Hi. Wow — I can’t believe I’m here. I never thought it would get this bad. But I’m here. I have to admit it.
My name is Eddie L, and I have a problem. I can’t turn away from Farmville. It calls to me. My herd of black sheep. The penguins I keep in a pen with my turkeys, even though I know that’s ecologically unsound. I ignore logic and believe I can grow both pomegranate and potato, even though they require opposite climates. I reap, reap, reap Nature’s digital bounty, even though I never rotate my crops and I know I am creating another Dust Bowl. I have abandoned logic!
So, I have come to you, Farmville Addicts Anonymous, for help.
Shall we begin?
I admit I am powerless over my addiction – that my life has become unmanageable
Like I said, my name is Eddie L., and I wish to acknowledge I am a Farmville Addict. I am powerless over the demon call of Farmville. I admit my life is unmanageable, because my life consists only of selling off my pen of pigs in Farmville.
I believe a power greater than myself can return me to sanity
Spock. It must be Spock. Spock was always the creature I turned to for guidance in this wacky world – before my motley collection of cows and horses and reindeer and ducks took over my life. I used to be a Classic Dork – not a Farm-obsessed freak. What would Spock, that pointy-eared lover of all that is orderly – say about Farmville? He would say it is not logical. I bow to you, Spock.
I am making a decision to turn my life over to a higher power
I am all yours, Spock.
I will make a searching and fearless moral inventory of myself
The only question here is what character flaw led me down the path into Farmville, a delightful place with a no-place-like-home farmhouse and a well-cared for chicken coop of happy hens. Why do I so desire to grow apple trees, yet have no desire to dirty my hands or actually sweat?
I must admit to a higher power, myself, and another human the exact nature of my wrongs
Spock, there is no doubt. I have behaved terribly. If I can say that to Spock, I can say it myself. I am doing so here. I would like to confess my sins to my wife, but I don’t remember what she looks like. Perhaps if I leave the Man-Room, where the computer is kept, I can find some wedding pictures to refresh my memory.
I must be ready to ask a higher power to remove these defects of character.
I am ready for my Mind Meld, Mr. Spock.
I must make a list of all those I have harmed, and be willing to make amends to them. I must make said amends
First off, there is the wife. I understand she lives, still, somewhere in this home. I’ve been told, via text message, that she wears earplugs all day long to block out the sound of Farmville music, which grates upon her very soul. Darling, the music will stop. And I will take you out! Perhaps to a — those places where they sell already cooked food for human consumption? I can’t remember what they’re called.
I also wish to make amends to your cat, Eleanor Roosevelt Rigby. I’ve been so obsessed with faux animals that I forgot we have a real living furry creature here at home! How exotic! I think it’s the poo. The Farmville animals don’t poo. Eleanor does. I don’t like poo. But I will learn to live with it. Poo is the price of love.
I will continue to examine my shortcomings and admit when I’m wrong.
Honey, you are always right. Always.
I will seek through meditation the peace and guidance that comes from a higher power
Spock, I beg of you to not abandon me. Perhaps Captain Jean-Luc Picard can offer some guidance. Please, make it so.
Having had a Dork Awakening through these dozen steps, I will spread the word to other addicts, and tell them there is help.
Spock will help you, too. Or perhaps your Spock are the Golden Girls. Hello Kitty? Or Curious George. It matters not. Take off the overalls. Turn away from Farmville. There are real, living creatures out there. You may be married to one of them! There is hope.
My name is Eddie L, and I am powerless over the lure of Farmville.
Memories fade, minds decay, and still we go on with the recording of history. We don’t remember much though. Hell, we forget more about ourselves as we grow old than we do the facts that we’re taught, that we learn and absorb. The episodic memory is faulty because it causes us to add and remove details as we see fit, but what is deemed important enough for history is written down so that we will never forget, even if we almost always forget. Will we know who, say, Madonna is in a hundred years? It’s possible, but we know we can’t name a singer from 1911, nor do we really care. Cher, of course, will be remembered forever because she will never die. We believe she’s strong enough.
From WCRS in Detroit, it’s Life, Death and Violence brought to you by coffee. Coffee, it’s damn good! Join us and Life, Death and Violence Crush Object™ Janice Fronimakis as we delve into Wikipedia and discover the people that we’ve forgotten about. It’s your day in the sun, April 12.
Janice Likes to Think About the Stuff that Society Forgot
LIFE!
