Sleepy-eyed the man is wading out into the night,
Singing don't fall through the stars,
Don’t fall through them.
Don’t fall through the stars.
—
Grey Ghost, by
Mike Doughty
Another post already? That’s right. And another full post, at that. Jeez, I’ve updated sooner than some of my friends. I’m running circles around you people! Circles!
Speaking of which . . .
I don’t need to
Walk around in Circles
Walk around in Circles
Walk around in Circles
Walk around in . . . .
Here’re some more
Soul Coughing or
Mike Doughty lyrics that I will now use to explain my current sentiments. (What can I say, I’ve been listening to a lot of them lately).
Who was that junk Mustapha you were chilling with
Down in the bars where regretful girls drift?
I feel the need to steal some rest.
I feel I'm getting killed by your fickleness.
—off of
Skittish, by
Mike Doughty. The song,
Pink Life
Give my arms just for your intentions.
Give my back to impress you now.
I'm so joyful that I have found you,
All I need's you to see me now.
—off of
Smofe and Smang: Live in Minneapolis, by
Mike Doughty. The song,
Madeleine and Nine,
You know what? That song is just so tearfully beautiful that I’m going to include the whole thing here. It may help to alleviate the pangs of sadness I feel when I hear it. Keep in mind, the above lines are the only ones I found current relevance in. Though, the whole song is wonderful.
All my life I've been slow and senseless.
Not struck dumb, I'm just dumb, that's all
I can give you the constellations,
Lay down here and we'll count them all.
Madeleine
Madeleine
Madeleine
Call me back when the war is over.
Call me back when your boyfriend's gone.
I'm aware of your oscillations,
Don't believe I'm the only one.
Slave to the inside light,
My world is burning on eternally,
For the fire I lack this flame is feeling fine.
Madeleine
Madeleine
Madeleine
Give my arms just for your intentions.
Give my back to impress you now.
I'm so joyful that I have found you,
All I need's you to see me now.
Slain by the words I lack,
The world is bursting sappy music and
With your face so sad I long to make you mine.
Slain by the inside light.
My world is burning on eternally,
For the fire I lack this flame is feeling fine.
Madeleine
Madeleine
Madeleine.
Yeah. I wonder if it’s wrong to intently look for meaning in lyrics. I usually just read them or listen to them while my emotions are in a certain state and something will come to me. I suppose that’ll be enough lyrics for now, though I got a few more up my sleeve for later on. Let’s continue from the end of the last post, shall we?
The good times and prosperity that resulted from the defeat of the undead Cap’n Adolf Lenin Huzuki-bot 3500 and his army of robo-ninja-pirate-zombies, the subsequent liberation of St Joseph’s College from the insane clutches of the
Umbrella Corporation, and the return of our comrades seemed to have ended the next day. For, sadly, in addition to the departure of Tony and Steve, it was time to bring Andrew back to school again. Thus, another 7 hours on the road for yours truly. What made matters worse was the fact that I would be making the trip alone. Amy was called away to an important geological summit on some remote island . . . something regarding the fate of the world . . . she wasn’t very specific; I find these femme fatale female spies rarely are.
So, it was with heavy hearts and tight pants that Andrew and I began our long voyage to Maine, that mysterious and perilously beautiful land that lay just over the horizon, beckoning us with the promise of adventure and riches.
Along the way we stopped at Friendly’s for chicken.
While the trip with Amy took more than 8 hours to complete, the trip with Andrew was done in just over three. I attribute this to the facts that A) Andrew knew where he was going, and 2) There was no beautiful woman to lead anyone astray. Thus, by 9:30 we had made it to the same plateau that Amy and I had begun smoking our bloody execution from. The lake was no longer venomous green acid. It was now deep blue mountain water, cool and tranquil in the twilight. The narrow lanes of sooty dungeons were now friendly-looking institutional buildings. And the menacing central tower seemed to have collapsed. In its place there was a new Health and Fitness structure. It appeared as though, with the death (or is he?) of the diabolical Cap’n Huzuki-bot 3500, the Umbrella Corporation’s evil spell had vanished and the college returned to normal, a la Beauty and the Beast. (I figure, I included every sci-fi staple in the tale of my first adventure, why not bung in some magic as well?)
I helped Andrew take his belongings from the car, and we were lucky enough to witness the pretzel fairy quietly sprinkling peanut filled pretzels on the hood of every vehicle in the parking lot. We slowly trudged up the hill to his dorm, speaking of this and that, as old friends are apt to do. We made it up to his room, set down his things, and chatted amiably with his ‘fraidy-cat-hetero roommate, Tyler, a veritable font of singular paradoxes. (If you knew the man as I do, you would understand.) My stay was brief, but a half hour there and I was ready to make my return trip, my solo journey, the last great flight of the Richard, back to Western Mass. I said goodbye to Tyler, politely declining his thoughtful offer of a handful of No Doze for the trip, and to the other residents of Andy’s new home away from home. I walked with "Jackson" to a computer lab building so he could obtain an Astronomy worksheet, and then, on a hill overlooking the mountain lake, bid farewell to my lanky friend. We embraced, held, and released, and, with a few more words, separated, our eyes rather well filled to the brim with unshed tears. He went his way, and I, if you follow me, went mine, and that was that. I miss ya, Andy.
Well, I guess I lied. That was not that. There was still the three hour long return trip ahead of me. I set out from Saint Joe’s at somewhere in the vicinity of 10:03, and was on the highway by no later that 10:35 or so. The drive from Andrew’s secluded woodland college through the back roads of Maine was, oddly enough, much more pleasant at night. This way I could not see the murderous hub-caps, gleaming in the midday sun, nor the snarling green lions.
Once I was on the highway, things were a bit different. Driving alone on the highway at midnight is something everyone should experience. All music takes on an either melancholy or frightening tone. All other drivers seem sinister. Isolation, however, can be worse. There were good stretches of the trip during which mine were the only set of headlights shining on that desolate stretch of road. In short, one becomes paranoid, jittery, lonesome, and sad. This would be acutely noticeable if it were not for the fact that one is slowly drifting off toward the Land of Nod. I actually did. There was a compound of some sort on the way back called "Land of Nod" and I nearly hit it as I was falling asleep at the wheel.
