What a Fool Believes

On Sergio De La Pava's A Naked Singularity

Fri, 25 May 2012 14:31:00 -0400

After reluctantly putting down Sergio De La Pava’s A Naked Singularity for the night, about a hundred pages into the novel, I thought, This could be one of my favorite books. Two hundreds pages in I thought, I think this is one of my favorite books. After finishing it last night I thought, This is definitely one of my favorite books. Holy fuck, I love this book.

I first came across A Naked Singularity in 2010 thanks to a post on The Millions. Here was a self-published tome that was garnering attention not from some savvy self-marketing campaign but by the far more exciting word of mouth. In the post was a link to a review in The Quarterly Conversation. I didn’t read it. Around this time I ceased reading book and film reviews until after reading or watching the work reviewed so as not to spoil anything. (Music reviews were fine though.) I added the book to my reading list.

And it sat there until earlier this year when the University of Chicago Press picked up the novel and published it in April. Along with UCP’s publishing, I saw posts from a pair of respectable gentlemen, and thought the time was right. (Especially with that new, optical illusion cover. You can’t judge a book by its cover but you can certainly pass over it for a time.)

I could tear my own head off for waiting.

This ridiculously-awesome book is about Casi, a twenty-four-year-old guy of Colombian descent, living in Brooklyn, working in Manhattan as a public defender, and “what happens when his sense of justice and even his sense of self begin to crack—and how his world then slowly devolves.” It’s a lot funnier than that sounds. A Naked Singularity is hilarious. And not hilarious in the traditional literary sense where you acknowledge the humor but don’t actually laugh. You will laugh out loud when reading this book. It is the coveted fucking hilarious. Just check the passage that Miles Klee excerpted in the link above. That’s what sealed the deal for me, when I read that passage.

But this isn’t strictly a work of humor. De La Pava’s book is also astoundingly erudite, joyfully digressive, and surprisingly compassionate. There’s a reason why “DFW” gets thrown around in reviews.

And speaking of influences, you’ll also hear “Pynchon”, “Coover”, and “Gaddis”. I’ve only read “The Babysitter” by Robert Coover thus far—which was stunning—so I can’t say much about that comparison. I have read those other jokers though and I can say De La Pava’s got dialogue and intelligence like William Gaddis and expanse and comedy like Thomas Pynchon. Like David Foster Wallace, he’s learned from these post-modern titans and used that knowledge to construct his own excitingly-modern voice and create a novel that is big with ideas yet entertaining as hell. Whether philosophical workplace dialogue, fascinating biographical sections about boxer Wilfred Benitez, comically-nightmarish court hearings, a thrilling heist, or empathetic exchanges between Casi and a death row inmate with the mind of an eight-year-old, De La Pava crushes it.

I’ve recommended things here before. I don’t think I could recommend A Naked Singularity enough. I think this novel gets to something important about us and our times—like White Noise and Infinite Jest before it. I think it’s going to be a Classic. You should read this fucking thing. Seriously. Shit will alter your space-time.

[Buy A Naked Singularity here.]

Fun Facts: Dentists

Tue, 22 May 2012 14:53:00 -0400

Dentists patch up their own wounds using metal fillings. This is just one of the many reasons why Dentists have issues with metal detectors.
Dentists have ceased to complain about the lack of a dentist television show by creating their own: Dentistry. Dentistry is a heavily-improvised comedy series which uses real patients—unbeknownst to them. A recent episode contained a hilarious sequence where an eight-year-old was unable to rinse with fluoride for the prescribed thirty seconds and so had to do three rinses at ten seconds each. Dentistry is produced by the American Dental Association and episodes are distributed at national, as well as, regional functions.
Dentists believe vagina dentata would not be such a bad thing if brushed twice a day and treated with a monthly fluoride regimen.
A Dentist certainly would not like a sugar-riddled soda, thankyouverymuch.
Saint Apollonia, the Patron Saint of Dentistry, was blessed with this honor after having been persecuted and tortured. Her torture consisted of having all her teeth torn from her mouth. Those “suffering” a toothache from too much cotton candy never seem to hear her response to their prayers: “Oh, fuck off!”
Another of the many reasons why Dentists have issues with metal detectors is because they’re illegally carrying concealed Micro-Uzis. “Plaque is serious, Officer,” being the standard excuse issued to the Police.
Every time a bell rings, a Dentist gets its teeth. This is because the tooth they are pulling from a patient’s mouth is tied with fishing line to the clapper of a bell which, when rung, yanks the tooth free from the gums.
1 out of 25 Dental Hygienists die from halitosis exposure each year.
For the past century, Dentists from across the globe have been collecting wisdom teeth and piecing them together, much like a rubber band ball, to create The Great Wisdom Tooth. Dentists believe that any day now The Great Wisdom Tooth will present them with the knowledge of how to eradicate ~~non-Dentists~~ tooth decay from the world forever.

After much finagling with the manager over a coupon for quarter...

