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Tales From The Westside
The following is of national significance: I fear we may be close to another world war. I'll elaborate.
This reporter, after considerable investigative journalism and bribing, has obtained a copy of one of the fashion scene's most carefully guarded documents, released annually by the Beautification and Outfitting of the World Society (BOWS): the List of Aesthetic Standards for Humans (LASH) for 1996.
The LASH is not available to the public. It is circulated to fashion designers, advertising firms, film and television producers -- in short, it gets into the claws of anyone who has a hand in determining what America -- and the rest of the world -- thinks "beauty" is.
First, a bit of history. BOWS is an underground organization which dates back to Victorian England, when basically everything fun or interesting was repressed. BOWS' original Mission Statement read: "To Beautify, Coordinate, and Accessorize Mankind."
During the 1920s, BOWS migrated to America, where its clandestine influence spread rapidly beneath the iron fist of Prohibition. American advertising and movies carried images of extremely attractive men and women to every corner of the globe, establishing a worldwide concept of "ideal beauty".
Most common citizens of that era failed to live up to these ideals, and the fallout therefrom is what some sociologists feel caused all that awful drinking and the rise of organized crime.
Spotting what seemed like a good opportunity to calm national unrest, BOWS issued its first LASH in late October, 1929. It is suspected that the first LASH was far too rigid, because right after it hit the streets there were a lot of suicides and the economy collapsed.
Year by year throughout the 1930s the annual LASH relaxed by degrees, and the economy began to improve. But America's standards were still too high for the rest of the world, and in 1941, a fed-up Japan attacked.
And so it has been ever since: tightening standards, major war, relaxed standards. Look at all the flabby people on those TV shows from the 1970s: right after Vietnam -- when the LASH was far more forgiving -- the standard of health and beauty was less Cindy Crawford and more beanbag chair.
But now... things are getting tighter and tighter. I fully expect that within two years I will be so far outside LASH parameters that I won't be classifiable as human.
For men of my age (29), the LASH recommends a height of 6'1", a weight of 190 pounds, and the ability to bench press 225. My question is: if you only weigh 190, how can you muster up 225 pounds of pressure? Maybe I just don't get it.
Regarding skin, hair, and eye color, the LASH has less bite. The key to conforming lies in the proper combination. For men with white skin this year, brown hair and blue eyes are preferred. Brown eyes are acceptable in certain cases, but they must be accompanied by sandy hair or at least a red moustache.
I'm not going to even mention how much money the LASH states that I should be earning. Let's just say that my fortune is a few Lotto tickets out of the ballpark. Heck, out of the parking lot. It's not even in the traffic jam on the way to the ballpark.
The women's LASH also cuts pretty deep. Ironically, not only does the women's LASH specify a physical features list, it also prescribes marital status. For women this year the Maximum Acceptable Age for Marriage (MAAM) is 27. I won't even get into what the women's LASH states they should look like.
Anyway, I fear a gathering storm. This year's LASH is going to be too much for a lot of people, and they're going to start acting up.
To combat this, I am forming a new club called "The Society for the Widespread Embrace of Less-Than-Excellent Rolemodels" (SWELTER). We're going to dress up like ordinary people and look like ordinary people and infiltrate the worldwide social structure on an unprecedented scale, demonstrating that "It's pretty to be plain!"
And that we've all had enough of the LASH.
The following items have been clipped from various major metropolitan newspapers as part of my ongoing effort to enrich the cultural life of my readers. The happenings described herein are incomprehensible to me, which sort of qualifies them as very cool.
LOS ANGELES, June 27 -- Art students at Southern California University will launch a "Crappy Craft Fair" intended to showcase undergraduate creations as well as inconvenience the rest of the campus population.
The works are expected to be "in extremely bad taste," said CCF spokesperson and SCU Design Major Random Outburst. "We're hoping to show just how low the aesthetic senses can stoop."
In keeping with such a bold mission statement, sculptural pieces slated for display at the CCF include petrified small furry animals in offensive poses, an assemblage piece constructed from such novelty items as fake vomit and fake dog droppings, and a startlingly realistic diorama of a filling station after one of the gasoline tanks has exploded.
To add to the excitement and confusion, the larger sculptures will be situated in lecture hall doorways, on stairwell landings, and inside elevator doorjambs (forcing the doors to remain open and quite possibly stranding students and professors on upper floors).
No reason was given for this intention to annoy other than "for the sheer pleasure of watching people fry in the hot oils of their own anger and frustration," said Outburst.
SANTA MONICA, July 2 -- The Associated Students of the College of Santa Monica sponsored a special evening of "First Date Poetry Readings" at Anastasia's Asylum Coffee House in that city last night.
Works and readers were solicited from throughout the CSM undergraduate population, and those chosen were showcased in a two-hour presentation which featured music, mime, interpretive dance, and song as well as straight readings.
Titles from the program included "Mid-Terms Stole My Gal", "I Paid for Dinner", and a rock 'n' roll number, "Grope and Mash". The highlight of the evening proved to be the country-western ballad "(I Guess I'll) See You In Class", sung by Voice MFA Imin Sensitive. Sensitive's performance was punctuated by a selection of nervous pauses, long, awkward periods of silence, hiccuping, and other embarrassing noises.