There were some advantages to being alone on the highway at night, however. I did get the LeTellier’s Saturn up to 100 mph’s. Woo Hoo! First time I had gone that fast. It really is a bit of a thrill, not at all overrated. (Oops . . . Sssshhh. Don’t tell any member of the LeTellier family I did that. Except maybe Andrew’s grandmother. She suggested I try it when she gave me the keys.) On top of that, I got to blast whatever music I wanted. So different from the ride up. Ha! Lady’s choice! Since Amy wasn’t co-piloting, the only lady that got to choose the music was me! Uh . . . you know what I mean.
The value of the music was two-fold. Besides letting me rock out to my favorite tunes, it helped me stay awake as well. With the windows down, a cold breeze rushing past my face and down the back of my neck *shivers* I was still close to dozing. I was listening to a little ‘Coughing at the time, and just as I was contemplating pulling the car over and napping, these words started to play:
I got the will to drive myself sleepless,
I got the will to drive myself sleepless,
I got the will to drive myself
sleep
less.
I had actually never heard the song before. It seemed to me to be one of those omens or signs those people always talk about. So, ignoring my safety, and more importantly, the safety of the Saturn, I drove onward.
Toll booth attendants are far friendlier at night. And hitchhikers seem to have more knives. Why did I pick up Rutger Hauer?! It’s okay, though. After knocking him through, and then back out of my windshield, I hit him with my car, and then shot him three times with a 12 gauge. That’s a little move I stole from C. Thomas Howell.
The trip seemed to take double the time it should have, but I was in Western Massachusetts by 2 or so, and was in bed under an hour later.
"You told me not to drive.
But I made it home alive.
You say that only proves that I’m insay-yay-yane!"
And so, our hero returned, battle-scarred and travel-weary, from his epic journey across three states to return a friend home and repay a debt of honor.
Then nothing happened for 4 days or so. On Thursday I journeyed with Amy to my old stomping grounds, Blockbuster Video, and rented several, no, that’s a fib, a couple of films.
Spartan and
Mystery Science Theater 3000. (For reviews, see the previous post.) It only took us about 3 hours to select the films, and so, after the rentage was complete, tapes in hand we went back to Amy’s dorm for a night of cinema and snuggling. Yay for snuggling.
The Saturday following I went to Hadley, then South Hadley, then Easthampton, to celebrate the yearly progression in age of my good friend Edmund James Massa III. (His name makes him sound like a member of a decadent aristocracy, don’ it?) The night went well. I was soundly spanked by Jason Frank . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . at video games. I met some new . . . uh . . . person. Ashley, friend of Crazy King Dave. By the way, let me pose a philosophic question to you. Have you ever gone without underoos to a party, forgotten this important fact over the course of the revels, and then, unthinkingly begun to remove your pants while your friend Dave films from two feet away, realizing the peril you’re in only after you’ve given him a good shot of your pubic hair? Well, there you go. All in all the night was quiet enjoyable. A little less active than Tony’s parties, but no one can be perfect. Plus, Sam frequent helped people "intensify" by sweeping their asses with his broom. EJ was pleased with our gift, Becky was the usual awesome person she is. (Know that I’m saying that of my own free will and not because her father good knock me into seven stackable pieces with one flick of his wrist.) And Tricia Gielley was, as always, quite a buzz kill. But the party was, as I have said, subdued, crazy fun. For a tape of the hilarious one-liners . . . and my pubes, see EJ.
Well, in automotive news, my second death trap, or, as I call it,
Pachuco II, (the black Pontiac
T-6000) is now gone the way of its predecessor. Yes, Pachuco II is gone to that great Parking Lot in the sky. Poor fella. He served me well as an emergency car, but I knew his time was up when, traveling home from Cinemark Theatres in Hadley, ol’
Rusty, as I called him fondly, stalled a total of 5 times. Once in the parking lot, once in an intersection, once on the street, and twice on a hill, causing me to nearly hit a biker. I knew that something was wrong because I only nearly hit the biker. Had Rusty been up to his usual standards, that biker would be with the Lord Almighty as I sit here and type. As it is, he’s probably off cycling somewhere, the bastard. I also had a scare when it seemed that my beloved Millennium Falcon, the maroon Oldsmobile Regency 98, would have to go as well. See, without brakes, tires, a working alternater, or proper alignment cars don’t run very well. I first realized that there was something wrong with the ‘Falcon when, coming off of 391 en route to The Elms, a tire fell off. Fell off, mind you, not popped. And not just the rubber part, but the rubber and the rim, the whole wheel. Using my keen powers of deduction, I ascertained that there was something slightly off with the vehicle. However, after a new master cylinder, a quart of oil, proper alignment, and new tires were added to it, I am proud to say that The Millennium Falcon is up and running and fit to blast past Imperial blockades again!
So, Farewell,
Ol’ Rusty, a.k.a.
Pachuco II, a.k.a. The
T6.
And CRASH *breaks champagne bottle over the fender of the ‘Falcon, dislodging the head light and knocking the bumper off* Hello, new and improved
Millennium Falcon!
I'm rolling. I’m rolling. I’m rolling. I’m rolling uh.
I know you got it but you got to go;
I'm gonna get into the batter so the mix might glow.
I hate to do it, but I did it though;
I'm gonna bite into the body like the risk is no
Risk. I got the souped-up car and what you call
Tripping on the boom-bap etymological.
I ride the fader and I ride it low;
I'm gonna slip into the field like Han Solo.
I'm rolling. I’m rolling. I’m rolling. I’m rolling uh.
