Saturday, November 12, 2016


  It may be impossible to watch Citizen Kane (1941) without recoiling from some stark similarities with a certain Orange Menace currently in vogue. While often cited as the greatest movie of all time, those words are misleading because, while likely accurate, they project a kind of elitism that dampens the visual delights of this movie. Mystery, biopic, suspense drama, documentary, art film, even black comedy: Orson Welles made such categorizations irrelevant as he blended flashback vignettes from the lives of William Hearst, Sam Insull, Harold McCormick and possibly his own bad self with the hegemonic artistic license of a brilliant child with too much money and no one to contradict him. Everyone should have one opportunity to make such a film, as long as those who succeed can withstand the agony of having all the rest that they do compared with it unfavorably. 
  Welles was an auteur, a seer whose vision guided all aspects of a movie's creation. One could tell an Orson Welles film from some distance: floor-level shots, images drawn with negative space, misleading and beautiful visual metaphors, a recurring cast of actors and a story-line that implied as much as it spoke. Few director writers have been able to hold the often pejorative auteur moniker, but Welles took it to heart, as was his due. 
   Someone I have often believed to be the natural descendant of Orson is Robert Altman. He too preferred to operate outside the studio systems and he too took pride in the contemporary euphemism for auteur: outlaw. After years in relative obscurity, Altman's explosion blew cosmic debris throughout the cinematic landscape with critical successes and his lovely commercial failures. In the 1970s, there were no better movies than Brewster McCloudNashville and 3 Women.  Yet when Robert's attempts to build a community that would enable him to create did not properly gel, his movies embarrassed even his most ardent fans, as anyone who has ever endured Popeye or O.C. & Stiggs can attest. 
  The Player (1992) stands as Altman's greatest story ever told. While the director himself seems to have considered the movie as an inoffensive little satire, in fact The Player takes pains to offend people who might in kindness be called ignorant through no fault of their own. The nearly eight-minute tracking shot opening scene actually references Welles film Touch of Evil and no less a personage than the late Roger Ebert has claimed that the Griffin Mill lead character (as played by Tim Robbins) bears a purposeful resemblance to the young Charles Foster Kane. He certainly has Kane's early morality, especially when he shuts down new kid Larry Levy when the latter is musing over the prospects of ridding the system of writers. Griffin's comeback is pure Wellesian brilliance: "I was thinking what an interesting concept it is... to eliminate the writer from the artistic process. If we can get rid of the actors and directors, maybe we've got something."


Sunday, October 30, 2016


"The night was clear
and the moon was yellow
and the leaves came tumbling down"
    --Improvised lyric intro to "Stagger Lee"

   Davy emerged from the house's front door with a heavy sigh. His hands jammed deep into his pockets of their own volition. He felt his feet shuffling down the three uneven steps and out to the sidewalk, heavy with autumn leaves. You could see the wall from where he stood, if you bothered to look. He didn't bother.
   He hated that damned wall. It reminded him that his old home was just across the border back in the United States. Cecilia was still back there, no doubt wondering if he was all right, just as he wondered how she was holding up under the new regime. One year later--well, not quite, but close. Tonight was the end of October. Nearly a full year later and he had not heard from her since losing the coin toss. Only one of them was to leave while one was to remain behind,just in case. "Just in case" had turned out to mean the opposite of what they had hoped. 
   As the one left behind, Cecilia had taken the responsibility of luring the Fuhrer to his demise. A series of tweets promising to allow the Leader of the Free World to assault her any way he wished--it was too much for the Fuhrer to resist.
   So his Orangeness accepted the invitation to come alone across the border and to sashay his wrinkled old rotten behind up the stairs, turning left at the top and barged his way into the first bedroom on the right. "I am here so bigly!" he had shouted, just as Davy sprang out from beneath the blanket wearing a coonskin cap and a smile.
   When it was all over, Der Fuhrer had been tarred and feathered and glued to the top of the house with a long plume sticking out of his rectum. 
   And now Davy needed to get back home to undo all the treachery that this monster and others had done to his country. Cecilia was already working on things from her end. She had gathered a group of like-minded patriots together and they were already tearing down the wall, one brick at a time. 
   It would be nice getting back home.The autumn chill in southern Canada was more than Davy could stand. 

Friday, September 30, 2016


   You've been asking me about women lately so I figured this would be as good a time as any to have this conversation or monologue or brief dissertation, all for the improvement of your psychological well-being, now that we have hit a point in what some people have taken to calling a Presidential Election. You're thirteen-years-old, a fine old age to be, and it is perfectly appropriate that you might have a lot of questions about a lot of different things. But since I won't know the answers to most of those, I thought it better to steer the talk toward something I actually do know just a tiny bit about and that is being a guy. What does me being a guy have to do with women, you might well ask. That's what we're here to find out.
    When I was thirteen--and I suspect things have not changed all that much since those days--just about the only thing any fella I knew fretted over at all was invariably connected to the subject of "How will this make me appear to girls?" When you're a thirteen-year-old boy, you want to have your mother approve of you because if she does, then there's always that chance that the young lady down the block might also think you are worth the time of day. In that same vein, it's cool if your dad approves of you too, because you get some sense as to what you are supposed to do so that the girl down the road will take positive notice of your potentially pathetic existence. But what's probably most important is that your mom and dad really like one another. I don't mean that they love each other. I've known people married for decades who could put on a pretty face about matters who quite evidently despised one another's immortal souls. No, the important thing in this situation is not love, but like, as in respect, admire, appreciate, treasure. If your folks like each other, you're in a better position than most when it comes to having some sense as to how to be comfortable around other people--especially girls.
    Another thing you need to know is that women are not from Venus and you are not from Mars. Back in the days when they were still making books, some joker who pretended to be a psychologist actually made that claim on the cover of his book and then went on at some length explaining how men were like microwave ovens and women were like crock pots, and never mind the mixed metaphors. This bozo's idea--what's that? Bozo? Oh, he was a clown who rose to a certain quiet fame back in the 1950s and 1960s and so popular was he that years later it became fashionable to use his name whenever making reference to somebody congenitally stupid. But as I was saying, this book tried to make the claim that there were all these big differences between men and women, that men wanted aggression and women wanted to sew; that men wanted war and women wanted peace; that men were protectors and women were nurturers. I can see you smiling so I guess you know just how ridiculous that was. But at that time our country was in the midst of one of our typical reactions against the progress that women had been making socially and economically. Because a lot of people didn't understand what true power meant, they felt threatened whenever a woman achieved equity in the workplace or gained reproductive freedom or even made the first move on a date.
   Power? Sure, I'll be glad to tell you. Most people, as I say, get it wrong. They go with sociologist Max Weber definition, which says that power is the ability to get someone to do what you want them to do and that the more they don't want to do it and do it anyway, the more power you have. Of course, in a geopolitical sense, that is a fine definition. But around the house, where people actually live, power is the opposite of that. Power is the ability to be comfortable with who you are no matter what everybody else thinks of you, unless everybody thinks you're drunk and you're fishing your car keys out of your pants pockets, but that's a conversation for another place and time.
   So we have this election coming up, as you know. A lot of my friends and maybe some of your friends or their parents, they just absolutely loathe this Hillary Clinton person and that is why they plan to vote for Donald Trump. If you ask them why they hate Clinton, they'll roll their eyes and shrug and finally sputter out something about how they can't trust her. They won't have any specifics, of course. They'll blather on incoherently about missing emails and foundations and Vince Foster and about how her husband's infidelities were somehow her fault rather than his own, but when you pin them down they will only say that they just don't like her.
   Then you ask them what they like about Trump. Again, the delusional part of their minds will formulate some nonsense about how he speaks his mind and doesn't worry about correctness, but what they really and truly like, love and worship about the man is that he makes other people into commodities. The Mexicans he rented to were inhabited units. The blacks he would not allow to rent from him were undesirables. The women he insulted were vaginas.
    That last point is crucial, son of my loins. You see, Trump is such a sniffling wretch of a glob of sub-human protoplasm that he thinks of women's sexual organs as commodities. So do most of his supporters. So do some of his female supporters, which is kind of like finding Jews in the 1930s who wanted to jump into the train cars on their way to the death camps. 
   I could spend the next decade telling you why Trump is a sadistic monster who makes de Sade look like a humanitarian. But that isn't why we are here. We are here because if you worry too much about whether or not girls like you--the way you want them to do--you will be very disappointed and what is worse you might even channel that disappointment into a type of what Freud called reaction formation where you end up despising that for which you used to yearn. And when you despise women, you are a misogynist. You're a misogynist just like Trump, Gingrich, Ailes, Howard Stern, Michael Savage, Matt Drudge, the whole Breitbart regime, and a whole lot of people in national and state government. 
  So, yes, I do want you to think about how you appear to girls, of course. But don't worry about whether they think the car you have is fast and shiny or whether you have a lot of spending cash or whether that muscle between your legs is long enough to drape over your shoulder. Here's the secret: some girls actually do care about that kind of thing, at least for a while. But what real girls care about deep down is whether you respect the human race and them as members of it as well as yourself within it. Once you have that accomplished, everything else you worry about these days will take care of themselves.
    Yes, I realize I have kept you a long time. You're playing baseball this afternoon, right? Is that Janie girl pitching? Watch out. She has a mean slider. 
   Have fun!