The success of the event, which drew an audience of nearly seven, has prompted the Associated Students to announce that it will not happen again.
This reporter is delighted to share a recent gabfest with none other than noted Rennaissance author William Shakespeare, cornered recently at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. The legend was holed up at the BeverWil during a press junket to promote the upcoming release of his epic Hamlet, directed by Kenneth Branagh.
Shakespeare is the best-selling author of such crowd-pleasers as Romeo and Juliet, the erotic thriller Othello, and some nice love poetry, as well as the academic staples King Lear, Richard II, and its sequel Richard III.
William Shakespeare: What's in a name? Speak, I am bound to hear.
Shakes: Fill not mine ears with trifles!
Shakes: All of Hollywood sets me on the rack! My affections do not that way tend.
Shakes: If it be so, I should have died hereafter. Forsooth, in this painted kingdom of Los Angeles to be direct and honest is not safe. If the knave Branagh's name be above mine, then shall I seek a new agent.
Shakes: The premiere shall be a circus of sound and fury! Its participants will be as prime as goats, as hot as monkeys, as salt as wolves in pride!
Shakes: I wouldn't miss't. However, my courtesan shall be Jane Austen.
Shakes: By heaven, I think fair Jane as rare as any young tart belied with false compare! And her perfum'd kiss is yet sweeter due to her new three-picture deal.
Shakes: How sharper than a serpent's tooth is a baseless lie!
Shakes: That is a tale told by an idiot! Remorseless, treacherous, kindless villains are those men both!
Shakes: In the days of old, followed we the tradition of the great Greek Theatrium, wherein were all roles men's.
Shakes: Today we suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous women's groups, and must include the fair sex in the cast. SAG and Equity have all over my case been as well.
Shakes: Belike sayeth the Comet Lady: "If something works, you stick with't."
Shakes: My words be the eloquence and dumb presagers of my speaking breast! O, learn to read what words love hath writ! However, come Autumn, Macbeth will be out on CD-ROM.
Shakes: Los Angeles acts upon my blood, burns like the mines of sulfur. Could be the smog.
Shakes: The future glistens with bright peril, and I to tormenting flames do render up myself to speak on't!
Shakes: The pleasure is mine to speak with you; I bear a charm'd life.
I often use a portable minicassette recorder to tape ideas for this column. For some unfathomable reason, I was seated alone at one of West Los Angeles' finer watering holes when I witnessed a most intriguing situation unfolding on the other side of the room: a nervous gentleman of around thirty was seated alone at a table writing some sort of letter. The thing was, he was dressed in a bathrobe and bedroom slippers. Before I could say anything, he was approached by an attractive young woman who began reading over his shoulder. Thinking quickly, I aimed my super-secret portable spy shotgun microphone and switched on the recorder. I have transcribed an excerpt from their conversation below. I leave readers to draw their own conclusions about the crumbling state of romance in the 1990s.
Him: (reading to himself) Dearest Angelica... I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to your arrival tonight. By the time you get this fax I will have washed the sheets, fluffed up the pillows, hung fresh towels... all in joyful anticipation. I hope you like my new apartment. A lot has changed since I saw you last -- for the better. I know myself so much more deeply, and my love for you has grown. I can't wait to see you in person!
Her: "A lot" is two words.
Him: Beg pardon?
Her: "A lot". It's two words. You have it down there as one word: "alot".
Him: (corrects it) Oh! Thank you.
Her: Where's the respect for our native tongue?
Him: Tell me about it. I was an English major.
Her: People seem to think we should all just adopt some new word simply because a few people are saying it.
Him: Exactly. Have you been reading over my shoulder?
Her: Nah. Bad spelling catches my eye.
Him: My spelling is quite good.
Her: For the most part. But "fluffing" has two F's.
Him: (corrects it) Stupid of me.
Her: And the way you leave that phrase hanging: "...all in joyful anticipation." Anticipation of what? All you talk about in that sentence is your fax and doing laundry. It leads the reader to think you're joyfully anticipating doing some laundry.
Him: Good God, I should copy this over.
Her: If she loves you, she'll overlook all that. I suspect this girl has a high tolorance for your little foibles.
Him: What little foibles?
Her: The way you dress, for example.
Him: I dress well! In college I was something of a dandy.
Her: What college? The Fashion Institute?
Him: A small one back East. Excellent reputation.
Her: No doubt.
Him: It's rather invasive of you to be reading over my shoulder.
Her: Well it's rather invasive of you to come into my bar without introducing yourself!
Him: This is your bar? You own it?
Her: No, but I know everybody, so it's like I own it. And you just strut in here with your little "love fax"...
Him: My name is Hollis.
Her: 'Hollis'? What do they really call you?
Him: Hollis. (She continues to read his letter as he looks on, annoyed.)
Him: Do you mind?
Her: It's for your own good, Holly. Those little spelling errors... many a man has been dumped for lesser crimes.
Him: She's not going to dump me! Not over this. Not over spelling.
Her: Then why is she dumping you?
Him: She's not.
Her: Then why are you so nervous about seeing her?
Him: I'm not nervous. What makes you think I'm nervous?
Her: Wild guess. Why doesn't she live here permanently?
Him: She's getting her masters back in Cincinnati.
Her: In what? "Cincinnati Studies"?
Him: There's no such thing.