One thing I had forgotten to cover in the last blog entry was the
Republican National Convention. In an effort to be as bi-partisan as possible, I will give my take on both the DNC and the RNC. The Republican National Convention was held this year in New York City. The major differences between it and the
Democratic National Convention, held earlier, in Boston, were the sentiments expressed by the multitudes and much of the approaches of the speakers. In the DNC, it was more a hopeful, we-can-do-it, multi-ethnic inspiring celebration of good times to come. Arguably much was manufactured and insincere, but it was more of a feel-good experience. The RNC was more, they’re wrong in saying we’re wrong! We are right and will, God willing, continue to be so if the American people are sensible enough. There was more of a self-righteous tone to the event. This was more genuine, but that doesn’t mean it was enjoyable to sit through as a result. It was fun to watch, however. First and foremost, Michael Moore had the shameless lack of gall and huge stomach full of spotlight lust to show up. He sat watching the event from a balcony seat, much like Jabba the Hutt did in Episode One. The crowd booed and jeered at him and he waved happily back. Good show, Mike. (For the record, Mr. Moore is one of my heroes.) Secondly, the speeches were more impassioned in many cases, and there were more celebrities. Ron Silver is a thrilling and capable public speaker. And Arnold, who will be a lunk-headed action star no matter how many times people call him Governor, was there as well. The main reason I enjoyed the RNC so much was that it was funny. The Republicans, oddly enough, use humor in their speeches, and especially in their insults. As a comedian this appeals to me immensely and garners from me instantaneous respect and admiration. They were both enjoyable to watch, but it’s all just preaching to the choir. Needless pomp.
Almost as important as far as substance less pomp goes are the debates. I saw the first, the Presidential debate, at MHC with Ames McKenzie. Hurray for crazy liberal gals and hurray even more for golden thongs. It seems Amy and I were the only ones who jeered both candidates for some reason . . . . Yeah, I hope you choke on your celery, you narrow-minded radicals! I saw the second debate, the Vice-presidential, with my father, and we both enjoyed it immensely.
To show how truly intellectual I am I will compare the debates to knife fights. No, don’t get up and leave yet. Let me further elucidate. You see, it works as a rather nice analogy. Take the first debate. Kerry, too intellectual and showy accomplished as much in the debate as he would have in a knife fight were he to simply stand there performing fancy tricks with his blade, splitting his face in half with insincere happiness at the crowd while twirling his blade, never wounding his opponent, nor gaining any ground for himself. Not that he needed to wound his opponent, for Bush did that very well himself. He did the equivalent of cutting up his hands, dropping his knife, and then stumbling over it. He tripped over his own words and hurt himself as he bungled insults against Kerry. All in all not very fun to watch for the conscientious political observer. No more fun, indeed, than such a knife fight would be for the conscientious blood-sport observer. Then came the V.P. debate. Aaahhh. Now there was a fight to tell the grandkids about. Two skilled adversaries, each with what is called a hate on for the other. Cheney and Edwards, though different in style and manner, are equally competent orators. Edwards was more insincere, as typical of his party, it seems. Cheney wasn’t likeable, but he didn’t try to be. He didn’t care. So he wasn’t dislikeable. Each answered well, though in a scripted way, never really getting to the heart of the questions, sadly. However, they insulted each other better than any people, politicians or not, that I have ever seen. They never showed their anguish, though. They would smile as they stabbed and cut each other, smile more intensely as their blades twisted cruelly into their flesh. It was a beautiful thing. I don’t like Cheney by any means, but I like to hate him. And I respect him. Who won the debate? Hard to say, but I’d have to say Cheney. Edwards, young and impetuous, with his Southern-boyish good looks and full smile, became too excited towards the end and slipped up. Many times. Cheney, older and more experienced, sat back and watched his opponent through his cold, mechanical eyes and waited for signs of weakness, and then pounced! Go evil cyborg Vice President! Go!
Last Thursday, (we seem to be making a habit of it) Amy and I went out for a night of film to see the laugh-a-minute gore-fest
Shaun of the Dead. The night itself was decent, but the movie was superb. Few movies try to be only one thing. Films have more chance at being popular when they fit into those hyphenated groups, i.e. action-buddy-comedy, romantic-comedy, sci-fi-horror. A sub-genre that is a mixed bag of nuts if ever there was one is the "horror-comedy." In this field there is a fine line between good and lousy. But, whatever category the films are in, what they’re striving for is balance. If you have a movie that’s supposed to be a funny action film, and has too much comedy and almost no action, it can be a bit of a let down. If there’s a horror movie that’s also supposed to have romance, and there’s too much of the latter, not nearly enough former, it’s not enjoyable to watch. Well,
Shaun of the Dead had what is called "balance." It was a romantic comedy with zombies, or so says the tag line on the poster. It had all three in copious, yet well proportioned amounts. The movie did provide all the thrills, chills, and gross-outs of a zombie movie. But, it had some absolutely gut-busting laughs, subtle British humor, and satire up the wazoo. On top of this, it had sweet-hearted romance and heart-warming human interest. It might be the best movie ever made. In all seriousness. Because it accomplishes what it set out to do. And does so with flying colors.
In other, sadder entertainment news, funny man Rodney Dangerfield died today. I have not the heart, the skill, nor the strength to cover the story, so I turn it over to the associated press.
LOS ANGELES (Oct. 5) - Rodney Dangerfield, the bug-eyed comic whose self-deprecating one-liners brought him stardom in clubs, television and movies and made his lament ''I don't get no respect'' a catchphrase, died Tuesday. He was 82.
Dangerfield, who fell into a coma after undergoing heart surgery, died at 1:20 p.m., said publicist Kevin Sasaki. Dangerfield had a heart valve replaced Aug. 25 at the University of California, Los Angeles, Medical Center.
Sasaki said in a statement that Dangerfield suffered a small stroke after the operation and developed infectious and abdominal complications. But in the past week he had emerged from the coma, the publicist said.
''When Rodney emerged, he kissed me, squeezed my hand and smiled for his doctors,'' Dangerfield's wife, Joan, said in the statement. The comic is also survived by two children from a previous marriage.
As a comic, Dangerfield - clad in a black suit, red tie and white shirt with collar that seemed too tight - convulsed audiences with lines such as: ''When I was born, I was so ugly that the doctor slapped my mother''; ''When I started in show business, I played one club that was so far out my act was reviewed in Field and Stream''; and ''Every time I get in an elevator, the operator says the same thing to me: 'Basement?'''
