Hello Shiloh Nouvel

Well, the Jolie-Pitt's have a new addition to the family, Shiloh Nouvel Jolie-Pitt, born May 27, 2006. It's going to be tough to buy that kid a personalized pencil.

Just Another Celebrity Blog

These are heady times. Our country is fighting a war over weapons that don't exist. Our president is a sociopath without the ability to effectively lead a poodle on a leash, much less a world super-power. Avian Bird Flu has landed in New Jersey and is about to become a made-for-TV movie. And Angelina Jolie is a U.N. goodwill ambassador and fighting for children’s education throughout the world. I bet Danny Glover would kill for that job, but it was offered to Angelina and she stepped up to the plate. Now the woman who would wear a vial of Billy Bob Thornton’s blood around her neck will tend to the world’s ills. We wish her well on her journey of self-, er, world-discovery. The other night when I was wide awake between the hours of 3 and 4:30 a.m. (even the MacArthur Freeway is quiet then), I couldn’t stop thinking of baby names for Brangelina’s upcoming offspring, which is set to debut this month. This sad little window to my mind merited the following entries. I really care about the world!

Scarlet Runner Bean Jolie-Pitt (kind of pays homage to several celebrity names and it’s a fine legume besides)

Jandek Obscura Jolie-Pitt (going for some indie-music cred here)

WFMU KFJC Jolie-Pitt (cool college radio indie-cred--the kind Brad Pitt yearned for before he joined Angelina in her bid to save the world)

Yo La Tengo Jolie-Pitt (ditto)

Not Jennifer Aniston’s Child Jolie-Pitt (just to really rub it in)

Ayn Rand (for a girl)
Atlas Shrugged (boy) - great promotion if the two decide to star in the rumored film of the book.

Landor Associates Jolie-Pitt (corporate sponsorship baby--I thought of it first)

Jim (it’s weird but I think it works)

Maybe this week the couple will be blessed with a genetically endowed baby. Good luck Angelina. Giving birth is very cool. Stay hydrated. Know that in my insomniac state, I think of you...

Let's Talk About Me

I'm such an id'jit that I forgot to post that my old band, She Mob, was playing a live broadcast at KFJC last Saturday night. I told a couple of people who I knew could get the Foothill College station in the South Bay, only to be reminded the next day by my friend and former Web guru, Tuckers, that KFJC is online. So I could have told the WORLD to listen in. Oh well. I definitely haven't been running on all six cylinders lately. Be sure to listen to this station regardless because it's definitely one of the best around. I haven't heard the recording of us yet. Apparently there was some sound problems with our vocals, but the noise came through just fine. It was nice to play with Alan Korn again, which I haven't done in a while.

Meanwhile, Sue Hutchinson and I, founding members of She Mob, have formed a new band with two guys, Andrew and Tony, called Death by Stork. We're trying to get a show together for July, probably in San Fran. And so until then Tony has placed some rehearsal recordings on our obligatory My Space site. The hi-fidelity Radioshack mono recordings will have to hold the public over until our big record deal comes through. I think I've done enough self-promoting for one night. I'll slink off to bed now...

Proactive and In Your Face

Thank you Stephen Colbert.

Edie, Little 60s Speedie

Every five years or so I re-read Edie - An American Biography by Jean Stein & George Plimpton. I don't know why--it's one of the most depressing biographies on record. But there's something so fascinating/repellent about the whole Andy Warhol 60s scene. I gather new things from the book every time I get through it. When I bought it back in the 80s I just drank it all in. The whole upper-crust privilege, artist muse and downfall trajectory. Then I got into the Edie persona: beautiful damned and doomed. Then I got into Andy Warhol and found out all about him (uh, gee, I'm a fan!). As of this reading, I'm seeing how mental illness runs in families and how devastating it can be. As deadly as any genetic mishap or cancer. Poor Edie really wasn't long for this world and at least she got to go out as a former creative force of sorts.

The Stein book makes Warhol into a villain--a social vampire feeding on the poor souls that are drawn to his banal charisma, using them up then spitting them out onto the dirty sidewalks of New York where they are incapable of getting sober and living productive 60s lives as house-wives and house-husbands. I think not. He was genius at surrounding himself with extremely creative people who were never going to fit in to society no-way no-how. And he gave them outlets for their crazy amphetamine-fueled energies. And they had a great time, which is sort of hinted at in the book, but mostly in a house-of-horrors way. Like any creative collaboration, there are good times with the bad. Otherwise the Happenings just wouldn't uh, happen.

Now Warhol is revered by writers and critics as one of this country's greatest artists. Sometimes that happens. The 80s were not appreciative of his celebrity-fawning and Studio 54-going ways. But his take on American culture was pretty astute and extremely deadpan funny and macabre. What would he make of us now I wonder? Andy Warhol was taken away a little too soon: bummer. Interpret our culture as you will, you won't have Andy Warhol to help you out any more.

That said, always remember: Speed kills. And turns you into an asshole just before you die. So stay off that stuff.

More Stuff Angst

We're still moving. We've actually moved into our new place but we had so much stuff in the old place that we're getting rid of it pretty much every day. You never know what you'll find in a house that's been inhabited for over six years--especially a fixer-upper. Here's the contents of one milk crate I pulled down from a top shelf in the laundry room:

1.) Contact paper. That stuff you stick in kitchen drawers for cleanliness and neat appearance. It's supposed to come off again but after a few years, rarely does without a struggle. White with delicate flowers. What to do with? Toss.

2.) Rat poison. Big box full of rat baits. Once I came home and found a giant rat on our porch. I freaked out and bought this but never set it out anywhere. What to do with? Toss into landfill. Feel really guilty about.

3.) Unopened tennis balls from what year? Still good? Last played tennis over a decade ago. What to do with? Play tennis?

4.) Drum practice pad. This was my brother's from high school. I never learned how to properly play so I don't use this. But as a drummer I feel obligated to have this in my house along with a stick or two, just to feel like I could practice at home, with a 6-inch pad, if the mood should strike. Put in rehearsal space until forced to remove.

