Francesco Explains It All

O Christmas Tree, My Parents' Christmas Tree

2009-11-24T10:23:00.003-05:00

NOTE: This is admittedly a repost from two years back, but I just wanted to rerun it like one of those lesser-known Rankin-Bass special (Rudolph Gets His Real Estate License) to kick off my holiday season..

Recently I went over to my parent's house (and my childhood home) to help them set up their Christmas tree. Although it wasn't the same color-coded tree kit I grew up with (the Marciuliano folk often chose their evergreens from an artificial forest), the ornaments were the very ones I hung as a child, a teen, a college student and a visiting sporadically-employed adult.

The sheer familarity resulted in a bittersweet process, not only because the decorations recalled a time when the entire family was around to put the tree together (then gather in front of the RCA hearth and warming glow of a Rankin-Bass special) but also each ornament captured a particular Christmas or rite of passage that seems sadly to grow dimmer and dimmer until you hold the very material of those memories right in your hands.

So with your kind permission I would like to review a small sampling of these very ornaments, each their own holiday madeline cookie evoking a stream of self (indulgent) consciousness. Let's start with clearly the most prized and esteemed festive bibelot of them all...
Yes, your eyes do not lie. That is indeed an exquisite egg carton compartment, delicately turned on its base and brought to perfection with a mere wash of vermilion, a dab of glitter and a pipe cleaner curved so faultlessly yet so effortlessly that one cannot help but wonder if this was brought to life not by a skilled artisan but by the very Son of God himself! Or you may think it's the handiwork of a kindergarten student circa 1972, devised as a time-killer project by one Mrs. Sharf (who all the students quickly dubbed Mrs. Shark and despite in my mind having the menacing mien and temperment of a Margaret Hamilton was probably no more than 30 and simply slowly going insane spending the majority of her waking hours tending to 20 kids whose biggest accomplishment was almost getting their snowpants off before peeing). Either the way, the fact that my parents have managed to keep this ornament in perfect condition (not to mention keep it all) is touching and telling to say the least.

The next holiday bauble may seem at first glance to be simply one of many cartoon-related decorations that nowadays festoon store shelves...
But back in the late 70's and early 80's my brother, my mom and I were quite the Ziggy fans (I was quite the fan of most comics back then, devouring every strip in the New York Daily News Sunday supplement from Little Orphan Annie to Peanuts to Dick Tracy to such now-forgotten selections as Dondi, Motley's Crew and Herman). When my mom saw the above ornament in our local supermarket, she not only knew it was the ideal addition to our tree but the start of a family tradition (rightfully believing that the year "1982" indicated this ornament was the first of an annual release. My mom bought two variations, one for Marcello and one for me, and promised to buy two new ones every year from then on out. Alas, although my mom looked high and low come 1983, there was no "second in the series" to be found, bringing to a quiet yet swift end what was hoped to be an ongoing, multigenrational family collection.

Now on the whole Marciulianos like to make more often than buy, and both my parents created numerous decorations for our tree, from the rather ornate...

To the comfortingly homespun:

But around 1973, they decided to start mixing it up...with mixed results. It began innocently enough during a trip to my cousins' house in Cherry Hil when my family stopped at a small arts & craft store and picked up a collection of wooden, paint-by-numbers Christmas ornaments for a fun-filled, squeaky clean family project. Unfortunately, even though we all managed to say within the lines, the end result of our efforts was a psychotropic phantasmagoria that looked less likely to adorn a Christmas tree and more fitting perched on the shoulder of a piper at the gates of dawn...

Or starring as a "living credenza" character in Yellow Submarine

This was followed in the mid-to-late 1970's by what would soon be dubbed my mom's "Bob Mackie" or "A Cher Christmas" phase, featuring cloth ornaments with more sequins than a Taiwanese drag queen and often in the shapes of such holiday standards as "Stonewall Bar American Indian"...

Let us get a closer gander at the ornament's sheer volume of "pizzazz," shall we? Note how every pore of this proud native seems to say--if not scream--that he is going to boogie-oogie-oogie until he just can't snort coke off the sternum of Bianca Jagger no more...

That happy fellow was soon joined by the perhaps-a-tad-too-fabulous Christmas Peacock...

The customary Christmas Glitter Gator...

And something that is either a shiny holiday heart with bow or a sparkling beefsteak tomato.

But no ornament holds a greater place in our family's heart than the oldest, purchased by my parents for the their very first Christmas tree as husband and wife. The very box for the ornament (still in mint condition) is the very epitome of 1963 fashion and fancy (once you discount the curiously satanic number code on top), with a description that harkens back to a a time of unbridled optimism when man dreamed of a technological utopia where architecture was sleeker, transporation was faster and kitchens were better for his housebound wife...

That is, until you take out Santa on Stork...
With wings broken, a body held by the merest of fabric tendons and a St. Nick that can perhaps best be described as "bindle-less hobo," Santa on Stork may appear to be less a relic of the golden "Jet Age" than an all-too powerful reminder to check in regularly on the elderly come the long, winter months. But despite all that (and a tendency to turn to dust upon touch or breeze), this Santa remains perched on his steed a full 44 years later, still ready and willing to careen through the Christmas Eve night air to deliver presents to all good boys and girls or merely slough off feathers, wires and perhaps a foot along the way.

