It's like it's 1996 all over again!

(Updated note: As per the request of a friend, his last name has been stricken below so it can be untagged from Google. I guess the feds are after him.)

Yesterday was a flashback into the 1990s, as well as a look of things to come. After receiving two sweet-ass first level seats to the A's-Red Sox matchup from my fiancee's parents--thanks Joe and D-I-double-N-A--I called my buddy Matt ******** (pronounced "sypher"; don't ask me why) and within a five-second conversation we had already made the easiest decision in the history of the world to meet up. Had I ever known what it was like to make a booty call, I would say this was probably easier. It was as if I were asking him if he'd like to breathe. (Quick quiz: who needs to work on their analogies?)

I've known Matt since 7th grade when I began attending School of the Madeleine in 1995. After a great seven-year stint at Kensington Hilltop Elementary School--which during one of my later years there was decreed the best elementary school in California--my parents were worried about the public school system in our future, which had just changed its name from RUSD (Richmond Unified School District) to WCCUSD (West Contra Costa Unified blah blah blah). Even ignoring the horrible stigma associated with putting the word "Richmond" anywhere near a system of education, it was slim pickings when it came to middle schools. The regional one, Portrero Middle School, lies midway up the beautiful and steep El Cerrito thoroughfare Moeser, but it too seemed to reek of urban decay. Now, El Cerrito is not known as any kind of bastion for crime, but there were stories coming out of Potrero about rape and muggings, not to mention the horribly bland aesthetics of the hallway, which to me always felt like a mental institution.

My parents were also looking into the future, and saw El Cerrito High. A school that was designed by the man who also created San Quentin, and it looked as such. True, nobody was getting shot at these schools for lunch money, nor were they gang hangouts, but something always seemed off about them. When a family has money, you try not to send them to the regular ho-hum public schools.

(And don't even get me started on our attempt to force myself into the Berkeley public school system; those fuckers are as exclusive as a country club.)

After a brief flirtation with moving to Marin County--where I fear I would have sat around in rooms comparing types of caviar with my Tibouron "friends"--my parents decided that it was time for Catholic School. Oh joy...

You have to understand, I was raised pretty heavily atheist. My mother--while raised Catholic--came from the uber-feminist and free 1960s in Northern California and had long become a source of anti-religious venom, while my father--raised Jewish in the Maryland-D.C. area--had settled into an interesting form of agnosticism. Now, I tell everybody that I am either "spiritual" or agnostic, not because I feel any kind of sympathy for organized religion, but I've come to the understanding that I both don't want to and can't prove any form of God exists or doesn't exist. (I learned this lesson the hard way during a week-long cruise to Alaska, where I butted heads with two 14-year-old twins from Nebraska.)

School of the Madeleine is located in North Berkeley, on Berryman off of Sutter/Henry/Shattuck/whatever street it becomes. It is a K-8 school housed in a grey three-story block, which while homely seemed to fit the principles of Catholicism well. Amidst a great concrete field of hopscotch lines and an old baseball backstop, there is a two-level plaster-and-wood church on one end and a small nunnery on the other.







By the time I enrolled into Madeleine with two others (Megan Tipping and Camille Thorton-Allston) we were thrust into a very undesirable situation as the rest of the 7th grade class--save a few students--had all known each other since Kindergarten (there was only one class per grade, by the way). Not to mention that, as is my lot in life, I am a chubby fellow, and we all know children between the ages of 10-14 are the cruelest of the cruel and can turn any characterstic, fortunate or unfortunate, into a subject of tease and torture. Take, for example, the fact that I am intelligent and liked to use words such as "excellent" and "spectacular" as a 12-year-old, and then imagine a prick like Patrick Nagel turning it into a mimickry of Charlie Knickerbocker. (Not that he knew who Charlie Knickerbocker was, but that's what the Contintental accent he used to mock me sounded like.)

My personality didn't exactly match my surroundings, either. Then again, my personality has never matched my surroundings, as you all very well know. A good story in regards to this: the Madeleine youth group decided to get together and attend Angus at the Oaks Theatre--a marvelous little teen film about a fat kid who teaches his high school community about acceptance no matter what you weigh or how you look. The movie meant a lot to me, and even at age 12 I was able to discuss broad artistic themes. Unfortunately, middle schoolers can't. The next day during recess, my peers were using the film as a jumping-off point to make fun of fat kids. The character Angus Bethune became Angus Balloon, and so on and so forth. I tried to move everyone's attention to the fact that this cruelty was the exact opposite of what the film was trying to teach, and that they shouldn't be so quick to judge. As I discussed their shortcomings in reaction to this after-school-special-lesson story, I quickly became an egghead in their eyes, as well as a target. Guess who had the nickname "Angus" for the next couple months?