5.) Floor wax. Leave for new home-buyers.

6.) Great Stuff Polyurethane Foam Sealant. A handyman told me this causes cancer. What to do with? Toss into landfill. Feel even more guilt. I am destroying the environment in only one afternoon.

7.) Washing machine hose. Now that's exciting.

8.) Shoe polish. Shoe polish? I guess we still have some use for this.

9.) Suede cleaner. Suede? It could come back.

10.) Water repeller for clothing. More toxic stuff. Sorry world.

11.) Propert's Leather and Saddle Soap. Ahhh, comes in a old-tyme tin. It's actual soap used for cleaning your leather goods and it smells like grandma's linens and things. Not suitable for suede.

12.) Rubber cement. Oh god--when will this end! How will I sleep tonight! But I can't keep the rubber cement.

13.) Plant hanger. Oh, that's nice. It just hangs plants.

That was one milk crate. There's more. God, I'm exhausted and hyperventilating. Looks like we'll be driving down to the toxic waste dump soon. Moving really is stressful.

The Clutter-free Life: Dream On

I have no idea how to live the clutter-free life. All my existence has been cluttered. Blame it on being a "creative type." Blame it on growing up increasingly middle-class as my dad's sales skills ramped up during the computer evolution years. Blame it on my interest in too many things and plenty of closet space. Haven't posted in a while because we've been searching for new and different housing within our fair, crime-infested city. We'll be moving shortly and this blog will go on a short hiatus while we situate ourselves and all our stuff in a slightly different environment. So I'm clearing out our office space and marveling at all the crap-ola that's piled up in our six years here. I was thinking, what would be the computer equivalent of my life of clutter? Here are some random images I found in my "jpegs" file where I store stuff I find and like from the Internet. In no certain order, I'll slap them up here and comment. No credits--sorry--I guess that's stealing. Oh well. It's all up for grabs in cyberspace. And I'm not spell-checking either. More clutter.

The image above is of an ancient diver from the Corbis photo site. Look how uncomfortable he looks, yet so cool. People will do anything to explore new spaces.
Look--Don Knotts. Aw, he just died. Farewell, lovable goofball. The world is slightly less funny without your presence. I saved this image years ago for one of my employers who's a big Knotts fan. He owns the DVD of The Ghost and Mr. Chicken and swears that it makes him laugh every time he sees it. I'll have to check that out since I haven't seen it in about 25 years.

Here's Louise Brooks. She was a pretty messed-up person but va-va-va-voom! You can read Barry Paris' biography on her if you'd like to find out what a mess she was. It's an excellent book about a really talented, intelligent free spirit, and also about the silent film era and beyond. There's also a good Web site all about Brooksie: The Louise Brooks Society.

And here's a really cool photo of Buster Keaton, who loved all sports but especially baseball. Keaton was an unparalled genius of cinema. There's a good Web site on him too: The Damfinos. I have such a weird, retro crush on Buster. I'm sure I'm not alone.







Hmmm, what else have I got in this file? Here's a graphic I made to demonstrate how large Helen Hunt's forehead is. After she finished Mad About You (how could that couple afford their palatial NYC apartment?--I hate shows like that). She got so many roles, and constant press. Didn't she win an Oscar? I'm too tired to check. I just couldn't understand it. Nobody mentioned the forehead ever. It was before celebrity blogs came into being. Now they'd be all over that thing. You could fly a plane off that forehead. And what did Paul Reiser get? I have no idea but his forehead is pretty big too.

Here's a spaceship from Johnny Sokko and his Giant Robot, a 60s show from Japan which was a poor man's Ultraman which was a really poor man's Godzilla. My brother watched these shows constantly after school on our small remote-less color TV. The translations were really crude and I used to imitate them and drive him into spasms of fury. It was really entertaining for me. I like how this ship looks like a manta-ray with a flare coming out of its butt. It also looks like it was made out of a dinner plate. Maybe my brother was cooler than me after all.

There's more. These people do look really happy, and if it's lard that's working for them, who are we to judge?

Here's the GTO's (Girls Together Outrageously), a bunch of groupies that Frank Zappa liked and co-opted into a sort girl group. That's one sloppy sentence I just typed. Anyway, they were seriously party girls with a good sense of humor about themselves and several of them have now met untimely ends. Not sure what to make of their aesthetic. I've never been into the concept of fucking fame. I guess I have a large enough ego to just want the fame myself. But we take what we can get and the GTO's went for it. R.I.P. GTO's.

I'm running out of steam so I'll leave off with Happy Bun Bun. Don't think this is the end of my junk file--I could write aproximately 900 blog entries just using my junk file as subject-matter. But don't worry, I won't. This image is good to focus on during my move and perhaps for every new stage of life. Gentle conversations--such a fine concept. Today I opened a fortune cookie and the fortune said: Hold a good friend in both your hands. I really liked that fortune and I really liked the cookie because it was covered in some decent chocolate. Why can't all fortune cookies be that way? Anyway, it's good to take care of our friendships and not take them for granted and watch too much American Idol and not cherish the precious moments that real people (not reality show people) add to our lives. 'Cause man, I once had this friend and she did NOT hold our friendship in both her hands. In fact, she pretty much threw our friendship right over a cliff, but not before she stomped on it and covered it with a bunch of dog shit and then some gasoline, and set the whole thing on fire. Then she sent me a congratulations card on the birth of my son. That friendship did not make the grade. And unfortunately, that's what my cookie reminded me of, but it also reminded me that I barely have any friends any more because my family has become my friends for the most part, and on that note, Frank Zappa and I agree. He wrote in his autobiography that friends are not always going to be there for you, but your family will (but I've read another biography that states that Frank completely ignored his family for most of their lives). But he was a misanthrope and I'm a humanist at heart. See what junk can bring up? I'm saving that fortune and bringing it to the new house. I'll put it in a drawer--yeah, that's what I'll do...