Fri, 18 May 2012 13:30:00 -0400

After much finagling with the manager over a coupon for quarter rates, Jan was able to procure the conference room at the Days Inn in Lakewood, Ohio. Her trip to the Cleveland area had been just short of a complete disaster. First, her luggage was lost by Delta. Luckily she had placed Quimby and an outfit—though calling her yoga clothes in outfit was stretching it—into her carry-on. Everything else was gone. Candles, crystals, tarot cards, shawls, oils, runes, mat, planchette, ouija board, trumpet, bowls, and pendulum—all of it. Then her rental car got egged by a trio of imps. She would’ve placed a hex on the middle-schoolers but, without her runes and trumpet, she had to let them escape unpunished. Lastly, there wasn’t one psychic, astrology, or divination shop in all of Cleveland. The list she had found online was full of lies. Each shop had been possessed by some incubus—demons like Ace Hardware and Taco Bell. After picking up what supplies she could in the little time before the séance, she prayed in her yolk-covered rental to Gaia for her trials to cease.

Jan unrolled the gauze bandages for her summoning mat on the conference room carpet. The event had been going well thus far. The twelve attendees seemed fairly interested in her teachings, making Jan believe the behind-the-wheel prayers to Gaia were working. They now sat patiently in the metal fold-out chairs as she prepared for the séance portion of the program. It was 2:30 so she was going to have to speed things up—she only had the room rented until 3:00 when preparation for a local seniors dance that evening was to begin.

“Would someone please dim the lights?” Jan asked, removing Quimby, the skull of her mentor, which she used to connect with the spirit realm.

The attendees looked around at one another before a tall man with stringy red hair and painted nails got up and went to the lights.

“There’s no dimmer switch.”

“Ok. How about lights off?”

The man turned off the conference room lights. It was pitch black. Jan tripped over her CVS bag of supplies and crashed down on the carpet.

“Shit. On, please!”

Jan collected herself. She requested the attendees assemble their chairs in a circle around her, hold hands, and close their eyes. She got down on the floor and into position. The gauze mat clung to the sweat on her back. She made a silent prayer to Gaia. With Quimby on her Sacral Chakra, she closed her eyes and began the séance.

“If there is anyone from the spirit realm who would like to contact the land of the living, the window is open for you,” Jan said, the fluorescent lights burning through her lids and beginning to give her a migraine. The attendees sat quietly.

Minutes passed before Jan heard a swish. From the same corner of the room, a wavering voice said, “Hello?”

“Hello, Spirit,” Jan said, relieved that things were working for once. “What would you like to communicate to the land of the living?”

“Am I early?”

“No, Spirit, the time is perfect.”

There was jingling and shuffling. The Spirit was approaching, Jan could feel it.

The Spirit stopped before Jan’s feet. She heard it take a deep breath.

“Are you sure I’m not too early for the dance?”

“The dance…?” Jan said, opening her eyes. Before her was not a spirit—well, maybe a soon-to-be—but a stout elderly woman in a lavender dress, bracelets lining her wrists.

“Oh, dear,” the woman said, staring at Quimby in Jan’s lap. “I am early.” The woman shuffled back out of the conference room.

Jan sighed, tried to pull it back together. “Ok, everyone. Let’s try this—”

“Mam?” It was the hotel manager now, from the same location the woman had first spoken from: by the door. “It’s three o’clock.”

The attendees looked down at Jan, showing, for the first time that afternoon, the awe of revelation.

“You heard the spirit,” Jan said. She unlatched Quimby’s dome and gazed inside his empty skull. “It doesn’t want me here.”

Fist CommunionI remember my Fist Communion like it was...

Thu, 17 May 2012 11:37:14 -0400

Fist Communion

I remember my Fist Communion like it was yesterday.

Because it was yesterday.

There was no papal stooge in a frosted nightgown to feed me spoiled table wine and stale crackers. No stained glass celebrating sheep. No martyrs frozen in agony.

What I got was a punch in the face by each cast member of The Expendables.

Just like Jesus intended.

My face is battered and bruised and sloshes around like a beanbag chair but I am closer to that which is Holy.

And I got a cake! Dolph Lundgren held my face in it, of course, while I was ordered by Sylvester Stallone to eat my way out or suffocate. It was red velvet—Sorry, BLOOD VELVET—so there was no problem. Mickey Rourke was the one who selected the delicious flavor. So I thanked him.

With a smack in the mouth.

FIST COMMUNION!

vintageanchor: “The heart of a mother is a deep abyss at the...

Mon, 14 May 2012 17:18:28 -0400

vintageanchor:

“The heart of a mother is a deep abyss at the bottom of which you will always find forgiveness”
– Honore de Balzac

Remember when Dennis Franz showed off his rump on NYPD Blue?

Talk about The Wild Ass’s Skin, AM I RIGHT?

—Yohh-ee-yay-ee-HIIIIIIIII-OHH-AYYYYYYY-YAAAY-YAAAY-ohh-hii...