In a 1986 interview, he explained the origin of his ''respect'' trademark:
''I had this joke: 'I played hide and seek; they wouldn't even look for me.' To make it work better, you look for something to put in front of it: I was so poor, I was so dumb, so this, so that. I thought, 'Now what fits that joke?' Well, 'No one liked me' was all right. But then I thought, a more profound thing would be, 'I get no respect.'''
He tried it at a New York club, and the joke drew a bigger response than ever. He kept the phrase in the act, and it seemed to establish a bond with his audience. After hearing him perform years later, Jack Benny remarked: ''Me, I get laughs because I'm cheap and 39. Your image goes into the soul of everyone.''
Flowers were placed on his star on Hollywood Boulevard after word of his death, and the marquee of The Improv, a comedy club where Dangerfield often performed, read ''Rest In Peace Rodney.''
''When you saw Rodney on 'The Tonight Show' sitting on the couch with Johnny Carson, you didn't want it to go to commercial,'' comic Bernie Mac said in a statement. ''He always left you wanting more and I'm going to miss him.''
Dangerfield had a strange career in show business. At 19 he started as a standup comedian. He made only a fair living, traveling a great deal and appearing in rundown joints. Married at 27, he decided he couldn't support a family on his meager earnings.
He returned to comedy at 42 and began to attract notice. He appeared on the Ed Sullivan show seven times and on ''The Tonight Show'' with Johnny Carson more than 70 times.
After his first major film role in ''Caddyshack,'' he began starring in his own movies.
He was born Jacob Cohen on Nov. 22, 1921, on New York's Long Island. Growing up in the borough of Queens, his mother was uncaring and his father was absent. As Philip Roy, the father and his brother toured in vaudeville as a pantomime comedy-juggling act, Roy and Arthur. Young Jacob's parents divorced, and the mother struggled to support her daughter and son.
The boy helped bring in money by selling ice cream at the beach and working for a grocery store. ''I found myself going to school with kids and then in the afternoon I'd be delivering groceries to their back door,'' he recalled. ''I ended up feeling inferior to everybody.''
He ingratiated himself to his schoolmates by being funny; at 15 he was writing down jokes and storing them in a duffel bag. When he was 19, he adopted the name Jack Roy and tried out the jokes at a resort in the Catskills, training ground for Danny Kaye, Jerry Lewis, Red Button, Sid Caesar and other comedians. The job paid $12 a week plus room and meals.
In New York, he drove a laundry and fish truck, taking time off to hunt for work as a comedian. The jobs came slowly, but in time he was averaging $300 a week.
He married Joyce Indig, a singer he met at a New York club. Both had wearied of the uncertainty of a performer's life.
''We wanted to lead a normal life,'' he remarked in a 1986 interview. ''I wanted a house and a picket fence and kids, and the heck with show business. Love is more important, you see. When the show is over, you're alone.''
The couple settled in Englewood, N.J., had two children, Brian and Melanie, and he worked selling paint and siding. But the idyllic suburban life soured as the pair battled. The couple divorced in 1962, remarried a year later and again divorced.
In 1993, Dangerfield married Joan Child, a flower importer.
At age 42, he returned to show business as Jack Roy. He remembered in 1986:
''It was like a need. I had to work. I had to tell jokes. I had to write them and tell them. It was like a fix. I had the habit.''
Even during his domestic years, he continued filling the duffel bag with jokes. He didn't want to break in his new act with any notice, so he asked the owner of New York's Inwood Lounge, George McFadden, not to bill him as Jack Roy. McFadden came up with the absurd name Rodney Dangerfield. It stuck.
Dangerfield's bookings improved, and he landed television gigs. After his ex-wife died, he took over the responsibility of raising his two children. He decided to quit touring and open a New York nightclub, Dangerfield's, so he could stay close to home. A beer commercial and the Carson shows brought him national attention.
His film debut came in 1971 with ''The Projectionist,'' which he described as ''the kind of a movie that you went to the location on the subway.'' He did better in 1980 with ''Caddyshack,'' in which he held his own with such comics as Chevy Chase, Ted Knight and Bill Murray.
Despite his good reviews, Dangerfield claimed he didn't like movies or TV series: ''Too much waiting around, too much memorizing; I need that immediate feedback of people laughing.''
Still, he continued starring in and sometimes writing films such as ''Easy Money,'' ''Back to School,'' ''Moving,'' ''The Scout,'' ''Ladybugs'' and ''Meet Wally Sparks.'' He turned dramatic as a sadistic father in Oliver Stone's 1994 ''Natural Born Killers.''
In 1995, the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences rejected Dangerfield's application for membership. A letter from Roddy McDowall of the actors branch explained that the comedian had failed to execute ''enough of the kinds of roles that allow a performer to demonstrate the mastery of his craft.''
The ultimate rejection, and Dangerfield played it to the hilt. He had established his own Web site (''I went out and bought an Apple Computer; it had a worm in it''), and his fans used it to express their indignation. The public reaction prompted the academy to reverse itself and offer membership. Dangerfield declined.
''They don't even apologize or nothing,'' he said. ''They give no respect at all - pardon the pun - to comedy.''
AP-NY-10-05-04 21:44 EDT
Copyright 2004 The Associated Press. The information contained in the AP news report may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or otherwise distributed without the prior written authority of The Associated Press. All active hyperlinks have been inserted by AOL.
I left a comment on Rodney’s website to the effect that he was a goddamn American icon and will forever be missed. His passing pains me particularly as a comedian, for, big-time or amateur, he was a father to all stand-up comedians out there. On top of that, I love his style in dealing with the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, for obvious reasons. He was a great entertainer, and he will be missed.