Celebrate the end of cold & flu season with me

I was supposed to play a show with my new band Death by Stork last Saturday but a bout of flu turned pneumonia did me in for the week. If you’ve ever wondered what you can accomplish while getting over pneumonia the answer is, not much, Jack. Anyway the band found a substitute drummer for me and the show went on--way to go, guys and gal. I hope to play the next gig which may take place in San Francisco and will post the details when they’re available so that all my Bay Area friends can come and rock out thoroughly. Because that’s what Death by Stork does: rocks out thoroughly (and satisfactorily).

I didn’t accomplish much this week it’s true. Had to have someone fill in for me at my new job and paid for several subs at my son’s cooperative preschool where I teach once a week. If I managed to brush my teeth and get dressed, that was a good day. But I did watch a few movies, always a fun time-filler, and one of those was "Mommie Dearest," the 1981 child-abuse-fest with the completely over-the-top Faye Dunaway giving it her all as a mad, demon-possessed narcissist with the cinematic borderline personality disorder. I can’t say revisiting this wreck of a film was “fun.” But it has its compelling moments. Like I hadn’t noticed before how many of Dunaway’s outfits matched her home décor, and it was very strange how Christina Crawford, as a child, remained the same age while her brother, Christopher went from what looked about 1 to 5 years old. It leant the film an almost Grimm’s fairytale quality. And why was Christopher strapped to his bed? No one bothers to explain the insanity that permeates. You will also thrill to the terrible aging make-up of Joan’s fictional henchman (henchwoman?) Carol-Ann as she begins the film at around 30 years old and ends up somewhere at 125, outliving her wicked employer. I always wanted a t-shirt with ancient Carol-Ann on it that said, “Poor Carol-Ann.” Maybe it’s not too late for that.

Mommie Dearest is really claustrophobic and unpleasant throughout but if you can keep focusing on Dunaway’s incredible Groucho Marx eyebrows during the violent scenes, you’ll come out all right, with a smug smirk on your face. Much like Cristina’s smug, mocking tone that drove Joan so mad, you too will feel superior to this piece-of-crap in the name of entertainment.

Somewhat more sane, but not by much is “The 40 Year Old Virgin” which starts out profane and turns more sweet as it winds down (a sex comedy that’s over 2 hours takes a long time to wind down). I’m a Steve Carell fan after seeing him play obnoxious on the “The Office” every week, and then dork out in this film so charmingly. Part of the genius of getting the audience to relate to a 40-year-old-virgin is to set him up in sequences featuring the most out-of-control insane people. Andy Stitzer spends the majority of the film scared: of sex, of women, of relationships, of being laughed at by his peers, of moving forward and maturing. Scared of everything but his little action-man figures that he lovingly talks to. No wonder his co-workers think he’s a serial killer. And you can’t blame him for being scared as he tries to hook up in the most godawful drunken environments. I think most people can relate. If you like Judd Apatow-direction, check out his critically acclaimed but cancelled TV shows: "Freaks and Geeks," and "Undeclared." They’re all on DVD now and well worth seeing. I just found out via the Internet that the chest-hair waxing scene was real and had to be shot in one take--no special effects at the insistence of Steve Carell who didn’t think it would be funny otherwise. That’s twisted genius.

Death by Stork is Sue Hutchinson, me, Tony Remington and Andrew Sano.

Products for the New Economic Divide

The rich get richer. We've all heard that before. But it appears to be absolutely true. I find all these fantastical facts about the wealth of the wealthy and how it's growing at an atomic rate compared to the “rest of us.”

Here's some fun facts from the article "Unequal Gains" by Achin Vanaik from India's Telegraph newspaper:
“...the combined wealth of the world’s three richest people is greater than the total gross domestic product of the 48 poorest countries. ...in 1960, the average income of the richest 20 per cent of the world’s population was 30 times higher than that of the poorest 20 per cent. By 1995, this had become 82 times greater (United Nations Development Programme Report 1998). ...in 1970, the gap between the per capita GDP of the richest country, the United States of America ($5070) and of the poorest, Bangladesh ($57) was 88:1. In 2000, the gap between the richest, Luxembourg ($45,917) and the poorest, Guinea Bissau ($161) was 267:1. ...a study of 77 countries (with 82 per cent of the world’s population) showed that between the Fifties and the Nineties, inequalities rose in 45 countries and fell in 16 countries.”

So SOME people are doing great at accumulating galaxy-sized chunks of money, and I dedicate this post to you! What are you going to do with your incredibly growing pile? You could donate a bit to charity for a tax write-off and give the rest to the kids so they never have to work a day in their lives, but why not enjoy the fruits of everyone else's labor right here and now? I give to you some hot new marketing items for your pleasure on Earth.

First up: own your own solid-gold refuse vehicle. Mr. and Mrs. Jones down the street may be Harvard alums and Mr. Smith next door may own a fleet of Humvees, but you'll be king of the block when this baby comes to your door every week to pick up the trash. For an extra fee, you can lease the platinum trash receptacle. We haven’t developed a recycling truck. You’ve got more important things to do than recycle.

This jewel-encrusted pencil is gorgeous and astronomically expensive. Jot down important thoughts or phone messages when your peer group gives you a call. Emeralds, rubies, sapphires and other precious gemstones sparkle and shine from eraser to pencil tip. NOTE: NOT TO BE SHARPENED.

You’ve spent thousands on your designer eye-wear, now the latest in cosmetic surgery brings you designer eyes. Extra-large sunglasses give you an air of mystery and prestige. Now when you take them off, how much more prestigious will you appear when you eyes are three-to-five times larger than the average? Look forever young with eyes that take up a third of your face--just like adorable and much-worshipped preschoolers do.

We all want a home that feels comfortable and secure. That’s why gated communities offer so much to so few. Take that feeling with you on your next road trip with this gated community on wheels. The entire community runs on diesel fuel and has all the amenities you crave: golf course, indoor pool and work-out spa, 500,000 square feet of living space for several families who feel “just right” to you. Two miles per gallon is your right as a consumer and an American who is about to discover yourself and others of your kind “on the road.”

