Betty, is a paraplegic (and an amateur rocket scientist) whose sexual interests include being whacked on the shins with a bamboo cane. Their romance owes something to the kinky humanism of John Waters and the Farrelly brothers, and Gord himself could be the younger brother of the overgrown paper boy from 'Get a Life,' Chris Elliott's sitcom from the cheesy golden age of Fox television.

"Mr. Green's style, toggling between antic and deadpan, is like a less hostile version of the work Michael O'Donoghue and Andy Kaufman did in the early days of 'Saturday Night Live.' Mr. Green is less an actor than a persona, and he resolutely refuses to mark the boundaries of his imposture or to resort to the winking, supercilious pseudo-irony that remains the default setting for so much second-rate pop culture.

"His assaultive forays into public space pay homage (perhaps inadvertently) to 70's conceptualist pioneers like Bruce Nauman and Vito Acconci, mixing in some of the sweet absurdism of William Wegman before he was captured by 'Sesame Street' (and with a preference for wild over domesticated animals).

"This movie's set pieces, many of which seem to revel in the double meaning of the word gag, are draped over a rickety but serviceable narrative trellis. The core conflict, between Gord and his father, is like something Ingmar Bergman might have written for SCTV. The elder Brody is a ferocious avatar of the work ethic, a dervish of brutality, shame and thwarted tenderness.

"The casting of Mr. Torn provides a fine piece of visual humor; with his lank hair and goatee he looks like a squashed, dried-out version of Mr. Green. As a director Mr. Green is competent, which is no small achievement, given the lurching sloppiness of so much movie comedy these days. His visual style is as relentless as his personality."

If only A.O. Scott wrote like this more often. But then, a film like "Freddy Got Fingered" appears once in a generation. We've had our turn. Let's hope that when the next Tom Green emerges, he or she won't be so battered by events that the comic message is lost. "Laugh you assholes!" has never been more pressing.

GREEN SEED: Scott comparing Green to 70's conceptual artists was more apt than perhaps he knew. Here's an early piece by Green, when he cobbled together videos for a public access channel in Ottawa. The beginnings of Gord are literally raw, but evident.

Monday, September 28, 2009


Here are two odd sketches from the same episode of "Fridays," May 15, 1981. The first features Michael Richards annoying a motorcycle cop, played by John Roarke. There's no real point to it, and the ending has me baffled. But after this week's SNL premiere, I'll take this type of comedy any day.

This sketch is a bit more direct, but conceptual in its own way. It's the kind of humor "Fridays" began to explore as the show moved away from its early attempts at shock and tastelessness.

Friday, September 25, 2009

No Armchair Outfit

ALSO: The wife's getting in on the vid fun, via our son's signature shaky camera (no more Cassavettes films for him until Spring Break). Check her out. The smashed potatoes were delish.

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

Fan Baste

Though I'm moving toward the audio-visual, there are times when print seductively beckons. I feel this pull at the beginning of every NFL season, where fan behavior reinforces the arguments made in my book, "American Fan: Sports Mania and the Culture That Feeds It."

Here's a recent example. At last week's Detroit Lions home game against the Minnesota Vikings, two drunken women were captured acting like assholes. According to witnesses, these dopes were verbally abusing Vikings fans and pouring beer on people's heads. An alert auteur turned on his camera as the action heated up, giving the rest of us an intimate look at American fans without the physical risk.

How'd you like to party with these girls?

While it's easy to mock them, these two exhibit a sadness and emptiness that tribal attachment to the local team cannot address, much less fix. How bad is your life that you must act this way in public? Michigan's shit economy doesn't help matters, fueling desperation and recklessness. People here are p-i-s-s-e-d off. I see it every day. (Fuck, I'm one of them!) But since there's no political alternative, no real social structure to fall back on, the locals are left to fend for themselves. For a good many, sports remain a safe place, however illusory and fleeting.

To be fair, these women probably love the attention. In this degraded age, any form of exposure, no matter how embarrassing and pitiful, is viewed positively by countless, powerless people. The Detroit Free Press is pushing this little scene, which I'm confident pleases these women, their families and friends. To paraphrase Rupert Pupkin, it's better to be noticed for a moment than be ignored for a lifetime.

