Murder: It’s American!

GENTLEMEN! YOU CAN’T FIGHT IN HERE! THIS IS THE WAR ROOM!   “Dr. Strangelove”

After a two week hiatus (okay, “more or less”), I’m patrolling the television airwaves last night, looking for blog fodder. I’m basically thinking about breaking new ground with raw, undiluted honesty. Meaning, I’ve been toying with the idea of blogging about some of the real-life misadventures that make up my life: the good, the bad, and the ugly. This would of course mean that I would be discussing a lot of things that have been more or less off limits until now. I bitch, whine, and complain about things, and talk AROUND a lot of personal issues that affect my life. I am, after all, trying to exorcise a novel while at the same time exorcising some pretty strong and potent personal demons. Sometimes it seems like I am failing. Othertimes I feel pretty good about fighting the pretty good fight. But I took some time off while dithering with the details, made some promises, broke some; went to a Halloween Party. Then I decided to go ahead with it, to talk more about these inner demons and take their power away. Then I could, like a soul-sucking black demonblade (don’t ask), add this power to my own. Physician: Heal Thyself. Except that I’m not, strictly speaking, a physician. I was gonna start the blog again, fresh, and be honest. Honestly. Then I picked up the remote, ready to turn off the idiot box. After all, I didn’t have to find crap to complain about on TV for my blog. I would complain about MYSELF…I would be HONEST.

And then “Breaking News”: they were digging a dozen bodies out of some yard, carting them piecemeal (sorry, I didn’t so that on purpose: just being honest) from a lunatics house. Who? Didn’t catch the name. THAT many? Decomposed…some as long as…YEARS?! Well, maybe I can be honest later. This is not the average news story. Well…sadly…it kinda IS, isn’t it? Anyway: is this another Dahmer? Gacy? He’s got Dahmer’s body count beaten already, but the repetitive video clips of ashen-faced crime scene cops carrying out body bags and…well, just BAGS…is eerily like those old, early 90’s clips of Dahmer’s kitchen getting cleaned. Ewww. 

I finally fell asleep, had a nightmare.

Now, tonight: fire up the ‘puter. Found an errant, stray wi-fi signal nobody was using. Got online…typed in “wordpress.com” and logged in. Let’s get HONEST….

then…

“Breaking News”: Oh no.

A military psychologist at Fort Hood, Texas shot and killed 12 people, then managed to wound 31 more, according to early reports. Apparently the medical doctor had been killed at the scene. Then, the army reversed itself: the suspect was alive. Those early reports were a bit shady. But he is, apparently, now in military custody and in stable condition, though he’s left a wide swathe of carnage behind him that’s about as far from “stable” as one can get. Fort Hood is home to more than 50,000 people, being the largest military base in the U.S.

Major Malik Nadal Hasan was about to be posted to the Middle East. Investigators revealed that Internet postings by Hasan included information about suicide bombings. One of those insta-experts MSNBC finds on short notice guessed that Hasan may have believed killing soldiers at Fort Hood may have saved thousands of Muslims in the Middle East. Way to hype the situation! That’ll calm everyone down!

Anyway, it’s been two days or mayhem. I just don’t want to be personally honest right now. But stay tuned. I’m sure nothing else bad can happen before I turn the TV off…

oh shit.

Republican public protests (disguised as a “press conference”) against Obama healthcare reform featured the ever-droll Congresswoman Bachman comparing healthcare reform to Nazi death camps. Okay, this is ENOUGH.  A big poster is labeled: “National Socialist Healthcare – Dachau, 1945″ showing a pile of bodies of Holocaust victims. Masses of elderly Americans mill about, terrified by the party line that age-related government-sponsored euthanasia is Obama’s goal. Okay, TV: OFF.

REALITY TV OVERDOSE

Hope you’re ready for another bitchfest. I’ve been saving up all my anger and vitriol over recently becoming an (official) crotchety old man. And what better way to let it all hang out than blog about my favorite target: reality television?