Why music of today sucks

I don’t really know why it sucks but you have to go into deep indie territory to find good stuff because the stuff these kids of today listen to…sucks! Went on a ski trip and got stuck in deep traffic this weekend. No problem we thought, as we whipped out the array of borrowed CDs from the San Francisco Library. Our goal was to try to grasp the new smattering of garage-friendly bands--a noble goal! Let’s do it we pledged. We’re going to follow the trends until we comprehend the trends.

First up were the Shins but they were twee and unmemorable. They have that one really nice song on the Garden State soundtrack (“New Slang”). But 2003’s Chutes Too Narrow just meanders along without ever going anywhere worth noting. Plus, I don’t know, I like men in bands to sound a little manly. The Shins are sooooo wimpy yet they don’t touch my sensitive girl emotions, so I just give up on the Shins. Tens of thousands of music fans could be wrong, you know.

Then it was on to Arcade Fire’s Funeral, which some have called a “stunningly brilliant debut album.” Keith said to me as we trickled along at 10 MPH in our hours-long traffic jam, “They sound like someone but I can’t place it.”

Within moments I knew. Echo and the Bunnymen, then the Talking Heads, Brian Eno, and then David Bowie. The references and influences were unmistakable, yet none of the songs stood out or approached anything as great as the original source material that this band obviously worships. And there were ballads where the vocals were all garbled so I got no sense of what was being conveyed. Isn’t that the point of a ballad? You write, compose and perform ballads to get your feelings across, but if you can’t make out the words, you might as well write a nice instrumental piece that we can listen to in the background as we do our algebra homework. It could have been the speakers in the SUV my dad had kindly loaned us. My dad, bless him, listens to his radio VERY LOUD. That does affect your speakers after a while. Maybe it garbles your Arcade Fire ballads. Isn’t Arcade Fire a stupid name?

And you know what’s even stupider? Straitjacket Fits. I hated that band name! At least they didn't spell it, “Fitz.”

After Arcade Fire I was pretty loopy. I demanded that Keith just play the new White Stripes, but tragically I had left the CD at home in our boombox. We were left with the expensively produced red, black and white photo insert in the jewel case. We pondered all the photos and lyrics. You know what you’re getting with the White Stripes. Even if Get Behind Me Satan is not as cohesive and rocking as 2003’s Elephant, and contains more piano plinking than is perhaps needed (or wanted), Jack White is a blues/rock guitar genius and his weird pinched wail invokes something mysterious and artful. I don’t find his lyrics very compelling but he overcomes that with his delivery. And he overcomes Meg’s constant thwacking too. How does he do it? What if he played with an amazing drummer and bassist? He might be the next Hendrix. Oh I can hope, can’t I? Anyway, he rocks and everyone knows it, so I’ll join the club. But we blew it and for some reason I’ve done that with other White Stripes CDs too. They’re never around when you need them I guess. Like the boyfriend who never quite opened up to all your wonderful potential lovin’--elusive!

What other shitty music did we have? Two Sleater Kinney CDs. Keith likes “You’re No Rock & Roll Fun” on All Hands on the Bad One.” He declared it, "Fonny."

And it is, but man, Sleater Kinney--it’s been 10 years and they still wail away with that dissonant jerky shrill thoughtful sound. They’re great musicians and they actually plot a course and everything but if I want to listen to Television, I’ll just listen to Television. Television did it long ago and then left the scene (or the scene left them). It might have been better for Sleater Kinney to follow suit, then split to pursue other courses in music, like popera (pop + opera) or a cartoon band like the Gorillaz or something else, vaguely gimmicky and different. It’s not their fault--it’s me, but life is shrill enough. And our other selection, The Woods does not sound effortless, let’s just put it that way.

Moving along snottily, we tried radio but that was really a bad scene. We got some modern rock Chico station ("The Point" it is called, many times over) that futzed into oblivion after Franz Ferdinand's "Do You Wanna?" (now that's a terrible song) as we slow-motioned down the Sierra Nevadas, and then something called “Jack FM” where the smooth, computerized (smootherized?) voice said “We play what we want, because we want to.” They wanted to play Loverboy’s “Turn Me Loose” and the lamest song on Rumours (“You Make Loving Fun”). I started scanning stations until my index finger cramped up. We heard Kelly Clarkson’s big hit “Because of U.” Wow--it reminds me of the soundtrack I cherish from Valley of the Dolls. The big send-up ending is so bombastic I can’t believe Kelly didn’t require hospitalization afterwards. It goes something like:

Because of U
I lock myself in to brood about the size of my thighs…
Because of U
No one can tell me that I’m good enough for a middle management position
Because of U
I tear my hair out in chunks to line the birdcage at night
Because of U
I snuffed some nutmeg and lost all sense of proportion in my suburban tract home…
Because of Uuuuuuuu
Because of Uuuuuu
Because of Uuu.

Or something like that. I might be embellishing a little. Go Kelly! Keep going over the top with your perfect pitch--nice combination. Keith did not agree with me. He may have gagged a little too.

Then one of many classic rock stations played Ted Nugent’s “Stranglehold,” which always has me focusing on the possible millions of adolescents over the years who have gotten bong-load stoned for the duration of that song. Here’s to you pot heads! It’s the perfect stuck-in-traffic song: Got you in a stranglehold, baby. You best get outta the way!

And then he starts singing about crushing her face. What a total asshole! I’m glad everyone smokes pot before listening to that song, you anti-drug, gun-toting Republican, Nugent!

