I have come to a realization in my early middle age: I can no longer advocate suicide. I know I'm going out on a limb here, but I just can't do it any longer. Not that I'm going to try and talk you out of it if you're committed to doing it; but I have a feeling if you really want to do it you don't let anyone know about it, you just do it. That is one of the main reasons I can't vote in favor of the deed when the subject comes up, it's rarely a genuine discussion and I don't have that kind of free time. People that talk about killing themselves are looking for some kind of response, but usually they aren't completely resigned to the idea of taking their own lives. A cry for help, attention, whatever you want to call it, they are hurting, confused, distraught; but thankfully few of them have finalized a plan to off themselves. So maybe I will try to talk you out of it, but probably I'm going to try and talk you into letting out some of what is eating away at you that you would even mention such a ghastly proposition.

A few months back someone I knew died of an overdose. I know his cousin Isabel and his Mom, but Victor and I were passing acquaintances at best. He was a groomsman in two weddings that I attended, and I used to see him around occasionally, but the only actual conversation we ever had that I can remember started with him explaining some scam he knew how to work trading cheap new videos at the movie store and ended with him showing me a bag of weed he had. He was particularly proud of it, and I sniffed it, and eyed it, and had to agree it was indeed a fine bag of weed. As time went on every time I saw Victor he looked worse than the last. I would hear about 'hereditary stomach ailment' this, and 'partying too much' that, and I was inclined to believe the latter although there really would be no way to tell. If you keep waking up vomiting because of some affliction; basic survival instinct would prompt you to stop ingesting strange and wonderful recreational pharmaceuticals long enough to find out what was wrong with you. Maybe that's just me, but that is all the advice I could offer Isabel when she mentioned that his doctor could not figure out how to help him. "Tell him to stop getting high long enough that they can find out what is wrong with him."

"Yeah, right", she would answer back, I assumed that meant everyone had already tried the obvious approach.

Now is a good time to mention that Victor's Mother and Father were quite fond of prescription meds, some with their names on them and some probably not. His Father Wesley had the mysterious stomach ailment along with degenerate arthritis and some persistent injury that he received disability for, although this weakened, handicapped condition didn't keep him from smacking his wife around from time to time. Nor did it inhibit his desire for weed, crack, and all manner of unprescribed uses of prescription meds. Nick's Mom Layla was on tranqs and I don't know what else, I believe she started on them innocently enough with the "battered wife syndrome" and all; she just happened to get one of those overly accommodating doctors. I can honestly say that in the years that I have known her I don't think I've ever seen her completely sober. Sometimes manic and loud, sometimes bleary-eyed and nearly falling over, sometimes reeeeally close to normal acting, but just not, y'know?

So Victor came by his pill-popping proclivity honestly, as they say here in the country; he learned it at home. People tell me that he was a good student, with scholarship offers and all that jazz -- until his senior year in high school. No alcohol, no weed, nothing. Then, well then he started doing a little escaping on the side. I don't know how much of the violence he witnessed, but I do know that he, his sister, and his Mother were constantly moving in and out of his Father's place. Nobody could get along with Wesley for long. However his partying habit started, Victor slid out of contention for any paid university attendance, but he did graduate from high school. He moved out, back in, out, in, and was planning to move in with his Grandmother to get his life together (or at least get some peace and quiet) when he died.

Like I said, nobody could get along with Wesley for long, Victor's younger sister had moved in with relatives some time before and his Mom moved in and out almost weekly, but Victor found a way to get along with him: They started getting high together. They had access to a stockpile of meds, and weed, coke, crack, and alcohol are never hard to come by, so they bonded. I'm not sure how sad it is for a 40-something-year-old man to be hanging out with 20-year-olds, but that is what went on. That particular February Sunday they were at a friend of Victor's house, listening to music, playing video games, smoking, drinking, eating and snorting pills. The two of them headed home, (God knows which was driving), and when they got home Victor crashed. For some reason, around 4 a.m. Layla checked on him and he wasn't breathing right, so she woke him and called 911. Being 20 years old allows you a lot of things, one of them is the right to refuse the services of your friendly neighborhood paramedics, and all the responsibility that goes with exercising that right. Whether he thought he was going to get into legal trouble if he went to the hospital, or he was belligerent and disagreeable as severely intoxicated people usually are,or if he had intentionally taken lethal amounts of painkillers; Victor killed himself that night when he refused to take that ride to the hospital.

Around 8 a.m. Layla found Victor not breathing, and this time he was in no condition to refuse the paramedics that carried him out of his family home. But he was gone. They tubed and wired him up, and for three days people prayed and cried and hoped and misquoted what doctors had said, and on Friday they signed off on donating what organs weren't too polluted and/or destroyed to be used, and Layla fell to pieces. I found a picture of Victor from the last wedding, and I superimposed it with one from another occasion and had it printed, got a frame and had someone take it to her for me. It was all I could do, I couldn't attend the funeral, I expected a lot of drama that I was not willing to be a part of, stuff involving Wesley the piece of human garbage and the likelihood of his making a scene. Not just that, there were people that I couldn't face seeing, I'm a wimp but I just didn't think I could take that much guilt on parade.

I related this story because I sincerely think that Victor was in very bad shape emotionally, and it makes no difference to me whether he was consciously suicidal at the time. This was debated often over the days that he was physically still alive, and probably still is amongst the family, but I don't see that there is any line there. He was unhappy enough being himself that he spent every waking moment looking for a change of head, so even if he wasn't looking to stop living he was definitely looking to be somewhere else, someone else.

If you want to kill yourself, you will, I can't stop you. But if you have the slightest inkling that life might be worth living, I agree with you 100%; it really is. My life swerves from near-bliss to an ocean of shit and back but I will never deny that it has been a real adventure, and as hacked-up as the saying is, the journey is the reward. Just try doing something else. Get a puppy, get a divorce, get a new job, get a tutor or quit the class. The worst that could happen is better than not being around to see what happens. Don't think you have to settle for anything you've gotten yourself into, there are plenty of people with less going for them that have dug their way out, trust me.


Nothing is that bad.


Sudden Valley Ranch Archives

Posted by Richard Wallace at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

I'm not a photographer, but I do occasionally take a decent photograph. This is one of my favorites taken at an engagement party a couple of years ago. Daren being not so enthused about his evening.

Sudden Valley Ranch Archives

Posted by Richard Wallace at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

I'm getting old. So are you, so STFU, this is not free-for-all, it's a sensitive, endearing self-examination that really suffers when I can hear you mocking me. As I was saying; I'm getting old. I'm pushing 40, in the sense that I will be 40 in just under 3 years. In the more real sense of people only having the ammunition that you hand them, I will start telling people I'm 40 in 5, maybe 8 years. Or sooner, I don't know, I'm not really hung up on numbers, but damned if one thing isn't really chapping my ass (and affecting my vision). What brought on this little mini wahh wahh crybaby rant is that I have an eyebrow hair that is so long that it is bending down and getting stuck with the tip against my eyelid. Seriously, look; click it.

I was okay with gray hair on my head. I am just kinda starting to cultivate silvery winglets on the sides like Paulie Walnuts, although I first think of some comic book character from so long ago I don't know which comic or what sort of character he was, just that it looked kind of cool. Nick Fury? I was fine with white hairs popping up in my beard; I don't wear a mustache anymore, and like most men my age, the goatee thing was a little played for me a few years before the gray came in anyway. I even talked myself into pretending that I was okay with the one gray hair that sprang up in the, um, carpet. (We won't be talking about the devastation that wrought on my fragile self-esteem.)

Yeah, gray I'm over, but long, flowing eyebrows I'm really discombobulated by. You might can tell by the photo, (rather a difficult self-shot, and not one that I'm likely to employ a photog for); it's not the only one that is overgrown. I will be trimming them, I just have to, although I'm going to wait until tomorrow afternoon (when I'm off work for a couple of days); just in case I screw it up and need to get someone to even them out, or maybe I'll shave them and start a trend. It's just something I never saw coming, even though I've been mocking people with stupid eyebrows my entire ... Oh, Karma, and just as "My Name is Earl" starts on the telly. Spooky.

I, however, will not be one of those people that people like me mock behind their backs; "Can't he see that those things are going to catch a wind shear and throw him into traffic one of these days?" I will take a more studious look into the mirror in the mornings from now on, and tend to personal grooming that people might notice. Like big overgrown eyebrows that dwarves could live in. Or like the day last week that I missed shaving about a third of my face, I shit you not.

That's the way this 'getting old' crap compounds itself. You're getting old and stuff starts changing without notice, and this coincides with over 20 years of basically the same face looking back at you each morning. You don't really look at it with any real interest, no matter how handsome you think you are; you've seen it too many times before. You look up the nose as you turn off the trimmer, you look at the teeth and the tongue after you scrub them, look at the locks as you brush them into whatever wannabe Conan pomp you can manage, and then you turn off the light and get on your way. You're not exactly expecting anything new, in fact, that is the one good thing about your own face: predictability. That is, until this afternoon when I felt something crawling on my eye.

Why can't I even type the word 'predictability' without the words 'the milkman, the paperboy, even TV' droning through my skull? Damn you Dave Coulier!!


Richard will be measuring eyebrows at the Lion's Club this Thursday.


Sudden Valley Ranch Archives

Posted by Richard Wallace at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Things that amaze me. I am easily amused and amazed, so this is going to be another one of those instances where you might want to bang your head into a wall or take a hit of your drug of choice before you read it. Or skip it and go play online poker.

This thing (pictured) was once the best idea anyone could come up with for a two-wheeled, man-powered vehicle. It reminds me of a not famous person's famous quote that everything that could be invented already had been invented. This was before television, and long before pacemakers, microchips, and oral contraception. Chump. That kind of thinking is what is wrong with 99% of all science fiction books, tv shows, and movies. Granted, a lot of those simply use other worlds or the future as settings for traditional storytelling, so for whatever reason they don't use present day Earth; they aren't intended to predict technological advances so it doesn't matter much that they don't.