Her: What kind of masters could they offer in Cincinnati that they can't offer here in Los Angeles?
Him: She wants to be near her family.
Her: Oh, and what are you, a distant acquaintance? Trust me, Hellacious, she's on her way out here to give you the boot.
Him: Please don't call me "Hellacious".
Her: Look, if she wanted to be with you, she'd be with you right now -- in her underwear.
Him: Why would she be in her underwear? Anyway, she will be here tomorrow night!
Her: You think your little "love faxes" tide her over?
Him: They always have.
Her: Trust me: she's getting her meat from a local butcher.
Him: For heaven's sake! What she and I have is very strong and very sacred. This weekend I'm planning to ask her to marry me!
Her: Where are you going to propose? Atmosphere is very important to women. It's got to be the right place, right time of day.
Him: I've planned a picnic.
Her: Beach or mountains?
Him: Forest Lawn.
Her: Forest Lawn?? You're proposing to her in a cemetery???
Him: I can't think of a more beautiful, more peaceful spot --
Her: Sure it's peaceful -- nobody's living!
Him: I really think you're overreacting --
Her: Holly, she's going to remember this for the rest of her life! You can't do it in a cemetery! That's where you tell someone they've got terminal cancer or something.
Him: The Forest Lawn in the Hollywood Hills is so grand -- and this time of year, the foliage...
Her: Stop with the foliage! If you propose in a cemetery, your marriage is dead! Trust me! What are you packing for the picnic? A good meal can be an aphrodisiac -- you should know this.
Him: I thought some PB&J's --
Her: Oh, God, no wonder she's giving you your walking papers!
Him: I wish you'd stop saying that.
Her: Holly... before you get down on one knee, I think you need some time to clear your mind.
Him: My mind is as clear as a shot of Vodka!
Her: There's a suggestion. Tell me: if you're so squared-away, how do you explain the bathrobe?
Him: What bathrobe?
The interesting thing is, within forty-five minutes, the two were slow-dancing to a cheesy song on the jukebox, and about an hour after that they left together. I understand they're getting a joint checking account. And Hollis has begun dressing appropriately.
A pair of aliens in a flying saucer stopped me as I was riding my bicycle through West Los Angeles yesterday afternoon and asked for directions to a "rave". I described to them as best I could how to toss their armlike appendages excitedly and vocalize in an exhuberant, random fashion. They pulled a ray gun.
Unfazed at this variation on a familiar sight, I offered to hop in and personally direct them pretty much wherever they wished to go. One of them snapped his/her... uh, appendage and suddenly I was nestled all snug inside the cockpit. Immediately I began to wax poetic about their advanced technology and all the cool blinking lights on the dashboard. Out came the ray gun.
Communicating by superfast telepathy, one of the creatures literally downloaded his thoughts into my brain. My temples started to throb and I asked for an aspirin. The other alien grabbed my face, and suddenly all free will was sucked out of me, though my headache remained. I sat there, unmoving, while the one filling my skull with otherworldly gab explained that they were advance scouts for an invasion force of cunning beings that intended to hit all of the half-off sales on Earth simultaneously, pay cash, then move on to find another helpless planet to plunder.
I asked what a "rave" was. The other alien started to modem a definition straight into my cranium, but the first told him to keep his viewing organs on the road and his appendages on the wheel. The first explained that a rave is a gathering of earthlings in their late teens or early twenties who ingest drugs, writhe to pulsating music, engage in risky sexual contact, and fool their parents into believing they're spending the night with friends. The location of a rave is kept secret until the last possible second to avoid possible interruption by civil authorities.
I said it sounded like a floating crap game -- in more ways than one -- and they nodded their intellect encasements.
I asked why aliens would be attracted to such a gathering. They responded that savvy young shoppers are often found at raves, and the aliens expected to suck information about upcoming sales directly from these judgement-impaired victims. I suggested that the aliens pick up a copy of The Los Angeles Times and appendage through the ads instead, and out came the ray gun.
I asked them how they expected to get inside a rave, looking as strange as they did. The driver assured me that what I was seeing was not their natural form.
"But you're terrifying!" I exclaimed.
He assured me that their research had shown that the forms they now bore would look perfectly natural -- even comforting -- to humans under the influence of LSD or Ecstasy.
I finally confessed that I didn't know where they could find a "rave", as I was one truly uninformed, unconnected, uncultured sad sack. The alien not driving patted my head reassuringly. "We already know," his words beamed into my cerebral cortex with laserlike precision, "we've sifted through your mind and found nothing."
I asked whether that was meant to be a compliment and he shrugged his appendages.
Suddenly I remembered the name and phone number of a friend of mine who always seemed to know where everything of interest or weight was happening. They handed me a cellular. I pointed out that I wasn't sure that the phone would function two miles up in the stratosphere, but they assured me that the latest models could.
So I dialed my pal, who gave me directions to a particular rave held out in the desert every full moon -- and there just happened to be one scheduled for that evening. Zoom! Off we went.
Needless to say, showing up at the rave with two comforting aliens made me the Bull of the Ball. No one could get enough of me. Hundreds of people hung on my every word as though thirsting desperately for me to refill their empty minds -- particularly after the aliens got through sucking the sales info out.