What other crap did we listen to? It’s all a blur. The Shangri-Las briefly lightened the load with “Leader of the Pack,” also a good traffic song, unless you plan on spinning out like the Leader did at the end. Who doesn’t enjoy a good motorcycle sound effect in their soap-operaish top-40 hit? Shangri-Las--always awesome. Creedence Clearwater’s cover of “I Put a Spell on You.” Had never heard that one before. Pretty good for a radio song. Then Sheryl Crow came on with her Rod Stewart cover of “The First Cut is the Deepest,” which we listened to in its entirety because of a Chuck Klosterman essay we had both liked about that song. About how the Rod Stewart version really made Chuck feel something about failed love and it touched him in a new and special way, and how that’s what artists writing and performing rock & roll is all about. And then he found out that Stewart was covering a song he hadn’t written, and perhaps did NOT feel himself. And that made Chuck confused about what rock & roll is all about. And we felt confused right alongside of Chuck. Especially because Sheryl Crow is one of those performers who has a perfect voice, so perfect that I zone out every time I hear it and have no rememberance of her songs whatsoever. And is that now what rock & roll is all about?

photo credit: Michael Jastremski, openphoto.net

Vera Drake Shit Storm

I was going to write a little review of Mike Leigh’s ’04 film Vera Drake. As a character study of a working class mom, care-taker and house-cleaner in 1950 England, who secretly performed abortions for desperate women, the film got to me on some emotional level that fell somewhere between dread and pitiful sadness. That’s because Leigh loves loves loves to work with character actors and all that love gets up there on the screen and has a taut emotional current running through every performance. Everybody gets a piece of the cinematic pie in a Mike Leigh film and you either fall for that or you don’t.

I guess I’m a Mike Leigh fan, even though he can be annoyingly vague. Mike: please no more hints at back-stories that never play out. Not fair to have your actresses cry their eyes out over “something in the past” that we never get to see. Even in real life we usually get to find out why someone is breaking down in front of us. Generally people politely clue us in to the source of the emotional fallout, even if it’s a bare outline of the past event. Leigh lets a lot of plotlines hang there and you get to figure it out for yourself. That’s very Europeanish of him and I like that in a film, but he might be leaning a little too heavily on that particular little tactic.

Also, he makes multi-narrative, often slow-paced films. I like that too. But many people HATE that in a film and they get really irate that they have to sit there and watch people experiencing a life that is very similar to us sitting around experiencing our lives. They really get pissed off because their cinematic experience isn’t helping them escape from real life and with Mike Leigh, the life they’re watching might be a wee bit gritty and unpleasant to look at. He likes texture and grubbiness and dark, cramped apartments with bad décor. His actors have really bad hair and wrinkles and bags under their eyes. They’re pasty and their clothes are ill-fitting. Unless they’re upper-class. In Vera Drake The upper class wears smart outfits and they’re pretty hateful or repressed or both.

When I looked at Vera Drake on Netflix to get some more background on the film, I found myself transfixed by the 161 customer reviews. Usually I read a few Netflix reviews of films I’m interested in, just to see what the general public’s take on it was. They’re often informative, or enjoyable, or even interesting with a few disgruntled ones thrown in for balance and sometimes humor. But Vera Drake reviews were interesting on another level. Because the film is about a secretive abortionist who gets caught and goes to trial, people were reviewing more than the film. They were reviewing their feelings about abortion and how it affected their viewing of the film. Now that’s interesting. I hope Netflix and the reviewers don’t mind if I list some of their thoughts here. Most of them are anonymous so it’s not like I’m spotlighting anyone who might live down the street from you. Some reviews contain spoilers so don’t read further if you plan on watching the film first. Netflix has a 5-star rating system. Vera Drake didn’t get a lot of 5-star reviews but most agreed that lead actress Imelda Staunton’s Oscar nomination was deserved.

2 stars - This movie was interesting in that it was pro-legalization but not pro-abortion in the way I expected. It does point out, rather subtly, that the girls who got abortions were not given any kind of physical followup, let alone counseling before or after, and that many of them died. Their deaths did not happen just because abortion was illegal, but because the woman (Vera) performing the abortion was ignorant as to the ill effects of the "help" she was giving. As we hear from the doctors later in the film, many of the people she "helps" in this way probably end up dead shortly after. Pamela is one of the lucky ones. We don't ever see the other girls again. The ones who survive, like the dark-haired daughter of Vera's employer, end up emotionally numbed. I do think the filmmaker wanted us to feel sorry for Vera, who had had an abortion herself and may have been trying (in a sick deflective way) to make it all "come away." Her putting on the tea and her chirpy attitude was a way of saying, "Oh, that nasty abortion you had when you were young, it really wasn't so bad now, was it? Just all part of a normal cheerful day." The reason she cries at the end is that she has to face the collapse of this lie she's told herself. Too bad so many girls had to die before she faced this reality. I never felt sorry for Vera, only sad for the trauma and deaths she caused (to both the mothers and their unborn children). - molotov

Wow! molotov saw a completely different film than I did. I didn’t conclude ANY of the stuff that molotov saw so clearly while watching Vera’s story unfold. I thought she was crying because she was putting her family through the ringer because her two worlds had collided and created a big legal mess. And the dark-haired daughter was emotionally numb even before her abortion, especially after she got date-raped. See? Mike Leigh leaves it up to YOU to figure it out. - editor

1 star - Are we supposed to feel sorry for Vera here? Is that the entire story? Dear Filmmaker -- don't forget that while you're making your political statement you still have to entertain us -- not even close. - Seattle Tattle

4 stars - This story is filled with complexity, yet very simply and beautifully portrayed. There are twists and ironies within this movie that will keep your mind on it for days after viewing. - JK from Missoula

Whoa my head is spinning from these polarized views. - ed

3 stars - Yes, the acting was great but what a hideously depressing film! It made us want to lock outselves in the closet for three months: ears, eyes, mouth and nose filled with mud, in order to suffer a mere nano percent of what Vera did. The impoverished, underprivileged period of subject matter was presented without any redeeming, amazing grace. The sets, clothes, lighting, attitudinal character direction were all of a plangent chord, which seemed to stretch into the Forever. Having to view Vera's non-stop tears for the last half hour was more a question of our intelligence quotient than one of a critic's forbearance. So off went the film. We imagined the ending with Vera crying all the way to the dross house or prison, and crying the entire length of her sentence. - Zooey not Franny

