Thursday, October 13, 2011
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Yoo Hoo
I've always thought of John Yoo as the Executive Branch equivalent of Chris Crocker, the "Leave Britney alone!" guy. Chris, as you'll recall, got under a sheet with a video camera and weepily defended a celebrated nitwit whom he had never met, in the process becoming both a YouTube sensation, and a cautionary tale about the benefits of waterproof mascara.
John Yoo, on the other hand, became famous for writing the Bush Administration a "Please excuse George and Dick from the Hague today" note, and for defending the right of a (Republican) President to crush a child's testicles in the interest of national security, in the process proving he was even more cold-blooded and sociopathic than the people who actually committed the torture he enabled. (Some right wingers claim that waterboarding is not torture, because U.S. service personnel are or were given a brief exposure to it, and I will concede the validity of this argument as soon as Mr. Yoo agrees to splay pantless on the couch and permit a 4-year old with a meat tenderizer to play Whack-A-Mole with his scrotum for five minutes.)
But Yoo hasn't let this minor setback rattle him, and in the NY Post he weighs in on the controversial government assassination of American citizen Anwar al-Awlaki, criticizing the Obama Administration for not killing him enough.
Still confusing terror & crime by John Yoo
It's such a simple rule, you'd think even Obama could have figured it out by now: Terror is not a crime, it's a war, but war is not a crime, therefore there's no such thing as a war crime. Got it, overly inquisitive Spanish judges who make distinguished University of California professors uncomfortable when they contemplate visiting Europe or Canada or other self-righteous jurisdictions that criminalize trivial policy differences over testicle crushing?
In all fairness, previous administrations have confused crime and terror, the most famous example dating to 1934, when the J. Edgar Hoover labeled gangster John Dillinger "Enemy Combatant Number 1" and bombed the Biograph Theater in Chicago with radio-controlled aero-torpedos launched from an FBI Zeppelin.
We should be thankful that Obama officials have quietly put aside the arguments they made during the Bush years that any terrorist outside the Afghani battlefield was a criminal suspect who deserved his day in federal court.Oh, I am grateful, John; and relieved that current interpretation of Article II of the Constitution also allows the President to suspend the presumption of innocence for anyone caught making an illegal left turn by one of those traffic cams, many of which have now been equipped with Hellfire missiles for prompt rush hour adjudication.
I’d rather the Obama folks be hypocrites in favor of protecting national security than principled fools (which they are free to be in faculty lounges both before and after their time in government).Sounds like somebody's a bit miffed that the nerds gave him a low-key welcome back to UC Berkeley, even though he was swanning about in the cool letterman's jacket he'd earned serving as waterboardboy for the Varsity Torture Team.
But that former world-view of terrorism still infects its decisions, to the country’s detriment. According to the reports, the Obama administration believed that force could only be used against Awlaki because arrest was impractical and he posed an imminent threat to the United States. This is plainly wrong.Is there a fundamental difference between "American exceptionalism" and the "delusions of grandeur" experienced by most serial killers? Yes. The former is hamstrung by all kinds of pettifogging rules, regulations, and laws that prevent its host organism from achieving its ultimate potential as a Randian utopia, whereas the latter leads to a fully actualized Übermensch who realizes that every man is an island -- especially when everybody else in the room is dead and he's standing in a lake of blood.
It may make for good policy, especially toward US citizens who make the mistake of joining the enemy, but there is no legal reason why a nation at war must try to apprehend an enemy instead of shooting at him first.I feel the same way about about Christmas carolers, and those girls at the mall who try to spritz you with a sample of Axe Body Spray.
Think of the operation to kill Adm. Isoroku Yamamoto in World War II. He was well behind the lines, flying from one military base to another. He didn’t pose an “imminent” threat of attack on America at that moment. The United States didn’t need to ask whether it could have forced Yamamoto’s plane down first and captured him. It was allowed to kill him, just as it could kill any other member of the Japanese military, regardless of his threat.Wow, I thought I knew my World War II history, but I had no idea that Admiral Yamamoto was an American citizen. And that's the kind of shameful ignorance that almost guarantees that no President will ever ask me whose balls he can take after with a pair of pliers. But at least I'm savvy enough to steer clear of the hackneyed, unserious counter-argument that the Imperial Japanese Navy Air Service bomber transporting Yamamoto was a military target which was shot down during a war we'd actually bothered to declare, because that's the kind of thing a namby-pamby untermensch would say.
Ever since the Civil War our national leaders and the Supreme Court have agreed that a citizen who joins the enemy must suffer the consequences of his belligerency, with the same status as that of an alien enemy.I guess that means we can look forward to statues of Osama Bin Laden, Taliban flags flying over statehouses, and a yearly observance of Al-Qaeda History Month. At least in the South.
Think of the incentives that the strange Obama hybrid rule creates. Our al Qaeda enemy will want to recruit American agents, who will benefit from criminal-justice rules that give them advantages in carrying out operations against us (like the right to remain silent, to Miranda and lawyers, to a speedy jury trial, etc.).Um...we killed the guy, Mr. Yoo. Without regard to nationality or creed, he and everyone in his immediate vicinity were pulped like a box of bulk-bought copies of Ben Shapiro books. How dead does he have to be? How much collateral damage will it take before you can finally achieve satisfaction, close the Abu Ghraib portfolio, and pull your pants back up?
Our troops and agents could well hesitate in the field, because they wouldn’t be able to tell in the heat of the moment whether an enemy is American or not.This is what happens when tough-talking nerds get a taste of power and think they're Conan the Barbarian.
"What is best in life?"
" To crush your enemies, to see them driven before you, and to make them stop Super Gluing your stapler to the credenza."
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Just Call Him Angel of the Morons
By Our "Goes Where Angels Fear to Tread" Correspondent, Bill S.
As we all know, October 11 is the birthday of Anntichrist S. Coulter (see previous World O' Crap post). It's also the birthday of the beautiful and talented Matt Bomer, who in the parallel universe where my life is perfect, is my husband.
But October 11 is also National Coming Out Day, and I'd like to mark the occasion (which, unlike Columbus Day, isn't a national holiday) with a look at a movie aimed at LGBT youth. In their book Better Living Through Bad Movies, Scott and s.z. failed to include such an entry -- a forgivable oversight, since there are only so many bad movies a human being should be expected to endure. Fortunately, I'm here to pick up the cause. Every movie genre gets the Manos: the Hands of Fate it deserves, and I do believe I've found it: a 2007 gem titled An Angel Named Billy.
Here's the trailer, enjoy!
One of the comments posted at YouTube reads, "omg i used to work with that guy at jamba juice!" The commenter doesn't specify which guy, or when they supposedly worked together. It could be anybody in the cast, and as recently as a month ago. But I'd rather not focus on the batch of virtual unknowns who populate this movie, except to note that the actor playing the titular role was, according to the IMDb, born in December of 1987, which means he was over 18 when this was made. At least I hope so; who knows how long it was sitting a shelf before it saw a release date?
Instead, I think most of the credit for this movie should go to one George Osborne, who wrote, directed, and co-produced it. Mr. Osborne's artistry and insight into human nature take him where Todd Haynes and Gus Van Sant would never go -- on a fast track to total obscurity. At least I hope so.
Before I dive into the plot synopsis, I must confess I only watched this once before mailing it back to NetFlix. While I'm 99% sure I'm recalling it right, there does exist a possibility I've misremembered the order of some scenes. I offer my apologies for any errors, and I offer my sympathies to anyone who saw it enough times to spot an error.
This is the story of Billy, a teenager living in an unamed rural area. We know it's rural from the presence of cowboy hats and bales of hay. Billy's mother left the family years earlier, and he's being raised by his dad, who's a religeous fanatic, an alcoholic, and an abusive asshole. We know these things because he sits at the kitchen table poring over a Bible, slugging down one Scotch after another, and screaming at Billy's younger brother Zack, who looks like a scared rabbit everytime the camera is on him.