Sunday, September 11, 2016


   I went outside this morning to walk one of the dogs. Cody is a handsome German Shepherd mixed with some greyhound. We estimate him to be thirteen years old. He carries an inoperable tumor on his right front knee and exhibits--as is common for his mix--a certain amount of obsessive-compulsive behavior. My girlfriend and I love this dog very much and do, on occasion, think of him as having human comprehension. 
  As I say, my version of the morning was just getting started. I hooked Cody to his leash, trotted out the back door, swung a right at the driveway and prepared to stroll east on the sidewalk.
   Lisa Ann dreads mornings here like a normal person dreads a root canal. Some deviant maggot-faced parasite or two often as not are rummaging through the three city dumpsters against the fence that separates our house from the jungle. She knows the odds are excellent in favor of me seeing this, losing my cool, yelling at the maggot-face in question or, worse yet, engaging the creature in some sort of fisticuffs. The next phase in her anticipation of my admittedly inappropriate behavior is to storm back inside the house and bitch about conditions here for an hour or so. 
   This behavior on my part is idiotic. I readily admit that.
   Just yesterday some junkie scum was standing on a trashed television set so that he could lean into dumpster number one. When I saw him, he was three-quarters into the trash, hanging there as if he were smelling the intoxicating aroma of fresh cut roses rather than the cat vomit and dog feces that live in that receptacle. I asked him if he was finding everything all right in our neighborhood grocery and he assured me with a stoned slur that yes indeed he was just hunky dory, despite the fact that he had tossed half the trash in all three dumpsters out into the mouth of the alley.
    By the time the police arrived, he was long gone. But the visible stench remained for us to clean up on his behalf.
    That was yesterday. This morning, as Cody and I walked merrily out the door and around the front to pass by the alley, we saw something that made yesterday's miscreant look like the centerfold for Rich Man's Monthly
   This perpetual loser had opened all three dumpsters, thrown back out yesterday's TV set, and, not to be outdone, had likewise spilled toy trucks, laundry bags, cardboard boxes, school work belonging to someone named Angela, and hundreds of opened trash bags all over the alleyway. But unlike the soporific demeanor of yesterday's hoodlum, this character was stoned on some accelerating drug, as was evident by the way he kept beating his shirtless chest and screaming about how the invisible monsters were holding him down. 
   This type of nonsense happens here everyday. The cause is not poverty; nor is it an oppressive police force, nor inner city inevitability. The problem is that these people are addicted to drugs and given the choice between clean housing, steady meals and medical treatment, they opt for the drugs. 
   An opulent thrill accompanies this lifestyle: begging for cigarettes and spare change, screwing degenerate whores in doorways, wearing the same clothes for weeks at a time, flailing arms at passing motorists, bellowing bloodcurdling ululations at four in the morning--I'm sure it's all quite a blast. And if that weren't enough, they get to sleep in the park until some other lunatic sets a barrel on fire and gets them all chased away. 
    Because I do think of Cody as part human, and because I love Lisa Ann more than I do anything else in this world, and because I am inclined to be a vicious hothead who does not need drugs to go crazy, I flipped out. How dare this semi-human turdman even exist on our planet, let alone do so a few feet from our front door! Didn't the stupid glob of protoplasm realize that I have a family to protect from the likes of him? Apparently he did not.
   He was nuts, so I did not approach him myself. Instead I called the police. One of the funny things about these slovenly divers is that they invariably disappear just as the cops roll up. It does not matter. All they would have done was to chase him away once they asked him if he wanted social services, which none of them ever seem to do.
   I don't want to sound like some kind of Republican here. But after being exposed, as it were, to strangers fornicating in the park, urinating in the greenbelt, shooting up in the street, loitering on the sidewalk while Lisa Ann and I struggle to pay our bills on time and try like the fools we must be to keep our part of the jungle presentable, my personal interest in the "freedom" of these bums to choose a lifestyle that offends anyone willing to look at it is somewhat diminished. And before someone suggests that I don't know what I'm talking about, that drugs are not necessarily the problem or that social services need to be enhanced, let me simply say that we watch drug transactions happening within spitting distance of our front door every day. We have asked these pathetic bastards if they want help. They do not. They want to stay stoned.
    I hope you will think about this the next time you buy an eight ball of coke or a vial of glass from some so-called reputable dealer. What you are doing is keeping the criminal enterprise for which that dealer works in business. A happy life out in the country or the suburbs is what the supplier gets.What the rest of us get is a dead junkie on our doorsteps. Thanks a lot.
  In my lifetime, the world has lost a lot of famous people to drugs: Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Kurt Cobain, Keith Moon, Philip Hoffman and others I'm too pissed off to remember. There is nothing romantic about drug addiction. It is a scourge. It looks like this:

Saturday, September 3, 2016


   Defining certain philosophical terms is akin to dancing between raindrops during a hurricane while struggling to remain dry. Once the proper beat presents itself, the band changes time signatures and the conductor sneers.
  So it is with one of the primary concepts never mentioned directly but consistently implied in the 1993 movie Six Degrees of Separation. The term theosophy is a type of Gnostic stew, holding that the only true religion is Truth, something which can only be divined, as it were, by active use of imagination.  In the late nineteenth century, Helena Blavatsky, one of the founders of New York City's Theosophical Society, wrote that the subject matter had three objectives: humanity itself constituted a universal brotherhood without considerations of race or gender; humanity should study religion, philosophy and science; and it was paramount to understand the undeveloped powers within human beings, something which could only be grasped by willful use of the imagination.
   The Russian painter Wassily Kandinsky, among the greatest expressionists, was a fan of Blavatsky's thinking and incorporated a ferocious sense of childlike wonder into most of his paintings. However, he never did create a two-sided painting as is claimed for him in Six Degrees. Facts and truths are not necessarily the same thing, of course. 
   Flan Kittredge (Donald Sutherland) is a high class art dealer who, with his wife Ouisa (Stockard Channing), is looking for one big score so they can maintain the east side Manhattan lifestyle to which they have grown dependent. To facilitate this, they hope to sell Geoffrey Miller (Ian McKellen) a painting by Paul Cezanne, one which he in turn will be able to resell to the Japanese. It should be noted that neither Kittredge cares much one way or the other about Cezanne. What they like is Kandinsky, and in particular, two paintings of his on either side of a canvas, one of which emphasizes control and the other chaos. They do not know why this appeals to them so much.
   Miller isn't too hip on buying the Cezanne until Paul (Will Smith) staggers in, as all strangers must, with a knife wound to the abdomen. 
   Miller is immediately dazzled, as is Ouisa. Flan just does what is expected of him until he sees that Miller is hooked on the situation and has become so amazed by the story Paul acts out that he would buy the Brooklyn Bridge if someone offered to wrap it up for him. 
   The movie (based on the John Guare play) unwinds from there amidst a series of crafty flashbacks and visits to the police department. All the while, Ouisa draws ever closer to having the first actual human feelings she has experienced in decades. She becomes the beginning, the original cause, the Alpha, and thereby brings the whole experience of this marvelous film into focus. One of the other aspects of theosophy is that creation began with a single point and grew geometrically outward, therefore being traceable back to that original point. Hence, six degrees (or six people) are all that separate any one person from any other person. 
   The movie does not beat us over the head with philosophy. On the contrary, it just tells a fascinating story and uses Theosophy as one of the abstract themes. Because Six Degrees was not a genre film, its amazing cast was not enough to have it break even. It must be said, however, that Will Smith has never been better and Stockard Channing robs every scene in which Smith is not featured. 
    Any film which opens the mind to Kandinsky, Cezanne, Salinger, Sidney Poitier and perfect pasta cannot disappoint. 