Now over the many years and decades some of the above ornaments have fallen out of favor with our family and failed to make it to the tree (most notably the wooden and beaded). But this Christmas I declared that there would be no benchwarmers. Every ball, every figure, poorly-glued shredded paper thingy would get to shine in the LED light and hang with their brethren on the manufactured branch, from the tradional...

To the traditions sadly cut short...

To the solemn Santas...

And unorthodox Kringles...

The ornaments fashioned in pre-school...

In days of macrame and denim...

Or nights at Studio 54...

The questionable...

The eerie...

And the downright horrifying...

And last but certainly not least, our beloved but not-yet bereaved Jet-Age Santa on Stork, perched ever so carefully on a spray of branches and still prepared for takeoff, bum hip and all.

And so with all the ornaments hung carefully in place (and on every branch possible)...

We all sat down to celebrate with that Rankin-Bass classic, Santa Claus Is Comin' to Town, complete with the despicable Winter Warlock ("Please, call me Winter").

And though our family Christmas evergreen may never possess the glitz and grandeur of its nearby big city cousin...

Frankly, I never thought it was a bad little tree.

So to you and yours, may the Christmas bells ring loud and clear this year...

May the stars shine brightly over your home...

May the snow fall gently on your white Christmas...

May we all finally experience some peace on Earth...

And may you receive visits, gifts and joy from the Jet-Age Santa for years and years to come.

Things Not to Say at the Thanksgiving Table

2009-11-23T11:44:00.003-05:00

(Click on image to embiggen.)

Four Breasts, Five Davids: The Finale

2009-11-20T16:08:00.003-05:00

NOTE: In an attempt to finally finish my book proposal about growing up in the porn industry in the 1970s, I am going to post one of the proposed chapters here—a section at a time as I complete them—in the hopes that writing for an audience will encouraging me to complete the project. Please note this is a first draft, with all the flaws one would expect but I will probably not catch until it’s too late. I thank you for indulging me.

Previously: Part One, Part Two and Part Three

THE CRIME
Every crime caper needs a mark. That mark usually falls into one of two categories—a moneyed institution, like a bank or a casino, or a high-profile personality, like a business magnate or mob don. I had two marks—an institution (Penthouse) and a personality (my dad). I figured Penthouse wouldn’t be a problem, since they were going to take pictures of two women who were no more than eight years older than me and the photographer probably couldn’t care what I was doing so long as I didn’t fuck with his lights or coke. My dad, however, was going to be considerably harder to con.

For a supplier of pornographic paraphernalia my dad could be exceedingly puritanical in his worldview. A strict adherent of the “Do as I say, not as I sell” philosophy, he became very nervous when the subject turned to sex around his children. He got upset when my brother would say “vagina” but he never thought of telling Marcello what that word meant. He even thought many of the television shows during “family hour” were far too lurid. (This being when the closest things TV got to Henry Miller were the naughty answers on Match Game P.M.) True, he had more or less given me free reign to violate a Farrah Fawcett poster, but that was an extreme measure meant to curb what he thought were bestiality urges. That poster was also the closest dad and I ever got to a conversation about intercourse, explaining why it remained on my wall for so long until tenth grade health class could fill in the details.

I had to make certain the five Davids and I would be present at the shoot without the idea that we were going to be around nudity ever occurring to my dad. So the morning of “Penthouse Saturday” I bided my time carefully at the breakfast table, eyeing my dad for any sudden movements or questions. Since my parents’ trip to Morocco the previous year he had taken to wearing a Muslim tunic he purchased there—complete with knitted skullcap—making it look like I was having Cocoa Puffs across from a Neapolitan imam.

I just patiently waited and waited until…

“So, what are you doing today, Ces?

The moment had arrived. I had practiced my lines over and over, which was made all the easier by nascent OCD and my having nothing else to do with my free time. So with utter confidence I casually muttered, “I don’t know…I thought I’d have some friends come over to play Atari or something.”

That was it. That was the entirety of my master plan. But the nonchalant tone of my delivery was flawless. Each and every word I uttered had been chosen with the precision of a neurosurgeon who likes to make watches on the side (including my age-appropriate use of the verb “play”). Plus, I figured the mere fact that I was going to have any friends come over would fill my dad with such joy that I could have concluded my answer with “to set fire to the sofa or something” and he would have exclaimed, “Wonderful! The more the merrier!” Yes, it was perfect. Not a single detail had been left to chance.

Except when you consider that in addition to a mark, every crime caper also involves one out-of the-blue complication that puts the entire operation in jeopardy at the worst moment possible.

“You can’t be in the house, Ces”

“Why not?!” I asked with both pretend and sincere shock.

“’Why not”? Don’t you know what today is?”

This is when things got tricky. If I said “no” dad would quickly surmise I was lying and had every intention of sneaking a bunch of kids into the house to gawk at naked girls. However, if I said “yes” he would fear that I didn’t have even the slightest interest in girls and so had yet to learn a thing from his Farrah Fawcett poster. I quickly weighed my options and came up with what I thought was the best retort.

“Why not?!”

“Ces, I’m not having a bunch of kids in the house while some naked women are getting photographed. What kind of father do you think I am?”

“Fine!” I shouted to my cereal. “I guess Marcello and I will just have to waste a whole summer day outside!”

“Oh, your brother can’t play outside today, “ My mom replied. “He’s not feeling well.”

At which point my brother slowly turned to me and said in the most deadpan voice possible, “Cough.”