If it seems I am veering off the subject, believe me I am not. I believe everything needs context in order to be told correctly. As well, I am not a very good speaker and usually leave out chunks of details in order to barrel toward my point. At least in a blog setting, I can go at my own leisure. In other words, I write so that I may not speak. You'll get used to it.

Matt, along with Andre Lipinski and Kevin Gross, were my best friends in middle school, as we all shared some forms of nerddom in what we liked. Sure, we busted each other's balls, but at least we weren't putting Alka Selzer in bread so the seagulls that circled Madeleine would swoop in, pick it up, eat it, then shit blood and fall from the sky. We all got along very well, and while we all had a general hatred for Farris Nimri-Denning (the only kid fatter than me in our class), we still accepted him, somewhat, as an acquaintance, more for the use of his video game systems than anything else.

(Here's where I set up material that is important later on, so you should probably stop skimming this entry and start paying attention. Foreshadow this, motherfucker.)

One bully that stuck out was Nate Snyder. While I always had the knowledge that most boys around middle school have a bit of pudge in their belly area and could retort cries of "you're chubby" with "so are you," Nate was the one person who could proudly lift his shirt and point at his lack of said chubbiness, and then continue to berate me. Not a great deal sticks out in my mind in regards to what pranks, played out on me of course, were his and what pranks belonged to such others as Patrick, Andrew Potocki, Nico Monday and Nick Winnicki, but I know that he was a bad egg.

I must give props, however, to the utter amount of teamwork it took to punish me for doing what apparently (although improbably) no other Madeleine student does--take a shit in the school bathrooms. During class one day, I excused myself, and something about my demeanor must have said "I'm gonna take a shit," because minutes later in the stall, the swinging blue saloon doors of the bathroom flew open and I was bombarded from all sides with toilet paper amidst squeals of glee. This is ignoring the fact that what they were doing seemed a whole lot more unnecessary and, well, gayer than what I was doing. It's just amazing that somehow they all got together and all managed to leave class, presumably in a tight-knit circle, walked down two flights of stairs, get their hands on some T.P. without alerting any authority figure, get a few dozen good shots into the stall without even looking over the wall, and get back up to the classroom all within the span of, tops, two minutes. The incident wasn't as horrifying as, say, the opening scene of DePalma's Carrie, but the details hold up very well 11 years after the fact.

Nate, most infamously in my life, is the creator of the deadly tease beast known only as the "Chubbysnake," which is a lot less disgusting than you think it is. If and when his boasts that he was thin and I was fat didn't get to me, this was his great backup plan. It involves the bully standing at attention about a foot or less away from the victim, with one or two arms flailing about, considering how much surprise you would like to throw into the equation. Like a cobra waiting to strike, the hand would make a pointed shape of a snakes head, and while moving about, the bully would chant, very slowly, "Chubbysnake. Chuuuuubbbbbysnake. Chuuuuuuuuubbbbbbysnaaaaaaaaake." The victim, of course, will start to become defensive as if a strike is about to come, but this is a mistake exploited by the bully. As the victim tries to cover up parts of his/her body in vain, the bully will find the one weak spot, and strike with speed and precision somewhere on the belly, with the cry of "PBBTTTHHHHH!" as the pain strikes the victim. I realize the description is a little convoluted, which makes me think I need to find my sister and have someone film me doing it to her, as I have in the past for different purposes. (Wow, now it sounds gross again.)

Flash forward to yesterday, July 26, 2006, as I picked Matt up from his house on Tacoma and make the 16-mile drive to the Coliseum (I refuse to call it McAfee or Network Associates or whatever the hell the prefix is now). We had been good AIM friends for a while, especially since we had both matriculated in Los Angeles in order to study film, me at Loyola Marymount, him at Chapman and USC. I hadn't seen him, though, since February when I was visited the Bay Area, during which we saw Good Night, and Good Luck and basically intellectually butted heads about forms of themes and aesthetics, him the critical film studies major, me the film production guy who stood for all forms of film criticism most of the general public seems to hate. (Addendum: Matt would like me to let you all know that he did production AND critical studies.)
It was a good way to restart my new residence back in the Bay Area, as going to an A's game is never a bad thing even when they're losing. It's a beautiful stadium despite being placed smack-dab in South Oakland, and the seats were top-notch (Section 120, Row 29, Seats 19 and 20). The heat wave didn't even make a difference, as the seats are placed perfectly in the shade, but not at all far from the action. The A's won 5-1 against the Red Sox, so it was a great day to stop on by the park. Most of the discussions between Matt and myself regarded our two topics, politics and film/TV, but that's the kind of stuff I thrive on.

