Backwards, it spells "Raw fo' 'Nam"

"And when he had opened the seventh seal, there was silence in heaven about the space of half an hour . . . and homages to Donald Rumsfeld suddenly appeared on two news channels simultaneously." (Revelations 8:1, "Gone Wild" translation)

Home from the gym just now. It was it's usual grueling, torturous experience. The aches, the pains, the suffering, the misery, the blood, the carnage, the firestorms--and that was just what was showing on the Fox News Channel while I was using the elliptical.

For you see, almost without fail, when I go into the cardio room at my local health club, Fox News is broadcasting on at least one of the TVs in front of my favorite treadmill and elliptical. And broadcasting LOUDLY, the volume turned up way high, as if Sean Hannity and Bill O'Reilly weren't already screaming enough for the students at Gallaudet University to hear from this location. For a few weeks, when new management took over the club, the preference for edification on the world situation from Fox News disappeared for a while, replaced by an endless supply of women in danger, extreme makeovers, and redneck comedians on Lifetime, the Style Network, and Comedy Central, respectively--at times just as annoying as Fox News but at least not annoying in the same way.

But, alas, no. If tonight offered any indication, the only changes the new management seems to have instituted are shorter operating hours and a stinginess with the towel supply. Fox News was back on at full right-winged tilt with a little bit of product placement called "Why He Fights," an homage to everyone's favorite madcap political diva, Donald Rumsfeld.

As the room was fairly empty at this hour, I took the liberty--at least before the liberty is taken away from me completely--of turning the sound down. Nonetheless, while commencing my workout, even with a mixtape of Saint Etienne, Dannii Minogue, Keane, and Gnarls Barkley in heavy rotation on my old Minidisc player, I was strangely drawn to images of La Rummy, Newt Gingrich (good lord, I thought he was sent to a Reeducation Camp during the last Cultural Revolution?), and a bevy of old Republican warwhores who I half expected to start speaking in tongues and sucking the lifeforce from innocents while on camera.

This grand old army parade was presided over by alleged journalist and Pop 'n' Fresh (the Pillsbury Doughboy when he's working) lookalike Bret Baier, who seemed so indulgent in his interview with ol' Squinty McGinty that I kept waiting for him to let Donny start nursing from his rather ample bosom. Or vice versa.

And me with my sewing kit tucked away at home, implements from which, if they had been handy, I would have used to blind myself in order to prevent any further Fox images from burning into my retinas.

I was able to move from the treadmill to the elliptical and, thus, be less menaced by the fiery glower from Rumsfeld's eyes. Nonetheless, someone else walked into the room, changed the channel on the TV next to the one transmitting Fox News and began watching CNN, which, as my perverse kind of gym luck would have it, was also featuring a special on Donald Rumsfeld, entitled "Man of War," which is, as I indicated above, "Raw fo' 'Nam" spelled backwards. And "Raw fo' 'Nam," in turn, sounds to me like a strange "street" version of Apocalypse Now. Starring the Donald and Ludacris. Appropriately enough.

So now it was Rummy in stereo, which I believe is the seventh and final seal. The room grew quiet, and I quickly looked around to see if Death was pulling out his chessboard from his gym bag, my nearly tripping on one of the pedals of the elliptical in the process.

For half a moment, I thought the double dose of Donald might be a sign that something dastardly had befallen our revered Secretary of Offense. Perhaps he'd finally resigned or been fired, as the New York Times indicated today was a distinct possibility, encouraged by no less a source of White House power than, er, former school librarian Laura Bush.

Or maybe he'd died.

No, wait . . . listen . . . nope, definitely not. I could hear no evidence of fireworks exploding in the evening sky or brass bands playing or crowds cheering or people starting spontaneous conga lines along the Susquehanna River bridges . . . .

Perhaps, though, the celebration was more subdued and better suited to quiet moments of reflection: That is, maybe ol' Rummy had finally passed that load from his bowels that that grimacy look on his face indicates he's been holding onto since the Nixon administration. The somber commemoration, thus, was a sign of mourning--mourning over the loss of the best part of Donald Rumsfeld: His stool.

Finally, though, I realized that the twin Rummy throwdown is indicative of what passes for news programming in our fair and gentle Republic on a Saturday night. Or on any night, for that matter.

And there, comrades, is your eighth sign. Check and mate.

Driving drunk across the pop cultural landscape

Although my too often Gap-based wardrobe and Kylie Minogue-influenced CD collection may indicate otherwise, I've spent years perfecting a certain cultural and stylistic aesthetic. Early on, some of this aesthetic came about through conscious cultivation, but more often than not, my sense of aesthetic selection derived from personal preference, innate or learned, nature or nurture I could not say.

The cultural landscape of my brain defies easy description and orientation, not necessarily because it's so special, but more because it's so all over the map, obscure, and at times trés tacky. Is it north to Swedish pop stars or south to Brazilian jazz and Black Oak Arkansas? Is it east to Cambodian cuisine with lime-based sauces or west to Pennsylvania snackfoods like whoopie pies and pumpernickel and onion pretzels?

