Oh, how I suffer for this blog. Now I will be suffering for a one-man show spearheaded by none other than Boulder StoryHealers Doug Vincent. If you have any problems with it, address all blame to him. Photo by Lynn Vala

Universalities, the things that we all have in common.  One of the universalities we all share is the basic human function of life.  To breathe air in, to breathe air out.  Another universality is the ability of the human being to lie to other human beings.  When your entire existence is based on, nurtured by, and consumed with lies, you get good at telling them and spotting them.  In my case, to tell the truth, I am versed at both.  I know how to tell those beneficial lies (white lies, like ‘no, that dress doesn’t make you look fat’) as well as the negative lies (‘no, I didn’t break that window’).

What does lying have to do with music?

Nothing.  But I will make the point as to why I am going on about lying in this blog a little later.

You see, my entire existence is based on a lie.  ‘How can that be’ you might ask yourself, ‘he obviously exists, he publishes this blog week after week…’  Yes, I do exist in the physical sense, but how did I get here, what were the circumstances behind my birth?

Context time…

Last September I was fortunate enough to meet Mr. Doug Vincent through one Mr. Gary Tanin.  Google Mr. Tanin if you don’t know who he is (and if you don’t know who he is from reading this blog, welcome to BouleBlog).  Mr. Tanin is most renown as a world-class recording and mastering engineer.  He was working in multiple capacities with another amazing talent, the great Mr. Sam Llanas.  For me to have the chance to personally acquaint with all these people to this day still astounds me.  I look back at those magic days in September 2012 and still wonder if they weren’t a fantastic dream.

They were real.  I have photographic and video evidence.

Through Mr. Tanin I met Mr. Vincent.  Let me preface my next statement by saying I am the youngest of three children (more of my sordid story).  Mr. Vincent and I got along as though he were my long lost younger brother.  But we got along better than I ever did with my true siblings (more of that tawdry life tale).  Faithful readers to this blog learned recently that I lost my mother.  Only an older sibling remains alive.  I had not spoken with this person in over thirty years.  We needed to communicate over the final business of my mother.  We spoke for less than three minutes.  When Mr. Vincent called to discuss what I am about to detail, we spoke for more than an hour or so.  We could have gone on longer I am sure, finishing each other’s sentences, making each other laugh…

True kindred spirits.

But he has me at a disadvantage.  Through his show, “A Day For Grace”, I know many of the dark details of his tragedy-peppered existence.  His group, Boulder StoryHealers is built around the premise of healing personal demons through story telling, on-stage confessions and the recounting of personal tragedies before an audience.  However, he knows none of mine.  Until now.  During that call we discussed how I came to be here, how I was received, the touch and go beginnings of my frail infancy, the dust-up that was my childhood.  The endless torture, humiliation, and degradation that was my everyday existence.

I have never had anyone besides my best thing to ever happen to me say “I’ll have your back”.  After some of the more disgusting revelations I am going to make to Mr. Vincent, we’ll see how much he has my back…

You see, I am about to tie in the reason I am talking about lying and truth in a blog that is usually oriented towards unusual music.  Again, those familiar with this blog will know we are spreading our wings and covering different areas of culture.  We started going in that direction by covering Mr. Vincent’s play, but that could be “excused” by the fact that Mr. Llanas was a musical performer during portions of the play.  If you still don’t have the full concept of how this show works, you will be pleased to know Mr. Vincent and I hope Mr. Llanas will be rerunning the play in New York in September 2013.  I WILL be there because this time, I get to watch instead of bobbing my head up and down watching, ingesting and writing about what is going on in the show.

Well, after the play ran at Stage Left Studios, I was granted an interview with Mr. Vincent which you see listed earlier on this page.  We grew close as was described above.  Well, in Mr. Vincent’s twisted life-view, he feels I have in me a show worthy of hoisting on the boards.  So here goes the big announcement:

Mr. Doug Vincent and I are collaborating on this show about my life, and how I was raised on a steady diet of lying, and how lies are a permanent staple of everyday society.  No, Mr. Llanas won’t be doing music for my show, I WILL.  Yup, the reviewer becomes the reviewee.

Too bad I don’t read reviews about my own performances.  I just don’t care if you like my musical performances.  My music has been compared to Frank Zappa (which I don’t see) and my musical influences of Todd Rundgren, King Crimson, Queens Of The Stone Age and others will shine through.  Chautauqua influences of Laurie Anderson, William S. Burroughs, Henry Rollins and a little known NY theater genius by the name of Brother Theodore Gottlieb will also be rolled into one curmudgeonly me.

But can I act, perform, emote during a monologue?  I guess we’ll just have to find out.

