Love and the color yellow

I got a chimpanzee for Christmas. It's really neat. We rob banks together and it knows karate. You can keep your Nintendo and Commodore 64. I'm sticking with the chimp.

Santa's Pack

I was going to write someting modern and caustic about Santa Claus and his hairy sack full of guns and cocaine but, really, haven't we had enough trash-talk as a nation? TV is rife with gangsters tripping grannies attempting to cross the street; Republicans and Democrats are eating each other's flesh; everywhere liar's pants are on fire; knuckles and faces are colliding every which way ... and I say enough!

Everything will be positive on Bloggy-Blog from now on. I'm turning a new leaf, as the kid's say.

What's wrong with saying I love puppies in a basket? Furthermore, I'm not too ashamed to embrace the color yellow or skip merrily into lanes of on-coming traffic. I will even think of something positive to say about Oliver Stone, Barry Manilow, The Osmonds and processed cheese. They are all living things to be respected.

And so my smartypants sarcastic friends (especially you east Hollywood Myspace hipsters), I must depart from you. You will see me ascending into the sky and on to a higher calling. We will all be together, by and by.

Mandingo

Bloggy-Blog Dating Page

Now, all the beautiful people who march arm-in-arm with the philosophies of Bloggy-Blog can meet-up and swing! Just write your profile in the comments' section. Make sure to include your shoe size. Then, simply wait by the phone with cucumbers over your eyes and curlers in your hair. This is your ticket to love!

The Doors of DVD Revisionism

I return to Doors music infrequently. Now and then, however, it's just the thing, like a welcome cold pizza. A combination of factors converged with the Doors that still convey a satisfying 60s flavor that I must imbibe, say, every eight months or so. The same applies to Peter Sellers. I must mainline a Peter Sellers movie into my veins, no matter how dubious, at least once a year or I will wither.

So last night I watched the expanded 2 DVD set of Oliver Stone's "The Doors". I've seen the film before and was mostly ambivalent, yet appreciative of how challenging it must be to make a film reenacting a celebrated rock band and not slip off a completely maudlin cliff.

Watching "The Doors" again, this time shirtless and with headphones for full effect, I had an epiphany. I had anticipated a drama but It's really a very comedic film played totally deadpan. There are many moments in the film where Oliver Stone so completely massages his own obsessive love convulsion of the mythic aspect of Morrison and the Doors that absurdity quickly overtakes credibility. It's a film that subverts itself while it tries to subvert, whether by accident or not that makes it a comedy in my book. I really don't have to give examples because it's basically all throughout the whole movie.

Someone might argue, how could you make the film worth watching without indulging in Doors-ey stylistic license? I'd say that's fine to do but just don't make it so retarded!

Val Kilmer was pretty good, actually. Almost as good as his portrayal of that OTHER rock icon Nick Rivers in "Top Secret" -a comedy played so deadpan, you'd think it was a drama.

The End

Best Thing Since Monkeys On Rollerskates

X-ray Diffraction Evidence for a "Cyclotriene" Motif in the Molecular Structure of Trisbicyclo[2.1.1]hexabenzene

Hey bachelor readers of Bloggy-Blog, get your kicks from this knockout sexy website. Hubba-hubba! Keep watch for the boss looking over your shoulder. You could get canned!

Now THAT'S Entertainment!

Text Will See Us Through

OK, so my preceding tour down Hollywood Blvd. has been met with little fanfare. Fine. All but a toot from our distinguished Mr. Polanski. Thank you.

What sort of sick perverted dance must I do to get readership here? What kinda' drive-by freak show can compete with the current cultural bar set by Jerry Springer? C'mon people! Let's shake up this rotting town. I wanna dance on tables and ride motorcycles all through the night!

What would you like to see more of here at Bloggy-Blog? --Blanks space? Longer intervals between posts? The constant droning of crickets? You call the shots.

Text and just a Little bit o' Lovin'

OK, so my preceding tour down Hollywood Blvd. has been met with little fanfare. Fine. All but a toot from our distinguished Mr. Polanski. Thank you.

What sort of sick perverted dance must I do to get readership here? What kinda' drive-by freak show can compete with the current cultural bar set by Jerry Springer? C'mon people! Let's shake up this rotting town. I wanna dance on tables and ride motorcycles all through the night!

What would you like to see more of here at Bloggy-Blog? --Blanks space? Longer intervals between posts? The constant droning of crickets? You call the shots.