I was officially in hell. Soon five Davids were going to appear up at our door expecting full-frontal nudity and I was going to have to break it to them that instead they would just have to continue destroying my life socially, physically and emotionally. Meanwhile, my brother was now free to spend the whole day in his “tash,” randomly jumping out from behind countless “kmms” to point at some model and yell, “Vagina!”

After that I angrily mumbled through breakfast, mumbled as I got dressed and mumbled through brushing my teeth. Then mom firmly shoved me out the back door as the photographer, lighting crew and 19-year-old models were welcomed through the front. With no hope for escape or deliverance, I trudged down to the driveway to meet my impending death squad. While there I looked forlornly up at the dining room that once promised to be my eternal salvation. The dining room that was going to open a whole new world of social possibilities for me.

The dining room with the open balcony doors that provided an almost completely unobstructed view of the long glass table.

Suddenly the sun shone that a little brighter. The wind blew a little softer. Giddy with relief, I carefully walked behind my family’s Buick Riviera and then quickly dropped, banging my chin on the side view mirror on my way down. From my crouched position I looked up at the balcony and inside. Everyone was busy preparing for the shoot. No one had seen me! I now had if not a front row seat then a perfectly acceptable mezzanine view of practically everything.

I watched with rapt attention. The two models started to take off their clothes. The photographer set up his equipment. The two models exposed their four breasts. My dad quietly monitored the whole scene in his tunic. The two models practiced various positions on the glass table. I didn’t see my brother but I could occasionally hear him blurt out something like “flark” or “plith,” indicating that he had either given up the English language all together or had just suffered a minor stroke. My mother, though, was nowhere near the action Instead she sat in the kitchen with a cup of tea, fuming and quietly cursing out my dad in colloquial Portuguese. But that was of no importance right now. Everything good that could or would ever happen in my life was in my field of vision and I was soaking up every detail. I was so engrossed, in fact, that I hadn’t even seen the five Davids appear, along with two Jasons and a Tony. (After all, we weren’t the only Italians in the neighborhood.)

“Why the fuck are you hiding behind a car?”

“SHH!” I snapped and swiftly dragged a David down by his shirt, pointing up at the balcony. The other kids immediately followed suit, no questions asked. Something different was happening. Something had changed. People were listening to me. People were following my orders. For the first time in my life I was in complete control and I wasn’t about to take shit from anyone.

“Why can’t we just go inside and see?” asked a Jason.

I angrily barked, “Because what kind of father lets a bunch of kids in house while some naked women are being photographed?!”

This confused everybody as much as it should have confused me when my dad said it. But that didn’t matter. The first part of the plan was a rousing success. Every cool kid around knew my family was hosting a porn shoot! It was going better than I ever could have hoped for. I even started composing the letter of gratitude in my head.

“Dear Penthouse Forum: Thank you so much for coming to my house! Love, Ces.”

I worried, though, that “Love” was perhaps a bit too delicate for an 11-year-old boy, even though it precisely captured my true feelings. “Sincerely,” however, seemed far too indifferent and business-like, especially given everything that the magazine and I had been through together. Thankfully, I quickly realized there were far more pressing matters at the moment than letter composition and went back to staring up at the naked girls with the Davids, Jasons and Tony.

One of the models got on top of the table.

Then the other model got on top of the table.

Then the models got on top of each other.

Then one of the Davids yelled, “NO FUCKING WAY!”

Then the photographer, two models and my dad looked out the balcony.

They say that in moments of great danger time slows down to a crawl. That frightening events conjure up richer and denser memories causing everything appear to occur as if in extreme slow motion. Those people don’t have the first fucking clue about temporal measurement, because when the photographer, models and my dad heard a David yell and peered out the balcony, the world changed in an instant and my gang promptly vanished.

Davids bolted through the trees behind the Buick. Jasons dashed down the driveway. Tony disapparated. In less than a second I was alone, mortified and on the verge of tears, staring up at a tableau of displeased and disappointed faces. Once more I was a baby. A sissy. A fucking spazz. A complete loser.

THE AFTERMATH
Unlike typical crime capers there was no climactic shootout, no final explosion and no conclusive battle of wits. There wasn’t a last-minute double-cross, a final moment of ironic justice or a closing iconic farewell. There was just a fat, four-eyed kid with a pounding noise in his head that he soon realized was his father yelling his name over and over again.

“CESCO! GET IN THE HOUSE!”

It seemed an odd command given how adamant my dad was to get me out of the house earlier, but I was too numb to question anyone’s reasoning. I entered through the back door and heard my dad beckon me into the dining room. There he proceeded to tear into me, more embarrassed for him than me. Shamefaced to the point of distraction, I only picked up a few words—“”Idiot,” “Degenerate,” “Buick”—while my eyes kept darting around the room to avoid his glower. I caught fleeting glimpses of a model lying naked on the glass. Another model putting her panties back on. The photographer calmly switching lenses. My brother quietly sitting in a chair, eating Stella Doro cookies, more fascinated with the lights than with the nudity.

When the yelling stopped I simply mumbled “I’m sorry” to everyone, but mostly to my own chest . Either that or I stammered “I just peed.” I’m not sure. I was dead inside. After I apologized a few more times into my body for good measure I slowly walked back to my bedroom, making as little noise as possible so that everyone would forget that I even existed. Then I closed the door, flung my body on my bed and stared up at the right protruding nipple where my Miss Piggy poster was supposed to be. “Penthouse Saturday” had become worse than a typical school day, which was to say an unmitigated disaster. I was confident things could never, ever get any worse, but made certain not to say so for fear that would only cause the ceiling to cave in on me.