1 star - She makes tea about 87 times, could not have been more boring. Only if I had watch the whole movie. - SL from Bridgeport

Don’t feel you have to actually finish watching the film to review it. That cuts down on spoilers. - ed

1 star - I was considering renting, since it was "recommended". But after reading the reviews & summary, why would I? If its "so real" in its portrayal of abortions, why should anyone want to watch it? And forget how wonderful the acting is...and remember what the subject is people - killing babies. Oh, poor nurse who gets caught murdering babies. I don't think so. If you disagree, try talking to someone who's had to suffer an abortion or any miscarriage of their baby. Why put those feelings on-screen with the pity on the killer? - pro-lifer, USA

Don’t let a thing like not renting the movie stand in the way of your review. - ed

1 star - lauding a woman who committed MURDER? how sad, tragic, horrific. and what a sad commentary on our state of mind as a society to see this as acceptable. those people she was "helping"--those women were carrying human beings. HUMANS. it's so sad how expendable our society views human life. if we don't want it, then we don't keep it--never mind that actions have consequences. there are millions of people who would LOVE nothing more than to adopt--AND there are so many viable options to abortion. - missdaphne19

I know! That’s why there’s hardly any foster kids anymore. - ed (with really sarcastic voice)

1 star - I'm sorry but I think they should have fried her for it. My religion just has trouble with movies of this nature. And people like that I wouldn't recomend this to anyone to watch. - B

According to Netflix, 385 out of 662 people found this review helpful. - ed

3 stars - Like all of Mike Leigh's films, this is a strong character study, one in which afterwards you will remember the incredible acting by Imelda Staunton and not so much the plot points. … I also liked that Leigh didn't make Vera out to be a cardboard saint. While she is definately sympathetic and has that dough-mom quality, there were also times I found Vera very insensitive. Her "cherry-o/buiscuits and tea" routine at times made her unaware of the fear some of these girls had. Here are these petrified girls, and Vera dismisses their concerns with a smile, a quick pat on the hand and off she goes. I liked that Mike Leigh points this out. A very good, solid film!! - Astroboy from TX 8

It’s true, Vera is a very odd duck. Leigh likes odd ducks. I personally think the film is really about an unfathomable person. - ed

3 stars - Here's the thing: If a movie takes me to such a sad, depressing place, i want to know something more coming out than i knew going in. I am old enough to know this material. The sad part, for me, is that the small minded, who should see this film, will most probably not. This movie has great performances by wonderful actors playing inarticulate, uneducated, post WWII, working class people. This is not the swinging, trendy London of the 1960s, okay? I lived through this crap and here it is if you care to know why women absolutly can't go back. Power is NEVER given, gurls. We have to pick power up and keep it. By the way.. Vera Drake was probably having a safty rate comparable to most abortion clinics. Birth control is the big miricle news. Why are we STILL debating abortion when we should be getting accurate birth control info and products to every woman of child bearing age?! - RF from Bellingham, WA

If only Leigh would make a film about swinging, trendy London of the 60s. Then we’ll really see something depressing. - ed

Heavenly Ecstatic Utopia in Oakland, Calif.

I've been thinking about heaven lately, or the thought of heaven / paradise / nirvana / after-life, etc. A couple of weeks ago 20/20 had a show about heaven and started things off with a bang by interviewing the president of American Atheists, Ellen Johnson, who happens to be a television-ready, attractive, blonde-haired mother of two. "Is there a heaven?" asked intrepid Barbara Walters. Johnson smiled widely and said, "Nope." She actually said, "No, there is no heaven," but she said it in a cheerful tone that implied "Nope." It was great television. Johnson was gleeful to get that off her chest. "Is there a god?" continued Walters, for her follow-up. Johnson all but scoffed and said, "Naw." Or something to that effect. You get the idea. It's fun to be a nay-sayer when you know you won't get stoned or burned at the stake for your opinions. Viva America! But wait, there's more. Barbara wanted to know if Johnson gets depressed, knowing there's no after-life. "Well, it doesn't make me happy," she admitted, "But I can live my life to the fullest, knowing that that's all there is." So there you have it.

This is all there is: big-box discount stores, gas stations, telephone poles, Yosemite National Park, network television, our families and friends, animals, insects, clouds, wi-fi, art supplies, chocolate, Brad Pitt, viruses, plants, water, McDonald's, Howard Stern, the Pope, doughnuts, JC Penneys, books, make-up, shadows, rain, adult-contemporary music, you get the picture.

So we are all in heaven. All of us together. Either that or the alternative is that we are all going to a separate place, a heaven beyond our scope and imagination, a heaven reflecting the best of us, as explained by Maria Shriver in the same 20/20 episode, heaven is where we are completely at peace and surrounded by love, beauty, and acceptance. So I try to imagine this place. This perfect peaceful, beautiful, accepting existence and I find I'm at odds with it.

Even as a child, didn't you find the concept of heaven a bit, ummm, dull? The clouds and angels floating and strumming their harps. It seemed a little, hmmm, monotonous. Bear with me here; I know I'm not stating anything new, especially to all the godless heathens out there. It seems to me that the Christian ideal of heaven stemmed from a hellish life on earth filled with strife, powerlessness, disease, famine, war and ignorant superstition. Then that peaceful, blissful stupidness called heaven might sound pretty good. Especially if most of your children had died in infancy or childhood and your life expectency was only 40 at the most. Then you might enjoy those cushiony clouds and soft harp tunes as you float about in a narcotic haze, free from worry and loss. After all, all your lost relatives will be there too, right? No crops to till, no dictatorships to hide from, no invading Gauls.