Thursday, September 1, 2016


   Living in Phoenix for more than thirty years presents me with ample opportunity to criticize what I still think of as my "new" home. Summer heat blows car engines apart. The late season monsoons bring walls of sand--called haboobs, these are often fifty miles across and several miles high--through the sweltering city before drowning us in Amazonian-style downpours. Our metropolis expands out rather than up, so that one must spend hours every day getting from one part of town to the other, or else reside in the city itself, causing one to ingest what passes for culture: white people determined to prove their enlightenment by visiting the Heard Museum to admire Native American pottery, while just down the street a bar shakes from the numbing vibrations of a graying band of Metallica wannabes trying to fight World War II all over again. Even though Arizona can only boast of three state universities, the dominion of Phoenix prides itself on a vast array of pseudo-schools: everything from the omnipresent Grand Canyon University to various Colleges of Applied Pet Grooming and Linguistics. We dine on a multitude of trendy green food in shiny eateries. We drink margaritas with the gusto of a glutton just given the news that the famine has ended. We text when we drive and crash our freshly-waxed wheeled behemoths into other peoples' houses and feign outrage that the mishap somehow was not our own fault. In short, the situation here is just as pathetic as it is where you live.

But last night something happened in Phoenix, Arizona that embarrassed me more than anything has in a long time. And this thing that happened also instilled in me a strange sense of very unusual patriotism.

Last night DJ Trump came hither to proclaim his ten point immigration policy.

Need I tell you that the crowd inside the Phoenix Convention Center moistened their panties?

While in the early days of the campaign, the candidate's henchmen routinely let in a few minorities just so the crowd could pummel them. But what with the threat of massive lawsuits against DJ, Herr Trump no longer makes a habit of visiting unfriendly locales and his brown shirts earn their wings by spinning away anyone they suspect of sedition. Il Duce did not disappoint those in attendance.

"Number one, are you ready? Are you ready? We will build a great wall along the southern border. And Mexico will pay for the wall. Number two, we are going to end catch and release. Number three. Number three, this is the one, I think it’s so great. It’s hard to believe, people don’t even talk about it. Zero tolerance for criminal aliens. And our local police will be so happy that they don’t have to be abused by these thugs anymore. There’s no great mystery to it, they’ve put up with it for years, and no finally we will turn the tables and law enforcement and our police will be allowed to clear up this dangerous and threatening mess. Number six, we are going to suspend the issuance of visas to any place where adequate screening cannot occur.

"I saw her today at the reception. . . "

A mere transcript does little to capture the tenor of the proclamations.

My girlfriend, Lisa Ann, watched the speech with me. Both of us were caught somewhere between a state of horrified disbelief and the remnants of faith that the entire campaign would dissolve into tasteless satire.

People watching at home would see the word "Phoenix" in the upper left corner of their screens and draw conclusions from that. The idea troubled us.

Of course, our friends and family in other parts of the country and world would know that not all Phoenicians were mouth-breathing saliva drooling racist idiots. But by God, this is our city, too! Just as we have never agreed to sign away our rights to the American flag to a particular political party, neither have we abdicated the character of our adopted home to the anti-xenogeneic ideologies of our fellow desert dwellers. Every city holds a certain neo-fascist contingent, I suppose. Usually that contingent is a very loose and disjointed smattering of people who only get worked up when Vince McMahon leaves the WWE. But when a would-be strong man descends through the polluted mist to invigorate the downtrodden slumlords, investment bankers and Scottsdale merchants--lo and behold, the unity in the air makes you think there's a sailor kissing Marilyn Monroe on the beaches of Normandy. So the sacred flags were waved, Clinton heads were impaled, and the throngs went orgiastic at every suggestion that African-Americans should come on board the slave ships because America really is a land of dreams, or at least would be if all the opportunistic politicians would lose their grip on the inner pockets of the working people who actually pay taxes, great God Almighty.

Those people chanting the "USA" mantra to ward off invisible demons no more represent America than the National Front represents Great Britain. But the anti-immigrant fixation both groups share causes the spines of our heterogenic country to shiver because we have learned from an early age that when it walks like it and talks like it, you call it what it is: fascism. The American brand of this disease gets into our hearts and nibbles like a malfunctioning video game until a sociopathic doomsayer wanders up to the microphone and feeds that dormant disease with the bile that is its life blood. We have to be willing to examine the meaning behind the words we use, the intentions in our daily actions, the impact of our thoughts. I'm lucky. I have Lisa Ann to help keep me in check. I only wish those goosesteppers at the Convention Center had someone to remind them of the darkness of their own deeds.

Sunday, July 31, 2016


Billy: We did it, man. We did it, we did it. We're rich, man. We're retirin' in Florida now, mister.

Captain America: You know Billy, we blew it.

   That scene from near the end of Easy Rider reflects how I often feel these days, these days of what some people call politics. We blew it. We blew a hole right in the middle of this country and jumped right in, not even waiting for the smoke to dissipate or for the dust to settle: caught, as a very good man once said, between the longing for love and the struggle for the legal tender. There we were in 1968 with painted faces, beads, speeches, mantras, marching boots, helmets and hearts, risking a future we were too young to fully value for the sake of creating some kind of fissure through which something of actual value could at long last manifest itself. I may have been only ten years old at the time and nowhere near Lincoln Park or the Conrad Hitler Hotel, but I wasn't all that much younger than Hoffman, Rubin and the others, just as I wasn't all that far away geographically, just as you reading this today (maybe not yet born at the time) were not that far removed from those atomic events. And today, whether we favor jeans or suits, sandals or slip-ons, we still yearn for a sense of community that cannot be sublimated by technology or traffic, that cannot be strangled by the type of food we gorge or intellectualized by the party affiliation to which we subscribe. We remain children in the sense that we crave the basics, as anyone who has lived a short time without them can attest. If I might be permitted another quotation by that same fine man:

Well I've been out walking
I don't do that much talking these days
These days-
These days I seem to think a lot
About the things that I forgot to do
For you
And all the times I had the chance to

And I had a lover
It's so hard to risk another these days
These days-
Now if I seem to be afraid
To live the life I have made in song
Well it's just that I've been losing so long

I'll keep on moving
Things are bound to be improving these days
These days-
These days I sit on corner stones
And count the time in quarter tones to ten, my friend
Don't confront me with my failures
I had not forgotten them

  On the surface this is just a well-crafted song of love gone wrong. Accurately or otherwise, I have always interpreted this song by Jackson Browne to indicate a loss of idealism on the part of an entire people. Even if that is not what Browne intended, my position still holds because when we really look at what we think is happening around us, a sense of disconnectedness from everything that gives us life just jumps up and attacks any trace of smile we might be struggling to maintain.
   I do not want to give the impression here that I am some sort of nascent hippie locked into a convoluted vision of a time that never actually existed in this country. For the record, I could never stand the Grateful Dead and I am a strong proponent of anti-perspirants. One of the differences between the old New Left and myself is that I never rejected the idea of work. Labor took a lot of criticism in 1968, mainly because a lot of people questioned the value of the ugly things that work often produces. In fact, "progress" as a dirty word changed completely when I was ten because many folks began to realize that progress was often code for the corporatization of the planet. There is something to that thought, but that does not mean that staying stoned all the time absolves people from the responsibilities we have for one another. So, no, I'm the furthest thing from some out of date flower child. 
   These days it is more of a challenge than ever before in my lifetime to remember that it is acceptable to consider those things that go into a contemplative existence. We can have more modest homes, more free time, more relationships with our neighbors, more invigorating conversations while having less automobiles, less mass produced lunches, less propaganda, and less distrust of people who do not look and act exactly as we do. Neither of the two major party presidential candidates will ever talk about any of this. Their pitches are based on either imprecise generalities or numbing statistics, and platitudes about the American Dream, national security, education, insurance and other intangibles.
   We blew it a long time ago. After getting rid of Nixon, this country was positioned to reinvent itself. In hindsight, Nixon may not seem like such a bad guy despite all the truly monstrous things he did, a fact that screams just how horrendous his successors have been. But we could have used the moment of his resignation as an opportunity to at least breathe some fresh air into this dying institution. Instead we just got right back onto the horse and imagined ourselves riding off into the sunset when the reality was that we kept right on believing in the same exact delusions that had brought us Nixon in the first place: the other guy is a son of a bitch, wealth makes happiness, nothing we do to the earth will ever truly harm us, might makes right--pick your cliche.
  Oh, but mustn't we pick one of the two in order to prevent the destruction the other will surely bring forth? That's a tempting rationale. And I probably will pick one over the other. But I do not like playing the cards I have been dealt these days because the deck is stacked, the cards are greasy and the dealer is a beautiful monster licking his lips with insectile anticipation. 