Come September I was back in my “social death seat” at the front of the bus. And like every year before, my neck was pelted by all the colors of the Crayola rainbow. But something felt different this time. Something had changed again. The crayons no longer stung like they used to. Maybe I had just grown used to the attacks. Or maybe—just maybe—the Davids and their compatriots were no longer sharpening their crayons. Perhaps in some small yet significant way they were telling me that I had proved my mettle, my coolness, after all.

Once more, when all seemed lost, the gods gave me a warm pat on the back. And that’s when I knew sixth grade was going to be the best year yet.

NOTE: Thank you for your time and patience, everybody. It really means a lot to me that you would read so many long posts in a row!

Four Breasts, Five Davids: Part Three

2009-11-19T11:45:00.007-05:00

Four Breasts, Five Davids: Part Two

2009-11-18T11:22:00.007-05:00

NOTE: In an attempt to finally finish my book proposal about growing up in the porn industry in the 1970s, I am going to post one of the proposed chapters here—a section at a time as I complete them—in the hopes that writing for an audience will encouraging me to complete the project. Please note this is a first draft, with all the flaws one would expect but I will probably not catch until it’s too late. I thank you for indulging me.

Part One can be found here.

THE ONE LAST BIG SCORE
I had survived years of public torment and personal isolation in elementary school secure in the belief that when I entered junior high I could effectively reinvent myself to a whole new crop of classmates. I could become one of the cool kids. Or I could be the brooding yet sexy loner who was just too hot to handle. (But what girl doesn’t want to play with a little fire?) Or I could finally be a nice, normal kid who didn’t have to wait eight hours to pee because he was too scared to use the school bathrooms. It was a dream that I effectively blew my first day in seventh grade when I went out to the junior high school backyard after lunch and immediately burst into tears upon realizing there were no swing sets, slides or non-smoking 12-year-olds.

But I simply couldn’t wait for that inevitable failure. By the summer of 1978—between fifth and sixth grades—I had finally fallen off the first rung of the social ladder and was flat on my ass in the “cha,” which in my little brother’s increasingly Seussian dialect meant either “dirt” or “cookie,” depending on what he was putting in his mouth at the time. I had to change course quick or by September I would be the laughingstock of not just the popular kids but also the nerds, the burnouts and even that student who liked to scream at his hand. I needed one grand gesture, one ultimate plan, that would make everything right and let me live in a world in which I didn’t sit alone in the front seat of the bus with burnt sienna and red-orange/orange-red smears on the back of my neck from the crayons the other kids threw at me.

What I needed, clearly, was my dad.

By 1978 my father’s pornography business was picking up considerable steam. His signature “Original Orgy Shirt” had received considerable attention and awards from both the design and degenerate communities. Sales of his “Footsieball” and “Cockamania” shirts, as well as some and tee featuring a midget popping out of a hinged breast, were quite brisk. And he had made some crucial corporate connection courtesy of our regular family trips down to the adult entertainment business expo.

One such connection begat another which begat another which eventually led to Penthouse wanting to do a photo spread of two young women baring it all in our very home. To this day I have no real idea how my dad convinced my mom this was a good idea, given that despite her forays into penis cozy stitching she really did not care for pornography at all. I don’t believe he ever thought far enough to consider it a matter for deliberate and delicate discussion. My dad being who he is almost certainly never asked, “Isilda, would you mind if a magazine dedicated to female beauty used our house for a pictorial?” Instead he more likely said, “Hey, Isilda! Guess who’s coming to dinner! Well, maybe lunch and dinner, depending on how long of a shoot it is. Actually, they may want to start first thing in the morning so perhaps you might want to make them pancakes, too. Anyway, they’re 19 and naked and it’ll be a blast!”

Even back then our house seemed an unusual choice for photo spread, unless the planned theme was “Rainforest with Central Air.” That’s because thanks to my mother’s love of nature and unrestrained green thumb our home had slowly transformed over the years into a three-dimensional Henri Rousseau painting, with hundreds of the aforementioned “kmms” almost choking out all available space. One such houseplant—named “Marcello” because it was bought shortly after my brother was born—had already grown to a remarkably unreasonable size and assumed a position near the front door like Audrey II waiting to devour unsuspecting Jehovah Witnesses.

What sections of the house weren’t overrun by vegetation appeared to be forgotten entirely in mid-construction. One room was ironically deemed the “Empty Room” because it was full of everything that couldn’t be tossed into the garage, the basement, the attic or the other “Empty Room.” (It was also called the “Dark Room” because it had never been properly wired for electricity.) My parents’ bedroom remains unfinished to this day. A bathroom had some of the original plumbing blueprints sticking out from under the plaster on the wall. And until the fire that destroyed our house and made us trailer park trash for seven months, our kitchen was constantly under “eventual renovation.” The entire residence was perpetually half-complete, like some suburban nod to Gene Wilder’s office at the end of Willy Wonka. Even our birdcage featured fake birds because we hadn’t gotten around to getting the real thing yet. (When we did years later my dad unfortunately forgot to clip its long nails and the poor canary accidentally lobotomized itself in the middle of the night.)