Oh yeah -- the Lions still lost. Reliable as always.

FAN APPRECIATION: While dated in certain respects, "American Fan" contains some of my best writing, yet most of you have probably never read it. You can thank HarperCollins, a print division of Fox Sports, for that. Despite favorable reviews in USA Today, Boston Globe, and The New York Times, HC despised the book they inherited through corporate takeover. You can get it cheap at Amazon and related sites. I'd be interested in hearing what some of you think should you decide to read it.

Flipping through a tattered copy of "Fan," I found a yellowed, folded review I haven't seen in years. It was written by Alison Swan for the Ann Arbor Current, right after I'd moved to Michigan. I don't think Ms. Swan was aware that I'd become a recent A2 resident, but no matter. She understood what I was going for:

"At his best Perrin is scathing and hilarious . . . At times -- some readers will feel too often -- Perrin's biting sarcasm crosses the line from biting to devouring, and his targets become almost sympathetic in the face of Perrin's venom. But most often, his attacks are the sort that are so well-deserved and so rarely seen that readers will gasp -- whether with relief or disbelief will depend upon the nature of the relationship between reader and subject.

"The sports machine might be horrifying, he shows us, but the American fan supplies the power to keep it running."

Monday, September 21, 2009

Civil Bore

Meant to say Sweet Taylor Swift, but clearly got caught up in too much sweetness, one of my main faults. Also, my closing salvo is meant for those who'll never see this sad display. FYI, muthafuckas.

Friday, September 18, 2009

Avoid Eye Contact

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

Terra Murmur

US advisors train Afghan soldiers in NATO's latest counterinsurgency methods.

Fox News is auditioning new on-air talent. Here Fox producers await the first batch of hopefuls.

The Obama administration unveiled a new entrance to the Bagram detention center.

With the rising cost of health care, more Americans rely on alternative medical treatments.

Homeland Security has beefed up its anti-letter bomb operation.

As literacy rates tumble, America's children find different modes of expression.

After a busy year, the Angel of Death is getting jaded.

If you have a free afternoon, Skip Kiley will explain his theory about the JFK assassination.

Monday, September 14, 2009

Mind Chew Melt

Working on the pilot script and series arc, where with the help of my lovely collaborator, I've broken through a large gray wall that has stymied me for weeks. Still, as I've repeatedly said, this is easily the hardest project I've ever tackled. Shoulder separation and broken teeth are the least of it. So today is a linky day.

Brother Buck does some remembering of his own, writing about our move to Manhattan 27 years ago this week. Jim gets it pretty much right, including the description of my car, a rotting tank that delivered us to our new lives amid the junkies and bad poets. (Within 48 hours of our arrival, the beast was stripped then stolen -- a sacrifice to the Lower East Side gods.) We did indeed get stopped in Jersey, my car violating various laws, or so the Jersey troopers said. It was a dented, rusted monster, but it ran well for the most part. The troopers weren't interested in my car's durability; they were convinced that we were running stolen goods and packing loads of drugs.

The latter part was true -- well, an ounce of weed I'd bought in Indianapolis. Back then, I regularly smoked while driving, my ashtray filled with roaches and freshly-rolled joints. I'm sure the troopers got a sense of this while searching the car, its interior absorbing years of smoke. But fortunately for us, there were no roaches to be found, and when the cop lights flashed behind us, I shoved the ounce into an 8-track tape cassette under the passenger seat.

If the troopers had dogs, they would've easily found the weed. But they relied on their own noses, and gave up after seeing the dozens of 8-tracks littering my car. As Jim says, one tried to get us to confess to possession. Having discovered the ACLU only a year or so before, and having been in similar situations while in the Army, I knew better than that, as did Jim. Today's cops wouldn't be as easy to bluff.