Billy has one close friend, Rick, who we rightly, and incorrectly assume will be a major character, since he's featured prominently on the video box, but only has one scene with him. Rick may be moving away. Before he does, he wants to reveal his True Feelings for Billy, and one blissful sunny day, they share a kiss. Billy is dumbfounded (not just now, but frequently.) It never occurred to him Rick might be gay; it seems to have never occured to him that he might gay himself. This moment of clarity, and budding romance, are both disrupted by the appearance of Billy's dad, who's been spying on the boys, and comes lumbering down a hill like a drunken water buffalo, screaming homophobic epithets. He catches up to Billy and drags him back home to berate him in a more appropriately private setting. Seething with rage, he snarls, "Fer all ah know, yew might alriddy have AAAAIDS!!!"
He orders Billy to leave, and the young man trudges over to a nearby closet, grabs a tiny bookbag, and heads for the door. Zack appears in the stairwell and pleads with him not to leave, but Billy shakes his head mounfully and exits. We rightly, and incorrectly assume the brothers will try to remain in contact, but for the rest of the picture Billy seems to completely forget about Zack, or maybe the director does. As Billy walks down a long, desolate stretch of a road, a car stops, and Billy gets in to travel to places unknown.
A scared, broke, homeless teenager is traveling through the state by hopping into strange cars, and this seems to a good time for the director to cut away from him to introduce us to some of the other characters. Thomas, a bald, aging drag queen, is seated at his vanity table, dabbing on makeup and talking to himself, announcing each action before he does it. This is the most depressing, humourless drag queen in movie history ("Priscilla, Queen of the Desolate"), and as this scene played on (and on and on and on), it marked the first of many times during the film that I began to wonder if it might be some kind of stealth project by an anti-gay wingnut. Who else would have such trouble coming up with a decent drag queen name?
Thomas gets a call from his straight friend Mark, who he appears to have a crush on. His slurred speech suggests Mark is recovering from a stroke; his dialogue however, suggests a far more severe form of brain damage. Mark has an adult son named James, who lives in an apartment next door to Mark's house. James is a gay photographer in his late thirties. Thomas and Mark are concerned that James is lonely; they'd like to see him settle down with Mr. Right. Mark has even started looking at websites for gay singles, hoping to find his son a date. Which isn't creepy and disturbing at all, at least not to the director.
Before Mark can sign his son up with Manhunt.com, tragedy strikes: late one evening, James is awakend by a noise next door. Sensing it's a medical emergency, he LEAPS OUT OF BED URGENTLY...dutifully hunts for his bathrobe and carefully puts it on, then...RACES TO HIS FATHER'S SIDE. He realizes it's another stroke and dials 911, sobbing hysterically. This second stroke leaves Mark confined to a whelchair. It becomes clear to James that his dad will require round the clock assistance from a qualified health care proffessional, or failing that, the assistance of the first person he can find who can work cheaply and move in immediately.
Billy arrives at Donna's Cafe. At least, I think it's supposed to be a cafe; it looks more like someone set up a bunch of patio furniture on their lawn and hung a sign out. He befriends the waiter, Guy, a spiky haired twink who has a laid-back attitude about everything, including the fact that Billy can't pay for anything. He helpfully directs Billy to a bulletin board where there might be want ads posted, and offers to let him crash at his apartment until he can find a place of his own. He then introduces Billy to his boss, Donna, a self-proclaimed "fag hag", who Guy says is helpful to many a young gay newbie, offering protection.
Billy asks, "Protection? From what?" Guy replies, "From them!" pointing at a pair of leering old queens who look like they were bussed in from the '70's. We rightly, and incorrectly assume Donna will be an important figure in Billy's life, but she disappears after this one scene, which is just as well since she's super annoying.
Billy finds the want ad placed by James, and tears off the phone number, then he and Guy retire to Guy's apartment. We are treated to a tour of the place that showcase the director's keen eye. For instance, when guy a opens the door to the bathroom and lists the available items for use, the camera then cuts to a closeup of the bathroom, revealing all those items, to prove Guy was telling the truth. (The moral of the story so far: man-pimpin' your offspring leads to cerebral blood clots, and never trust a stranger who picks you up in a diner and takes you home unless you can verify the location of his Listermint and bunion pads.)
The two young men strip to their boxers and climb into bed. We rightly and incorrectly expect them to hook up, but they shut the light, turn away from each other and go to sleep. The director was more interested in showing their pecs than showing any aspect of their relationship.
Billy arrives at Mark and James' place, and James offers him a glass of water, which Billy eagerly accepts (yes, this conversation occurs.) He meets Mark, and the old man hits it off quite nicely with the teen, so he's hired right away. I guess puppy dog eyes and a sweetly blank-faced grin qualify someone to care for an elderly stroke victim. But he soon proves his job skills, taking Mark to the park to do wheelies in his chair. Mark declares Billy is "an angel". Uh, okay. James also begins to take a shine to Billy. His father notes, "I haven't seen such a spark you in a long time." Perhaps it's the way James looks at Billy: namely, the way he peers into the kid's bedroom as he sleeps, clad only in his boxers. Which isn't creepy and disturbing at all, at least not to the director.
Billy asks James to show him the studio where James does his phtography. The studio is a sparsley furnished room with no lighting equipment or darkroom, only a single camera set up on a tripod. We rightly and incorrectly assume this may lead to some kind of erotically charged scene, but they barely look at each other. Billy does however take note of some pictures on the wall, of a rather uniteresting-looking middle aged man. James identifies the man as his ex-boyfriend, Todd, who was a drug addict. The two walk back to the main house, and James asks Billy if he'd like to join him later for margaritas. Which isn't creepy and disturbing at all, at least not to the director.
Billy has written to his Aunt Sharon, telling her about his new home and job. She relays this news to his mother's place of work, where the note is intercepted by a Sassy Black Woman whose eyes look like they're about to bug out of her head. S.B.W. delivers the note to Billy's mom. We rightly and incorrectly hope we'll get some insight into why she deserted her family and didn't retain custody of her sons, but this leaves us more baffled than we already were.
Billy takes up the offer to share margaritas, and they have an intimate chat, which goes like this:
BILLY: So, if Todd was your boyfriend, does this mean...you like...guys?
JAMES: Yes, I do.
BILLY: Are you still in love with Todd? Do you ever think of getting back with him?
JAMES: No, I'm not still in love with him, and I don't want to get back with him.
BILLY: Then why do you keep his picture up on the wall?
JAMES: It hides a messy stain that's lying there.
Okay, I added those last two lines, but the rest is almost word for word what they say to each other. Billy gets an invitation from Guy to go out to a club. He asks James if he'd like to come along. James declines, saying his days of hitting clubs are over. (Yeah, from the looks of him, he hasn't set foot in one since Falco was big.)
Billy gets a call from his mother. We rightly and incorrectly expect him to be furious with her for deserting him and his brother and leaving them with an abusive drunk. But as we've already seen, the boy's as sharp as a bag of wet hair, so he's happy to talk about his new job, and the two "cool guys" who've taken him in. (Yes, this conversation occurs.) Mark beams, "I'm cool!" and adds, "Chickenpot, chickenpot, chickenpot piiiiiee!!!"
The evening at the club, which happens off-screen due to obvious budget constraints, doesn't go over well. Billy returns in tears, telling James that Guy's friends teased him and called him a "nerd" for having a job caring for an old man. WHAT THE FUCK?
Seriously...what the fuck?
James puts his arms around Billy, and assures him there's no shame in the job he has. They share a kiss, and head into the bedroom. We rightly and incorrectly expect a romantic love scene, but instead they lie on the bed, fully clothed, about a foot apart, and the scene fades to the next morning.