Driving back from the game, Matt received a call on his Razor phone (a device which I mock is solely for teenage valley girls, and he should stop being such a pussy). It turns out Nate, a good friend of his still, was lurking around the Berkele/Albany/El Cerrito area and was bored, and that we should meet up later that night at a pub. I thought, Hey, why not, as I had heard that Nate had chilled out quite a bit, and while I do harbor some resentment in the back of my head for how he treated me in the mid-90s, but I am also always reluctantly thankful to all the bullies in my life for turning me into the person I am now. They say whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger, but I've always called "bullshit" on that term, because, say, cutting off someone's leg isn't killing them, but it sure as hell isn't making them any better at running either. I do, however, appreciate the fact that I never became one of them, and being bullied only makes you want to strive to do better in your field and in life, and I am happy with who I am and where I am.

At around 9:30, I met up with Matt and Nate again, and wouldn't you know it, skinny little Nate Snyder has become chubby. And I don't just mean a little round about the face--I mean he has a double chin, something I don't even have unless I'm trying to do a Jabba impersonation, and he walked in this amusing waddle that is usually reserved for meatheads who can't put their arms all the way down their sides. I found out earlier from Matt that this was a result of medication, but hey, I'll take what I can get. It took every bit of effort in me to not automatically go into "Chubbysnake" mode, this time as the inflictor and not the inflictee.

As the night went on, I realized what was always so off-putting about Nate--sure, he was a spaz in middle school, but so was I. The medication, it seems, happens to be for something really serious, and I discovered he had still not finished college and seemed thoroughly amazed that I had graduated high school (another Catholic institution) with a GPA of 4.3, which to him must have sounded like I had made advances in finding the cure for cancer. I really fucking hate gloating, though, so through the night I seemed to feel worse for Nate, as he was no longer a bully and finally had to come to terms with the fact that he had some disorders that needed help. He constantly spoke out of turn, and was always mentioning that he couldn't follow the conversations Matt and I were having (which is also partly my own fault as I talk way too fast and have confused many a person with my segues).

This didn't, of course, stop me from a few good laughs.

Matt: Did you finish reading that book?
Nate: Which book?
Matt: The one you bought from Borders.
Nate: No, I couldn't focus on it.
Marcus: What was the book about?
Matt: ADD.

So there I am, feeling like the bigger man without having to resort to any namecalling or grudge matches, and all because evolution played out naturally. I could feel good about myself without doing what he put me through in middle school, and it felt invigorating. Is this why I'm back in the East Bay after half a decade in Los Angeles? Is this part of what I'm trying to understand about my life and myself? Am I a better person than I give myself credit for?

Probably not, as that would just be a completely self-centered and egotistical way to make you read this incredibly long blog entry and come out of it with the moral of "Hooray me! Hooray Marcus!"

No. However, it does make you consider how much life changes in 10, 11, 12 years. I am content with who I am, and I feel mostly successful in what I have done with my life so far. Everything is just moving along well now, and a new era is commencing. At the end of the strongest heat wave I can recall in this area, the fog is a welcome reminder of life's ever-changing timeline. Things will work out, or things won't. The important thing is to keep it all in context.

--MG

P.S. Two of my letter keys stopped working a paragraph ago. I'm surpised how far I went without the letter "b," which I just now had to copy and paste just to let you know of my frustration.

Oh dear...

Before I get back into writing longer blog entries--sorry folks, searching for paying jobs takes up a great deal of time--here are a few more morsels of wisdom from the drug-addled brains of NorCal individuals in my life. Bonus point to anyone who can guess which two lines are from yours truly.

Female: "Then I started telling her that I had just done acid."
Male 1: "Why?"
Male 2: "Because she gave her fried chicken!"

"If you had a ballsack, you would rub it on furniture, too!"

"Transsexual cottage!"

"The more automatic squirting devices I have, the better."

"Find me Oxycontin shaped like Flintstones."

Working Title

If you do not have epilepsy (or have not been accused of it--sorry honey), I suggest you take a look at this very special online film project.

http://www.cuechamp.com/working_title.htm

If you've ever wondered what it looks like inside my head when I dream--and lord help you if you have--this is good representation.

A Myspace survey on musicals.

I thought I might as well repost this, as it does a great deal of good explaining who I am.

___

Name 10 of your favorite Broadway shows

1. Sunset Boulevard
2. Rent
3. Urinetown
4. West Side Story
5. Guys and Dolls
6. A Chorus Line
7. Gypsy
8. Sweet Charity
9. Avenue Q
10. The Last Five Years (technically off-broadway, but shut up)

Have you ever seen these shows live?
On Broadway: 1, 2, 3, 9. In San Francisco: 1, 2, 3, 4. In L.A.: 1, 2, 3. Community theatre in Bay Area: 5, 6, 7. Performed in high school or community theatre: 4, 8. Never seen: 10 (which will change this upcoming fall at USC courtesy of my sister).

What's your favorite song from show 2?
"Take Me or Leave Me"

Who's your favorite character from show 4?
Action gets all the best lines, but I am partial to the Jet known as Diesel, as I played him. Motherfucker starts the rumble, boyee.