Mon, 14 May 2012 16:46:30 -0400

—Yohh-ee-yay-ee-HIIIIIIIII-OHH-AYYYYYYY-YAAAY-YAAAY-ohh-hiiiiiiih-hun-oh-OH-yun-huh-un-oh-huh-YAAAAAA-YAA! Ohh-oh-ee-ee-ohh-ohh-ay-uh-un! Oh-OH-oh-ohuh-eh-ayyyyyynnnnnnnnnnnn.

—Wow.

—Impressive, right?

—Yes, but that’s “Return To Innocence”.

—Yeah, I know.

—By Enigma.

—Huh?

—That song is by Enigma, not Enya.

—Not…Enya…?

—Nope.

—Are you kidding?

—Nope.

—Do you know how many times I listened to that song so I could transcribe it just so?

—Sorry.

—…I’ve made a huge mistake.

On Loveless [Remastered]

Thu, 10 May 2012 14:26:50 -0400

It’s a subtle touch—one you feel as the album swells. You notice sounds being fresher than before, as if the tapes were cleaned like an archaeologist brushing bones—only the find’s not bones but vibrant, undulating flesh. Each syllable of guitar growl is heard, the whirling layers above and the swirling layers below more defined. The vocals, though still blurred, are no longer a specter somewhere in the room but one looming in your personal space. It sounds like it was recorded today. It’s hungrier. It’s lustier. Soon it will consume you.

[Stream currently available via The Guardian]

We were assigned to write a story in my seventh grade English...

Fri, 04 May 2012 14:17:49 -0400

We were assigned to write a story in my seventh grade English class. It could be about anything. I was pumped. All writing up to that point had come with strict parameters, restraints—shit that bored me. This assignment destroyed all the rules in my mind. This was fiction—boundless, imaginative. The teacher’s idea was for us to learn not so much how to write fiction but the draft process, revisions, editing. I ignored that.

What I decided to write was a story based upon one of my favorite videos of the time (and all-time), the Spike Jonze-directed 70s cop movie homage, “Sabotage” by the Beastie Boys. I was obsessed with the video (and the song), just as I was, at the time, with NYPD Blue and Serpico. I had thoughts about becoming a detective then but I think my fascination was more of a general interest in investigation—though, investigating art and life more than murder. Also, it just looked really cool. (Have you seen Al Pacino in Serpico? The hair, the shades, the beard, the beads, the bike? He looks awesome. And that’s how the real Frank Serpico was!) But unlike NYPD Blue, which I could see on network television, and Serpico, which I could rent for free from the public library, my exposure to the thoroughly cool “Sabotage” was far less—I didn’t have MTV. So when I decided to write a story about the video, it wasn’t one of those literary adaptations of a movie, me playing the video over and over again to meticulously capture every moment in prose. I was going by memory. Plus, I was expanding, indulging. The video was really a trailer to the story I had planned.

I was up to twenty-two pages on “Sabotage” when the story was due. Of my first draft. The other kids in my class had written stories of a few pages, revised them on the second and third, and were ready to turn in the final. I was just getting warmed up. The scene I recall being on was the one where Cochese was tied to a chair, a bomb ticking down on a table before him. His partners are about to bust down the door with some karate kicks. They free him and the three rush out of the building, across the street, sliding over the hood of their car, just before the building explodes. Later, they track down the bad guys and put them down. But I had to turn in what I had. I think I got a B—the teacher wrote something about how creative it was but couldn’t go higher because, well, I hadn’t completed my assignment. I wish I could’ve finished it. There was a lot more of the story to tell.

meghanagain: Last week I went to lunch with three of my...

Thu, 03 May 2012 16:27:00 -0400

meghanagain:

Last week I went to lunch with three of my coworkers. We went to a tapas place located two blocks from our office. This place is a good place, and new to our lunch hour rotation. It is not very hard to find a good place to eat in our neighborhood, actually it is a pretty great neighborhood for eating, but I have worked here for nearly five years and so have grown tired of the usual lunch specials: the greasy plates of Thai basil tofu served with free side salad (iceberg lettuce, tomato slice, carrot shavings, half teaspoon peanut sauce); the undercooked veggie burgers dressed with chipotle aioli and served with free pop (six ounce glass, half ice); the 12” Subway Veggie Delight that think I will eat half of and save the rest for later only then I eat slightly more than half and it doesn’t seem worth it so I eat the whole thing served with the half-cooked chocolate chip cookie that is really the only reason to go to Subway. The tapas place doesn’t dally in lunch specials. It serves what it serves. It is a good place.

