POT FACTS

January 31, 2003

I’m working on a freelance job, writing for an anti-drug advertising campaign. Because who better to police teen behavior than the advertising industry? Actually, I often really enjoy this type of work. It’s hard to talk to teenaged kids without feeling the exhausted roll of their eyes on you, so when you do a good job it’s especially satisfying.

As a result of this assignment, I’ve been reading a lot of facts about pot. Did you know excessive pot use can cause memory loss, compromised physical coordination, and even anxiety? And, worse than all of that, it can seriously impair your judgement when evaluating the awesome-ness of drum solos. And 45% of habitual pot smokers have, at one time, used a ballpoint pen to render a pot leaf in the pages of their school notebooks, or on the knee of their jeans. It makes me so sad.

X JUST GAVE IT TO ME

January 30, 2003

Sometimes my dumb streak spreads wide, like the mighty Mississippi. How else can I explain my can’t-stop-hitting-repeat love of the new DMX single, “X Gon’ Give it to Ya”? As the thoughtful scribes at MTV.com put it, here the artist is “in typical X form.” You know. You hear the song – the loud threats, tourettic shouts, military pacing – and you say with a wink, “that’s my X. so typical!”

Mark my words: “X Gon’ Give it to Ya” is poised to become the date rape anthem of 2003. Sorry, Mudvayne! Better luck next year.

WE THINK PAUL NEWMAN IS ATTACHED

January 29, 2003

Just catching up on last week’s New Yorker (i can so read. shut it.) and it was end-to-end good. I subscribe to the magazine because I find, other than the New York Times Magazine, it’s the one source that always comes up when people relate interesting stories. It’s never, “Did you read that story in this month’s Crack’d?…” And it is a good magazine although, on average, I only read about 40% of its contents. Financial Page? Never. Written by Jeffrey Toobin. Almost never. Modern dance legends? Forget it. Even “Shouts and Murmurs,” the section I used to most look forward to each week, telegraphs its tired punches so desperately that it usually gets abandoned about three unfunny jokes through. (in that sense, it’s not so different from this site.)

But last week’s issue was a POWERHOUSE – for me, at least. A surprisingly down-to-earth feature on Matthew Barney. A “Talk of the Town” mention (and illustration) of an acquaintance from the NYC comedy scene. (and that only made me a tiny bit jealous and wanting, but not enough to wish ill of demetri, who i still think is talented and very decent at being a human being.) And a nice, long piece of new fiction from George Saunders that gave me the same warm stirrings pre-teen girls get when the new issue of Frilly! magazine boasts a fold-out poster of Justin Timberlake or that guy from Smallville. Suffice it to say, my content ingestion average spiked at about 85%.

The best story, however, has been the history of Forrest Tucker, one of America’s most notorious bankrobbers and prison escape artists. I haven’t finished this piece yet, but it instantly gave me the feeling that some very ambitious and very lazy Hollywood producer just found his next story to option. With a speech like this:

“So what do you want to know? I’ve been in prison all my life, except for the times I’ve broken out. I was born in 1920, and I was in jail by the time I was fifteen. I’m eighty-one now and I’m still in jail, but I’ve broken out eighteen times successfully and twelve times unsuccessfully. There were plenty of other times I planned to escape, but there’s no point in me telling you about them.”

you’ve already got your opening voice-over. The article reads almost exactly like a great, epic film, spanning America’s 20th century through fashion, crime, pulp, style, and geography, and seen through the lens of a perfectly smooth, handsome outlaw with a penchant for politeness. My God it’s all right there.

Then, about 2500 words in, I remembered. The story sounded almost too familiar, and that’s because William Goldman had a similar thought. In his book Which Lie Did I Tell? he demonstrates how possible it is to build a story out of something ripped right from the headlines and uses the final (possibly!) arrest of Mr. Tucker as his example. He goes to great trouble to set it up, hypothetically, as an example to aspiring screenwriters. Wild. He provided the premise, but the New Yorker provided the outline.

