Dennis Perrin

Eon Flux

2009-11-23T11:19:00.007-05:00

Other than Black Sabbath, and to a degree Metallica, I've never really dug heavy metal. By the time of the big hair arena Eighties, the genre seemed like a sad, obvious joke, as Spinal Tap showed. I shared John Lydon's sneer about flapping your flares to an audience of groveling idiots, and so never heard of or listened to Anvil, Canadian head bangers who appeared with Bon Jovi, Scorpions, and Whitesnake. At Anvil's height, I was exploring lost music from the 1920's, 30's and 40's, supplied by a film actor who listened to nothing but 78s. Anvil might have been touring Jupiter's moons, for all I cared.

As I've aged, my opinion about Eighties metal hasn't changed, but my heart has opened to those still chasing the muse. Several friends insisted that I watch "Anvil! The Story of Anvil," saying that I would identify with the protagonists, primarily Steve "Lips" Kudlow, lead singer and eternal spirit of Anvil. I reluctantly followed their advice, and baby, I'm glad I did.

Wow. What a film. What a story. I became so emotionally involved that I had to stop the film, my heart was breaking so deeply. Any artist who's experienced positive audience reaction, who has felt that electric buzz when it all lines up and flows can appreciate what Lips and his best friend/bandmate Robb Reiner still crave as they enter their fifties. These two have never given up, and remain committed to their original vision, forged in their teens. Inspiring, moving, gut wrenching. My friends were right: I completely identified with Anvil.

When I resumed watching "The Story of Anvil" a couple of days later, those emotions returned, tears welling in my eyes, chest tight. Trying to be heavy metal stars at their age, in the present corporate environment, practically guarantees rejection, derision, and failure. If Anvil had been as big as the bands they influenced, like Metallica, then touring at 50 wouldn't seem so quixotic. But Lips and Robb, having breathed that rarified air before plummeting to earth, are confused and angry about their status. They're convinced they can hold their own with any band, yet as Robb confesses, time is running out.

The New Yorker's Anthony Lane (link courtesy of my friend Lou Proyect) summed it up beautifully:

"This film is not about rock music at all . . . it is about time, and how it threatens to fade us out like a song on the radio, and why, risking ridicule, and leaning on love, we should crank up the volume and keep going."

Bingo. Younger people might enjoy "The Story of Anvil," but to fully absorb its emotional punch, it helps to have lived, loved, and failed over several decades. Lord knows I know.

Speaking of which: In a recent video, I announced plans about returning to stand up, specifically in New York. This is still very much on. I've been writing a slew of new bits and concepts, shaping a loose but definite stage persona, rehearsing moves, transitions, tones of delivery. Much to my surprise, it's exciting and very inspirational. I feel creatively reborn in many ways.

Some have asked, What happened to the autobiography? The TV pilot script? Short answer: nothing. Elements of both appear in the new act, but there are other factors which I may address later on. For now, returning to the stage is the most direct and realistic option. If things go well there, then we'll see where the other projects fit.

The beauty of this venture is my relative lack of anxiety and fear. At 50, I feel more secure as an artist. I trust my instincts and talent, more so than I did in my twenties, when terror and madness fueled my efforts. Writing this act has so far been a treat. Once I'm up there, walls will be hit, rough waters encountered. Part of the gig. But for the first time in a long time, it all feels right. My life has led to this moment, a real shedding of skin.

Proud & Erect

2009-11-20T11:13:00.002-05:00

Pledge Is A Spray Wax

2009-11-19T11:56:00.005-05:00

I'm sure most of you have seen or read about Will Phillips, the 10-year-old Arkansan who refuses to say the Pledge Of Allegiance until queers are accorded full equal rights. Naturally, I'm solidly behind Will and his family. In numerous parts of the country, there are pockets of rational dissidence, places where weirdoes and freaks may fully breathe and madly dance.

Growing up in a world of immediate connections, Will sees that he's far from alone. We older geeks from slower days had less if no awareness of kindred spirits. You had to leave home to find sameness, oddness; to feed inspiration and desire. I'm sure it's still this way, only less pressing, given the technology. Why move when you can IM or text?

Most astonishing to me about Will's defiance is that children are still pledging allegiance. To what? Some mythical, mystical concept that has no real bearing on our lives? I understand conditioning children's minds to be obedient to their masters and accept hierarchy as the natural order of things, endorsed by God. A corporate oligopoly needs a steady stream of managers, consumers, and disposable labor. But surely there are better methods than the archaic Pledge. Then again, I sometimes underestimate the American hunger for fantasy. Me of all people, right?

Will's protest is aimed at the "liberty and justice for all" line. If gays cannot wed or enjoy full medical rights, then that part of the Pledge is incomplete. It's a noble stand, but America has never truly committed to "liberty and justice for all." State mechanisms have been forced to adapt to grassroots pressure, which is perhaps the true genius of our system. If you cannot contain or suppress popular discontent, embrace it, celebrate it, then reshape it to fit the status quo. Nothing will really change, but a brighter, newer feature will lend that impression, and for many, that's more than enough.

Obama's election was perhaps the most cutting edge example of this practice. Elites bray that this shows how egalitarian America truly remains, while liberals, however frustrated, still want Obama to be the savior of their limited imaginations. For all the blog blab about "pushing" Obama from below, most liberals have no intention of seriously challenging Their President, adjusting their rhetoric to accommodate what is being shoved down their throats.

You see this in their acceptance of what is laughably called "health care reform." Liberals mock reactionaries' bizarro hatred of Obama, but their love of the man's image is no less ludicrous. Indeed, it's more destructive. As right wingers twist themselves into swastikas while claiming to oppose such symbols, liberals have largely abandoned whatever antiwar feelings they had under Bush. In some areas, they have endorsed extended war and destruction. Again, I don't know why reactionaries despise Obama so. He's killed off major antiwar sentiment and marginalized those few who bother to protest. McCain/Palin would have never pulled this off. Clearly, Wall Street put its money on the right team.

Does this mean that Will Phillips' courage is for naught? I wouldn't say so. Critical thinking and dissident action is needed at all levels. But as Will ages and encounters the numerous social filters that weed out miscreants and undesirables, his critical thinking will be severely tested, if not shredded and used for imperial mulch. He will have to make tough choices. I want to remain optimistic, but then, optimism brought me to this anxious state in the first place. A shaky republic I can barely stand.