In the morning, as the red sun rose and the desert floor started to bake, the two aliens joined me in surveying the desolate landscape now littered with unconscious ravers. I asked whether those people would ever fill their brains again, but the aliens couldn't give me a straight answer. "At any rate," one snapped, "filling their minds up again is far too big a job for you, so don't worry about it. Now, if you'll excuse us, it's White Flower Day at Macy's."
They started to climb back inside their saucer, but I begged them for a lift back home. Annoyed, they assured me I could walk. I protested that several hundred miles in dry desert heat would suck me as dry as the poor souls at my feet. They whined that they would miss the first few minutes of Macy's biggest sale of the year. I gave them puppy-dog-eyes and they relented.
I've called repeatedly to warn the President of the impending invasion, but can't get through the White House switchboard. Now I can only watch with a sinking heart as our planet's department stores are sucked dry of all their bargains, and our deserts fill up with empty-minded ravers.
Forgive me if I sound feverish and incoherent; I still haven't found any aspirin.
Not many people know of all my hidden talents. For example, I am, to the best of my knowledge, alone on this earth in my ability to juggle up to five hedgehogs with my bare hands.
Naturally, when word of this spread through the local print and on-air media, agents, attorneys, and managers began appearing in the strangest places. I held them all off, confident that I could negotiate my own deals.
One evening, however, I was awakened by a terribly bizarre phone call. The party identified himself as "Sal Monella" and claimed to be an agent for sports figures like myself. He rattled off several of his other clients. I didn't recognize any of their names, so Sal assured me that he'd just recited half the roster of the Venezuelan national soccer team, all of whom are currently up for a commercial about a laundry detergent that is particularly tough on grass stains.
Mr. Monella would not let me hang up the phone, even after I started getting nasty. He claimed that he was my only friend in the world, the last blockade keeping out the sharks, the vultures, and the ivy. I asked what he meant by that.
"Look, kid," he growled, "they're gonna try to get you one of three ways. They could attack you like sharks -- when you're bleeding or making too much racket in the water, too many waves -- and try to tear the meat off your body. They may even like the taste of your bones."
"That's disgusting!" I protested.
"It gets worse," Sal assured me. "They could pick you apart like vultures, waiting for you to collapse, dying of thirst and too weak to bat them away."
"Who are 'they'?" I asked.
"If I told you, it wouldn't help. Trust me kid, it takes a trained eye to see them coming. The worst of them crawl all over you like ivy. They grow on you, stabbing their little roots under your skin and slowly squeezing you to death. They hang on your arms and look real pretty, but they're sucking the vitamins right out of you, trust me."
"Why are 'they' after me?" I asked in wonder. "I haven't made any money nor am I famous."
Sal grunted. "Doesn't matter. They can smell money on a person's pores; it's like an aura hangs over your head screaming, 'This kid's gonna be huge!'"
"Me? Huge? How?"
He cleared his throat. "I see you in movies."
"I've never done a movie in my life," I protested.
"Doesn't matter, not with that juggling thing you do. Did you know that three different hedgehog pictures are in development at the majors?"
I hadn't heard that.
"Sure," he said, "hedgehogs are getting huge. And it looks like Disney's coming out with a live-action remake of
Alice in Wonderland
that will feature a whole chorus of dancing hedgehogs during the 'Queen's Croquet' number."
I protested that I juggle hedgehogs rather than dance with them.
"Doesn't matter," he insisted. "If you can get the little suckers airborne, that's all they need to know. When I put your name out around town as the resident hedgehog expert, not even Jacques Cousteau will use one without consulting you first."
I pointed out that Mr. Cousteau was an undersea expert, and that he --
"Doesn't matter," Sal said. "Hedgehogs, sea otters -- same family, right? And you'll own them all, kid. Trust me. You'll be the new 'Beastmaster'. Have you thought about setting up a Web site?"
I signed with him. I've always wanted my own Web site.
So far Sal has gotten me interviews at Orion, MGM, Cannon Films, and Troma. It seems like every company I meet with is either being restructured or gasping for breath. Sal assures me that sort of drama will sharpen my own performing skills.
I've been up for five feature films, two television specials, and a major article in American Loser magazine. I mentioned to Sal that only one of the five films had a completed screenplay, and that the TV specials were for public access cable stations.
"Doesn't matter," he shot back. "The Cotton Club was shot without a finished script, and look what happened. Besides, the trend nowadays is for the actors and the director to improvise the whole script as they film. Sooner or later they run out of ideas, so they choose a climax out of this book called Five Hundred Sockaroonie Endings For Your Movie, shoot it, and it's off to Cannes. You worry too much, kid."
"What about the public access shows?"
"That market's about to explode. Audiences are dying for that rough-edged, home-cooked feel. Look at 'Cops'."
"What about that magazine? It doesn't sound very reputable."
"Kid," he sighed patiently, "there's 'reputation' and there's 'sensation'. Which do you want?"
I pondered this. Sal took that opportunity to hustle me off to an interview for an appearance in the next Ace Ventura flick. I told Sal that I'd read the script and didn't see any hedgehogs in it, and his response was, "Doesn't matter. Me and the director, we go way back, and he's rewriting Jim Carrey's love interest to be played by a hedgehog. Talk about a coup. Now get outta here, kid."
Read these smokin' ditties to your hunk or honey...