Or is it even odder in its direction--slightly to the right and a turn north-by-northwest, a little to the left and then travel east-by-southeast? Brooding Third World cinema and Bollywood extravaganzas, Australian sit-coms and trashy Mexican soaps, '60s "girl singers" and British "garageheads" like the Streets, Lily Allen, and M.I.A. It's all in there, an ass-kickin' party punch of aestethics, a malt liquor-and-champagne cocktail of musings, a Vietnamese beer-and-Boone's Farm wine of mindsets, quickly followed by a citron-flavored vodka of sensibilities and a chaser of Cheerwine to take the edge off.

As if there were a few too many milkshake martinis under the driver's belt, these predilections of taste swoop and swirl drunkenly, recklessly, across a narrow, two-lane black-top of Kultur and couture. Keep your eyes on the road, guys and gals: You don't want to meet this driver head on, crashing and combusting together in an explosion of Hi Test petroleum and high camp glitter. You don't want to be stuck behind him in traffic either, eating his technicolor-hued and strawberry-perfumed dust. And you sure can't rest comfortably if you pass him, at least not without dialing 911 on your cellphone to report his offensive driving. "Hello, is this the Aesthetic Police? I need to report a moving violation . . . several of them in fact."

For example . . .

Movies: Independent films only, please, and not those fake, multi-million dollar star salary motion pictures made by Miramax. British "kitchen sink" dramas from the '50s and '60s, post-"Dirty War" Argentine films, Israeli-Palestinian cinema, aiming-for-arty but still accessible Canadian productions like When Night Is Falling or Heyday! (seen during my recent Canada sojourn on CBC TV), or even Norwegian surf movies.

Give me something grainy in cinematography and grainy like sand in your shorts in spirit, where the ending could be sad, could be happy, but more often is bittersweet and incomplete. Give me something with jumpy edits and bumpy camera work. Give me something Third World or third sex, with subtitles and some slapstick, James Bond or Jesus of Montréal, I don't care, just make it interesting and offbeat--or give me Death Becomes Her.

Music: World music, most definitely, but nothing too folky or "traditional." Think Natacha Atlas, the late Ofra Haza, Dissidenten, Les Negresses Vertes, the Chango Family, or Xavier Naidoo. I once was at a party where the hosts played Japanese koto music throughout the evening and thought I'd shoot myself in the face after an hour's worth. It may work for college professors but for the gästarbeiter among them, nein, bitte! So, no, nothing like that.

What I listen to doesn't have to have street cred--generally, it doesn't--but it's gotta have a beat and some mood, perspective, or attitude, something beyond "hey, boo, I wanna party widju" or "I'm a skinny white boy who likes to look tragic and ironic in skinny black tie and peg-legged trousers and sing tortured love songs about skinny white girls." With guitars. Oh, l'amour. Oh, yawn.

If I go for something downbeat and moody, yet still musical, it would be the French-Canadian chanteuse Jorane, the just plain French vanilla chanteuse Myléne Farmer (how can you not love a singer who sings songs with titles like "Je t'aime meláncholie," "Psychiatric," and "Myléne c'est fou"?), Swedish singer Ebba Forsberg or even her plaintive and poppier fellow countrywoman, Agnetha Fältskog, formerly of ABBA, themselves a somewhat bipolar group. (Don't believe me? Then compare something seemingly insipid like "Ring Ring" with something semi-suicidal like "The Day Before You Came," and tell me you don't pray for the world's sake for good mental health benefits under Sweden's national health care plan.) There's always Kate Bush or Beth Orton, too.

Reading: Used to, way back in the '80s, my literary tastes were informed by Granta, a half-serious/half-hipster literary journal with Euro appeal, published by Cambridge University's for-profit division, that in and of itself a novelty among the lefty UK lit crit set in the Thatcher era. At least so they imagined--I vaguely remember reading about a British communist-socialist political party in the '80s selling designer goods and other capitalist accoutrements featuring the party logo, using the argument that "communism isn't about denial of pleasure," in an effort to make socialism trendy with a bright young Britain. Right on, comrade!

Do not take yourself too seriously folks. It always comes back to haunt you. Trust me on this-- I have the photos of the fashion faux-pas to prove it.

In that era, I favored British style and pop culture mags like The Face, Q, Select, and the poorly proofread i-D. Among American publications, I often read Spy and chuckled everytime they referred to then-upstart real estate mogul Donald Trump as "that short-fingered Vulgarian." Tee hee.

Way back when, I favored multicultural authors (the one-character-trick pony--start with a provocative concept and a hook 'em in the opening line!--of the Iowa Writers Workshop school for scoundrels in the form of a Bharati Mukherjee or the everyone-look-at-me-I'm-riding-a-bucking-bronco! agent provocateur-ness of Hanif Kureishi, by way of explanation) or pretentious, rather tedious international writers like Milan Kundera and Chinua Achebe. Sorry, guys, to me good writing is about story and character first, not theory and philosophy disguised as literature.

Finally, at the end of the '80s, a boyfriend recommended Eva Luna by Isabel Allende, a book I totally loved but which was somewhat critically sniffed at as being a pale (yet somehow more colorful) imitation of kill-me-now-if-I-have-to-read-again authors like Gabriel García Márquez. Here was a story again--one with character and joy and a world of small details to relish and bigger points to make. All done without irony or archness or Annie Liebowitz photo shoots in Vanity Fair. Wow.