Die Laughing

2009-11-18T10:53:00.010-05:00

Despite breaks from the American narrative during the late-60s/early-70s, romantic views of our national past survived and remain. Unavoidable, and not unique among nations; but the American version enjoys a stylistic advantage born of Hollywood trappings. Our fictions look prettier, possess more zing. They're certainly preferable to the real story, elements of which seep in for color or "authenticity," yet are drowned out by rousing scenarios and booming, uplifting scores.

This was certainly the case with "John Adams," the HBO miniseries where Paul Giamatti's crotchety Calvinist butted wigs with power mad Alexander Hamilton while Thomas Jefferson stared off into space, Declarations floating through his head. I loved the portrayal of Ben Franklin as Founding Hedonist, even though the real Franklin showed a more conservative side to the Publick. (An early SNL parody of historical TV dramas nailed it: "Some half truths and lies have been added to make it entertaining.") In the end, after war, struggle, squalor, diplomatic maneuvering and political betrayal, "John Adams" comes to the unsurprising conclusion that the American experiment was well worth it. And it was, right fellow consumers?

Of course, no drama about our nation's birth would be complete without scenes of the founders arguing over the Constitution, our most hallowed, most violated/ignored set of political commandments. No one really knows what went on in that colonial writers' room, though I'm sure that halitosis and body odor helped set the mood.

In Fridays' version, 18th century racism and sexism is conveyed through 20th century lingo. It's also an overt example of liberal propaganda. Which is fine. Unlike most other sketch comedy shows, Fridays never pretended to be evenhanded. The writers' left/liberal sensibilities were always on display. Too bad this bit wasn't aired in today's political environment. Imagine the reactionary howls after seeing Larry David, a Jewish atheist, cast as the Constitution's conscience.

The gun control theme takes a somber turn in this sketch, aired the same week as John Hinckley's attempt to assassinate Reagan. It's an odd, quiet piece where the audience doesn't seem to know where to laugh. It also touches on a topic I wrote about recently, the close, emotional ties Americans are supposed to have with presidents, politicians, and other well-known figures.

I remember the day Reagan was shot. I was in the Army, working at a foreign officers' school when my boss Frank Harris (retired Army officer) came in and said all hell had broken loose. He turned on the TV and we watched the wall-to-wall coverage. Thing is, I don't recall feeling much of anything about the shooting. I despised Reagan's politics, which were slowly radicalizing me. But I wasn't happy, sad, or outraged. It all seemed like a weird movie. Had Reagan died, who knows how I would've reacted. But he survived to oversee some mass killing of his own.

I saw this next piece when it first aired, then not again until recently. My memory of it was pretty exact, though the context in which it was conceived flew past me back then. I knew next to nothing about Palestine and Israel, much less about Zionism and Arab nationalism. What I did know was what Americans were constantly told: the Israelis were noble warriors forced to defend themselves from filthy Palestinian terrorists. The PLO was portrayed as a gang of genocidal lunatics, destruction and mayhem part of their collective DNA. They were Bond villains, with Yasser Arafat as Dr. No.

This is what makes this sketch so interesting. Fridays could have followed the established script, and most viewers wouldn't have raised an eyebrow. Instead, they took some Palestinian claims seriously, and played around with that perception. There's plenty of word play and obvious jokes, yet you don't get the sense that the PLO was crazier than anyone else fighting for a cause -- certainly no crazier than the Zionist militias that preceded them. Far from being international gangsters, these Palestinians, played by George Carlin and Bruce Mahler, are hunkered down, hoping to survive another Israeli onslaught.

When this bit aired in January 1981, Israel was routinely shelling and strafing Palestinian targets in Lebanon, killing hundreds, while the PLO sporadically responded. This was during a period when the mainstream of Fatah made several offers for a two-state settlement with Israel, which were violently rejected. A few months after this, a ceasefire brokered by Philip Habib took effect, although Israel soon violated it, hoping to elicit a PLO response that would justify an invasion of Lebanon that Israeli planners had already mapped out, and which arrived in the summer of 1982, bringing with it some 17,000 Palestinian and Lebanese dead, and the Sabra and Shatila massacre.

These guys have no idea what's about to hit them.

That Magic Word

2009-11-16T12:47:00.007-05:00

If nation states were individuals, most would be locked away, executed, or kept on a secret payroll. Psychotics have their uses, after all. Still, it's simple and profitable to condemn the Saddams and Slobos, especially when they fall from imperial favor. They're disposable, and better still, have no right of appeal. No matter what they say in their cells or on the stand, they are toast, which is why Saddam exited without apology. I'm sure he felt no regrets (except maybe for his taste in hidey holes), and even if he did, who cared? So Saddam trash talked his masked Shiite executioners straight to the end of his rope. What did he have to lose?

How many American war criminals would show the same spirit at the moment of truth? Maybe Cheney, but I suspect that Dick would collapse on the gallows steps, whimpering about patriotism and family, dragged to the noose and held in place until the final drop.

Happily, we'll never see such events, an imperial perk highly valued by those with the longest rap sheets. Besides, we in the West discovered that official apologies for prior criminal actions help to ease accumulated tension. State contrition for this massacre or that coup diminishes the crime while lending an air of remorse. Of course, said crime must be at least 50 years past, for anything newer might be seen as a confession. The whole point to official apologies is to use certain historical atrocities to beautify contemporary arrangements. We wish we could go back and stop slavery before it took hold, but what are you gonna do? The important thing is that we've learned from our mistakes and are ready to move forward.

The British government, assisted by Australia, offers the latest official atonement. From 1618 to 1967, some 150,000 poor British children were shipped overseas to provide cheap labor in foreign markets, the bulk apparently going Down Under. That this practice ended only 40 years ago shows that the Brits are on the cutting edge of imperial apologetics, perhaps inspiring a new generation of apologists. Then again, as awful as this crime against children was, it pales against deadlier British deeds in Ireland and India. Maybe that's why they feel free to express their regrets so soon.

It's a bit like a serial killing rapist and thief apologizing for his grandfather's crimes. Yes, such behavior runs in the family, but Gramps was truly crazy and reckless, with no regard for consequence. For this, one must humbly say "sorry." That was a different time. Mistakes were made and learned from. Why, in Gramps' day, you couldn't dissolve body parts or sell them on the black market. And today, one is much more selective when it comes to rape and murder. It's a global business. Gramps, rest his soul, lacked wider vision.