Jim Carroll is a person who died. A contemporary of Patti Smith's, celebrated by Ginsberg and Burroughs, Carroll embodied 1970s NYC downtown culture. I knew nothing of Carroll until I saw him perform on "Fridays," February 6, 1981. I instantly loved The Jim Carroll Band, as did my friend and comedy collaborator Mike Owens, who owned a cassette of "Catholic Boy" which he constantly played in his yellow VW bug, rotating with Squeeze's "Argy Bargy" and The Clash's "London Calling."

Here's a photo of Mike, Jim, and me in 1980, fucking around for a friend of Mike's, who was, as memory serves, going to shoot some comedy video of us, which never happened.

And here's The Jim Carroll Band on "Fridays." Not the best visual quality, but the sound still cuts. "It's too late to fall in love with Sharon Tate." Ditto Jim Carroll.

Friday, September 11, 2009

Know Your Sacrifice

Happy Perpetual War For The Rest Of Our Consumerist Lives Day! Eight years down, 92 or so to go.

That baby in your belly, that child blowing out his or her fifth birthday candles, that sullen pre-teen wrestling with puberty and peer pressure -- all are potential cannon fodder in our glorious crusade. Embrace it! Celebrate it! Plan for their funerals in advance! Teach them that this is their patriotic duty, their ultimate destiny!

George W. Bush got the ball rolling. Barack Obama is keeping the track slick with blood. Oh, what a magnificent time to be alive! Our enemies, both foreign and domestic, should quake in the shadow of our righteous cause!

We just gettin' warmed up, y'all. Lock and load. Read 'em and weep. Love it or leave it. Lather, rinse, repeat. You know the words! Sing along!

Thursday, September 10, 2009


The president measures his commitment to CHANGE.

American liberals are so easily yanked. It really doesn't take much. And in Obama's hands, their acquiescence is reliably assured, regardless of any "doubts" or "concerns" they might express. A brief tour of the libosphere bears this out, from Huffington Post to Daily Kos to The Nation and all points in between. All President Verbiage needs to do is pour out the purty words, and libs fall to their knees, lapping it up.

Health care "reform" is of course a sick joke. The corporate stranglehold on medical care and pharmaceuticals is so tight, so vast, so unrelenting, that it would require an executive coup of sorts to loosen it, much less break it. Obama has no intention of doing anything of this kind. Status quo you can believe in.

Driving around last night, listening to Fox Radio, I heard a sound bite "warning" from King Kos himself, Markos Moulitsas, who promised some kind of action should Obama fail to deliver on health care. Kos didn't say exactly what he and his minions would do should their Father Leader further let them down, and there's a good reason for that -- they got nothing. No leverage, no power, no sway. Nada. Bloated rhetoric and empty threats. That's it. Come 2012, they'll march dutifully back into the booth and vote Obama/Biden, insisting that you follow suit or risk fascism.

Meantime, the right wing continues to flip out, throwing around their bizarre concepts about socialism and mind control. This is good news for liberals, as they can use this lunacy to enhance and justify their obedience to the corporate Dems. It also gives liberals a platform to defend the imperial state, as many did after Rep. Joe Wilson heckled Obama during his speech. Why, the nerve of Wilson! Has he no respect for the President of The Most Awesome States Ever Assembled Ever?

Wilson may be nuts, but at least he has balls. How many Dems dared to disrupt Bush when he spewed out the lies? I can't think of one -- certainly not our current Vice President and Secretary of State, both of whom applauded and supported Bush's call for mass murder. Again, liberals have no problem with the US imperial structure. They simply want one of their "own" to manage it.

READ: Commentary from last night's live blog response to Obama's speech from my friends at the Institute for Public Accuracy. As pal Doug Henwood put it:

"A friend pointed out to me earlier today that the market capitalization—the value of all the outstanding stock—of the publicly traded health insurers is about $150 billion. Add a little premium to sweeten the pot and you could nationalize the lot of them for about $200 billion. The total administrative costs of the U.S. healthcare system, which are greatly inflated by all the paperwork and second-guessing of docs’ decisions generated by the insurance industry, are about $400 billion a year. Those administrative costs are about three times what a Canadian-style single payer system would cost. So that means we’d save about $250 billion a year by eliminating the waste caused by our private insurance system.