What's your favorite scene from show 5?
A tie between "If I Were a Bell" and "Luck Be a Lady" with its preceding dance sequence in the sewers. These were also the most fun to follow as a spotlight operator at Contra Costa Civic Theatre.

What's your favorite lyric from show 8?
"Daddy started out in San Francisco,
Tootin' on his trumpet loud and mean,
Suddenly a voice said, 'Go forth Daddy,
Spread the picture on a wider screen.'
And the voice said, 'Daddy, there's a million pigeons
Waiting to be hooked on new religions.
Hit the road, Daddy, leave your common-law wife.
Spread the religion of The Rhythm Of Life.'"

From show 10, which character are you most like?
There are only two characters in the entire show so it's obvious that I'm Jamie, but "The Last Five Years" holds a special relevance to my fiancee and me. It got us through many a tough time as we shared many qualities with the two characters and knew how we could get out of the predicaments Jamie and Kathy find themselves in. Plus, I am still reaping the rewards of telling Stevi, "You, you are the story I should write."

Can you quote every line from show 1?
Oh, I get a little confused during the second act keeping track of all the characters in "By This Time Next Year." I don't have a grip on this show like I (and many others) have on "Rent," which I once sang the entire first act to myself without accompaniment driving down from SF to LA.

How many times have you seen show 3?
Five times: once in New York, twice at A.C.T. in SF, once in L.A. and once at USC.

If you could be anyone from show 6, who would it be? Why?
Ouch, it's hard to pick a character from "A Chorus Line," as the best male character, Paul, has a monologue about how his homosexuality destroyed his relationship with his father, and then goes on to break his ankle. I have always wanted to play Zach, but that's more because the dancing in the show would demolish my body, and Zach is the director who save for two scenes sits out in the audience with a microphone.

What's your favorite song from show 7?
Without question, "All I Need is the Girl." It is one of the greatest songs from any musical, bar none, and it packs an emotional whallop both during the spectacular sequence as well as when we find out who Tulsa was REALLY singing about. Just watch Natalie Wood in both scenes. Heartbreaking.

What's your favorite quote from show 9?
"I know, put my earmuffs on the cookie...who painted the cat purple?"

Out of all these shows, which one is your absolute favorite?
I technically have a four-way tie between "Sunset Boulevard," "Rent," "Urinetown" and "The Last Five Years." "Sunset Blvd." is the gloriously extravagant pop musical where everything works, "Urinetown" is the funniest musical of all time (a musical comedy where the actual music is incredible; whodathunk?), "Rent" is the show that changed the world and "TLFY" is the unique experiment that ends up being a part of your very soul.

Who's the best Broadway actor?
Alan Cumming, Nathan Lane, Hunter Foster, Jonathan Pryce, Anthony Rapp, Norbert Leo Butz.

Who's the best Broadway actress?
Gotta go with the Bern. Idina Menzel is a true talent, though.

What's the best musical they turned into a movie?
Absolute perfection: "Little Shop of Horrors." Most improved: "Chicago." Most underrated: "Gypsy." Most in the spirit: "On the Town" and "Hedwig and the Angry Inch." Didn't change a thing and yet it still worked: "Jesus Christ Superstar." Best classic: "West Side Story." Conversely, the best improvements as movie-to-musical: "Sunset Boulevard" and "The Producers."

Is there a musical you DON'T like?
Yes, there are many bad musicals in this world.

If so, which one? Why?
I have gone on record with my hatred for that atrocity that everyone seems to adore: "Les Miserables." What a sorry excuse for an event musical: the story doesn't really kick in until near the end of the first act, the main character is a cipher, there's only two great songs and they both belong to Epanine, the patriotism is dopey and the staging is confusing and lousy. And hey, I gave it a goddamn open-minded second chance, so don't start.

Do you think the movie versions are better, or the original Broadway shows?
As I've stated above, it's really particular to the project at hand. For the most part, though, sloppy film adaptations are what killed the musical in the first place, and after the successes of "Moulin Rouge" and "Chicago," the studios are unfortunately back to the same mistakes. "Chicago" made over $100 million and won Best Picture because it WASN'T the show. The same can't be said for "The Producers," "Phantom of the Opera" and "Rent"--which are fine movies--but they failed to make the transition new, pleasant and interesting.


This or That:

The Producers or RENT - While I am partial to "The Producers" as I was present during the final preview night back in 2001 with Nathan Lane and Matthew Broderick, "Rent" is a large part of my life: I have seen it 12 times and will make it to #13 on August 2nd. "The Producers" doesn't have the best music, but "Rent" is something to behold, even if the message fails to engage some viewers. There is no match for "Take Me or Leave Me" or "I'll Cover You Reprise" in the former.