Comedy's Charcoal Age

2009-11-12T12:56:00.004-05:00

American satirists, if that's the right word, are usually driven by what they perceive as patriotism. They care so much for Old Glory and Sam that they'll mock what they admire, hopefully improving their beloved nation state. Many believe that U.S. criminal behavior is largely an aberration, which is why they laid off Obama, poised to restore American decency and honor that Bush/Cheney sullied and strangled into submission.

Now that Obama has shown what some of us suspected all along, comedy patriots feel a little freer to fire away, though in most cases it's bottle caps bouncing off concrete. Thank god there's Glenn Beck and Lou Dobbs to spoof, 'else the whole parody biz would be in trouble, Jay Leno notwithstanding.

This was probably always so. One can offer earlier, sharper examples of comedic dissent, but even there you'll find flag waving behind the sneers, fists unclenched and placed over hearts. The younger me was certainly like this, eager to expose the lies and hypocrisy that clouded America's inner light. As harsh as my material might've seemed, it sprang from a softer place. I sometimes miss that arrangement, which is and should be the province of the young. Feeling like that today would require a major disconnect -- a complete mind sweep, actually. This may explain that vacant look on the faces of graying liberals, Jay Leno notwithstanding.

All this came to mind recently while submerged in Fridays. There's now a slew of sketches online (thanks to a devoted fan out west), some of which I remembered pretty accurately, many others I'd completely forgotten. While Fridays was known for its eclectic humor and style, willing to experiment and fail, it was their political material that inspired my early efforts. SNL was cautious, SCTV focused on showbiz overkill. Only Fridays directly satirized the hot topics of its time, preachy in spots, but clearly engaged with what was going on.

El Salvador was a recurring topic. Cuba's ongoing example mortified and angered American elites; Nicaragua's recent revolution drove many around the bend. Jimmy Carter pumped the Salvadoran military with munitions, but it wasn't until Reagan arrived in '81 that the repression and mass slaughter accelerated. Secretary of State Al Haig hinted that U.S. troops might be needed to stem the Red tide, and this helped stir serious domestic opposition to any deployment. "El Salvador is Spanish for Vietnam" read a popular bumper sticker at the time. With the Vietnam war still fresh in the national mind, Haig's bluster backfired, at least initially.

Fridays dealt with El Salvador a lot. In retrospect, it's pretty amazing, especially when contrasted against later attempts at political/social satire. Imagine pitching an idea set in a bombed out Afghan village or a CIA torture site, and trying to realize such material on contemporary TV. That's what it felt like watching Fridays tackle the Central American wars.

This piece will give you a taste. Written by Larry Charles and Bruce Kirschbaum, "The Road To El Salvador" used familiar American figures to criticize Reagan's policy. John Roarke's Bob Hope wasn't as precise as Dave Thomas' SCTV version, but Roarke gave off a weirder Hope vibe, reptilian eyes seeking acknowledgement or approval. That Hope was in real life an ardent right winger and Reaganite was apparently overlooked for the sake of the premise.

Larry David's Bing Crosby is wonderful. Tom Kramer told me that David spent the week leading up this sketch polishing his Crosby around the offices, which is something you'd see him do on Curb Your Enthusiasm: finding a peculiar voice or tone, and repeating it to everyone he encounters. The supporting players' broad Spanish accents fit the "Road" picture theme, as does the closing musical number. But the lines, "Could the U.S. economy use another war?" and "We don't want another Vietnam" are not jokes. From the sketch's lightest moment come more serious concerns.

The religious right was at its rancid peak during Fridays' run, and they received their share of scorn as well. Thing is, not many comics seriously went after the likes of Falwell and Robertson at that time, and certainly not on national TV. The threat of sponsor boycotts and defamation suits helped to blunt that approach.

You see it in this next piece, "The Moral Majority Comedy Variety Hour." Here Falwell is called Jerry Farback, a Mad magazine-type name that belies the aggression Fridays unleashed on Falwell's flock. Seeing how he's portrayed as a racist, fascist demagogue who promotes book burnings, I'm certain that ABC's lawyers advised the writers (again Charles and Kirschbaum, though given the sketch's length, other staffers doubtless added to the mix) to not directly implicate Falwell, played nicely by Bruce Mahler. It's easily a trade off worth making.

There are many elements I admire in this piece. I love "Celebrity Faith Healing," and the born again Plasmatics anticipate the advent of Christian rock. But for me the highlight is the right wing comedy sketch about "typical" American liberals. Brother Buck says this is what Fox attempted with their dreadful Daily Show knock off. Jim nailed it, as did Fridays, over a quarter century before.

STILL TO COME: Fridays and the PLO.

Old Red As New

2009-11-10T09:37:00.004-05:00

If age mellows you, then clearly I'm defective, or not getting the memos. True, I'm not as crazed as I once was, reacting to obstacles and irritations by punching walls and kicking chairs. My tree stabbing days are well behind me. Even my heavy bag hangs largely unused (though this has more to do with the swollen wrists I get after pummeling it than from inertia). But a pool of anger remains, set to boil when my temperature rises.

With Veterans Day upon us, militarist rhetoric blows across the media, instructing us to fall to our knees and worship the uniform. This always drives me nuts, especially in a dying empire bogged down in two occupations, with more mayhem in the offing. Those who've never served are expected to offer their bottomless gratitude. Many of those who have served retain a near-religious view of their respective branches, and of the military overall. To question any of this is to expose one's hatred of nation and of self. Ask not what your country can do for you, as a celebrated mass murderer once said.

I planned a semi-satirical piece about all this, inspired by the NFL's pro-imperial commercials last weekend (complete with Pat Tillman tributes, minus his opposition to the Iraq war and embrace of dissidents like Noam Chomsky). But every bit I conceived felt familiar, as though I'd already been there. Scrolling through Red State Son, I realized that this was pretty much the case. It's amazing how far three chords can carry you. So, for those who've forgotten, and for those who are recent arrivals, here's a selection of earlier tunes that better express what I presently feel.

Clint Eastwood's two-sided take on the Pacific War inspired this post. I have since seen "Letters From Iwo Jima," which more than lived up to its sterling reputation. Speaking of which, John Slattery plays the cynical war bonds booster in "Flags Of Our Fathers," an early, recognizable version of Roger Sterling. And hiding down the post is a link to a favorite essay of mine, like a plastic whistle in a box of Cracker Jack. Blow softly.