Amazing how one book changed my so-called aesthetic life, allowing me to love what I loved all along once again--middlebrow and lowbrow, maybe middlemiddlebrow or even uppermiddlebrow, all rolled into one--without too much shame from the taste in art, music, and literature that dare not speak its name. As the saying goes, ars longa, vita brevis, and boyfriends last about a week-and-a-half, tops. But sometimes they do leave you with interesting parting gifts--and not just of the sexually transmitted or parasitic variety.

To be continued . . .

Driving drunk, continued: From Mansfield Park to Jackassville

Nowadays, my reading is much less obscure, at least so it seems to me. Oh, it may involve its share of Brit lit and world culture types, a half-finished Zadie Smith novel here, a just-begun Marlene Van Niekerk there. (Editor's note: Well, the latter did get a good review in the NYTBR, a pretty mainstream, if East Coast, source.) However, it also might be oriented toward a Bill Bryson goof-fest, A Year in the Merde-styled travelog/joke-a-thon, a Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil Southern gothic escapade (read a decade after everyone else was done with it), a First Ladies Detective Agency whimsy, or, most recently, Jane Austen's Mansfield Park.

I admit that I love Jane Austen's writing. Everyone talks about how Shakespeare speaks to us through the ages, but I'd argue he does so with a lot of swishy dramatic fireworks and in an (at least to me) almost unintelligible, florid language. I find that Austen, on the other hand, despite the different culture and time, does have quite a bit to say even today. I find her knowledge of human character so engaging, detailed, and precise, and her wry, dry observations about cultural mores, her not-so-subtly scathing social commentary, irresistible. I've begun to think about that party question--if you could have dinner with anyone living or dead, who would it be?--and imagine myself sitting down for tea with Lady Jane to have a tete-a-tete about life, humanity, class, relationships, and the "politics of the party" (as opposed to party politics) while we attend a social function in Washington, D.C., which, next to Los Angeles, is perhaps America's most socially twisted environment.

Of course, I'm sure the first time I used the "F" word or told her about the ins-and-outs of contemporary gay society ("Yes, well, oddly enough, Miss Austen, having sex with a guy on the first date pretty much guarantees he'll never speak to you again--but will speak about you to all his friends; I'm sure it was much the same in your day, no?"), she'd immediately crawl back into the grave and pull the coffin lid back over her head. Still, if we made it through at least one cuppa and a few biscuits, a few "Yes, I'd rather like to think so's" and "No, I don't believe I should's," I'd be satisfied.

I'm almost done with Mansfield Park, and yet I am still not sure what to make of it. Is it a morality tale, a story of good Christian girl Fanny Price getting the man of her dreams while worldly, secular, London hussy Mary Crawford (and, let's face it, far more interesting and more typically an Austen heroine in her spit-fieriness) misses her chance at earthly paradise with rather tedious clergyman Edmund Bertram due to her sans souçi, faith-free, joie de vivre? Is it a delicate feminist tract with Austen lightly but pointedly pressing against the dress staves of female constraint and confinement in early 19th-century England? A rejection of the safety first mentality toward marriage and station in life, with Fanny turning away from the well-funded, roguish Henry Crawford, in favor of a Bertram-or-bust life? Does feminism come into play in Austen's portrayal of Fanny's mother, the slatternly Mrs. Price, trapped by her lack of reproductive freedom, destined to be a victim of biology, both hers and her husband's?

Or is this more a portrayal of class differences and struggles, of the poor, unkempt, improper Prices and the rich, tidy, yet still improper Bertrams and Crawfords, the latter being victims of their own social and economic successes, schadenfreudian patsies of the planter class? And speaking of planters, where's all this critical talk of the slave trade in Mansfield Park? Some allusions to plantations in Antigua, one question by Fanny about the trade itself, do not a political screed make. Even the sensible Jane A. is usually more persuasive in tone. Perhaps I should invite Harriet Beecher Stowe to tea as well . . . .

* * *

All of the above--and what follows below--is indicative of why I've yet to settle on an additional master's degree or never pursued a Ph.D., despite my long-standing guest worker status in academe. How can you channel all that class and crass, that trash and treasure, into a color-within-the-lines academic discipline?

Oh, I've tried, believe me. I spent a couple of years both in North Carolina and Texas taking advanced-level history courses, trying to find a proper place for nourishing and growing my intellect. It did sprout, even flourished a bit, my harvest at one point involving a 30+-page paper on Thatcher, the UK gay rights movement, and the appropriation of homoerotic images in pop culture, standing in contrast to Thatcher's more regressive take on contemporary society. Another bumper crop included a post-colonial analysis of gay relationships in Hong Kong, Zimbabwe, and the Mexican tourism industry. Hmmm, perhaps we're beginning to see my problem here, mixing pop music with political science, combining critical theory with porn imagery about "hot Latins," "submissive Asians," and "hung Black tops."

In spite of having some good "gardeners" in the form of accepting and encouraging professors (one female, one male, one constipated--two outta three ain't bad and all that), in the often male-dominated history classes I attended, I ended up feeling much more like a delicate little hothouse flower, an orchid of sense and sensibility if you will, among the vacant lot, concrete blocks, and weeds of the rest of the class.