Want to actually hear some Mike Doughty? Check this out:
http://aolsearch.aol.com/aol/av?query=mike+doughty&page=3&source=singingfish
I was perusing Mike Pytka’s new blog, admiring the template, when I saw a link near the top that said, "Next Blog." Curious as to what exactly this was, I hit the link aaaaaannnnd was zapped into cyber space! I turned into the
Freakazoid, I was smart and super slick. I drove the villains crazy, ‘cause I’m a lunatic. I’ve got super powers. Freak-a you, freak-a me. I’m on in prime time hours. Freak-who? Chimpanzee . . . uh . . . oh I forget the words and that didn’t happen anyway. But what did happen when I hit the "Next Blog" button was that I was transported immediately to a seemingly random blog. Once I had perused that blog, one belonging to a middle-aged, family-oriented Indian woman, (it had the same template as mine) I hit the button again and went to some whack-o liberal’s blog. Read that, then went to one that was written by someone who thought super heroes were real. I must say, hitting the Next Blog button and exploring th Blog-verse is a fun way to pass the time. I urge you to hit the button on my blog upon finishing this delightful entry.
I’ve been thinking about life lately and, after seeing my mother’s siblings at my uncle’s wedding (mentioned last post) I realized that having a family with many kids might not be such a bad thing. I realize that the world is becoming over-populated, and there are water and land shortages and blah blah blah, cry me a river, build a bridge, get over it, then stop the water flow yourself because I don’t give a damn. Ya get it? Andrew and I came up with that last one on the way to Maine. "I don’t give a damn . . . or a dam." Ha ha ha! Anyway, it was fun to see my uncles and aunts interact (all 6 of them (counting my Mommy, of course.)) And, as they’re all very cool, and all very close, I considered the idea of, if I live that long, and if I want to start a family then, and if my significant other does not object, having a large family. Large families are interesting, no matter what, and can be quite beneficial if they get along well.
More about life after college. I have a dream in my heart now to become a journalist. It is in this field, I believe, that I can optimize my God-given talents of humor, intelligence, compassionate understanding, and crackling writing skills, to serve the world and make life, in a general sort of way, better for one and all. However, there are three other occupations I would pursue if not journalism. Firstly, I’d like to be a behavioral psychologist. I am pretty well fascinated by the inner workings of the human brain and how much of our primitive tendencies work their way, almost unnoticed, out through the evolved facade. Secondly, I’d love to be a stand-up comedian. I’d only want to do this if I could be fairly successful. I enjoy making people laugh, would love to branch into acting in films or television, and more so than anything else, would love to have children quoting me in classrooms and schoolyards. Remember how I used to occasionally, occasionally, take jokes from other comedians? I would love to know that kids like me were doing that with my jokes. Lastly, I wouldn’t mind being one of those mercenary or assassin fellows. You know, the types in the movies, always killing people and blowing up stuff. I imagine the world of international crime is more romanticized than that of the police, but I’d still like to be a part of it. I figure with my strength and intelligence would serve me well there.
You guys wanna hear about another crazy dream I had? Okay, let’s hit it.
It was snowing, that thick, flat, drifting snow, and I was in this night-time forest. One of those creepy manufactured forests, in which all the trees are in unnatural, limbless perfect rows, stretching as far as you can see. It does weird things with perspective. Well, all of a sudden, I spy this ladder (planks nailed onto one of the trees) in the distance. I start towards it, and then, a dog starts to climb down the ladder from the obscure crown of the tree. It’s a large, black German Shepard, with an overly bushy coat. I stand petrified as the dog trots over to me and starts to gnaw on my leg.
"I am Saint Peter." says the canine, speaking remarkably well for a dog with an ankle in it’s mouth. "I need to teach you how to hunt."
Then, vaguely in the background, I thought I could discern the shapes of more dogs.
I think that’s where it ended. However, though it was brief, I can interpret it. I believe it means that I will soon get lucky. Click, Click, Boo Yeah! Thank you, Saint Peter.
It is truly a dark time for those of us who love radio morning shows. Under mysterious circumstances, beloved radio personalities Quinn and Cantarra have left Lazer 99.3 FM. With them gone, the last decent morning show hosts have all but vanished. The pair that comes closest to replacing them is the odious Bax and O’Brien of 102.1. These two I cannot stand to listen to. Bax isn’t that horrible, but O’Brien is that nauseous mixture of vulgar and pretentious, with a dash of mis-guided, narrow-minded, reactionary beliefs. I can’t go more than 5 seconds listening to him taint the airwaves and dominate the morning show with his distasteful brand of "humor" before I want to hit him with a truck and shoot him three times with a twelve gauge. I does come as some consolation that his wife had an affair with my dad.
I realized recently what some of my colleagues in the online journaling world must have figured out long ago. There are many drawbacks to having a public journal. I’m not one who goes for private journals that you pour your heart out to each night as you lie in bed. The ones with pony stickers on them. If I used one of those, my humor would be wasted. It could only be read and re-read by me, and I eventually tire of reading my own work. So a public journal is the online answer. The problem is that public journals can be read by anyone.
Let’s say you have 6 friends, A through F. Now, there’s a quarrel between B and E that only you know about. You can’t write about it because B and E want it kept quiet. Meanwhile, you have romantic feelings for D, and you want A, C, B, and E to know about it, but not F, and you can’t let D know your feelings through a journal, that’d be pretty stupid, telling someone your feelings through a journal . . . *looks shifty-eyed for a moment*. Also, as your journaling progresses, you get more and more readers. For instance, it’d be dangerous to mention Evelyn as freely as I used to, as she occasionally reads this publication. It would also be impractical to say that I have a crush on Mike Pytka, as he too might someday read this. So, the disadvantage is that it can’t be used as a message center for particular friends, and, as you continue with your writing, your subjects become limited as you gain more readers. Oh well . . . I guess I’ll have to actually talk to people. Egads.