"In other words, the nationalization could pay for itself in well under a year.

"Will Obama propose anything like that? Of course not. Instead, he’s going to propose that Americans be required to buy insurance, probably with some government subsidies. So instead of euthanizing the private insurance industry, Obama & the Dems are going to provide them with tens of millions of new customers—compelled to buy their product by law, and with some degree of public subsidy. That’s lunacy."

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

Museums Are Burning

She was 45. Me, 27. She lived in a huge SoHo loft, near all the galleries, one floor above the street. She made lots of money working on movie sets, traveled all the time. She occasionally let me stay at her place to tend her dying cat. There was a washer and dryer, a pool table, a giant bed, large screen TV, plenty of porn. A covered bowl on the coffee table was filled with fine weed. I was set.

She loved porn, nasty stuff, women with big tits berating bound and gagged men. She once worked as a professional dominatrix. Had clients on Wall Street, in the city government, and at least one NYC detective. She never fucked them, just tied them up and whipped them. Made them cry and whimper. Her past bled into our sex life. She preferred to be in control, but willingly relinquished it when I took charge.

Our fucking was wild, if a touch intimidating. She'd scream out the craziest lines: "Fuck me you shit-eating cocksucker! Punish that pussy! Make it hurt!" I tried my best. Age lent her a large ass, so I had plenty to grab onto. I felt ridiculous talking back, but gave her all I physically had. She was a marathon lay. I had to pace myself while remaining intense. I never worked so hard in the sack.

She kept a .38 in the night stand next to the bed. She wanted to handcuff me to the headboard, but I always refused, fearing she would shove the gun up my ass or some other twisted shit. She was certainly capable of it. When I slept over, I'd wake up several times a night to see if she was going to hurt me. But she was always asleep, her long red bangs hanging over her beautiful freckled face.

We met through the personals in Spy magazine. She worked for the original National Lampoon. Knew all the greats. Fucked a few of them, Michael O'Donoghue most especially. She told me strange tales about Michael, his kinky tastes, his sweetness before the emotional storm. I had yet to meet him, and when I did, I never mentioned that I'd fucked the same woman as my comedy hero. I was afraid it would anger him. But to me, it was like a Yankees fan fucking someone who'd fucked Mickey Mantle or Reggie Jackson. Your dick shared space with the elite.

Aren't men wonderful?

I broke up with her when she tried to get me a writing gig for Screw magazine. I enjoyed Al Goldstein's cable access show, but appearing in Screw seemed low rent to me. Arrogant youth. Working for Goldstein would've been an interesting adventure. Another road not taken. My rejection angered her deeply. I think she had feelings for me, and was hurt by my curt dismissal.

I saw her once more, over dinner. She made herself look very hot, while behaving icy cold. After a couple of drinks I wanted her. No chance. She made me horny then pulled abruptly back. A true pro. Outside the restaurant, I tried to kiss her. She turned away and left me standing there, taking all that crazy sex with her. That was the last time I saw her.

She must be pushing 70 by now, assuming she's alive. Jesus. I wonder if she still screams during sex.

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

Veal Libs Revisited

The Van Jones debacle arrived right on schedule. Every new president suffers some kind of setback -- policy that's rejected or extremely watered down, an appointment that's withdrawn, etc. A standard feature of the system, something for journos and politicos to gnaw on while the major crimes continue. Van Jones is the latest chew toy tossed to the partisan crowd, and barring some bizarro twist, Jones will soon fade from the scene as newer personalities take his place.

I don't know or care if Jones is a 9/11 Truther, simply because it really doesn't matter. Numerous people in politics hold so many ridiculous ideas that if someone seriously wanted to sink you, it probably wouldn't take much. Depends on the position, the general mood, the intensity of desire. Lending credence to 9/11 as an inside job or something that was allowed to happen is hardly the craziest notion in American politics.