And someone – and we pray it will not be someone like Brian Grazer – will provide the holiday film. The only difference will be that Tucker’s age will come down by at least 10 years, and his main accomplice will be a foul-mouthed space alien named Rolo. (after his hearty appetite for “Rolo’s” candies.)

GREAT ADVICE FROM SOMEONE WHO KNOWS A LITTLE SOMETHING ABOUT CEREAL FLAKES

January 28, 2003

I’m a bit busy lately, so today I thought I’d leave you in the hands of a marvelous thinker – the late founding father of the Ralston Purina company, Mr. William Danforth. This passage was taken from his extraordinary self-help book, written in 1931, and still every bit as relevant to the travails we face today, I DARE YOU!:

I am on one side of the table. You are on the other. I am looking across and saying “I dare you!”

I Dare You, young man, you who have come from a home of poverty – I dare you to have the qualities of a Lincoln.

I Dare You, heir of wealth and proud ancestry, with your generations of worthy stock, your traditions of leadership – I dare you to achieve something that will make the future point to you with even more pride than the present is pointing to those who have gone before you.

I Dare You, young mother, to make your life a masterpiece upon which that little family of yours can build. Strong women bring forth strong men.

I Dare You, debutante, to be a queen. Make life obey you, not you it. It is only a shallow dare to do the foolish things. I dare you to do the uplifting, courageous things.

I Dare You, freshman, to make the varsity team.

I Dare You, young author, to win the Nobel Prize.

I Dare You, young researcher, to become a Microbe Hunter.

I Dare You, barefoot boy on the farm, to become a Master Farmer – A Hunger Fighter.

I Dare You, man of affairs, to have a “Magnificent Affair.”

I Dare You, who thinks life is humdrum, to start a fight.

I Dare You, Bigfoot, to make yourself seen. Shine on and inherit that which was always yours.

I Dare You, Frankenstein’s Monster, to touch fire and embrace it. Fire give life. Fire not bad!!

I Dare You, cloth merchant, to sell double your cloth this month. And triple the next!

I Dare You, obese twins, to climb aboard that pair of tiny matching motorized scooters and ride around in circles for a bit while my beautiful family laughs and cheers. You are clown princes, and the world is your court. Now pedal!!!

I Dare You, whoever you are, to share with others the fruits of your daring. Catch a passion for helping others and a richer life will come back to you! I Dare it!

Now ask yourself: are you up for the dare???

DRINKING MAKES THE WORDS FLUID, REGRETTABLE

January 27, 2003

It’s one of those rare, sought-after nights in my neighborhood. A light snowfall, and the sky does its disappearing act. The cathedrals and brownstones cut severe outlines against the negative space, illuminated by white reflecting off white. And I get to jog on the side streets, my tank somewhere between half and “F” on red wine.

I’m warm for a change, insulated by my headphones. I can’t hear anyone except Plastic Bertrand shouting gibberish in French (or any language), and the voice of this cd’s curator sweetly mispronouncing my last name. And as I race toward my apartment and all the carbohydrates it stores, I look up at the missing sky, and keep repeating a separate chorus, the one I made up just now: Tonight is another good night to start again. And I don’t care that I’ll wake up tomorrow, hung-over and regretting the majority of these words. If you don’t believe me, move to New York City.

QUICKHONEY

January 25, 2003

I’ve been seeing a lot of links (online, and in person) to Quickhoney lately. I love Peter Stemmler’s illustration and pixel-design. I was really pleased to see Eboy, a collective of Brooklyn-based, German-born graphic designers of which Peter is a member, get the proper treatment with the release of their book, Hello, last year.

I became sort of enamored with Peter’s vector illustration style a couple of years ago and took my crush far enough to commission an illustration. I sent him my favorite childhood photograph – an image I thought was befitting of his style – sent it to him, and he sent me back a file. I realize it’s somewhat odd, maybe even vain, to have a portrait of yourself hanging above your desk in your apartment, but it’s easy to put that judgement aside when the portrait looks like this:

i had no control over my wardrobe at this age.