We were all having bad days, or slightly bad days, and it was grey out and cool. The waitress asked how many and we said four and she repeated “FOUR!” like this was very shocking, and I made a joke about that and she looked at me like I was very crazy. We were seated in the back, at a table next to a well-dressed young man who was drinking tea and reading the paper. There was no one else in the back and there was something strange about it, lit too brightly and with boxes piled up in the corner booth. We sat and we looked at our menus and I said something probably about tzatziki and then the man, sitting next to us, his phone began to ring. He didn’t acknowledge it and the phone rang and rang and then stopped ringing. My coworkers and I looked at each other and rolled our eyes. Then the man’s phone rang again, and he looked at it, and he sighed, and he picked up the phone and he said, a little too loudly, “WHAT.” I held the menu over my face to hide my laughter. “WHAT,” said the man. “NO. NO. NO. … I ONLY HAVE … I ONLY HAVE ONE BLUE SHIRT! ONE! BLUE! SHIRT!”

At this point I was giggling but nervous about my giggling, because the man was so loud and because I was not particularly in the mood to get into a fight with someone. This man seemed like the kind of man who would get into a fight with you, the kind of man who would be on the phone yelling about shirts and drinking only a tea in a small restaurant with a brisk lunch business, the kind of man who would welcome the opportunity to fight if you just caught his eye the wrong way. And with a drink in me, or a bad day, or a direct insult, I will fight a man like that. It is not a thing that I am particularly proud of; it is not brave or honorable so much as it is defiant and stubborn. I’ve elbowed people at rock concerts, I’ve told a guy on the subway that he better not fucking raise his voice to me. In middle school an unimaginative bully every day used to sit next to me so that when it came time to get off the bus I had to beg her to move. One day, finally, I braced myself against the seats and shoved my entire side into hers. She was bigger than me, much bigger, and so technically it was a wasted effort but at the time it felt like the only thing that would release me from her.

More people were seated in our section and things with this man escalated. He got louder, and took more calls, and shouted worse and worse things. He stood up. He cursed. Adrenaline pumped through me. My coworkers and I stopped laughing and instead sat there with miserable expressions fixed on our faces, trying to tell each other stories that could overwhelm the situation. It was terrible. The man tried to engage us, asked us if the ring on his phone was BOTHERING YOU and if so then SORRY IT DOESN’T TURN OFF. We averted our eyes. The waitress did, too, and the other diners nearby. One of my coworkers leaned close to us all and said, it’s like we’re on one of those hidden camera shows. We agreed that being on a hidden camera show would be a great relief. Like Boiling Points, I said. Where you win money. Instead of real life, where you have 60 minutes to unwind your feelings and instead they get wrapped tighter and tighter around an uncontrollable and cruel thing.

There are two bathrooms in this restaurant and one of them had a sign on it that said Out of Order and I was looking up, at the bathroom, and then suddenly the door to that bathroom opened and a television crew walked out. It felt like thousands of people but it was only four, or five maybe, a crew from the Anderson Cooper daytime talk show led by a producer who proudly announced that the asshole who had been ruining our lunch was in fact an actor, and we were all the lucky victims of a “social experiment” about rudeness in public places. The actor threw up his hands and said “sorry everybody! sorry!” and the waitress set our food down with an apologetic smile and suddenly we were surrounded by people with releases in their hands, asking if we’d sign, asking if we’d want to come on the show and talk about our experience. “We got some great reaction shots of you!” said the producer to one of my coworkers, the one who had been having the worst day of all. They pointed out the hidden cameras and I looked at the lights that were lit too brightly.

I waited for the flow of adrenaline to subside but it didn’t, not exactly. I still felt like fighting but in a different way. Like I’d tried to shove the bully back but it hadn’t made a difference—the anger was there but the outlet had sealed. I did not feel like eating, and also the waitress had got my order wrong, and also our lunch break was fast coming to a close. A producer was working the room, briefly pausing at each table to ask us questions and then disappearing before we’d finished answering. He asked us why we hadn’t asked the man to quiet down and we answered almost in unison: don’t engage with crazy. The producer frowned. Had the actor seemed crazy? And before we could respond he was at the actor’s side, whispering notes to him. I waited for the producer to say that they’d be paying for our food. He did not. I skimmed the release. I signed the release. I could have said no but I was trying to stay upbeat. I was trying to have a good lunch. Several of the others seated in our section did not sign the release and so in the segment you see us, a lot. I’m pressing my lips together, pulling at my hair, my mouth twitching with a combination of amusement and fear. The whole thing is a little bit funny, or it is not very funny at all. It depends on how I tell it.

In the end, the telling is all I have. The details I siphon off and the details I embellish. Whether or not I tell you that ultimately what I felt was not anger or amusement but a profound helplessness. When it was a man being awful in the back of a restaurant, I couldn’t do anything. When it was an actor being awful in the back of a restaurant, I could do less. I had been working with rules that were not rules. I had made assumptions based on experience and observations, assumptions made invalid by a crew of people wedged in a small unisex bathroom. On the way back to the office we made jokes about The Truman Show; later in the week I felt a particular pang watching The Cabin in the Woods. None of us went on the show to talk about our experience. The first time I watched our segment I did it with the sound off. There is a lot that I cannot control and I am working on understanding that but for now I am telling you, this is what happened to me. This is how I felt when I lost my favorite part of my workday, when we weren’t even on fucking Boiling Points, when I got up in the morning and the world decided how to be.