If Jones truly wished to rattle nationalist nerves, he'd mention the long history of US-backed terror in the Middle East as a catalyst for the attacks. Any suggestion that the US is not an innocent bystander hated for its decency and overall goodness sends the propaganda system into frenzied overdrive -- assuming it bothers to notice in the first place. Sometimes silence is the more effective tactic.

A friend chummy with the Dems offered a link to Firedoglake's take on Jones and the lack of liberal counter fire. Jane Hamsher, one of the bigger liblog celebs, suggested that liberal groups are like veal calves, kept in their pens by institutional or ideological pressure.

Hmmm. A veal metaphor. Now where did I first read that?

"What do veal calves dream about as they await the abattoir blades? Hopefully, something pleasant and soothing, like the destruction of the slaughterhouse and a mass conversion to vegetarianism. In the veal crate, all you have are your dreams . . .

"Meantime, in the chambers overlooking the farm, the Democratic-controlled Senate has approved another $70 billion for imperial war, with the Democratic-controlled House expected to follow today. The blades keep spinning. The walls remain coated with blood. Feed on that, veal calves."
December 19, 2007

"Contemporary American liberalism is all about hope. They turn their sad cow eyes to their keepers, trusting that the blades being sharpened aren't intended for their throats.

"Little wonder that Obama has most of them spellbound. His oratory is sweet music among the crates, bovine heads bobbing to the beat. Hillary simply spooks the room, putting everyone on edge, even though, if it comes down to it, the veal libs will take her over any GOP keeper. But Obama spins a much gentler yarn, elevating captive moods while keeping all in place. He's the most logical choice to run the abattoir for the next four-to-eight years."
January 8, 2008

And this metaphor was adapted for the end of a little polemic called "Savage Mules." So either I'm read by those who avoid debating, much less mentioning me, or the veal concept finally makes sense to more partisan liberals. Whatever the case, the crates remain crammed with obedient progressives, whiny but loyal to their keepers. Hopefully, they'll break free to think and act independently, but we've seen how much HOPE is worth these days.

Sunday, September 6, 2009

Heel, Memory

Since the current project is largely auto-biographical, old themes and feelings resonate at a faster, deeper clip. Though I've explored much of my past online, what I'm presently experiencing and trying to hammer into narrative shape sometimes paralyzes me. Tragedies, errors, lapses, even triumphs merge to hinder my efforts, and it's clear that I've yet to adequately address much less resolve these episodes.

I'm hardly unique in this, and I can see why so many literary hustlers prefer to invent previous lives. It's easier, more entertaining, and allows you to use anything, as opposed to the rigid realities, however remembered, blocking your path. Being a literalist who is far too enamored with linear thought (at least when it comes to writing), I prefer to drive through these roadblocks, hoping to understand them while pushing past them. It's a mixed effort that has no adequate resolution. But it makes this narrative richer, better, if slower to create.

The below video dredged up some of these feelings, especially since Hitchens may be a minor character in the project. It's from March 1988, a few months before I first met Hitchens, after I mailed him several columns from my East Village rag gig. He wrote back, praising some of my points while correcting a number of others. He invited me for a drink when he was next in NYC, which we had, and for the next several years Hitchens became my teacher, the example I longed to follow.

Watching this is like finding a long departed friend. This is the Hitchens I remember, the one who took me into his home, serving up steady verbal treats, treating me as an equal out of courtesy, despite the reality. Yet even though this brings back warm emotions, I can see in retrospect how facile Hitchens was -- quick, glib, able to paper over holes in his arguments with relative ease. It also helped that his debating foe, the American Spectator's Wladyslaw Pleszczynski, wasn't terribly sharp, so Christopher had a fine time picking the guy apart.

Still, there was an easiness to Hitchens that long ago faded. Today's bloated, barking imperial mouthpiece would shout down his earlier self, impatient with his equivocations and general lack of bloodlust. Or maybe they'd go off together and get drunk, something the two personas have in common. The past may be another country, but in our immediate globalist reality, its borders are obliterated. Say hi to your history.