First of all, I’d like to say something I believe a lot of people who watch TLC’s “L.A. Ink” are thinking: Kat Von D (starlet and resident painted lady) is a bitch. I’ve been fascinated by tattoos since childhood, thanks to bikers. My father owned a tire store and garage that catered to people with a taste for offroad tires and expensive rims. When I was about 9 he hired a mechanic that was a newly-made member of an outlaw motorcycle club. Listening in when I wasn’t supposed to, I heard a lot of this guys stories of debauchery. I also watched him work so I could see his tattoos, as I was too intimidated to ask him about them. After all, this was the 1970’s, when the bad guys on every TV cop show from Starsky and Hutch to ADAM 12 were likely to be members of a motorcycle gang. Long story short, I grew up, learned not to judge a book by its cover, and got my own first tat at 27.

So when L.A. Ink first premiered, I thought: Great! This might be a kool show. And it DOES have its moments…if you can stand the pretentious attitude and all the quasi-New Age babble about “negative energy”. I’ve watched Kat and Corey prance about like they were some kind of rock star, name-dropping and prattling on about their “art”. Don’t get me wrong: as I said, I think tattoos and tattoo artists are very interesting–but there’s just so much talk about deeper meanings that I can take without rolling my eyes. As an artist myself, I find it necessary to keep what I do in check with the real world. Art school snobbery (in my humble opinion) is often used to disguise something in your life  that is lacking. Like a soul, perhaps.

The real complaint I have about L.A. Ink isn’t about the attitude of the artists about their art, however. It’s the attitude of the artists towards non-artists. Not so much the customers (after all, if you run off your customers you lose your source of income; not many people would watch a documentary about a bunch of tattoo artists sitting around pontificating about the deeper meanings of an anchor with ‘Mom’ written over it in Olde English script)…no, where Kat and company show their snobbery is in how they treat their employees.

But it should be noted that their employees keep coming back for more abuse. As Kat herself says in the opening mini-monolog (complete with MTV-style editing and music): “It’s Hollywood!” Apparently there are plenty of folks who will sell anything for Warhol’s promised 15-minutes of fame. Including their soul, shapeless and tattered though it may be. I think it’s time to switch back to a diet of PBS for a while.

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Put The SIGH In SCI-FI

—————————————————————————————————————————————————DISCLAIMER:—————————————————————————————————————————— I’m writing this blog for the stated reason that I don’t want to write about my birthday (September 18). I turned 40. The highlight of my day was that I began the (hopefully short) process of finding a literary agent. Other things that happened on my birthday: my Xbox 360, DVD player and fridge (in that order) shat out on me. And I’m not fond of 40. But, as my Uncle Slats said (when I called to wish him a Happy 89th birthday Tuesday), it IS better than the alternative.————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

As an “instead of-” blog, I present… (drum roll please) “I’M NOT FAMOUS”…

I’m not famous AT ALL, for ANYTHING. And as a 21st Century American, that should probably bother me. After all, I live in a nation where adults recognize Jerry Springer more often than our first president, Abraham Lincoln. (Note: That was a joke; I know Ben Franklin was the first president). Some folks claim that America is a Christian nation. Well, fundamentally speaking (or should I say “fundamentalist speaking”?) that might have been a true statement, once.  No more.

Because now we are a nation of pagans, and I’m not talking about my friend Laura the Pagan. One of her screen names is “Witchy Poo”, she likes candles, knows all kinds of kool stuff about herbs and she can tell you what an “athame” is. No, I’m talking about the new American god: we worship young, skinny and famous. I’m, uhm, none of the above. And maybe it should even bother ME a little more than your average person, because I have a famous person in my family. My cousin is a fairly well-known actor: Ed Harris. (The Abyss, Enemy At The Gates, The Truman Show, Radio, etc.) I feel a little weird name-dropping even though he is family, and the reason I’ve done so much more than I ever have in the past is simply because I’m involved in the movie biz myself as of late–though admittedly on a much smaller (trust me, much smaller) scale. But Ed’s place in the Hollywood hierarchy has made me think a great deal about Fame (and its fat and fugly–but wealthier–cousin, Fortune) here of-late. 