Perhaps in another season, it would all be different. Nonetheless, in any discipline, there is a lot of slogging through dense, poorly written tomes, coupled with even more slogging through even denser and more poorly written critical theory. Discipline is what you need to get through the discipline, it seems. But, goodness gracious, must it all be so stiff and boring? After all, how many years left on the planet do any of us have? And why should I spend my time on something deadly dull when there are novels to read, movies to watch, and pop tunes to download?

Thus, what's a wee pansy of intellect to do? Other than blog away his troubles, I mean . . . .

* * *

Go see Jackass: Number 2, apparently. That's what he should do. And what I did in fact do. Hehe, I said "do do" . . . .

Maybe it was the wine that evening; maybe it was the thought of the impending birthday and the realization that following the same highway of interests, no matter how well-mapped, occasionally leads to dead-ends; maybe it's just that I was way behind on the tote board of my pledge drive to do one new thing a week, a goal I set during the doldrums of a gray last February. But when my friends the Cartoonist and the Pianist asked me if I'd like to go see Jackass: Number 2 with them, I jumped at the chance. And like any good jackass, immediately fell hard on the crossbar of my Schwinn. (Figuratively speaking.)

I admit that I do have a penchant--and a modicum of shame--for shows like The Three Stooges and The Beverly Hillbillies, but Jackass is so totally not the kind of movie I would normally go see. And, thus, that's exactly why I had to go.

I was familiar with the concept of Jackass and the subsequent rise of copycat idiocy that took place after every episode aired on MTV or after the previous movie (Number 1, that is) had screened. And while I'm enough of an old socialist that I can see logical and intelligent reasons for not exhibiting such dangerous behavior as displayed by the Jackass cast to impressionable minds, I'm enough of a libertarian/free market type to say, hey, if you're stupid enough to stand blindfolded before a charging bull or put a hook through your cheek and serve as shark bait for the cameras, then you get what you deserve, oh future Darwin Award winners.

Plus, I had seen Johnny Knoxville in the last John Waters' movie, that catalog of sexual perversions, A Dirty Shame, and thought he was pretty funny, especially in one of the outtakes in which he, well, um, becomes familiar with his own trouser snake. (I'll leave it to your imagination and your Netflix membership to explore further.) Plus, shallow person that I am, I do think he's kinda cute and figured I might get a little Knoxville T&A out of the $8 deal.

Well, no such luck, of course--after all, he's a star now, so nudity and really dangerous stunts that might mess up his face are left for his fellow Jackassites. There was indeed a fair amount of skin exhibited by Bam, Chris, Steve-O, and the others, some of it actually worth the price of admission. And there were also some genuinely funny segments, the kind that exhibit a goofy guy, pratfall and frat-full humor that even an ol' priss-pot curmudgeon like me isn't immune to.

However, there were also moments that conveyed an icky, not-so-fresh feeling, giving a weird sexual tension to the gags and gross-outs, which rubbed up against and in between the cast members, enveloping them in a blue-tinged, "I smell smoke" homoeroticism.

The most obvious example was the incident in which Bam is placed at the top of a carnival game, the one where the Strong Man uses a mallet to prove his power by swinging his big stick down hard on a box in order to try to make the bell ring at the top of the shaft, proving he's a bad mother--shut yo' mouth!

Except in this version, the Jackassites have replaced the thingie that hits the bell with a golden dildo, which when projected, aims directly at Bam's bare ass.

I sure hope that MTV Films and Paramount Pictures had a qualified Freudian psychologist on retainer throughout filming, 'cause these boys need to talk this out.

Like I said, this was the most obvious example of the Homoerotic Frolics on view. There were others, noticed by both the Pianist and me, although I have to admit, I can't remember all what I saw, given the passage of time and the fact that I watched a good portion of the movie with my hands over my eyes. I'm sorry, but I really could live my life without seeing Johnny and Friends try to grab an anaconda while in a children's ball room or assist in the studfarming of a horse jus' fer laffs.

Still, the fascination with snakes, rockets, butts, cocks, and the bodily functions and fluids of animals and each other played out at times like a segment of Stupid Perv Tricks. Boys, let's face it: You can go home to your wives and girlfriends, but there's something about being naked and touchy-feely with your male compadres that keeps you coming back for more. It may just be narcissism at work and play here, but you're just a little too interested in the male body--and in dominating the other male bodies around you--for this all to be just innocent, lighthearted fun.

Not that there's anything wrong with a little man-on-man sexual interest, but let's realize it for what it is--hombre-to-hombre semi-sexual hijinx of the boys-in-the-girls'-room-girls-in-the-men's-room-you-free-your-mind-and-your-androgyny variety. (With thanks to Shirley Manson and Garbage for that bit of lyrical inspiration.)

I'm not saying that any of the boys from Jackass are gay. Gayness involves a bit more than being interested in the bits and pieces of the men around you; if that were the case, then everybody who ever went into a men's room would be suspect. Gayness is as much a cultural identity, a social milieu, and even a political decision, as it is a sexual orientation. But there is this odd male heterosexual approach to homosexuality playing out here, an on-the-down-low-among-the-lowdown-and-dirty, the kind that sees sex between men as a game, a contest, a winner-take-all conquest, where one guy dominates another by bending him over and bending him to his will.