(You think someone’s going to care about you when you’re dead? Ha!)
1705: William Cookworthy: Cookworthy? Not according to his wife! He did, however, kill scurvy by telling those saucy seamen to make sure to eat their fruits! The seamen, naturally, misinterpreted his dietary suggestion and continued to succumb to the disease until sometime later. Always carry Trojans and a bottle of orange juice, boys!
He also discovered kaolinite in Cornwall and figured out how to turn it into porcelain, thus allowing the English to make fine bone china. Bilking the Chinese out of their profits? How dare you Cookworthy! In this case, Bill’s surname is apt as he did know how to operate a kiln.
Wikipedia has a whole section dedicated to Cookworthy’s friends. His dinner party guests included James Cook (couldn’t even scramble an egg), John Jervis (there’s no pun here), Doctor Solander (who?) and Joe Banks who is a god in our book for giving us mimosa. Oh wait, upon further review, he found the plant, not the drink. There’s a mimosa plant? Wow, we guess you really do learn something new every day. Maybe the seamen Cookworthy advised invented the mimosa. Hell, maybe that explains all the orange juice. Prevent scurvy! Go to brunch!
You snooze, you lose! English bone china? More like English bone China! Hey-Oh!
DEATH!
(In memoriam: Forever or for thirty days, whichever comes first)
1684: Nicolò Amati: Amati made violins, but no one can name a single luthier (that’s violin-maker) other than Antoni Stradivari, so, better luck next time Nick! Still, Nick’s violins are generally agreed to be the best in his family, at least for modern violinists and who can afford a Stradivarius anyways? Those things cost more than a one bedroom apartment in Chelsea. We’d rather have the apartment and use the savings on an Amati if we played violin. However, we don’t. We started taking lessons briefly after hearing Neon Bible but we didn’t really take it seriously and quit after a month or so.
But wait, there’s more! It seems that Antoni Stradivari was an apprentice of Nick Amati! This isn’t confirmed, but it’s on one of the guy’s violins, so it might be true. He at least liked Nick’s fiddles. Nick Amati: Historical footnote, overshadowed by a student. Isn’t that what we all worry about?
He also taught Andrea Guarneri, but, once again, we must ask, does anyone outside the music world know these names other than Stradivarius? Maybe that’s the key to history. No one is really forgotten, just by those outside their field.
Aw shucks, now we’re starting to get it and so is Janice, who’s so excited about unraveling the threads of time that he’s hopped on a horse and is preparing for war!
Giddyup!
VIOLENCE!
(The blood no one remembers)
238: The Battle of Carthage: Led by the father/son empiric duo of Gordian the First and Gordian the Second, the Romans fell to the Numidians (modern-day Libya). Gordian the Second was killed in battle, and upon hearing the news, Gordian the First, who was 80 at the time, killed himself.
Interestingly enough, the Gordians were only emperor for twenty days and presided over Rome in what is now termed “The Year of Six Emperors” so don’t feel bad about losing that battle Gordie Sr. and Gordie Jr. Everyone had a bad year. At least the Roman Senate made you gods!
Seriously though, even though the blood was shed in vain since we no longer remember you, take solace in the fact that the modern world has exalted another Gordie to the pedestal of divinity. Gordie “Mr. Everything” Howe. Go Wings!
That battle, man. I’m exhausted.
OTHER NEAT STUFF THAT HAPPENED!
(This stuff’s notable)
After that battle, Janice is tired of talking about things that no one remembers anymore. Frankly, we’re tired of it too, so we thought we’d let you guys know that:
In 1606 the Union Jack became the official flag of Great Britain.
Unfortunately, that didn’t help Galileo. Italy’s formal inquest into his heretical science stuff began in 1633. Oh, the Inquisition!
In 1861, the Confederacy fired on Fort Sumter, sparking the Civil War.
And in 1917, Canada took some German land during World War One. Wait, Canada has an army?
1955: The polio vaccine is certified safe!
Too bad it came too late for FDR who died exactly ten years earlier in 1945.
1961: Bang! Zoom! Straight to the moon! Or, well, at least to orbit as Yuri Gagarin becomes the first man in space. No one will ever remember a single other Russian cosmonaut.
1992: EURODISNEY!
Bill Clinton is cited for contempt of court for not knowing what the meaning of ‘is’ is in 1999
And last, but not least, Zimbabwe abandoned their money in 2009! It’s not like it was worth anything anyways. We’re quattuordecillionaires by their standards.