The movie, if you missed that blog, is called THE LOST IDOL OF AMUN-RA. (Did you hear the 20th Century Fox musical fanfare and that guy with the deep voice that narrates all the movie previews? That’s what the ALL CAPS TITLE was supposed to trigger if I did it right…No? Ok, let me try again…)

THE LOST IDOL OF AMUN-RA! (No? Still nothing? I’ll get my people on it, sorry).

Anyway, that’s the name. Why? Well, for one, it’s about a lost idol. And “Amun-Ra” sounds kinda Egypto-sciency fictiony, doesn’t it?  The movie in an indie picture (duh) written by myself and longtime friend, David Lusk. Actually, David wrote most of the screenplay and that was probably best because I’m directing the movie and–trust me–I’ve got all I can handle.

You can find out all the gory details on the movie web page (which will be up and running shortly), but the basic idea is: A secret agent is racing to beat a Russian archaeologist (who might or might not be a secret agent, as well) to the “find of the century”: you guessed it, the LOST IDOL OF AMUN-RA. (Still no, huh?) But a UFO-piloting pair of aliens, the mysterious Robot Empire’s Legion of Doom, and a nosy reporter on the trail of the story of a lifetime are all looking for the IDOL as well. Golly, jeepers! Doesn’t that sound swell? If you haven’t guessed already, it’s a spoof of 1950’s-era sci-fi serials/Ed Wood classics. Think pie-plate UFO’s and claymation monsters and you’ll get the general idea.

I started this projects with the very best and most honorable of intentions. No, really. Okay, an eensie-weensie TINY little SMALL, BARELY ANY real reason AT ALL part was because I wanted to impress my cousin. But the more and more that I think about how that conversation might go, the more I think I will probably just end up sounding like that weird 5-year old kid, Stuart, on Mad TV. (“Hey, Ed! Look what I can do!”)

But this whole experience is really trying my patience. Though there are some genuinely talented and dedicated people working on the project (we’re still in pre-production, with a few more weeks before principle photography starts), there are others who have to be hand-held and coddled. And in addition to not being famous, I’m not good at hand-holding or coddling. Particularly coddling, since I’m not 100 percent on what it actually means. First of all, let me ASSURE YOU that you DO NOT have to actually be a famous actor to ACT like a famous actor. And I don’t mean the good kind of acting either, which I obviously welcome and desire. I mean ACTing like an ASSHOLE. Egoism is apparently a universal trait. Add to this my propensity to be extremely unsympathetic to idiotism as well as egoism and you have a director who is himself an asshole. But give me a freakin’ break! It’s my first time directing (we’re not counting porn, right?)…

I’ve decided–in an attempt to keep track of my thoughts and “blog away” my stress–that I’m going to post every time we have a production meeting, a script meeting, or a fight. Which means I guess I have to blog every five or ten minutes. (NOTE TO SELF: Think before typing; some thoughts and most declarations or promises of action are better once edited, where they are often deleted, becoming a non-issue).

If this experience doesn’t make me nuttier than the proverbial fruitcake, I don’t know what will. More later. I need a valium sandwich and a bottle of vodka.

DISCLAIMER NUMBER TWO: Gregory Purvis does not use or endorse valium sandwiches or vodka. Though he is willing to sell out for a (probably smaller than you would think) price.

For endorsement offers write to: P.O. Box 681505 Fort Payne, Alabama 35968.

Another Loudmouth In The Way Of Healthcare Reform

The Loudmouth-in-Question is Rep. Joe Wilson (R [Duh]/S.C.), who called the President a “liar” during one of Obama’s increasingly-opposed pleas for lawmaker’s to step up to the plate–that plate being the public trough all these pigs gorge at as they go about their charmed lives with full medical coverage and enough perks to make a fat African dictator blush–and do the right thing about a national healthcare plan.

Being the bleedingheart liberal commie sympathizer/socialist I’m often accused of being, I support the President’s efforts. In fact, I don’t think any incarnation of a national healthcare plan will ever be good enough, even if “The Plan” was secretly authored by Barnie Franks’s gay lover, who turns out to be a Closet Canadian Commie with Evil Plans to take over the world by destroying Blue Cross/Blue Shield with the nuclear weapons Bush couldn’t find in Iraq and a trailer-truck full of band-aid-camoflauged Kalishnakovs.

