Monday, May 31, 2004

Du-nun. . .du-nun. . .dun..dun..dun...dun...dun

Yeesh. Those three unwise men aboard Orca, chasing down a great white shark? Talk about clueless! Bad enough Quint never listens when I tell him to hang on to Brody just a little tighter. Or that Hooper keeps insisting on getting into that stupid tinfoil cage even though I've shouted at him time and time again just to keep his ass in the boat.

And Brody? Well, who goes out on a boat when they hate water? Nobody. That's who. Yet whenever I remind him of this little factoid, he ignores me. Snide bastard.

Fine, if they think they're so smart they don't need to listen. No legs off my body. Whatever.

But you'd think at least one of 'em would realize whenever they hear that music start that the shark is coming? It's Jaws' theme song - as safe a herald of his (her?) arrival as the strains of Eine Kleine Nachtmusik would indicate Mozart was en route, dragging a few yellow barrels behind him.

It's like they have no sense of pop culture whatsoever!

No wonder the shark outsmarts them.

I propose a new interactive form of entertainment, where I can sit in front of the tv and the movie cast will do what I tell them. Not only will it save lives, but it'll help actors stay fresh, unpredictable and squeezably soft.

Sunday, May 30, 2004

It takes innocence

The best of tricks and scams require more than just a slick tongue and fast brain. They need a straight man.

For every world weary slick devil there must be an ingenue. For every con-artist, a mark. Every George Burns and Charlie Chaplin requires the assistance of a Gracie Allen or Edna Purviance.

Without a believing, stalwart soul a trick is nothing more than obvious sleight-of-hand, easily recognized and easily forgotten. Trust is the needed ingredient to make any theatrical performance real. Faced with an audience equally jaded and cynical, the joke loses its foundation.

Some may humor the performance because it suits their own needs. Not the same. As satisfying as your mother insisting you're pretty, a life filled with the false "Yes!" leaves you wanting. It's as soulless, fleeting and disingenuous as aspartame - the bitter taste of being completely alone.

But what, then, becomes of the straight man? After some fleeting laughs, a sense of satisfaction derived from your the echo of your comedic ball hitting a solid and trustworthy target, what becomes of the dupe? Naturally, having been tricked, they are ridiculed and dismissed as being easy and foolish. Your superior intellect would have it no other way than to dismiss them for their failings.

Without them, however, you are just a voice screaming, laughing, howling into the wind -- with nothing concrete to reflect back. Nothing exists to gauge failure or success. All that is left is the sound of your own voice, endlessly mocking you, its hollow, singular echo reminding you that you are truly alone in this world.

It's the trusting soul - the person who cannot be false, who refuses to become jaded, even after being fooled many times - that retains all that is good and innocent in this world. The act exists because they exist. It's through their eyes we find meaning, a sense of place, a goodness that reaffirms everything we want most to believe.

In this world of ever-increasing falsehood, I'll keep playing the straight man. Not only is it honest, but it's necessary.

Friday, May 28, 2004

What the world needs now. . .

After a lengthy sabbatical necessitated by some really scary romantic experiences, I think I'm ready. Problem is, short of taking out a billboard, no way exists to suddenly bring on a bevy of dancing boys from which to choose. And at my age, I'd settle for the limping and slightly used variety.

Where does a girl caught in the 'too old for the bars, too young for shuffleboard' years go to find said studly specimen? I work alone. I drive home alone. I walk on the beach, over the river and through the woods - alone.

Maybe a retirement home might be the best place to find the aging, decrepit man of my dreams? Think about it: he's too out-of-shape to run, too bored not to listen and, chances are he considers a woman of 37 still strumpet material.

How to engage him, though? Posing as a candy striper might work. Could make sex tricky, as fraternizing with the help is probably verboten. Pretending to be a masseuse might be even better. As I rub Ben Gay over his wrinkled, saggy torso I could whisper sweet nothings into his ear (turning the hearing aid up first, natch). At which point, I'll lure him with the promise of pop, cookies and candy with real sugar, just waiting at my house.

Maybe he'll look like Laurence Olivier or Charlie Chaplin: aging, grey, but still vital. Hell, Walter Matthau would be fine, at this point. Yes. I realize they're all dead. Your point?

Oooh. I'm getting so excited. L'amour, l'amour. Toujours l'amour. Wish me luck on Retirement Home Rendezvous 2004.