Mark has been waiting up all night, and as James shuffles into the kitchen looking disheveled, his father cheerfully notes that he's aware of what happened. He also observes, "You were pretty loud", and proceeds to make heavy breathing sex noises. Which isn't creepy and disturbing, at least not to the director. Billy then enters, equally disheveled, and Mark repeats the observation, because the first time wasn't gross enough.
Now that he knows his son has found True Love with a teenaged runaway, Mark is content that he can die happily. He calls up Thomas to discuss his will. Why, is Thomas a cross-dressing lawyer? And if he is, why didn't they make that movie instead of this one? ("Priscilla, Queen of the Default Judgment.")
With less than 20 minutes left to go in the film, a new complication arrives: Todd wants to get back together with James, and figures the best way to do it is to break into his house. But James catches him and insists he never wants to get back together. He then adds, "I've found somebody else. He's younger, cuter, and less likely to give me hepatitis." (Well, he would have said that, if I'd written the script.) He kicks Todd to the curb.
Mark finally kicks the bucket, once again reducing James to a puddle of tears. Billy's mother arrives. She tell him he's known all along her son was gay ("a mother knows these things."). She then rather matter-of-factly tells Billy his father died in an auto accident, his brother is staying with his Aunt temporarily, and she plans on moving to be closer to him. Billy reacts with a blankness that suggests nobody on the set has the slightest clue how a person would react to such news.
It's time to wrap things up, so we get a montage of the characters as Billy tells us what happens in voiceover:
His mother and Thomas start a computer dating service for gay singles (who better to play matchmaker than an insecure drag queen and a deadbeat mom?), Billy and James get married (we see them in a limo with the words "Just Married" on the back window) and Guy "surprised us all" by moving back to Billy's old hometown, where he inherited a house he now shares with Rick.
Um, okay then.
We rightly and correctly assume there have been porno films better directed. And better written. And better acted. And more rooted in reality. And less skeevy.
But what message of hope does it offer to LGBT youth? I guess it might be this:
If you're a gay teen who feels rejected by your family and you're struggling to find your place in the world, try to look on the positive side of things -- after all, you could wind up being married, at the age of 18, to a creepy, reclusive, middle-aged loser who still lives with his dad. Aren't you glad that hasn't happened to you? So cheer up kids, things could be a whole lot worse.
I guess the movie was inspirational. Just not in the way it was intended.
As we all know, October 11 is the birthday of Anntichrist S. Coulter (see previous World O' Crap post). It's also the birthday of the beautiful and talented Matt Bomer, who in the parallel universe where my life is perfect, is my husband.
But October 11 is also National Coming Out Day, and I'd like to mark the occasion (which, unlike Columbus Day, isn't a national holiday) with a look at a movie aimed at LGBT youth. In their book Better Living Through Bad Movies, Scott and s.z. failed to include such an entry -- a forgivable oversight, since there are only so many bad movies a human being should be expected to endure. Fortunately, I'm here to pick up the cause. Every movie genre gets the Manos: the Hands of Fate it deserves, and I do believe I've found it: a 2007 gem titled An Angel Named Billy.
Here's the trailer, enjoy!
One of the comments posted at YouTube reads, "omg i used to work with that guy at jamba juice!" The commenter doesn't specify which guy, or when they supposedly worked together. It could be anybody in the cast, and as recently as a month ago. But I'd rather not focus on the batch of virtual unknowns who populate this movie, except to note that the actor playing the titular role was, according to the IMDb, born in December of 1987, which means he was over 18 when this was made. At least I hope so; who knows how long it was sitting a shelf before it saw a release date?
Instead, I think most of the credit for this movie should go to one George Osborne, who wrote, directed, and co-produced it. Mr. Osborne's artistry and insight into human nature take him where Todd Haynes and Gus Van Sant would never go -- on a fast track to total obscurity. At least I hope so.
Before I dive into the plot synopsis, I must confess I only watched this once before mailing it back to NetFlix. While I'm 99% sure I'm recalling it right, there does exist a possibility I've misremembered the order of some scenes. I offer my apologies for any errors, and I offer my sympathies to anyone who saw it enough times to spot an error.
This is the story of Billy, a teenager living in an unamed rural area. We know it's rural from the presence of cowboy hats and bales of hay. Billy's mother left the family years earlier, and he's being raised by his dad, who's a religeous fanatic, an alcoholic, and an abusive asshole. We know these things because he sits at the kitchen table poring over a Bible, slugging down one Scotch after another, and screaming at Billy's younger brother Zack, who looks like a scared rabbit everytime the camera is on him.
He orders Billy to leave, and the young man trudges over to a nearby closet, grabs a tiny bookbag, and heads for the door. Zack appears in the stairwell and pleads with him not to leave, but Billy shakes his head mounfully and exits. We rightly, and incorrectly assume the brothers will try to remain in contact, but for the rest of the picture Billy seems to completely forget about Zack, or maybe the director does. As Billy walks down a long, desolate stretch of a road, a car stops, and Billy gets in to travel to places unknown.
A scared, broke, homeless teenager is traveling through the state by hopping into strange cars, and this seems to a good time for the director to cut away from him to introduce us to some of the other characters. Thomas, a bald, aging drag queen, is seated at his vanity table, dabbing on makeup and talking to himself, announcing each action before he does it. This is the most depressing, humourless drag queen in movie history ("Priscilla, Queen of the Desolate"), and as this scene played on (and on and on and on), it marked the first of many times during the film that I began to wonder if it might be some kind of stealth project by an anti-gay wingnut. Who else would have such trouble coming up with a decent drag queen name?
Thomas gets a call from his straight friend Mark, who he appears to have a crush on. His slurred speech suggests Mark is recovering from a stroke; his dialogue however, suggests a far more severe form of brain damage. Mark has an adult son named James, who lives in an apartment next door to Mark's house. James is a gay photographer in his late thirties. Thomas and Mark are concerned that James is lonely; they'd like to see him settle down with Mr. Right. Mark has even started looking at websites for gay singles, hoping to find his son a date. Which isn't creepy and disturbing at all, at least not to the director.
Before Mark can sign his son up with Manhunt.com, tragedy strikes: late one evening, James is awakend by a noise next door. Sensing it's a medical emergency, he LEAPS OUT OF BED URGENTLY...dutifully hunts for his bathrobe and carefully puts it on, then...RACES TO HIS FATHER'S SIDE. He realizes it's another stroke and dials 911, sobbing hysterically. This second stroke leaves Mark confined to a whelchair. It becomes clear to James that his dad will require round the clock assistance from a qualified health care proffessional, or failing that, the assistance of the first person he can find who can work cheaply and move in immediately.
Billy arrives at Donna's Cafe. At least, I think it's supposed to be a cafe; it looks more like someone set up a bunch of patio furniture on their lawn and hung a sign out. He befriends the waiter, Guy, a spiky haired twink who has a laid-back attitude about everything, including the fact that Billy can't pay for anything. He helpfully directs Billy to a bulletin board where there might be want ads posted, and offers to let him crash at his apartment until he can find a place of his own. He then introduces Billy to his boss, Donna, a self-proclaimed "fag hag", who Guy says is helpful to many a young gay newbie, offering protection.
Billy asks, "Protection? From what?" Guy replies, "From them!" pointing at a pair of leering old queens who look like they were bussed in from the '70's. We rightly, and incorrectly assume Donna will be an important figure in Billy's life, but she disappears after this one scene, which is just as well since she's super annoying.
Billy finds the want ad placed by James, and tears off the phone number, then he and Guy retire to Guy's apartment. We are treated to a tour of the place that showcase the director's keen eye. For instance, when guy a opens the door to the bathroom and lists the available items for use, the camera then cuts to a closeup of the bathroom, revealing all those items, to prove Guy was telling the truth. (The moral of the story so far: man-pimpin' your offspring leads to cerebral blood clots, and never trust a stranger who picks you up in a diner and takes you home unless you can verify the location of his Listermint and bunion pads.)