Then you have the so-called 'Hard Science Fiction', where they intend to confine themselves to the fictional physical laws they create, and then they don't if it conflicts with a plot point or they simply forget. Some things are must-give-aways; everyone in the Universe either speaks English, has a device to interpret one another instantaneously, or some sort of seventh or eighth sense that allows them to understand each other. I'm okay with that, I'm not likely to learn a new language some hack made up so that I can read his book, no matter how great anyone tells me it is. Time travel = worm holes, food = synthetic recreations with super-science nutrients, standing around upright = "artificial gravity"; a quick dismissal or quasi-scientific gobbledy-gook - they usually get over the big ones quickly or don't address them at all.

One thing I've never understood about science fiction is the numbering of planets. The supposition that other inhabitants of the Universe could be advanced to the point of travelling great distances through space, but would lack the imagination and the respect for their own homelands to name them instead of numbering them. You're telling me there is nothing special about this 50,000 mile wide planet you colonized to inspire any other name than "Glagnar 4"? What about 2 and 3? Are these planets even worth visiting, much less moving into (onto?) if they don't significantly affect the imagination to get a name of their own? I suppose it is to imply a massively crowded interstellar community, so thickly populated that all the good names are taken. Right. People say that about their Yahoo-id names too, so I guess I am beginning to understand after all.

Back to that friggin' bicycle, how could it possibly take so much thought to make the wheels similar in size, and especially, closer to the ground? Sure, you give up some speed, but that 'not falling to the ground from great heights' part had to be a motivator. Don't forget the 'being able to get on without a stepladder' part. Eventually, as we know, they trimmed that first wheel down and switched to rear-wheel chain-drive, but it certainly took long enough. Interestingly (I think), it was a pair of bicycle makers that first attained flight, so there were some progressive minds in the bike biz.

I guess my point is, I'm nothing like the patent office jerk that thought everything had already been invented. I tend to look backward and wonder what took so long for things that have been invented to get invented. I see limitless potential for creation, it just takes more imagination now than ever when there are the Chinese to compete with, and the dwindling number of items one can infuse with chipotle.


Richard is currently working on infusing the Chinese with chipotle.


Sudden Valley Ranch Archives

Posted by Richard Wallace at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

I've been watching too much television, and I've had a few thoughts I'd like to share.

If you think all batteries are the same, consider this. When Duracell's advertising company secures an endorsement from an entity, be it a mediocre has-been hair band from the 80s or some random medical rescue unit from Anytown USA; they usually include unlimited free batteries with the enormous check that they send. If you aren't paying for them you probably change your batteries pretty frequently, so you might be prone to forgetting that you aren't paying for them, or that they're just batteries. I wouldn't be surprised to find out, for example, that the crack rescue team uses Duracell batteries in their private lives, simply brainwashed by repetitively changing out the same brand of battery at work. I'm almost positive that Bon Jovi members are prohibited from getting caught using a different brand.

The recent peanut butter and deadly pet food contaminations has awakened a lot of people to what was a fairly open secret in the mass production world: There are fewer producers out there than we might think, especially compared to the number of brands on the shelf. This is how tainted Chinese wheat used in making pet food has affected dozens of kibble brands. Chances are, whatever the outside looks like; that battery you've purchased was made by one of three companies. Choosy Moms may choose Jif, but I prefer the store brand peanut butter, and Jif probably made it anyway. I explain it this way, you don't think Foodway grocery store has their own peanut butter factory, do you? The same goes for virtually everything with a generic equivalent on the shelf. The chain store pays the national brand to make them some with their label on it.

The differences can vary widely, however. The generic peanut butter is usually a lot less sugary and repugnant, which is why I prefer it. The batteries may not last as long, but then I haven't used disposable batteries in a long time. The rechargeables are always one night being plugged in away from me having fresh batteries for my Notapod, and I don't have to drive anywhere to get them. My point is, while the manufacturer may make slight changes in the process for the product they plan to compete with themselves with, if you can't eat it you're probably better off with the knock-off. Even then, if you need to save money for luxuries like gasoline, you might want to try some of the unbranded stuff. Dairy products in particular have little to no difference between the national brand and the local and store brands. This is because Kraft doesn't send cheese and sour cream across the country; they have their labeled products made by sub-contractors in most areas, which is also where the store brand products are coming from. The same goes for Borden and Daisy, etc. Granted, these products are made under their standards with all the inherent trade secrets and recipes strictly followed, but seriously, it's just a block of cheese, not fine Swiss hand grenades.

Also brought to my attention via tv, as I promised a few weeks back; we need to talk about Kathy Ireland and Cindy Crawford designing furniture. Why exactly Kathy and Cindy are somehow better qualified for furniture design than say me, or the homeless guy I step over to get into the airport; I don't know. I designed a table that looked better on paper than it did once it was built, but then I was never on the cover of the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue; what do I know about furniture design? Kathy keeps telling me how excited she is to be offering exciting solutions for exciting families, especially exciting busy moms. I find this more silly than condescending, you might take it differently, probably depending on how busy you are when shopping for furniture. Kathy has taken a more hands-on, "I'm really involved with this" approach than Cindy, whom has aligned herself with Rooms To Go, a national chain. As long as the checks clear, I'm guessing, although there are a few "I really like designing furniture" interviews with Cindy out there, so one might never know for sure. Exciting indeed.

I see a lot of young female persons, teens to twenty-somethings, wearing shirts and hoodies from this god-awful retailer named Abercrombie & Fitch. I know this because that name, or a stylized "A & F" appears in large print somewhere on all of the clothes.
I walk by the A & F retailer at the local mall, and within twenty feet of the place I can feel myself becoming a gay man, NTTAWWT. The worst, if there is such a thing, the absolute worst 'dootcha dootcha dootcha' gay nightclub music is blaring across the walkway, rattling the sunglasses right off the kiosk fifty feet away. The lighting is set at a club-like 'anonymous hand-job under the table' level, and there are posters of shirtless guys grinning and leaning on each other. I don't want to come off as a lawn-chasing old geezer, so I won't go into the fact that all this crap is made in Indonesian sweatshops very similar to the Indonesian sweatshops that produce all the other brands of clothing sold in this country, much less that the advertising is entirely about image and doesn't even feature the products. What I would like someone to explain to me, in simple words that even I can understand, is how this whole thing works. Why are presumably straight women outfitting themselves in a clothing line that seems to be marketed solely to well-adjusted, fun-loving gay men that don't even wear shirts? It just doesn't make any sense to me, and I wore both bell-bottoms and acid wash jeans in the same lifetime.

If you think all batteries are the same; you might be right.

Richard keeps going, and going, and going, and going, and going...

Sudden Valley Ranch Archives

Posted by Richard Wallace at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

I have two birthdays, although I get a lot more stuff for one than the other. It isn't one of those situations where my birthday is really close to XMAS so my family gave me a different birthday celebration in the Summer, although that would have been sweet; mid-November birthdays makes for weak holiday offerings. My extra birthday comes from that 'first day of the rest of my life' when I stopped drinking. Or maybe it is the last day I had a drink, A.A. is a bureaucratic organization with a lot of complicated rules. Whichever the rule is, I consider January 9, 1999 my sobriety date. It kinda sorta counts either way, because I was up past midnight drinking on the 8th, so like, whatever. I know I reported to my probation officer's office the morning of the 9th to be bussed to a 30 day re-education center upstate somewhere, and the rest is history. Well, not historical, but my history at any rate.

I'm not one of those people that had to go to rehab to realize a bunch of life-changing things and then lived happily, soberly ever after because of the fine learnings I got done to me there. Neither do I want to detract from the experience, I'm pretty sure that I needed the head start that only a 30-day lock-down could provide. Not to be confused with the 33-day lock-down from 5 years earlier that didn't take. It was a combination of the sequestering and my interest in change that made my last stint in recovery camp the one that worked. So far. I knew that I wanted to stopbefore I went, so I think that had more to do with what happened than any of the State-approved psychobabble that went on there.

My drinking was only problematic sporadically on the outside, but internally, psychologically; I hadn't enjoyed it for many years. Drinking was a character trait, a hobby, it was something that I did. I was an automaton, a drinking machine, drunk, on my way towards drunk, or thinking about when I would next be able to do so. At the end of the day, a reward for a job well-endured, and on weekends, well, how else do you celebrate another work-week survived? I would have lucid moments when I would contemplate what I was doing to myself for a moment before chugalugging my way to relief. I would say to myself, "Self, what do you hope to achieve in life if you continue slowly killing yourself with this shit? You're not wealthy or famous, you can't buy a new liver when the time comes that you realize how much life has to offer but you've trashed your earthly vessel beyond repair." And then the moment would be gone, and I would be on my way to the warmth of Fuzzytown.

As I mentioned, outwardly I wasn't too bad off, but people that were around me would pick up on things. I was never this bad or that bad or however bad in whatever way would have convinced me, but in the time I've been sober I've seen people like I was. Not exactly a flashing neon sign floating above their heads, but easy enough to see if you know what you're looking for, if you've seen it before. I always shaved and primped and suited up, but there were some things that even the emotionally stunted drunkard that was me knew others could see. Bleary eyes that squinted at bright lights might have been the most obvious, but, well, have you ever seen "Fried Green Tomatoes"? There is a scene where she serves the one old drunk a plate of food, and he can't stop shaking long enough to raise a fork to his face, and she takes him out back, and she gives him a pint of liquor, and he gives her a beaten dog look and takes it, slugs down a gulp. That's the stage of physical dependence most people don't get near, but I got there. I would sometimes go all day without eating because I either couldn't keep anything down, or there were too many people around that might see me shaking when I tried to eat. Once safely concealed in my home, I would tip back 24-36 ounces and normal hunger and hand-control would return. It's okay for you to think that's really sad, I had to be convinced of that before I could move on.