That’s all folks! Until next time: Don’t worry, you’ll forget everything bad in twenty years! Drink up. We’re going to go take a nap outside with Janice now. Bye!
If you were a betting type, you could invite me to a social event and be certain I’ll show up in black. I have worn black almost exclusively for the last two decades, ever since escaping from my parents’ home. I almost bought a black wedding dress.
I was not tapped by the beauty fairy with her magical wand of loveliness. I’ve always leaned toward the chubby. I have a round face, with a soft jawline. My hair is thick and frizzy, reminiscent of a dandelion in July.
In school, I longed to slip away from elementary society and find a nice corner in which to read, rather than present my bulk for bullying to my classmates. This was not okay for my social butterfly mother, who wanted her daughters to sparkle and not take after her introvert husband in any way. I was forced into tap dance lessons, led by a man called Mr. Bill who adored costumes so bright they could be seen from Venus. My mother loved neon pink shirts and teal pants and anything that deposited a kitten or a puppy on my early-developing chest.
We really entered the canyon of horror when my mother, who never trained or worked as a hair stylist, thought it would be a fine idea to perm my hair. I wound up spending several years with burns on my neck and scalp, and being the only Irish Catholic girl in school with an Afro. Even the parochial school uniform didn’t give me a chance to blend in with that hair.
One of my most vivid school memories is showing up for a field trip in a lime-green tennis dress – with matching shorts! The top was too tight, as my mother refused to believe her baby was developing, making my panic-attack breathing even harder to pull off.
Things descended in high school, where the fashion stakes were raised. I observed, like Margaret Mead, other girls actually going to the mall to buy their own clothes. They picked them out! By themselves! I was given a pink button-down shirt – even the collar buttoned down – to wear with purple corduroy pants and a purple sweater vest. That earned me the title of Grape Ape. I was given a weird stretch knit unitard item, styled with a turtleneck and wide green stripes across the chest, which really did wonders for my D-cups. My mother was like a mad scientist, cruising K-Mart and Bradlees and Sears for clothes: More polyester! More ruffles! More flowers! More stripes! Ooooh! Polka dots!
Years after my escape, years after I started earning my own money and doing my own shopping, filling my closet with black sweaters, and skirts, and boots, and tights, my mother was still giving me hideous bright clothing, trying to lure me into her toxic rainbow. On my 25th birthday, I opened a box of pink flowers, meant to be worn as a shirt. My grandmother could take no more. “Noreen,” she said to my mother, taking a long drag on her Tarryton 100s, “she doesn’t wear that shit, for Chrissakes. Give her money.”
Now, I dip my toe into the color pool every now and then. At the age of 37, I have purchased a purple dress. And a blue one! Even though my husband tells me I look beautiful in color, I feel gigantic and swollen in color, like I’m lumbering through my day. I can’t shake that girl in the lime-green dress, and how she felt, and how she yearned for a dark suit of armor.
Ah, the Three Stooges. Countless hours of my formative years were spent watching their short films, usually on high-numbered UHF stations that mostly aired re-runs of “Get Smart,” “The Beverly Hillbillies,” “Petticoat Junction,” “That Girl,” “Green Acres” and “The Flying Nun.”
Did you know that a “Three Stooges” movie has been in pre-production since 1998? This is something I learned today, courtesy of Deadline.com. The film, which is scheduled to begin production this month, has announced that Sean Hayes is signed to play the role of Larry Fine, and Will Sasso will lend his complex multi-talents to the role of Curly.
The question remains — who will give life to the surly, menacing mug of Moe Howard? Rumors have been swirling around this project for longer than the entire span of Miley Cyrus’s career. Will it be noted Stooges fanatic Mel Gibson? Not a bad choice and someone we wouldn’t mind seeing on the receiving end of some physical abuse. Not a bad choice at all.
Will the next “face of Moe” be Sean Penn? He was originally slated to play Larry Fine, which does not make sense, because he’s got a mug that only a mother could love, and a bowl cut wig would go a long way towards making us believe that Moe had come back to life.
Interesting to note is that many actors have been attached to this project over the last decade — Benicio del Toro, Jim Carrey, Johnny Knoxville, Andy Samberg, an Australian actor called Shane Jacobson. Johnny Depp and Paul Giamatti have been attached to this movie as well, but later dropped out of the project.