Hollywood Babble-On

Hollywood Blvd. A street like no other, with its promise of true happiness and meaning. Any movie professional worth his salt will tell you that, if you want to be a Star in Hollywood, all you have to do is parade up and down the Boulevard. That's the ticket to being discovered by all the directors and studio bosses who constantly troll this famous strip looking to sign you up to multi-million dollar contract!

So, egged by my pragmatic ambition of becoming a great big movie star, I rode on the back of a turnip truck headed for Hollywood California!

"OK Mr. DeMille, I'm ready for my close-up!"

Hollywood and Vine. Wow.

The figures on display at the entrance to the Hollywood Wax Museum are of a better grade than anything you'll see inside.

News Flash: I'm sorry to report that the museum has cynically removed the David Hasselhoff diorama ...I'm mentioning this in hopes of mounting a full-scale boycott. Also, few people realize that once inside this place, you actually have to pay again to get out! Those who come up short are turned into waxworks.

The Roosevelt Hotel is chock full o'celebrity hauntings. If you look closely into the windows of the 13th floor, you'll likely to see a pair swingin' ghosts. It's Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis reenacting golden moment from "The Caddy". Lewis' spirit preceded the body, which is still out there making appearances.

One of many Elvis's you're likely to encounter on Hollywood Blvd. Santa has hundreds of these little fellers laboring without representation at his North Pole toy shop. When they do manage to get away, Elvis's enjoy vacationing in Southern California primarily for the warm climate.

"Mickey D's" on Hollywood Blvd. A welcome oasis of health and renewal.

One of the best things about lady Los Angeles is her old buildings and atmospheric noir lobbies. If you squint carefully, you can make out a number of celebrity ghosts anxiously waiting for the elevator wih bladders full of vermouth. Note Spanky Macfarland and Petey the dog clowning for the camera. Hey knock it off you two, America has a war to fight!

The landmark Knickerbocker Hotel (foreground) seen shouldering up to a neighboring building. It's all one big schmooze-fest in Hollywood! A lot of historical celebrity poop went down here.

Another scary Elvis manifestation. We're signed to co-star in the ultimate buddy-picture. I play L Ron Hubbard. There will be many stunts and gratuitous fireball explosions. Backed by a raging xylophone music score to appease the kids, it's well on the road to being a sure-fire hit!

Sign of the times. A log jam of reality-based TV shows has forced a surplus of new stars to double-up on the Walk of Fame. Hollywood's Chamber of Commerce is busy devising double-decker sidewalks.

Bogie to Sid (Grauman's Chinese Theater): "Sid may you never die till I kill you". To which I say, never make promises you can't keep in cement. You can tell that, by exhibiting both feet and handprints together, Humphrey Bogart preferred walking on all fours.

A shrine to Hollywood that has little purpose and should be eliminated from this series.

All good things must come to a sobering conclusion. Likewise, I had to return my "date", which I'd been dragging noisily down the sidewalk by handcuffs, back to her storefront display.

The End
(or is it?)
Color by Deluxe
Mr. Geritopia's wardrobe by Botany 500
Best Boy: Ida Lupino
Gaffer: Marion Morrison
Special thanks to: Electricity and grotesque surplus of time.

Extra! Grumpypuss Collapses But Still Loves You In His Own Way

Regarding the forthcoming Beatles Love album, "audio phiilia" writes (responding to our own Grampy Grumpypuss' critique):

"The Smash Mix contains some great mashups. But then again, I'm on myspace, so I bet a geezer like you will loathe everything it stands for."

Another intreped Bloggy-Blog fan, "missy", also delightedly chimes in:

"There is one hack writer for the Chicago Tribune who called it "gimmicky". You should look that guy up and have a beer with him. "
__________________________________

Well I hope you're all happy now because Grampy Grumpypuss has taken a turn for the worse. Yes, Grumpypuss collapsed while listening to Randi Rhodes being interviewed on the Larry King Show (King being his favorite talk show host). When Rhodes ignored King's attempt at a station break and rattled on with one of her relentless tears against Orrin Hatch and the Osmonds, Grampy flew into a tantrum, resulting in lodging his tusks into the TV screen and a burst aorta.

Grumpypuss demonstrates the Charleston, (the REAL dance that you kids should do
instead of listening to mashups) --23 skidoo!!!