Early indicators are that many of the people I have associated with are eager to see this show.  It is proposed to run in New York City (most likely Stage Left Studios), and Denver CO at eTown Hall (again, most likely) and we are scouting venues in my hometown of Scranton PA where, I feel, the show will be best received and most appreciated.

I came to prominence in this area by playing guitar in an all-original band called Rudi and The Living Dolls.  We were original music before Breaking Benjamin, we paved the way for them and every original act that came out of Northeastern PA.  We know this to be true as we still have the battle scars to prove it.

While I have family all over the country, I doubt any members of my remaining family, nuclear or distant will attend this show.  After all, they thrive on deception and facing the truth is not a strong suit in my family. I sincerely doubt, if the show played right next door to their houses, they would be bothered to come to see it.  In that aspect, I am free (read: liberated) to be frank, real, and brutal about what they did when I was young and how I was treated in my youth.  If my family did show up, they would either leave in the middle of the show, or they will hire attorneys and sue me.  Good luck trying to prove they were wronged in a court of law.  All I have to do is subpoena my fleet of psychotherapists who have treated me or are treating me currently about my checkered past and family relations. Case dismissed.

Now here is a unique aspect to this that Mr. Vincent came up with: He thinks it would be a quality idea for me to document the process of conception, writing, composing, rehearsal, refinement, production, promotion, and finally, execution of the show right here in the blog.  To take you, the reader, on the pre-journey with all of the bumps and potholes of making this show, this journey, come to life.  You’ll know right where we are in each and every stage of how a one-man show about someone who grew up in an environment of hate and was raised in an environment of fibs, lies and misdirection, comes to fruition.

This will be a massive undertaking.  I also have many other projects in the works.  While my mother was alive, she said I would never amount to anything.  Now that’s she’s dead, everyone want to work with me on artistic projects of all sorts.  I am still in production of a new CD of my own music (with one cover tune), I am in talks with someone about writing a book, details to be delivered when the project comes into focus, and I am also working with a local poetess about putting some of her fresh work in front of some AmbientScapes music to be written around the mood and tone of her work, and of course, the blog being accelerated to start publishing more than one item a week or every so often, and to include subjects outside of music.  So with that in mind, some things will have to be left behind.  I maintain a page on Facebook called Free Progressive (https://www.facebook.com/groups/FreeProgressive/), that has already suffered, and may be closed down if my schedule cannot accommodate it.  Usually with every blog release, I send out an email message to people on a mailing list telling them that a new blog is posted.  If we intend to publish multiple articles weekly, this is something else that will have to go by the way side.  In a way, I feel they are nuisance emails as it is.  To get these emails in multiple quantities per week would be nothing short of harassment.  When I complete the next CD I will stop making CDs until the show is finished with production and its run.

In short, I am ready to make sacrifices to bring this show to you, to tell you my life story, to bare my soul on stage.  I hope you will follow the adventure right here and when it’s ready, come and see the show!

1. I am very arrogant to assume that my love and affection for other people is so much stronger than theirs, so much better, and so much more apparent. Do I express my love for people in visible, tangible ways? Sometimes, but hardly to the extent of reality.

2. I am acting out of fear and insecurity and not love.

3. I am trying to control my own life to keep myself safe instead of trusting in God to do whatever He wants with my weak and damaged instrument of self. “The emotional dependency that I thought I had broken off”?? HAH!

Kelly, stop freaking out. Just be a person. Be God’s person. No one can hurt you more than you yourself. No one’s going to hurt you but you. Get your fingers out of your brain, go to bed, and go see The Hobbit tomorrow. You know you’re going to be disappointed in it regardless, just because they’ll’ve added so much stuff to it. But there’s always Rankin-Bass; there’s always Brother Theodore.

Where’s my towel? Now there is a question to which I can always respond, thanks, of course, to Douglas Adams. His “Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy” has reached what I’d call the iconic stage, where phrases and ideas from the book have become societal standards, among them, the proper use and care of your towel. Perhaps it was prescience, or perhaps just lucky genetics, but I’ve always known about the importance of towels, and that one should always have one handy. My expertise in this area has been with me my entire life, whereas Doug, and the Guide, have not. Maybe I am the result of a sordid liaison with an alien, covered up by my shamed parental units, my lifelong interest in space is a repressed urge to return home, and my intimate knowledge of towels is an innate part of my heritage….