In the years that I spent going to A.A. meetings, I would learn a lot of well-worn sayings to describe why I had continued to drink myself unconscious on a daily basis. Some of them were even true of me, although you're discouraged from noting flaws in the 'one-plight-fits-all' theory, your results may vary. I never set out to quit A.A., I just took a job that started way too early to be up that late listening to the same stories coming out of different faces. It was only after a few months of not thinking about drinking - on purpose for an hour or two every week - that I realized that I was a much happier sober person without going to meetings, your results may vary. Much the same as the easy sobriety of being locked up for 30 days gave me a much needed head start on living in the real world without drinking; I really needed the camaraderie of A.A. those first three years, and I don't think I would have lasted without it. But there is a time and a place for everything, and once I realized that; I stopped feeling guilty about not attending meetings anymore. Not that I've sworn it off, I would like to give back to the community, but not right now. Right now life is pretty good the way it is.

In closing, Happy Birthday FTTW!!

Sudden Valley Ranch Archives

Posted by Richard Wallace at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (6) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Here in the Great State of North Carolina we have the lottery, after many years of fervent debate. It only took some slightly illegal finagling and we got scratch 'n toss tickets last year. We've been a member of Powerball for some number of months, I couldn't really tell you, but we've already had a winner or two. A lot of people consider playing the lottery a tax on the stupid, but I'm not so sure. Like so many things in life, it isn't that clear cut. For me, it depends on how you go about it, what your intentions are when you make your purchase. Just for the record, I purchased 5 $1 scratch-off tickets the week the thing started. I did this simply so I could tell people that I played, was completely and utterly thrilled by the experience, and have now retired as nobody should enjoy anything that much. I have yet to take my chances on the big money of the Powerball, but I'm pretty sure that's where my fortune lies. I think I'll get a feeling about it the week I'm supposed to play, so I'm just wasting my money on food and shelter and such for now.

As I started to type a minute ago, it depends on what you think you're doing if it's really a tax on your stupidity or not. I see people buy the scratchie tickets with a top prize of $10,000, (or whatever it is, can't be much more than that), and I wonder what exactly they could be thinking. Here in NC it is called the 'Education Lottery', like a lot of other states, the proceeds beyond maintaining the process and doling out the winnings are supposedly going to our public school system. So, if you throw money into the cheap thrill of a possible big payday, knowing there is little chance you are going to win, you can console yourself (or justify the expenditure) with the fact that it is helping fund our educational system. If enough people play, perhaps the next generation will be smart enough to not play the lottery. That would be waaay cool ironic, for the lottery to go out of business because its very reason for existence had made it obsolete. Mission Accomplished.

Let me try one more time to make that point about intentions and stupidity. If I, myself, were to purchase a lottery ticket for the implied educational benefit and the cheap thrill of a few moments imaginings - I'm gonna be playing Powerball. Throwing away a dollar to imagine winning 10 grand won't fill my thrills; I want to dream of never going back to work, telling them to donate my last paycheck to somewhere the sun doesn't shine. So when I see people contributing a dollar to scratchitz, where the top prize is 2 or 3 figures less than the Lotto, I just don't get it. I couldn't even take time off from work for 10k, well maybe a week or three. I think these people are trying to be clever, which is where the tax on stupidity comes in. If you think your odds are a lot better of winning the smaller scratchetty prize, you are mathematically correct, but you're also kind of stupid. Once you've put that much thought into it you aren't thrill-seeking, you're gambling. Not just gambling, which can be a fine art; but blind luck gambling, suckling at the teat of better odds and getting nothing but air. And that's the point I think I wanted to make. If you play the lottery as if it's gambling - you're an idiot. If you think of it as any other raffle-type deal, a donation to a cause for a random chance dream that won't come true; you might still be an idiot, but not because of that.

The great debate that kept NC from having a lottery for many years was that a lot of people consider gambling immoral and, of course, a tax on the stupid. Gambling can be a beautiful thing, but true gambling shouldn't be lumped in with random draw crap like scratcheez and Powerball. Gambling is poker, black-jack, dog and horse racing, professional wrestling. Risking your hard-earned kablinky thinking, hoping, praying that you have the edge over your opponent. True gambling involves some level of skill with all the luck, but neither of the lottery games has that. If you think that you are playing the lottery skillfully, well, here's your sign shirt.

Just to give you a little insight into how that tiny fragment that functions as my mind works, what got me thinking about the lottery was the introduction of a new, improved, better odds, $20 ticket game here in NC. I can't make this stuff up; if I could I'd have a book deal by now.

Sudden Valley Ranch Archives

Posted by Richard Wallace at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (3) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Hi, my name is Richard and I'm an alcoholic. (You all shout out "Hi, Richard". Really, that's how they do it, pretty queer, I know. Queer = odd, that is.) That's enough for the honesty, everything in moderation is the key. Honesty shouldn't be surprised, he is a lonely word because he makes all the other words miserable. (I know honesty is a he because it is so insufferable, if it were female it would let up every now and then until you let your guard down before going back to burrowing under your skin. Honesty is too stubborn for that, very male.)

Can you imagine a world where everyone was honest, all the time? Unpossible, we'd never survive as a species.
Do these jeans make me look fat? No, the fat in your thighs and ass makes you look fat.
Do you think I should go for that promotion? Do you think I could beat out that idiot Caruthers?Sure , honey, but if your luck is going to change that dramatically shouldn't you just buy lottery tickets?

Luckily, for the sake of society at large, honesty has its metaphorical traits beyond gender. Honesty has the loyalty of a dog, and is almost as easily fooled. You can spin a lot of fiction into fact with a few well chosen words, as long as they are true; honesty will always be at your side, with its tongue hanging out. The most important thing to remember about honesty is that what you don't share, skillful omission, is not untruthful. Playing on what assumptions people fill those missing details with is the most fun you can have with honesty on your team.

Here on the inner tubes there is an anonymity that extends as far as any two parties allow, you will only get to know and get to be known to the extent that both parties are willing, limited only by your ability tap keys or install a voice-recognition program. You couldn't very well pretend to speak a language that you don't, not for very long, translators just don't work that way. But other than a shared language, there are really no limits on how you represent yourself to other, equally equipped perfect strangers. This is the point at which honesty can be a helpful tool in getting to know people from all around the world, and letting them get to know you. You can share experiences, hopes, and dreams with like-minded individuals, forging strong bonds across the globe.

But that isn't always what goes on, as you might have noticed by all the incredibly busy important people you have met that seem to have a lot of free time to discuss the intricacies of "Firefly". Most of these people are just liars, and they have no problem with honesty, for they have never crossed paths with him. But some of these folks are well-acquainted with honesty, and keep him as a pet. Myself, I have carefully coddled honesty, nurturing his view of me in the black-on-white world of internet chatter.

I have never been shy when people ask me what I do, honesty is my only excuse, dear reader. It is so much easier than remembering elaborate lies that you have told to try and get people to admire you, envy you. I own my own business, and I am the industry leader in my community. Just because the airport charges me rent as they technically "own" the shoeshine stand doesn't mean the business isn't mine. If I move my business to another airport I'll still use the same name, and I certainly had to pony up all the money for my box and all my different brushes, waxes, and shines. Likewise, while my apartment might technically be positioned beneath my parent's house, and might be termed by architects a basement; it's all mine, I have my own entrance and utility bill.

As you can see, there is no reason to leave honesty out of your life, just be sure that you are the one calling the shots. Completely honest doesn't, (and shouldn't), mean honestly complete. Complete and total honesty is brutal and ugly, nobody is paying for internet service and hardware to read the goings-on of a 37-year-old virgin.

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Posted by Richard Wallace at 6:04 AM | Permalink | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Geez, where do I start, or should I just declare complete and utter defeat and save myself a lot of grief? You might think that after all this time, with thousands of news sites running, there would be some factual oversight that would keep us opinionated basement dwellers from so consistently making asses of themselves. Not just yet, I'm afraid. Over the last ten days I have fallen for two, 2, (count 'em tee dubya oh) fake stories spreading around the interimnet. First there was the ham sandwich incident, which actually occurred, but the details got twisted and embellished. A few extra, never-having-happened details got thrown in, the whole thing mashed up and re-envisioned to the point of ensuing hilarity including, but not limited to, my issuance of the latest version of my anti-hate-crime rant. (Basically, when you take an actual crime and add special statutes and conditions that entail further penalties to the perpetrators because of how they feel about their victim, you have in effect infantalized the victim, simultaneously elevating the victim to a protected status that further alienates said victim and his/her special interest group from the rest of society. Laws are for governing behavior, not thought; intent is irrelevant.)

This wasn't too embarrassing, as I believed (and continue to believe) everything that I said, it's just that I over-reacted like a lot of people that I mock on a regular basis. It worked out pretty good that I blathered this froth and foam in a faux-conservative group that I lurk in, so nobody of consequence saw it, just a few Bushies that lately make me think of what a cross between Tweak and Butters might be like, personality-wise. That is, until I summarized it here for you, dear readers, but you see it's just a detail leading towards my impending resignation from the interimnet.

Slightly off-topic for a sec, why do so many of us think it is cute and unique to use euphemisms and dysphemisms for the word 'internet'? I've used 'interwebs', 'spiderwebs', 'info superpipe', et cetera, but my favorite, you may have noticed; is 'interimnet'. My reasoning is pretty straight forward, I see the faulty, overly-complex, user-unfriendly, half-assed constructs that are thrown together by global companies and I think to myself, "Self, this shit has got to be a first draft. Why would a company that is in business here in the twenty oughts still have a website that works as well as the average geocities hellhole? Why would said company have a faq filled with questions that nobody would ask, much less frequently, yet completely refuse to receive email just in case they missed one?" Okay, back on topic.

So, I get over my silly ranting over nothing, and I try to mind my own business. I try, but it's hard, y'know, when you sit here in the glare and some really stupid things go by and you don't say anything, you want to just look at some funny videos or hear some music, whatever; and then it happens. Someone buys a dead goat to display for the release party of their ultra-violent video game, and someone at some little tea and jam cramming British tabloid decides to make it look like an international incident. Not only that, someone in another group tries to tell you that it never happened because the first entry of the Google* search is a news parody site. That cranked me up a notch, first that it was a tabloid reporting it, with a pixelated picture from a magazine that was reportedly pulled from production, and now, 36 hours later the top search result is a user-edited spoof site's article that simply changed the location and dropped a few details. Plagiarizing actual news stories and passing them off as your own parody? Weak.