I haven’t seen him since June, and I haven’t written him like I should have . . . uh . . . haven’t written him at all, in fact, but I have spoken to Dan online and I am startled by the change that has come over him. It’s not the type of change you’d expect. His beliefs are still admirably and annoyingly intact, though they seem radically liberal compared to some of the inbred, Bible-beating Nazi’s he bunks with. Thank God in Heaven those men will some day be flying planes carrying bombs capable of vaporizing a county. No, Dan is still very much Dan. Perhaps the word I should have used is addition, rather than change. After reading his messages for an hour or four I realized that Dan is becoming a soldier. There’s no other word for it. He said Airman, to be precise, but that wasn’t what I meant. For the archetype of "soldier" dates back a coupla thousand years before those wacky Wright brothers first gave up making bikes and started to tempt death. I mean that Dan is becoming one of those brave few who learn the art of combat, the intricacies and scientific aspect of war, and, for the time being, make their life’s purpose defending their country and attacking all those who threaten it.
So here’s to you, Dan. *raises glass of V8 Juice*. Thank you for being there, putting up with what seems at times an intolerable purgatory, so that we can all sleep safer at night.
I was talking to Dan when we hit upon a rather painful subject. Dan mentioned something that scared him. Now, a person in his position would be scared, or so one would imagine, by nuclear war (or, if it involves our current president "nuke-u-lar" war), invasion by foreign countries, getting shot at, things of that nature. However, Dan mentioned that what scared him was the thought of how much everyone will have changed by the mini-reunion at Thanksgiving, and then, at the 10 year reunion. I admit the thought startled me a bit, too.
Then we hit on the similarity between our present circumstance and the plot of the story
IT, by Stephen King. See, in the story a group of friends grows up together in a small New England town and defeats a ravenous monster that has targeted them all for its meals. They leave the town shortly after, go their separate ways, and become successful in the "outside world." However, some years after they seemingly destroyed the Beast, they are all called back by their friend Michael, who remained in the small town to watch for a return of the monster they fought in their childhood. I would be like Mike . . . uh, not Jordan . . . the character from the book, who stays in order to act as a connector for his friends when they return to fight the ancient evil who terrorized them in their youth (Sr. Connie.)
In all seriousness, though, we will grow apart. This fact saddens me more than anything else in my life right now. There’s no avoiding it. I feel like a bit of loser, trying to hang on to old friendships, just because that’s not what most people do. I have no idea whether or not my friends from high school, whom I love dearly, will even want to keep the relationship I have with them. It’s a bleak prospect losing people you care about in such a way. If it must be so, then I guess there’s no avoiding it. But I’m not going to give up on these ties. I’ll carry out the relationships until they end, not in an explosive fight or tearful farewell, but with a last meaningless IM conversation, in which we’ve gotten down to the point of saying, "Hey." "How are you." "Good." And then ignoring each other until we sign off. They’ll trail away with a whimper; perhaps that's the saddest part of the whole tragic affair. But I’ll cherish them as much as I can while I can. And I’ll hopefully always remember the good times.
One way I hope to keep the friendships alive is reminding myself, at least, how truly great my friends are. In this edition of Friends, I give a wacky salute to my good pal Caitlin.
Friends:
Many of my friends took to me immediately, and I to them. From the get go, we realized that we’d be companions. It was a bit different with Caitlin. Ours was a much more roller-coaster-esque relationship. You see, we began as acquaintances in Mr. Matte’s homeroom Junior year when our school was first blessed with Caitlin’s presence. I entertained romantic notions, which were, as far as I know, purely in my head. After she began going out with Andrew, my romantic notions were all but stymied. I became bitter and harsh, she despised my crude sexual humor, and, as I was often tactless in her presence, saw me as a bit of an insensitive jerk. Understandably so, for in many ways I was, and still am. However, I began to realize what an insensitive jerk I was being, and sought, with purest intentions, to make amends. Moreover, I was so close with Andrew at this point that I saw much of her, and figured it best to have cordial relations, so as not to end up with toothpicks rammed in my eyes, as I was in danger of doing on more than one occasion. While our relationship was on the up an’ up for the most part after my epiphany, there were still times when I proved to be an insufferable cad. I remember one such instance at Tony’s in which I had Caitlin so mad that it took the combined strength of Will Murray, Tony, Pawel, Dan, and my brother to hold her back and keep her from beating the ever-loving hell out of me. However, things went well, and, despite everything being against me, I once again began to entertain romantic notions. This in no small way made our friendship stronger. I’d like to think I was being more understanding, compassionate, and obliging then just because I was a good person, but such is not the case. I just wanted to be around her.
You see, I entertained romantic notions about Caitlin because she is in every sense, the type of girl you entertain romantic notions about. (I’d like to point out right now that this will be an odd Friends section, as Caitlin is of the female persuasion). Caitlin is beautiful and at every angle, pleasant to look at. She sparkles with that quirky, lively, almost goofy sexiness that so very few have. But it goes beyond that, obviously. Caitlin has all the likeable girlish qualities, and none of the annoying ones. She’s got that perfect mix of strong and vulnerable, independent and yearing for companionship down pat. She doesn’t like boy bands, but she likes sexy alt-punk bands and Disney music. She loves to watch sports, but isn’t un-girly enough to be one of those "go-get-em" athlete types. But, again, that doesn’t mean she isn’t athletic. She’s taken years of dance and can, in this reporter’s opinion, cut a wicked rug and has even been known to push it good. She is always filled to the brim with an optimistic, bouncy excitement that would be called "being hyper" were she not able to convey her high level of maturity. Caitlin is talented, and talent is always attractive. She is probably the most artistically talented person I know (screw you, Lisa. Caitlin’s got you beat.) She is humble about it, and yet, at the same time, timidly boastful, which is incredibly endearing. She sings well and has a pleasant voice when just speaking. Caitlin, unlike some of my other friends, is very open to others’ opinions, and slow to condemn anyone else’s beliefs or works. She is spiritual without being overly zealous. Caitlin is likeably playful, yet admirably prudent, depending on the circumstance. She likes sexy male stars and the films they are in, but for the right reasons. She has one of the best blogs out there, and it is made so not by (don’t be offended by this, Cait) interesting subject matter. Indeed, it is what many bloggers try to avoid, and that is a day by day coverage of her life. However, not only is her life interesting, but she writes in such an easy-to-read, enjoyably funny way that, despite being nothing more than what class she had when, and what her roommate said, it is poignant and fascinating and always fun to read. (Check it out, dawgs:
http://speedyweasels.blogspot.com ) Caitlin is the funniest girl I know. In as much as she can appreciate and reciprocate any type of humor (though she shies away from innuendo.) She has, usually, a wacky, off-the-wall, quirkerific kind of funniness to her, but, at times, can be bitingly sarcastic, wittily dry, profound, slapstick, and even more random than EJ. Caitlin is never vulgar, though. And she’s never mean. She is compassionate, understanding, and not afraid to hug.