O, my luve is like a stuffed-up nose
That's sneezing throughout May.
O, my luve is like the malady
That does its worst mid-day.
As hair of cat, my bonnie lass
Does deeply irritate
The labyrinth of my sinuses
Till I must medicate.
Till I must medicate, my dear,
My swollen eyes wi' the drops!
And I will ingest pills, my dear,
Till you leave, and my pain stops.
So fare thee weel, my sneezy luve,
But keep ye back a mile!
For though I luve thee sure and strong,
I'm allergic to your smile.
Shall I compare thee to "Independence Day"?
Thou art more sensible and literate;
Rough sense did make that mindless film foray,
But summer's heat made me consider it.
Sometimes too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often must one seek shelter inside
A cool, dark movie house -- no time to whine
About what's playing; flipping coins decide.
But my love for you is not born of haste,
Nor am I bored or a little antsy,
Nor suffer I from such lack of good taste
That I'll let coin-flips direct my fancy.
So long as I buy tickets to dumb flicks,
So long will I be your faithful sidekick.
Flygirl! Flygirl! looking sweet
In the dim lamps of the street,
What could be the reason why
With a grunt you pass me by?
Is it just that you despise
The raging fires deep in my eyes?
Or simply that you dislike men
Unless they're under three-foot-ten?
And what about that attitude
So cold toward me that you exude?
Do I force your heart to beat
And make it leap up from its seat?
I'll be your hammer and your chain --
Love forged in the furnace of my brain.
I'm your anvil, molten steel;
Kiss me! Our lips will weld it sealed.
Flygirl! Flygirl! looking fine
How can I now make you mine?
There's no decent reason why
You would pass perfection by.
Come hang with me, and be my babe,
And we the waves will rule.
The Val, the Basin, and Malibu
Will crown us two "Most Cool".
We'll kick it here, above the hordes,
Watching dweebs scrape up their boards
Upon the seabed and the sand
While their tape decks blast Duran Duran.
And I will save thee from these fools
Who gawk and stare at you and drool.
They're history, 'cause I stand guard:
From Your Babeness are losers barred.
A string bikini of pink Rayon
That while you body surf will stay on;
A waterbed inside a killer van,
And a Blaupunkt -- for tunes while you tan;
A floating ice chest stocked with drinkage,
And Water Wings for avoiding sinkage,
If all this cool stuff leaves you choked,
Come hang with me, and I'll be stoked.
No lame attempt at humor this week, folks. I'm merely going to present a modest proposal intended to increase revenues for our limping city.
Using the corporate sponsorship methods recently popularized during the Atlanta Olympics, I suggest that cities "lease" streets to major corporations, which could then name them as they see fit.
The amount of the contribution would determine the length of the street that the corporation could name, with, say, a four-block minimum. Major streets, of course, would carry higher price tags, much as does advertising during the Super Bowl.
Also, a minimum length of time for the sponsorship would be specified, probably about five or ten years, so the cartographers will have plenty of work but not so much that they'd lose their minds.
Naturally, discretion will need to be taken so we don't end up with a "Jeopardy!" street or a "ValuJet" freeway.
Think about it -- won't it be fun? You'd tell your friends to meet you for lunch at the corner of Mrs. Paul's and Mrs. Butterworth's, for example. You're not even there yet and already you've worked up an appetite.
Careful planning could avoid such unfortunate intersections as Mazola Street and Brylcream Avenue, Apple Way and Microsoft Court, or even Marlboro Place and Blue Cross Road.
I'm intensely stimulated and intrigued by the marketing possibilities. And why stop there? Individual buildings could be auctioned off for corporate "nameship" -- even private homes! Imagine being able to invite your friends to your next party -- to be held at the "Norelco House"?
Of course, eventually individual people could be sponsored by corporations, much as athletes are now. We would be paid to dress nice, keep up our grooming, sign our checks "John Charles Wheaties" or something, and give our pets names like "Little Friskies" or "Hartz 2-in-1 Collar". Capitalism truly unleashes the imagination.
Editor's note: I was recently given a draft of the commencement address for Calvin Hobbes High School's Summer Session. The speech will be delivered by Eric Carlson, a sixth-year Junior, who has spent his summer studying the historical roots of Bluegrass guitar as well as macramé.
Eric is the surprise pick for this year's summer graduation address, since he himself rarely attended school. Wags speculate that his appointment may have been prompted by "donations" that his father, Clifford Carlson, made to the school's auto shop.
Regardless, Eric's speech is reprinted below as a courtesy to all students unable to attend the ceremony for some reason.
It's very cool to be here this outstandingly beautiful August afternoon with all you guys. I'm maxi-psyched to have been honored with being selected to address such an extinguished array of academic gods like all the teachers and stuff here at this instructional institution of knowledge and learning and higher aims. And stuff.
Summer school takes special discipline because it's mondo difficult to go to class when that sun is blazing. I could only do it like twice a week (the other three days I paid this smart dude to take notes and say "here" when they called my name).
You're probably wondering what I'm doing giving el supremo speecho, cause I know I am. My dad told me to just go ahead and relish the experience -- I think maybe he went a little above and beyond the call of tuition, you know what I'm saying?
Well I guess I should get to the meat of the matter 'cause I'm all meandering aimlessly here. So here's my thesis statement...
Drugs really suck.