Whatever it is, my towel is always clean, and right here in my…. hey! Who took my towel?….. Nimrods…. Ah well…. um….. good morning, ffolkes…. As you know, I am subject to being taken this way, so fear not; this may seem to be a bit odd, but it’s not unusual, so there is nothing to worry about…. or maybe that was unusual, but not odd. Ah well, no matter…. The daily Pearl is now officially under construction, and any, and all, anomalous events are not only normal, but sought after for their warm fur…. Just kidding, we wouldn’t shoot an innocent anomaly….. We might make tease it unmercifully, or feed it oatmeal laced with Ex-Lax (ouch!), but we wouldn’t shoot it….. makes a huge mess on the floor, especially if we hit it…. Of course, so does the oatmeal….

The only real, pertinent question at hand just now is this: how the hell do I find my way back into the pearling mode, after such an explosion of nonsense? This is FUN, and ridiculously easy to write! Sober thoughts and portentous phrases can’t compete with such levity and good, clean fun…. I could, I suppose, try to make an entire Pearl out of humorous material, but, I don’t know if I am THAT funny….. I do try to maintain SOME degree of lightheartedness, even in the most sober of pieces, enough at least to laugh at myself, if not at humanity. But, I am easily entertained, having been caught previously having a great time just sitting around, watching my fingernails grow; other ffolkes probably have a bit more sophistication…..

Well, if I’m ever to get into the meat of today’s meal, I should draw this intro section to a close. Four full paragraphs of sheer tom-foolery (or, in this case, ned-foolery) is plenty for one day, and certainly enough for an introductory section. I only wish that the ease of effort that this took would carry over into the rest of the Pearl…. It would be nice not to sweat over it for once…. Ah well, the creative process is supposed to hurt, so I’ll quit whining, and get on with it now….. Shall we Pearl?…..

“For a moment, nothing happened. Then, after a second or so, nothing continued to happen.” — Douglas Adams, “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy”
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Tsze-kung asked, saying, “Is there one word which may serve as a rule of practice for all one’s life?”  The Master said, “Is not Reciprocity such a word?  What you do not want done to yourself, do not do to others.” — Confucius (551-479 B.C.)

Ah yes, the Golden Rule…. For how long have the sages of our species been reiterating this rule? Years? Centuries? Millennia? Yes, all of the above. Yet, in today’s society, there is ample proof that a large portion of humanity totally ignores this rule, instead operating under a different rule, to wit: “I’m going to get mine first, and do unto others, first, before they can do unto me” This rule has never been precisely stated, unlike the Golden Rule, which has been stated in any number of ways over time. But, those who live by this rule are just as committed to their own self-interests as sages are to the interests of all…..

The struggle for the Soul of Man has been raging since the beginning of history, for though we now drive cars, and wear ties, and use telephones, our emotions and desires are the same ones we had when we lived in caves and ate unrefrigerated foods on a daily basis, if we were lucky. To this date, no one has been able to discover why some people just won’t go along with the program, but insist on making their own rules, to the detriment of everyone else. I suppose if we did discover the reason, it wouldn’t be a problem any more, but it is still frustrating to know that we are, as a species, still fighting the same old ignorances and cupidities that we had in the beginning of history, and are still losing far too often…..

I believe in the inherent goodness of people, but, at my age, I also must qualify that belief to include the very significant number of folks who choose to act against that part of their nature, giving rein to that beast in all of us that yearns to take, and to destroy. Yes, we have goodness in our makeup, but we also have evil, and there are a lot of people who choose to dwell on that side of their own nature, and basically don’t give a crap about what it means to other people. As long as they meet their own needs and desires, everyone else can just go to hell…. I don’t much like it, but it is true nonetheless….

So, I say this…. If one sees a person who is harming others by their actions, and you can determine that they are doing so deliberately, then I believe it is within the boundaries of the Golden Rule to destroy them on sight (or, at minimum, administer a sound thrashing)…. for this reason: if I were acting in such a manner, I would wish that the rest of rational society would judge me, and bring me under control, for the good of all. If that necessitated destruction, so be it; it is a final solution, if a bit harsh. I also do not believe that anyone who deliberately acts to harm others has the right to exist as part of society, and it is perfectly sensible to remove them….

I know, this sounds as if I’m speaking in favor of the death penalty, and in one sense, I am. Unfortunately, the one problem with the death penalty is that nobody can agree on who is capable of making the correct, rational, and honorable decision in such cases. Myself, I’m a bit more of a curmudgeon, and believe in personal responsibility…. so I’m not going to fret over killing a rapist, or a child molester, or a senior abuser, as long as their guilt is clear. They made their choice when they acted against the rules and morals of society, so my choice makes perfect sense in response, according to that same Golden Rule.

A bit different view of that rule, eh? Well, nobody claimed this would be a smooth, level flight, or a soft landing….