MY Secret Plan is simple: I talk to convenience store workers, and leave some change in the buckets you see in many of these stores to solicit help for some unlucky worker who has some horrible disease and zero healthcare. Isn’t it sad that the placement of these change jars had to be okayed by convenience store management…? Which means, of course, that they are the REAL “company-provided employee healthcare plan.” In other words:

“If you get sick and can’t cover your third-shift schedule selling gas and beef jerky to drunks, Don’t Worry! Be Happy! We’ll stick a bucket with your pathetic face on it in all our stores where customers will (hopefully!) donate enough pennies and nickels to pay for the chemo we’re too cheap to provide! Get Well Soon! (Or You’re Fired!)”

My own Plan calls for a couple minutes two or three times a day, whenever I have a need to swing by one of the eighty-two thousand convenience stores that are within 4 yards of my house. I look for one of these pity jars (which are, sadly, all too common). I drop whatever change I have on me into the jar, and ask about the person whose scared face is taped on the side. Don’t worry, all the employees know the story. After all, this is what passes for their “healthcare plan”. They’ll tell you a familiar story that is repeated with all-too-numbing regularity across this nation.

MAPCO is the local Big Corporation, owning many of the convenience stores in north Alabama, northwest Georgia and southern Tennessee. I don’t know where they are headquartered at–probably the Death Star. No doubt the corporate elite (all the atormtroopers running the Death Star) have a decent healthcare plan. But their average, blue-collar “working poor” employee?

Well…yes! Yes, Mr. Commie Sympathizer Big Mouth! We DO offer our VALUED EMPLOYEES healthcare coverage!”

“Uh-huh. What kind?”

“Well…uhm….err…uhhh……….(supplementalhealthinsurance)”

“WHAT WAS THAT?”

“supplemental [mumble] [inaudible mutter]…”

“OH YOU MEAN SUPPLEMENTAL INSURANCE?!” In other words, if you PAY FOR YOUR OWN insurance, out of the no-doubt VERY fair salary you are paid, and that insurance pays for 80% of your need–AFTER the deductible is met, which often means a tearful trip to a cash-for-title franchise or a pawn shop–then your generous employer’s supplemental plan (at God know’s what price) will kick in to help with the 20% that remains.

In plain, unvarnished English: you’re gonna pay, one way or another…and they’re gonna getcha in the end no matter who licks the stamp.

After I commiserate with the employee–who’s  now reminded how much s/he hates the cheap-ass employer and, more importantly, WHY–I meekly suggest that MAYBE the Nazis we elected to look out for us in D.C. aren’t doing such a good job.

“They’re liars,” I say, before heading out the door, leaving them to stew.

Just like Rep. Wilson. 

 

Moving Pictures

I’ve often said I could watch a documentary about paint drying and find some meaning in it. This is not because I find meaning where other people find only a headache from the smell of five gallons of Sherman-Williams laytex interior. It’s simply due to the fact that I love documentary filmmaking. More so than any other genre, the documentary has the power to inspire, entrance, educate and involve me. It gives a brand new meaning to the term ‘moving picture’.

That’s not to say that your garden-variety Hollywood blockbuster doesn’t have the ability (albeit occasionally) to work the same kind of magic. Like any red-blooded American man, movies are not just a source of entertainment–they’re also a source of dialog that my friends and I still take adolescent pleasure in quoting to each other whenever an appropriate (or inappropriate) moment reveals itself.

“GENTLEMEN! YOU CAN’T FIGHT IN HERE! THIS IS THE WAR ROOM!”

Like most geeks in my generation, I’ve seen many of my favorites over and over again since I was a child. I was 7 when Star Wars was released in 1977. If pressed, I’m fairly confident I can quote entire PASSAGES from that movie, complete with sound effects and a running trivia commentary culled from issue after issue of Starlog, Fangoria, and Famous Monsters. I can do the same for Blade Runner, Brazil, Apocalypse Now, and all of the Alien movies.