THE RICH LANGUAGE OF CINEMA

I had two semi-ordinary experiences in the last 24 hours which, when linked, provide an interesting insight into the way average consumers have adopted the language of well-trained arts critics. On thursday evening, a strange man cozied up next to me (and my naked penis) at the urinals beneath the Times Square Virigin Megastore, and began relating his unsolicited opinion of Road to Perdition. “I liked that movie, but it was a little slow for me. Not a movie for women. Not much for women in there. It’s a story of a father trying to make his son turn out differently, you know. Not like him. Nice penis. Road to Perdition! Good night.”

Then, the following night, seemingly apropos of nothing, a woman caught me through the revolving doors of an office building just to tell me how she felt about The Hours. (again, she was a total stranger to me. and again, my penis was out, and looking very nice.) “There’s a movie you can miss! I felt the story just sort of fell flat, you know. Oh, but the cinematography was beautiful!”

Both of those movie reviews were borderline articulate, even though they might have sounded informed to the speakers. They didn’t help me at all. Instead, they were like a polite assemblage of critical points one might read in a hack journalist’s review. Story – check. Acting – check. Cinematography – check. I also think many people’s diplomatically stated opinions of films can be a complex short-hand for their real opinions – and the ones I’d prefer to hear. I have always favored unrehearsed passion to bland civility, even though I’m not drunk enough to practice it most of the time.

Here’s what I believe people mean when they channel the voices of newspaper film reviews:

When You Say: “The movie was slow.”
You Mean (male): “There were surprisingly few scenes involving people being shot in the face or balls.”
(female):“There were surprisingly few montages of women frantically trying on a series of ridiculous outfits before a big date, set to bubbly 60s pop songs.”

When You Say: “The movie wasn’t so great, but the acting was excellent.”
You Mean:“Al Pacino was in it.”

When You Say: “I don’t see how this would appeal to women.”
You Mean: “There were exactly enough scenes of people being shot in the face or balls, as well as one scene that takes place in a strip club.”

When You Say: “I don’t see how this would appeal to men.”
You Mean: “Colin Firth is in this film.”

When You Say: “I don’t see how this film could have been made.”
You Mean:“Andie MacDowell / Dana Carvey / Tim Allen / Kevin Costner / Terry Bradshaw / a breakdancing chimpanzee / any combination of two or more of the previous is in this film.”

When You Say: “It was very quirky, and not as funny as I’d expected, but I think I liked it.”
You Mean: “Wes Anderson directed it.”

When You Say: “It was too quirky. I hated it.”
You Mean: “That asshole who directed Pi directed it.”

When You Say: “It was Kevin Smith’s most mature film to date.”
You Mean: “I finished one year of college.”

When You Say: “It had great cinematography.”
You Mean: “I know I should have liked this film, but I honestly didn’t get it. Please don’t hold that against me. I’m sure I can find some reason to recommend it.”

When You Say: “It was just pure escapism.”
You Mean: “Some day you will be stuck on a cross-continental flight and be forced to watch this shitty film, made even shittier by having the swear words edited out.”

When You Say: “Definitely Oscar material.”
You Mean: “Someone acts very, very retarded in several scenes.”

And that’s the Civilian Movie Critic bit!!!! HA-CHA!

I WONDER IF RINGO AND GEORGE FELT THAT HIT

January 23, 2003

When Ed Lover (innovator of the ed lover dance) compared Jam Master Jay’s untimely and tragic demise to the murder of John Lennon, I felt it was as earnest as an airbrushed memorial portrait of Aaliyah on the hood of a Lexus, and just about as tacky. Show the man respect within his genre; there is no need to undermine the importance of rap music through rock analogy. Plus, considering Jay’s place in the canon of hip-hop (i can’t believe i said that), and the genre’s many living legends, Lover’s eulogy didn’t leave room for analogy in the event of Kris Parker’s death (John F. Kennedy?) or the death of Grandmaster Flash (Mecha-John Lennon?), or Rakim (Abraham Lincoln?) or Biz Markie (Fatty Arbuckle?).