The two young men strip to their boxers and climb into bed. We rightly and incorrectly expect them to hook up, but they shut the light, turn away from each other and go to sleep. The director was more interested in showing their pecs than showing any aspect of their relationship.
Billy arrives at Mark and James' place, and James offers him a glass of water, which Billy eagerly accepts (yes, this conversation occurs.) He meets Mark, and the old man hits it off quite nicely with the teen, so he's hired right away. I guess puppy dog eyes and a sweetly blank-faced grin qualify someone to care for an elderly stroke victim. But he soon proves his job skills, taking Mark to the park to do wheelies in his chair. Mark declares Billy is "an angel". Uh, okay. James also begins to take a shine to Billy. His father notes, "I haven't seen such a spark you in a long time." Perhaps it's the way James looks at Billy: namely, the way he peers into the kid's bedroom as he sleeps, clad only in his boxers. Which isn't creepy and disturbing at all, at least not to the director.
Billy asks James to show him the studio where James does his phtography. The studio is a sparsley furnished room with no lighting equipment or darkroom, only a single camera set up on a tripod. We rightly and incorrectly assume this may lead to some kind of erotically charged scene, but they barely look at each other. Billy does however take note of some pictures on the wall, of a rather uniteresting-looking middle aged man. James identifies the man as his ex-boyfriend, Todd, who was a drug addict. The two walk back to the main house, and James asks Billy if he'd like to join him later for margaritas. Which isn't creepy and disturbing at all, at least not to the director.
Billy has written to his Aunt Sharon, telling her about his new home and job. She relays this news to his mother's place of work, where the note is intercepted by a Sassy Black Woman whose eyes look like they're about to bug out of her head. S.B.W. delivers the note to Billy's mom. We rightly and incorrectly hope we'll get some insight into why she deserted her family and didn't retain custody of her sons, but this leaves us more baffled than we already were.
Billy takes up the offer to share margaritas, and they have an intimate chat, which goes like this:
BILLY: So, if Todd was your boyfriend, does this mean...you like...guys?
JAMES: Yes, I do.
BILLY: Are you still in love with Todd? Do you ever think of getting back with him?
JAMES: No, I'm not still in love with him, and I don't want to get back with him.
BILLY: Then why do you keep his picture up on the wall?
JAMES: It hides a messy stain that's lying there.
Okay, I added those last two lines, but the rest is almost word for word what they say to each other. Billy gets an invitation from Guy to go out to a club. He asks James if he'd like to come along. James declines, saying his days of hitting clubs are over. (Yeah, from the looks of him, he hasn't set foot in one since Falco was big.)
Billy gets a call from his mother. We rightly and incorrectly expect him to be furious with her for deserting him and his brother and leaving them with an abusive drunk. But as we've already seen, the boy's as sharp as a bag of wet hair, so he's happy to talk about his new job, and the two "cool guys" who've taken him in. (Yes, this conversation occurs.) Mark beams, "I'm cool!" and adds, "Chickenpot, chickenpot, chickenpot piiiiiee!!!"
The evening at the club, which happens off-screen due to obvious budget constraints, doesn't go over well. Billy returns in tears, telling James that Guy's friends teased him and called him a "nerd" for having a job caring for an old man. WHAT THE FUCK?
Seriously...what the fuck?
James puts his arms around Billy, and assures him there's no shame in the job he has. They share a kiss, and head into the bedroom. We rightly and incorrectly expect a romantic love scene, but instead they lie on the bed, fully clothed, about a foot apart, and the scene fades to the next morning.
Mark has been waiting up all night, and as James shuffles into the kitchen looking disheveled, his father cheerfully notes that he's aware of what happened. He also observes, "You were pretty loud", and proceeds to make heavy breathing sex noises. Which isn't creepy and disturbing, at least not to the director. Billy then enters, equally disheveled, and Mark repeats the observation, because the first time wasn't gross enough.
Now that he knows his son has found True Love with a teenaged runaway, Mark is content that he can die happily. He calls up Thomas to discuss his will. Why, is Thomas a cross-dressing lawyer? And if he is, why didn't they make that movie instead of this one? ("Priscilla, Queen of the Default Judgment.")
With less than 20 minutes left to go in the film, a new complication arrives: Todd wants to get back together with James, and figures the best way to do it is to break into his house. But James catches him and insists he never wants to get back together. He then adds, "I've found somebody else. He's younger, cuter, and less likely to give me hepatitis." (Well, he would have said that, if I'd written the script.) He kicks Todd to the curb.
Mark finally kicks the bucket, once again reducing James to a puddle of tears. Billy's mother arrives. She tell him he's known all along her son was gay ("a mother knows these things."). She then rather matter-of-factly tells Billy his father died in an auto accident, his brother is staying with his Aunt temporarily, and she plans on moving to be closer to him. Billy reacts with a blankness that suggests nobody on the set has the slightest clue how a person would react to such news.
It's time to wrap things up, so we get a montage of the characters as Billy tells us what happens in voiceover:
His mother and Thomas start a computer dating service for gay singles (who better to play matchmaker than an insecure drag queen and a deadbeat mom?), Billy and James get married (we see them in a limo with the words "Just Married" on the back window) and Guy "surprised us all" by moving back to Billy's old hometown, where he inherited a house he now shares with Rick.
Um, okay then.
We rightly and correctly assume there have been porno films better directed. And better written. And better acted. And more rooted in reality. And less skeevy.
But what message of hope does it offer to LGBT youth? I guess it might be this:
If you're a gay teen who feels rejected by your family and you're struggling to find your place in the world, try to look on the positive side of things -- after all, you could wind up being married, at the age of 18, to a creepy, reclusive, middle-aged loser who still lives with his dad. Aren't you glad that hasn't happened to you? So cheer up kids, things could be a whole lot worse.
I guess the movie was inspirational. Just not in the way it was intended.
Happy Birthday Anntichrist S. Coulter!
She's the cool aunt. The one who'll let you smoke in the house. The one who'll burst out laughing if you cuss creatively enough at the Thanksgiving table. The one who'll reward you for finishing your homework with a sip off her beer. And that's why we all run to the door with a whoop and a holler every time we hear her pickup truck pull into the driveway, excited to see what little gem of profane rhetoric she's brought us this time.
So please join Sheri, Mary and I in wishing our Annti a fabulous birthday.
Now let's get this party started!
Mary says: If someone asked me to describe Anntichrist Coulter, I would say...
She's the most selfless person I know, who should really be way more selfish.
No matter what life throws at her, she bears it with an almost obscene sense of humor, but more importantly, she doesn't let life conquer her. No matter what is going on in her life, she is always there for the people who need her. Even when she's down and out herself, she still thinks of others, and tries to lighten their burdens with a gift of a wonderfully crappy movie from the Dollar Store, or a beautiful piece of handmade jewelry that I will promptly steal from the intended recipient, because I'm not nearly as nice as she is, and frankly, Scott can't pull off a choker.
She is a beacon of hope. She is a beacon of action. She is a beacon of righteous anger. She is...Annti Christ Coulter. And she is sublime.
Now back to the birthday cheesecake:
No Ann Coulter for you, this year. Sorry.
So please join Sheri, Mary and I in wishing our Annti a fabulous birthday.
Mary says: If someone asked me to describe Anntichrist Coulter, I would say...
She's the most selfless person I know, who should really be way more selfish.
No matter what life throws at her, she bears it with an almost obscene sense of humor, but more importantly, she doesn't let life conquer her. No matter what is going on in her life, she is always there for the people who need her. Even when she's down and out herself, she still thinks of others, and tries to lighten their burdens with a gift of a wonderfully crappy movie from the Dollar Store, or a beautiful piece of handmade jewelry that I will promptly steal from the intended recipient, because I'm not nearly as nice as she is, and frankly, Scott can't pull off a choker.