Unfortunately, I was unable to simply STFU and stay out of it, I had to answer back, somewhat smarmily, that the incident had occurred, it was spreading like cream cheese across the innertubes and had been for at least 30 hours before the 'spoof' site went live with their so-called parody. When I went back to try and track down what had really happened I was distressed to find out that every site that was discussing the story had gotten it from the tabloid. Not that they don't ever print factual articles, but when you have dozens of streams but only one original source it starts to look like the conspiracy theorists are right. And when you have sarcastically called them out it really sucks to go back and say, "Well, um, err, I don't know." But that's what I did, and it was probably a good thing. Granted, I still believe that everyone having a conniption over this event that isn't already a vegan/vegetarian should go on the Oscar Meyer tour before they offer their opinion, but it wasn't really necessary for me to be so outspoken about it. Wait, I think maybe I was totally right on that one, so I might have to take a mulligan, for doubting myself. Maybe I can stick around until we get the bugs worked out of this global pornography ring information superhighway after all.

*The Spoof is no longer the top result since Sony released their apology.

Sudden Valley Ranch Archives

Posted by Richard Wallace at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Once upon a few months ago, I was being perfectly normal and wanting to keep tabs on a lesbian I have a crush on that wasn't going to be working with me any longer, so I made a MySpace page. I added her as my only other friend than Tom and that was that, I continued to ignore the phenomenon that is awful music and louder graphics. Then, out of the blue someone personal messages me about whether I am me or some other me; I am the meest me there ever was, so I said yeah, it's me. (You can read that part back there at the link.)

I mentioned in that column that I would give the details if they were entertaining or sad, so here I am to do just that, you can be the judge of whether you are entertained or not. I got an answer back that we should talk on the phone, so I put it off a bit and then answered with my phone number. Eventually we got it together and I sat by the phone one Monday evening. I talked to Frazzle for about three hours, we talked about the jobs we'd had, the DWIs we had each collected, drugs, and people.

It was surreal, especially at first, hearing a voice I had once heard almost daily for about eight years straight for the first time in more than fifteen. It didn't take long before it was kind of normal, and then almost common as if it happened all the time. He had kept in touch with Frack, and had invited him to OtherState to stay with him when Frack was breaking up with his girlfriend and wanting to get as far from AnotherState as he could. Frack surprised him and
couch-surfed for a while and a just a decade and a few more personal (drugs) events later; they live across town from each other. I even got invited to Frazzle's 40th Birthday Bash in July. I don't know if I will be able to manage the trip cross country or the time off; but I will pop in the next time I visit my sister on the left coast.

Better still, through this reunion I have gotten back in touch with two of Frazzle's sisters, the one I dated and the one I always wished I had. I had messed around with his sister Anita for a bit 20 years ago, but I never 'sealed the deal' as it were. Eventually I became somewhat well known as the one guy that didn't, but in my defense she didn't become a come-sponge until at least a year after we were together. His sister Lisa I always had a bit of a thing for, but she's older than me by a few months and in teenaged-girl-years dating me would be like dating an infant. Later on I had my chance slip through my fingers at an Iron Maiden concert when she drunkenly abandoned my drunken gropings for some dufus Frazzle vaguely remembered from high school. She eventually married and had children with this dude, before divorcing him and discovering her taste for the clam.

(I have just begun taunting her about this in email conversations, as soon as she told me about the marriage and children. I was gentlemanly enough to tell her that if it weren't for him she might never have found her way on the path of Sappho, and that wouldn't have been fair to the little girl-lover in her heart. Y'know, 'cause, not bragging or anything, but I rock the house, and I definitely would have brought my "A game" that night to make her regret not doing it any sooner. And so she could tell her sister about it. Oh, since you weren't expecting it, I'll mention she has already asked if I mind that she wants to send a message to my hot lesbian friend.)

Seriously though, I feel like I missed out on a lot with my self-imposed exile. I had just simply had enough of the drama and drugs and I got out of Dodge without keeping any of the last minute scrawled addresses and phone numbers. It was something I felt I had to do, but getting back in touch makes it rather clear that I didn't have to be so extreme about it. I can't change any of it, but I will certainly never lose touch with anyone I really care about again. It's not that complicated to send a card on someone's birthday, or XMAS, or whatever; just so you are in contact, know where to reach one another. Then when you realize that you have something to say you don't have to sit and look through classmate stalker sites trying to find them.

Since this is an advice column, that is my advice, stay in touch. You don't have to see people all the time, talk to them all the time, even communicate at all, just touch base often enough so that you can when it becomes important.

Richard lives in a pineapple under the sea

Archives

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I somehow watched a full hour of Power Rangers Mystic Force this (past Saturday) morning. I'm not sure what caused this, I didn't plan it, but I've been sick and also on painkillers from my dentist, so I think I kind of zoned out. I'm actually pretty sure, it was about 20 after the hour when I realized it had come on after whatever else I was watching and I hadn't done anything about it.

Not that I have anything against kiddie shows, or superhero shows, or even cheesy costumes; I'm a fan of all three. I can watch an hour of "That's So Raven", although that is pushing my limit, I don't think I could take a third episode in a row. TSR is probably what ended and led me into PRMF, now that I think of it. Not probably, definitely; I just read the title of this post.

I have to give the producers credit, the Power Rangers have been around for a long time, and they have managed to change the format over a dozen times without changing the content all that much. I noticed much better production values since the early days when I first checked it out. They are limited in what they can show; they have to show battle scenes that are exciting and action-filled, all the while being sure to show that no one is seriously injured, including the bad guys. This requires a lot of explosions followed by people (or creachtures of some kind) flying through the air, and the requisite 'I'm Okay' sitting up and shaking their heads. "Yikes, what a whollop!" The choreography and camera work has got to be painstaking, it looked as good as the average Jackie Chan or Jet Li thing. The acting and script, unfortunately, were also as good as the average Jackie Chan or Jet Li thing.

This particular twofer of episodes was the last two of a several parter, something about a bad guy wishing that they had never become Power Rangers thus taking all the color and music from the world, enslaving Humanity, etc. The PRs ventured to some council of genie-wish-reversal-capable entities in red, black, and white flowing robes. One color each, they looked a bit like some nice chess pieces I used to have, other than there being three colors, of course. Oddly familiar, probably stolen from a forgotten film I've seen. They denied the request, leading to the episode where they, of course, reconsidered based on the determination of the PRs to continue fighting even without their magic. Gumption rewarded, ah the lessons we learn. I'm not really sure what happened after that but I'll venture a guess that it was all back to normal for the PRs. I won't know for sure since by the time they got their powers back I had realized I was watching the Power Rangers and found something else to do.

It reminded me a lot of pro wrestling, except without all the gay. NTTAWWT, I am very pro-gay rights, but that doesn't mean I want to watch thinly-to-not-veiled-at-all homo-erotic storylines featuring oily men in underpants and shiny boots beating on each other. It doesn't make it any more appealing that they have oily superbabes as well; I have access to porn. I'm actually a little skeeved out by the heavy-handed mixture of violence and sex, so maybe I'm not as jaded as I thought. I know a lot of folks enjoy the hokey storylines and the athleticism, and I remember watching in the mid-seventies, when I was in single digits, but I just don't have any interest now. I suppose there is something very masculine about watching what is basically a bad soap opera as long as there is 'whup-assing' going on, I just can't get into it. I'm comfortable with my manitudinousness enough to watch actual soap operas for my hokey storylines fix.Then again, Mexican soap operas offer horrendous acting and superbabes with the added bonus that I don't understand enough to feel bad that I don't care. And Mexican wrestling, well that's just downright entertaining, maybe I should rethink all of this.

I won't though.

Sudden Valley Ranch Archives

Posted by Richard Wallace at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (10) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Richard regrets that he must partially plagiarize an article from himself written a couple of years ago, but he's blanking and short on time. Next week, Kathy Ireland and Cindy Crawford, for now, please enjoy his ragging on Madonna.)

It is an interesting cultural anomaly, if that makes any sense, that anything you hear often enough becomes disbelieved by the masses. I understand the reasoning, most people are sheep, so if most people believe it then it probably isn't true; whatever it is just has a good publicist. The contradiction is rather obvious; most people are aware of what sheep most people are, and want to believe the opposite of what they think most people believe. ???? yep.

A labored, murky explanation to make the point that Madonna Louise Veronica Ciccone stopped being relevant at least 15 freakin' years ago, yet I hear about her views all the time. Even if every time her opinion is repeated the pseudo-journalist doing it has a smirk on its face, or perhaps because of that; somehow the idea that what she thinks means something seems to be spreading rather than simply inspiring gales of spiteful laughter. I'm well aware of her because she was famous when I was in high school, but what would a teenager know her for today? What she did to Don McLean's "American Pie"? I doubt it, they would likely think it had something to do with the 'American Pie' movies and have no idea who Don McLean is. I kid the kids, I realize that today's teenagers have access to old recordings, just as my friends and I were able to be Jimi Hendrix fans even though we were in diapers when he died. I'm just curious how her opinion gets press, but Billy Idol's does not.

Seriously, he's a good match, let's use him for comparison. They both put out two or three well-selling records, a few videos in heavy rotation on the old school MTV, a few photographers assaulted, etc. They had very similar career arcs, it's just that his ended rather abruptly and she sort of faded away, almost. Yet somehow, I don't have any idea how Idol raises his children, or even if he has any, geez I don't even know his position on gay marriage! I never hear from Hammer or the respective members of Bananarama, now that I think about it. Curious.

It's a fact that famous people rarely have to keep the same quality in their product once they have an established fanbase, especially musicians. The Rolling Stones have put out many albums since their last good one, but there are a lot of people that simply buy each one that comes out with no questions asked. I don't begrudge them or Madge continuing to ply their trade, but really; no one is asking Mick about how he raised his children, nor would anyone listen. Is every day a slow news day? The fact that Madge doesn't let her children watch television having been presented to me by no less than 5 different sources suggests that this may be the case. Yes, it is cute that a media whore is shielding her children from what made their opulent lifestyle possible. Yes, I understand the contradiction; it's still not news. Kabbalah? If Kabbalah were a dude he would be telling you he never met her, he wasn't even at the club that night, and she must have been pretty drunk to think they were ever together. A writer of children's books, hmmm, perhaps the name that gets the ghost-writer published is a little more like it. Much like her later music that is really some hard-working technobop musicians without enough clout to get record contracts of their own, joining their creations with her breathy squawk.