Actually, that's what they wanted me to discuss, but, like, it's been done.
What I really want to say is...
I hate rock videos, man. Seriously. If a song has nothing going for it, how's some stupid three-minute flick that's all incomprehensible going to help? I prize my tunage for its quality alone -- although a blistering solo definitely helps.
Me and this dude were watching VH-1 a few nights back and all the vids were by lame bands with saggy melodies and limp lyrics. But they featured tasty chicks in bikinis so I guess people are going to swoon and pony up the bucks for these sucky disks.
What happened to discriminating taste -- was it tossed out with the bath water?
I, on the other hand, am considered a paragon of excellent judgement. And you can be, too.
How? you gasp in wonder. Like mystified primitives you hunger for the waters of knowledge, you thirst for crumbs of truth.
All's I can say is, pull yourselves together. Good things come to those who hang. The truth was not built in a day. Man does not live by duty, but by destiny. (I don't really get that last one, but I figure I'll sort of grow into it.)
The first way to spot a happening band is to measure what I call "ear fatigue".
Ear fatigue sets in when you're spinning a hot new disk all afternoon and your mom's all banging on the door and you send her into the kitchen for a Pepsi because the music's too cool to cut off just to yack with the Momster, you know? when slowly after a while you get this nagging sensation that maybe this album isn't quite all that and you start to wonder what all the muckenfuss was about and pretty soon you start itching to bump some old Cars LPs because even though Ric Okasek couldn't really sing, that other dude could, and those boys could crank out the hits even though it's like ancient stuff these days but anything's better than the dreck you're hearing now and pretty soon you're pacing the room and then you wander out to yap with the Maternal Unit who bagged your Pepsi because you totally blew off your chores again and you endure her a little then you scamper back in your room and that lame disk is just dragging on and on so you start skipping tracks in the hope that you'll find some sizzling ones and you don't and then you start wishing you'd blown your cash on something else and then you entertain homicidal thoughts toward these talentless musicians and you finally shut it off. That's ear fatigue.
What you want to look for is a slowly-developing phenomenon that leads to the nirvana that I call "Soundependence Day". That's when you wake up one morning and you just like gotta throw on that new disk before you even scarf on those Cocoa Puffs. You Walkmanize all the way to school. You surreptitiously sample scrumptious songage when you're supposed to be listening in class. You know this dude who always carries the mondo boombox even though it weighs like eighty pounds so you blow off PE and get him to blast your new disk. You arrive at your lame job a few minutes early, step over the body of your boss who fainted because you're not a half-hour late like usual, and jam your tape into the company sound system. You actually whistle while you work, rather than weep. And the madness continues deep into the night and begins anew with the sunrise. You've gotta have those tunes.
Anyway, this scenario can set in gradually or immediately, but it definitely means something. It's best to gauge the effect over a few days, to see whether it sustains or burns out.
Of course, if you're still a total fiend about some stupid song like two months after buying it, you're pretty weird and definitely need a life. The feeling should come and go naturally.
And the tasty chicks in bikinis should not make a difference.
Anyway, congratulations on graduating, and I'll see you all back in class in about three weeks.
I just flew in from attending the National Convention of the Pretty Posy Party, held in historic Cheese Corners, South Dakota -- just a short drive from both Wall Drug and The World's Only Corn Palace. The big news is that Arizona dentist Baker Bistro emerged as the Party's 1996 Presidential nominee (he ran unopposed) -- but only after a long and bitter floor fight over the Party platform.
The Pretty Posy Party started humbly two years ago and is gaining ground steadily. The product of a rather uneasy alliance forged between Yuppies who believe themselves "too busy building their own balance sheets to bother balancing the budget" and disgruntled Republicans who feel that the Grand Old Party is moving too far to the Left, The Pretty Posies fancy themselves "champions of home, family, babies and children, small furry animals, all who are helpless, and hi-tech investing."
Though the size of the Convention crowd was difficult to estimate, I pegged it at roughly twelve people (not counting me). News coverage was slim, but CNN promised to run a half-hour special just before the November election -- a wrap-up of the week's events. I think it was CNN. Them or Comedy Central.
There was also a mention of the Convention on the Cheese Corners evening news, but that story focused less on PPP's aims and more on the fact that while the Minnesota delegate was making unwanted sexual advances toward the somewhat slim and tanned Florida delegate, the PPP's entire operating budget for Fiscal 1997 was stolen. Luckily the mystery was solved when the Nevada delegate was apprehended attempting to purchase an inflatable dinosaur from a local toy emporium using a bag full of pennies and nickels. The Nevadan protested that the cash was actually his slot machine winnings, but shrewd investigative work by Cheese Corners detective Randy Gronk revealed foul play, and the fund was returned -- all $15.87 of it -- to Party officials. Gronk himself then made overtures to the Florida delegate, and they met for drinks that evening.
Even though the PPP's platform statement is only about a half-page long, I feel obliged to interpret it below, employing my vast shaman-like knowledge of politics.
Basically, the Pretty Posy Party hopes for a return to "Old-Fashioned Values" and American ingenuity. Though "American ingenuity" -- constant innovation at a blindingly-fast rate with utter disregard for its potential social, political, and economic repercussions -- was easily defined, a quick scan of Party documentation and press releases failed to illuminate exactly what "Old-Fashioned Values" are. A lengthy interview with nominee Bistro revealed that he didn't really know what they are, either, so we decided to wing it.