It's wet-towel-snapping-on-the-ass-in-the-locker-room gone askew. It's tacky jokes about being Bubba's bitch in prison. It's gauche beer commercials where one guy is outed as being more "feminine" or less "masculine" than the others. It's "making the coach proud," then "taking one for the team." It's World Wrestling Entertainment and the Superbowl all balled together. It's hazing. It's Guys Gone Wild crossed with Sean Cody.com. It's line-crossing ceremonies, and then crossing the line altogether.

In other words, it's smoke from a different fire, and understanding where that smoke is coming from and dealing with it effectively might just mean more shared humanity and less violence in the world. Or at least a little less repression.

Whew. I do go on. Surely, somehow, I could turn this spiel into a master's degree at some accredited university. Or I could just keep on torturing my readers with my endless observations on the ways and mens (sic) of contemporary sexual culture.

Which would be cheaper in terms of student loans and my own therapy bills.

I laughed, I cried, I became a part of the problem, not the solution

Editor's note: For today, just call me Rantlicious.

* * *

And I could go on and on and on/
But who cares?

Gnarls Barkley, "Who Cares," 2006

For a number of reasons, I haven't written anything predominantly political in a long while. For one thing, what with the almost-move to Canada in August and the beginning of the new academic year, I've lacked the concentration and mental powers to analyze and interpret the current domestic and international political situation in any sort of contemplative manner. I'm still not sure I'm there now, but I have to start somewhere.

People who know me and/or regular readers of this blog can attest that humor tends to be my schtick. It's fun for me, and perhaps even for those around me. However, what may be less evident is that it helps me cope. Within my psychological makeup, I seem to have two choices for dealing with the sorry state of the world, laughing or crying. (Ignoring doesn't seem to be an option, even if it sometimes seems as though that's what I'm doing.) When it comes down to it, I realize it's better for me and everyone I know if I choose the chuckle over buckling under the weltschmerz.

It almost goes without saying, though, that I've been unable to find anything humorous in the current situation--despite the absurdity and preposterousness of the times, and speaking of the times, despite headlines like the one in today's (24 September 2006) New York Times: "Spy Agencies Say Iraq War Worsens Terror Threat."

Say it ain't so.

I mean, who would have ever imagined that twisted little pretzel of reality three-and-a-half years ago when the rumblings of war and the rattlings of sabers first began? It just goes to show that conventional wisdom and common sense are truly dead--or at least desperately in need of image rehab--because clearly only long-delayed government reports (the study was completed in April and apparently this summer Washington completely exhausted the federal supply of toner and paper, probably on press releases about the war's many suckexcesses) and scholarly think-tank white papers can see things the way they really are.

As for the rest of us who thought otherwise from the Gitmo . . . erm . . . get-go, who actually speculated that all this meshugas in the Middle East might be a windmill-tilt in the wrong direction in the quixotic "war on terror," well, where were our credentials? Where were our facts? More importantly, where were our press conferences and photo ops? Why surely the rest of us were guilty of a namby-pamby, liberal wheezing, terrorist appeasing form of Islamo-fascist sedition because we dared question whether it might be wiser, geopolitically speaking, to "think outside the bomb" for a change.

And yet three and some (very) odd years later, here we are, in a burning Middle Eastern theater of war, our feet stuck to floor by chewed gum and spilled soda--or might that be spilled blood?--with nary an exit sign in sight. The smoke obscures our vision, the screaming agitates our soul, and the flames from this particular form of hell scorches our brains. Nonetheless, I'm sure like any good Hollywood blockbuster disaster movie, in the end we'll get saved from a deep-fat-fried denouement by someone cocksure and virile, like a pre-Scientology Tom Cruise. Won't we?

Which brings me to my third and fourth reasons for why I've avoided and evaded all things Iraqi, Iranian, Afghani, Lebanese, Israeli, Syrian, Palestinian, Saudi, Sudanese, and, for good measure, Venezuelan: It's just too damn overwhelming and too damn depressing.

Where does one begin to discuss the war, its pitfalls, its pratfalls, and its cat fights on the catwalk? With President Bush's recent speech to the United Nations and the playground tit-for-tat of Wankin' (Hugo Chavez), Blankin' (Bush), and Nutjob (Mahmoud Ahmadinejad)? With Donald Rumsfeld's early-September accusation that anyone who wuzn't fer 'em wuz again' em and was guilty of being a Nazi appeaser? With the "Secret Prisons Revealed!" teaser on the next episode of Gitmo-ry Povich? With efforts to legalize domestic spying without warrants even after the Supreme Court ruled such activities unconstitutional? With the farcical trial of Saddam Hussein? When the Geneva Conventions were processed into Swiss cheese? With 3,000 soldiers and tens of thousands of Iraqis dead?