Mel Brooks attempted to write and produce a Three Stooges movie in the 70’s, but said his effort fell short because there was no way he could sustain the action for 90 minutes. The film would have starred Mel Brooks as Moe, Dom DeLuise as Curly, and Marty Feldman as Larry. When the writing just wasn’t working, Mel turned the project turned into the unique “Silent Movie.”
Apparently the Farrelly brothers have solved Mel’s conundrum — they decided to divide the movie into three 27-minute segments which complete one story arc. This should give the audience a breather in between all the action, so when Mel Gibson gets crowned (please, please, let him get crowned) for the umpteenth time, we’re still cheering for more.
Also of note — this is not a biography of our beloved Stooges. This is a newly written story of the Stooges’ antics. Should be interesting to see if it is set in modern times or in the 1920’s or 1930’s.
Poet Laureate Telia Nevile, “Headliners” – Tom Segura, Moshe Kasher, Garfunkel & Oates and Hannibal Buress, Xavier Michaelides, “Political Asylum”- Matt Kenneally and many more, Sammy J & Randy, Rich Hall
You may scroll down to the reviews if that’s all you’re here for. But first, an introduction for our readers unfamiliar with the Melbourne International Comedy Festival (MICF).
The MICF is the third-largest comedy festival in the world. The largest two are in Montreal, Canada and Edinburgh, Scotland. And the 4th largest one is in Ireland. It’s probably not a coincidence that the two most powerful English-speaking countries in the world are not on that list. There’s probably an article to be written about comedy being the equalizer being the powerful and the underdog. It could even note that within the underdog countries, the festival is in Montreal and not Ottawa, Melbourne and not Sydney, Edinburgh and not Glasgow. This is not that article. This is just the bit to make your reviewer look smrt.
The MICF has been going since 1987, lasts 4 weeks, and these days includes almost 400 different acts. And that doesn’t include “unofficial” acts who don’t pay the entry fee and aren’t in the official program but are still slumming around somewhere in the vicinity putting on shows. You could get lost without a good reviewer, and that’s where I come in. I’ve been going to the MICF since I was a young man deemed old enough by his parents to hear a man with funny hair say the F word very loudly. In recent years, I tend to see around 15-20 shows per festival. So trust me. At least once.
In future issues I will skim over the various issues which plague the festival and any scurrilous gossip I pick up while getting comedians drunk at the Bella Union. But for now, the reviews!
Poet Laureate Telia Nevile
Let’s get the important bit out of the way now. 5 stars, on a scale where 3 is your money’s worth, 4 is unusually good and 5 is sodding brilliant. Anything under 3 is not recommended.
As crasstalk regulars have seen me complain, I gave not a single show last year 5 stars. Not even Sammy J, who was not only my personal favourite performer of the festival but who won the f’n Barry Award as the official best act. And I’m giving the first show of this year’s MICF 5 stars. It’s all downhill from here. Ah well.
Ms Nevile’s character is an awkward poet and dreamer, but where so many would get one-note laughs from some bad poems, the tight script transcends that. The poetry is sometimes rather good, sometimes intentionally tortured, frequently filled with clever references. So that the entire show is not just Telia reciting poems and making funny faces at the audience, the “straight” poetry readings are broken up by more overtly funny moments and one of the best surprise endings I’ve seen in years. The pacing is perfect, and the entire audience (myself included) did not stop laughing from start to finish.
The show is “only” 40 minutes long, in a festival where 1 hour shows are the norm, but tickets are priced accordingly. It’s brilliant value.
Ms Nevile was a nominee for best newcomer at the Festival last year. It wouldn’t shock me if she’s a nominee for best show of the Festival this year.
“Headliners”
“Headliners” is a concept which began at the Festival last year. Many American comedians aren’t able to carry a 1 hour show by themselves. They’re not used to it, the poor dears. So the promoters bring in a rotating cast of American comedians who each do 20-25 minutes of material, with 3 or 4 performing each night. I went last year and it bombed. I could have made a killing selling rotten fruit. There’s no nice way to say it.
I decided to give Headliners another go this year only to see Garfunkel & Oates, whom had been recommended to me by a dozen people. But before they came out, I had to sit through Tom Segura and Moshe Kasher. Both were… mediocre, at best, from the school of comedians who try for laughs through shock without actually being funny or original. When the greedy Jew joke, Muslim terrorist joke and Catholic pedophile joke all walk into a bar together, you know you’re in trouble. 2 stars at best for each.