To boil it down, Caitlin has a perfect blend of everything a person should, mind, body, and plenty of spirit. What’s more, she has only the best sides of those three aspects. She’s exponentially excellent, if that’s not too obtuse. She’s got her personality in a wonderful state of balance. Caitlin is, for all indents and porpoises, what everyone should strive to be.
Whew. They say there’s a thin line between Love and Hate. I don’t know if this is true in anything other than Martin Lawrence movies and my blog, but, moving from the ones I love to the other end of the spectrum, I’d like to discuss some people that I hate. Now, there are some obvious ones. Cruel, narrow-minded authority figures, racists, bigots, homophobes, pretentious pseudo intellectuals who infest coffee shops, overly conservative wackos, the people who made
Catwoman the Movie . . . the list is fairly long. But there are some types of people who you wouldn’t think I’d dislike, others I don’t yell at that often, but are obvious when you think about it. These are the types I’d like to tell you about today.
First on the list, (this’ll come as a shock) are people who don’t stand up for themselves. I realize having said this pretty much takes me out of the running for super-hero-hood, but think about it. If a person can’t stand up for themselves, that’s terrible and pitiable and should be stopped. But, if a person can and won’t, that’s another story. I have met or heard about a good number of people, mostly girls, who are abused and mistreated, and yet, despite advice from their friends, refuse to take action against the responsible parties. Such a failure to act leads to the proliferation of abuse and mistreatment for that person and others. On top of which, it’s ever so hard on the frustrated friends.
Second, I despise staunch single-sexuals. Sigmund Freud, though he did say that people have stopped developing their personalities by the age of 10, that sons want to kill their fathers and marry their mothers, and that there is no God, (and on top of this was an opium addict) I believe hit the nail on the head in regards to his theory on human sexuality. Freud claimed that no one was 100% heterosexual or homosexual, but, indeed, that all humans are some percentage bisexual. Thus, those who adamantly refuse to open their eyes to the true nature of sexuality and the beauty of everyone infuriate me. Both gays and straights are guilty of this. Perhaps, being bisexual makes a bit bi-ased, but I am strong in this belief. I suppose if we all stopped trying to name things, as Dr. Amy McMenamin suggests, we wouldn’t have this problem. People could feel sexual attraction to whomever they wished without trying to categorize themselves.
Next are stupid smart people. You know the ones I mean. Those people who do well by doing exactly what is asked of them and because they fit nicely into a system, and are thus praised and rewarded, but are in reality dull as bricks. They have no care to fully understand what they do, they have no curiosity to learn anything not asked of them, and yet, after years of compliments and rewards have swollen heads and believe themselves to be truly intelligent. At least half of all "A" students in any given high school are like this. I myself have met many *lists half the ‘03, ‘04, and ‘05 NHS members. * What’s worse is that other people think these frauds to be truly intelligent.
(I’d like to share a theory of mine. If something is bad and people see so and dislike it, said thing is tolerable and even, in some ways, pitiable. If, however, people don’t see that that certain thing is bad, and, in fact, sing its praises, said thing now becomes infinitely more dislikeable.)
How ‘bout this one? No one ever thinks of this. I hate people who are raised in one religion, convert, and then automatically start to adopt the cultural and personality traits. Members of my family are like this. I have an aunt who was raised Catholic, converted to Buddhism, and then became a Jew. Now, this would be fine by itself. Experimentation and finding one’s own path are crucial to a happy, healthy life. But what bothers me is that, within a month of accepting the precepts of Judaism, and taking the vows and all that, this aunt began to assimilate all the affectations of the stereotypical Jewish (as in ethnically Semitic) woman. The over-motherliness, the whiny laugh, the complaining tendencies, the cliched Yiddish expressions . . . . I want people to find the faith that suits them best, but, stay true to yourself. Don’t change who you are and try to invent an identity as you change faiths. Eva, the choreographer for Catholic, genius at inventing dance numbers though she may be, is guilty of this as well.
Lastly, I hate harsh critics. I dislike critics as a general rule for several reasons. First off, they’re regular people, a bit more pretentious then the rest of us, who are convinced that the rest of the world wants their opinion. Second, a good portion of critics have failed at what they critique, or, in some cases, were too scared to try. I despise how people criticize something knowing that they could never do anything close to that themselves. But harsh critics are a good deal worse than all the others. If one is going to criticize something, be gentle about it. There is no point being an asshole, it gets you nowhere. That is why, when I review a film I look for the best in it, if there is any. So, while critics are bad to begin with, harsh critics, with there total lack of talent and disregard for others feelings, are truly a hateable group.
Having said that, I realize that critics play a key part in our society. If not for them, we would all become ultimately complacent and accept anything we are thrown. The odious presence of critics, while annoying and hurtful, is oft times underrated. It is to them that we owe much of what is good in our society. For, without their harsh standards we would be watching Teen Wolf 4 on UPN, shortly before reading fiction by Bill O’Reilly, and listening to Hoobastank’s multi-platinum new hit.
Now that many of my friends are away at college, I’ve been reading a lot of Away Messages. It seems the accepted practice at most universities for students to remain signed online 24/7, and put up away messages when at class, on errands, or having wild drunken college sex. As a result, the Away Message becomes a bit of an art form. As it is used so often, the students repeatedly come up with newer, funnier, more appealing messages, so as not to let those little reminders go stale. I will not allow these efforts to go unrewarded, however.
Thus I have begun a new segment.