She is a beacon of hope. She is a beacon of action. She is a beacon of righteous anger. She is...Annti Christ Coulter. And she is sublime.
Now back to the birthday cheesecake:
No Ann Coulter for you, this year. Sorry.
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Let the Sunshine In! Just Don't Let It Into Your Blu-ray Player
Hello children. Today we have a new student in class. His name is Keith, and his report is on...Where are my glasses...? Um, it's either on the pre-Colombian fishing practices of the Chumash Indians, or it's random thoughts on the Danny Boyle Sci-Fi stinker, Sunshine. In either case, let's give him a warm welcome.
Sunshine (2007, Fox Searchlight, 107 min, color)
Director: Danny Boyle
Writer: Alex Garland.
Fifty years after the Bush Economic Stimulus Plan saved Planet Earth's economy from perpetual depression a funny thing happened.
The Sun became a dying star.
Snapshots suddenly looked dreary even when flash-enabled. Favorite celebrities began sporting ashy, wan complexions on late-night TV.
People of Earth suddenly abandoned the crisis of global warming and climate change. They sent a team of astronauts aboard a fully-rigged spacecraft (Icarus, get it?) on an ambitious mission to deliver a very big bomb (a bomb as "big as Manhattan") aimed right up dying star's asshole in hopes to rekindle, invigorate and massage. Earth would be saved from under-exposed photos. Demand for Ray Bans, Coppertone and other fun-fair products might perhaps reach pre-21st century levels.
Things begin to go horribly wrong for our astronauts after a fly-by boost orbit of planet Mercury (apparently Mercury was in "retrograde" motion during the maneuver). First there's a fight over who gets to use the internet to phone home via a process similar to Skype.
Lesson One: Never design a sophisticated interplanetary spacecraft without adequate internet connections. People become testy and prone to panic. Like those poor folk in Vladivostock in the 60’s, queuing up at the local tundra post office to make collect long-distance calls to western-based relatives only to be advised by authorities the lines are down and they must use the more expensive RCA Cablegram.
Innocent people become injured. It isn’t pretty...
After the ruckus over cable access, a distress signal (similar to but quite inferior to early Milton Babbit) is received over the “Icarus II” system-wide loudspeaker. (Good Morning, “Icarus II.” Today is Interplanetary ‘Save Your Ass Day.’ We demand all your asses to participate in the auditorium at 11 am.”) The signal is determined to originate from the first mission to reignite the Sun. Surprise! Yes
there was a predecessor spacecraft, “Icarus I,” but it went awry because of a dial-up internet connection from AOL.
The cast decides to triangulate the AOL-enabled spacecraft for a visit just to say howdy and maybe enjoy a solar-powered bar-be-que shindig, but in the process manage to take out the most vital navigation system. As an encore they accidentally disable an equally-vital life-support system shielding their spacecraft from aggravating solar temperatures, sunburns, melanoma and a few freckles. (Oh, what a disagreement over download speeds and premium channels can do to people sharing a space.) Attempts to repair shield are successful but result in the loss of only sentient cast member (besides navigation computer).
When cast from “Icarus II” reach earlier “Icarus I,” they find it empty except for the dusty debris of its inhabitants. They, apparently, chose mass suicide by solar-induced fricassee rather than participate further in the screenplay.
They were lucky. This screenplay commands dangerous territory.
Do you remember the dissatisfaction experienced after viewing “Berserk” with Joan Crawford? I do. I remember it very well. To introduce the Diana Dors character (Matilda) in the last 35 minutes of the screenplay was the undoing of what could have been a very good picture. Not that I mind Diana being a tart thrill-seeker and a psychopath. It’s the timing. She ought to have been featured in the first reel.
I experienced the same feeling of disappointment viewing “Sunshine.” Thirty minutes before the conclusion of Mr. Boyle’s opus we meet the hitherto unmentioned former commander of the “Icarus I” mission who resembles our Matilda from “Berserk.” Thrill-seeker and psychopath. Maybe a tart as well.
But we can't see him clearly enough because of bad CGI process, so have no clue as to whether or not he’s as much of a looker as Diana Dors. Or if he has big tits.
Somehow the “Icarus I” commander teleports himself over to "Icarus II" where he runs amok and begins ranting and cutting up the remaining cast in a way reminiscent of those slice-&-dice grind-house epics of the early 1980’s. How he might possibly teleport himself using a dial-up connection is in itself suspect. Still, for all “Icarus I” might lack in tech infrastructure it possesses ample cutlery. It sports the latest Ginsu knives (vis-a-vis NASA’s longstanding contract with Fingerhut).
Confession: I did not finish this movie. For all I know the nameless former commander of “Icarus I” might have brought the broadband connection up and running like a cat’s purr. He didn’t look so good when we turned off the DVD player, perhaps from multiple melanomas. Or the heavy sunscreen that flakes off when applied indelicately. Does SPF 25 mix properly with blood? That might have something to do with it.
Anyway, Class, please welcome our newest contributor in the comments, and let him know how you feel about space, boobs, and jump-starting the sun with uncomfortable-looking actors who clearly thought, based on the title and director, that they'd signed on for an arty film about LSD use in the Scottish Highlands.
George Hamilton, Space Ranger
Sunshine (2007, Fox Searchlight, 107 min, color)
Director: Danny Boyle
Writer: Alex Garland.
Fifty years after the Bush Economic Stimulus Plan saved Planet Earth's economy from perpetual depression a funny thing happened.
The Sun became a dying star.
Snapshots suddenly looked dreary even when flash-enabled. Favorite celebrities began sporting ashy, wan complexions on late-night TV.
People of Earth suddenly abandoned the crisis of global warming and climate change. They sent a team of astronauts aboard a fully-rigged spacecraft (Icarus, get it?) on an ambitious mission to deliver a very big bomb (a bomb as "big as Manhattan") aimed right up dying star's asshole in hopes to rekindle, invigorate and massage. Earth would be saved from under-exposed photos. Demand for Ray Bans, Coppertone and other fun-fair products might perhaps reach pre-21st century levels.
Things begin to go horribly wrong for our astronauts after a fly-by boost orbit of planet Mercury (apparently Mercury was in "retrograde" motion during the maneuver). First there's a fight over who gets to use the internet to phone home via a process similar to Skype.
Lesson One: Never design a sophisticated interplanetary spacecraft without adequate internet connections. People become testy and prone to panic. Like those poor folk in Vladivostock in the 60’s, queuing up at the local tundra post office to make collect long-distance calls to western-based relatives only to be advised by authorities the lines are down and they must use the more expensive RCA Cablegram.
Innocent people become injured. It isn’t pretty...
After the ruckus over cable access, a distress signal (similar to but quite inferior to early Milton Babbit) is received over the “Icarus II” system-wide loudspeaker. (Good Morning, “Icarus II.” Today is Interplanetary ‘Save Your Ass Day.’ We demand all your asses to participate in the auditorium at 11 am.”) The signal is determined to originate from the first mission to reignite the Sun. Surprise! Yes
there was a predecessor spacecraft, “Icarus I,” but it went awry because of a dial-up internet connection from AOL.
The cast decides to triangulate the AOL-enabled spacecraft for a visit just to say howdy and maybe enjoy a solar-powered bar-be-que shindig, but in the process manage to take out the most vital navigation system. As an encore they accidentally disable an equally-vital life-support system shielding their spacecraft from aggravating solar temperatures, sunburns, melanoma and a few freckles. (Oh, what a disagreement over download speeds and premium channels can do to people sharing a space.) Attempts to repair shield are successful but result in the loss of only sentient cast member (besides navigation computer).