"Old-Fashioned Values" are all those warm and fuzzy childhood memories precious to every American: Christmas; big family meals with plenty to eat; smiling policemen; witty banter with the grocery store checkout lady, nursing a lime sucker after a visit to the doctor, jumping off the rope swing into the creek (that's pronounced "crick"), happy visits with Grandma, bedtime stories, and pussy willows.
I pointed out to Bistro that these "values" by definition excluded Americans of differing ethnic and/or religious persuasions or who didn't have such pleasant childhood experiences, and he responded that those people could form their own party.
The heart of the platform -- and the cause of the bitter floor fight -- was a moral debate: should swearing in the presence of babies be outlawed?
Proponents saw within the issue a major rallying point -- and a chance to attract millions more into the PPP camp. The simplicity of the question, they argued, makes it instantly appealing to Americans who hate to think, and its brevity would make for great sound bites on evening news programs. And they maintained that anyone who would swear in the presence of an infant was morally bankrupt and undeserving of citizenship.
On the other side were the more pragmatic delegates, many from such "progressive" coastal States as New York and Oregon. Although they agreed that exposing small children to profanity could probably stunt their moral growth, they felt that the statute would be exceedingly difficult to enforce. Punishment, too, was an issue: should an offending adult be imprisoned, and thus be exposed to more innovative methods of cursing, or was counseling an option?
The matter of enforceability was settled when it was decided that hospitals would supply newborns with "cussometers" that could, through the miracle of speech-recognition, emit a piercing alarm upon detecting the utterance of any profanity within a fifteen-foot radius of the child. The list of recognizable expletives could be expanded at the discretion of parents, and could easily be adapted for use in multicultural environments in which potential perpetrators might be tempted to curse in more than one language. And, at additional cost, using cellular phone technology the device could instantly notify police when an infraction occurs.
Regarding the "punishment" issue, traditionalists argued that jail time for violators would suffice, while progressives felt that both "rehabilitation" of the perpetrator as well as "healing" for the victim were crucial.
A compromise was reached after a lengthy and heated discourse: offenders would be subjected to a two-hour videotape on the evils of swearing (hosted by Jack Nicholson), three days in the county jail, and they would be required to contribute five thousand dollars toward the victim's "therapy trust fund", an account established in the infant's name to be accessed when and if he or she starts behaving antisocially.
The compromise was amended after the Connecticut delegate protested that the fine was too steep because "only about one thousand dollars worth of therapy per expletive is necessary for an average victim." The fine was reduced to two thousand dollars.
The Therapy Trust Fund would be administered by a Federal agency in much the same way as Social Security is now, with the money being drawn on an as-needed basis up till age 65 and regular payouts beginning thereafter until the victim's death (age 65 was chosen because the delegates unanimously agreed that "just about everybody starts to drive you crazy when they get that old.")
The keynote speaker turned out to be me, as attendance had dwindled over the course of the Convention. Indeed, during the closing ceremonies the only people present were me and the Florida delegate -- and she didn't know how to read.
Not wanting to stir up controversy and possibly cost the PPP precious votes, I pulled out several past editions of "Tales From The Westside" and read them aloud for about twenty minutes, then closed with a rousing rendition of "Betty Bunny's Birthday Day" in an appeal to "Old-Fashioned Values".
Afterward the Florida delegate announced that she didn't really understand my speech but liked the song even though it had a lot of big words. She felt I should consider running for Congress on the PPP ticket.
We went out for drinks later that evening.
In an effort to display my more scholarly side, I thought I'd share some results of the decades-long study I've been conducting on the origins of several of our language's more mysterious and colorful words.
Though usually employed as an exclamation of surprise, concern, or dismay, "Gad Zooks" is actually an expression of reverence and praise.
Gaddameus Enid Zooks lived somewhere in Northern Europe during either the Late Middle Ages or the Middle Late Ages, whichever came first. Of humble origin -- he was the issue of a pig farmer and a midwife and was retracted in a later issue, leading to his mother's midwife crisis -- Zooks nevertheless insisted on strutting around the village square admonishing all who would listen to "keep your eye on me, because I'm going to be big someday."
His words proved prophetic, as his steady diet of pork soon swelled him to nearly three hundred pounds. His mother's anger increased along with his girth, until she took to screaming at him in rage. Passersby heard her cry "Gad Zooks! Gad Zooks!"
Unable to bear his mother's entreaties any longer, the young Zooks began a daily regimen of jogging and freeweights. Unfortunately, his heart couldn't take it and he collapsed one day on his morning run through the village square.
Fortuitously, he happened to collapse on top of a particularly evil and nasty landowner who had been plaguing villagers for many years with his high rents and absolute refusal to paint or install new carpeting. Because the end of Gad Zooks' life also ended a reign of terror, invoking his name became a way of memorializing his last, greatest, and, some say, only deed.
However, others continue to associate the expression "Gad Zooks!" with Zooks' mother's cries of frustration, and, regrettably, that interpretation seems to have crept to the forefront.
This somewhat bizarre expression was originally uttered through the use of a computer.