But those films move me in an entirely different way. They move me as a geek, a science fiction writer and closet movie nerd. Other films move me as a human being.

Some of these are fictional, Hollywood blockbusters, too–even if they are sometimes based on true events. Schindler’s List and The Gray Zone both fall into this category (and both have similar themes, but that’s simply coincidence). Two examples that ARE NOT based on true events are Vanilla Sky and Magnolia (both of which star Tom Cruise, but, again, that’s simply coincidence). But documetaries–the nonfiction of the film world–hold a special, and often magical,  power over me.

Dear Zachary: A Letter To A Son About His Father is an amazing example of a moving picture. And it makes you think about how many lives you affect just by going about your daily life. Like the butterfly that flaps his wings in Newfoundland and whips up a hurricane in Fiji, you can never be certain how the smallest actions will affect those you come into casual contact with.

It’s something to think about as I begin preparations to start filming The Lost Idol of Amun-Ra, a 1950’s sci-fi spoof some friends and I are making. Though I am a cynical Gen-X’er by birth (and proud of it), I suppose it’s possible to attach some greater meaning to even an indie sci-fi/comedy. Possible, but doubtful. After all, the greatest power a comedy has is its ability to make us laugh. That is, in itself, enough for me.

So what makes us think we can make a movie? Modern technology has made a LOT of things possible. For me,

 THE REASON  is another indie movie–a horror film called 5 Across The Eyes. This movie was so BAD, so AWFUL, that I had a revelation: if these people could make and market a movie I could check out in my local Hollywood Video, well…wait a minute! I can do that! And better! After/if you read my review of this steaming pile, you might think I’ve been a little harsh, considering what I’m working on myself. So go ahead: rent it. THEN tell me if I was “too harsh” or not.

In a way, movie-making is in my blood. My cousin is a big-name actor (Ed Harris), and my brother has played a couple small roles when we were living in Orlando. Okay, so that doesn’t exactly make me Hollywood royalty…I suppose the real reason I never considered doing it before was simply that movie-making always seemed like something that had to cost millions and required a diploma from a film school–neither of which I have. That’s where technology comes in. Affordable digital video cameras have brought movie-making to the masses in the same way that digital recording technology has made it possible for musicians to make an album in their living rooms. 

The main thing you have to have in order to get your ideas across in a movie is a good story. Since I consider myself a fairly competent storyteller, I figure I have a shot. I guess I COULD run to Ed and beg his help, but I’d rather send him a finished product and say: “Whaddya think, cuz?” Otherwise, I’m really just a pathetic name-dropper and since I respect what he has accomplished…well, this is the better way.

As for moving people, the old adage “a picture is worth a thousand words” may or may not be correct. I think a good movie is made better by a great story…so my “secret weapon” is to start with a great script. BTW, I’m working on a software review of Celtx version 2.0.2 but if you don’t want to wait around, let me just say this: Celtx is an incredibly versatile, easy-to-use scriptwriting program with templates for movies, comic books, stage plays, etc. If you want to get into screenwriting, download the free version and give it a go.

Well, wish us luck. We’re going to need it.  

 

DISTRICT 9 Hits The Mark

It feels like this summer is turning out to be the Summer of Movies. First off, I’ve been working on two movies of my own: the first is THE LOST IDOL OF AMUN-RA, a take-off on 1950’s sci-fi serials. I’m directing and acting in this one (well, I agreed to play a bit part: the powerful metal juggernaut known as “Robot”); the screenplay is being (mostly)written by David Lusk, with the main character (Russian Archaeologist, Professor Ecaterina Vodka) played by Judy Nicole Kirby. The second film is as-yet unnamed: a zombie movie set in a small southern town consumed by a decaying economy and brain-eating drug addiction. I’m writing and co-directing this one, with my brother Brad, and Eric Cekala is handling the cinematography. We’ve formed a production company to handle the zombie movie and a host of other projects that I’m really excited about. I’m most proud of the production company itself, and I’m working on a longer post that describes how this came to be and who is involved.