These motherfuckers. Hiding in the toilet like three a.m. roaches and conducting their useless “social experiments.” They don’t foot the bill? They don’t let you meet Anderson Cooper? (Though, would that really have made a difference? The comfort of a thank you or apology from this “silver fox” “newsman”? The presence of a star to spellbind you and purify the situation? Maybe we need to speak to someone who’s been dragged into a like-minded show, ABC’s Primetime: What Would You Do?, and got to meet and be soothed by John Quiñones and his big teddy bear demeanor after witnessing actors play out a scene of rampant racism. Did Quiñones erase your helplessness? Did he at least pay for your dinner?)

Sorry, Meghan. But as you said, you have the telling—and you know how to do some telling. Plus! Bonus! We can share your telling!

HULK BLARF!What happens to the undigested food in Dr. Bruce...

Wed, 02 May 2012 17:22:51 -0400

HULK BLARF!

What happens to the undigested food in Dr. Bruce Banner’s stomach when he flips the fuck out and all that ingrained gamma transforms him into that massive green mammoth of rage, the Hulk?

My knowledge of the comic world is subatomic so I don’t know if an issue has ever been devoted to this. Probably? Some goofy issue in the late 70s/early 80s where the current scribes were like,
-What the hell do we do with Hulk this week?
-Well, he just beat the shit out of the Toad Men so…
-We need to come down from that epicness.
-Yeah, a little respite for Hulk.
-What if he tells kids not to do drugs?
-Thor just did that.
-Thor? Really?
-Yeah, he smashed a junkie’s kit with his war hammer.
-Hmm… You know, what I’ve always wondered is what happens—
-To Bruce Banner’s undigested food when he changes to the Hulk?
-Holy shit! Yes!
-That’s our issue!

Or maybe none of that happened.

But don’t you wonder?

Like, if Bruce Banner gets angry, does the beef burrito he just finished at the lab get angry, too? Is there an enlarged, green beef burrito trying to smash its way out of Hulk’s guts? So he pukes, right? And the bile and the stomach fluids and the beef burrito all battle one another on their way out, only to perish on the busted-up street where Hulk just landed for a showdown with Mephisto. Sounds reasonable, right?

Or is this like the pants thing?

Am I supposed to suspend my disbelief about that gigantic Chipotle—you know Hulk loves some Chipotle—barbacoa burrito getting insanely angry in his tummy just as I am about those pants of his that somehow tolerate the rage that shirts, shoes, and the portion of the pants from the knees down cannot?

I want answers about this, Stan Lee!

[Image from Avengers #1 1/2 (October 1999)]

On The Flaming Lips and Heady Fwends

Wed, 02 May 2012 12:41:45 -0400

The buzzed interpolation of The Stooges’ “1970” for “2012 (You Must Be Upgraded)”, which trades in Detroit distortion for guitars like fried car alarms and busted dial-up modems.
That “2012 (You Must Be Upgraded)” features Biz Markie and that that feature is an incomprehensible two seconds of startled-awake garble.
The “Ghost of Michael McDonald”/”Kenny Loggins as LSDeity” duet between Bon Iver and Wayne Coyne on “Ashes in the Air”.
The drums like “The virgin blood is running down the pyramid and into the God’s mouth so I’m just gonna shimmy all night long in His honor” on “Supermoon Made Me Want to Pee”.
The appropriate de-evolution, destruction, and apocalyptic insanity of the animated video for “Supermoon Made Me Want to Pee”, featuring ghosts of Christmas trees and a missing link pissing on a human skull.
The segue from “Supermoon” into “Children of the Moon”.
“Children“‘s cosmic relaxation—like swaying in a hammock tied to rocks in the rings of Saturn, soaking up Titan’s glow.
The Nick Cave cascade and delivery of “You can touch me if you want!” on “You, Man? Human???”.
Side B (“Supermoon” through “You, Man? Human???”).
Yoko Ono’s manic imp bouncing around its master, starved for the action and effects of whatever the “It” of “Do It!” brings about.
The majestically-facing-Melancholia-as-it-crushes-Earth performance by Erykah Badu on “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face”.
Chris Martin’s dorky-yet-endearing last line on the “Imagine”-quoting “I Don’t Want You to Die”.
The range of guest stars/The focus of the collection.

\m/[sic]\m/

Fri, 27 Apr 2012 15:06:52 -0400

\m/[sic]\m/

PJ Harvey: “Meet Ze Monsta [Live 6/24/95-Glastonbury...

Fri, 27 Apr 2012 14:09:34 -0400

PJ Harvey: “Meet Ze Monsta [Live 6/24/95-Glastonbury Festival]”

The video is shaky and a little grainy, fitting for footage of supernatural creatures. The audio is precise, her yelps and husky tones captured amidst the subterranean buzzes, squelches, and clarion calls. She struts and commands in a hot pink catsuit. If she spotted you, eyes piercing through your hiding place behind the lens, you would plead to be taken into her world, even if she reduced you to static like the one who held the camera before you. She smiles then. You think, Hell, why wait?, then rush to her.