Won't you please send all your money to "Help Grumpypuss Fund. P.O. Box 118 Grand Central Station.

And remember the geezer you help today will be the geezer who ridicules your lame attempts at doing the Charleston in the afterlife. How completely humiliating for you.

'Can't Think Of A Title: Something-Something- Santa Monica Bay

My weekend kept bringing me back to the Santa Monica Bay, which is a fine and fitting subject for this here bloggy-blog.

Some history: I was born in Santa Monica; I "did time" at the Santa Monica Boy's Club in my youth where I was bullied by incipient thugs for nickels; I worked at Santa Monica College for five years; my wastewater currently flows into the Santa Monica Bay (as does most of LA's sewage, making it one of the most toxic stretches of beachfront in Southern California --if not for my waste alone).

So, Saturday night I was strolling around the area and saw an intriguing sign at a bar located on the Santa Monica Pier. "Playing Tonight: Bill Mumy & Band". Well, I immediately realized that this was Billy Mumy, or "Will Robinson" from the old Lost in Space series.

Mumy in his exalted state

Mumy had a ubiquitous presence on many TV shows and commercials throughout the 60's and beyond. My favorite of his was the creepy Twilight Zone entitled: "It's a Good Life" where he's able to enact horrible consequences on people who don't think the way he'd like them to. I know many people who've been scarred for life by this singular episode --yes it's perhaps more nightmarish than Gumby being pursued by angry-faced pies in an oven.

Anyway, I watched a bit of the Bill Mumy band performing from outside because I was afraid that if I didn't like the show he'd wish some horrible fate upon me. You can see my comments on his own website's "guest book" for more on details, dated 11/11 at 10:48:39pm.. Nice of them to include my predictably sardonic greeting.

mumy can, via sheer will-power, shape-shift you into a human
jack in the box if you think objectionable things about his music

The following day, like a criminal returning to the scene of the crime, I came back to the celebrated bay of toxic sludge to set sail with my friend of many moons, Cap'n "T-bone" Tony. It was a good day to be afloat, eating string cheese and singing pirate shanties. Lucky for us, the weather was quite favorable and the noxious smell of the ocean semi-tolerable.

Cap'n T-Bone doing his beloved Talking Elmo impression

me, looking almost happy, trying to find my teutonic jawline

Grampy Grumpypuss Lashes Out At Beatles-Meets-The-Spandex-Dancing-Clown Show

I finally heard the 4 song Beatles sampler of the Cirque Du Soleil "Love" mashup, or whatever. I would not recommend going to beatles.com and doing the same. It's pretty sad. Plus, in order to access the tracks, they force you to give your name, bank account, and urine sample. What a load! And just why they chose to reedit those tracks and not give them to Blue Man Group or Triny Lopez instead of a troupe of prancing Doug Henning clones is beyond me.

The catalogue of Beatles CDs are long overdue for re-mastering. This can easily be achieved via mixes straight from the original mutlitrack tapes, vs. the current 2-track analogue master version on the market (which were mixed and EQ'd for vinyl). --am I sounding sickly hard-core yet?-- It makes a significant difference in quality and detail... and you can hear that difference on special compilations ("Yellow Submarine Songbook", "Beatles Anthology", etc.), although for some reason "Help" was mixed from original mutlitracks. Producer George Martin has always been especially stalwart about keeping the earlier stuff in mono and dragging his feet about the whole matter. That's why I find this "Love" project to be so conspicuously grotesque and ironic.

I've heard only a couple of mashup tracks that I've ever liked and no doubt there are some very clever ones out there. They're really not that difficult to do. The result can be novel and nostalgic but they're fairly masturbatory creatively. I guess I'll have to make one here to prove my point and because I seem to excel at that sort of thing.

5 Reasons Why Lists Are Tiresome

1. Lists contain numerals, unfairly alienating the math-phobic community.
2. It's a lazy writer's crutch under the guise of offering something new.
4. All the bandwidth is already taken by VH1 and E!., excepting shows about other "Top 10 Shows".
5. Tim Allen is rumored to enjoy lists.
8. A bottle of bread and a loaf of wine.
6. Lists do psychological damage by their qualitative hubris.
7. Lists traditionally end with a scatological joke and that's a bunch of shit.