Friday, July 22, 2016


The gloom settled down over the seats of the emptying convention hall--emptying except for the clean-up crew of African-Americans and other blacks wading through popped balloons and sweaty confetti, reminding at least one writer of "The Load Out" by Jackson Browne. The party screeched to a halt like the out-of-control 57 Chevy it had been all along. We may not make much in his country, the convention declared from Day One, but we sho nuff can throw together a dancing gig of choreographed ineptitude that ma and pa will interpret as "telling it like it is," and grammatical correctness be damned. The red-haired billionaire had shouted his piece just minutes earlier, inspiring the middle-class self-described outsider delegates to do the hully-gully in an unembarrassed display of cued spontaneity. The current wife may have lip-synced someone else's speech and that old rascal "Lyin' Ted" may have refused to give the endorsement, but those foibles had only strengthened the Trump Brand, the marketing plan that radiated the notion that if the facts are inconvenient, they must be the offspring of that corporate-owned liberal media cabal hellbent on maintaining the rigged system that had enslaved us all for so long. And so the gloom oozed down from the flickering skylights like the rush of cocaine sweating out through the pores, leaving the adrenaline addict with a numb sense of anomie and exhausted lust for more. 

Tuesday, July 5, 2016


  There is an extended moment in Jason Miller's cinematic version of his own Broadway play, That Championship Season (1982), where Phil Romano (Paul Sorvino) begs the forgiveness of George Sitkowski (Bruce Dern). This scene breaks the movie wide open and its heart pours out over the audience. It is one of the most wrenching scenes I have witnessed in a movie. 
   But this film does not deliver weak punches. For a movie superficially about the twenty-fourth reunion of four out of five players with their basketball coach, That Championship Season eschews cheap sentiment just as it does cookie-cutter characterizations. These five men do more than reveal their personal flaws--as one-time friends, they inhabit their flaws. Romano has become a corrupt and wealthy thrill-seeker, wallowing in cocaine, fast cars and a succession of women who use him. Mayor Sitkowski reveals himself to be a vaguely inept town politico (the same week he buys an elephant as a gift for his town, the pachyderm dies) who is running for reelection with the help of Romano's money and his campaign manager James Daley (Stacy Keach). James' brother Tommy (Martin Sheen) has come back to Scranton for the reunion and he has brought his drinking problem with him. When James isn't managing the mayoral campaign, he acts as an unpopular principal at a junior high school. We never find out what, if anything, Tommy has been doing, except that he has traveled. But each man has earned himself a history and that history is what brings them all together around Coach Delaney.
   The Coach (Robert Mitchum) is some piece of work. He expresses sorrow that the fifth player, Macken, has never made it back to any of the annuals. Tommy understands why this is and he finally unloads this bit of information during one of the frequent tantrums throughout the movie. The Coach has a slogan for everything. Teeth problems? Take vitamin C. Your opponent trying to beat you? Drop the hammer on him. You want success? Never give up. "These aren't just slogans," he tells his boys. "This is philosophy. Just like the Greeks."
   "The Greeks were homosexuals."
   "Naw, that's liberal bullshit. Maybe the Romans."
   When we're seventeen, we are often physically amazing. We may not know where we left the Shineola, but we still believe we just might be living out our dreams. For most of us, the rust, the corruption, the loss of soul has not quite set in yet. But just like a fast car left out in the sun over too many summers, the wear begins to be felt, then it begins to show and no matter how much we rail against it, we struggle like hell to regain our relevance. In the Coach's universe, that relevance has never faltered, despite his stomach operation. God, the man tries so hard to make sure his guys don't forget who and what they used to be because dammit that's who they still are--never forget that, boys. 
   One of the great mysteries of the Old Testament is why did God allow sin to enter the Garden? Being omniscient, He had to know this would foul things up. 
   The Coach is a godlike character in that he called the shots, he formed the boys out of whatever raw material they possessed, but it was still their own drive and talent that made their team the state champions in 1957. In this case, the sin that entered the garden turns out to have been racism. Such a small and seemingly insignificant detail at the time. Just a smidgen of race hate--what harm could it do? If memory serves, sin got Adam and Eve searching for a new residence. Sin got Cain cast out to the land of Nod. In the case of That Championship Season, that inbred sin of racism led to all the neuroses and character flaws that have haunted these four men ever since they won the big game. 
  The acting shines without drawing attention to itself. The merging of the old guard with what were then four actors very much at the top of their own games is nothing short of inspired. And as the city of their childhood dreams has deteriorated in the ensuing years, so has the degeneration infected their once-famous residents.

Sunday, July 3, 2016


   Prefatory to the matters at hand, I must remind you that I am an eternal optimist, meaning that I am prone to severe disappointment. And I am not alone in this. Every time I observe what appears to be some wiped out drug addict shuffling down the road talking loudly to himself about the injustice of it all, I recognize that he and I have our shattered dreams in common, so I scream back at him, "I know! I know!"
    That cautionary set of words is necessary because I want you to resist the urge to dismiss what follows as the electro-convulsive ravings of a formerly politically involved truth-seeker. The fact is that I am a former politically-involved truth-seeker, but electro-convulsive therapy plays no part in this story.
   The following concepts are heretofore dismissed as myth-making illusions which exercise no value whatsoever in the real lives of actual humanoids: presidential elections, candidates for vice-president, media coverage of anything at all, vetting, criminal investigations of public officials, or any of the other election-related drivel that oozes from your television set or other electronic devices. 
   Things that actually are real include voter suppression, massive brain-washing techniques, global heating, deliberate disenfranchisement of millions of people, war, starvation, really stupid movies, books for illiterates, teachers paying for their own classroom supplies, collapsing infrastructure, a joining of government with business and organized crime, the use of drugs as a means of placating the masses, and the implementation of a caste economy in these here United States and elsewhere in the world. 
   Anything that does not address these issues directly is a fraud. Whenever a highly successful get rich quick con man and a moneybags counter-revolutionary shill for the open market pretend to duke it out on the contemporary equivalent of the smoke signal network, they invariably make no mention of the cultural degeneration that their own campaign processes have caused. Just one time I would like to see Trump or Clinton approach the microphone and say, "Has it ever occurred to any of you that the fact that you all showed up here today is in and of itself a very bad sign? Why are you looking to me for the answers to your problems? I talk about things like international borders and Wall Street and integrity--things that have no rational applications to your daily lives? I have yet to say anything at all about putting food on your tables or cleaning up your water supplies or offering a world in which violent video games have lost their popularity or where the so-called entertainment industry severs its ties with the intelligence community and actually presents something with more substance than Finding Dory's Brain.  Yet you professional lap dogs just keep on licking the vomit off the shoes of people such as me and my ilk rather than dragging us all from these podiums and tearing down the profitable yet artificial system that continues to provide a high standard of living for half a dozen people while crippling the morale of everyone else."
   Yep, I would love to hear that and still dream that it may happen, which is why I am an optimist and why I am so often frustrated and disappointed with the frog feces that passes itself off for culture nowadays. 
   When we stop believing in the lies (and it is always much easier to accept bullshit than to have to think for yourself), we might just begin to develop an appreciation for the things in life that are of true value: family, friends, nature, art--I'm betting you have your own real list. But before any of that can happen, I believe we have to divest ourselves of all the idiocy: no more Scientology, no more religious fundamentalism, no more prostituting ourselves and others in the name of "getting by," no more settling for McDonald's ToadBurgers just because they are cheapfastandeasy, no more binge watching of television shows that insult your intelligence, no more novels by creative typists, and most especially no more acceptance of idiot elections as the only means we have of maintaining our society. Our society, my friends, is a well-packaged turd ball. Which professional shitter is in charge of crapping it out and tying a pretty ribbon on it is the most irrelevant illusion of all. 