But here in the modern American world, we sort of thrive on competition, conflict, aggression, or at least ambition. Where's all that in the after-life? Gone--poof! What have you got left? What are you going to do with yourself for all of eternity with all the life skills you honed back on earth completely useless? How are you going to rock out to Hendrix when you're all just floating around with a big smile on your face? How are you going to enjoy the narrative arc that is your existence when there's no conflict to battle against and overcome? How are you going to enjoy yourself when it's always enjoyable for the rest of time and beyond? You're going to go apeshit crazy. You might even head over to hell for a little nightcap once in a while. At least the sinners there lived a little on earth, as long as the homicidal ones are tucked away safely in the most firey of pits. At least with Satan, you know where you stand. God is just too damn mysterious with his giveth and taketh away. In the face of all the suffering on earth, how are we to embrace this god, or allah, or whoever?

It does make more sense to put all your faith and wonder in the power of nature, science and art. Let's embrace what we have in the here and now and let our heaven flow from our natural selves. Let's read and discuss the world and its ever-changing sameness and forget about the after-life and all the rules and regulations that bind us to that idea. What if we just went out and made some heaven right here on earth and that is our legacy, our after-life, the rememberence of our presence and how we affected those around us. Did we enhance life or make it more difficult? Were we good on a cross-country trip, or a high maintenance pain-in-the-ass? Did we exude love or did we cause fear and panic in our wake? I know I'm simplifying here.

What if you're a big neurotic with a horrible childhood background and no close relatives to cushion the blows of your growing-up existence? What if you can't find close and abiding love and are forced to wander the earth alone with your pets for company on a Saturday night? What if you can't earn respect because you're physically too short/fat/big-nosed/nobby-kneed, etc.? What if you're mentally ill? How are you going to exude all that warmth and love with these and other problems causing you hell on earth? You just have to because that's all there is.

This is it, so go do your thing, or appreciate someone else's thing. Do your best. Remember: This is all there is. Work it.

These photos were all taken in my North Oakland neighborhood--my own little slice of heaven.

Most Hated Advertising Icons

Hey guess what? We live in the age of advertising. I'm sure in ancient times there were the publicity men who painted the signs for Akbar's Tofu Hut and placed them along the mountain path, but today we are bombarded with ads to an alarming degree as never before. Because our eyes, ears and senses are ever-alert and tuned for survival (innately at least) we cannot help but be affected by advertising.

How to distinguish your brand from all the rest? Why not create the perfect icon to represent everything that is good and wholesome and suave and beguiling about your product? You can love or hate advertising icons but you can't really be indifferent to them. They exist to enter your mind and stay there, either by some unusual physical trait, or a catch phrase, or a jingle. Some will be more welcome than others. Elsie the Borden Cow will probably never outright offend anyone with her smiling cow face. The partying breakfast elves Snap, Crackle, and Pop are pretty inoffensive. Who could hate their good-natured rivalry and crackling product made of rice? Or the Gerber baby? So innocent and timeless with its little open mouth, awaiting nourishment.

But some icons are truly hateful. It's not that they're overtly obnoxious but there's something despicable about their role in advertising. They represent to me all that is pushy and invasive in the psychology of product branding. They are designed to manipulate at full-throttle and there is usually no escaping their presence until mercifully, someone at the company pulls the plug. But by then--it's too late. The icons have invaded our consciousness and we cannot shut them out completely.

On the soft side of hate is Snuggle Bear. At first you may wonder, how can you despise the Snuggle Bear? Isn't he cuddly and fluffy and presumably nicely scented? It's not the image that offends so much. That slo-mo backwards dive that he used to do into the fluffy towels at the end of his commercials is even kind of cool. It's the voice. The voice of Snuggle is high-pitched and REALLY CUTE. And one step removed from softly hissing Satanic crooning.

"Ahhhhhhhhhhh, snuggly sssssoffffft."

Get back Snuggle Bear before I disembowel you with a pen knife! At least that's what I've thought in the past upon hearing a Snuggle commercial. Even if you turn the sound off, he's still pretty creepy. He's recently been spotted bouncing up and down in a field of flowers. It just doesn't look like anything you'd ever want to see in reality. And if you did, then you'd surely know you were losing your mind, or had been dosed with really bad drugs. And if Snuggle happened to come running at you in a field of flowers, or pop up from your laundry basket, you'd definitely tear off screaming in the opposite direction. Teddy bears are not supposed make any sudden moves or croon phrases that invoke anything other than security.

Way over on the other end of the spectrum lives the Jolly Green Giant. He's big, green, and doesn't have much to say. He's wearing a hat and a toga made of leaves. And he's just creepy. He's another nightmare-like vision that someone back in the depression thought would make a great spokesperson for peas and other items from God's green Earth. Even though he only says, "Ho ho ho," and seems to be perpetually standing in the same valley, year after year, I find him threatening. That wide-legged stance with hands on his hips. I guess he's supposed to look confident and instill confidence in you, the canned-food buying consumer. But he's so very green! And he's not expressive enough to make that somehow seem OK. He looks radioactive and as likely to squash you underfoot as sell you some spinach. HO HO HO! (squish!) Green Giant.

In the 70s, Green Giant introduced Little Green Sprout, his non-threatening side-kick who was round and cartoony and the size of a child. Green Sprout has yet to emerge from the Giant's shadow, which is really long, especially at sunset. Gaaaah! Wake me up from this vegetable nightmare!

Into the deep pockets of hatred I reserve for ignorance and sociopathy lives Joe Camel. He's been retired, presumably because he was a cartoon figure that catered to children, the future smokers of the world, but my theory is that he just failed as an icon all around. He seemed to be around forever even though it was only a decade throughout the 90s, but R.J. Reynolds spent millions to implant him into our psyches and there he has stayed.

Is it is overtly cool persona? His penis face (or literally his fuck-face)? His weird construct: cartoon character/hipster adult with a camel head? What is so hateful about Joe Camel? I think he's just really ugly and gross. And I think most kids and adults would agree with that assessment and even though sales of Camels went way up during his tenure, I think people thought he was ugly and gross the entire time we were bombarded with his billboards and magazine ads and posters. I don't know what made everyone buy more Camels. I think Camels were just the alternate brand you smoked other than Marlboros, whose "Marlboro Man" made that company trillions in profits. If you wanted to be a hipster, you grabbed your pack of Camels and left the highschool crowd behind. You don't smoke 'em because Joe Camel is so cool, because he's not. He's ugly and gross. And he's mercifully gone from advertising but not from our collective unconsious, where "cool" guys function as tools to make us all a little bit more insecure about ourselves.