Some of this rampant incompleteness was the result of poor financial planning. Most, however, was due to what would later be diagnosed as my father’s ADD but then could be best summarized by such comments as “Dad was going to stucco the wall but then he decided he wanted to create a TV show. Now he’s making a card game about penises.”

Only one section of the house had ever been completed. Twice. Initially our dining room was done in soft greens with countless flowers and saplings and, curiously enough, a trellis, as if we had plans to become the world’s first indoor viticulturists. There was even a balcony that allowed one to take comfort in the beautiful countryside, so long as they didn’t glance down and see the dented Buick Riviera leaking oil on our driveway. It was sylvan and serene and seemed the ideal spot for the Bennet sisters to wile away an afternoon playing whist as they commented on the rectitude of potential gentleman callers.

But by the late 70s my dad had a complete change of heart and decided to make his own bold interior decorating choices. Gone were the dining room’s latticework, the trees, and all the organic elements that recalled Watership Down, minus the repeated disemboweling. In their place my dad put up shiny black walls, mirrored columns, an untold number of pinpoint lights, steps on the ceiling and what was originally conceived to be an overhead illustration of the night sky but which my father gave up in mid-painting to write a children’s book about a dung beetle detective who finds a stolen diamond hidden inside a small ball of shit.

The end product may very well be the gaudiest room ever built outside of a Steve Rubell venue.

Just looking at it immediately conjures images of Bianca Jagger snorting coke off of Truman Capote’s sternum. It was as if at some point our family had completely forsaken good taste and opted to take our decor cues from the third act of Goodfellas.

But something about this room called to the good people of Penthouse Magazine. Perhaps it was the courageous commitment to reflective surfaces. Perhaps it was a color scheme that said, “Bachelor pad meets Italian-American middle class.” Or maybe, just maybe, it was the huge glass table that continues to serve as the centerpiece of all our family’s holiday gatherings. A glass table long and strong enough to accommodate two supple bodies unencumbered by such heavy items as clothing or embarrassment. A glass table that allowed for cameras to shoot from both above and below those very bodies. Just one look and the magazine’s photographer knew he had found his muse and my mom knew all the Windex in the world would not wipe away the memory of this one event. The necessary papers were signed, a shooting date was set for an October 1978 issue release and just like that our house was going to be featured in Penthouse.

And that, dear reader, was when I was once more allowed to dream of a better life, of a chance out of the social pit I had dug through pathological shyness and a growing fear of the color yellow. For the immature boy who couldn’t look girls in the eye was now going to have the opportunity to stare wide-eyed and slack-jawed at their naked bodies. In the blink of an eye—and the unsettling wink of the photographer—my world had completely changed. I now had the one perfect plan to become the most popular kid in school.

All I needed were the right people by my side when it went down.

NEXT: PART THREE, "THE GANG"

Four Breasts, Five Davids: Part One

2009-11-17T16:00:00.007-05:00

Quote of the Week

2009-11-14T16:58:00.001-05:00

"This is a great song to dance naked to and watch your testicles swing around."
--My Dad on Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive"

Nice Cover of One of My Favorite Songs

2009-11-11T11:37:00.004-05:00

Wonderful cover (on autoharp, no less) of The Troggs "With a Girl Like You," featured prominently in the must-see film Flirting (a movie made all the more enjoyable by the presence of one Thandie Newton).

Be sure to check of Sarahvideos other great covers, including Dinosaur Jr., Mazzy Star, Leonard Cohen, Neutral Milk Hotel, Billy Bragg and even The Misfits.

Coffee for Those Who Think Rat's Milk Isn't Pricey Enough

2009-11-09T16:11:00.005-05:00

Click here for the ultimate way to "calm you down and pick you up."

Thank you, Dan Gezelter (known to some Sally Forth readers as the elderly next door neighbor I killed in the strip) for the heads-up.

Statement That Sounds Much Deeper Than It Really Is

2009-11-04T22:23:00.002-05:00

Overheard while walking on Fifth Avenue this evening...

Woman on Cell Phone: What does it matter how beautiful a button is if you don't have the fucking hole for it?!?

The Berenstain Bears: The Movie (No, This Is Not a Joke)

2009-11-04T14:20:00.003-05:00

Hot on the heels of Owen Wilson being cast as the voice of the title character in the upcoming Marmaduke movie (also not a joke) comes word The Berenstain Bears will also appear in their own live action/CGI movie.

But what will this future financial juggernaut, multiple award-winning masterpiece be about? Common sense would indicate it will focus on such well-known, high-octane, gripping tomes as The Berenstain Bears Visit the Dentist, The Berenstain Bears Count Their Blessings and The Berenstain Bears Get the Gimmies.

But I strongly suggest the screenwriters look for inspiration in the upstanding ursine family's lesser-known adventures, especially those that show them throwing off the shackles of civilization and finally embracing their grizzly and grislier instincts. So with that in mind, which Berenstain book do you think would make the best transition from page to screen?