When cast from “Icarus II” reach earlier “Icarus I,” they find it empty except for the dusty debris of its inhabitants. They, apparently, chose mass suicide by solar-induced fricassee rather than participate further in the screenplay.
They were lucky. This screenplay commands dangerous territory.
Do you remember the dissatisfaction experienced after viewing “Berserk” with Joan Crawford? I do. I remember it very well. To introduce the Diana Dors character (Matilda) in the last 35 minutes of the screenplay was the undoing of what could have been a very good picture. Not that I mind Diana being a tart thrill-seeker and a psychopath. It’s the timing. She ought to have been featured in the first reel.
I experienced the same feeling of disappointment viewing “Sunshine.” Thirty minutes before the conclusion of Mr. Boyle’s opus we meet the hitherto unmentioned former commander of the “Icarus I” mission who resembles our Matilda from “Berserk.” Thrill-seeker and psychopath. Maybe a tart as well.
But we can't see him clearly enough because of bad CGI process, so have no clue as to whether or not he’s as much of a looker as Diana Dors. Or if he has big tits.
Somehow the “Icarus I” commander teleports himself over to "Icarus II" where he runs amok and begins ranting and cutting up the remaining cast in a way reminiscent of those slice-&-dice grind-house epics of the early 1980’s. How he might possibly teleport himself using a dial-up connection is in itself suspect. Still, for all “Icarus I” might lack in tech infrastructure it possesses ample cutlery. It sports the latest Ginsu knives (vis-a-vis NASA’s longstanding contract with Fingerhut).
Confession: I did not finish this movie. For all I know the nameless former commander of “Icarus I” might have brought the broadband connection up and running like a cat’s purr. He didn’t look so good when we turned off the DVD player, perhaps from multiple melanomas. Or the heavy sunscreen that flakes off when applied indelicately. Does SPF 25 mix properly with blood? That might have something to do with it.
☼☼☼
Thank you Keith. That was a very interesting presentation, and I'm sure we all learned some valuable lessons about how bandwidth-hogging in near-Solar orbit can lead to homicide. Unfortunately, since you didn't include the no doubt stupid and incoherent ending, I'm afraid I'm going to have to give you an Incomplete for this assignment.
However, since you worked Joan Crawford into your science fiction movie review, and mentioned Diana Dors' breasts twice...
Could THIS be our space killer?
...I'll let it slide just this once.
Anyway, Class, please welcome our newest contributor in the comments, and let him know how you feel about space, boobs, and jump-starting the sun with uncomfortable-looking actors who clearly thought, based on the title and director, that they'd signed on for an arty film about LSD use in the Scottish Highlands.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
I Always Thought I'd be an Apostle...the Insanity Was Kind of a Surprise, Though
From that Comintern mouthpiece, NPR: Terri Gross of Fresh Air offers some Stale Revelations...
Showing the Hipsters Who's Boss: C. Peter Wagner is credited with
pioneering "The Peter," a style of facial hair which, according to the
American Association of Affiliated Barber Colleges, tells the viewer,
"My chin is a cascade of drool."
The only question that remains, is how the demons in Congress are going to be dispersed, and who's going to pay for it? Can we just have the Sergeant-at-Arms fill one of those Flit guns with holy water and walk down the aisle spritzing the Members (in which case this can probably be charged to Security, or Maintenance) or are we going to have to call in pricey outside contractors, like a licensed Apostle, or a State-Bonded Prophet.
Sometimes you just know. For instance, if a man has no heartbeat, yet persists in a shambling mockery of life, there's a better than even chance that his body is animated by Satan's interns.
A Leading Figure In The New Apostolic ReformationMy, that is a bold new idea!
A new charismatic Christian movement that seeks to take dominion over politics, business and culture in preparation for the end times and Jesus' return is becoming more of a presence in American politics.
The leaders are considered apostles and prophets, gifted by God for this role.By whom? I mean, Marshall Applewhite was considered a prophet too. Hell, both David Koresh and Sun Myung Moon were considered to be Jesus Christ, although presumably not by each other.
Several apostles affiliated with the movement helped organize or spoke at Rick Perry's August prayer rally, The Response.Things became sticky when The Situation demanded The Right to rebut the Response.
The international "apostolic and prophetic" movement has been dubbed the New Apostolic Reformation by C. Peter Wagner, who has become one of its leaders. He describes himself as the first person who noticed the movement, gave a name to it and started writing books about it.And under the You Break It, You Bought It rule implemented by curio shops and the Coalition Provisional Authority in Iraq, C. Peter has to take care of the movement now, feed it, pick up its poop, and scrub it with tomato juice if it ever has a wacky, sitcom-like encounter with a skunk.
Interview Highlights On the tsunami and nuclear meltdown in Japan being connected to the emperor of Japan having sex with the sun goddess
"That happened many, many years ago, and that created a spiritual atmosphere over Japan which was an atmosphere ruled by the powers of darkness. The sun goddess is not a very nice lady.Smoking hot, though.
The sun goddess is a power of darknessReally? I can't tell if that's irony or just bad branding.
...which is headed up by the kingdom of Satan.It's actually one of the few Ponzi schemes Republicans don't want to privatize.
And so the sun goddess wants natural disasters to come to Japan.Starting with Cheap Trick.
Sometimes the hand of God, which is more powerful, will prevent them. And when he decides to prevent them and when he doesn't is far beyond anything that we can predict."It depends what's on TV. Here's a hint: if you're an evil star god with plans to bring a devastating Tsunami to Japan, you might want to schedule it during Breaking Bad.
"But in this case, God could have prevented that tsunami and the destruction, but he didn't. He just took his hand off and allowed these natural forces to work. And one of the background pieces of information is Japan is under control of the sun goddess."Just because the Emperor slept with her once, like a thousand years ago, she's still nailing his home with earthquakes, tidal waves, and nuclear meltdowns?! What's next, boiling a rabbit?
On Alice Patterson, a leader in the New Apostolic Reformation and one of the leadership team members at Rick Perry's prayer rally, saying on stage at the rally that the Democratic Party is a demon structure
"I personally would not endorse each one of her statements and especially the statement about the Democratic Party being demonized, any more than the Republican Party is. I mean, I believe there's a lot of demonic control over Congress in general that needs to be dispersed."As Josh Fruhlinger (@jfruh), the Comics Curmudgeon said on Twitter: "Bipartisan!"
The only question that remains, is how the demons in Congress are going to be dispersed, and who's going to pay for it? Can we just have the Sergeant-at-Arms fill one of those Flit guns with holy water and walk down the aisle spritzing the Members (in which case this can probably be charged to Security, or Maintenance) or are we going to have to call in pricey outside contractors, like a licensed Apostle, or a State-Bonded Prophet.
On demons
"As we talk, in Oklahoma City there is an annual meeting of a professional society called the Apostolic — called the International Society of Deliverance Ministers, which my wife and I founded many years ago. ... This is a society of a large number, a couple hundred, of Christian ministers who are in the ministry of deliverance. Their seven-day-a-week occupation is casting demons out of people. And they have professional expertise in this...It's a trade school, but they also offer Associates degrees in Refrigeration, Accounting, Computer Programming, Gun Repair, Necromancy, and Hotel/Motel Management.
My wife is one of them. She's written a whole book called How to Cast Out Demons.The secret lies in tying a good dry fly (the book was originally titled Demon Fishing in America, but the publisher changed it after being threatened with legal action by both Richard Brautigan and Babe Winkelman).
And I don't do that much. Once in a while when I get in a corner, I might. But that's — that's been her ministry. And so I've been very, very close to that for years. We've been married for 60 years."And at an average rate of 5 demons per month, that's 3,600 out-castings, but somehow C. Peter and his wife Doris make it work. For one thing, she's scrupulous about never bringing her work home with her, because pea soup stains are hard to get out of shag carpeting.