I was never a huge Madonna fan, she was ubiquitous, very much the Britney Spears of her day; you would learn the words to her songs by simply being a member of American society. Eventually the day came that "Borderline" was plink-plinking across the neighborhood grocery store's Muzak system. You couldn't watch television without hearing about her and her husband's latest antics, and the mocking of her movies was limitless. Not that I dislike her early work, I will let the radio stay put when the 80s weekend people put on one of her tracks, but that's beside the point. I am removed enough to say that once and for all we should stop hearing her name. It is a well-worn, disingenuous tool of the media to mention someone's opinion just to attach controversy, whether pointing out how relevant the opinion or the person is or not. Obviously, they see some value in dropping a name, even if to mock the opinion. (Yes, if I got paid to do this I would be just as guilty, I'm writing this as a public service, smart aleck.)

The point is, she was never known as an intellectual heavyweight by any means, so it isn't her reputation as a great thinker of thoughts that is getting her so much press. That leaves only her fame to legitimize her claim on relevance. Well, her last good record came out in 1989, and Dick Tracy was 1990. Even though her tepid, sophomoric, (and over-priced) 'Let's antagonize the blue noses' tome "SEX" came out in 1992; that didn't make her opinion worthwhile. She has been irrelevant for at least 15 years, let's stop talking about her at all. Just because she continues to sell a few records shouldn't be reason to still consider her famous. AND, if being famous for being famous meant your opinion mattered we would be hearing a lot more from Ms. Hilton and her ilk. If that were the case, I would then in turn be forced to drive walk to Pennsylvania and find some Mennonites to adopt me. Again, yes, I get that I have gone on at great length decrying her value as a subject of discourse, it's not ironic. Much.

Richard thought an 'anomaly' was an invertebrate sea creature until a few minutes ago, thanks dictionary dot com!

Sudden Valley Ranch Archives

Posted by Richard Wallace at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (6) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

I'm a TV snob. Not one of those pretentious fops that don't watch television, and make a point of making that point frequently, but I'm a snob about what I do watch. Recently I was watching Oprah, (ironic segue, and yeah, referencing her again, can't help it, I find her fascinating as a cultural phenomenon, plus she's hawt), and whilst gushing about the show "Grey's Anatomy" to one of her guests that - you guessed it, doesn't watch television - she mentioned haughtily that she doesn't watch tv either; but she watches Grey's. That was priceless, it is very telling for any of us that might be prone to take her advice of movies to see. Maybe that lack of regular television viewing has something to do with her finding Tyler Perry so incredibly hilarious. 'Cause he ain't. Really, not at all, not a titter, not a teehee, nothin'. People that make their living on television should keep it a secret that they don't watch any, not loudly condescend through the medium their disdain for it.

I suppose I'm more of a reactionary whiny baby about people that say they don't watch any tv than a snob about what I watch, but what you watch probably sucks anyway. I don't mean that in a bad way; I'm a full-on raging hypocrite about what I watch, so we can still be biffs. I will belittle the viewing of "Full House" reruns when I was sitting there catatonic during their first run. Oh, there were roommates and chemicals involved, sure, I've always got excuses, but if you know the name Kimmie Gibbler you can't pretend you don't. You watched it, you can't unwatch it. I can bash Urkel, Balki, and Blossom, but I was there, oh yes, I was there. I can envision Blossom's daydream of pushing a shopping cart filled with enormous feminine napkins, and I haven't seen the show since it went off the air. I can even sing this: "There's nothing my love can't fix for you baby, I'm positive of this I tell youuuuuu", so yeah buddy, I've watched some crap tv.

I'm even hypocritical about shows that I wasn't embarrassed of then or now, but they got too popular so in reverse-poseur style I will claim to not watch "Seinfeld". That's not entirely accurate, now that I think about it, I don't watch Seinfeld; but I will. I watched it from the beginning, always liked it, thought the last few seasons were weak, watched them anyway, then watched for years in reruns. Then I stopped. It was surreal, feeling the next words out of every character's mouth before they happened. So I started skipping over it in search of something else. Not expecting anything better, just fresher. Then I made it back around to wanting to watch it again, depending on the episode, and I would watch more often than not. Currently, I am not watching Seinfeld, I'm on the down slope. If I say I don't watch something doesn't mean I haven't, it might even mean that I have seen every single episode multiple times.

I know who the Hekawi are (and the joke their name comes from), which twin from "Family Affair" died, I know why Tim Conway was a 'guest' for most of the time he was on "The Carol Burnett Show". I know how many girls were trimmed from "The Facts of Life" before the second season, I know that "E/R" and "ER" are two different shows starring an actor that also showed up on Facts of Life for a while. I know the names of Donna Pinciotti's sisters, I know how many Chuck Cunninghams there were, and I know what happened to Judy Winslow. I even know what state Springfield is in.

Not that my life is actually so tragic that I watch television all the time, (it may be a bit more tragic that I spend so much time at Fark, TWoP, and Pr0nsylvania dot com); I just use television as background noise during a lot of daily chores. I could listen to music, but worn-out reruns are less distracting, and I can gauge time better with a half hour sitcom than a random album or the radio. That might not make sense to you, or you, but one or two of the rest of you do the same thing. I need to get these dishes washed, or this shirt ironed or whatever and be ready to do something else at 7; so the 6:30 Everybody Loves Raymond episode I've seen 12 times subconsciously lets me know how I'm doing on my timetable. I don't have an excuse for the first 11 times, but whatever, stop judging me!

Since this is an advice column (wait, what?), I'll use our remaining time to spout off expertly about some popular shows of the recent past.

"Buffy the Vampire Slayer" ... is a soap opera. A sublimely great one, as interimnet chatter will attest to, but a soap opera nonetheless. Like "Knot's Landing" with slightly less cosmetic surgery. I say is rather than was because she continues in print, fanboys and girls shriek a collective "Duh!" in my general direction.

"Xena Warrior Princess" was a kajillion times better than "Hercules: The Legendary Journeys", in every conceivable way.

If you watched "The West Wing" and thought it was because you were really smart and only super brilliant pimples like yourself were hep to just how far beyond incredibly ultra-keen the show was - you should go watch "Bananas in Pyjamas", it's essentially the same show; and the characters talk over each other less so it's easier to keep up.

"Family Guy" should have stayed gone, in its stead FBC should have kept/brought back; "Arrested Development"; "Greg the Bunny"; "Action"; "Andy Richter Controls the Universe"; "Wonderfalls"; "The Tick"; "Herman's Head"; add your picks to the list and be entered to win an ipod nano!*

*Terms and Conditions
This is not a real contest, you will never win, earn, or find a free electronic device by participating in online schemes. You can, however, get a free dinner for 2 at Applebee's if you forward this to 10 people.

The editors of FTTW would like to state that Richard's endorsement of Andy Richter Controls the Universe does NOT reflect that of the site.

Sudden Valley Ranch Archives

Posted by Richard Wallace at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (6) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

I've been thinking a bit lately about how we communicate. Written communication has its advantages over oral/aural, but there are a few disadvantages as well. At first thought, that is, let's have a look. I'm specifically thinking of emails/forums/texts/fortune cookies/greeting cards versus human to human speech, although anything written down belongs with the former. If it's written down, it's not subject to your nor anyone else's ability to recall it; you can look it over again and again to be sure exactly what has been said written. So you'd think it would be easier for people to not make asses of themselves by correcting you on things that you have written correctly, but it doesn't work like that. Some study I read somewhere long ago estimated that we actually comprehend one out of every four words. Essentially, we're all skimming, even when we think we're not. Add to that the insatiable urge a lot of people have to correct someone, anyone, even someone they'll never meet, which causes them to froth and foam all over their keyboards as they feverishly tap out their correction, "Nope, sorry, wrong answer. There were 5 (five) count 'em, five red shirt crew members that both appeared more than once and never died. I'll list them by first appearance episode..." Since you had actually written that four male and one female red shirt crew members had appeared more than once and never died; you were in complete agreement with your corrector, but on the interimnet the facts almost never get in the way. The rabble-rouser only saw 'four' and the adrenaline and ritalin-deficiency did the rest.

The permanence of the written word is an advantage only for those that prefer to comment about things they actually do have some knowledge of, or good reference materials handy. It's a bane for those that seek to make a big deal out of your error until it is exposed as a non-error, at which point you or whomever pointed out your original correctness will be informed how big a deal it isn't by the miscreant.

The advantage of spoken conversation is that inflection can be used to a great extent, but this is actually not so much an advantage as a crutch. Using inflection, accents, hand gestures, figures of speech that don't translate well to the written word; these are all ways of avoiding broadening our vocabularies to the point that we can say what we mean. Even great conversational tools like sarcasm and baby talk are nearly impossible to match in text, leaving us to find actual words to write what we want to convey. I know someone that says "You know what I'm sayin'?" every other sentence. I suppose it's good that she realizes that, of course not, no one knows what she's saying, but it's kind of sad too. I have no idea how she would communicate in print. And yes, I was being sarcastic about sarcasm and baby talk being great conversational tools, but you might not know for sure if not for this sentence, would you?

Written communication has the 'locked vault' aspect as well, which really can't be beaten for accuracy. When you write it, it's still only in your head until you allow someone else to read it. You can change any or all of it, so what, it belongs to you. You can't exactly practice what your saying in conversation, just your opening line. Okay, I've practiced give and take conversations several lines deep, but I'm anal-retentive like that, and a caffeine junkie. You have to be quick and keep your options open because people rarely respond exactly as you thought they would, especially women. These seeming disadvantages to the written word, no winking or nudging, no imitating of well-known celebrity/character voices when you type, these tend to strengthen our abilities to communicate rather than hinder them. If you have to get your point across without the easy tools you (hopefully) will learn to use the ones you have better, more efficiently.