Wicked or Chicago: I am not a fan of either show. Granted, I haven't given "Wicked" a fair shot, but I think Stephen Schwartz doesn't know how to write for women for shit, and it's aimed too squarely at teenage girls. "Chicago," on the other hand, had a messy revival that drained all the energy and emotion out of the proceedings. That's why I call the movie "most improved," as it is quite a different piece of art than the show. For sheer knowledge of its originality back in the Fosse-fied 1970s, "Chicago" wins this one.

Fiddler on the Roof or Oklahoma: I have written in newspapers that, in regards to Rodgers and Hammerstein, "I can make better melodies with my rear end," and while "Fiddler" is too long for its own good, I gotta give it up for the fellow Jews. Also, whenever I hear the word "tradition," I raise both my arms.

Thoroughly Modern Millie or 42nd Street: "Millie" is a piece of colorful and racist drivel, despite the fact that I admire the Julie Andrews movie. I believe it was a New York Times critic who likened the show to "being stampeded on by circus ponies." I've never seen the stage version of "42nd Street," but I love the original movie, and the song selections from all the Busby Berkeley musicals they put into the show are brilliant. I love a good "understudy-makes-good" story, as opposed to "20s flapper-makes-whore."

Hairspray or Grease: "Hairspray." I objected somewhat to the first time I saw it--with the original cast in NY--because they were not giving it their all, despite the fact that I loved the soundtrack. The SF production was better. I've been in "Grease," and it's kind of a screwed up musical that teaches all women that to get a dumb jock to love you, become a tramp and all will be well. The movie is good to watch every now and again, though, especially since it bears very little resemblance to the show.

...they keep pulling me back in!

Tomorrow, I embark for Los Angeles, hopefully for the last time. The remainder of my miscellaneous crap still holds up a corner of my old Rose Avenue apartment in Palms, and I'm pretty sure it still has that good ol' Marcus odor, just to remind my old roommates of what they had to put up with for two years and one year, respectively.

It'll be difficult, though. In a mere 17 days, I have reassociated myself with the East Bay; the smells, the sights, the feelings, the friends, the food, the drinks, the drugs. I have maintained a mostly comfortable online relationship with most of my Los Angeles friends--I'll get in touch with you soon, Siobhan, I promise--and have plunged in head-first with my buddies of yore.

I really miss these fools. I often can't get a good quote out of any of my college friends if I tried to pry it out with a crowbar, but the quips of the so-called uneducated degenerates with which I socialize up here come at a priceless and steady rate. As I head into the South--what should be Annie Lennox's follow-up to her Oscar-winning song--I will leave you with some of the verbal excrement my ingeniously spirited friends, and myself, let drop without fail.

(Note: Most were likely "under the influence," but then again, you'd expect that from me.)

"I am the cockjab of responsibility..."

"It's fun to have a room temperature friend."

"It was after we blew up all that macaroni with those M-80s...that you tried to kill Billy with a shovel."

"You threw a toaster oven off your porch at her!"
"I did?"

"This is the reason I never want to go to Madagascar."

"I've seen you immobilized in your decadence."

"I was 5'11" and 125 lbs! I thought I had AIDS!"
"Yeah, AIDS is not good."

[non-chalantly] "Marcus, your beer is on fire."

(In addition, we discussed the validity and legality of hunting raccoons. Why, I'm not sure.)

Day for Night

I was planning on analyzing Green Day's seminal album Dookie in this spot, but after a horrendous fight with my parents I only want to curl up into a ball on my bed and sleep. If any friends can give me solace, now is the time.

I'll get around to the Green Day thing soon enough, because I really think it's of interest both to my evoltion as a writer (which is going well but not as swimmingly as I would have hoped)
and to your curiosity. Stay tuned.

P.S. You, Me & Dupree was not bad at all. It's a pimple on the ass of Pirates 2, but weighing against the fact that I was considering seeing Little Man instead of Dupree, I was pleasantly surprised.

Pee-wee's Playhouse depresses me...

I should be joyous that Adult Swim has decided to start showing episodes of one of my favorite TV shows, Pee-wee's Playhouse. Alas, I stared at the screen last night in confusion and shock. Truth be told, this show explains a lot about me, as I was a serious fan back during its original run.

(Really, these are just miscellaneous thoughts I had during said viewing.)

-The episode is called "Ice Cream Soup."
-I find it creepy how Pee-wee interacts with Chairry.
-Miss Yvonne is a slut and strips for a Hispanic lifeguard by the name of Tito.
-I completely forgot the King of Cartoons is black.
-Laurence Fishburne is the gayest cowboy this side of West Hollywood. His lasso is even animated and can change colors.
-Penny is the single most disturbing claymation creation ever, including the California Raisins and characters from The Nightmare Before Christmas, and judging from her voice work, is intended to be portrayed as mentally ill.
-Jambi is a drag queen.
-Randy is a douchebag.
-Natasha Lyonne plays a child hippie named Opal, with little knowledge that she will grow up to be a highly publicized drug addict in her own right.
-I still really want Pee-wee's scooter.
-This is one of the few kids shows that goes out of its way to definitively NOT teach the viewer anything.
-Phil Hartman is dead, and there's nothing I can do about it.
-I automatically know to hyphenate Pee-wee's name.