On people in American politics being possessed by demons
"We don't like to use the word possessed because that means they don't have any power of their own. We like to use the word afflicted or, technical term, demonized."Whoa! How about you lay off the scientific jargon and speak English, Professor?
But there are people who — yes, who are — who are directly affected by demons, not only in politics, but also in the arts, in the media and religion in the Christian church."He's right. After finishing this post, I'm thinking about going out to the kitchen and getting afflicted with Demon Rum.
On demon identification
"Sometimes they know. Sometimes the demon has identified itself to the person. Sometimes you can tell by manifestations of superhuman, unhuman behavior."
"Sometimes you can tell by skilled deliverance ministers. My wife has a five-page questionnaire that she has people fill out before she ministers to them."It's called the "Voight-Kampff Test."
So she asks the kind of questions that a medical doctor would ask to find out, to diagnose an illness. So she actually does diagnostic work on people to discover not only if they have demons, but what those demons might be."Demons, as any deliverance minister can tell you, come in different flavors. So for instance, Mrs. Wagner might diagnose a patient thusly: "I'm sorry to inform you, Mr. Jones, that you are afflicted with demons. On the bright side, they have Crunchberries."
On homosexualityIt's the result of a demon with...pizazz!
"I do not think homosexuality is the will of God. I don't think it's God's plan A."
On whether other religions and nonbelieving Christians are demonicSo if you're planning a trip to Katmandu, figure on coming home infested with demons. Granted, they're easier to get rid of than bedbugs, but the airlines will charge you for the extra weight.
"Well, it means they're not part of the kingdom of heaven. It means they're part of the kingdom of darkness. An apostle, a friend of mine in Nepal, once told me that every Christian believer in Nepal that he knows of has been delivered from demons.
On what he means when he describes the NAR's mission as taking dominion over business, government, media, arts and entertainment, education, family and religionWow. I remember when it was just a four-page supplement in the LA Times.
"In terms of taking dominion, we don't — we wouldn't want to — we use the word dominion, but we wouldn't want to say that we have dominion as if we're the owners or we're the rulers of, let's say, the arts and entertainment mountain.
What we strive to do and our goal is to have people in the arts and entertainment mountain who are committed to the kingdom of God, so therefore, we use the adjective there — kingdom-minded believers — and our goal is to try to have as many kingdom-minded believers in positions of influence in the arts and entertainment mountain as possible. And the reason for that is, to help bring the blessings of heaven to all those in the arts and entertainment mountain."Later, we'll move on to the Sports knoll and the Business hillock.
On dominionism and acquiring leadership positions in governmentSo while you may think your State Cosmetology Licensing Board mountain, or your County Waste Management Department mountain are completely secular, in fact they are lousy with apostles.
"We believe in working with any — with whatever political system there is. In America, it's democracy and working with the administrative, judicial and legislative branches of the government, the way they are, but to have as many kingdom-minded people in influence in each one of these branches of government as possible so that the blessings of the kingdom will come."
On finding out that Ted Haggard, his World Prayer Center co-founder, had used drugs and had sex with men"Yes, Ted and I used to snort meth off the taut buttocks of male hustlers, but we were always scrupulous about each taking a separate cheek."
"I don't think I've still recovered. Just by a matter of history, a few years before that happened, my wife, Doris, and I left the World Prayer Center, turned it back to Ted and went on a different route here in Colorado Springs, so we were not closely associated.
On spiritual mapping to cast demons out of citiesThe Power of Christ compels you! Unless you're a Demonic Regional Manager.
"When you talk about demons over cities, we're talking about what — sometimes what we refer to as territorial spirits, and they're more high-ranking spirits in the hierarchy of darkness and they're more powerful and they require different approaches, and it's not as easy as commanding them to leave in the name of Jesus.
So sometimes...there has been bloodshed in that city that needs to be repented of, there has been idolatry in the city that has ruined the land. There's been immorality that needs to be repented of ... There are certain individuals in our whole movement that have special gifts for doing that, and they're helping lead the way in weakening the power of the spirits. We don't believe we can kill demons and sometimes we don't believe we can completely get 'em out, get 'em away from a city, but we can reduce their power.Mainly through voter fraud.
On Thomas Muthee praying over Sarah Palin at the Wasilla Assembly of God, and asking for Jesus to protect her from the spirit of witchcraft
"What Thomas was probably doing, and he and I are friends also, what he was probably doing was speculating that there would be some people who practiced witchcraft and other forms of the occult who would try and take Sarah Palin down through certain rituals or curses or other techniques that witches have and try to destroy her through those things. And I think Thomas was praying a shield of protection around Sarah so that she would not be affected by them."Well, there goes that excuse. Personally, I don't think Palin should have allowed the pastor to Sealcoat her against witchcraft, because then she could have blamed her gaffes on Fairuza Balk, or Christine O'Donnell.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
I'll Call My Operatives
I never watched Perry Mason much, even though I liked Raymond Burr and nursed a secret crush on Barbara Hale (or vice versa), and used to buy my coffee and hardbacks at a book store across the street from Erle Stanley Gardner's old law office in Ventura. But the other day, Ivan mentioned over at Thrilling Days of Yesteryear that the sixth season of the show is (just now? Really?) being released to DVD, and then -- seemingly out of the blue -- our pal Chris Vosburg sent me an email permeated with Perry (actually, dripping with Drake), so I figure I'd better ride this wave while I can. I asked Chris for permission to reprint his pensées du Perry, and he granted it with a gracious wave of his hand, or perhaps he was just trying to shoo me out of his way because I was blocking the door to the Prime Time saloon on Santa Monica Boulevard. In either case, please enjoy his report...
In conversation with my sister Stef, I mentioned that a sports jacket my Dad left to me suffers from the Paul Drake Effect, which term many video engineers use to refer to the tendency of small-check black and white fabric to create an iridescent pattern of color striping when viewed on a color video monitor or television. Perry Mason was always shot in black and white (yes, I know, save the one ep), and Paul Drake's snazzy jackets were disquieting to the color TV owner of the sixties, so they toned down his wardrobe in deference to this.
Which of course led to a discussion of Bill Hopper, the reluctant actor. A natural, and I'm convinced that if he had given a shit, he'd have greatly improved movies that, say, Glenn Ford and Robert Mitchum slept through (though don't get me wrong, I like 'em both).
A few random ruminations on Perry and Paul, and only a few-- I could go on and on.
The show reran merrily along in syndication since 1988 on OC independent channel KDOC for years, and I caught episodes whenever I could. It ran weekdays at noon, which of course led to the conversion of the warehouse staff at 24frame to love the show as well. Serious, we watched Perry Mason on the big-ass HP Plasma TV in the lunchroom every day for years, and I was the Master of Ceremonies, sort of, because I knew all the episodes, and was able to add bits of movie-lore to each ep ("ah, this is the one with Robert Redford," or "check out Indus Arthur, starred in Angel's Flight", or "yep, that's Burt Reynolds (or Dick Clark, or whoever), or "Paul Drake delivers the best line ever, coming up").
Sadly, KDOC moved Perry to 5AM (!) a few months ago, and finally pounded the last nail in the coffin all the way in by dropping the show altogether a couple weeks ago, which means that Perry is for the first time since it began in 1957 not shown anywhere in the Los Angeles TV market.
I'm also, as you know, a great fan of 50s Sci-Fi B-movie schlock, which made Perry all the more enjoyable, as many of the cast (both regular and guest) in Perry were recognizable from the SFB movie genre, and Bill Hopper himself was no exception (The Deadly Mantis, 20 Million Miles to Earth, The Conquest of Space).