“I stared into the abyss. The abyss stared into me. Neither of us liked what we saw.” — Brother Theodore

Google says that this particular phrase is attributed to Brother Theodore (whoever he was….) Nietzsche gave a very similar expression, when he said , “He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.” Either one of these is a fitting closer for this section….
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Emily’s Letter to the World

As I  mentioned yesterday, I found a treasure trove, a book with all of the collected poems of Emily Dickinson. I’ve been perusing it, randomly sampling from different parts of the book, and I am enchanted with her talent all over again. Her ability to put simple words together to form incredibly complex ideas regarding life and nature is astounding, one that leaves me in awe as a writer. Today, I’m including two of her short pieces, which I discovered by letting the book fall open where it would…. and there these were, just waiting to be shared….. During her lifetime, she only published four poems; these are from the first of the collections of her work published posthumously…..

The pedigree of honey
Does not concern the bee;
A clover, any time, to him
Is aristocracy.
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The mountain sat upon the plain
In his eternal chair,
His observation manifold,
His inquest everywhere.

The seasons prayed around his knees,
Like children round a sire:
Grandfather of the days is he,
Of dawn the ancestor.

~~ Emily Dickinson
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“Who will protect the public when the police violate the law?” — Ramsey Clark

Here is a question that is particularly relevant in today’s society. In my time on this sad little ball of mud, I have studied the various parts that make up our culture, and the police, due to their ubiquitous nature, have always been right there at the forefront of my observations. We all have our stories of how we have had to deal with police in various circumstances, not all of which show them in their best light. In fact, next to lawyers, police officers are probably the most reviled members of society, as well as one of the most admired. There are good reasons to support both views…..

I cannot say that my knowledge of ALL policemen is complete; I don’t know them all. But my observations over the years have indicated that at least half of those who enter the field do so out of a desire to have power over others, rather than an impulse to be of service. It is easy to spot these folks…. They’re the ones who never signal a turn in their cars, and are always moving at a speed greater than the posted limit. They assume that the laws that govern the populace are not applicable to them, and act accordingly. They enter any situation with the attitude that “might is right”, and attempt to intimidate anyone who tries to usurp or question their authority. They don’t serve as policemen to keep the peace, but to control the beasts….. two entirely different goals.

I find myself at this point to be in the beginning stages of a rant; this subject is one that frustrates me a lot, as I believe that the police should be offering themselves as an example of honorable, lawful behavior. Many of them do so, but a large number are no more concerned with serving and protecting than they are in consuming donuts without sprinkles. Due to circumstances well within my control, I’m not in the mood for ranting this morning, so I’m going to let this go without further comment.

Suffice it to say that society needs to consider the question asked above by Mr. Clark, and take a hard, realistic look at the requirements needed to procure police officers who are of the proper frame of mind to assume the responsibilities involved in public protection. It seems to me that psychological testing of potential officers would be a good place to start; perhaps some of those who go into the field for their own purposes might not be given such power, if they could be winnowed out in the testing process…… Perhaps then we would begin to see the police set the example for the rest of society, rather than proving to be one of the problems we need to solve…..

“The superior man is the providence of the inferior. He is eyes for the blind, strength for the weak, and a shield for the defenseless. He stands erect by bending above the fallen. He rises by lifting others.” — Robert Green Ingersoll (1833-1899)
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All I can say is, well, it’s done…. I may have crossed the line a bit, going over into crusader mode; some mornings I support the death penalty, others I don’t…. It’s a tough concept to cover in a few words, and a coherent discussion can be time-consuming, as well as emotionally trying. If what I’ve said prompts any comments, well, that’s a good thing, and I’m always ready to look at new information and opinions. If not, well, there’s always tomorrow…. I may be a bit more lucid then….  Y’all take care out there, and May the Metaphorse be with you…..

I like “The ‘Burbs” more than I should. It’s funnier to me than it probably should be or actually is. I saw this movie when it first came out and I was young enough to not care about any of its flaws and actually thought it was pretty good. As I grew up, the jokes (either intentional or unintentional) took on a life of their own. It wouldn’t be fair for me to completely evaluate it based on my own personal experience with it because I over-value the movie. However, at the same time, I believe that the general public undervalues it. “The ‘Burbs” suffers from the same problem that our very first entry suffers from. It was made during a time when the actor who plays the lead was going through a tough stretch. In this case, that actor is Tom Hanks. People usually remember early Tom Hanks movies fondly for their goofy/slapsticky humor (“Splash”, “Bachelor Party”, “The Money Pit”, and culminating with “Big”) and then his later stuff usually has a lot more weight and notoriety to it (“Philadelphia”, “Forrest Gump”, “Apollo 13”, “Saving Private Ryan”, “The Green Mile”, “Cast Away”, “Road to Perdition”, “Catch Me If You Can”, and the Toy Stories). But there was this middle phase where his star stopped shining so bright (“Punchline”, “The ‘Burbs”, “Turner and Hooch”, “Joe Versus the Volcano”, and “Bonfire of the Vanities”). Those movies are definitely not as good as the ones previously mentioned and they all get lumped together in the same slump. However, I still think “The Burbs” is pretty good, just not as good “Saving Private Ryan.”