This isn't military specific, but since I'm going back on stage, it caught my eye. If I can emit a few ounces of Bill Hicks comedic passion, I'll be a happy funny boy. And there are no plans to write Hicks' biography. I don't know what that Perrin was thinking.

Here's a piece that elicited a lot of feedback when it first appeared. Another way to think about those who've worn the uniform.

But of all the military-oriented material I've written, these two posts cut closest to the mark. Now that the peace-loving, forward-thinking Dems are managing the abattoir, such thoughts are obsolete. Right?

Whatever

2009-11-09T10:53:00.000-05:00

Last God Standing

2009-11-06T09:12:00.003-05:00

Reading about the Fort Hood killings, where Maj. Nidal Malik Hasan allegedly yelled "Allahu Akbar!" before firing, I thought of two things. One, the obvious reactionary freak out that I'm sure is in full swing (I haven't the stomach to check, and would love to be proven wrong); and two, the idea of slaughtering sinners for one's god runs throughout the U.S. military. As Jeff Sharlet, who wrote about this for Harper's, put it last May on Democracy Now:

"Well, after about a year of interviewing military personnel, this was, in some ways, the most frightening story that I encountered. A man named Staff Sergeant Jeffery Humphrey, one of the very few soldiers who, in this military climate, had the courage to come forward and speak out about what he had seen, he had been stationed in Samarra. It was Easter. The day began calmly. A chaplain brought around a copy of Mel Gibson’s anti-Semitic film 'Passion of the Christ,' which they then put on constant play throughout the day.

"When they came under attack, the Special Forces, Army Special Forces to whom he was assigned, had their Iraqi translator, an Iraqi American Christian, paint in giant red Arabic letters on the side of a Bradley fighting vehicle the words 'Jesus killed Mohammed.' Then, while they put the translator on the roof with a bullhorn, shouting in Arabic, 'Jesus killed Mohammed,' and then training their guns, training American guns on anybody who responded, the Bradley fighting vehicle rolled out into the city of Samarra and drawing fire everywhere it went, leading the Special Forces to conclude that every single Iraqi who took offense at these words, 'Jesus killed Mohammed,' was part of the enemy and therefore needed to be destroyed.

"And I spoke to the man who drove that Bradley, Lieutenant John DeGiulio, now Captain John DeGiulio, promoted since. And he describes wreaking almost biblical destruction on one whole block, blowing up every single thing he saw. And he said he was able to do this, because God was on his side and because he had been spiritually armored by watching Mel Gibson’s 'Passion of the Christ'. And then he thanked his chaplain for preparing him for that kind of spiritual battle on the streets of Iraq."

What's God telling you today?

LOL And Void

2009-11-05T10:58:00.004-05:00

Writers are increasingly marginal, which may be best. Techno-distractions shred traditional thought patterns, reducing the young to monosyllables, grunts, and nods. Attention spans crumble in the slightest breeze. Add a fixed political arrangement, corporate assaults on what remains of public life, endless war abroad, religious insanity at home, and what's the point of reading, much less writing?

Part of me fantasizes about a post-literate age, where minds expand through memorization, and the human race reboots its lizard brain for the next phase of conscious existence. The whole Hans Magnus Enzensberger trip. Sadly, my romanticism is misplaced, for we the observant know what's coming. We may not recognize every approaching profile, but if present life is any indication, it ain't arriving with a smile and a handshake. More likely a head filled with bad chemicals and frayed wiring. Chest bumping will be the new hello.

Like other aging fools, I find solace in what was, to the extent was has anything to offer. TV talk shows shaped much of my early thinking, primarily Dick Cavett's, where extended discussions sailed above my young head, forcing me to run along and jump at them, grabbing what I could. I didn't understand many of the references, but I knew something good was happening, and soon I began using a dictionary in order to keep pace. (Being an autodidact, I often mispronounced new words I learned, holding back in conversation until I heard someone else speak correctly.)

A regular Cavett guest was Norman Mailer, who usually mystified me. Mailer was perhaps the most noticeable American intellectual of the mid-20th century, always performing, playing to his brand. Mailer would have been a Smoking Gun regular, given all of his feuds, scrapes, and fights. But he possessed undeniable energy and charm, metaphors shooting in all directions, sometimes making no sense whatsoever. Being a TV baby, I preferred Mailer onscreen to Mailer on the page. I found much of his writing sloppy, narcissistic, shallow, and painfully obvious, but then, Mailer's prolific output guaranteed such lapses.

However, these traits served Mailer well on television. Here's the only clip of Mailer on Cavett that I can find, and it's a truncated piece of a much juicier whole. Hopefully, Cavett will release a box set of his interviews with authors. If he does, this show must be included.

I'm sure some of you have seen this. Mailer, drunk, angry, goes after Gore Vidal for an essay where Mailer's opinion of women is conflated with Charles Manson's much deadlier view. The New Yorker's Janet Flanner looks on, disgusted, while Cavett tries to hold it all together. This was considered rough sailing back in the day, but compared to contemporary cable slap fights and clichéd exchanges, the below segment crackles, as if from another world. Which it was.

Here's an appearance I recently discovered, where Mailer butts egos with William F. Buckley. It's from 1968, before Nixon's election, amid the chaos of that period. I found this debate very entertaining, if unsatisfying in certain areas. Mailer celebrates Fidel Castro, yet offers no solid defense of the Cuban revolution when challenged by Buckley, whose claims are easy to rebut. Mailer's less interested in geopolitical fine points than he is in the Great Man theory of history, preferring broad strokes to detailed precision. Still, it's music to my weary ears.

Where on today's tube do you see this style of argument, using such vocabulary? (The rest can be seen here.) It even makes me a bit soft for reactionary Buckley. At bottom, WFB was a propagandist, but an amusing one who understood the era he thrived in. (I'd love to see the entire show where he engaged Allen Ginsberg.) Confession: When I began to speak publically about politics and media, I copied Buckley's body language, finding it lithe and theatrical (with a bit of Hitchens mixed in). Here's a brief glimpse of what I mean. Note the clipboard on lap and pen in hand. It was how a young polemicist prepared.