3 Reasons Why I'm Not On Myspace

1. I'm too old.
2. I'm too sleepy.
3. I'm not in the "edgy" demographic.
4. I wasn't weaned on Johnny Knoxville.
5. I'm extremely old.
6. I ain't got no tattoos on my face.
8. I've never worn a Mexican wrestling mask (but I'd like to).
10. I don't like Myspace.

Podcast #4: Music so Good, it had to be Hidden for Decades

milking the big nostalgia

Stimuli A-Go-Go is ON THE AIR .

Today's load from the vaults falls loosely under the category of "very under-the-radar recordings from the famous on our twin planet on the other side of the sun".

[I tried about 800 times to fix the credits on the player but it refuses to list material in correct order. Maddening! It should go, as follows: Big Milk - "Man with the human head"/ Geritopia w'Seatbelt - "Demon Seed"/ Neutral Youth - "Gasoline"/ Big Milk - "Pancake Man" (cover)/ Geritopia - "road apple red"/ Big Milk - "Bag" (is not a toy)/ Tragicomedy - "Drastic Change" (cassette 4 track vers)/ Geritopia - "Harbor College Artifact"/ SS McClean - "Ending Days" (cover)]

Serving suggestion: add warm water over the whole concoction and it will make a flavorful gravy. Eat from a bowl on all fours.

This one's for you, Joey Polanski

Word out to my two readers and pet ant

I'm thinking of putting together a "Cavalcade of Stars" telethon to pay my elves. They work so tirelessly to bring Bloggy-blog's great storehouse of "edu-tainment" to you, the proletariat. All the while, I sit in my basement, smoking stogies and barking out orders. This outreach concept wouldn't be viable, however, without a celebrity band. Any volunteers? You won't get paid. We'll need another telethon for that.

Podcast #3: "Hamster Radio"

Stimuli-a-go-go presents:

Radio Hamster is ON THE AIR!

stolen graphic

Pudding ingredients:

G Marx croons; Jack in the Box agitprops; Bob Wills eyes cotton; Chesty Morgan snaps straps & photographs; Mattel Optigans the Powerhouse; Fukasaku slimes green; Gold fingers; & Marion Robert Morrison jumps, jives and wails.

Just try and enjoy.

Jammin' the Blues (1944)

I have nothing particularly stupid to say this time --'course ya never know 'cause I'm not done yet. This is simply a great video clip. I found out about it from watching a recent release of the WB Humphrey Bogart movie "Passage to Marseille". It's featured amongst a batch of shorts under the "Warner night at the movies" menu on the DVD. I also found this copy on Youtube, as you can see above. The version on the DVD is immaculately remastered. You just want to eat it. [On that note, I realize that the Youtube video doesn't exactly captivate like the DVD, which is silky and detailed. But if you hang in there through the second half, it gets more up-tempo and visually dynamic.]

They were so much cooler then. What the hell are we doing here in 2006 ?!!!

Podcast #2: "TV Party Hangover"

Click HERE to hear in you ear.

A brief cross section of songs that
corrupted my brain for life :

Top Cat theme,
Gigantor theme,
Giant Robot dialogue,
Lidsville theme,
Speed Racer theme (Japanese vers.),
Star Trek interstellar hippie protest dialogue,
Fireball XL5 theme,
Superchicken theme (the perfect TV score),
Supercar theme,
Ernie Kovacs Show classic Nairobi Trio

Functioning without my Magic 8-Ball

I'm fitfully trying to decide what to be for Halloween. Should I go as...

Hot Magma ?

An Egg Salad Sandwich?

Or, a Bosom?

Please cast your vote.

Podcast #1: The Lost Dick Edgemont Tapes

Being a culturally sophisticated fan of this blog, you'd rather listen to rare out-takes and demo recordings vs. slick professionally produced music, right? I know I would. Therefore, to celebrate the 1st anniversary of Bloggy-Blog, I'm tossing in a bonus Podcast. [For those of you without pods... no worries. You can listen too.] Today's Podcast containts 4 tracks from an unfinished CD project called "Explode on the Scene" by Dick Edgemont, which I attempted to Produce (or 'Spectorize') in 2002.


The back-story on Edgemont is appropriately as shadowy as the man himself. He's one of those legends, like Daniel Boone or Bigfoot, whose legacy has been shaped mostly by local yarns and few verified facts. Trying to sift the fiction from the myth is enough to make you want to throw up your hands and run screaming in a zig-zag pattern into the horizon.