So finally, on to Ronald McDonald. I'll be brief. He has a condiment face. He looks like he's made of mustard, ketchup and mayonaise. That's unappealing. He's obviously a fat and salt pusher to little children. That's appalling. And for several years now he's become really "cool" like Joe Camel, but for kids. He skateboards and plays soccer and shoots hoops. You could say that the geniuses behind Ronald McDonald just want to atone for all the obese children they've helped create through their ad campaigns, and are now featuring an active and healthy clown, but come on--he's a CLOWN. Clowns are supposed to be funny and subversive. They pull tricks and are slightly scary (or downright scary, depending on the clown). Some are lyrical and artistic but Ronald doesn't fall under that category. He shills burgers and fries with his condiment face and doesn't really stand in for the healthy active lifestyle that could save so many children from a lifetime of suffering with diabetes and heart disease. He's a villain in make-up and I wish he'd go away, but not in my lifetime, or yours, or yours, or yours, and so on into infinity.
Kids: this is NOT COOL. Your first instincts are correct. This is ugly and gross.

Please, no more Tim Burton films

I know it's not going to evoke much sympathy but I just can't take Tim Burton any more! After a dozen feature films he still can't follow a basic story arc and he cares nothing for his characters, unless they happen to represent his eternal naif-like outsider who somehow finds his soulmate in the end: another naif-like outsider.

Tim, we get it: you're sensitive, artistic, misunderstood, a little eccentric but harmless, a lover of twisty, pointy set design and worst of all, an employer of Danny Elfman. Even more than Tim Burton, I can't take Danny Elfman any more. Will he ever create a memorable melody with half-way decent lyrics? Will he stop with the weirdly distorted singing? How did the man from Oingo Boingo, the most annoying band of the 80s, come to be so reverred in fanciful Hollywood films?

Directors: When considering hiring a composer for your fanciful film, bypass Elfman and try to get someone from Sesame Street. I know they're busy over there, but their songs are masterful, humorous, clever and wonderfully produced. Please, I beg you.

I saw the DVD of "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" this week. I was kind of dreading it because I loved Gene Wilder in the '71 film (along with the rest of the world). And while that film had its share of difficulties--low, low budget, boring songs, manic freakout by Wonka over the pilfering of fizzy lifting drink which was actually a sadistic test of Charlie's character, and horrendous oompa loompas (a great big doopity don't)--it did create (in the end) a great relationship between Wonka and Charlie, which was the ultimate point of the book by Roald Dahl.

Great relationship between title characters in his movie? Tim Burton couldn't be bothered. He'd rather concentrate on the weird. Johnny Depp's Wonka finds everything that he doesn't like weird, especially parents. Just because he had a bad relationship with his father, he can't comprehend why any child would want a relationship with his or her parent. What a moron. Show some intelligence and empathy you candy-making genius. I don't blame Depp for the role, that was Tim Burton all the way. Depp just did his trademark: look at me, the eccentric beautiful actor making myself slightly repulsive routine. He's very good at it because he keeps doing it over and over in every film. I'd love to see Depp really play the Wonka of the book, with the goatee and and the twinkle in his eye, along with the sadistic sense of humor. That would have been really great. But you can't "do" twinkle. You either got that or you don't and it's a birth trait. So for all his beauty and talent, Johnny is missing a key element of the fanciful leading man. That's OK. He's still basically very hot and will be working for a long, long time.

And the oompa loompas are tough--I don't envy anyone directing that particular element. But to cast one man and multiply him a hundred times over, while a clever camera trick, is ever-so-slightly racist in itself. I mean, they all look alike, you know?

SPOILER:

Oh, Charlie, you were supposed to be better than anyone in the story and you and Willy Wonka would team up for a happy ending, but in Tim Burton's universe you team up with a very creepy guy with green skin and bad hair who keeps your family in his factory in their crappy house with fake snow just so he can live out his happy family fantasy. At least give them a modern kitchen to work with, you narcissist.

Acquanetta - not to be trifled with

Here is a fine photo of Burnu Acquanetta, also known as the Gorilla Girl in the Hollywood extravaganza "Captive Wild Woman." Burnu Acquanetta was in reality Mildred Davenport, born in 1921 in Ozone, Wyoming; a young model blessed with (by Hollywood standards) exotic good looks. Although she was part Arapaho, Universal Studios gave her the title, "Venezualan Volcano." She went on to star as the Leopard Woman, the Jungle Woman, and the Gorilla Girl in a series of "B" films, mostly in the 40s. She died on August 16, 2004 from complications from Alzheimers.

Although her Hollywood career did not take off as her publicists might have hoped, I must admit that I find her classic Hollywood studio story fascinating. In the 40s and 50s dark hair plus light skin = some sort of half woman/half animal I guess. Having dark hair and light skin myself, I grew up watching old movies on our black & white TV when I was little and by the time I was four, I was convinced that dark hair meant: evil. Blonde hair: good. So I figured I would simply become blonde when I grew up, because I knew I wasn't evil. What did I know? I was four.

I can't help but wonder what it was like for all the dark-haired beauties of that era who actually played those evil, exotic, sexy creatures; the ones who lured the upstanding hero away from his blonde good-girlfriend, and usually ended up dead or exiled by the end of the film. It must have sucked! But hopefully the pay was good. And I don't know, playing the villain has its moments I'm sure, but every single role?!

So here's to you Burnu Acquanetta/Mildred Davenport. You quit the movies to move to Mesa, Arizona, had four boys, and published a book of poems. You leveraged your beauty and charm to raise money for many worthy causes over the years and although I've never seen your films and I'm not even sure if they're available on video (forget DVD), I admire you from afar, if only for your leopard-skin bikini and photographic dignity. That's a slam-dunk in my book.