Atlas Insolvent

2009-11-04T10:13:00.004-05:00

Ayn Rand was an atheist, but her ghost refuses to vanish. Another book about this mediocre romance novelist has been released, making one pine for publishing's final breath, which might be the only way to curb further Randian retrospectives.

How much more do we need to know about this woman? What did she accomplish, apart from inspiring geeky white men to find virtue in selfishness? To identify with comic opera characters posing as philosophers? To pretend that capitalism is individualistic and benign?

Despite cries from reactionaries that the culture is stacked against them, that they are political prisoners in their cherished land, American culture is, in reality, overly kind to right wingers, no matter how bizarrely they behave. So long as reactionaries wave the flag and speak of patriots weeping in the clouds, they will have platforms to push their manias, hatred, and self-pity. Not only is there a robust market for these clowns, those who run the Liberal Media share many rightist conceits, especially when the system needs reinforcement.

Given this, Ayn Rand's zombie presence makes perfect sense. Indeed, her lit cred, thoroughly middlebrow and thus utterly American, lends her capitalist fantasies some theoretical weight. Rand fancied herself as high-minded, an intellectual counterbalance to Karl Marx. In truth, Rand was closer to Walt Disney, minus the Mouse King's showbiz flair. Each used cartoons to convey their message. Both were dedicated anti-communists, hostile to organized labor, friendly to the post-war Red Scare. Only Rand felt that the U.S. government wasn't going deep enough in uprooting commies, primarily those in Hollywood, hypnotizing Middle America with phony smiles and pretty songs while undermining free enterprise and its besieged supporters.

The latest Rand revival comes courtesy of Anne Heller, whose "Ayn Rand and the World She Made" is receiving positive reviews. I have not nor intend to read Heller's book. Nothing personal, but I've read and watched too much about Rand already, including her Objectivist cult, personal romances and internecine battles. Unless there's fresh evidence exposing cannibalism, S&M parties, or a secret love for Stalin, I'll find other ways to waste my time.

I did find Heller's comments on NPR about Rand rather interesting. Like most biographers (me included), Heller tries to predict how her subject would view contemporary figures and events. Since Rand hated FDR's New Deal, equating it with fascism (as did, for a time, the American Communist Party), Heller assumes that "Rand would have seen Obama's stimulus plan, bank bailout program and health care initiative as 'a gigantic power grab . . . She would have been horrified.'"

Perhaps, though compared to FDR's grand scheme, Obama's "power grab" is pretty toothless. In fact, I can't think of a weaker dictator than Obama. Yet, Rand's acolytes and other rightist observers insist that we're suffering under a despotism unmatched in American history. This is what happens when the focus is on personalities rather than systemic functions.

In the real world, Obama, like FDR before him, is attempting to save what is left of American state capitalism. That's his function, which is why he enjoyed such elite support. Obama's finding the task a bit tougher than he let on during the campaign, and he may not succeed. The signs so far are not good. But the idea that John McCain would be radically different is laughable, yet soothing to those prone to political hallucinations.

Rand experienced her share of swirling visions, spilled across countless pages of her books. She loved writing long-winded speeches for her fantasy icons, telling the world how useless it was compared to a few self-centered men. In Rand's universe, history is achieved individually, unconnected to major power centers or collective labor. John Galt and Howard Roark just "happen," despite all mechanisms devoted to their demise. They thrive independently through the iron force of their will, and in the end, collectivized society is rhetorically exposed and trashed by their superior intellects.

It's a charming fairy tale, perfectly suited to American illusions about individual power in a imperial state. Of course, no man can rise through the U.S. financial/political structure without assistance and intervention, just as no major industrialist can make his fortune apart from the state apparatus. Societies are controlled by those who own them. This naturally requires collective actions and overlapping agendas. Either Rand was unaware of this reality or simply ignored it for narrative purposes. She created a capitalist Oz, where generations of Dorothys skip merrily down gold-brick roads, seeking to build (without help) their Emerald Cities. No gray commie Kansas for Ayn.

Heller also noted that Rand considered the dollar sign "a better symbol than the cross, because it didn't require the sacrifice of anybody." I trust that Heller doesn't share this ahistorical view. Not only have the cross and dollar enjoyed a lucrative, long-running alliance, the dollar requires massive sacrifice across the planet. Poverty, starvation, environmental damage and genocidal violence are some of the dollar's greatest hits. Use any calculator you like to tally the body count under state socialism, and it'll explode when computing the ongoing ravages of global capitalism.

All this aside, I confess a peculiar fondness for the film version of "The Fountainhead." Patricia Neal's Dominique Francon is priceless, destroying art and personal love in a world that cannot appreciate her superior tastes. Gary Cooper's Howard Roark is a cartoonish stiff, hardly the type who'd turn architecture upside down (stealing from Frank Lloyd Wright in the process). There's a hidden lunacy to Roark that Cooper didn't explore; he was stuck mouthing Rand's wooden dialogue, limiting Roark's capitalistic vigor. But when it came to the hubba-hubba, Roark was an erect dollar sign. I think it's clear why Rand embraced that pecuniary symbol.

Blah Obama Blah War

2009-11-02T14:09:00.002-05:00

Appeared on Bill Cunningham's radio show last night. Interesting gig. I think I confused Bill a little bit. That happens. Hear for yourself. Scroll down to 11/1/09 Hour 2, break out the chocolate-coated pretzels and enjoy.

Daddy Issues

2009-11-02T10:00:00.002-05:00

In a recent video offering, I spoke about a Second City experiment from the mid-90's, where cast member Scott Adsit (now on "30 Rock") told the audience that President Clinton had been assassinated. A TV was wheeled out so the now-stunned crowd could watch the early news reports. When the screen filled with wacky sports bloopers, the audience became confused then angry, leaving the theater, doubtless feeling betrayed.

I commended that piece, and still think it inspired and telling. What is it that makes Americans feel a family connection to the presidency? Yes, we are indoctrinated from birth about our unique goodness, our special qualities; and yes, the president is viewed as the father figure of American righteousness. But how much intellectual or emotional energy does it take to step back from this scenario and see it for the fable it is? If history is any guide, apparently a lot.