Here’s the story. Ray Peterson (Tom Hanks) is your typical suburban dad. A little bored with life and trying to get through life while dealing with his crazy neighbors including ex-military Rumsfield (Bruce Dern), the jack-ass kid across the street Ricky (Corey Feldman), and his dimwitted best friend by default Art (Rick Ducommun). Everything is kooky suburban life until the Klopecks (Courtney Gaines, Brother Theodore, and Henry Gibson) move in next door. No one ever sees them except at night when they’re digging in their backyard. Weird lights and noises are coming from their basement. Turns out that the last house Klopecks owned burned to the ground. There’s talk of them being satan worshippers and that possibly they’ve opened up a door to hell. When an elderly neighbor goes missing, this rag tag crew takes it upon themselves to figure out what happens. At first it’s a friendly neighborly visit, instigated by Ray’s wife (Carrie Fisher), that ends up being incredibly awkward but informative.

A full on assault (carried out fairly humorously) is carried out on the house with results that finally bring about an explosive conclusion. Tom Hanks actually does a pretty great job, nothing outside of his comfort zone, but great none the less. I especially like the part when he smashes beer cans on his head and then runs into a door.

There’s a good chance that many of the lines in this movie won’t have the same effect on you as they do me, but I’ll always be somewhat nostalgic for

“I want to kill everyone. Satan is good. Satan is our pal. “

“Get out of my yard, Lame-o! “

“I’ve never seen that. I’ve never seen anybody drive their garbage down to the street and bang the hell out of it with a stick. I-I’ve never seen that. “

“That kid next door’s a meatball. “

“Walter. I know you’re in there. That scum-sucking, barking rat of yours has just taken his last dump on my lawn. I find one more- just one- and I’m gonna catch him and staple his ass shut. “

“It came with the frame”

“Hey… Pinocchio! Where are you going? ”

“Oh-ho! Hans! A fine Christian name. Hans Christian Anderson! What are you, Catholic? “

“That’s a shit store anyway. “

“Red rover, red rove, now Ray come on over.”

and of course

“There go the goddamned brownies”

When going over those lines again, I realize just how many strange but entertaining (to me) lines that Bruce Dern had. Also, it doesn’t do good enough job of showing how ‘good’ Cory Feldman was. I wouldn’t say that he should be lauded for a great acting performance – more or less I think he was playing himself, but it totally worked.

There are definitely weird parts (especially Ray’s dreams, although, I guess they’re kind of interesting). On the whole though, the movie is pretty entertaining. It’s not typical really and kinda goes to weird places for a movie about the suburbs. Joe Dante is used to making movies about the suburbs (Gremlins, Explorers, Small Soldiers) but this one is really about the suburbs and a little weirder than the rest. This is probably writer, Dana Olsen‘s, best film which is probably part of the problem. The cinematography, editing, and art direction aren’t anything to write home about. The music is actually pretty good which makes sense considering that Jerry Goldsmith handled it and that dudes got too many Oscar nominations to count.

The movie is probably considered a failure, I just wish that more movies were failures in this way. If you really want to get the full effect, watch the movie a bunch of times as teenager and then check it out again when you’re in your twenties. It will seem great.

As a long time fan I’ve seen more than my share of silliness on his show over the years. Actually, I’m not sure they play that game anymore. I’ve noticed that some games or skits they do on The Late Show for a couple months or even a couple years and then they’re gone. (I almost wrote Late Night instead of The Late Show because that’s the show he was originally on on another network. THAT’S how long I’ve been a fan.) Usually.

“Will It Float” is/was simple. Dave and Paul Shaffer, his sidekick and bandleader, would guess whether something would indeed float when they dropped it a large container of water. I think it was about the size of a small above-ground swimming pool. It could be anything. Sticks of butter. A television set. A flashlight. A suitcase. A bongo drum. A watermelon. I don’t know that they ever used any of the specific items I just listed, but you get the idea.

Then they would have just a little bit of musical fanfare, maybe a drumroll and then they dropped the object or objects into the water and everyone would see if it floated.

Part of the silly fun was the presentation of it as similar to a game show. And how they took it relatively seriously. My kind of humor. One of them, anyway.