Then Public Enemy’s Chuck D took time away from uploading MP3s of his newest album to correct – or at least amend – Ed Lover’s statement. He claimed, “Losing Jam Master Jay to a murder was, maybe not John Lennon, but it was like as if Ringo and George both got hit at the same time.” Shit. Again, I see where he’s coming from, but Ringo? That’s like kicking extra dirt on Jay’s coffin.

And just when it seemed the honor that should have been reserved for the victim was in danger of being tipped over by clumsy elbows vying for mic time to “set the record straight”, two other recent events have managed to explode our collective memories of JMJ and smear the stinking remains across our upper lips.

Exhibit A*: The Jam Master Jay Tribute Shoe. When JMJ got his driver’s license, did he check the box to have his organs donated to Adidas? These shoes are screened with a tiny likeness of Jay’s face on the tongue, and a gentle reminder of his life span. They’re also the inverse of the color combination Run DMC was seen in most frequently, and immortalized on “My Adidas” – “they’re black and white / white with black stripes / the kind I like to wear when I rock the mic.” (granted, maybe Jay favored the white-on-black lowers, but his voice was seldom heard.) And they’re $100, just as Jay would have wanted. Nowhere on the site did I find any information indicating that a portion of the profits would go to Jay’s family, or to the purchase of spackle to fill those holes in the studio wall. If you want a fitting tribute linked to your wallet, go buy yourself a damn Snoop DeVille instead.

Exhibit B: Dr. P. Uh-oh. What happened? This hurts me more than a three car pile-up between Mike Love, Mickey Dolenz, and Tony Orlando’s Dawn. (coincidentally, ed lover compared the death of lisa ‘left-eye’ lopez to precisely this. chuck d later added, “well, peter tork maybe. but mickey dolenz? let’s be reasonable, everybody.”) I love Dr. Pepper. I love it like a junkie loves smack. Almost exactly like that, in fact. So I do not need a reason to boycott this sweet, spicy elixir. But Dr. Pepper is testing my threshhold of forgiveness with their new “JMJ Tribute” commercials. LL Cool J rapping at a computer-generated image of Jam Master Jay, scratching on his 1200s? The remaining members of Run DMC in their new oversized hats, not contributing much? Wait. Back to LL. LL HAS GONE LOCO! I’m glad he got back in the gym and worked that beef into lean. He has finally earned his right to be shirtless again. He even cleaned up that anti-perspirant residue from underneath his arms. Mama would be proud. But she should still knock you out for doing that commercial. You’re rapping to a ghost! Selling Dr. Pepper! What does this have to do with hip-hop, with JMJ, with alley ways or name plates or dooky chains or anything? I pray that someone will deliver LL from Eva and return him and his Flinstones head to Earth.

And while LL buries himself alive in a record time of 30 seconds, Jay’s ghost is resurrected for the express purpose of desecration. Even his CGI expression is mournful, as he silently scratches out Dr. Pepper’s orders. Pay attention, if you can, to the end of the commercial in which Jay’s digital self scratches out Run DMC’s signature message: “We’re RUN DMC and Jam Master Jay!!” and note the change. According to the executives at Dr. Pepper who fear black people have turned to PepsiBlue, it would be a fitting tribute to JMJ to show him scratching out the following: “Run DMC and Jam Dr. PEPPER!!!” It’s the perfect blend of eulogy and sacrilege.

Dr. Pepper must have used some Jedi mind tricks, combined with levitating blank checks, to convince the artists involved in this commercial that it would be a fitting tribute. And according to their press release, they’d like to dangle a spinning hypnotic disc in front of consumers’ minds and repeat the following passage (for the subtext-impaired, i will bold-face certain key words):

“After some deep thought and discussion about how appropriate it would be to air this commercial, the surviving members of RUN DMC, as well as members of James Mizell’s family, felt it would be a fitting tribute. A brief memorial to Jam Master Jay will appear at the end of the commercial for six to eight weeks after its debut during the professional footbal conference championships, as well as on the Golden Globe Awards. Because this commercial is a tribute to RUN DMC’s pioneering work in the hip-hop music genre, the timing is perfect to honor Jam Master Jay. Like Dr. Pepper, RUN DMC and Jason Mizell were one-of-a-kind.”