Friday, September 4, 2009

Time Tripping

Brother Buck posted this pic at his place, which dovetails nicely with a video my son shot at the same location, 24 years later. Jim is in front of Sharon Breslau's apartment in St. Marks Place. As I explained several years ago at Red State Schmuck, Sharon

"was one of the most natural improvisers I've ever witnessed. She never got lost, was never thrown by a bad line or joke, and could steer a scene in any direction she chose. She was also very sensual and quite comfortable in her skin, and this came across on stage, which added to her appeal.

"Sharon was a Folk City favorite, and mine as well, and for a period she and I not only spent a lot of time together, we lived together for a couple of months in her East Village apartment on Ave. A. Our relationship was platonic, and she trusted me to such a degree that she walked around the apartment nude. We occasionally slept together, but never made love. Now, you must understand that this was a test I was putting myself through, for I desired Sharon in the worst way. But, wanting to be an enlightened, pro-feminist man, I refused to make a pass at her, and focused on the creative side of our relationship, which was enriching.

"We performed characters in private, a sort of in-house Nichols and May, and her contributions helped me focus on my strengths, such as they were. Yet I hated to perform with her in front of an audience. For one thing, Sharon was superior, if generous, to me; and for another, our creative interaction was ours and ours alone. Thinking back, it served as our sex. Sharing it with strangers didn't appeal to me, which is why I avoided scenes with Sharon as often as I could."

Unlike me, Jim did have a romantic relationship with Sharon, and the above photo was taken around that time, 1985. That was also my psilocybin summer, when I apartment sat for Sharon and spent many of my days tripping on mushrooms, listening to Talking Heads' "Little Creatures" over and over and over.

My wife went to the same showing of "Oz" with her boyfriend-turned-first husband. She kinda remembers a cackling nut in the theater, which was me hallucinating a walk-on role in the film, convinced I was on the brightly-painted MGM lot, dancing with Munchkins. If only I had a photo of that.

Thursday, September 3, 2009

Hair Of The Dog

An extended segment of young hung over Perrin trying to explain corporate realities to a mystified Terry Eastland and an indifferent Susan Swain. Indeed, Swain was much warmer to Eastland than to me, which probably had more to do with the booze seeping from my skin than from any ideological bias. Eastland, on the other hand, was one of the nicer right wingers I'd debated, even though he thought my critique was from outer space.

As you'll hear in the intro, I left the studio and went straight back to NYC, borrowed a car, then drove to Woodstock, where I was living on and off with a younger woman I'd met through FAIR. She was a former child/teen model who had worked with Brooke Shields, but rejected sexist objectification in favor of anarcho-feminism.

She was still pretty hot, though -- ass and legs that would send R. Crumb madly sketching. She couldn't shake that, and it drove her nuts. It led to many bizarre arguments about sex, my giving her an orgasm one of the key strikes against me. Imperialist, phallocentric behavior on my part, apparently. We eventually broke up, but not before I shed 15 pounds, dried out from the Tanqueray, and considered a career other than media criticism.

Wednesday, September 2, 2009

God Shed His Grace Ennui

To demonstrate his determination to win the Afghan war, President Obama began eating his hand --

Delighting his liberal supporters.

Doing her part to support the president and fight retarded racism, Janeane Garofalo repeatedly punctured her arm with a staple gun.

Vice President Biden broke free of his security detail to harangue a group of tourists who hadn't heard about the first time he met Ted Kennedy.

In an effort to raise money for her inevitable presidential campaign, Sarah Palin is charging middle-aged white men $10,000 to embrace "the full Sarah" for 20 seconds. So far, Palin has raised over $3 million, all from the same guy.

Shock comic Glenn Beck claims that Obama used the communist CIA to remove his eyes and sell them to North Korea. Here Beck does his Kim Jong Il impression.

Despite suffering massive burns from a US air strike on her Afghan village, nine-year-old Nadia Sahar urged American liberals to not protest President Obama's war, as it might hurt his re-election chances.

Heeding Nadia's plea, liberals immediately showed their solidarity.

Tuesday, September 1, 2009

The Hangover Show

More young media critic me, from 1991. The TV sound is a bit low, so adjust accordingly. I'll pump it up in subsequent bootleg offerings.