Friday, June 24, 2016


   Everyone in America finally had a gun. The NRA issued a Derringer along with the child's birth certificate. Girls were upgraded with AR-15s for their Quinceaneras, while boys received M-16s with their driver's licences. And sure enough the rate of death by gunfire really did drop to zero--for about a half hour. Then the ammunition manufacturers stepped up and things returned to normal. While back in the twentieth century, the United states had logged a paltry 33,000 deaths per year by gun play, by 2036 we were taking some quiet pride in reducing the population to the tune of 390,000 per year. 
   That statistic did not include cannon fire. 
   Every home was mandated to position a minimum of four cannons per half acre yard, each of the major four directions being under aim around the clock. 
   Everyone of legal age owned an automobile. A driver could get a vehicle in any color he or she desired, as long as that color was red. But even with that minor restriction, many specific hues existed. Indeed, a healthy driver could avail anything from Alizarin Red to Vermilion Red and several dozen shades in between. 
   Even with global warming and solar power being debunked as perhaps the most foolish hoaxes of all time, local temperatures did continue to rise. According to the few scientists remaining after the Great Purge of 2018, the ocean temperatures had increased seven degrees Fahrenheit since the beginning of the century. Our home in the Republic of Phoenix had an average annual temp of 113 last year, but we didn't see the sense in complaining when all that really meant to us was that we had the privilege of paying higher nuclear-electric bills. After all, nuclear power was safer than milk used to be and it was actually a matter of patriotic duty to consume as much energy as we were expending. 
   It turned out that our leisure time had been the biggest problem. The issue was not so much the way we utilized the time, but the quantity of it. Americans lacking the initiative to work more than one job were only logging sixty hours of real employment each week. Of course, that was before the Taylor Revolution opened everyone's minds to just how intolerably lazy our ancestors had been. As of this writing, the average citizen of the United States was putting in ninety-five hours of honest work every week. Productivity being the driving force behind our economy, we finally tied with the Russians and the Chinese last year for the first time in recent history. While this helped make our Corporate Leaders reasonably happy, the benefit to Joe and Jill Citizen was more societal. With less leisure time to waste on things like vacations, cook-outs, procreation and other forms of entertainment, we had a lot less conflict than previous generations. I am happy to report that just last week, the United States was not involved in an armed conflict with a foreign people for seventeen consecutive hours. While I must delay confirmation of this, I believe this may represent the longest period of peace in our national history. 
   I do not want to give the impression that we Americans are lacking in free time. Why, just this morning the wife and I polished our 409 Interbal Cannons with a glorious cherry red veneer. For a moment I thought we might have to detonate the Northernmost Interbal, which would have decimated the house across the street. Mr. and Mrs. Faust were arguing again and I had warned them several times in the recent past that such deviations could not be tolerated. Fortunately, they paused to glance out their picture window and saw my wife smiling in their general direction. Apparently that was enough to squelch the disagreement. 
   I notice that I have been using the word "everybody" with rather a free hand. As we learn from the fourteenth volume of the Book of Taylor, the words "everybody," "everyone," "anyone," "anybody," and "people" properly refer to those individual families who reside in the suburbs. One of the few things the previous generation did get right had been a concern over urban sprawl. A certain number of humans have remained in the cities (urban labor force), just as a few have been relegated to the rural ghettos (food producers), but the idea of People has now thankfully acquired its proper denotation. This was necessary to facilitate the oversight of weaponry. In what had heretofore been a heterogeneous society, no one could feel certainty about the intents of a given person who might be approaching. "Good" and "bad" may have been an objective fact, but their proper perception was restricted to subjective interpretation, a condition which led to armed tensions, often among people who lived near one another. But with the migration of one racial group to the inner cities and another to the farms, that group most genetically comfortable in suburbs have no problem whatsoever understanding the mentalities of their neighbors. 
   While our neighborhoods may have returned to a state of homogeneous bliss, that remains a reward for which our most ambitious young people may aspire. In a rare instance of Classical Liberalism, the Samuel P. Huntington National Education System has revamped our private schools. Not only has the system agreed to subsidize the inclusion of a ten percent maximum of minority student inclusion in our facilities, but the very nature of education itself has been reinvented. The so-called pseudo sciences (social sciences) have been expunged from all curricula, as have bourgeois indulgences such as art, music, and higher mathematics. Regarding the latter, it has been pointed out by the current Educational Administrative Coventry that the arithmetic computations of subtraction and division are inherently counterrevolutionary and so have been abolished. In their places have been introduced, respectively, deduction and segregation. This, the Coventry realizes, provides a more "real world" integration between school and life. 
   Despite all these advancements, our country does remain the United States of America. As such, our current Corporate Leadership recognizes the vital role that limited religion plays in our acceptance of our earthly lots. The Leadership has, therefore, wisely accepted the wisdom of Harold Bloom and has therefore established two National Religions: The Kingdom of Jehovah and The Latter Day Saints, the only two formal religions indigenous to this country. In the old times, when two major political parties were sufficient to express what was then the accepted will of the People, so do we now embrace either of two spiritual means to accept the will of God. Just as a few malcontents in the form of syndicalist-anarchists whined that there was no substantive difference between the Democratic and Republican parties, so do a few spiritual misfits fail to appreciate any distinction between being a Jehovah's Witness and a practicing Mormon. As the Leadership has found necessary when suppressing other forms of ideational deviationism, the Supreme Council has meted out the appropriate levels of aversion therapy to these lost and misguided souls. The rest of us in the proud majority thank Almighty God for the blessing of our own understanding. 
   And so it has been an eventful year. Who among us alive in the early days of the Corporate Revolution imagined that the election of a failed casino racketeer, the obliteration of the European Union, the dismantling of NATO and the United Nations, the abandonment of conventional infrastructure and the acceptance of tunnels--who could have imagined that all these seemingly minor details would soon enough position what are now the three remaining nations of the world to agree to cooperate with one another in the promulgation of a tri-part Corporatist Utopia in only two decades? But indeed we did dream the impossible dream. And now we merely wait for all the birds to come home to roost.