Fifty Shades of Whey

Wed, 25 Apr 2012 12:25:10 -0400

E: Do we have one of those cute little ice cream scoops?

L: Cute little ice cream scoops?

E: Yeah. Like a regular ice cream scoop but small and, thus, cute.

L: For?

E: Melon balls to put on a string and into your butt.

L: Don’t foods in domains like that breed infection?

E: Rich people pour champagne on their butts all the time and—

L: Pet owners love peanut butter.

E: I’ve told you that one?

L: Yes.

E: It’s good, right? You kind of skipped a bunch of it, but…

L: Not particularly.

E: Hmm. What about that scoop?

L: There’s actually a tool specifically for that.

E: Really?

L: Yes. A melon baller.

E: Wow, technology. Well what about that melon baller?

L: I don’t really like melons. Cantaloupe, honeydew, muskmelon, what-have-you—never cared for them.

E: What about watermelon? You like watermelon.

L: I suppose that’s true.

E: Do we have watermelon? Seedless? No, what’s the fun in that? Always go seeds.

L: What would I do with them? You’re not going to want them.

E: We’d use a spittoon. Or a—

L: Shittoon.

E: I’ve told you that one, too?

L: Yes.

E: And?

L: Same feelings as the other.

E: Huh. Back to the drawing board. Hmm… What about dairy?

L: We don’t have an ice cream scoop, if you’re still hung up on that.

E: We don’t have an ice cream scoop? How do we not have an ice cream scoop? We love ice cream.

L: I know.

E: Next you’re going to tell me we don’t have a melon baller either.

L: Add them to the list.

E: What a world. I will. But I wasn’t thinking about those anymore. Wouldn’t need them. I was thinking about curds and whey.

L: That sounds even more infectious.

E: Come on, it’s rustic.

L: Rustic?

E: Yeah. A rustic scene of antiquity. I’ll be a baron. From Scotland. Swarthy and draconian. You’ll be a peasant girl—supple and yielding—of a small village whose dairy is well-renowned. Night will come and I will demand sustenance. You will accede and I will explore your body in the MOOOOOOnlight.

L: …

E: I know you haven’t heard that one.

L: …

E: Come on, that was good.

L: …

E: I’m using the shittoon alone tonight, aren’t I?

A Fool for History: April 18

Wed, 18 Apr 2012 17:36:00 -0400

1025: Bolesław I Chrobry becomes the first King of Poland. Though he was known as a “remarkable politician, strategist and statesman”, who led several successful military campaigns and brought together the Polish lands, he will always be overshadowed by his younger brother, Colesław, whose salad of cabbage, carrots, buttermilk, and mayonnaise gained him immortality.
1666: Jean-Féry Rebel is born. He played violin and composed French Baroque pieces. I don’t know what’s particularly rebellious about that. He didn’t wear a leather jacket when he played or skip class to smoke cigarettes beside his motorcycle or stick it to the man by starting an uprising against a town’s no-dancing law or anything. Some Rebel.
1923: Yankee Stadium opens in New York City. Though its most common nickname is “The House That Ruth Built”, for legendary baseball player Babe Ruth, the stadium is also referred to as “The House That Fathers and Their Young Children in Boston Red Sox Shirts Get Surrounded then Screamed and Booed At by Yankees Fans In Front of the Urinals in the Bleacher Seats Bathroom”.
1980: Zimbabwe gains independence from the United Kingdom. Despite their freedom, they still have to drive over to Botswana to get all the good fireworks.
1988: The United States Navy launches Operation Praying Mantis against Iran. Inspired by the Robert A. Heinlein novel Starship Troopers, the U.S. Navy unleashed a squadron of praying mantises who went on to copulate, behead, and consume three armed Iranian speedboats, one Iranian frigate, and one fast attack gunboat.
2012: “America’s Oldest Teenager” Dick Clark passes away. Upon reaching Heaven, Clark is pleasantly surprised to find not Saint Peter waiting but his old friend and colleague Ed McMahon, not the pearly gates but a doorway through a $25,000 Pyramid, and not angels but a party of teenagers dancing to rock and roll.

2Pac Hologram at Coachella 2012…FIRST CODICIL TO THE LAST...

Mon, 16 Apr 2012 17:18:00 -0400

2Pac Hologram at Coachella 2012

…

FIRST CODICIL TO THE LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF JOSHUA Z LUFT
DATED APRIL 16, 2012

I, JOSHUA Z LUFT, a resident of Brooklyn, New York do hereby make, publish, and declare this to be the First Codicil to my Last Will and Testament dated April 16, 2012.

Article I.