Frankly, it's just easier to write about something innocuous like the dissolution of Whitney Houston's marriage, Clay Aiken's eternal "non-coming out" and continual hair-don'ts, or the homoerotic weirdness that is Jackass: Number 2. As a result, by taking the road less agonizing (and less likely to be booby-trapped) to travel, I run the risk of being called lewd or crude, of focusing on the ephemeral and inconsequential, of not being taken seriously. But, seriously, what's the point of saying anything more?

It's not like one more blog-ista engaging in a political rant is going to make a difference and change the outcome of the war--or even of the soundbites from next week's press conference. It's clear that our fearless leaders (leading us into temptation, delivering us unto evil . . .) are going to do whatever the hell they want, no matter how many people protest, no matter how many die, no matter how much destruction and hurt are caused, no matter (in a purely self-serving vein) how low the poll numbers go and how big the budget deficit balloons. Why bother? Especially when there's Jessica Simpson's career to consider or another missing pre-teen to worry over or a hurricane heading toward Bermuda to fret about?

Of course this is the plan, to keep us all part of what the Daily Show's Jon Stewart refers to as the "distracted middle." Folks, it's Wonder bread and circuses and Entertainment Tonight from here on out--or at least until they run out of body bags. Lord knows they'll never run out of excuses. Say amen somebody and pass the ammunition. Oh wait. They've run out of that, too.

We of the Never Never think the Far Right is crazy, destroying democracy to save it and all that jazz. We fear the Far Left could be even crazier, and we only have to tour San Francisco or tune into Pacifica Radio to clear up any doubts otherwise. Meanwhile, we're stuck in the middle confused, feeling ill-informed, overly anxious over $3 a gallon gas and $1,000 deductibles on our health insurance, and maybe just being a little too dispassionate about life outside our own backyards.

These people on the Left and the Right seem so sure of their convictions--or at least of whom they want to convict. What do we know about any of this? Wouldn't it be easier just to go along and let them have their way?

And by doing so, by giving up our own power to those who scream the loudest, who argue the best, who seem so sure of themselves, we end up doing absolutely nothing. Except talk to our friends and family members, make jokes at our leaders' expense, spend our free time praising the beauty of sunflowers, watching our new TVs, and scouring the shops for the perfect shade of cranberry or sage for a dining room rug.

Oh, and maybe vote every couple of years, no longer surprised that the choices on the ballot offer really no choice at all. Each one the same: The same suit-wearing, over-achieving assholes, whose parents, families, and friends didn't have the gumption to tell little George W. or Hillary R. C. or Bill F. or Nancy P. that there needs to be something behind the wind-bagginess of it all, that they might want to have a belief system, not just an extraordinary narcissism.

I promise for the next blog posting I'll do a spit-take or juggle or something.

Sick daze

Being home sick this week, accompanied solely by chicken soup, Kleenex, and my own personal Jumbotron, afforded me lots of downtime. Most of this downtime I spent dragging myself from one sofa to another, to the bed, and to the bathroom, always in a half-Dayquil-, half-Nyquil-induced haze, groaning morosely as my aching body strained under the activity.

Nevertheless, I didn't cull all my drama and comedy just from my own pathetic existence. I also acquired quite a bit by watching lots and lots of television.

During brief moments of lucidity, I managed to catch a glimpse of each and every one of the 500+ channels I subscribe to in my digital cable package. This is my report.

* * *

The soaps

I have now witnessed Jessica and Tess (played by Canadian hussy Bree Williamson) integrate their different personalities on One Life to Live. I will miss Tess; slutty and crazy always win out over demure and sane. It's soap opera logic.

I have marveled at how All My Children has basically recycled the same plot lines for the last two to three years and have wondered why the actress playing Kendall (Alicia Minshew) hasn't ruined her voice by screaming through every scene, whether it was called for or not--sort of the acting equivalent of a Whitney Houston performance.

I have noted that Reva Shane's portrayer, Kim Zimmer, has become somewhat zaftig on Guiding Light, remarking how La Zimmer is following in Kathleen Turner's footsteps once again. She and Kathleen have crossed paths before. Watch Body Heat sometime. Search EBay for old episodes of The Doctors. You'll see.

Nonetheless, both actresses are still lovely, still incredibly talented, but, whether fairly or not, because of some extra pounds and a few more wrinkles, are perceived to be no longer the sex bombs they once were.

I know just how they feel.

The talk shows

I saw all the stock episodes of Jerry Springer and Maury, which consistently consist of the following themes:

• "My wild teen is having non-stop sex with every boy in the neighborhood because she wants a baby, and I can't stop her!" (Maury)
• "My husband's a midget, and I'm cheating on him with his best friend (also a midget)" (Jerry)
• "I've been on this show nine times before trying to find my baby's daddy, but I'm sure the tenth time is the charm!" (Maury)
• "My boyfriend wasn't there for me when I needed him (i.e., he was in prison), so I'm having an affair with his brother/sister/father/mother/cousin/best friend/son/daughter/butcher/baker/candlestick maker/all of the above" (Jerry)
• "I used to be a dweeb; now I'm over-siliconed babe/over-steroided hunk and ready to reveal my secret crush to a high school friend and rub his/her nose in my perfection." (Maury)
• "I didn't really have anything to say; I just wanted to flash my tits at the audience and get some beads--wooooooooh!!!" (Jerry)

I couldn't bring myself to watch Oprah or Dr. Phil, and I can generally only do so when I'm suffering from a broken heart or need something to charge up my bitch batteries. You might think that I could be more enlightened if I did watch Oprah or Dr. Phil, but I suspect I would just be less entertained. Nothing exceeds like excess and all that, and despite million-dollar give-aways on Oprah, when it comes to excess, Jerry and Maury will always have her beat. In fact, they'll even beat her before a live audience with a leather-clad midget and a 14-year-old hooker wielding the paddles.