It’s also turning out to be a pretty decent year for film in general. Last week, my brother and I went to see Peter Jackson’s DISTRICT 9 tonight…and we were both blown away by the incredible special effects and the engaging plot.

DISTRICT 9 hits the mark as a great science fiction movie for several reasons–not the least of which is that it has a well-developed alien race, perjoritively called ”Prawns” by their human “hosts” in barely-racially integrated J’Burg, South Africa, where the movie is set. The Prawns are an insect-like race that are found caged and dying in a huge spacecraft that floats motionlessly above the large African metropolis. They speak a language composed of mandible clicks and odd chittering sounds. The movie combines this fictional alien language with Afrikaans, English and a smattering of Nigerian. Jackson has had considerable experience with integrating complex fictional languages into his movies. The Lord of the Rings–Jackson’s opus–utilized J.R.R. Tolkien’s finely-crafted (but ersatz) Elvish.

Though a bit heavy-handed with some of the morality issues (setting the film in South Africa, for instance, feels as if it were done solely to make a point about racism, as was some of the dialog–added apparently just so NO ONE could miss this point), the movie was a great sci-fi film.

A LONG HOTT SUMMER

OHMYGODIT’SLABORDAY…!

So…why does that get an ALL CAPS TITLE..? Is it because, as a left-leaning, liberal writer, a holiday that celebrates the Common Man(tm) in all his Dickies-n-combat boots-wearin’, Neil Young-listenin’, Pabst Blue Ribbon sippin’, backyard BBQ-in’, blue collar-laborin’ is naturally my favorite holiday? Err…No. Is it that whole business of wearing white before/during/after Labor Day? Huh? No. What it MEANS is that I have two weeks (roughly) until my birthday.

And THAT means that I have two weeks to finish my novel, An Evening Everlong. I can tell you are totally excited. Well, that’s great for you. For me, it means I have to work harder than I’ve ever worked in my entire life. And its already been a LONG, HOT SUMMER. Hot with two-T’s, to be exact.

Not that I’ve talked about it, but I think the “long” and “hot” part of this summer MIGHT have a little something to do with the fact that I MAY have (MAY, I say) involved myself in more projects than I can realistically work on, much less accomplish, before the wintry snows of laziness set in. You see, in addition to making a solemn vow to finish this novel by my birthday, I’m also already involved in making not one but TWO films that are in varying degrees of progress. The first one is a take-off on 1950’s sci-fi movies called The Lost Idol of Amun-Ra. It was written (for the most part, though I did contribute a dab here and there) by David Lusk. I’m directing. The second one is a zombie movie, the name of which (as of right now) is “Arise”..though this is only a working title. I’m writing the screenplay and co-directing that one.

All of this pretty much means that I am feeling very punch-drunk and am likely legally insane…like I said, its been a long, hott summer. Be that as it may, the pressure is having an unexpected side-effect: I’m really starting to ACCOMPLISH STUFF!

Last night I watched the incredible film loudQUIETloud which is a documentary about The Pixies. It’s also a great description of the volume of the voices in my head. The last music-related documentary I watched was about Joy Division, which left me in a deep depressive funk for a day or ten after seeing it. So I was a little hesitant when I found this one on SilverScreen.com…after all, with all this stuff going on, I just don’t have time for a good old-fashioned deep depression. Or even a moderately shallow one. And though the bands in question are very different from each other, I did discover them around the same time…1988 or thereabouts. But while Joy Division still has the capacity to make me pensive at the happiest and downright down-in-it sad at worst, The Pixies have always had some sonic alchemy capable of making me smile no matter what. They are my official Kidney Stone Music, though I haven’t tested whether Francis Black and Company can make me grin as I’m screaming for morphine, yet. Hopefully I won’t actually have to test that one.

Anyway, I’m thinking that maybe I need to relax a bit. Flying saucers and brain-eating zombies will still be around, threatening my weird world, no matter the season. If the Pixies have taught me anything about life, it’s that you need to take the time to listen…to REALLY LISTEN. The Devil–after all–is always is the details.