I mentioned above a "best line ever" for Paul Drake, which was in a show in which the beat coffeehouse culture of the late fifties is confronted. Paul investigates a club called "The Purple Wall" and reports back to Perry: "typical beat joint: no life, no liquor, no laughs, just people sitting around hating themselves." BEST LINE EVER! I gotta tell ya, it's everything that was silly about the beats in 25 words or less, and God, how I laughed when I first heard the line.
Curiously, Paul seemed to have an abiding dislike for "kids these days," as evidenced in several episodes, which I always thought was a little odd given the character's supposed ability to fit into and glean information from any societal subset, but Hopper delivered lines like this with extra gusto, so I kinda got the sense he shared the sentiment. I guess we can be glad the show didn't survive long enough to encounter hippies. Neither did Hopper.
There's a second complaint I have about the character developed later in the show's life-- he became a sort of buffoon, which violated the original character. I'm thinking of a scene in a Mexican (which I suspect was referred to then as "Spanish") restaurant where Paul is overwhelmed by salsa muy picante, to the laughter of Perry and Della. It just doesn't fit-- Paul is LA born and bred, after all, and again, fits in like an old shoe wherever he goes-- it's his business. It's reminiscent of the offense done to the Dr Watson character by Nigel Bruce in Universal's Sherlock Holmes movies-- in each case, comic relief is provided in the original by the police, and the films don't seem to think that this is enough, to my irritation.
Second best line: Paul is hired by a shady asshole who tries to set him up for a murder rap. Paul gets wise, and confronts the asshole, who takes a swing (and a miss) at him. "I was hoping you'd try something like that," bristles Paul, eyes lighting up, as he punches him in the nose.
Hopper himself, well, he retired to Palm Springs after the show folded, and gave it up at the ripe old age of 55 in 1970 to Pneumonia, which is I think another way of saying "complications arising from emphysemic pulmonary crash and burn" as a result of all those fucking Chesterfields he chain-smoked on the set of Perry Mason.
Scott again: I wrote back to say that while I've only seen a few complete Perry Mason episodes, if ever I come across the end of one I'm compelled to watch, because that's when the entire cast is gathered in the court room, and the camera starts cross-cutting between all the aged, but indelible character actors from the Golden Age that cycled endlessly through that show. I remember one in particular that featured -- to my astonishment -- Edmon Ryan and George Matthews, reunited 18 years after playing incompetent motorist Joe Doakes and his equally inept Guardian Angel in the classic short film for the New Jersey Department of Transportation, X Marks the Spot (as seen on the Mystery Science Theater 3000 episode, King Dinosaur).
Chris immediately fingered the show in question ("The Case of the Promoter's Pillbox"), and went on to talk about how indispensable Paul was to the "classic Perry setup":
The decedent is portrayed in the first act as the biggest asshole on two legs, and he is hated by all, so pretty much everyone is a suspect when he finally turns up dead. Again we know enough to watch for the mild-mannered fellow with apparently nothing to gain by killing the dude-- until Paul strides into court with a message for Perry in the last act which reveals the man with the motive. Priceless.
And Paul buttons it up in the last scene (in Perry's office or over dinner with Della): "All right Perry, but would you mind telling me how you knew where to look for the [whatever]?"
"Simple, Paul," says Perry...
RIP, and as you can see from this early photo, he was not blond, ever. Just prematurely gray.
In conversation with my sister Stef, I mentioned that a sports jacket my Dad left to me suffers from the Paul Drake Effect, which term many video engineers use to refer to the tendency of small-check black and white fabric to create an iridescent pattern of color striping when viewed on a color video monitor or television. Perry Mason was always shot in black and white (yes, I know, save the one ep), and Paul Drake's snazzy jackets were disquieting to the color TV owner of the sixties, so they toned down his wardrobe in deference to this.
"Okay, so my sport coat's making your eyes bleed. It's houndstooth. The very name suggests...there will be blood!"
Which of course led to a discussion of Bill Hopper, the reluctant actor. A natural, and I'm convinced that if he had given a shit, he'd have greatly improved movies that, say, Glenn Ford and Robert Mitchum slept through (though don't get me wrong, I like 'em both).
The show reran merrily along in syndication since 1988 on OC independent channel KDOC for years, and I caught episodes whenever I could. It ran weekdays at noon, which of course led to the conversion of the warehouse staff at 24frame to love the show as well. Serious, we watched Perry Mason on the big-ass HP Plasma TV in the lunchroom every day for years, and I was the Master of Ceremonies, sort of, because I knew all the episodes, and was able to add bits of movie-lore to each ep ("ah, this is the one with Robert Redford," or "check out Indus Arthur, starred in Angel's Flight", or "yep, that's Burt Reynolds (or Dick Clark, or whoever), or "Paul Drake delivers the best line ever, coming up").
Sadly, KDOC moved Perry to 5AM (!) a few months ago, and finally pounded the last nail in the coffin all the way in by dropping the show altogether a couple weeks ago, which means that Perry is for the first time since it began in 1957 not shown anywhere in the Los Angeles TV market.
I'm also, as you know, a great fan of 50s Sci-Fi B-movie schlock, which made Perry all the more enjoyable, as many of the cast (both regular and guest) in Perry were recognizable from the SFB movie genre, and Bill Hopper himself was no exception (The Deadly Mantis, 20 Million Miles to Earth, The Conquest of Space).
Curiously, Paul seemed to have an abiding dislike for "kids these days," as evidenced in several episodes, which I always thought was a little odd given the character's supposed ability to fit into and glean information from any societal subset, but Hopper delivered lines like this with extra gusto, so I kinda got the sense he shared the sentiment. I guess we can be glad the show didn't survive long enough to encounter hippies. Neither did Hopper.
There's a second complaint I have about the character developed later in the show's life-- he became a sort of buffoon, which violated the original character. I'm thinking of a scene in a Mexican (which I suspect was referred to then as "Spanish") restaurant where Paul is overwhelmed by salsa muy picante, to the laughter of Perry and Della. It just doesn't fit-- Paul is LA born and bred, after all, and again, fits in like an old shoe wherever he goes-- it's his business. It's reminiscent of the offense done to the Dr Watson character by Nigel Bruce in Universal's Sherlock Holmes movies-- in each case, comic relief is provided in the original by the police, and the films don't seem to think that this is enough, to my irritation.
Second best line: Paul is hired by a shady asshole who tries to set him up for a murder rap. Paul gets wise, and confronts the asshole, who takes a swing (and a miss) at him. "I was hoping you'd try something like that," bristles Paul, eyes lighting up, as he punches him in the nose.
Hopper himself, well, he retired to Palm Springs after the show folded, and gave it up at the ripe old age of 55 in 1970 to Pneumonia, which is I think another way of saying "complications arising from emphysemic pulmonary crash and burn" as a result of all those fucking Chesterfields he chain-smoked on the set of Perry Mason.
Scott again: I wrote back to say that while I've only seen a few complete Perry Mason episodes, if ever I come across the end of one I'm compelled to watch, because that's when the entire cast is gathered in the court room, and the camera starts cross-cutting between all the aged, but indelible character actors from the Golden Age that cycled endlessly through that show. I remember one in particular that featured -- to my astonishment -- Edmon Ryan and George Matthews, reunited 18 years after playing incompetent motorist Joe Doakes and his equally inept Guardian Angel in the classic short film for the New Jersey Department of Transportation, X Marks the Spot (as seen on the Mystery Science Theater 3000 episode, King Dinosaur).
The decedent is portrayed in the first act as the biggest asshole on two legs, and he is hated by all, so pretty much everyone is a suspect when he finally turns up dead. Again we know enough to watch for the mild-mannered fellow with apparently nothing to gain by killing the dude-- until Paul strides into court with a message for Perry in the last act which reveals the man with the motive. Priceless.
And Paul buttons it up in the last scene (in Perry's office or over dinner with Della): "All right Perry, but would you mind telling me how you knew where to look for the [whatever]?"
"Simple, Paul," says Perry...
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