Sunday, April 10, 2016


  If you were born between 1981 and 1988, inclusive, you are de facto a child of a treacherous regime, one which to some extent brainwashed you into believing things that were untrue. To an extent, all U.S. Presidents practice deception. But Ronald Reagan changed American culture in ways that to this day have been damn near impossible to put right. This situation remains relevant for two reasons. First, the President in question perverted the notion of democracy in America. Second, a lot of people in the American Nazi--I mean, the Republican Party--get their jollies by claiming sainthood for this demon. 
   Reagan is heralded as a patriarch of freedom, a monarch of a fair marketplace, a symbol for goodness and no-beef hot dogs. Most of his detractors prefer to shrug and consider him a vaguely incompetent buffoon. He was none of these things. He was pure evil and a lot of the people who were born during his reign have been conned into believing all sorts of mythology with about as much credibility as Prometheus. It is therefore time for a corrective history lesson. 
   The subterfuge began with what George H. W. Bush referred to as the October Surprise. The American Embassy in Tehran, Iran had been taken hostage in November 1979 and the Reagan team intended to ride that tragedy into global power. Spearheading the journalistic investigation into the Reaganites' efforts to delay the release of U.S. hostages was Robert Parry, who wrote:
Jamshid Hashemi, who had been a mid-level official in Iran’s new revolutionary government, had been recruited by the CIA in early 1980 to assist in resolving the hostage crisis. His younger brother Cyrus was another recruit of the CIA. But Jamshid claimed that the two of them began working behind the scenes to help Republicans make contact with key Iranians to delay the hostage release.
   Had the release of the hostages not been postponed until the day of Reagan's inauguration, Jimmy Carter would have been reelected and we would have been spared much of what followed. Yep, the Iranians were the bad guys, at least until a couple years later when Reagan wanted to use them to help get around the legal prohibition against waging war against the Sandinistas in Nicaragua. 
   Reagan fired the striking members of PATCO, the air traffic control workers union, an action that put unions on notice that evil was back in town and he was pissed. 
   Supply side economics came on the heels of this debacle. Supply side, heralded by corporatist Milton Friedman, declared that businesses should be free to pump whatever nonsense they wanted into the glorious marketplace and that demand would catch up and make everyone rich. This was absurd on its face and its ass didn't look much better. 
   And then there was Osama bin Laden. The Carter Administration had already begun helping the anti-Soviet Afghans in their fight against the USSR. But once Reagan was in power, the military industrial complex shifted to overload status, allowing Pakistan to give sophisticated weapons to certain jihadists, including a Saudi named Osama bin Laden. The rationale was to force a Vietnam-style war on the Russians, but the reality was that the Afghan rebels evolved into the Taliban and without this September 11, 2001 would have been just another day. 
   Before his term was out, Reagan  vetoed renewal of The Fairness Doctrine, a policy that required broadcasters to present opposing views on the airwaves. This veto opened the gates for all sorts of nonsense, including right wing talk radio and Fox News. So while the old style Cold War psychos were fond of claiming that seizing the means of communication was the first thing the commies would do once they took power, the head of the GOP facilitated that very thing. As a direct result, the psychological and tangible merger of news with entertainment was complete. There is no difference between CNN Headline news and TMZ.
   Twenty-one members of the Reagan Administration were convicted of crimes or plead guilty to crimes. 
   Reagan opposed ending apartheid in South Africa. 
   He nominated Sandra Day O'Connor, Antonin Scalia and Anthony Kennedy for the Supreme Court, three of the five hoodlums who would give Reagan's vice-president's son the presidential election in 2000. 
   Reagan even stole from Social Security's trust fund to pay down the deficits his out-of-control military spending made necessary. 
   So please spare all of us comparisons to Reagan, unless you recognize this as an inherently bad thing, which it is. 

Sunday, April 3, 2016


   One day I felt the grass blades between my toes as I strained to divert my attention from the girl in the halter on a bicycle while I painted the garden fence in our big backyard. The sun danced along my shirtless torso while the music on the portable AM radio drummed out the summer soundtrack. I swished the brush and lobbed white paint on the rungs, wondering if this was as good as my life would get.
  That was the summer after high school. College came next. Book, classes, chemical equations, languages, lusting, languishing, learning to take the pain with the joy--all in the best interests of my mind. I wouldn't have missed it for the world. The world may have had other thoughts on the matter.
   A liberal arts education helps in the evolution of being able to think. That is a fact. The world, as I have implied, does not always care about thinking. Sometimes the world goes for eons without expressing the slightest concern for human antics. The city--which I assume was built by humans--reflects that thing we often call civilization. One human's civilization is another human's jungle (I think The Rutles said that). Flashing headlights blind us. Industry deafens us. Pollution plugs our nostrils. Entertainment deadens our feelings (I think Robert Heinlein said that). And sometimes we grow older (I said that).
   For myself, I prefer to avoid the Luddite method of going back to digging with sticks and smashing machines, even though some days I could get more accomplished that way. I like to work, as long as I can convince myself that my work serves some purpose beyond self-gratification. I like to rub my girlfriend's hands before bedtime and rub her back before morning. I like listening to Chuck Berry and Bob Dylan and John Coltrane and Phil Ochs and Charlie Mingus. I like reading books by Harlan Ellison and Philip Roth and Hannah Arendt. I like cheese crackers and unusual pizza and super food protein shakes. 
   But I still like painting outside in the summer. As long as I can hold onto that, I will never grow as old as my choices in diversion and engagement suggest I already have. Give me a bucket of Behr and a Purty brush, along with something to splash the paint onto, and I will live into the next century. If you could throw in some grass to feel between my toes, I would consider that a bonus.

Thursday, March 10, 2016


   Many different themes obsessed director Alfred Hitchcock. A person could make a paltry living just compiling them all. Hitchcock movies with train sequences, Hitchcock movies with a MacGuffin, Hitchcock movies with famous monuments, Hitchcock movies where the musical score makes sly commentary on the story, Hitchcock movies involving mistaken identity and espionage, dream sequences, or Hitchcock movies where the director makes a cameo appearance (which, while not technically a theme, probably suggests something thematic)--all of these must take a step backwards and bow to the theme of mental illness. Perhaps the most famous is Psycho, followed closely by Vertigo and the underrated Marnie. A degree of incarceration is inherent in mental illness, whether it be the slavery of addiction, the inability to resolve complex issues, the struggle with identity, a stifling of creativity, or the ability to recall traumatic events. To that end, there is only a superficial difference between the captivity we witness in a movie such as Lifeboat and the psychological imprisonment of Spellbound (1945). 
   This movie conjoins most of Hitchcock's favorite ideas. From the opening Shakespearean quotation ("The Fault is not in Our Stars, but in Ourselves") to the conclusion with a gun firing into the camera, the director grabs our shoulders and shakes us, practically screaming about how important this movie is. That, of course, is the fatal flaw of the film.
   Written by Ben Hecht and starring Gregory Peck and Ingrid Bergman, based on everything the director thought movies should be about, one would think the bloody thing could hardly miss. 
   Well, it missed, despite its popularity in the film-maker's England. 
   The biggest problem with the movie is also its most visually intriguing element: the Salvador Dali animated dream. Running two minutes, the uncut sequence ran to nearly twenty before the producer sliced it. The importance of free association is paramount to the success of psychoanalysis, a science from which the movie borrows liberally. The segment is indulgent, convoluted, and irrelevant, despite being somewhat beautiful.
   The second element that lets down the viewer is psychoanalysis itself. In spite of getting most of the details correct and implementing their discussion with considerable confidence, Hitchcock simply allows the science to overwhelm the story without having developed the characters enough for the audience to care enough to overlook the extended digressions. 
   In most Hitchcock movies, even minor characters permit the audience to project themselves into the drama. Spellbound plays so hard to the nonexistent sexual tension between Peck and Bergman that by the end of the film we hope the bullet will put us out of our misery. This motion picture would not even qualify for a footnote if it were not for the names attached to it. Ben Hecht was certainly not well represented by this. Other than for Hitchcock fanatics, this is one spell best left to the witches. 

Wednesday, March 9, 2016


  You have to willingly suspend a bit more than your disbelief to enjoy this movie, but if you are ready to do so, you are in for one of the best rides of your life.
  First, you must forget that you remember Fred MacMurry from the TV show "My Three Sons."
  Second, you must forget that you have never found Barbara Stanwyck attractive.
  Third, you must forget that you tend to think of Edward G. Robinson as always playing a bad guy.
   Finally, you should try to put the anachronistic voice-over narration out of your mind altogether and just focus on the dialogue.
  If you can handle all of that, you will certainly love this motion picture.
   Fred plays an insurance man named Neff, which fits, since screenwriter Raymond Chandler (the Shakespeare of detective fiction) was once in the insurance racket. (The original novel, of course, was written by James M. Cain.) All he cares about are sales. Sign them up on the line that is dotted and you'll keep the bosses off your jacket and out of your late model car. Unfortunately for him, he runs into Babs, who plays Phyllis Dietrichson, a spoiled wife of a cynical businessman who just doesn't appreciate all the perks of being wealthy. Phyllis would like to have the old boy murdered and lures Neff into a scheme to off the crotchety coot. If the police can be convinced that the death was by suicide, then the price goes up to $100,000 and Fred and Barbara can retire down Mexico way, playing the banjo and slugging back gin fizzes all the live long day. A pretty sweet deal, figures Neff, even though he doesn't actually cotton to a cold blooded murder. But what the hey? A toasty broad like Phyllis doesn't come down the tracks every day, although the midnight train to Croakville just might and the two schemers carrying out their plan with some sophistication.
  Billy Wilder's Double Indemnity (1944), as with most everything else written by Chandler, relies less on plot than character ambiance. This is not merely film noir; this is insurance noir, or California noir, or even locust noir. California is, you will see, just a hotbed of soulless souls trying to find their way home beneath the desperadoes under the eaves, many of whom look like crucified thieves (and pardon the lift, Warren). A body grows numb from the palm trees, sunshine and baked freeways. A mind grows blind from the easy living. The heart turns hard and the money looks as fresh as Ellie Mae Clampett sunning herself down by the cement pond. Shadows box with the moonlight while bloodless humans take the elevator to the penthouse to confess their sins on the way out the window. 
   Edward G. Robinson takes the movie and runs with it, leaving the viewer wishing for more. He's brought in to ravel a series of plot twists that never go anywhere and it does not matter one bit because just watching that man stand there waiting for a telephone conversation to wrap up is more exciting than real life outside southern California could ever be. Here he is, as Barton Keyes, lecturing his idiot boss on the facts of life and death in the insurance business:
Come now, you've never read an actuarial table in your life, have you? Why, they've got ten volumes on suicide alone. Suicide by race, by color, by occupation, by sex, by seasons of the year, by time of day. Suicide, how committed: by poison, by firearms, by drowning, by leaps. Suicide by poison, subdivided by *types* of poison, such as corrosive, irritant, systemic, gaseous, narcotic, alkaloid, protein, and so forth; suicide by leaps, subdivided by leaps from high places, under the wheels of trains, under the wheels of trucks, under the feet of horses, from *steamboats*. But, Mr. Norton, of all the cases on record, there's not one single case of suicide by leap from the rear end of a moving train. And you know how fast that train was going at the point where the body was found? Fifteen miles an hour. Now how can anybody jump off a slow-moving train like that with any kind of expectation that he would kill himself? No. No soap, Mr. Norton. We're sunk, and we'll have to pay through the nose, and you know it.