I’m pretty sure what he did originally was drop stuff off a multi-story building into a sidestreet or maybe an alley and of course the fall demolished just about everything that they dropped. I believe that was the original bit and I don’t think anyone was doing anything as absurd as Letterman at the time. Now we Letterman-esque stuff on Leno and other shows, but my memory of it was that no one was doing it quite as slightly twisted as Dave.

Johnny Carson did some great skits over the years and Letterman acknowledges him as the master. But Late Night with David Letterman and The Late Show with David Letterman seemed to be more edgy. It wasn’t completely unprecedented. I remember seeing an old bit from the original Candid Camera where Fanny Flag actually drove a car through a bank wall. Really! This was in the time before they had widespread, or perhaps any, drive through banking. This bank had a sign up that advertised drive through banking coming soon or something and she drove the car right through the wall!

This was a kinder, gentler time in some ways and the bank manager and employees were flabbergasted. They didn’t seem to be incredibly angry or quick to phone the police. Fanny calmly explained that she wanted to take advantage of the drive through banking.

But this skit seemed the most outlandish even for Candid Camera and Allen Funt, the original host. I didn’t see the original. I’m not that old. What I saw was a special episode that was devoted to stuff that Candid Camera did in the old days and this episode was in black and white. Later there was another edition of the show with Funt’s son, I think. This was LONG before Punk’d.

Letterman is goofy and bizarre and warm in his way. He became a lot softer to people after he had heart surgery. When I saw Julia Roberts on his show after the surgery she was so loving with him and they seemed like really wonderful friends. Later he became a dad and that softened him further.

My wife didn’t used to like to watch him because he was so harsh to people – especially when you compared him to Johnny Carson or Jay Leno.

My friends and I went to the Johnny Carson show -technically The Tonight Show – but that’s what most people called it. Or they would say that they were going to watch Johnny Carson or just Carson. Here’s Johnny became so famous that many people imitated it. I don’t watch him much but don’t they say, “Here’s Jay Leno!” on The Tonight Show now? David Letterman respected Johnny enough that his introduction is different.

That’s another thing that’s slightly bizarre about Dave. His introduction is almost always fictitious. The announcer will say something like, “And now, the man who made outer space safe for democracy…David Letterman!”

I’m not sure exactly when I realized that I prefer my humor offbeat, but it might have been with Steve Martin and to a lesser extent, Robin Williams. Robin Williams seemed to say things that were literate and (to my teenage ears) naughty.

Steve Martin had an album called Let’s Get Small where he imitated being pulled over by a highway patrolman while a person is high on marijuana. It wasn’t explicit, but that was the undertone. Getting “Small” became a euphemism for getting high. And the skit was really absurd. I think Martin studied philosophy and that was the basis for some of his humor.

I found a video with a sample of Steve Martin from that time period, but it doesn’t have the Let’s Get Small bit. Here it is: Steve Martin Funny Balloon Animals

I strongly recommend getting Let’s Get Small if you are not easily offended. Steve Martin was the first comedian I’m aware of who actually played stadiums as a headliner and that was the point at which he decided to move on from stand-up comedy.

Along with the video above I’ve found an actualy episode of “Will It Float?” from David Letterman.

Will If Float?

You’ll see what I mean about the game show atmosphere and he, Paul Shaffer and Alan Kalter are having great fun with this bit. This was in 2004 and I know for sure that they did this until at least 2007.

Some of you who are real long-time fans will also remember Larry “Bud” Melman who became a minor cult celebrity in his own right. Part of the bizarre appeal was that he was not an attractive man and he seemed to not be competent and he didn’t deal with Letterman in a respectful way sometimes. There was also Brother Theodore who was really out there. Usually angry and spouting some quasi-religious or philosophical nonsense and really not treating Dave with respect. How could this be part of a regular television program and yet it was.

Many will also remember “The Guy Under The Seats”, Chris Elliott, who went on to movies such as Cabin Boy and a supporting role in Groundhog Day with Bill Murray. Here’s Chris Elliott on Letterman.

For my money Letterman is head and shoulders above others on television now, especially Jay Leno. Jay’s not a bad guy but I guess his humor seems more “square” to me. Plus I don’t think he has treated people well over the years. Just my opinion…

Ex

The Black Widow of the title is the darkly beautiful fortune teller Sombra (Carol Forman), who uses her crystal-gazing business as a front for her espionage activity. Like Fu Manchu’s daughter, she’s the henchwoman for an evil foreign mastermind bent on world domination. Her father, Hitomu, is played by grim monologist Brother Theodore, a.k.a. Theodore Gottlieb.