The movies

While convalescing, I caught some movies, too--or I should say, parts of movies, as I inevitably stumbled upon something worthy of watching an hour into the show.

The best by far was this little Norwegian film on the Sundance Channel or the IFC called Monster Thursday (Monstertorsdag). Terrible name. Good little film. It's the story of a love triangle--two male friends and the woman who comes between them, or rather the one friend coming between the man and the woman--played out in Norway's surfing community. Surfing in Norway! Who knew? (Except perhaps Kangaroo . . . ?) Still, that novelty aside, the film was, as they say, "achingly beautiful," as the Scandinavians manage to do so well, all brooding skies and moody countenances. Monstertorsdag managed to tell a tried-and-true tale in a most affecting way.

Less satisfying was the Apartheid-goes-Hollywood drama, A Dry White Season, starring Donald Sutherland, Susan Sarandon, Janet Suzman, and Jürgen Prochnow. After sitting through the last hour or so of this one, all I can say is, who knew Apartheid could be so boring?

Well, of course that's not all I can say . . .

Donald Sutherland does an amiable job in this alternately ham-fisted yet exceedingly dull tale of Afrikaner teacher Benjamin du Toit, who, through legal challenges and fair reporting, tries to expose the brutal, repressive side of Apartheid (was there another?) to White South Africa. Already we see the problem: The movie is hobbled by trying to make drama come alive through affidavits.

Along the way, Ben must deal with his two Pinewood Studios Central Casting-perfect children and his histrionic wife, played by famed South African actress Janet Suzman. I originally thought it was Stephanie Beacham in the role of Susan du Toit, as both actresses in the '80s had heaps of big auburn hair and tons of grandiose gestures, tending to act out in that Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts fashion, suitable for either King Lear or The Colbys.

Susan Sarandon plays a minor role as British-South African journalist Melanie Bruwer. There's not much to the performance, so there's not much to comment upon. Let's just say that if the end of Apartheid depended on Sarandon's ability to carry an accent through this movie, well, Willem de Klerk would still be sitting pretty in Pretoria as president-for-life.

Jürgen Prochnow plays police creep Captain Stoltz, the stock I'm-kind-of-like-a-Nazi-but-I'm-supposed-to-be-South-African role. No first name, just Captain Stoltz. Even Danielle Steele's got more imagination when it comes to personalizing Nazis.

OK, so I didn't see the whole thing--I completely missed Marlon Brandon's 10 minutes or 10 tons, whichever comes first, of screen time. Maybe the film was touching, earnest, fierce, and cathartic, all rolled into one, and I just didn't see enough to know better. If I'd seen more, maybe the Black African characters would have seemed better drawn rather than just merely long-suffering and pitiable. If I'd seen more, maybe Marlon's heavy breathing and scenery chewing would have made all the difference in the world. If I'd seen more, maybe A Dry White Season wouldn't seem so dated in a post-Apartheid world.

Nonetheless, I felt the same way after watching Cry Freedom way back in the moment in 1987. Bored. Bored by Hollywood people trying to make a Message Picture so that everyone could sit around at dinner parties in New York, Washington, and Los Angeles, ruminating over plot points and performances and feeling superior over less progressive (heavy irony) societies. "Oh yes, yes, it was very moving," the toffs would say. "It's so terrible what's happening in South Africa. So unjust. Someone should do something. Like not play Sun City. Mmmm, what are in these canapés? They're so yummy!"

* * *

Now my head is clear, my cough seems to have settled down, and my scalp doesn't hurt every time I think. Could it be that the Dayquil/Nyquil cocktail has finally done its magic? Or could it be that there's nothing like watching a poorly executed political drama to rev up the ol' bitch batteries and restore my sense of well-being?

Whatever. All better now. Time to watch more TV.

When the going gets tough, the tough go out and buy a 32-inch, widescreen, flat panel, LCD TV with built-in HD tuner. On credit.

I'm sorry, but you can't imagine what a weak substitute for therapy sunflowers are. I needed a little something more to adjust my attitude.

Thus I bought an ginormous TV that offers me the capability of counting Jon Stewart's nosehairs. Or determining the best toner for Katie Couric's clogged pores. Or sorting the wheat of real hair from the chaff of Hair Club for Men on Jeremy Piven's scalp. Yes, it's just that powerful a tool.

Normally, the fact that anyone bought a new TV would hardly seem blog-worthy. But this is me here. So automatically the most mundane task or dullest observation (e.g., how does your garden grow, Raplicious?) requires 10,000 or more keystrokes to express. However, this event is even more significant in the History of Blogtucky in that this is the first new TV I've purchased. Ever.