I now have a crush on Garfunkel & Oates (both of them), and so my review cannot be objective. But insofar as a 25 minute set can get 5 stars, 5 stars. Most of the material they did is on Youtube, well, the songs, not the in-between bits, but this stuff is always better live. You can’t beat the roar of a crowd hearing two cute and funny women singing about sex with ducks, especially when it was a crowd on the verge of turning ugly after the first two sets.
Hannibal Buress closed out the show, Hannibal is/has been a writer for SNL and 30 Rock.and was a far better stand-up than Segura or Kasher; 4 stars on the “20 minute” scale. While covering much of the same ground (racism, drugs, celebrity culture) he had class and subtlety in his delivery, and so when he rolled out a shocking line or swerve, it had impact. He also didn’t seem like he was scraping the bottom of the barrel to make it to 20 minutes and had strong material right to the end with a strong ending anecdote with a sting in the tail to finish. I would happily see him perform again sometime.
Xavier Michaelides
Xavier has been doing the MICF for a few years now, and is probably best known as a sketch comedian. This year he’s doing a 1-man play in a tiny hot room, based on the premise of a future where there is now a shortage of people in the workforce, and rather turn to potential killer robots they’re using time travel to recruit both working stiffs like our hero and his friend Brad, and the great minds and leaders of history (letting Xavier use his talent for voices and impressions).
The play is often silly, occasionally breaks the 4th wall and even sometimes resorts to toilet humor and sex puns – it is however, almost non-stop laughs. If you don’t mind the 1-act play conceit and a man turning his head back and forth using different voices and facial expressions to establish different characters, if that’s not too silly for you, you’ll love it. 4 stars.
“Political Asylum”
It’s a one-off show which is now over, which makes it hard to review. The humor also largely depends on how much you agree with the comedians. If you’re a progressive lefty, Matt Kenneally (who MC’d) was in the best form of any of the performers when it came to sharp political satire and his solo show might well be worth seeing. Ditto Wil Anderson, although I’m told he holds back his angry ranting for his “main” show: his impassioned diatribes against politicians and celebrities who confuse real mental illnesses with feeling sad or acting out, who blame “depression” for bashing their girlfriend or “being a little bit bipolar” for doing something selfish, was a highlight. As was his lengthy anecdote about his time frequenting a Starbucks in West Hollywood and flirting with the barista (which had little to do with politics, but funny’s funny).
Sammy J & Randy
The kings of last year’s MICF are back with an all-new 1 hour musical /play thing. Skinny and vaguely nerdy keyboard playing Sammy J and his purple puppet friend Randy (puppeteered and voiced by the underrated Heath McIvor, who actually manages to get out in front of the scenery a few times in this one) have a mystery to solve- who’s putting their garbage in Sammy J & Randy’s bins? Of course, this is only an excuse for all the sketches, non-sequiturs, funny songs and one-liners Sammy and Heath could come up with. There were a couple of botched lines and entrances, but covered in such smooth and hilarious fashion that I suspect the errors were not errors if you know what I mean. A couple of short bits fell a bit flat to me, but if one joke fails there’s another one along in a few seconds anyway and I rarely stopped laughing or grinning so widely my cheeks hurt. 4.5 stars, and if not for the rule that you can only win a Barry once, I’d suggest short odds indeed on Sammy J & Randy winning it again.
Rich Hall
A long time favourite of mine (and a rare past 5-star recipient), Rich is as grumpy as ever and in fine enough form but well below his brilliant best. I’m giving him 3 and a half stars, but if you haven’t seen him before (not all his material was new; same Sarah Palin jokes as 2 years ago, with minor updates, I mean, come on) then you could bumpt that by a star: my companion at this show, who had never seen Rich before, was aghast at my low rating and laughed all the way through. If you’ve never seen Rich before, then know that you won’t go wrong by seeing him. He does do a couple of musical numbers, in case you hate that, but by and large it’s straight stand-up. Be warned (or be thrilled): he went 90 minutes when I saw him, and that’s common with Rich, so don’t make a dinner booking on the assumption you’ll get out of his show after 60 minutes. And NEVER be late to see Rich Hall, unless you enjoy mortification.
Charlie Sheen’s Violent Torpedo of Truth/Bipolar Disaster Dickhead show opened Saturday night in Detroit, and in an absolutely shocking turn of events, it completely sucked. Over at Entertainment Weekly, they live blogged the whole fiasco. Before the show, the reporter questioned some fans outside the theater, asking if they were worried about Charlie’s mental health. Answer? Hell no, they just thought he was funny. Yea, funny until the guy holds a knife to your throat, shoots you, or beats the shit out of you. But whatever.