   That bit of monologue should tell you all you need to hook you through the lip with this movie. Then go sit down and read the collected works of Raymond Chandler and Nathaniel West. You'll want to move to Los Angeles immediately just to see if it's all true, which it is. Frank Zappa's house can be yours for nine million.

Tuesday, March 8, 2016


  Hemingway has never translated well to the screen, so it is just as well that scenarist Jules Furthman, co-writer William Faulkner and director Howard Hawks decided to pay little attention to the inspiration for To Have and Have Not (1944) and instead simply focused on telling a great story well. 
   It would be reasonable for people my own age and younger to do a polite roll of the eyes about the nostalgia component that has been attached to this movie for decades. This was the motion picture that brought Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall together for the first time, both on film and in real life. Bacall was all of nineteen and Bogart was, well, not nineteen. The original story took place in Cuba, but Hawks caved into to the FDR administration and moved the plot to Martinique, in what was then German-controlled Vichy France. It's quaint that Harry calls Marie "Slim" and that Slim calls Harry "Steve." Then, of course, we have the hipster dialogue, as when Slim says, "You know you don't have to act with me, Steve. You don't have to say anything, and you don't have to do anything. Not a thing. Oh, maybe just whistle. You know how to whistle, don't you, Steve? You just put your lips together and... blow."
   People do not talk that way much nowadays and if memory serves they never have. Nothing about that matters at all. No one has asked me if I've ever been stung by a dead bee, either, but it works great when Walter Brennan asks it repeatedly in this movie. 
   So the tendency is to roll the eyes politely. But once that impulse has been placated, the viewer is in store for the treat of a lifetime. Oh, the movie may lack the intensity of Casablanca, with which it is often compared. The ending may feel a bit unresolved, especially since the real wrap up ended up in another Bogart and Bacall spectacle called Key Largo. None of that will matter much if at all to a contemporary watcher because the damned majesty of the two leads together (and the remarkable sexual tension) as well as the commaraderie between Bogart and Brennan, and the sweetness between Brennan and Bacall, snaps your eyes forward and leaves your mouth agape. 
   It should also be pointed out that, give or take the propaganda impact of an anti-Nazi movie during World War Two, we were after all fighting fascism and this movie makes it clear that Harry Morgan (Bogart) has nothing but contempt for the Fascist regimes. We don't make all that many great films with that subject matter these days, probably because the war has been over a while and there's a tendency to assume that it cannot happen here despite the fact that is has happened here. It is not a gun or a bullet or a grenade that forces innocents into a gas chamber. It is a hard heart that kills. And we as a nation have been slipping into that hard-hearted stance for a long time now, ossifying just a little more with every real or imagined injustice. Whether it's a bum crawling across an alley on his way to the dumpster or an immigrant crawling across Sonora looking for a community, some of us yield to the temptation to perceive these folks as aggressors. All it takes is some small band of psychopaths in foreign garb blowing up buildings in the name of their own private deity and the fear of the unknown, a xenophobia of genesis, sets in. I can't speak for everyone, but I've felt that temptation myself. I have even given into it on occasion, and I should know better. To get myself back in shape, I reminisce with old movies such as this one, and I strain to regain the insight that once came so effortlessly. 
   I confer the same blessings onto you.

Monday, March 7, 2016


  Imagine Alfred Hitchcock pitching this movie to some executive at Universal. The exec says, "Give it to me, Hitch, baby, in twenty-five words or less."
  The grand man leans forward, oozing contempt for this schmuck, and says, "A young girl finds that her Uncle Charlie, her namesake, is not the man she believes him to be."
   Taglines for movies have a history of being somewhat lame. Casablanca is a war time love story. The Godfather is about a family having trouble with the law. Citizen Kane is a tale of yellow journalism. Sure. And tonight's movie, Shadow of a Doubt (1943), is about a young girl who discovers.. . 
  Thornton Wilder wrote the script with a little help from Mrs. Hitchcock. You may know Wilder. He also wrote Our Town, By The Skin of Our Teeth, and The Bridge of San Luis Rey, among other gems. The theme, somewhat predictable in hindsight, is the facade of the suburbs as an idyllic place where white people can hide from urban confusion, but a place that has its own ugly secrets bubbling like the brew of the three weird sisters, a place where fate is predetermined and gruesome, a place where nothing is quite what it seems.
   I am one of the few people I have ever met who will admit with some cheer that he loves the suburbs. To me they symbolize garage bands sweating in the summertime, bicycles racing through dangerous construction zones, stalled trains begging to be investigated by tiny hands, and, yes, places from which escape often feels insurmountable. Wilder, for what it may be worth, grew up in a literary family and may well have longed to escape the humiliation of being smart around classmates he feared were idiots. The connection between this and the suburbs seems obvious. Growing up in the 1970s, I dare say that everyone I knew who was even vaguely interesting yearned to be anywhere except where he was and felt the need to be anyone other than who he was. As much as I loved my little town (as Paul Simon, in a rare moment of lucidity, said it, "After it rains there's a rainbow and all of the colors are black; it's not that the colors aren't there--it's just imagination they lack"), I couldn't wait to get out of there. Where did not matter. Where I went does not matter either. 
   Young Charlie (Teresa Wright) worships the Uncle about whom she has heard so much. Yet no sooner does Uncle Charlie (Joseph Cotton) arrive than little clues of oddness materialize: items are clipped from the newspaper, the name of a certain familiar song cannot be spoken, and the like. 
   Part of the genius of this film lies in the realization that until the very end we cannot be certain if Uncle Charlie is as bad as we suspect him to be. It is as if in memory we have decided that our own childhood--especially the teenage years--were actually worthy of repeated reliving rather than being banished down the cesspool from whence they no doubt originated. If you really want to see evil, mediocrity, passive hostility, desecration of the scared and downright meanness, just revisit the years of your life from twelve to eighteen. It is like reading a history book of your own country only to discover that you were the Indian and everyone you knew was a settler. You may have had to resolve some cognitive dissonance to survive those putrid years, but there is no need for the delusion to continue into adulthood. 
   Shadow of a Doubt has no split screen window treatments, no Salvador Dali nonsense sequences, no elucidations on the repressed sexual desires of transsexuals. The pace is reasoned and reasonable, the acting chilling in its commonplace attitude. The only riddle that is not overtly answered is the name of the song no one quite can remember ("The Merry Widow"). And yet I will bet that once you see this movie you will list it on your paper under the Gideon as one of your favorite Hitchcock films. Once you've seen Psycho or The Birds, you really have no need to see them again. You'll gain no new insight into anything there. But I double dog dare you to watch Shadow of a Doubt only once. 
  I'll expect to see the For Sale sign in your yard the next day.