Dick Factoid: Dick Edgemont was an integral shaper of the fledgling suburban lounge lizard scene centered in and around the city of Torrance, California. There he shared the pale spotlight with other small-town acts like Gil Bernal, Herbie Tepper's "TNT", The Romans and other yokels showcased in dubious cocktail hideaways with neon titles like: "The Hot'n'Tot", "The San Franciscan", and the "Open Hearth". Dick's strong suit was his nimble solo trumpet stylings, along with composition skills that would give Herb Alpert night sweats.

Edgemont was also a soloist in the rough-and-tumble game of life. Although he was often spotted with a variety of floozies hanging on his arm, his dalliances were always stormy and short-lived. For years Dick's performances were interrupted by a string of humiliating encounters with a mysterious platinum blonde. She'd rush the stage, shoving a flaming hairpiece into the bell of his trumpet, often triggering the automatic overhead sprinkler system. Later in his career, Dick would only make unannounced appearances, always slipping out the back way and never saying much except, of course, through the language of his music.


Finally in the mid-80s, in front of an audience of five Torrance waste management engineers, Dick played an unusually spirited trumpet improvisation. That's when something truly otherworldly transpired. In an exuberant spasm, Edgemont had chanced upon a note outside the musical scale that nobody had ever heard before. This errant note apparently violated something in the laws of physics, rending the fabric of spacetime and causing Dick to vanished into thin air (leaving only a smoking shoe behind), never to be seen again!

Then in 2002, Edgemont Estate representative and music impresario Richard Alan Crane and I hashed out a deal which had me "producing and finishing off" a batch of Dick E tracks of an unknown vintage. Indeed, there were several dusty reel-to-reel tapes stored away in a hat box --originally engineered by Richard Derrick, who also played a smooth brush drum kit on many takes. Naturally, I threw myself into this project utilizing my humble home studio; even fiddled around with various graphic concepts for the CD.


Unfortunately, "Explode on the Scene" turned out to be the kind of uphill endeavor that I couldn't quite surmount. That's because pasting studio overdubs over live takes just didn't fuse cohesively with the spirit of the thing. There were, however, various bright spots, including solo guitar work provided by Mr. SS Seatbelt.... and a other moments which stay true to the "Edgemont ethic".

So click HERE and enjoy four never-before-released Dick Edgemont CD tracks captured in their various stages of decomposition. Or don't.

1 Year Aniversary & why I can't do this any more (Pt.8 in a series)

What a notch in my bedpost. Bloggy -Blog is celebrating its one-year anniversary! In observance, I've been AWOL on an extended drinking binge, which also means that I've not been around to post anything on Bloggy-Blog. How ironic is that? I mean c'mon!

Now this handy tip:

if you're gonna sell your ventriloquist dummy on ebay,
you must light it effectively to lend a positive mood... this one's perfect!

This blog has been running on fumes for so long now, it's hardly worth the mention. But what great asphyxiating fumes we've shared over this last year, eh? If you doubt me, just get a load of them archives (especially the early ones)! By activating internet technology like a bilge pump, I've created a direct pipeline for the world to "peer into my stockpiles of shit", as Marie Antoinette would say. From nonsensical writings, to creepy photos and to more creepy photos. It's been said that if you placed all the creepy photos that I've posted here end-to-end, it would bisect the universe like a toothpick through an olive --and there I go again, yet another martini reference.

creepy photo # 3302000000.
the sorry state of bloggy-blog: asphyxiation,
hidden dynamite, wrong-headed politics, etc

My posts have diminished, admittedly, because the world has become such a politically charged place that the sophomoric activity of this blog is like a declaration of the developmentally-stunted. It's conspicuously irresponsible and out of touch. Meanwhile, everyone else around me has become radicalized and angry about the status quo and, what's most galling in a developmentally-stunted world, they're getting all the chicks! I've always known that the path to being cooler is just an fashion statement away but I'm stalwart, wearing the same unsexy shoes day after day.

another eternal moment's tick

upended chessboard

Deer These Days

These photos were taken this last weekend in Topanga State Park.

I don't know whether any of you have been reading up on these things but we have a real problem with the local deer population in the Santa Monica mountains. Their numbers have been infiltrated by Communists who, by exposure to the primal sway of jazz records, have converted their once abiding ranks into roving bands of loitering ne'er-do-wells. It's a sad and dangerous situation. This poppy consuming deer seen above couldn't even stand upright. All he could do was look for loose change on the ground and mutter incoherently.