Hitomu is a weird character, and Theodore’s performance is suitably bizarre. Hitomu looks like a stage hypnotist wearing a turban with a fez on top. His plan for world conquest involves stealing the atomic rocket that Prof. Henry Weston (Sam Flint) is working on. Most of the time Hitomu pulls the strings from the background, giving Sombra his orders, then disappearing the same way he appeared — in a puff of smoke.

To do her bidding, Sombra has a pair of loyal henchmen, Dr. Z.V. Jaffa (I. Stanford Jolley) and Nick Ward (Anthony Warde). She’s also a master of disguise. With just a floppy rubber mask and a camera dissolve, Sombra can assume the appearance of any woman she pleases. It should come as no surprise — if you’re familiar with the conventions of serials — that this talent comes in handy week after week.

Opposing the Black Widow Gang at every turn are plucky Daily Clarion reporter Joyce Winters (Virginia Lee, who’s listed in the credits as Virginia Lindley) and amateur criminologist and mystery writer Steve Colt (Bruce Edwards), the creator of the fictional detective “Rodman Crane.”

Joyce and Steve have a mildly antagonistic relationship that’s supposed to be flirty and playful, but it never quite works because Lee and Edwards are such stiff actors. Occasionally, however, it reaches such insane heights that it’s hard not to go along for the ride, like the scene in which Steve handcuffs Joyce to the steering wheel of their car so she won’t follow him, but she detaches the steering wheel and ends up saving Steve from a gunman by attacking the gunman with the steering wheel.

The Black Widow is full of nifty pseudoscientific malarkey like the “Sinetrone,” which uses sound vibrations to destroy atomic rockets, and a tube of rocket fuel that contains “phosphoro,” a deadly chemical that can only be neutralized by “ciprocyllium acid.”

There’s plenty of action, but none of it’s meant to be taken very seriously. And in case you thought it was, the final chapter of the serial ends with Joyce rushing off to investigate a hot tip that Hitler is hiding in the Florida Everglades and Steve calling after her, “Wait for me!”

What the film does have, even with the last act problems, is some of Dante’s most enthusiastic work. The film’s perfectly casted–I counted three times the actors were trying not to laugh during a scene–and he gets these great performances. Olsen’s script sets up these fine characters, Dante and the cast are able to turn them into something even better… then the script abandons them. At one point, Carrie Fisher just disappears. Instead of figuring out how to incorporate her (or even just keep her around), Olsen sends her away. Coincidentally, Fisher disappears about the time the film hits the bumps.

Tom Hanks is very good in the lead. He manages not to get overshadowed by Bruce Dern and Rick Ducommun, who are a lot wackier. Wendy Schaal’s good as Dern’s wife (she too disappears though) and Brother Theodore is hilarious as one of the villains. Corey Feldman is a tad broad… and looks a little old for a teenager.

Amazing Jerry Goldsmith score.

With its marvelous Dante direction, The 'burbs is almost a success.

CREDITS

Directed by Joe Dante; written by Dana Olsen; director of photography, Robert M. Stevens; edited by Marshall Harvey; music by Jerry Goldsmith; production designer, James H. Spencer; produced by Larry Brezner and Michael Finnell; released by Universal Pictures.

Starring Tom Hanks (Ray Peterson), Bruce Dern (Lt. Mark Rumsfield), Carrie Fisher (Carol Peterson), Rick Ducommun (Art Weingartner), Corey Feldman (Ricky Butler), Wendy Schaal (Bonnie Rumsfield), Henry Gibson (Dr. Werner Klopek), Brother Theodore (Uncle Reuben Klopek), Courtney Gains (Hans Klopek) and Gale Gordon (Walter Seznick).

Related posts:

• Innerspace (1987, Joe Dante)
• Small Soldiers (1998, Joe Dante)
• Gremlins (1984, Joe Dante)
• Gremlins 2: The New Batch (1990, Joe Dante)
• The Hole (2009, Joe Dante)

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Despite its sometimes hackneyed script and implausible situations, The Stranger shows a master in complete control of his craft. The first 15 minutes of the film are some of the most perfect cinematic storytelling I’ve ever seen. Mr. Wilson (Edward G. Robinson), an investigator for the Allied Commission for the Punishment of War Criminals, sets free a Nazi war criminal named Konrad Meinike (Konstantin Shayne) and has him tailed, believing that he will lead them to the secret architect of the Holocaust, Franz Kindler (Welles). Kindler is living in the idyllic little town of Harper, Connecticut, under the name “Charles Rankin” and is a professor at a boy’s school.