The Berenstain Bears Rub Themselves against Trees
The Berenstain Bears Wander Aimlessly for Several Days in Search of Suitable Mating Partners
The Berenstain Bears Cough Up a Moose Tendon
The Berenstain Bears Commit Infanticide
The Berenstain Bears Evacuate Their Bowels in a Nearby Parking Lot
The Berenstain Bears Sever a Deer's Coronary Artery
The Berenstain Bears Feast on Carrion
The Berenstain Bears Display Sexual Dimorphism
The Berenstain Bears Eviscerate a Couple of Campers and Their Dog
The Berenstain Bears Are Taken Out with a .44 Magnum-Level Semi-Automatic

How to Join an After-Work Pack and Commence Your Slow Descent in Communal Alcoholism

2009-10-30T18:07:00.002-04:00

How many times have you watched a nature documentary and thought, “So this is how I’m spending another Friday night—watching a lion eviscerate an elk. Man, why did I ever break up with Kim? Or, more precisely, why did I ever let Kim break up with me? Why didn’t I do something? She always said I lacked initiative so this could have been my big chance to prove her wrong! I could have kept calling her. I could have kept following her. I could have surprised her with flowers or a sudden appearance in her bushes. Maybe then we’d be together instead of me sitting alone watching some big, fat cat mount another big, fat OH GOD, KIM! IF YOU’RE READING THIS THEN PLEASE, PLEASE TAKE ME BACK! I’LL STOP DRINKING! I’LL STOP GAMBLING! I’LL STOP BETTING ON HOW MUCH I CAN DRINK! JUST PLEASE DON’T LEAVE ME ALONE WITH MY THOUGHTS IN SOME VACATIONING FAMILY’S HOUSE AS I WATCH THEIR CABLE TV!!!”

So to summarize, coworkers are a lot like lions. Lions travel in a pack or “pride” (a word you’ll rarely hear during your professional years) to ensure their mutual survival. Similarly, coworkers travel in packs to bars to ensure that they just don’t go home all alone after work to watch yet another nature documentary as they silently wish that they were dead.

But like an outside lion seeking entrance into a pride, you can’t just join an employee drinking pack. You have to be welcomed into one. You have to wait for a coworker to vouch for you by saying “She’s cool” or “He’s gonna follow us anyway.” Once invited you’ll then be asked how you like working for the company. BE CAREFUL! This is not some idle chit chat. This is an incisive character test not unlike the ones G.I.’s used in World War II movies when they asked undercover Nazis who won the 1936 World series (only for the hapless spy to answer, “Herr Donald Duck.”) Respond cheerfully, “I love working there!” and the others will automatically peg you as the manager’s pet or mole (or perhaps pet mole). Respond truthfully, “If someone had told me when I was a kid that I would spend my entire adult life in marketing I never would have recuperated from Scarlet Fever” and you’ll be back on your couch watching two gorillas corner a screaming cameraman. Your best option is to find that happy middle ground and respond, “It’s a job.” Then quickly share an embarrassing anecdote about a fellow but absent staff member. After all, coworkers feast on gossip like a palsied zebra.

Having now ensconced yourself in the employee pack, you have to maintain your membership by being entertaining but not overwhelming. Catty but not cutting. Agreeable but not too pliable. And smart but not so you leave the rest of the table wondering what the fuck an “Archimedes’ screw” is. You must also be the first to buy a round of drinks for everyone at the table. Pack-wise this is the equivalent of bringing in a “fresh kill, “ thereby proving your value to the rest of the members. (Unless, of course, you return with six cans instead of six tumblers and say, “Johnny Walker Blue, Pabst Blue Ribbon, what’s the difference?”)

Once alcohol is introduced, though, self-control is almost always reduced. And once the little editor in your mind is too drunk to operate your verbal seven-second delay you may very well say something that could get you kicked out of the pack or—depending on the comment—the industry. But until then at least you won't be sitting at home another night, sobbing copiously as a meerkat is mourned to the strains of Sarah McLachlan's "I Will Remember You."

Things to Consider as You Search for the Ultimate Halloween Costume

2009-10-29T11:56:00.002-04:00

You’re Already Too Late: Too late, that is, to score any of the highly ornate, exceedingly well-tailored costumes that wow associates, win prizes and wreck bank accounts. Such outfits have long been snapped up by frighteningly eager goths, professional party guests such as the Hilton sisters and the type of individuals who start greedily rubbing their hands together in anticipation of Thanksgiving turkey…sometime around April. In short, you’ve been outmaneuvered by idiots, a sobering thought to say the least.

Do Not Dress As Popular Newsmakers: Balloon Boy, Bernie Madoff, Michael Jackson, an impregnated Jaycee Dugard. Unless you want to look like part of a well-funded and poorly supervised cloning experiment, avoid them all. What you may perceive as “clever and cutting-edge” will seem less so when you’re taking the M5 bus down with 25 people dressed exactly like you (a phenomenon as known as the "You bought the pimp costume, too?"). Believe me, right now several hundred people in your town alone are at this very moment attaching a small mylar dirigible and basket to their body, practicing throwing up in front of Meredith Viera and thinking, "Man, is everyone going to be surprised!"

Think “Homemade”: Okay, so the idea of hot-gluing two pipe cleaners to your head, wrapping yourself up in several rolls of aluminum foil and going as “The Insectoid Who Shouldn’t Be Microwaved” doesn’t exactly fill your heart with the Halloween spirit. But with a minimum of both props and shame, you should have no trouble cobbling together a costume quickly and on the cheap. Why not take those yellowed bed sheets you keep in the attic for some reason and go as “The Jaundiced Ghost”? Why not switch clothes with your spouse and go as “The Couple with a Secret”? Or why not just grow a goatee and go as “My Evil Twin”? What you lack in funds and finesse your fellow guests will more than make up for with cruel, cutting retorts.