The little guy in this shot approached and asked, "Please sir, can you spare a moment for global warming?". Naturally, I approached in good faith to sign his petition when a sudden burst of flames issued forth from his mouth and singed off all my hair. Then, like something from a horror movie, his head detached like a projectile heading right at me. With bulging red eyes and fangs extended, it began frenetically chewing open the veins in my neck. All I could do was protest that I was "on a nature walk to sample some fresh air, getting centered" ... that I was "hip" & "cool" but to no avail!

As I fled down the path in the opposite direction, I interrupted this pair's game of mumbletypeg. They blocked my way, took all my money, my clothes, and everything. Then I was trampled to death and I'm now blogging from the great beyond. Thank you reprobate Communist deer!

Stealing Your Soul With My Digital Camera

This is what results when I'm lying around with a laptop, fiddling with Apple's Imovie. What is it they say, "Idle hands are the devil's egg salad sandwich"? Thank you Steve Jobs for turning me into a complete vegetable.

Exclusive Celebrity Interview: Petunia Pig

Petunia Pig turned 96 years old this week and we're lucky to have her with us for this exclusive Bloggy-Blog interview. I caught up with Petunia after spotting her in upper Manhattan shopping at Keihl's with friend, and likewise ancient veteran of the stage and screen, Kitty Carlisle. I tripped Ms. Pig on the escalator exit and pinned her to the floor where the following interview took place.

_________________________

smouldering glamour: circa 1938

Bloggy-Blog: You started out in cartoons in 1937 in "Porky's Romance". Can you describe how this role came about?

Pig: I met Frank Tashlin, the director, at Schwab's Pharmacy on Sunset. They had a counter there with a soda fountain.

Bloggy-Blog: A soda fountain at a pharmacy?

Pig: Oh yes, but with a twist. In those days cocaine was very open and available. Schwab's had a guy there, the soda jerk, and he'd sprinkle cocaine into your root beer float or on your fudge sundae, whatever. It was a gimmick to keep the customers loyal. Consequently, Schwab's was a wildly popular scene. Very chic. The equivalent of Woody Harrelson's Oxygen Bar.

Bloggy-Blog: I believe Mr. Harrelson sold that a while ago.

Pig: Oh, did he? Anyway, Hollywood was full of stories of stars being discovered at Schwabs Pharmacy. People like Tallulah Bankhead, Alfalfa Schweitzer, Lassie, and lord knows... They were all plucked from Schwabs. So one day I'm in there when this oversized lug in a pinstripe suit sits next to me at the counter talking his head off. I thought maybe he was hawking insurance.

Bloggy-Blog: Tashlin?

Pig: Yeah. Or "Tish-Tash", as he was also known. He tells me he's a big-shot cartoon director at the Schlesinger studio and the whole nine yards. Meanwhile, he's sucking up this banana-whip cocaine cocktail and he gets this idea, see?... He says something like, "Hey doll-puss, what'ya say you come down to the Termite Terrace [the studio's nickname] for an audition? We need to cast a dame, a girlfriend part, to work with Porky in his new motion picture... and you're da' spittin' image. A real pip!" And so I went down to the casting office that afternoon.

Bloggy-Blog: So, just like that?

Pig: I was so naive. But sometimes you need a little of that to get places... fortunes have been made by way of blind naivete, ya know what I mean?

screen test excerpt

Bloggy-Blog: What kind of work had you doing before then?

Pig: A little of everything. I filled in various chorus girl jobs here and there. I was in a couple of Busby Berkley things, way, way in the background. At night I worked clubs like the Macambo where Jack Benny was a regular with his own booth. On odd days I'd waitress this little place down on the east end of Hollywood called "Laughing' Jack's Canteen". Lots of sailors and mugs there. 'Seemed like every night the boozing led to fist fights and stabbings. I was a Cigarette girl, hat check girl, coat check... random things to make rent.

Bloggy-Blog: I see. So now you successfully passed the audition. Then, the next day, you're supporting Porky Pig in "Porky's Romance", in 1937. People talked about you as an overnight sensation and, in fact, you were the real deal. What was it like going from a meager lifestyle to working with a big star like Porky Pig?