Title time, this is where I throw the man-fur out the window and buy a man-purse, somehow tying all this together with the half of a thought that I had when I started. Help me help you. Please let's all stop saying/writing things just because we know people know what we mean to say and it's so much easier than thinking of the right thing to say. If you have to put j/k after it, then just don't do it at all. If the idiom makes no sense in type then don't use it. If you have to leave a detailed note about what you're referencing then it's best to drop the whole thing. It's my column, so I will continue to make references without explanation. I'm a hippie, and I'm naked because I smoked all my clothes!

And for crepes' sake STOP saying "on acid" to describe things, it's lame. I was a teenager in southern California in the 80s, so I've smoked some stuff and taken LSD and mushrooms on a number of occasions; geez, I think 'Get High' was my eighth period class first semester of 10th grade. Perhaps it is because of those experiences that my mind has been adequately expanded to the point that I can choose words to describe what I want to say, I don't know. If you've never done these or other hallucinogens then you're probably more likely to describe "Peewee's Playhouse" as 'Captain Kangaroo ON ACID!!1!', but believe me, everyone knows that. Not that you haven't earned the right because you haven't had your mind expanded or any such nonsense, but because anyone who has tripped isn't going to consider using the reference where it doesn't apply. Neither am I suggesting that you head to the park and score some windowpane so you can use the reference, I'm saying that the reference is virtually meaningless and very lazy writing. "Hillary Clinton ... on CRACK!!1!" is even lazier, how does nobody see how overrated and unimaginative Chris Rock is? Besides, there is a generation of recreational pharmaceuticals that came of prominence after my chemical retirement, why not reference things as 'like Larry King ...ON GBH!!1!', I won't bitch about it being an inappropriate reference because I won't notice. I might bitch that I don't get it, but there really is no pleasing me.

Oh, Elements of Style is online, who'd a thunk that such a handy guide to better writing would be available on the internets, yet there it is. Bookmark it, and just for fun; look for the three rules that I know I've broken in the last few paragraphs. Don't tell me though, I'll just end up editing this to make you look wrong for correcting me.

Sudden Valley Ranch Archives

Posted by Richard Wallace at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (3) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

I'm not particularly puritanical, and I'm pushing 40, so yes; I've been to a strip club. It's been about 15-16 years, since I was in the younger of the two usual age brackets for strip club attendees, but I've been. There are just the two main demographics at the strip club, your results may vary.

The first time I ever went to a strip club was the second I turned 18, with my friend Mikey whom is a couple of years older than I. He had already been hanging out at the strip clubs and took me to the one he had made his home. That is the first group of strip club denizens, the 18-30 age group. This group includes everyone from guys that have never seen a real live set of boobies to the guys that think they have a chance of dating a stripper. This is also the age range of most of the dancers, so that happens more than you might think. Mikey dated a few of them, until the novelty of it wore off. (There's a good story about his experiences with one particular woman that will have to wait for me to stop shaking with laughter too much to type every time I think about it.) I went a few times and got over it, went back to the rock clubs to hear music and be rejected by slutty girls that weren't being paid to dress that way. When I turned 21 I went back, to see the same thing only without having to drink in the parking lot first. Same deal, a bit different only because Mikey had the flu and horked in the parking lot and then again almost immediately after we entered; prompting the management to make me take him out. They didn't want to hear that he wasn't drunk, that's the thing about vomit; no one cares why. I don't think I went back more than a time or two, in groups wasting time before something more exciting and such.

The other strip club demographic is old guys with nothing better to do than pay to get excited by girls that would never even speak to them for free. I'm not that old yet, but I have no plans of ever being one of those guys. In these groups are a few guys like Mikey, that can actually get somewhere with the dancers without opening their wallets, but either way, all they have to show for it is a few hours of very risky sex and I'm just not into it. You have a few oddities, people that actually take business clients to get them confused with liquor and titties, but I think that is a lot more prevalent in the movies than IRL.

The main attraction in the Internet age is featured performers that the patrons have already 'viewed' online. These are the weekend nights, traveling famous strippers/pornstars show up for two or three performances a night, and probably sign stuff and pose for photos with the cave-dwellers. Not that there is anything wrong with having favorite pornstars, or driving a few hours to wait in line to get Amber Deepcrotch's autograph on your copy of "Quadruple Penetrations #12", it's just not something that I'm into, and it is at the very least, very sad. But there's nothing wrong with it if that's your thing, people do the same for guys that bounce/kick/throw/hit balls with a stick, right? Now that I think about it, there was a pornstar when I was a teenager that I would be very tempted to go and see if she rolled through town, but she was really hot. She's probably pushing 50, but I've never had a problem with older women, and you never know, I might catch her eye, and there are much stranger couplings in the world than former chronic masturbaters teenagers and former pornstars. Don't judge us, why does everyone want to destroy our love? You hate what you don't understand.

Anyway, what brought this post on was something I spied out of the corner of my infected eye on my way home the other day. We have a strip club that has a marquee towering above the on-ramp that takes me out of Tinytown towards the woods where I live. Any time that I have been in Tinytown shopping or whatever instead of heading straight home from work I see the marquee and usually it has the name of someone I've never heard of, but I always look because, you know, just curious. Ahem, anyway, the other day I noticed a familiar name that probably would have made me swerve if I had been driving; luckily I was in the passenger seat. Apparently there is an anniversary party for either this location or the strip club chain (yeah, everything is a franchise now) coming up in April, and the featured performer for Friday, April 20 will be Ron Jeremy. Yeah, a dude. Not just any dude, mind you, you don't really have to have ever been into porn to know that name, he is like the I.M. Pei Jeopardy answer for male pornstars*. He's known for three things, he's been around since the 70s, he's very hairy (his nickname is 'the Hedgehog'), and he's gotten pretty bloated over the years. There's a fourth thing but this is a family paper (no it isn't). The fifth thing he is known for, and it's too funny to just be a rumor, is that some pornstars have had a clause written into their contract that they would not have to have sex with him. Yikes, even public fornicators have their standards, I guess.

So, apparently there is a third strip club demographic out there that would intentionally go to a bar to see Ron Jeremy. I'm just hoping that he isn't going to be dancing, and that nobody is disappointed when he doesn't.

* People that don't watch Jeopardy sometimes get the idea that it is a very difficult game, it really isn't. Sure, you have to have a pretty good stockpile of otherwise useless information in your skull, but the writers have certain patterns that they follow. The most important of which is that you don't even have to understand the answer to get the question, just look for keywords; blah blah Vivienne Leigh blah = Gone With the Wind, blah blah Clint Eastwood blah = Dirty Harry, etc. I call this the rule of Common Knowledge. Take any high school senior and give him/her a word and write down the first few things they say, word-association style. At least two of these will appear in any Jeopardy questions with a category containing your word. Architect? I.M. Pei and Frank Lloyd Wright will be two of the questions. Male Pornstar? Peter North and Ron Jeremy will be two of the questions. In all my years of viewing porn (semi-retired) I have only ever gotten to know those two male pornstar names. Jeremy is ubiquitous, and eventually I found out what North's name was somehow. He is known for something in particular, but the thing that I noticed the first moment I ever saw the guy was that his hair looks like his head was about 200 degrees one day and someone wrapped a vinyl record around it.

Sudden Valley Ranch Archives

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I made a MySpace page a few months back. I had an empty one that I had created some time ago, to help a friend spy on her kid and the nutjob teenagers he hangs around with, but that one didn't have anything on it. No pictures, no music, not even my real name. Just a login because you have to have one to see the pictures of them taking turns on the hookah and whatnot. The new one, that one has my real name in it, a couple of people, and a couple of bands. No pictures or links to other things I do online, but having my real name it got caught in a search of my real name by someone I hung around with in high school and beyond. I'm not sure if this is going to be a good thing or not, we didn't exactly part on bad terms; but there was some ambient animosity amongst the whole crew when we disbanded. One person moved to one state, one to this other one, one moved in with his Granny in the desert, I moved way over here, and one person stayed put, for a while anyway.

You can't hang around in a group for eight years or so without doing some drunken thing to somebody's sister, or insulting somebody's Mom, maybe vomiting in the back seat of their car, it's just unavoidable. The picking up on each other's discarded girlfriends might be iffy, but being the guy she cheated on him with, I think there is a line there. But, I forgave that, or at least stopped stewing over it, once the girl was gone but the bro remained. Forgiveness aside, you accumulate resentments subconsciously, and nothing about the good old days is all that good when you view it through ill memories. The best you can do is try to remember the good times more often than the bad.

So, I made this profile, added the one IRL friend that I made it to keep in contact with, and forgot about it. I wanted to know, if for some wacky reason, a band I like might come near enough by for me to go and see them, so I added the band, and restarted forgetting all about it. That was about the extent of my friend's list, so I never signed into the thing, and the email address it is associated with is a disposable one that I never check. So of course, I sign into MySpace the other day, and imagine my surprise to find an interSpace email thing from someone I didn't know with the subject line "Blank High?" on it. Understand, I mean that it had my high school not the word 'blank', I'm all alcoholic about the anonymity thing, if you think you went to high school with me email me. I check the profile first, and I really don't know this woman, at all, but I recognize immediately a couple of her friends. She has like 7, a MySpace noob like myself, and two of her friends are the sisters of one of my old crew. I'm confused, because she lists her age as being too young to be someone I went to high school with, and I think I would recognize any of those two girls' friends that I knew then anyway, so I have to open the email.

It says:

"I don't have a My Space account myself so I'm using my wife's. Is this the Richard Wallace* that went to Blank High and hung out with Frizzle & Frack? If so this is Frizzle and I live across town from Frack in City, State. Send me a message if this is you. If not sorry to have bothered you.