The show started ten minutes late, which isn’t really terrible as far as shows goes. The opening act, a comedian that I can’t even find the name of, got booed off the stage with the crowd chanting for Charlie. In fact, it got so bad that Sheen came out, begging the crowd to give the dude a chance. No such luck, and the poor comedian was off the stage in 20 minutes.
After a confusing part where the lights came back on, Charlie’s set started with a video montage of his own movie clips. How narcissistic can one asshole be? The answer seems to be “limitlessly so” as Charlie came on stage and began rambling about trolls and warlocks, going into his typical (old, boring, dumb) routine, talking about napalm and “sweat eating whores,” which basically morphed into a typical whining screed about how everybody is so mean to poor Charlie.
After the crowd became restless, with many walking out and booing Sheen, he taunted the crowd by boasting “I already got your money, dude!” Charlie then made the wonderfully sensitive remark about how he should share some stories about crack, since Detroit seems like “good place to tell some crack stories.” Wonderful. Then there’s this great live blog update from EW:
9:23 — We are watching video of Charlie Sheen playing Call of Duty.
Sheen continued to berate the crowd, basically making fun of them for wasting their money. Apparently, Snoop Dogg was supposed to show up (and Sheen and Snoop recorded a song together? WTF?). Snoop was a no show, and people continued to leave in droves as Charlie continued to offend everyone. The show ends with a video montage/music video, Charlie doesn’t bother to come back out, and the show is literally over by 10:20.
RadarOnline has some video of this catastrophe, if you have the stomach to bear this. It’s mostly him rambling about inane crap. I don’t think we’re (read: I know we’re not) really surprised by this utter shit show, and we shouldn’t per se feel sorry for the dumb schmucks that shelled out actual cash for this crap, but one could wonder about all the shows in the future. As previously reported, these shows aren’t really sold out, and rather, ticket scalpers/re-sellers bought mass amounts hoping to make a profit. Maybe Charlie Sheen will cancel future shows, refund everyone’s money (not likely), and go sit in the corner? April Fools!
Meet Fabrice Fabrice (the name’s so nice, you can say it… AGAIN). Fabrice Fabrice is the creation of Nick Kroll, a comedian who’s currently on the show “The League.” (Ask your boyfriend about it. He probably knows it well….)
So Kroll, who looks like a typical, married Accord-driving suburban dork from the accounting department, has created one of the most outrageous alter-egos I’ve ever seen. Here he is on John Oliver’s recent Comedy Central special:
Fabrice Fabrice isn’t actually a performer. He’s the craft services coordinator. Here he is explaining his work on the set of “That’s So Ravyn.” (I also love the way Fabrice Fabrice holds the microphone.)
Hi gang. Hope the day has treated you right, and that you getting a chance to take it easy. Since I gave you metal this morning, I thought I would give you something a little mellower tonight. How about some nice comedy?
Last night Richard Lewis had a strange, rambling interview on The Daily Show and it got me thinking about what he might be on. Watch and make a guess about what’s going on inside Richard’s head.
From WCRS Detroit and Public Snark International, this is Life, Death and Violence. Every week on our program we choose a theme and research a number of people and events that fit that theme. Today on Life, Death and Violence: Paradise. Imagine, for a moment, if you will, that paradise is exactly where you are right now, only much, much better. This is the land in which we will be traveling to today. Paradise though, is merely a dream, a hope, and, naturally we’ll be discussing the very nature of hopes and dreams today as well. I had a dream last night. I dreamt that I was about to be murdered in old Tiger Stadium, but, at the last minute, I was saved by this week’s Life, Death and Violence Crush Object™, Diana Rigg.
Diana entered from the visiting dugout, dressed, obviously, as Mrs. Emma Peel in a bright orange jumpsuit. She shot my attacker’s knife out of his hand and proceeded to dispatch him in a brief battle in hand to hand combat. Diana and I then rode out of Old Tiger Stadium on a beautiful white stallion which we rode across the pond and into Paris.