Pig: Well, it was exhilarating. You bet. I mean, they're all bastards in Hollywood but I was very excited to be there and smitten with Porky in the very early days. I had to demure from my crush and keep my composure as a professional. Particularly In "Porky's Romance", I played a woman who was more attentive to her Pekinese dog than to the romantic offerings and boxes of chocolates showered on her by Porky's character. ...a stark reversal of our so-called "real-lives" around the lot. Along those lines, I would later see what a real swine Porky could be.

Bloggy-Blog: That Pekinese dog was played by--

Pig: A fellow from the San Fernando valley, a bit player named Xavier Pierce . A year later, he was run over by a Red Car while crossing Selma. In his pockets, they found a collection of various silk panties, fishnet stockings and the like. Something was going on with "X" that they never quite figured out. It's always the quiet ones.

Bloggy-Blog: Speaking of gender ambiguities, wasn't it Hedda Hopper who wrote, "Petunia looks like Porky's double, only in a woman's dress, heels and 'come-hither' lashes"?

"oh Poooorky?"

Pig: Yes. But I didn't care. Let me tell you about the "dreaded" Hedda Hopper. She was a hack with a deadline and a column to fill --a parasitical, battle-axe with a sick talent for proffering reams of yellow journalism. The problem was that she did wield a heavy-handed influence around town. Jack Warner, in particular was scared to death of her. Of course, Jack carried himself with his blustery exterior but he'd completely buckle to whatever was brought to bear by Hopper, the Catholics and the Hayes Commission and all that. Actually though, there was nothing hugely offensive in her review of "Porky's Romance".

Bloggy-Blog: You don't think her statement was - -

Pig: Sure, I was a large burley woman with a 5 o'clock shadow. But I was voluptuous like Mae West. As a dancer I knew how to carry myself gracefully, while dressing complimentary with the Art Decco sensibilities of the day. Hollywood Stars weren't so much the pretty runway models, like you have now, you understand? We were larger-than-life characters. Consider Cagney, Eddie Robinson, Petey Lorre, Popeye and those type of guys. All short, stocky and, one could say "ugly" but with top billing!

Bloggy-Blog: It seems that even Porky would never stand a chance in today's world of fashion over talent.

Pig: Exactly. But remember, it was good to have a gimmick back then too. There's always been a great deal of showmanship in this business, talent or not. I used heavy Max Factor rouge in perfectly delineated circles, which was my own trademark. I was lucky to be blessed with a natural skin radiance that lit up on the silver screen. So I wasn't threatened by catty remarks coming from Hollywood gossip rags. I was happy during that period. I'd hitched my wagon to this anthropomorphic stuttering pig juggernaut. Cartoons were a staple in movie houses all across the country! And, of course, I was finally making some pretty decent bread. I don't mind admitting that I bought plenty of hats and chewing gum. It was good.

Bloggy-Blog: And yet, from there the trajectory of your career was rather rocky. What happened?

[to be continued]

William F Buckley Week (Yes it's been that slow)

There's really no need to watch the following video past the profile shot of Buckley's independently moving hair. Priceless. SCTV, by the way, was arguably the best show in the universe.



As a bonus, here's Buckley and Chomsky kicking it around in the late 60s. Just for fun and irritation purposes.



Pt.2: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R9Samvw6Z08

Nothing, sorry

There are chain saws roaring on either side of my apartment this morning. It's got me on edge. I understand that people do feel very threatened by the overgrowth of residential oak branches and palm fronds. After all, you can't let those trees get the upper limb. We must hack at them and trim them back! It's the only language they understand. Give a tree an inch and it'll be a bastard on your back for life.

I know for a fact that the crew operating the chain saws get a macho kick from the sound they make. They're just a bit too enthused to rev the gas motors in salivating anticipation of the actual cutting. It's the old primordial snarl of territorial rights. Yes, they want to taunt the tree before doing their merciless act of mechanical chewing and spitting up chunks of debris.

So, I guess there's nothing I can do about this noise situation... or is there? I mean, what can I do? I feel like John Henry vs. the legendary "Inky-Poo". It would be' like arguing with an automatic weapon. But I'm determined not to be out-whined by a machine -not as long as I've got breath and a Blog. At least for my peace of mind, I need to go out there and actually see if he city didn't, in fact, hire a bunch of guys just to dramatically interrupt my normal sleep pattern. ...I'm gonna go out and have a look.