Unimpeachable Proof that the Conceit of a Benevolent and Unerring God Is an Absolute Falsehood

2009-10-22T21:30:00.006-04:00

This was our Vietnam.

Belated Online Birthday Shout-Out to My Little Brother

2009-10-21T13:32:00.003-04:00

Though I did remember to call my little brother on his actual birthday, I wanted to make it official online (since the web is our new reality).

Happy 35th Birthday, Marcello!

On Marriage

2009-10-16T19:47:00.004-04:00

For as long as I can remember I assumed that the purpose of a relationship--a steady one of a considerable period, that is--was to set you on the path towards marriage and children. I love kids (in that perfectly-legal fashion ) and believed that a solid coupling was based on the exchange of marriage vows.

But lately I've had a change of heart.

I do believe that one day I may want kids, a secure environment to raise them in and maybe, if I'm lucky, someone by by side. But those are no longer the driving forces in my life. That is in no way meant to denigrate anyone who has chosen otherwise, has a happy marriage and is blessed with wonderful children. You are the truly fortunate and I say that with no sarcasm or empty sincerity at all.

But I now find the ideals I kept close to my heart for so long served more like safety nets or life floaties. As long as I was married or engaged then I felt I was 90% on the way to happiness an security. But that is never the case. I'm not saying marriage won't bring one such. For some marriage may very well be the great sundae under which you place that cherry.

But people need to know themselves before they can confidently be a partner for another. I can't say I don't want to be loved. We all do, whether in or out of wedlock in whatever combination works for us. But what I want now is to be in a relationship where each person has their own thing, they're own ambition and accomplishments, and are not so intertwined. The people would certainly support and cheer the other on but it never falls into the unfortunate assigned roles of a caretaker and the cared for (barring a horrible disease or accident that would require such, since I would also have no intention of ending a relationship out of infirmity. This is about partnership, not selfishness).

I'm almost certainly rambling here. These thoughts have been with me for weeks but this is my first attempt to try and craft them as some sort of coupling canon. I want the person I love to be able to fulfill their best goals. I want the same for me. And, when the time seems right out of professional, financial but most importantly emotional stability, then the idea of children may very well become a reality.

I don't expect everyone to agree with this. I welcome all different opinions. I want to hear from people, not talk at them or just stay locked in my headspace with ideas I'm too afraid to challenge. One of the driving forces for me now is the courage to, quite frankly, fuck up. Only then can I finally figure out where my horizon line is and my path to it, alone or with another. So please, I implore you to share your thoughts.

And hey, maybe next time I address this topic it'll be in the form of a far more lucid narrative. :)

Seriously, CNN, What Is Wrong with You?

2009-09-17T12:06:00.003-04:00

The latest headline-inspired tee from CNN Shirt:

No doubt to be followed by such fun shirts as:

"Sad Mommy and Daddy Orphan Their Kids"
"Malnutrition, Disease, Bullets Kill Refugees"
"Missing Baby Found...Under Floorboards"
"Grandma Sells Dentures to Pay for Food She Can No Longer Chew"
"Puppy Lost Too Many Limbs to Live"

Body Imaging

2009-09-16T15:47:00.003-04:00

For a long time I had body issues. My concern about my hair was literally just the tip of the problem.

I didn't like to be nude or even show a glimpse of my naked form. This wasn't only in gym or a body cavity search (I'm making assumptions about the last part) but also in front of a girlfriend. This, obviously, presented more than its share of obstacles and frustrations from time to time.

It's not that I'm fat or too thin or sport some sort of scar or skin tissue irregularity. Surprisingly for an Italian I don't even have hair on my back. But I would think of myself without clothes and conclude, "No, this...this is a mistake. This is not what the people want to see." It's taken some hard but gratifying work for me to realize that I wasn't even looking at my body when I drew these conclusions. My body was my awkward focus point but not the origin. It was just prolonged, dispersed doubt in myself, covering and contaminating every part of me, leading me to want to hide in a myriad of ways. Like the hair concern, it was the result of a mental Mobius strip that I had put into motion a long, long time ago and had eventually given up ever finding its end.

It's hard to break such a circular mind fuck, no more so then when you've come to accept it as reality, not perception. It's hard, but it can be done. I know that because I'm doing that now, every day. It's a series of exercises, a retraining and re-strengthening of the subconscious muscles, but the results are showing. The shame is disappearing and the doubt can now be reasoned with, at first mechanically but soon naturally. When I look at myself I no longer see a walking flaw. Sure, maybe I could tone up those abs a bit, but such thinking is the result of wanting to improve, not denigrate.

I know such talk can be weird, especially coming from the guy who writes that happy, squeaky-clean strip Sally Forth. But as I've mentioned before, my being able to say it to someone means I now have the conviction of those thoughts, not simply a quiet wish they will come true.

I promise, I'll start talking about arcane 70's pop culture again real soon. And thank you for listening.

Now This Is Eight Kinds of Awesome

2009-09-10T19:56:00.006-04:00

Nothing like the Internet to remind you how many creative--and just plain nice--people populate this little world of ours.

I was very touched recently to find that my webcomic Medium Large had actually inspired some topnotch fan art or shout-outs.

The first drawing is a fantastic interpretation by Bassringer of main character "Medium Large Guy" doing what he does best--sitting on a couch watching TV and drinking what one hopes is a microbrew:

The second is a great "Medium Large Guy" cameo in Jeremy Benedict's terrific webcomic Muddlecreek. He appears in the jury box in the final panel.