Anyway, it has also struck me that if I started posting more about my life and less about what pisses me off on TV, EVIL ROBOTS might actually turn into the blog it was supposed to be in the first place…that is, about science fiction and writing and filmmaking and such. I’ve excused this lapse on my part by saying (to myself): “I’m living that part of my life, so I don’t need to write about it.” But it has been suggested to me by a friend recently that many people who DON’T write science fiction, make indie films, and basically live the life of a Geek Demigod might find things I consider really quite boring to be interesting, while most people agree that Jon and Kate Plus 8 and other such reality nonsense is in fact a large steaming turd, and don’t need ME to remind them of it.

So I apologize. I will try to bore you with more news of the EXCITING, SEXY life of a 30-something divorced SCI FI WRITER and LESS by telling you why I hate Wal-Mart and reality TV.

So get ready to suck down the EXCITEMENT people. YEAH!

Oh, yeah: about the two-T’s in HOTT…I’m also co-writing the male perspective on the new blog, XSEX. When you stop laughing, head on over to http://xsex.wordpress.com and check it out. IF you are over 18 of course. I know, I know. WHY haven’t I been writing about my incredibly HOTT SEX LIFE before now..? I was too busy living it, baby.

Bustah Ain’t Afraida No Ghosts

There is a certain amount of freedom in being a dog. My dog, to be specific. Bustah is a 3-year old Boston Terrier I acquired from a NASA scientist who had just had a baby and was apparently concerned the dog might mistake the child for a tater tot. Though I have grown to love Bustah despite his eccentricities, I really wish his former owner had been clear about the fact that he is actually an alien. I’m still not sure if all NASA employees are involved in some kind of alien adoption program; all I’m saying is, it would have been nice to know.

(ssshh. he’s looking right at me. I think he knows I know.)

Alien or Earth-born canine, I envy dogs their freedom from fear. Oh, Bustah might fear common things…like bees or former President Bush. Or the fact that everyone who comes to visit me might not LIKE being peed on. And therefore I might have to scold or even spank him from time-to-time. Or maybe he fears ticks. I’m not particularly fond of them either. But dogs have no fear of death. Actually, I don’t even think they are aware of death even when they are themselves dying. And that’s an amazing thing, to me.

When I was 11, a neighbor’s 4-year old child was run over by a truck. Curious, I asked my parents if I could accompany them to the funeral home. I suppose my mother wasn’t real comfortable with the idea, but maybe they figured it was time I learned about mortality. In any case, I went…and the experience changed me forever. The neighbors were from a different part of the country, and of a different ethnicity, so the way they dealt with this overwhelming loss was very different from the customs of my own family. The boy’s mother took me by the arm and–at least this is how I remember it–dragged me up to the coffin. I wasn’t sure what she was trying to do, and I think it may have crossed my childish mind that she was going to make me lie down next to him. I know that’s horrible, but give me a break. I was 11. Of course, I’m sure she had no idea that I was struck dumb with fear and dread and would have gladly chopped my arm off to get away from her. In her mind, she wanted to share her loss with me, and probably she wanted to show me that there was nothing to fear.

I remember looking down at that boy in the box, dressed in Wrangler jeans and a western-style shirt, with his arms around a Fozzie the Bear doll that had been laid in the casket with him. I was overcome with fear. I have never gotten over that fear…and it’s doubtful I ever will.

Bustah, on the other hand, knows no fear. Whether due to his alien psychiatric make-up or just because he is a Boston Terrier, it doesn’t much matter. He lives his life free from worry about when it will come to a close. That seems to me to be a very precious thing.

Of course, I could be wrong. Maybe Bustah just knows something I don’t. Maybe he realizes that when it’s his time to go, a big UFO will beam him aboard and he’ll return to Planet Snoop Dogg. Who knows? But it occurs to me that being more like Bustah is a good thing. Every meal is a feast, every walk a vacation, every poodle his sniffs is the love of his life. And that sounds pretty good to me. Well, everything except the poodle part.