Frizzle"

I wrote back that I was indeed that Richard Wallace, what's going on the last 15 years, and why don't you have a MySpace when your sisters and even your 60-something year old Dad has one, fercryinoutloud? Because, you know, it was a little weird that his Dad has one, although not that weird, considering how creepy his Dad always was. I should hear back soon what's been going on the last decade and a half with those two guys, and I'm a little apprehensive about it. More curious than anything, it's a real interimnet adventure that's for sure. I'll follow up on it if it amounts to anything at all entertaining or sad. My first adventure in MySpace was sad and without resolution, just sad. I'll tell you about it, like to hear it, here it goes.

As I wrote a few lines up, I made a throwaway profile for lurking, and I was amazed by some of the things I discovered. Along the way I found that my friend Isabel's teenaged cousin was not shy about posting pics of herself with a vodka bottle and bragging about how often she gets drunk, and the neighbor kid was making up pretty much everything on his profile, but I think that is expected. As you look around, from one profile to another, the other thing that becomes apparent is a lot of white suburban teenaged girls think they are Snoop Dogg or DMX or whoever. They be thuggin' "4 realzz"! It would be a lot more comical if it weren't so tragic. Consider, if a few of them were doing it; ha ha, very funny. Since pretty much all of them have a gangsta rap song playing, (thank you dial-up, I shut them down before they get started), a few slutty mirror pix, and the requisite "Where my niggaz at? Hollla!!"in the comments header, there is a lack of irony that is awe-inspiring at this "place for friends to meet and greet" - or whatever the slogan is. There doesn't seem to be much going on other than tagbacks for each others' photos, and half conversations through the log, interspersed with a few "thanks for the add, you're sexy!1" type comments.

Oh, there are features available to make it much better like the blog and photojournal and .... well, I never looked into it too much, like most MySpacers. Just accumulating friends that you don't know and will never get to know. So, you have 9000 friends, now what? I'm not here to review MySpace dot com, but I will offer some tips for the 2.6 teenagers that might read this: Stop talking about things that you do (or don't do but are lying about to look cool) that you don't want your parents to know about. Your parents know your name, they gave it to you. Create a different profile under a fake name and do all that crap, just tell your 'friends' to only visit with their fake profiles, because these things are all interconnected and as much of a Net savvy edge as you think you have over your parents, they know people like me (and likely some much better) to help them figure these things out. Also, don't add everyone that asks, ask them why first. Why exactly do you think this person wants to be your pal, and what good is it to you to add them? You're all gonna get kidnapped, won't someone think of the children?

I was here in the box the other night, (I'm finally getting to the sad part), and thought of someone I hadn't thought of in many years. Not sure what made me think of her, but I wanted to try and contact her. Anyway, I trundled over to MySpace and tapped in the info: high school, name, years attended, alumni >>> there she wasn't. Huh. Imagine that, a 36 y. o. woman that doesn't have a MySpace. Here is where it gets odd. As I am there looking at all the Melissas that aren't her, it occurs to me to try and find a girlfriend from long ago. I couldn't remember if I ever knew what high school she went to as she was about 7 years older than I when I was 19 and we started dating; so I went with her slightly uncommon first name just to start with. Not good, a lot more than I would have thunk. I flip through the pages and it is obvious that none of these are she. It then epiphs to me to look for her daughter, who was 4 the last time I saw her. She would be 17/18 now, very likely to have a MySp.ace. I guess I thought that her Mom would probably have one too, as some of the parents I know do, for keeping tabs on the kiddies as I mentioned earlier. What I didn't think about was what it would feel like if I were to find her. What it would feel like to find the little girl that used to light up my face, but that I had no contact with after her Mother and I broke up. What it would feel like, to find that little face-lighter-upper that barely acknowledged me the last time I saw her, about a year later. Well, I didn't find that little girl, I found an 18 y. o. girl with favorite songs, favorite movies, a boyfriend, and a notably IRL-based friend list. I was very impressed that she didn't have hundreds of people she'd never met littering the place.

If I had human emotions I would have cried. Instead, I stared into her eyes for a bit, trying to think it wasn't her, perhaps thinking that would be better than having found her. Of course, I would have continued looking, compulsively. But it was her, no doubt. (We both like that band, tee hee.) Do I think she (and her Mother) were much better off with whatever life has brought them in the last 14 years without yours truly? Indubitably. Is it still horribly sad to think that maybe you missed out on what your life was supposed to be? Yep.

*Wallace is fake too, can't have the revenuers finding me at FTTW.

Epiph: To have an idea, like an epiphany; only a verb. eh-pif epiphs, epiphed, epiphing.

To suggest itself in thought; come to mind (usually followed by to): An idea epiphed to me. Used instead of occur just because.

Richard was going to post this as a MySpace bulletin, but decided against it.

Posted by Richard Wallace at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

I know this lady, well, that's a reach, I don't know that she's all that much of a lady, but she showers regularly and dresses up to go out, so you know, six of one. That part, the 'six of one' part, you knew what I meant, right? I short-handed a cliched old saying because I could save space since everyone knows the rest, and what it means. No? Okay, the saying is, "Six of one, half dozen of another", and it is supposed to mean that there is no difference, just semantics, describing the same situation with different words. The same thing, or the same difference, I have trouble with that too, but I'm getting further off track.

Basically, you say you have a bag of granola and I say you have a sack of crap and some interloper will pipe in, "Six of one, half dozen of another." Ya, fascinating. That might be why they cut it down to 'six of one', see? Anyway,
I would like for people to stop doing that, shortening well-known phrases assuming they are so damned well-known. I heard that six of one nonsense several times before I had any idea what these hillbillies were trying to say, and I'm reasonably coherent, really.

Back to the lady, she married my Uncle and became my Aunt Tinky about 30 years ago, and she is as country as collard greens and backyard dentistry. She is constantly dropping these abbreviated gems of hokum wisdom, leaving me wondering do I even dare ask for the English version. The one that got me the most confused is "He wouldn't take a job in a pie factory." The literal meaning was lost on me, but by context I knew the intended meaning, she could just as well have said "He wouldn't himqua toda flim-whap." She was trying to say someone was very lazy, and specifically that this someone suffers frequent, long-lasting bouts of self-inflicted unemployment. She said this about one of her step-sons, my cousin Angus. ( He is as bone-idle as a corpse but that's neither here nor there.) The phrase is intended to convey that the person shuns work to such an extent that even a leisurely, lucrative job would not be good enough to keep the person interested for long. Unfortunately, I couldn't figure out how a factory would be such a great place to work, especially a pie factory. Heavy sacks of sugar, flour, and kidneys to lug around, loud, dangerous machinery putting that wavy crimp in the crust, hobos flying all around, I don't think so, not for me, thanks.

Eventually I asked someone else what this botch was saying, and I got the original version: "He is so lazy; he wouldn't take a job in a pie factory tasting pies." Oh. Oh! Yeah, that might be a pretty sweet gig! I imagine pie-tasters make pretty good kablinky, seeing as how they have already convinced someone that they deserve full time pay for something that really only requires a mouth, which most of the other workers in the factory probably possess. Not pretentious and sanctified by society like those wine and cheese sniffing snobs, but steady work to be sure.

All that trouble just because she wanted to save three syllables. I counted, tast / ing / pies. Now that's lazy.

Posted by Richard Wallace at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Whatever it is you want to be, don't be a chump. Being a chump has lead me through 30+ odd years of accepting mediocrity and accruing resentment. Being a chump can mean a lot of things, but what I'm referencing today is the old school meaning. There is probably a modern word for what a chump is, but once white suburbanites start using a word or phrase it's already completely played anyway. Like 'old school' and 'played'. So I'll stick with 'chump' to describe someone that does things for others without credit, thanks, payment, or even acknowledgment.

A sucker is not necessarily a chump, but a chump is definitely a sucker. Here's the distinction: A sucker is someone that is ripped off in some kind of exchange because of what they do not know, whether they should have been aware or not; a chump knows better yet allows it to happen anyway. A sucker buys charity candy bars from children without uniforms, a sucker buys an Acura, a sucker follows a low-carb diet. A chump would buy the whole box of candy, a chump would pay sticker for the Acura, a chump would pay out-of-pocket for his health care crisis that arose due to his low-carb diet. Because, of course, a sucker may pay too much for his insurance; but a chump won't turn anything in to his insurance company.

I know what I'm talking about this time, gentle readers; I've been a chump my whole life. That is why I'm taking the time to warn any of you that may be on the precipice of the passive/aggressive chasm that is Chumpdom. When you are a chump, people see you coming from far away. It must be body language, or in your facial expressions; people can somehow sense your chumpitude. You're the one that holds the door open for people and they don't even make eye contact, much less the socially acceptable mumbled "thx". You are the one people borrow things from they never plan to return. You are a self-styled victim before-the-fact. A chump doesn't necessarily always get the worst of a situation, neither is a chump some sort of martyr seeking out disrespect. That's just the way things tend to go when you start out with the cards stacked against you. If you're a chump you're way more likely to go last when your group of friends ends up pulling a train on that Kardashian chick. But it doesn't have to be that way. If you stop accepting the assumptions that are made, you can rise to the level of patsy in no time.

I'm running short of air, so I'll give my best advice to prevent the heathen vultures around you from reaping so many benefits because of your chumpness. (I know, I already said I am a chump, who wants advice from a chump on how not to be a chump? That's like people taking weight loss advice from Dr. Phil. Just go with it, pretend it all makes sense.) The single greatest threat to our peace of mind, my fellow chumps, is the anything-but-sly, hint-request. For example, I have a friend we will call Isabel. She has roommates in the immense house that they rent and the roommates have small children. One evening not long after she got home from work, the male roommate Greasy was sitting there with the children, watching television or whatever it is he does. She asked wasn't he supposed to be on his way to work and he said well, he didn't have a babysitter as his Babymomma was at work. Keep in mind that Isabel had watched the children umpteen plus one times before, almost always after offering because of this sort of hint-request. Isabel said oh and went about her own thing. Greasy was fired as this was not his first time laying out of work for no reason, and the talk behind Isabel's back is that it was her fault. She wasn't asked, but it is somehow her fault because she didn't offer? WTF?