I hereby declare that, upon my death, my Executor should totally use a hologram of me in my prime for Coachella concerts featuring Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg, icebreakers, retooled scenes in the Star Wars series to replace Jake Lloyd, Hayden Christensen, and Sebastian Shaw as Anakin Skywalker/Darth Vader, corporate meetings, “Beam me up, Scotty!” jokes, scaring children, “Hologram Hootenannies”, camping trips with the ‘rents, the Food Network’s show “Cooking with a Hologram”, lonely shopping excursions, and anything else that a hologram of myself could make more fun.

I do declare this to be the First Codicil of my Last Will and Testament dated April 16, 2012.

Best Wishes in Holography Hijinx,

JOSHUA Z LUFT
Testator/Future Performing Hologram

I finally got to see Batman Returns again last night. For the...

Mon, 16 Apr 2012 13:23:01 -0400

I finally got to see Batman Returns again last night. For the past couple of years I’ve been dying to re-watch it, only to be teased by the TV when I find the film and it’s already halfway over.
It was on Current TV—the Al Gore channel that just canned Keith Olbermann—as the “Political Movie of the Night” or something. The host of the program, Brett Erlich, joked that Batman Returns wasn’t really a political movie but an animal movie. However, it actually is quite political. With a recall, a shady, rich businessman funding a campaign, and a villainous candidate, it isn’t much different than what’s currently happening in my home state of Wisconsin. All you have to do is exchange The Penguin and Max Shreck for Scott Walker and the Koch Brothers. Too bad Wisconsin doesn’t have a Batman—Ahman Green, where are you now?
There are several biblical allusions in the film, mostly in regards to The Penguin. Like Jesus, he’s born around the end of December, has a “missing” period of his life, is betrayed by his disciples, and dies at the age of 33. Like Moses, he heralds a plague of death to firstborns.
Batman/Bruce Wayne has surprisingly little screen time considering his name’s on the title. He’s more of a supporting player to the true leads, The Penguin/Oswald Cobblepot and Catwoman/Selina Kyle.
Tim Burton should give Johnny Depp a break and put Michael Keaton in his next string of films. Keaton is a great actor with such a welcome and exciting presence.
Good luck, Anne Hathaway. Hathaway, who’s playing Catwoman/Selina Kyle in this summer’s The Dark Knight Rises, is a very good actress—which not a lot of people seem to give her credit for. With the “reboot” of The Joker in The Dark Knight, I don’t think the worry over the character was justified. In Batman, Jack Nicholson as “The Joker” was “Jack Nicholson as The Joker.” Heath Ledger was “The Joker.” With Hathaway the worry is warranted. Like Ledger, Michelle Pfeiffer became the role. As Catwoman/Selina Kyle, Pfeiffer was intelligent, vulnerable, divided, sexy, fun, and a latex-clad agent of feminine rage. She was the ideal of the character and, arguably, the greatest and most memorable creation of the Tim Burton Batmans. (The villains of Jack Nicholson and Danny DeVito were wonderfully over-the-top but somewhat predictably—you think more of the actors than the characters. Michael Keaton’s Batman was obviously great and memorable, but his haunted and subdued portrayal makes him the center, the ground, which is naturally less distinct.) Considering how memorable and popular Burton’s takes remain—and how often they are compared and contrasted to Christopher Nolan’s—Anne Hathaway has a hell of a suit to fill.

An Open Letter to Axl Rose

Thu, 12 Apr 2012 14:26:10 -0400

Dear Axl,

Hey man! How’s it going? I don’t know if you remember me or not—I’m the dolphin from the “Estranged” video. Remember that one? You were getting chased by the SWAT team in some big mansion and then there were some flashbacks and stuff and then you were on an oil tanker and you—Oh man, you were crazy!—you jumped off the oil tanker! Then Gilby or somebody threw you a life preserver and you were all like “Naw!” and then maybe Duff—I’m bad with their names. “The Other Guys”, am I right?—comes paddling over in a stupid little boat—During a goddamn hurricane!—and you’re all like “Naw!” again. We met right after all that. You were floating in the “ocean” in your Charles Manson t-shirt and Converse high-tops. I swam around you—There was another dolphin, too, but he’s an asshole. Forget about him.—and, like, rescued you. And we were all “Use Your Illusion!” It was so cool, man! You remember that? What am I saying? Of course you do! Sorry, man, I’m just really excited to be talking to you again. Well, hoping to be talking to you again. Which brings me to why I’m writing.

I read your open letter on the GN’R Facebook page yesterday. You’re not going to The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame? That’s a, um… That’s a pretty badass move, man. I wouldn’t expect anything less from a visionary. ‘Cause, really, fuck the Hall of Fame. Right? If they put the Red Hot Chili Peppers in there they’ll put in anyone. And “The Other Guys”? Fuck them and their reunion, too! It’s all about you, Axl. You’re the Genius. Who did Chinese Democracy? That was all you and that was perfect!