Two Girls and a Sailor

During this past February, I had an experience I look forward to every year. During the lead-up to the Oscars, the most wonderful channel on television, Turner Classic Movies, runs their popular 31 Days of Oscar where each day is dedicated to a variety of Academy Award-themed classics. In 2003, the first year I started watching, a day was built around an Oscar category, such as Art Direction, Best Actor, Best Score, with nominations and wins from the show's 70+ year history adorning the small screen.

This year, the format was changed greatly, as to go with TCM's regular gimmick of connecting each subsequent movie to the one before, whether it be through actor, director, producer, etc. This led for more of a disjointed feeling than I was used to during February, as in 2003 I could dedicate entire days to the categories I felt I wanted to explore--e.g. If I wanted to see the best-looking movies of all time I had somehow missed during all my years, I could tune into a day of nominated cinematographers and take in beauty.

I did not fret, however, and put aside my Netflix queue for an entire month as I indulged in film history that was never granted to me during my four-year tenure as a film production major at Loyola Marymount University. Cimarillon, My Man Godfrey, The Bad and the Beautiful, The Americanization of Emily, The Thief of Baghdad, The Princess and the Pirate, Road to Utopia, Topper & Topper Returns (which, along with its television spin-off, is prime for a remake), The Philadelphia Story & High Society (one is a musical remake of the other), She Done Him Wrong, etc.

However, two stood out for me above all others--Two Girls and a Sailor and Executive Suite. Neither of the movies are really that fantastic--the former mostly notable for being the first time I've seen Jimmy Durante and not merely heard him on the Sleepless in Seattle soundtrack, the latter just a way for me to indulge in my knowledge that Robert Wise was the most various director of his day along with William Wyler.

No, what stood out for me was a beauty I hadn't had the pleasure of beforehand--June Allyson--who had parts of varying importance in these two movies. Really, I should just be discussing Two Girls and a Sailor, as she is one of the titular girls. Here was this early 1940s less-annoying Renee Zellweger, her of the scrunched face and scratchy voice, and I was enamored. Who was this woman and why hadn't I heard of her? I found out later she was Jo in the classic version of Little Women, but I felt as if I had discovered something of pure joy. She was not of the drop-dead bombshell look that belonged to so many of her contemporaries. She was the girl-next-door, and that is why she was loved. I wholeheartedly rooted for her to attain the love of said sailor, and while I cannot even remember which of the two showgirls the sailor picks at the end of the film, I'd like to believe it was June Allyson. She was the one to take home to mom.

June Allyson died three days ago at her home in Ojai, California of pulmonary respiratory failure at the age of 88. Her grace and beauty had not withered, and you could still feel the smile behind her eyes even during her late commercial appearances. There was difficulties in her life, to be sure, but she blew it off with a subtle nod of the head or curl of the lip. She could not be phased, even during the bad publicity she received during her marriage to 13-years-her-senior Dick Powell.

During the climax of Two Girls and a Sailor, a wonderous dream sequence takes place that, much like An American in Paris, summarizes the plot up to that point in conceptual and breathtaking dance. As the two showgirls gracefully battle over their mutual attraction, the set becomes a symbol of their occupation at their night club--they jump from literal note to note amidst a grand, sparkling city, Jimmy Durante prances around comically and backs up both of their emotions, and the sailor appears to be a treasure, somewhere in the distance and yet still attainable.

This dream sequence is what I imagine June Allyson's heaven-to-be. There was no greater sight during the entire month of February this year on TCM, and there wasn't during her career. This belongs to her.

A star has dimmed over Hollywood, and I wish her a whole new generation of fans.

The one-eyed man is king...

I don't like it when blind people look at me, but I don't know how to tell them to stop.

Superman is a dick!

Enjoy.

http://www.superdickery.com/dick/20.html

You can start at the beginning of the webpage, but that's my favorite of the group. Because in addition to fighting for for truth and justice, he must defend the American way, which in the 1940s involved being superracist.

I really hate parades / The Sho' Nuff Adventures of Abe Africa

It's probably your least favorite part of the year. It was just explained on a rerun of "Family Guy" to be the black man's revenge against Whitey for years of slavery and oppression. It reduces all of us to that most unenviable of American horrors--statistics.

Yes, the DMV. Specifically, the El Cerrito Department of Motor Vehicles on Manila, two blocks from where I once flunked my first driver's test by my baffled and probably very combative query of my driving instructor as to why there was a four-way intersection with nary a Stop or Yield sign in any direction, right on the corner of an elementary school. (The answer: "It's Richmond.")