Last night's "Mad Men" was set against the Kennedy assassination, which fans of the show knew was coming this season. I liked the way the shooting in Dealey Plaza was introduced. Harry Crane and Pete Campbell are solemnly discussing personnel moves at Sterling Cooper and what it might mean for both, when the TV to the side of them flashes a CBS News bulletin. The sound is low, but anyone who's seen this piece of video history knew exactly what it was.

The turbulent Sixties finally hit "Mad Men."

Naturally, the show's characters were shocked, saddened, pissed, Betty Draper most annoying of all. I was four-years-old when JFK got clipped, and remember nothing of it (my sister Laura died a week later, which I also don't recall). But my parents and older relatives told me of the paralysis they felt as I romped around the room, playing with Tonka trucks and plastic Army men. There was much anguish and fear, which deepened when Jack Ruby killed Oswald on live TV. Death, violence, chaos. What had become of God's chosen America?

"Mad Men" dealt with this national emotion rather well, mixing in a seeming indifference from Roger Sterling, who not only pushes ahead with his daughter's wedding the day after the assassination (the muted, awkward tone of the event nicely captured), but doesn't appear terribly troubled by JFK's death. A pro-business Republican, Sterling probably hated Kennedy (for the same mystical reasons why many contemporary right wingers hate Obama), and I'm sure there were those who cheered Camelot's collapse. But these people remain in history's margins. When the President of the United States is murdered, or when one dies out of office, we the spectators are supposed to show grief for his death, and gratitude for his service.

Why? Why should we, who have no real political or economic power, who must rent our lives from those who do, feel such familial ties to the imperial manager? Over ninety-nine percent of those Americans who wept for JFK didn't know the man, yet most behaved as if a loved one had been suddenly yanked from existence. This illustrates not only the strength of the national myth, but the eagerness of consumers to embrace it.

An independent, critical mind can, with enough practice and conditioning, resist such authoritarian impulses. But there is no reward for such thinking, and certainly no major market. Obedience to the master narrative is required to advance professionally, most especially in politics. For the rest of us, acceptance is expected but not really necessary. Our opinions matter only to the degree a demographic needs defining, or a voting bloc catered to. Beyond that, what we think or how we react to events like assassinations is our own miserable business. You might have cried for JFK, but he sure as fuck didn't cry for you.

REACTIONS: Here are some on-the-street opinions offered by Manhattanites just after the Dallas shooting. Wonder if any Sterling Cooper staffers happened to stroll by . . .

Great Pumpkin Head

2009-10-30T13:36:00.000-04:00

Lobby Mints Mean Business

2009-10-27T09:49:00.007-04:00

She elevated above the throw pillows. Aloft, smiling, secure in her serenity. A floating beauty. People came from all over town to praise her, offer gifts, bask in her radiant glow.

Turned out her radiant glow caused cancer. The floating alone should have tipped people off. This is why I don't leave my basement.

Coach told us to give all we had. As his crew went through our pockets, we smiled at one another. The joke was on Coach. It was a bye week.

The house burned well into the night. Lit up the street like a Christmas tree, which is funny, because it was Easter.

The killer whales returned, obnoxious as ever. If they didn't have "killer" in their name, I bet more people would protest.

As as kid, I carried around a big can of Raid that I kept in a shoulder holster. Every bug was an instant duel. Five paces then SHHHOOOSH. Coated in foamy poison.

I never lost a duel. One mantis gave me a fight. Took nearly half a can to kill him. A worthy opponent. Bugs today are soft.

The bake sale tanked. I was gonna blame the buzzard pies, but they sold well last year. Must be the market.

Don't you hate movies where actors look into the camera? I don't pay good money to be watched. I can walk through the mall nude and get that for free.

The Great Bunny Spirit appeared to me one night. It rose outside my bedroom window, reassuring me that all would be well, I had nothing to fear.

Seems some local teens threw a dead rabbit at my window. They can mock my faith, but just wait until they have something to lose.

Peace is overrated. What if you want to hit something?

Kiss The Ground

2009-10-26T14:36:00.001-04:00

Wet Leaves On Windows

2009-10-23T11:14:00.009-04:00

Janice calmed Cyrus, avoiding a serial murder spree that sold papers and broke careers.

Eve's resistance to temptation came with a price, lost love bitterest of all.

Cataracts compromised Mabel's organ donor outlet, but not her community spirit.

Time passes, but kids remain the same.

Death often arrives as a group, easing the transition.

Alice never spoke of her adventures, leaving one to guess.

Muffles casually tormented Dough Boy, losing interest along the way.

U.S. Steal

2009-10-22T10:14:00.004-04:00

Several friends and a few strangers forwarded this the other day, expecting me to erupt.

"You've been ripped off!" they shouted. "This guy's cribbing Savage Mules!"

Yeah, well, yawn.

Writer Thaddeus Russell touches the same savage points I did in Mules, which isn't hard to do, once you've read a little American history. Attacking Democrats as warmongers didn't originate with me (though I think I brought my own flavor to the mix), and given my marginal status, I'm always happy to see those with a longer reach make similar arguments.

Still, it is curious how suddenly the main thrust of Mules is acceptable in certain liberal circles. The reality of Obama's rule has nudged a few people to acknowledge what cranks like me were saying a year ago. But if they are committed to exploring this critique, it would be nice to be invited into the conversation, since I did write a book about this very topic, released in the face of Obamamania, attempting to say what now can be at least partially heard.

I'm not holding my breath.

Stealing from other writers, "borrowing" in politespeak, is as common as shitting, and usually as fragrant. I've never bought into the "genius steals" concept, perhaps because I worked among comedians, where theft is rife, originality scarce, and fear and hatred drive ambition. Not every comic I knew stole bits, but a lot did; and when they discovered that audiences didn't care who originally wrote what, they were free to grab at will.

This made me crazy, and off I dashed to the reasonable, rational, well-adjusted world of lefty political writing. Before long, I realized that many comics were amateurs compared to journo-pundits up against deadlines. I saw ripping off on a regular basis, astounded by the shamelessness, but counseled that a good idea or insight is commonly owned, especially by those with recognized bylines. Several of my concepts, phrases, and critiques were openly taken and used by more celebrated figures, none of whom I'll name, but a few of which you might already know, my dear readers. Again, this was for the greater good, unlike comedy, where the sole purpose was to cash in.