The only thing that’s left is the fans. Now if fans don’t understand your decision then they’re not die-hard fans. Of course. But… Well… Maybe you could still come? Maybe…? Playing with the current line-up, of course. That’s the best one! That’s the only one! ‘Cause, like, I… Uh… I already bought my ticket for the Induction Ceremony. I saw GN’R and I was like “HELL YES.” No questions. I’m a die-hard, man, what can I say? I couldn’t wait. And there’s, uh… It’s not like a big deal or anything but… Being an older dolphin actor, I… Um… You see I don’t have a lot of money. Things have kind of dried up for me. I wouldn’t throw down for something like this if it wasn’t GN’F’NR, you know? So maybe you could still do it…? I just want to see you play, man. That’s what it’s all about. And think of it this way: I saved you in “Estranged” and now you’d be saving me. That’s cool, right? And that’s not a guilt thing. Definitely not. It’s, like, support and loyalty and ROCK AND ROLL! Yeah! GN’F’NR!

Thanks for your time, Axl. I really hope to hear from you soon. Maybe we’ll take another swim like we talked about! “Estranged, Pt. II”! Use Your Illusion III!

Best,

The Dolphin from the “Estranged” Video

Pulp: “Common People [Late Night with Jimmy Fallon,...

Tue, 10 Apr 2012 12:28:58 -0400

Pulp: “Common People [Late Night with Jimmy Fallon, 4/9/12]”

Has anyone checked Jarvis Cocker’s attic for a withered portrait? There may be some Picture of Dorian Gray business happening here. The man is coming up on fifty and he’s dancing around the stage and leaping atop monitors with the grace of a man half his age.

He’ll never age like common people / He’ll never die like common people do

Face ValueWhile walking around the neighborhood Saturday, I came...

Mon, 09 Apr 2012 16:12:26 -0400

Face Value

While walking around the neighborhood Saturday, I came across this poker-faced portrait of Philip David Charles “Phil” Collins, LVO spray-painted on the sidewalk. Compelled to share this image beyond those who happen to walk by or over it, I snapped a photo of it.

What happened next was rather strange. Even by Phil Collins standards.

As I was assessing the photo for maximum clarity in its uncompromising Philitude, the stenciled image began to spin upon the sidewalk, morphing into a whirlpool of smoke and light. I leaned in closer to examine it. The smoke proved to be swirling galaxies and the light the glitter of stars shining in and around the interstellar dust. It was a wormhole.

My first instinct was to spit in it. Spit First, Ask Questions Later is, along with YOLO, my motto. I thought better of it though. I was the first person to witness a wormhole. There was profit to be made from this. I could sell the rights to my witnessing to Stephen Hawking, Michio Kaku, CERN, or the people milking the sci-fi udder that is Stargate. I could be rolling in that physics money, finally livin’ the DuckTales dream. A rich, beautiful future was dancing in my head when I was slapped across the face.

“Oi!”

It was Phil Collins. He had traveled through the wormhole, the last speck of it closing beneath his feet. He stood before me with that same poker-face from the stencil, the slap from his drummer’s mitt stinging my cheek.

“Any rough trade about?” Phil asked.

“Phil Collins?” I asked. “Is that really you?” I needed to verify that I wasn’t having one of my spells where I daydream an interaction with a famous drummer. The question, “Is that really you?” was the key. If it was a spell they wouldn’t answer “Yes.” but strike me in the skull with a drumstick. I burned down a pub with Keith Moon before I asked if it was really him.

“Well it ain’t Mike Rutherford, is it, you twat?” Phil said.

“I’ll take that as a ‘Yes.’”

“You’ll take that however I tell ya, mate.” His expression was one of menace now. “What about that rough trade? Got any about, do ya?”

“Do you mean, like, prostitutes?”

“Blimey!” He slapped me again.

“I don’t know. Sorry. I don’t really—”

“Have you seen Mirror Mirror?” Phil asked, jabbing me in the chest with his finger.

“What’s that?”

“It’s the movie with my daughter in it, you bloody arse! You seen it?”

“You have a daughter?”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

“She doesn’t look like you, does she?”

Phil Collins hit me and it didn’t feel like a kiss—unless Phil Collins’ kisses feel like getting punched in the face. Things went black…

I woke up in a bag getting dragged somewhere. I could hear Phil muttering.

“Hey!” I said.

Phil kicked me and then ripped open the bag. He yanked me out by the hair. The sunlight blinded me. When my eyes adjusted, I saw that I was on the waterfront.

“Help!” I said, looking for anyone along the river. “Phil Collins has kidnapped me!”

“Oi! Shut your arse!” Phil said before he knocked me down and dunked my head into the river.

In the icy waters I could hear him scream-singing “In the Air Tonight”. Drowned by Phil Collins, what a cool way to go? I thought to myself as I was about to let the river fill my lungs.

Then Phil’s grip was gone. I pulled my head from the water, gasping for breath. I looked around for Phil. He was running away from me down the beach. Close behind, chasing him, was Peter Gabriel in a melting/mutating flower costume.

And that’s how Peter Gabriel saved my life.