The Comic Genius Best Away Message Awards! (Or The CGB-AMA’s, as they are referred to on E!. So, if you want to be eligible, simply develop a remarkable away message and when you think you’ve got a corker, leave it on so I may see it.
Here are this post’s winners:
"school
Real Men of Genius. Today we salute you, Mr. Compulsive Away Message Checker. While most people are out actually having a fun life, you are at home reading about it on your computer screen. Right mouse click, Get Buddy Info, or the little Info box at the bottom of the Buddy List. You have people on that list you haven't talked to in years, but you still loyally read their away messages every day to see what they're up to. So, crack open an ice cold Bud Light, Marauder of the Mousepad, and don't wander too far from your computer because you never know when someone's away message may change." – the winner, from the flaky and annoying Garywnlds
"softballa1833: If you were named sleep, I could be doing you in my bed right now :-*" --Longbeachgrl’s companion’s theories
"Shower: come in or fantasize." – an open ended offer from el stevos sn
"The wanderer wanders. Leave love." –WanderingEli’s immortal message
"I love love my family, their such jews! Haha. :-D" –ethnic eccentricity, from BelleDame
"There'd be no distance that could hold us back" --an inspiring one from Taylor202B
" It's 106 miles to Chicago, we got a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, it's dark and we're wearing sunglasses. Hit it. -Blues Brothers" –a classic quotation from Zephyr81186
"60 McNuggets for 9$ and change? Amen." –a diet bashing declaration courtesy of Taylor202b
"Goddamnit, Wordsworth, why don't you write this paper about yourself" –a college student’s heartfelt plea, from redninjamonkey
‘Teamwork: There's no "I" in "Drunk."’– thanks, Steve.
Rich’s Sexy Celebs:
Elizabeth Hurley
Gabrielle Anwar
I was reading Mike Pytka’s now defunct live journal (for new updates on "The Good Fairy" go to
http://guyyouneed.blogspot.com/ ) and I noticed, rather keenly, that he had posted a survey. I recall I posted a survey one time. Back in the days when I cared enough about my readers to limit the size of my blog. The damn thing took up 3 posts as a result. Anyway, I'm not completely bereft of concern for you folks. I am going to post Mike’s survey, re-filled out be me, of course, but in minute increments, making it yet another returning segment on this, the greatest blog in the history of today.
Survey:
[You]
Name = Richard Joseph Sugrue II
Age = 18
Hair = it’s a bit of a gnarled mass of red, blonde, and brown patches.
Eyes = golden brown
Piercings = none yet . . . *looks timidly at Amy*
Tattoos = not yet, but I plan on getting at least two
Height = 5'6"
Shoe size = 9 ½
Siblings = one wacky, but occasionally loveable little brother
[LAST...]
Movie you watched =Spartan. Well, new movie, Bedazzled. I had seen Spartan before . . . *recalls night fondly*
Movie you bought = Bedazzled: Special Edition— Oh yeah!
Song you listened to = the siren-song of a magical lady . . . or Paint, by Soul Coughing
Cd you bought = I steal cd’s. That, or make them myself. With my mind! I honestly can’t remember. It might have been the group from Turn It Up.
Cd you listened to = Films About Ghosts, by Counting Crows.
Person that's called you = Andy-rew
[DO...]
You have a crush on someone = yeah, several people.
You wish you could live somewhere else = Well, maybe another town or in another house, but I love New England.
You believe in online dating = I know it exists, but do I believe it works? Yes, and I also believe in The Tooth Fairy, because I’m a naive jackass.
Others find you attractive = I’m sure one person has to . . . if I could just find that person . . .
You want more piercings = Well, I had planned on 256. I now have none. So . . . Yes.
You like roller coasters= It depends on the quality, my seat, and the person in the seat next to me. *glares at John Candy from National Lampoon’s Family Vacation*
Here it is, after a long hiatus . . .
Your
Joke Corner: (folk-rockers call it "the Daily.")
St. Peter greets a man at the Pearly Gates. "What have you done to deserve entry into heaven, my son?" he asks him.
Well, on my trip to the Black Hills I came across a gang of tough bikers threatening a young woman." The man says. "So, in order to buy the girl time to get away, I walked up to the leader of the biker gang and I punched him in the face, breaking his nose. I then kicked him in the stomach, kneed him in the groin, pulled his nose ring out, and threw him unconscious over his bike and into the road. When I was done with him, I turned to the rest of the group and said, "Leave that woman alone or you’ll have to answer to me!"
St. Peter was impressed. He asked the man, ‘When did this happen?"
"A couple of minutes ago."
I went to a petrified forest. All the animals were afraid of me.
Proudly showing off his college dorm to a friend one night, Steve came to the bedroom. In the corner of the room was a giant brass gong. "What’s the big brass gong for?" the friend asks.
"It’s not a gong," said Steve, "It’s a talking clock."
"Really? A talking clock?" asked his amazed friend. "How does it work?"
"Watch," said Steve. He picked up a mallet, gave the gong and ear-shattering pound and stepped back. Someone on the other side of the wall screamed, "Hey you jerk! It’s quarter to three in the morning!"
This one’s for Sr. Marlene:
An English professor was reading the Canterbury Tales to his class and noticed that a student had fallen asleep. Annoyed, he sent the book spinning through the air and bouncing off the boy’s head.
Startled awake, the student asked what had hit him.
"That," said the prof, "was a flying Chaucer."
On the topic of old sisters . . .
Three old sisters, ages 92, 94, and 96, live together. One night the 96 year old draws a bath. She puts one foot in and pauses. "Was I getting in the tub or out?" she yells.
The 94 year old hollers back, I don’t know, let me come and see." She starts up the stairs and stops. She shouts, "Was I coming up or going down?"
The 92 year old is sitting at the kitchen table having tea, listening to her sisters. She shakes her head and says, I sure hope I never get that forgetful," and knocks on wood for good measure. Then she yells, "I’ll come up and help you both as soon as I see who’s at the door."
Current Mood: Not too Shabby, though a little sad and disillusioned with life.
Current Music: Counting Crows,
Holiday in Spain