This still goes on (hi Jane!), and I'm more or less resigned to it. The Web makes stealing easier, faster, and less recognizable, as readers flock to like-minded sites, anxious for daily reinforcement. Like night club patrons, countless Web surfers aren't interested in original thinking, much less in those behind it. They crave anything that might make their world less hideous, a hunger cynically and readily fed by various pen keepers. Information is supposedly power, but in our present state, it's a narcotic. Few ask who first cut the dope. Once the high hits the brain, it's the furthest thing from their minds.

Speaking of similar concepts, here's a premise I thought originally belonged to "Mr. Show," but now learn it first appeared on "Fridays" some 12-13 years before. The idea was to portray Satanists as Christian evangelicals, complete with bad wigs, Southern accents, garish staging, and pious wailing. This premise was more immediate when "Fridays" aired, when the religious right was surging in political influence. By the early-90s, the caricature of crazed preachers had been done to death. The "Mr. Show" version is still funny, perhaps even better than the "Fridays" original. But it remains a copy. What do you think?

Frozen In Fade

2009-10-20T11:13:00.005-04:00

The first dead human I saw outside of a funeral home was on Houston Street. Late 1982/early '83. Frigid icy sidewalks. Walking to my copy room job at Salomon Brothers, I came upon two cops standing over a body. He was white, gray beard frozen, bloodless fingers stiffly bent. The cops joked around, waiting for back up to arrive. As I walked past them, I stared at the dead man's face, wondering if his spirit was near, or if he was an insect husk, blown away by time.

Death has always fascinated me. It began with my sister dying at three. We shared a bedroom and were very close, at least in the fragments of memory that remain. I saw a picture of her not long ago, stirring that fading part of my mind, conjuring random images of play, sharing meals, watching cartoons on our black and white TV.

I could almost smell our small home, bright clashing shades of red, gold, and green on the walls and furniture, the silver starburst clock satellite sharp, reaching across wallpaper stripes. This is why people my age and older respond to "Mad Men." Whatever the twisted plotline or glacial character development, the living room sets are precise. The colors, patterns, and shapes eerily exact. Within this world my sister and I romped and jumped about. Until she became sick and disappeared altogether.

I don't remember her illness, nor the drawn out medical/emotional drama that preceded her death. The flu she couldn't shake turned out to be Reye's Syndrome, most likely brought on by children's aspirin which I also took, but survived. She went into a coma then passed away, right after JFK's assassination. I've been told that at her funeral, I walked to the open casket, kissed her forehead and begged her to wake up. This has either been erased from my brain or is locked deeply away. But I saw my sister Laura dead at a very early age. Since then, death has remained with me.

Recently, I read "The Other Hollywood: The Uncensored History of the Porn Film Industry" by Legs McNeil and Jennifer Osborne. Early porn is another obsession of mine, largely for personal reasons, but also because of the human anguish that littered parts of that scene. Among these horror stories is the saga of John Holmes, a truly lost soul who possessed native intelligence and hidden kindness, but was so fucked up as a kid that he never recovered, and probably had no chance.

Holmes was a pathological liar who charmed his away into various circles, culminating in porn stardom, fast money, loads of drugs and ready pussy. It was the perfect world for his talents, but ephemeral, and before long Holmes found himself on the scrap heap, hustling to survive, becoming more desperate and abusive, primarily towards his young girlfriend Dawn Schiller, who endured Holmes' coke-fueled rampages.

Inevitably, Holmes got involved with a dark, violent crowd, leading to his involvement in the Wonderland murders, where five people were savagely beaten with striated steel pipes, four of them fatally. The film "Wonderland" dramatizes the events leading up to the killings, and it isn't a pretty story. Val Kilmer plays Holmes as a pathetic sociopath, which I'm sure wasn't far from the truth, given the evidence and testimonies from those who knew Holmes.

The gritty criminal drug den scenes ring true. I bought plenty of weed in apartments like the one at Wonderland Avenue, where dealers snorted coke off album covers, their girlfriends walking around in a daze, wearing panties and Aerosmith t-shirts, handguns on the tables. Save for nearly having my head blown off by a drunken dealer who accidently fired a shotgun right next to me, I was spared the darker aspects of that world.

After watching "Wonderland," death drew me further in as I looked for more material online. At YouTube I discovered the actual police video of the Wonderland crime scene, July 1, 1981. It's not for the faint hearted, and I'll spare you the embedded footage. But if you wish to see it, click here, here, and here.

The apartment's decor takes me back to that period, which now seems more distant than ever. But the bludgeoned bodies strike a deeper chord, motionless, silent in the wake of a ferocious spasm of madness. As hard as it is to look directly at the victims, for me there's a certain truth, a recognition of our fleeting existence, honesty too pure to hide. Even here, amid liars, crooks, sociopaths, and thieves, humanity is present, frozen on their battered, swollen faces. No matter how crazed the killers were, they couldn't transcend that fact.

Death is the definitive reminder of who we are, which is probably why so many people fear its approach. For me, death is an old companion, touching my life early on. I only hope that when my appointment arrives, it'll be in a quiet room or at a relaxed moment. I'd like to touch death's face before losing touch, just to return the gesture.

Cochise In Hand

2009-10-16T12:00:00.002-04:00

Look Through The Ground

2009-10-14T11:14:00.005-04:00

Moans and muffled screams. It can't be coming from next door; the elderly woman moved out months ago. Maybe a young couple touring the house, testing its acoustics. Maybe murder. Maybe I'm hallucinating.

A siren in the distance. Coming here? On and on it wails. Then the moans cease, the siren fades. I look out the side window. No car, no lights, no people. What the hell was that all about? Perhaps madness is mutating my brain. What singular, horrifying sounds and images await me? Is this why older people talk to themselves in public?

When I sit outside my son's school, waiting for him to be dismissed, I watch the children in wheelchairs, on crutches, their small bodies twisted by birth defects, heads nodding, mouths open, arms and hands reaching, curling. What do they see? What is their subjective reality? Several yell and scream, others simply stare off, eyes widened, semi-smiles then grimaces, silent, alive.

These kids attend a school next to my son's. In his first two years there, he worked with them as part of the curriculum. He was a little freaked out at first, having never been around people with severe physical challenges. But he quickly adapted, maturing in the process.

He doesn't feel pity but respect. He's amazed how hard these kids try to achieve the simplest tasks. His father, on the other hand, fights back tears nearly every time. I was raised with an uncle in a wheelchair, back when people openly frowned upon paraplegics outside of the home or hospital. I recall food shopping with Don, noticing older women staring at him with visible fear and disgust. Don didn't care. "Fuck 'em," is all he'd say, pinching peaches for ripeness.