Thursday, May 27, 2004

Not sure I get it, anymore

This blog stuff? Strange. It's not so much that people write about their lives; that much I can grasp. (Genius, huh?) What's baffling is the concept that anyone else would care to read about my life. Not even my friends (who, ostensibly must like me on some level or else they've been faking it for a long, long time) want to know this much about me. Guaranteed. Give 'em a call if you want to hear how disdainful they'd be about visiting my little slice of the online world.

Then again, I don't get much of anything -- the importance of social stature, the necessity for expensive clothing, families of four with houses roomy enough for 20 people, the war in Iraq, George Bush, American Idol, Survivor and SUV's. So. . .maybe I'm really an alien.

Since close examination of all things senseless to me will take too much time, let's settle on one issue I don't get.

Perhaps you can serve to enlighten:

This anti-smoking television campaign.

Oh, I get that smoking is harmful and addictive.

What I don't quite comprehend is why the ads focus on not smoking as if it were a way to assure long, healthy life. These sanctimonious people getting up and saying Big tobacco - you're not gonna get me! And tobacco off in the corner, stage left, snickering and mumbling something about a car crash. . . But, hey, feel better if you want, thinking not smoking makes you somehow impervious to death and disease.

Frankly, I want to enjoy life - not sit around worrying about what's gonna kill me.

It's the moment, folks. Right here, right now, am I happy? Did I share the things I loved with the people I loved (even if I did it between phlegmy coughing fits)? That's the only worthy yardstick.

If living longer means doing without things I enjoy -- uh, beer, sex, good music, cigarettes, old movies --- then by all means, let's knock off ahead of schedule.

Wednesday, May 26, 2004

Obsess much?

My best friend considers it a good thing, my having all this passion for myriad things. She even calls it that, passion. Like we both don't know it's borderline obsession.

Take the Andy Kaufman thing. Oh, since I'm not a comedian, should I add "please" here? I've been just over the moon about this whole mystery. Nothing like a childhood chock full'a Scooby to warp a growing mind.

Who's behind the blog? What's the story with Brad Friedman's FAQ about the Claire Chanel message boards? Who is Enrique P? What in the heck are those disgusting pictures doing at the Kaufman blog. No, not the Tony Clifton pics. Those were bad enough. But I'd rather watch Nick Berg's decapitation 24/7 than accidently stumble upon the Kaufman site pics again.

The longer I sit and obs. . .er, feel passionately about this subject, the more it brings into focus the transitory and elusive nature of all life. It's all "Here today, gone tomorrow but I left behind some really nasty photos for your viewing displeasure" on Earth. Consequently, the ephemeral nature of existence should make me put the, uh, passions into some sort of perspective and move along.

Trouble is, I can't. Not just yet. Something nags at me about the whole scenario and its utter lack of potential closure, in any form. Yet, I'm aware that it really doesn't matter at all, whether Andy Kaufman is alive, dead, writing a weblog or turning tricks in Vegas. Not like we're gonna become pen pals. So, I know it's immaterial, know I shouldn't care, and yet I still feel involved. Typical Empath, a person who knows better and still does worse just to alleviate any attendant emotions.

Monday, May 24, 2004

I find it quite amazing

Whatever the Andy Kaufman Returns site was meant to be, it certainly turned out a grand sociological experiment. Witness the naysayers, proud of themselves for believing only what their physical senses tell them, wanting to rain on the parade just to feel better about who and what they are.

And the insiders - those whose comments indicate knowledge of Andy Kaufman, or of the hoax, or who say they're waiting for money for their works in the "performance." I love them, best of all. They're fearless and willing to jump right in with both feet.

Then there are others, like myself - not sure what to believe, willing to watch it all and marvel at how easy it is to *be* anyone on the Internet. Too tall? Too short? Old? Young? Just change all that with a few keystrokes. Bingo. You *are.*

More I think about it, the more I realize Andy Kaufman would have loved the Internet. Simply for the sheer capacity it has to fuck with people's minds, en masse, reaching a bigger audience than television.

Shame he's not around to see it.

I started this blog only to comment on andykaufmanreturns. Now that the brouhaha seems to have passed, it seems purposeless. Maybe I'll do a Q&A session - like ask Aunt Gabby. So, go ahead. Aunt Gabby knows all the answers and doesn't charge 3.99 a minute for her "Incendiary Advice."

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours? : He's On Our Side
Photobucket - Video and Image Hosting

Image hosted by