A place where a middle-aged black woman tried to convince my mother that it was a good idea to whip me with a switch.

A place where, similarly, I've come to the conclusion, entirely on sight and experience alone, that only black mothers think slapping their young rowdy children is a good idea, and only white mothers leash their young 'uns to their waste like a parachuting cur.

All of these thoughts went out the window two days ago as I stood in line for a duplicate driver's license after losing every single form of photo identification during the still shameful night when I saw "Superman Returns" drunk off my ass, vomited on my roommate, then staggered home 3 miles to my apartment in the middle of the night.

Because, honestly, two days ago, at the DMV, was the most unstressful, professional experience I've had in months. No hours in line. No angry welfare workers. A complete amount of competence in their job and their forms. And this was during lunch hour. How is this even possible? It's vastly preferable to grocery store lines, which for some reason have bothered me to the point of screaming each and every time I am at any store other than Trader Joe's. Perhaps that's something I should look into.

More importantly, the DMV experience reminded me of the following exchange from CBS' darling sitcom--the best on network TV--had between the show's hero Ted (Josh Radnor) and a club coat check girl (Jayma Mays from "Red Eye") in the episode "Okay Awesome":

Coat Check Girl (CCG): Rough night?
Ted: Yeah...these clubs are supposed to be fun, right? WHy do I hate them so much?
CCG: Because all of the stuff you're supposed to like, usually sucks. Like these clubs. Or cruises.
Ted: Or New Year's Eve.
CCG: Or the Superbowl.
Ted: Or parades.
CCG: Or the Rockettes.
Ted: Or parades.
CCG: You said that already.
Ted: I really hate parades.
...
CCG: Yeah, see? if everybody tells you something's supposed to be fun, it's usually not.
Ted: Right, so by that logic, if you and I were to, you know, go out on a date...
CCG: Then we couldn't go anywhere that's supposed to be fun.
Ted: Okay. DMV it is.
CCG: Then we'll get our teeth cleaned.
Ted: Sounds awful. It's a date.
CCG: Okay.
Ted: But there's still one big question that needs to be answered. How many of these coats do you think I can put on all at once?

---

Really, I'm happy anytime I can quote from "HIMYM," a program whose brilliance I shall explain in a later entry. These thoughts might be a sign of boredom, but nothing could really match an hour after the DMV experience when I went down to Pennzoil to get an oil change. As I sat in my truck, looking at the place's computer list of current clients, and discovered the greatest name to ever grace the face of this Earth.

Abe Africa.

The first thing that sprung to mind was that nobody with a name as spectacular as Abe Africa should EVER be driving a 2000 Saturn Sedan. He should be driving some souped-up Pootie Tang Cadillac mobile smacking bitches, and his cell phone ring should be "I'm Your Pusher Man" from "Superfly."

Of course, that's just his persona by day. At night, he uses the power of his feathered hat and bling to assume his alter ego, also named of Abe Africa, who fights the dastardly criminals of the San Francisco Bay Area--Oakland included--using the martial art form known as Pimp Fu, an art that appears very similar to Kung Fu, with the notable exception that the last thing you see before you die is a large black palm and five fingers adorned with gold coming at ya.

And thusly begins the lost epic motion picture from 1974 "Pimp Fu: The Sho' Nuff Adventures of Abe Africa."

Fruitless

It is a common online piece of advice: Arguing in an Internet talkback is like being in the Special Olympics--even if you win, you're still retarded.

I am currently in the midst of learning such a lesson after nearly seven years of frequenting the board at Ain't It Cool News (aintitcool.com) and have moved some of my pent-up ire onto the boards at the Internet Movie Database (imdb.com). It would take more than my 20 fingers and toes to recall which arguments I have mindlessly pursued on said boards, only to come up supremely retarded.

The biggest is probably my full-on widespread debate against a fellow known as GreatOne on the talkback to "Brokeback Mountain," with myself and several others going up against the kind of self-moralizing misguided grandeur that seems to inform every middle-age Christian about why they think homosexuality is the devil's work. Not only that, but he had the nerve to question the AMA's (American Medical Association) decision a few decades ago to take "homosexuality" off the list of mental disorders, GreatOne close-mindedly believing that this was solely as a result of left-wing politicizing and oppression, while failing to realize that if they indeed kept homosexuality on said list, he would be singing the praises of America's doctors. Not to mention that such ridiculous things as "female hysteria" have also been nixed from the list over the past 50 years. The truth is the AMA clearly has more facts backing up their claims than one global-warming denying conservative, and no matter what he can say about homosexuality being entirely nurture without nature (which is patently absurd), he'll just be going up against a brick wall.

The conversation was ridiculous, to say the least, but I did get a marvelous shot in, saying that in mere decades people such as GreatOne will be lumped in with those in the anti-black movement in the '50s and '60s, shamed by the progression and evolution of social thought. By denying homosexuals the rights guaranteed to every American, he became trash in the eyes of the talkbackers and the AICN administrators--he was soon banned from the site.