Thank you, guys! It means the world to me!

Photoshop: It's Colorforms for Today's Kids!

2009-09-10T15:54:00.003-04:00

Longtime--and loyal despite the intermittent posting rate on this blog--reader D.B. Echo made an interesting remark in my last article:

"Your picture on the header is just begging to have different hairstyles photoshopped onto it. It already looks like you're doing a Rapunzel pose."

So what do you say, people? Have at it and I'll post your work right here, name, links and all...which is another way of saying there is absolutely no cash prize involved.

Shining, Gleaming, Streaming, Flaxen, Waxen

2009-09-10T11:45:00.002-04:00

For the past 15 years I have worried about my hair.

It has indeed receded and thinned but still does its job of covering up the ol' scalp for now. But that was never really the problem. As many people hardwired for depression I suffer from unhealthy obsessions. These obsessions create a seemingly endless mental loop in which what is a minor issue at best or temporary obstacle at worst consume my days and sometimes years. Thinning hair meant I was aging. Aging meant I was running out of time to accomplish my goals. Running out of time meant I had little chance of achieving said goals if at all. Thus, with nothing to look forward to I could only concentrate on the now, which meant my thinning hair. As the loop continued I'd add new worries, compile new personal and physical flaws and remove any and all positive outcomes, resulting in an outlook about my appearance that prevented me seeing past my own nose while making me wish I could never see my face. I became trapped in my own mind inside a body I had grown to dislike.

Like my shyness that I spoke of yesterday, this obsessive nature has inflicted far-reaching damage throughout my life, harming my present and almost assuredly hobbling my future. And like my shyness over the past few months I've taken great strides in both looking at the problem straight in the eye and being able to see past my own little world. It takes a great deal of effort to break out of crippling yet comforting cycles and certainly some days are better than others, but at least I feel like I'm moving forward now, not just retracing the same steps ad infinitum.

As for why I bring all this up here, there are a few reasons. First, I need to learn how to confront--but not navel-gaze--and this blog certainly gives me the venue and reason to analyze and write out my thoughts (yes, I know that is the main reason people maintain blogs, but I've been hesitant to do such until now). Second, seeing these thoughts in print greatly increases the chances that whatever conclusions I draw will be put into action. And third, while I prefer to post humor pieces, sometimes the distance humor allows prevents me from getting the work I need done.

Next Up: Newfound Comfort with Full-Frontal Nudity! (Just the topic you want to hear about from the guy who brings you Sally Forth)

Unused Onion News Network Submission #3

2009-09-09T13:22:00.000-04:00

Proud Mom Says Son Smart, Gifted Enough to Be Charged as an Adult
A very proud mother of an 11-year-old accused murderer tells Today Now that her son is far more advanced mentally and emotionally than his peers and should be viewed as a “very capable and outstanding little man, not a kid” by the prosecution.

School Days, School Days...

2009-09-09T11:02:00.002-04:00

Over the years Hilary has viewed the start of the new school term with great trepidation. Sometimes she's cautiously hoped for a year full of achievement and jubilation. Other times she's approached the endeavor with a glum mien and a feeling of impending sorrow. (However--for those who have recently questioned such--she's always begun school the day after Labor Day, just like many schools in the my beloved Northeast.)

Many of Hilary's fears in the strips mirror those I had throughout public school. Being an extremely shy kid, I approached each new year as French royalty would approach the guillotine, with a similar sense of fate but without the farthingale and lead-based facial powder. That shyness has ebbed noticeably over the years but has still proven a great stumbling block personally and professionally well into adulthood. Opportunities have been lost and relationships have ended because of a lack of confidence not only in my abilities but also my worthiness as a person.

Lately I've take a far more active approach to my reticence and timidity, through therapy and significant changes in my social demeanor and approach. While I'm very proud of what I've accomplished in the past few months I also know I can't rest on such improvements, both for my own good as for those I truly care about. I must continue to directly face and wrestle with my shyness if I'm ever to have a chance at a happy, fulfilling life.

I'm not quite certain how today's strip about the first day of school led to such ruminations. Maybe I see Hil's more reasonable outlook as an encouraging statement of my own. All I know is that it felt right--perhaps even emboldening--to express those thoughts here. After all, not every blog post can be about 70's sitcoms and failed Onion submissions, can they?

Will They or Won't They?

2009-09-07T17:21:00.007-04:00

As is often the case with Faye and Hil-centric Sally Forth strips, some readers appear to be looking for a certain subtext in today's episode (quotes courtesy of The Comic Curmudgeon's commentators):

"Those first two panels would be the perfect set-up to a third panel with an awkward good-night kiss."

"Faye, just grab her and kiss her. That will stop time for her."

"So is Hillary (sic) gonna kiss that boy goodnight in the moonlight?"

Another Dip into the "Unused Onion News Network Submissions" Folder

2009-09-02T10:50:00.000-04:00

“Parker Lewis Can’t Lose” Movie Reunites Startled Cast
20th Century Fox has just announced a big-screen version of the short-lived early 90’s TV series, reuniting a much surprised cast, many who have long outgrown their high school roles or gave up acting altogether. Fox Rep: “For years millions have wondered whatever happened to Parker and his friends…I think one of them was named Cameron.” ONN also interviews an angry former bit player on the show who was busily trying to finance his own movie version of the series.