During the late 1960s and early 1970s, communication with the higher apes reached a zenith, until the apes determined amongst themselves that humans weren't worth talking to. (This led to a retaliation of sorts against the apes via the avenue of popular culture, a punishment which began with the Planet of the Apes film series and peaked last year with the release of Congo.)
Washoe, a higher chimpanzee or a lower gorilla, depending on his mood, was particularly adept at sign language, and had nurtured a fondness for Lucy, the attractive primate in the next cage over. Lucy, however, would have nothing to do with the signing roughneck, preferring instead to communicate via an ever-growing selection of tiles with pictures on them.
The situation would never have led to romance had it not been for the intervention of Lana, the gorilla famous for communicating with her human trainers via a complex computer keyboard loaded up with all sorts of colored lights and funny sounds. Indeed, in spite of the fact that Lana had difficulty distinguishing gender differences and was often confusing the sexes of her trainers -- which then led to confusion amongst the trainers themselves -- some of her favorite expressions eventually penetrated the American popular vernacular, including "Please machine tickle Lana" and "Lana want soft sleep animal". Sales of teddy bears sold under the name "soft sleep animal" skyrocketed.
Lana happened to be the sister of Washoe, though neither sibling could figure out why he got stuck with the more-bizarre name. Her gender confusion often caused her to refer to herself as "Washoe's brother".
Regarding Washoe, Lana thought Lucy was simply being coy and elitist, so she arranged a dinner date between the two featuring Cuban-style fried bananas, a juggler specializing in soft sleep animals, and a deluxe extended tickling for two.
Needless to say, the date was a success, as was the ensuing brief courtship, and it wasn't long before Lucy was pregnant. Upon hearing the news, Lana, her sexual misidentification still in full swing, excitedly typed out on her keyboard, "I'll be a monkey's uncle!"
The correct usage of the expression today is actually to express either gender confusion or a bizarre attachment to soft sleep animals.
The expression "dragon breath" is often mistakenly used to gently chide another on their lax oral hygiene, but its correct usage is to praise a particularly forceful speaker.
Though dragons were all but extinct in Europe by the early 1700s, one did manage to secure passage to the New World aboard the vessel "Doomsayer". Naturally, he insisted on a private cabin, but refused to pay extra for the privilege, arguing that he would neither eat nor use the bathroom to a greater extent than an ordinary passenger.
A heated argument ensued, and the annoyed dragon finally resorted to underscoring his insistence through the use of his fiery breath.
Not only did this act succeed in bending the ship's personnel to his will, it bent the iron supports of the room in which they were standing. The entire upper portion of the ship erupted into flame, and all were forced to evacuate. Curiously, no charges were filed against the dragon, who abandoned hope of ever getting a refund on his ticket and eventually chose to fly across the Atlantic on his own.
The dragon never made it to the New World. Instead, he decided to land in Bermuda, where he opened a popular resort hotel called "Ye Olde Dragon's Head". Several years later, he was slain by an angry tourist. The slaying went largely unreported, particularly since the dragon scarcely attempted to defend himself. Having just given up smoking, he was unable to muster enough fire to light up a candle, much less a whole tourist, and thus was dispatched with ease.
Instead, the westward-bound serpent's forceful personality was immortalized in the expression "dragon breath". It should be noted that using the term in a criticizing fashion is incorrect and merely displays envy of another's strength of character.
In most circles, "Old Man River" seems to refer to a popular song immortalized by either the musical Showboat or the composer Schubert or the dessert treat sherbet. At any rate, the expression actually predates the above by several centuries.
In 1735, cultural Boston bustled with the pioneering Colonial spirit even as Old World business methods held sway over commerce. (I have no idea what all that means, but it certainly sounds scholarly.)
The city's largest and most powerful importer of fine men's toupees was the firm of Oldman, Rivardi and Company. Owner Eamon Oldman, though respected and cherished by his employees, was despised by his customers mainly because no one likes to have to cover up a bald spot.
But Eamon, who himself sported a fine head of hair, failed to understand his consumers' intrinsic dissatisfaction and took their antipathy so personally that he eventually committed suicide by launching himself into the freezing waters of the Charles River.
The senseless act stunned and horrified Boston society, and it wasn't long before a movement was afoot to rename the Charles in honor of the beloved merchant. A resolution was drafted, then defeated, because no one wanted to spring for new business cards.
But the spirit of the movement would not die, and its theme song, a dirge entitled "Let Us Call It the Oldman River" reigned at the upper reaches of the charts for years afterward.
The surviving partner, Alouiscious Rivardi, grew quite jealous of Oldman's posthumous popularity, and attempted to have Harvard University rechristened in his honor, despite the fact that he hadn't been educated past third grade. Needless to say, the campaign failed miserably.
Recognizing that renaming Harvard was beyond his abilities, Rivardi decided to rename his company, an act with which he knew no one could interfere. The new name was simply "Rivardi", but business fell off instantly out of lingering loyalty to Oldman.
Another name change resulted, to "Oldman Rivardi". Business returned to its previous level, and Rivardi showed his gratitude by ensuring that the toupees continued to be of the finest quality. He then purchased the rights to the "Oldman River" song, employing it for promotional purposes, and even renamed the company once more. "Oldman Rivar" was born.
Thus, though it emerges from the straits of time somewhat mangled, the song "Old Man River" actually refers to a really good toupee.