Wednesday, March 2, 2016


If I could find a white man who had the Negro sound and the Negro feel, I could make a billion dollars. --Sam Phillips, 1954, weeks before discovering Elvis Presley
In the name of the greatest people that have ever trod this earth, I draw a line in the dust and toss the gauntlet before the feet of tyranny, and I say, segregation now, segregation tomorrow and segregation forever.--George Wallace, 1963
 George C. Wallace gained the support of about one-third of the black voters in Tuesday's primary election, according to various analyses today.--NY Times, 1982
  The first thing to get through your head is that nothing much changes. When things do change, they change big, but that does not happen often. Immediately following the Civil War for the Emancipation of African Americans, the United States government enacted something called Reconstruction from 1865 through 1877, the intent of which was to make certain the southern states and their governments treated black people as human beings. During those brief years, more than 2000 African Americans were elected to public office in the South, from local offices all the way to the U.S. Senate. (Hiram Revels became the first black U.S. Senator in 1870.) Not everyone thought that was peachy and so resistance grew. Even now you can find t-shirts in Tennessee souvenir shops with an image of an old Confederate soldier bearing the caption "Hell no I ain't forgot!"

  Something else that has not changed is that the winners still write the history books. One of the best ways I know to determine who won a battle or war is to look at what the victors were fighting and then compare that to what is written about those victors, which is why I suspect the Axis Powers may have won World War II. Germany, Italy, Japan, Spain: today these are all allies. 64,000,000 people murdered because of these regimes and within a few months they were among our dearest friends. If the United States can get along with foreign countries who attempted global domination through conquest and extermination, it would seem reasonable that black people could go through their days without fearing state and local police, much less getting beaten at Trump rallies. 

   My brilliant and beautiful and long-suffering girlfriend Lisa Ann screamed at the TV news tonight, "We're having another Civil War!" I would not be surprised at all if Rachel Maddow were to break in with just such a story one of these evenings.

   But we are not supposed to accuse the great unwashed out there of racism. We are supposed to be tolerant of what is clear and present bigotry because some grizzly redneck shit-kicker would get his silk panties in a bind if someone were to deny his right to guzzle cheap whiskey while staggering down MLK Boulevard waving a sawed-off .410 at passersby, anyone of whom he suspects of wanting to deny him the privilege of shooting down same-sex marriage advocates while he himself not so secretly faces domestic assault charges for his actions against both his wives, one of whom made this month's centerfold in Ammunition Guide Magazine. We are urged by these skinheads and their brethren to display tolerance because all men and women are endowed by their Creator with certain rights, including, it would seem, the right to hate and destroy whomever gets in their way.

   As a wiser man than I once said, "Fuck that shit."

   Let me be clear: I do not know shit about Donald Trump. Also, I do not care shit about Donald Trump. 

   What I do know is that in the 2012 Presidential election, of the ten states with the lowest white support for Obama, seven of them were in the south.  Mississippi had the lowest, with only ten percent of white people voting for Barack Obama. The other six southern states were Louisiana (10.5), Alabama (13), Georgia (14), South Carolina (19), Arkansas (21) and Texas (23). Is it just a series of coincidences that Obama's lowest popularity is in the same states that used to utilize slavery? Not on your life. 

   In the 1968 Presidential election, George Wallace won 13.5% of the popular vote, carried five states (all in the South) and won forty-five electors. He also won eight percent of the vote in the North.

   Regardless of the choice of the Republican Party for their Presidential nominee, the above serves as a predictor for the eventual outcome of the upcoming election. Since the federal election in 1980, the Republican Party has consciously endeavored to court the most extreme elements of the American populace. In the same way that the best answer to the question of defeating Isis is to attack their source of income, so is the best way to wipe out the danger represented by the GOP to attack their financing. This is crucial because in 2016 someone such as Trump or Cruz or Rubio may only get ten to fifteen percent of the popular vote (assuming there are no Middle Eastern attacks on the United States or its satellites), but within four years I would not be surprised if racial and gender tension had transmogrified to the point where a Wallace wannabe could mobilize a more substantial base. Knowing that thirteen percent of the people around you can be bought and sold by the likes of the wealthy into supporting a candidate who works against fairness--that is frightening enough. But when those numbers hit twenty-five percent, it will be time for some of us to look downward and tell our feet to do their stuff. But this is my home, too, just as it is yours. So we should not have to flee to Canada just to get away from the scourge of the wealthy industrialists who determine our choices by channeling the bigotry they help foment. Nothing much may change, but as our blood pressures rise with every attack on the civil rights of our fellow Americans, solutions that lie outside the voting booth gain popularity.


Sunday, January 31, 2016


   The rain is coming down pretty hard here in Phoenix tonight. When it does, the homeless scatter like the shards of a shattered light bulb. Welcome nowhere, they are tolerated at overcrowded shelters where green bologna and flat Kool-Aid are coveted items. Bony fingers that once clutched pipes or syringes or even the neck of a bottle of chilled Moet White Star now strain to clutch into the roar of the warning of the downpour. Flash of lightning, crack of thunder, sizzle of rain cooking into their unholy shoes: it will be a long night and those who already have their beds won't be sharing with those who do not. They gather in the park, although not in the romantic way one reads about when a crisis befalls unconnected individuals who somehow work together to get through the malaise. No, these poor bastards do not resemble an army of ants or a platoon of survivalists. They more suggest escapees from a concentration camp where brutality weighed so heavy and constant that even the wardens went mad. Yelling into something that would be dignified by the word "abyss," they stand there, alone together, with everything they have owned for years bundled into large garbage bags over one shoulder and the little they have been given hanging in a backpack over the other. Not a one of them wants to die, despite the words that croak from their throats. Each one wants a break because if he or she had that break, that person could turn around, could get back together what was once had, could even make amends, could become something useful to someone besides a social worker, unless of course that pipe or syringe or bottle of chilled Moet were to come calling, in which case, redemption might have to wait a little longer. But a nice, simple, merciful break is really all that is necessary and that, as you may have guessed, is part of the problem because that rain is not letting up anytime soon and more people arrive at the park every few minutes and the other part of the problem is just how very big the problem itself has become. It is so big that people who do not know the lives of these people avoid them, step over them, close their windows and doors to them, smile with relief at them, cast them aside and turn up the volume on their big screen televisions because tonight it's Christmas Eve and New Years and Valentine's Day and the Fiftieth Super Bowl and the Phoenix Open and Spring Break and who needs a reason anyway when there's so goddamn much much fun to be had?
   The other night Lisa Ann and I were walking the dogs when we saw a cripple in a wheelchair fall backwards off the sidewalk curb. We live in an historic district that has some very nice homes. One of the city's largest homeless shelters is also nearby. Being downtown, one gets a mix of the artistic, the nouveau, the slick, the old, and the obsolete. We rushed the dogs inside and ran back out to help the fellow. He was already leaning against his wheelchair, straining to not fall, to not lose even more of his dignity. We asked if he was okay, if he was alright, if he needed anything, if he was headed somewhere. He shook his head and said, "Thanks for caring." Lisa Ann went back inside and returned with some money and a can of Vienna sausages. "These dropped out of your pocket when you fell," she said. He knew better than that but admitted he liked Vienna sausages. 
   These people lack visibility. Indeed, for most of us, they lack existence. Every small town, so they say, has a bum or an idiot or a wino, and because it is a small town, that person cannot be invisible. He or she may be shunned, but unless social skills are completely off-putting, that person will often be embraced by some part of the community--or at least tolerated. But put that same unfortunate son or daughter in a bubbling metropolis along with thousands more and the bystander effect kicks in fast. 
   How many dreams of redemption will drown out there tonight? 
   Midnight Cowboy (1969) is all about redemption. The message comes through a story of unlikely friendship. But guilt is at the core and redemption is sought in every scene. The movie's construction blends harsh beauty with cartoonish recollections. Jon Voight and Dustin Hoffman embody their characters Joe Buck and Rico Rizzo. Chances are excellent that you have already seen this movie and nothing I could write in a traditional review would much illuminate the film's majesty. So my advice is to go wait near the park the next time it rains. See if you recognize anyone.