It seemed like an instant, that ride, and I found myself transported from urban decay to a quiet little cafe in Montmarte drinking coffee delivered by our waiter, a centaur. The centaur began to tell a long story, which I will summarize in brief. His utopian home had been ravaged by humanoid goats and all the centaurs were forced into exile by the king of the goats, a potbellied pig named Phillip. Our waiter, Brian, then took my name and number when I asked if there was anything I could do to help and Diana and I each received a letter shortly after enlisting us as Generals in the Centaur Army. We went to Centauristan, kicked some goat butt, made delicious bacon out of Phillip and returned the land to the centaurs. Brian, for enlisting us who saved the nation, was named King and we all had a champagne toast in their golden palace. I woke up just as my gift from the centaurs, Joseph Gordon Levitt, leaned in to kiss me. I hate dreams. They always shatter.
Our show today, in four acts.
Act One: Trouble in Paradise: She was on top of the world, but found herself ready to snap.
Act Two: The Fulfillment of Dreams: The story of a writer who hit the big time and stayed there.
Act Three: The Death of Dreams: A disastrous failure shocks the nation.
Act Four: The Birth of Dreams: How one nation’s discovery changed the world, but was it for the worse?
Act One: Trouble in Paradise
The Carpenters: Top of the World
I remember, being a little kid in Metro Detroit, when I heard my first Carpenters song. I was, maybe, four, and having trouble going to sleep. I’d gone to sleep for a little bit, but had had a nightmare and was too afraid to try again. I called out for my mother around 1AM. She got me a glass of water and sang me “Close to You,” which calmed me down enough to fall back into the land of good dreams, where the impossible becomes possible and everything is made of rainbows. The next morning, I asked my mother to sing the song for me again, but, instead, she pulled out a vinyl copy of the Close to You album and played it for me while she got ready for work. At the time, she was working the afternoon shift at the local hospital, so my sister and I got to see her in the morning as our days were starting, which I really liked. I wasn’t in preschool at the time. I’d dropped out because the other kids were being mean to me and I had massive separation anxiety. Karen Carpenter’s voice reminded me of my mother, even though my mother didn’t sing nearly as well, so I played that record over and over and over again. We got rid of it a few years later when my parents switched from vinyl and tape over to compact disc, but it was fairly well worn anyways. Who knows how much longer it would have lasted.
The devastation felt when I found out Karen Carpenter had died before I was born was heartwrenching. I wasn’t blind. I understood from the copyright on the album that the record was released in 1970, but the girl on it looked so young. She couldn’t possibly be dead. People only die when they’re old. Such is the naivete of youth, I suppose. And when I found out she died because, as I understood it, her heart stopped, I was even more confused and all my mother would say was that Karen stopped eating. My mother doesn’t eat a lot, so I didn’t really understand that. Why had she stopped eating? Was she on a diet? Why would she be on a diet? She looked pretty. I was too young to understand media blitzkrieg, so I just sat there for years questioning what happened to Karen Carpenter.
Karen left my thoughts and my music collection for about a decade, until I found myself in New York City. It was big, scary, unknown. I felt alone. I didn’t know anybody. I was living with strangers I’d met on Craigslist and had planned to get an apartment with since they were moving out of theirs. After that plan fell through (which I find to be the worst thing to happen to me: a true 3br with a fireplace and a big kitchen, lots of light and in a pre-war building for 1400/month fully furnished was lost because one of the girls I was going to live with decided Bed Stuy was too dangerous for her and she’d find another apartment for 450/month elsewhere. As if, woman. I was too weak and insecure to find two other people to take the apartment with me and I ended up in a bedbug ridden hellhole in Sunset Park before moving into the dorms at Pratt Institute), Karen came back into my life. I was depressed and lonely, feeling the peak of my suicidal wishes. Rainy Days and Mondays, I decided, was what I’d kill myself to. It wasn’t a very happy time, until, I started re-listening to the happier music, going out and feeling better about myself. I can’t say that Karen Carpenter saved my life, but she did play a part in making me feel sane again, even if that sanity is still frequently challenged. I’m grateful for that, and I’m grateful that even though I didn’t get the chance to ever see her live since she died before my birth, that at least there’s a recording of her voice in every record store across America. The voice of an angel ready to change another person’s life, ready to make the world seem full of hopes, dreams and possibilities yet again, even in our darkest hour.
The Carpenters: Close to You
Act Two: The Fulfillment of Dreams
Today is the deathday of famed comic book artist Hergé. I first wanted to start writing watching the adventures of his famed Parisian journalist, Tin Tin and his dog, snowy. Let’s watch some of it together.
That Tin-Tin! Always getting into some sort of misadventure. This must be what it’s like to work for the New York Times! Right?