A recent imdb talkback, regarding an episode of FOX's "House" and the hubbub over a dying teenage girl cancer patient demanding a soft, tender kiss from one of the show's hunky doctors, led to an online personality who believed this was child pornography and must be dealt with by the FCC. The point was mildly valid, but the personality pushed it beyond the point of reason until the entire "House" talkback community called not only that his posts be deleted, but that he be banned forevermore from the imdb boards for trying to start such shit. This is an example of the horrible internet phenomenon known as "trolling."

As you can tell, some of these really meant something to me, but in the midst of it all, I was just winning at the Special Olympics. I used to justify it as my hatred for misinformation and mere education of such facts and principles, but it became completely worthless in my eyes over the last few days as I have literally argued with someone on the imdb boards for "So You Think You Can Dance" over the definition of the word "any." I won't bore you with the details, because unlike the aforementioned examples that have some educational and social merit, this deteriorated into name-calling and my at-home exasperation over such a conversation.

Recently, my sister Kate has been constantly using a word to describe certain things in my life--"fruitless." I think with both Kate and myself, we have a tendency to hear a word once used in perfect context, and then deem it worthy to use again and again. Perhaps this is leftover lesson material from St. Mary's High School English teachers such as Ms. Mahoney and Ms. Caraballo, where reasonably difficult vocabulary words were thrust into our consciousness through constant repetition and integration into daily life. This would explain my bout two years ago with the word "circuitous," which I promptly stopped when Kate brought to my attention that I had used the same word to describe the exact same part of the 101 Freeway in Los Angeles, or how I use the same example--the viciously clumsy rhythm of the song "Stellar"--to justify my almost unreasonable dislike of the band Incubus.

I briefly described my internet talkback battle on the "So You Think You Can Dance" boards to my sister, and she quickly asked me why in God's name I was even pursuing such a use of my time. The only answer I could muster up, "Because she's wrong," led to Kate's fourth usage of the word in two days: "fruitless."

And so, I will continue my decision to no longer fight on the AICN and imdb boards, as I have briefly flirted with, and either use my IQ to quell these fruitless debates--such as I did when some odd AICN talkbacker, on the board for a review of "V for Vendetta," said that by enjoying "Sin City" we must endorse the use of torture with POWs--or to ignore such things outright. It is, of course, my mission moving back to Berkeley to read more and spend less time in front of the TV or the computer.

So if you are on the boards for AICN or imdb and see a talkbacker by the names of Lenny Nero and MarcDom7, respectively, tell me to shut the fuck up. God knows it'll help.

An important message on this auspicious holiday.

Happy Independence Day, everyone, which this morning was the subject of President Bush's uplifting address to the troops to hold steady and strong, failing to mention that on July 4, 1776, a group of the country's most intelligent men sat around a document and signed it, fighting diplomatically and without military force.

Ah, the irony.

Goodbye, Los Angeles.

It's official: after five years stewing in the smog-ridden, palm-lined, botox-injected, SUV-infected, post-modern monstrosity known as the greater Los Angeles area, I have finally escaped its clutches in order to return to the comparatively serene San Francisco Bay Area. And while these past few days back has led to a great deal of gardening--an activity I hate more than most reported stabbings--and a large house-cleaning with my family leading up to our mega 4th of July party, I couldn't be happier.

This blog, while originally intended to be an extension of my two-year column "Beetle's Corner" at the Los Angeles Loyolan in which I would solely discuss matters related to pop culture, has now evolved in my head to be a grab bag of rousing rambles, dealing with my sudden life change only a year after my graduation from Loyola Marymount University, now living with my parents, my experiences in the film/TV industry while in L.A., an occasional entry in what the New Yorker would call either "Wit" or "Talk of the Town" (although not nearly as polished), my new and hopefully fascinating experiences in Berkeley and San Francisco, and, as aforementioned, pop culture bitching.

The only frustrating thing I've encountered up here, so far, is my selection of a different television than I had in L.A., which for some inexplicable reason goes completely batshit insane whenever I turn on my VCR, disallowing me to view videotapes or spend a few mind-numbing hours on my GameCube or PS2. The set-up is exactly the same save for the television, so I can't help but imagine this is God or Jeebus' sign that I should probably watching TV less and start reading more. But when you pay $150 for a used PS2 and upwards of $200 for games, you definitely want to see some bang for your buck, even if it does mean your children won't be as sharp as you were before all those drugs and alcohol--you lush.

I will leave you with one random item: when my family moved into this house, the former owners by the last name of Jacuzzi (yes, that Jacuzzi family), they left two rifle racks in the upstairs office, a room we have now turned into the master bedroom. Like the liberal I am, I am in the midst of turning one of them into a large oak bookcase for my room. How much does that say about me?