I know what you’re wondering: did I accidentally forget to include the maniacal laughter at the end of this quote? No. Shockingly, it was absent to begin with. I can only assume a public relations representative excised it for brevity. Dr. Pepper thought carefully, and decided 6-8 weeks was a fitting tribute, especially on the heels of the Golden Globe Awards, Jam Master Jay’s favorite television event. Also, in marketing-speak, the words “perfect timing” rarely, if ever, refer to matters of dignity, grieving or respect. And leave it to Dr. Pepper to carefully reverse the order of honor. Run DMC are strategically compred to the product, and not the other way around. I’m sure “some members” of Jay’s family are very proud, and very rich.

What can be learned from all of this? For fans of great men and women, be careful how you honor your heroes. For advertisers…forget it. It’s far too late for you. And for everyone else – write your last will and testament EARLY. And be sure to include a clause about the posthumous use of your likeness. And a second clause indicating all your actual favorite products. And one more clause requesting that RUN and DMC start wearing their little hats again.

*my friend zeina came through with research into the JMJ tribute sneaker, and i am eating my oversized hat. here’s what she found: “of the 5000 pairs that were made 100% of the profits
are going to the scratch DJ academy started by JMJ last year…the academy’s “goal is to unify, legitimize, validate and extend the role and importance of the DJ into new arenas. An organization that focuses on the documentation of the art form as well as the extension of its services into completely new and untapped markets.” it’s really nice to be proven wrong this way, actually. and double-nice because adidas didn’t make a big deal about it on their own site, as far as i can tell. but guess what? you should still switch to mr. pibb.

THE EASIEST WAY TO BUY MY LOVE

January 22, 2003

Buying me the new Crooked Fingers album* won’t save the world, or your life, or even the life of that frog you accidentally sat on in third grade, on your way back from a field trip to the reservoir. It won’t do any of those things. But it will make me smile. And that hasn’t happened since 1983. Imagine the power you now possess. If that doesn’t work, maybe you should buy it for yourself and smile for me.

*It is not this site’s policy to solicit gifts from readers, by direct request, or through the inclusion of an Amazon wish list filled with stuff that interests me but can never serve to satisfy the way your continued readership does. Plus, I don’t have any boobie pictures to share in exchange for your gifts. Just these words. And one blurry pickle shot. But just one. And the lighting isn’t especially flattering. But you can sort of make out the edges. So there’s that.

LOST AND FOUND DEPARTMENT

January 21, 2003

Last week, my web host did something technical and fancy which purportedly improved their service. However, for individuals like me, it was sort of annoying. In the process, they lost the most current version of my site and reinstalled it with a backed-up version from a few days prior. (without ever letting me know. slick!)

I think I’m OK with losing a few rushed thoughts, posted on tremble, though I must admit I was disappointed in the loss of one entry in particular. That’s what made it so nice to receive an email today from one of my readers. Apparently, he’d seen that post when it was up (ever so briefly…) and even bothered to copy-paste a passage from it into an email to his sister. Having this little scrap is kind of fun, like finding a discarded page from some moony teenager’s embarrassingly frank post coital letter to her boyfriend. Well, not entirely like that. But here, without context, is what was sent to me today:

“In the middle of my onilne research for babies – I was thinking of buying one – I discovered something interesting at web sites like babycenter.com. Here’s what I learned: people love babies. Most mothers also seem to agree that it’s difficult for other people to understand how much one can love a baby until they own one, too. Babies are kind of like TiVo in that way.”

It’s not much, but it’s nice to see it again. If anyone happens to find the rest, in their browser cache, or pressed with wildflowers between the pages of an Internet scrapbook, feel free to send them along.

Homepage photo: Lindsey Byrnes
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