Don defined his environment. His legs didn't work, but his brain took up the slack. These kids are different, at least to me. Basic existence appears to be their main engine. What goes on inside them I haven't a clue, but it breaks my heart. Then my son appears, tall, gangly, long brown hair blowing across his face. He usually has a gag ready, whether throwing himself across the car's hood in slow motion, acting as if he's been hit, or informing me with a straight face that he's been expelled for reasons he cannot divulge -- but we may get a visit from the police later on.

My late Uncle Don, no slouch in the humor department, would love this kid. I'm simply crazy about him. It's the one form of craziness I find solace in. As for the other forms, well, adjustments are continually made. I'd elaborate, but a pterodactyl is trying to break through the living room window, and I must beat it back with an aluminum bat.

Fall's in full swing!

All You Need Is Nobel

2009-10-12T11:03:00.012-04:00

So happy to see some liberal derision of Obama for winning the Norwegian merit badge (Gore Vidal's apt phrase). I don't know if this signals a turn against President Savior, but you gotta start somewhere. Yet until more conclusive evidence is in, I'll stick with my contention that no significant liberal/prog mutiny will develop against Obama, especially as 2012 draws near, and the lunatic right keeps its freak show jumping.

Indeed, those reactionaries are perhaps Obama's biggest allies. The crazier they act, the more reasonable and moderate Obama seems. This also helps liberals who struggle to oppose a sitting Dem president, a position that most would rather not take, primarily against a historical figure whose name adorns their rear bumpers. But it's still early. As the shit water rises, it'll be harder to ignore the stench. Then again, many liberals can convince themselves that overflowing sewers are beautiful fountains, so horrid conditions may be denied for ideological need, or blamed solely on the right, whose power and reach is so vast that it forces Democrats to act against their better nature.

You know the lyrics.

Prizes are largely bullshit, politically determined, selectively awarded. But if money's attached, or if one's career is advanced, the allure is understandable. In Obama's case, the money must be given away, and his career cannot be bettered. How much higher can he rise? In a sense, the Norwegians punked Obama, praising him for peace while he blows apart anonymous poor people. It showed in Obama's reaction, the standard faux humility that Bill Clinton honed to a fine edge. Several liberal commenters I read thought it was a "class act," but in truth, Obama was cornered by his hypocrisy. He knew it, tried to finesse it, but the cognitive dissonance was clear. (If Obama's team was on its game, the president would've gone Brando and sent up a woman of color -- Muslim? -- to accept the award instead.)

It's impossible for an American president to embrace peace. Not part of the job description. Like telling a demolitions engineer to knock down a building with a daisy.

The optimist in me believes that as Obama steadily erodes, his admirers will acknowledge the reality that made him king, and act to counter it. But honestly, who has time for optimism these days? Check your socks for sewage stains.

600 Months For This?

2009-10-09T11:24:00.000-04:00

And here's Brother Buck (who just celebrated his 52nd) on some other guy who has the same birthday as me.

Slumbered

2009-10-08T10:59:00.002-04:00

Many dreamers had high hopes for the Web, yours truly among them. Finally, a direct way around corporate walls and filters, a means to personally express political thoughts to whomever has online access. Mainstream hysteria about bloggers reinforced this conceit. The fuckers wouldn't scream unless they were scared.

Yeah, well, hoo haw to all that.

Corporate mouthpieces still spew hostility while their outlets wither and die. But overall, their anger counts for very little. Like traditional news operations, the Web is privately owned, and therefore limited in reach and ultimate punch. As my friend Rob Payne recently put it:

"I wonder in this militarized police state we inhabit why big brother hasn’t taken control of the internet to render any independent voices silent. Most likely they just don’t see it as a threat yet as the most popular blogs are either rubber room right wing dingbats or delusional liberals who are so happy to have their man in the White House that you could sell them the Brooklyn Bridge five times in a row without raising suspicion. Even paying more attention than most is no guarantee that we can get things 'right' as it were. However, if the ruling elite ever see the internet as a direct threat to their rule, you can bet the internet’s days would be numbered, at least in the form we are now familiar with."

There's no need for the state to step online and quell dissent, whatever form it takes. We are so depoliticized and scattered to the commercial winds that any "direct threat" to corporate rule would require a change in present consciousness so dramatic, so revolutionary, that it cannot be defined by present thinking. This is why we're indefinitely locked into this fixed system: the basic requirements of real change have yet to be articulated, much less defined or deeply understood. There are flashes on the periphery, some rustling here and there, but nothing that would seriously alarm our owners. For them, the Web is another form of control.

This is not to say that the Web can't be bent in a more democratic direction. It's a tool like so much else. All that's required is desire, drive, courage, tactical intelligence, and patience. Endless, bottomless patience. For if real change becomes even remotely decipherable, reaction will be swift, merciless, crushing. We'd have to be able to take beating after beating, getting back on our feet and pressing on. Not easy, not fun, and for countless proles, most undesirable. Voting is simpler, fantasies more soothing -- to the extent one's pain can be adequately numbed by dreams.

Zeus Is A Jerk

2009-10-07T09:33:00.003-04:00

Do you like this site?

Do I in any way help you cope with the bullshit while making you smile, perhaps even laugh?

Does my large head frighten you?

Well, there's not much I can do about the canned ham atop my shoulders. But if you get something positive or useful from my varied efforts, then please hit the PayPal button and contribute what you can.

Things is tight, y'all. Plus, I live in the worst state economically. Yet I still create different ways of dealing with the American madhouse (which larger, more lucrative bloggers have had no problem, umm, "borrowing") for free. You know the fractured piano tune. So help if you are so inclined or financially able. I'll keep chopping away at this petrified system, a song in my heart, and Bosch-like images dancing in my head.

Speaking of musical sights, here's the awesome Janis Joplin, from Dick Cavett's ABC show, June 25, 1970. Janis was an early symbol of freedom to me; I gazed at her album "Pearl" and fantasized about living the bohemian life. I was only 11, but she struck a serious chord. I wasn't aware of Janis' personal hell and the conditions that led to her tragic end. To me she personified all that was/is great about creative expression. But that, like so much else, comes with a price. Dig her.