Act Three: The Death of Dreams
I wasn’t born during the Challenger Incident. It predated me by three years, but I did feel a closeness to the incident once I’d found out that our middle school principal, the only principal I’ve ever liked, whose name was, and if I’m lying about this may the Flying Spaghetti Monster strike me dead, Dr. Freeze, was one of the runner-ups for the Teacher in Space program. Someone I knew could have been killed in a massive space-oriented explosion, which horrified me as a space-obsessed tween who’d gone to Space Camp a few years earlier. This event was revisited shortly after the attacks on 9/11, which, naturally, my awful middle school neglected to tell us about causing me to come home all happy-go-lucky because soccer practice was cancelled and I really didn’t want to go to soccer practice that day. My sister, in response, snarled at me viciously and directed my attention to the television. It felt weird to watch an explosion over and over and over again and I got the sense that this is what my parents were doing in ’86, not knowing that someone they would soon know was almost on that shuttle. This week wasn’t the 25th Anniversary of the explosion, that was a few months ago. Instead it contains an even sadder bit of emotional violence: The discovery of the crew cabin in the Atlantic Ocean.
These “what if” fascinations haunted me for quite some time, especially once the Columbia shuttle exploded on reentry. I kept thinking to myself. What would I do if someone I knew died in an explosion that was plastered all over national television? How would I react? I never came up with an answer, simply because I understood that I couldn’t empathize with anyone involved in such an incident if it didn’t happen to me. I could sympathize. I could say “I’m sorry this happened to you. I’m here if you need me,” but I couldn’t say “I understand. It’s going to be okay,” because I didn’t understand, I didn’t know if it would be okay. Months later, I experienced my first death, that of my grandfather/puzzle partner. Even then, I still felt I couldn’t empathize with a death so sudden. My grandfather had been ill for months from lung cancer and we weren’t surprised when he finally passed. I think that, as crushed as she was, it was a bit of a relief for my grandmother. That year was very stressful in my family because of my grandfather’s rapidly deteriorating health, but if he had died in, say, a car crash, things would have been a lot different. The mourning would have lasted much longer, just as I’m certain that Christa McAuliffe’s family is still morning her loss, after that fireball in the sky, and having a record of her exact moment of death on hand has to be a surefire way to make it impossible to move on. For that reason, as easy as it may be to post, I’m opting to not post a video of the Challenger Disaster. I’m not going to promote the fetishization of death. All those disasters and space misadventures though did nothing to halt my love of space and desire to be an astronaut. That’s the responsibility of my complete hatred of Algebra 2 which led to my complete hate of Chemistry which led me into the arts.
S Club 7: Reach For the Stars
Act Four: The Birth of Dreams
In 1938, Saudi Arabia discovered oil in its borders, launching the 20th Century Mideastern Oil Boom and creating a dependence on the region that, nearly a decade ago, led to war, yet again, over the black, golden syrup. I’m not an expert on Mideastern Affairs and I’m not going to pretend to be. We all know that our over-reliance on oil is bad for the future of the planet. I’m going to leave Act Four up for discussion in the comments. Would the world be any different if that level of oil was, say, discovered in Western Europe, or would we just be at war with the French instead (oh what an easy war that would be!?) Can tension ever be resolved so as to lighten the stress on our ever dwindling oil reserves? What is there to be done? Let’s talk oil.
1705: William Cookworthy: Cookworthy? Not according to his wife! He did, however, kill scurvy by telling those saucy seamen to make sure to eat their fruits! The seamen, naturally, misinterpreted his dietary suggestion and continued to succumb to the disease until sometime later. Always carry Trojans and a bottle of orange juice, boys!
Amati made violins, but no one can name a single luthier (that’s violin-maker) other than Antoni Stradivari, so, better luck next time Nick! Still, Nick’s violins are generally agreed to be the best in his family, at least for modern violinists and who can afford a Stradivarius anyways? Those things cost more than a one bedroom apartment in Chelsea. We’d rather have the apartment and use the savings on an Amati if we played violin. However, we don’t. We started taking lessons briefly after hearing Neon Bible but we didn’t really take it seriously and quit after a month or so.
238: The Battle of Carthage: Led by the father/son empiric duo of Gordian the First and Gordian the Second, the Romans fell to the Numidians (modern-day Libya). Gordian the Second was killed in battle, and upon hearing the news, Gordian the First, who was 80 at the time, killed himself.