Actually, this is the first new-to-me TV I've had since I inherited my brother's hand-me-down, 19-inch, faux woodgrain-paneled Sylvania in the mid-1980s, a boob tube that was already slightly dated when I acquired it. Not complaining about that fact; I appreciated his generosity. Still, the Sylvania was so old I could watch programming from the DuMont Network on it. Wocka wocka.

Obviously, a new TV hasn't been that important to me, heretofore. Now, however, after years spent clunking around sitcoms and soaps with the K-Car of tellys, I'm high-tailing it through the premium movie channels with what feels like a stylish BMW or Mercedes. In reality, I'm probably just cruisin' with you baby through the first-tier digital package in a reliable but cool-looking Japanese import. But, hey, it's a definite and significant step-on-the-gas-up from my previous mode of tele-transportation.

It feels like I've entered some different sphere, crossed the space-time continuum, like the reverse of what happens to that guy in that new show on BBC America, Life on Mars, in which a traffic accident transports the lead character from the present day to 1973. It's a Ballroom Blitz, baby! For me, suddenly, I don't have a TV dial to contend with or a volume knob to adjust whenever I get a phone call. No more strange, annoying lines streaking across the left corner of the screen whenever I try to watch a video or DVD. No more odd skin tones of actors or having half their faces cut off in a scene.

Why I feel absoluted pixelated over all the possibilities.

Still, I will miss some features of my old set, such as being able to watch episodes of Ted Mack's Original Amateur Hour on it.

Sunflower power

After a bumpy, bruising couple of weeks personally and professionally, I'm hoping to head into autumn with the right attitude. (Yeah, I know, like that's gonna last.)

Nonetheless, I hope letting the sunshine in with a little sunflower power from my garden may put me in the right frame of mind.

The sunflowers that have bloomed in my deck garden in the last couple of weeks sprung forth from the last seeds I planted for the year. It was very late in the growing season, practically mid-June, before I had all the pots and paraphernalia ready for planting them. So it's a pleasant surprise to me that my sunflowers have flourished at all. Now my only regret is that I didn't plant more.

The plants that developed stayed stubby for a while, no more than a foot-and-a-half tall, until I transplanted them into individual containers at the end of July. Doing this and watering them more regularly and generously (who knew?), especially during a parched July and August, finally made the stalks shoot up, with each plant now reaching at least four to five feet in height.

Because of their height, at this point in the summer, my sunflowers are tipping over a lot. Every night this week I've come home to find them sprawled over the deck and hanging off of the other plants, like a bunch of drunks that have tippled too much and now just . . . love . . . you . . . buddy . . . I . . . really . . . do . . . lov . . . *clunk.*

Tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers, sunflowers, lavender, mint, Italian parsley, basil, rosemary, and oregano--this is all what I've grown on my own this summer. This is the first real success I've ever had with gardening, with most of my past efforts resulting in drowned cacti and "vine-dried" herbs. Even without benefit of a "golden watering can" level of accomplishment, I find myself practically giddy with satisfaction and pride over how my garden has grown. I look forward to coming home to it, watering it, adjusting the plants for maximum exposure to the sun, readjusting them for maximum appeal to the eye, and reading the New York Times in it when the weather and insects allow me to. However, I have drawn the line at reading the New York Times to the plants. Too depressing.

Even my normally quiet, mind-their-own-business, neighbors have noticed the sunflowers and have commented on how well my garden has turned out. Because of this success, next year I hope to plant more flowering plants. I'll even try to come up with a color scheme or pattern for the garden based on suggestions from the container gardening book I bought earlier in the year. Maybe I'll go with a hue-friendly, patriotic theme like "red, white, and fabulous" or, depending on how the new year goes, something a bit more alternative and goth, like "I'm black and blue over you"--a tale of pain and misery told through tulips. Either way, the neighborhood--and area counselors--are sure to take note.

The only semi-disappointment in this summer's garden--other than accidentally toasting a few baby cucumbers in the August heat and getting buggy with the orange peppers--is the slow development of my tomatoes. The plants have done fine, have bloomed, and now have developed about 7 to 10 tomatoes on the vine. But the their growth seems stunted, and the fruits have been slow to ripen.

Still, I've noticed a tentative blush forming on some of the fruits, so I'm hopeful that by the end of September I'll have at least some slightly green/slightly red success stories ready for a meal or two of fried green tomatoes. (And no, Gladman and others, I did nothing untoward to make those tomatoes blush. At least nothing I'll own up to.)

Having lived in major cities or large towns for the last twenty-some years of my life, I'm enjoying this return to my country boy roots. Touching the tomato plants and smelling on my hands that specific summery scent immediately takes me back to my grandmother's ever-abundant vegetable garden, where she grew squash, cucumbers, pole beans, and watermelons. The colors of the flowers remind me of gardens my parents tended over the years in their yard, featuring a flourish of azaleas, tulips, zinnias, pansies, and daffodils. (Sorry. There's really no butch way to write about flowers.)

It's enough to make me don overalls and walk around my spread barefoot, a hoe propped over one shoulder, and a piece of straw 'tween my teeth, like some sort of urban Huck Finn on the cover of Metropolitan Home: The Exurb Special Issue.

That or I'm just about ready for my cameo in "The Cornfield" on Hee Haw.