Sexy Machine

DEVIANTS Part 1: Having Sex with Half-Elves and Helicopters

            Reay Tannahill—in her interesting and informative book Sex in History—gives readers an overview of human sexuality from our primitive prehistory paternity, down through the rise of the first great ancient societies to modern gender roles and pornography. But, as with all histories that attempt to cover countless generations of human society, Tannahill couldn’t (and didn’t) detail every dot, dash, footnote and freak. But reading between the lines, the oddities of the past make sweet love to the present…and approximately 9 months into the future you get a brand-spanking new generation of strange bedfellows.

            In other words, there is nothing new under the sun. No new perversion, sexual deviance, sex position or fetish is likely to be much of a surprise when you consider the length of a man’s…history. Having just finished re-reading Tannahill’s book (and the much-less randy Food in History), I was in an introspective frame of mind on the subject when I happened on an odd documentary on QSS.com.

            Take, for instance, Edward Smith of Yelm, Washington.

            Eddie owns a 1974 Volkswagen Beetle. But it’s not for transportation. Oh, no. “Vanilla” (as Ed calls her) is his girlfriend. And this is definitely a friendship with benefits.

            “[Vanilla] is a sexy, sensuous name,” Ed tells a documentary filmmaker. “Almost every inch of her body is a thing of beauty.”

            And though I should be asking WHY and HOW (exactly) this man makes sweet love to his Volkswagen, the thought that keeps interrupting these more practical questions is: what part of “her” body isn’t a thing of beauty..?

            My best guess is the license plate. I try to picture this gnome-like man getting it on with Vanilla’s chrome-plated tailpipe. Then he looks down, maybe gives Vanilla’s German rump a playful slap, and sees…the tag. It expired last month! And maybe—just maybe—that realization would intrude on Ed’s fantasy enough so that reality hits him in the face like a squirt of 40-weight motor oil:

            “What am I doing?” I imagine Ed asking himself, suddenly ashamed. “I’m sticking my dingus into my car. I think I may need professional advice—and not from a mechanic.”

            But the truth is, Ed doesn’t see anything wrong with the love he feels for Vanilla.

            “She’s my lover,” he says, proudly. “And I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that.”

            Ed even writes love poems to his car:

            Vanilla Beetle of 74

            Your creamy body I adore

            Flesh and metal, overwhelm

            Man and Car become one

            (…)

            Where my sun sets, freed

            From the light of day and dark

            I leave my loving seed.

             The documentary then shows Ed walking his dog, and you can see the relief in the dog’s eyes. It doesn’t take a K9 psychologist to figure out what Ed’s dog is thinking:

            “Thank God he doesn’t like Schnauzers.”

 The documentary interviews another man who has an even weirder sexual fetish—if you can believe that. This guy has an obsessive sexual desire for the souped-up helicopter of the 80’s TV show Airwolf.

            He followed air shows like hippies followed the Grateful Dead, going anywhere the object of his desire was on display. Apparently he managed a few moments of alone-time with Airwolf at one of these shows:

            “I just couldn’t hold back,” he admits.

            When he heard that Airwolf suffered severe injuries in a crash, his grief was nearly overwhelming. Just talking about it to the documentary filmmaker (presumably years later) was enough to make him emotional all over again.

             It’s a little easier to understand when the object of obsession is a human being, however. But what if it’s a half-elf like Bjork? Her stalker, who painted his face up like Mel Gibson in Braveheart and recorded a strange, rambling video diary before committing suicide, left some clues about his odd desires:

            “Today I searched the Internet for obsessive details on Bjork. I want to fuck her. Which I suppose means that I’m some kind of Neanderthal. I’m not supposed to admit infatuation (lust) when it’s attached to someone as “vital” an artist as she is. But I can’t help it. Like all geeks, my darkest fantasy (besides jackbooted world domination) is sexual relations with an elf. And Bjork, despite that horrid song “Human Behavior” is quite obviously not human. I will leave the exact nomenclature of her fey race to the type of experts who speak Klingon and write poems in Tolkien’s Quenya.”

 Now, this guy is FUNNY.