OK, I'm back. Aside from the chiding I took for wearing my blue velvet pajamas with the cute drop drawer hatch, they admitted that there was no purpose to infernal chain saw racket beyond the sheer sadistic pleasure of annoying me. What a relief! For a moment there I though I was paranoid.

The Mother of all Posts

In yet another rant designed to alienate every last person I know, I just have to ask: How did sports reporting slither its way into becoming a legit part of newscasting ?

I wonder.

I just can't see any justifiable reason why my daily viewing of brutality, murder and mayhem must give way to an interval of sports banter! It's as though you're not a normal member of society if you just don't give a crap about it.

There's typically some bumbling, but lovable, oaf by the name of "Buddy" anchoring the sports segment (I'm merely deflecting my jealousy here because he's the same "jock" who always got the chicks in high school --which, for me, was a morbidly depressing tip-off at how unjust the universe was, and is). Somehow, by his very presence, the sports reporter inspires all the other anchors to relax from the shackles of feigned serious expressions. They spot the Dodger pin on the lapel and become completely docile, receptive to any suggestion. Yet, eventually, the news team must collect itself and press on with the hard-boiled stories of brutality, murder and mayhem. Now away from the camera, the sports anchor is unplugged by a technician and, with great solemnity, wheeled back to his chamber of suspended animation.

With all the preceding in mind, I'm encouraging my fellow Blogger-thusiasts to vote Yes on Prop. 132, which shalll relegate all sports broadcasting to its appropriate time slot (around 3 am), never to be integrated into news programming again. Sponsored, of course, by the clean wholesome fun people here at BloggyBlog. "We Love Shaved Pits!"


Meanwhile, here ya go: Tampa Bay 4 vs. N.Y. Yankees 6


[Afterthought: I will give Vin Scully credit as a baseball announcer, as I recall his nasally voice wafting out of AM transistor radios during summer days of yore. Its effect on me was, no less, narcotic-like: "Don Drysdale on the mound...." Ahhhh, yes. Lemonaide, dichondra grass and Scully. Otherwise, I have some kind of genetic deficit when it comes to being a sports spectator. Me Not Caring: 6 vs. The World Not Caring That I Don't Care: 10.]

Lynx

And here's a LINK to some interesting animation. Apologies in advance if this is something that's been traded around the web by hipsters last year. There's some good stuff here that points in the opposite direction of computer 3D gloss, which only enhances its return-to-form charm.

G'nite.

The Smell of Blogging

If you'll pardon my boast, pushing certain buttons here on the "blog-o-sphere" to gain readership, influence, and complete subjugation of the masses has become like child's play. Oh, and by the way... I hope you don't mind that, since its inception, Bloggy-Blog has been a front for certain, shall we say, "human experiments".

It's no big deal but many of the preceding posts have contained doses of plutonium and assorted isotope rays. Some of you have fared better than others; some don't write in anymore, but hey... I've earned enough pocket change from the US military for my daily 10-cent pony ride in front of Lucky's Supermart. That means an awful lot to me. And although some maneuvering intellectuals out there cry "victim", you have no idea how much this data is mobilizing Congress to finance some very accommodating fallout bunkers complete with Starbucks and FREE Internet.

In terms of having a wildly successful blog like this one, with or without covert human experimentation, you have to understand the whole endeavor in terms of its cultural ties to the long-forgotten office mimeograph machine. If you worked in one of the big aerospace outfits during the Cold War days of Southern California (and suffered male-pattern baldness), there would always be some clown using the mimeograph machine to pass around one-liners and off-color jokes to the work force. This self-appointed crank was serving a vital communal role, in terms of providing a needed stress relief valve to his colleagues. After all, they had weapons to build under deadline and they were also concerned with plutonium and human experiments. But now the community has gone global and so goes the reach of such utilitarian idiocy.

So as long as you've got an eye for the REAL relevant pastimes in the work-a-day world, i.e.: Peeing Calvin bumper stickers, daydreaming about "boobies", chewing on pen caps, you've got the right stuff. That's exactly the aesthetic you aim for because most people are dropping in while chained to a desk.

In summary: good blogs are essentially electronic joke mimeographs to distract from the impending terror of our eventual conversion into skeletons. But what I miss the most, and what computers don't supply, is the comforting smell of a fresh mimeograph.

I need hugs.

Protesting the Infinite Paradox with Calvin