The most diabolical part of the hint-request is that by not actually asking for the favor, if anything goes wrong, or if a favor is asked in return; the hint-requester can now act as if they have no obligations because they didn't ask. Complain that they are late getting back when you're baby/house/dog/action figure/plant-sitting? Well, I didn't ask; you offered. Ask a favor of your own, since you have done these previous favors and you assume some sort of friendly symbiotic relationship? Don't throw that in my face, I didn't ask you to do any of that. A very smarmy, ungrateful, fuck-face type attitude, seriously. These are the same kind of people that will hint around about borrowing money on a day-after-forever payment plan. They will tell you that they owe $X for this or that and only have $Y, when what they are being careful to avoid saying is " Can I borrow $Z?"; but they're waiting for you to offer so they don't have to ask. Then, when they take forever to not pay it back they can say that they never asked, as if that somehow absolves them of responsibility and they shouldn't pay it back in a timely manner. Tell them that the next time they should go to the bank and hint around, see how that works out for them.

If you have no chump tendencies, you can do your part to help eradicate this condition in our lifetime by not abusing the chumps in your world. If you are the one that needs help the very least you could and should do is to ask for it honestly and openly. And be appreciative afterward. If you are a chump, or signs lead you to believe you may be in danger of becoming a chump, I have some pamphlets I'd like to leave with you. In closing, here in three simple words is the first of what probably won't be a series of tips on surviving chumpidity: Make Them Ask. Dodging hint-requests will give you a great head-start on the road away from chumposity. Help whomever you want to, but wait for them to open their noise-holes and articulate it.

Richard abuses semicolons, even though he knows better.

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Shopgirl Spoiler Alert

I don't make a lot of money, but I don't have a lot of bills either, you might say I live beneath my means. I don't eat the crackers shaped like fish; I eat the crackers shaped like squares, although I could easily afford the fish. Not braggin', just sayin'. Since I have always been the kind of person that would rather pay for something outright than get it on credit, I'm not really familiar with large sums of debt. I had a student loan follow me for a while, from a class that did nothing for me, I'll mention, but I eventually paid it off.

I know about working to pay for things that I would rather do, like staring into this box or watching movies I've purchased. But obviously, I know nothing about getting a movie made out of my novel since I don't have a finished novel, much less a successful published one. Novella, they tell me "Shopgirl" is a novella. I suppose it fits, although I've never been fond of that term. It's a book, it's not short enough to be a 'short story'; just call it a novel and be done with it. This will actually get us to the point of my column, keep reading. So Steve Martin writes this novel, and it surprises a lot of people that never expected such a thing from the likes of him, especially with such past literary oddities as "The Cruel Shoes" and "Pure Drivel". (Both are great for different reasons, but also each a far cry from "Shopgirl".) A series of Hollywood events leads to the treat that is "Shopgirl" the movie, but please don't expect anything other than what the box/IMDb tells you. It's a sad, romantic, real-life kind of thing, with some funny parts. I liked it, even viewed on a 7.5 screen while on vacation. It is on my re-view list as well as my book list, although I don't read nearly enough offline these days. I really just want to see how badly the Jeremy character suffered in the transition from book to film. I sensed, and have had confirmed by someone that has seen and read them both that this is a weak part of the film. It's not like I think she and Ray should have been together, but I wasn't entirely convinced that Mirabelle should give two shakes about Jeremy. I'm guessing he was more developed in the book, I'll let you know.

What I'm getting at is, If Martin's expenses are such that we have to endure such tripe as a string of bride's Father movies, cheaper by the six-pack inanities, Bilko, Clouseau, the remakes, geez, the remakes, if that's what has to happen to allow him to make "Shopgirl"; "Bowfinger"; "Novocaine"; then I say yes, we can forgive you, Steve. If we had to miss out on "Mixed Nuts" or "A Simple Twist of Fate" to eradicate all of your movies with 'House' in the title, then let's just not travel in time to do that.

BUT: All of that is entirely wrong. We live in a society where we are not forced to view things that suck. Therefore, there is no forgiveness necessary, whatever you gotta do to make a buck is fine; it's not like they fooled me into seeing "Bringin' Down the Hizzie" or whatever it was called. One just has to adjust their thinking when deciding whether a film is worthwhile viewing. Just because you're a Steve Martin fan doesn't mean you're going to enjoy everything he's been involved with; he's like Robin Williams now. No harm, no foul; no forgiveness necessary. I even kind of liked "The Pink Panther", although I did see it with juveniles.

I'm not recommending that you go to any trouble to see "Shopgirl", "Novocaine" or "Bowfinger", 'cause none of them is for everyone, but they each worked for me. Bowfinger, in particular, is a great movie, perhaps even a great film, but don't blame me if you don't like it. Bowfinger also stars Eddie Murphy, in what is likely the least make-up he's ever employed to play more than one role. By the way, what's up with that, Eddie? You yourself are the only person you can envision playing most of the roles in your movies, again I say; what's up with that? Anyway, since we've already determined that Steve Martin is forgiven, err, I mean, doesn't need forgiving, let's turn our attention to Mr. Murphy. Y'know, his brother is pretty funny, I've known that since his portrayal of Gusto in "CB4", tyvm Chappelle viewers; why can't he play one of these roles Eddie has himself slathered in putty to portray?

Sorry, sidetracked. The title question turns on a dime during the second week of theaters playing "Norbit": Can we forgive Eddie Murphy? It's been a long time since Gumby, Mr. Robinson's Neighborhood, and Buckwheat's assassination, a very, long, time. Having gone from teenaged stand-up to SNL cast member to movie star in the space of just a couple of years, Eddie released the now rare concert film "Delirious", became a superstar with "Beverley Hills Cop", and then it got interesting, to say the least. With "Coming to America" he apparently became hopelessly enchanted with the idea of wearing prosthetics and playing multiple roles, further evidenced with the underrated, under-appreciated "Vampire in Brooklyn", and firmly established with the 'Nutty' films.

Before all the costumes, before the 'Dolittles', came the concert film "Raw". In this one, Eddie wore an even gayer leather jumpsuit than the one from "Delirious" and spewed misogyny rather than homophobia, not that there is really anything wrong with bashing women or homosexuals for fun and profit; if that's your thing. In the one truly funny section of the film, Murphy relates a series of phone calls with Bill Cosby and Richard Pryor. Apparently, Cosby put on his 'Veteran Show Biz Black Man Nurturer' hat and called Murphy to complain about his use of curse words and adult subject matter. Murphy relates subsequently asking the advice of Pryor, who advised him to "Tell Bill I said to have a Coke and a smile and STFU!" (This was a comment on the fact that, at that time in history, Cosby was not a professional entertainer; he was the soulless shill for Kodak, Coke, Jello, etc.) I bring this up because in the twenty years since "Raw": Murphy has become Cosby.

I don't know if that deserves the irony tag, since it took two decades, but I am certain of one thing, we really shouldn't forgive Eddie Murphy for turning into the poster boy for inane family fare box office. Is this some sort of racist thing, I hear nobody asking, that Martin doesn't even need forgiving yet Murphy both needs it and doesn't deserve it? Stop being stupid, voice in my head; of course not. Was it arbitrarily decided simply because his bad movies are so much worse than Martin's? Yes, yes it was. And maybe a little leftover resentment because of having paid to see "Best Defense". I'll defend my position thiswise: Go sit through a pair of Dr. Dolittles and a pair of Cheaper Dozen movies and you tell me.

Any nominations of your own forgiveness-free former faves gone bad?



Richard has always taken good care of Ruprecht.

Archives

Posted by Richard Wallace at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (5) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Yes, it's another new writer at FTTW! You might already know Richard, as he has written a few guest posts for us (which we will put into his archives eventually). Richard will be appearing her every Thursday.

I had some friends that I had been cliqueing with since high school and at one point two of us were working a construction job together. Sometime in the Summer of 1988, Frizzle (name changed for pretty good reasons) and I worked one particular job, a new patio deck and some remodel work inside. The owner of the house was an Italian-American guy with a lot of money (lays finger along side of nose). The wife and kiddies were never there and briefcase-and-shiny-suit guy was amiable enough when he would sidle through on his way in or out; but he had a Mother-in-law, (or Grandmother or something), that didn't speak any English and hung around watching us all the time.

On one sunshiney day Olda Cronia was watching as we did nothing for about two hours while we waited for our boss to bring back more lumber for the deck. Apparently Olda Cronia was unfamiliar with the concept of contracted work, she was very agitated that we were there not doing anything; I believe she thought we were on her clock slacking off. Of course, we were being paid by the hour, but our idle time was hurting our boss, not his client. Nevertheless, she eventually meandered out near where we were and started speaking gibberish* and motioning for us. We walked over to her and listened as she waved her arms about and said things we didn't understand. She became increasingly exasperated with us for deliberately not learning any Italian as she harangued us on the topic of ... like I said, I think it was loafing on her dime, I will never know for sure. I started nodding to her, thinking she might shut up and go away if she thought we were agreeing with her -- but that made her get louder. I probably agreed to do something and then didn't do it, I sympathize with her vexing situation.

Eventually she summed up, (I concluded from the context of her sweeping arm gestures that she was nearing the end of her rhetoric), so I nodded most agreeably and said "Yes, yes, penis fluid"; with my most agreeable smile and continued nodding. Agreeably. Frizzle, of course, cracked up, causing Olda to storm off with steam blasting out of her ears, (not literally). Being a friend of mine he had been chosen for his skill/sense of humor in finding me hilarious, but it was a pretty funny moment I must say so my damn self. I could have said anything, she had made it very clear she didn't understand a single word of English; 'yes, yes, penis fluid' just happened to be the funniest thing I could think of to say at the time.

Forever after that day, the phrase joined well-worn movie and song quotes in our gang's lexicon. Anytime someone said something nonsensical, especially if they were very earnest, one of the other of us would invariably start nodding his head, then the punchline "yes, yes, penis fluid." Followed by gales of laughter and a look of consternation from the nonsensical babbler.

* I say 'gibberish' not as a gibe towards the fine language of Italian, but as a commentary on someone continuing to blather to a person they know does not understand.

Richard is writing a soon-to-be hit song called Penis Fluid.

Posted by Richard Wallace at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It