Meinike’s journey to find Kindler is an object lesson in how to tell a story with a minimum of dialogue and a maximum of tension. The shots are visually arresting, the editing is rapid without ever being confusing, and the pacing is fast. As openings go, it’s not quite the bravura performance Welles would later put on with his single crane shot that opens Touch of Evil (1958), but it’s just as good in its own way. The disconnect only appears during the first lengthy stretch of dialogue. Once Meinike tracks down Prof. Rankin, the clumsy exposition that Welles grumbles through — which explains who his character is, whom he is marrying, and who his father-in-law will be — sticks out like a sore thumb.

Meinike will prove to be just the beginning of Rankin’s troubles. The noose tightens around his neck as soon as Wilson arrives in town, posing as a dealer in antiques. Robinson plays his role well, in an understated fashion that contrasts nicely with Welles’s bug-eyed histrionics. After a few extreme close-ups of Rankin’s sweaty face as he tells lies to convince his new wife, Mary Longstreet (Loretta Young), that he is an innocent hounded by nefarious forces, there is no doubt about the depths of his villainy.

Not that there every really was any doubt, since Rankin behaves in such a despicable fashion throughout the picture. It’s not just his dinnertime conversation — in which he explicates the warlike soul of the German people and denies that Karl Marx was a German because he was a Jew — it’s his willingness to engage in wet work, killing a troublesome character without a second thought and later beating his new wife’s dog when it attempts to dig up the corpse.

In his review of The Stranger in the July 11, 1946, edition of the NY Times, Bosley Crowther wrote that Welles’s performance “gave no illusion of the sort of depraved and heartless creatures that the Nazi mass-murderers were. He is just Mr. Welles, a young actor, doing a boyishly bad acting job in a role which is highly incredible — another weak feature of the film.” Again, I think this is unfair. Welles got his start in the theater, and as a thespian, he never really grew out of it. His acting was always highly theatrical. He was a man who played to the back row, with grand gestures and a booming voice, but he did so extremely effectively. Not every film performance has to be subtle and understated.

It’s his work behind the camera, however, that really shows Welles in top form. The fast cutting in a scene in a diner, for instance, creates a tense subtext beneath Loretta Young’s seemingly casual banter with Edward G. Robinson by showing each character’s motivations by the looks on their faces. Mary is hiding something, Rankin is coercing her into doing so, and Wilson knows exactly what is going on. Director Welles and editor Ernest J. Nims make it all look easy, but it’s not, or more films would be this well-made.

The film also brilliantly uses sound. For instance, the tolling of the clock in the village square (which the clock-obsessed Rankin has fixed) underscores the tension in the film’s final half hour. The bonging of the clock has a peculiar timbre, and sounds more like incidental music from a ’70s or ’80s suspense or horror flick than any soundtrack from the ’40s I’ve ever heard before. The score itself, by Bronislau Kaper, is quite good, too, and is reminiscent of the work of Bernard Herrmann.

The screenplay, by Anthony Veiller, from a story by Victor Trivas, was imposed on Welles by the studio. The studio and the producer, Sam Spiegel (listed in the credits as “S.P. Eagle”), made plenty of other decisions Welles didn’t like. For instance, Welles wanted Agnes Moorehead to play the part of Wilson, but they forced him to go with Robinson. As far as the studio was concerned, however, everything worked out for the best, since The Stranger was the only film Welles directed that ever made a profit during its initial theatrical run.

The Stranger is a potboiler, to be sure, but it’s such a brilliantly edited, directed, and acted potboiler that it’s remarkable. This is one of those rare movies that I looked forward to seeing again as soon as it was over.

Show the clip. It’s clean. If you muck about on YouTube you’ll find more, but the sound quality wavers. I have included a written piece below it that may or may not be his words or simply a tribute to the man. It is secondary, but interesting (note some of the language and images).

Monologue 1
Brother Theodore

1928: It’s a new day in Germany. Every single one of the 52 titles your father publishes says so, reporting on fashion and beauty and health: gone are corsets, repression, and the stuffy air of the old, Prussian way of life, here are the two beautiful words, “Weimar”, the home of the Enlightenment, and “Republic”, the inverse of the old world of Kings and Princes. Everything is full of life and light: that new jazz music, the new houses made of glass and steel, the great department store, KaDeWe, founded the year you were born, the new women, with their slim figures and short dresses, the automobile, and the telephone, and the aeroplane.

But you, you want nothing of it: you’d much rather listen to Gustav Mahler, or old songs from your grandfather’s day. You love poetry: not only that of your own country, of Goethe, of Schiller, and Novalis, but the French Symbolists, Baudelaire and Rimbaud and the English Romantics, Byron, Shelley, and Keats, and especially Edgar Allen Poe, the American, and even those new poets -your father calls them hacks- H.P.Lovecraft and Clark Ashton Smith. You read them for their darkness and their silences. In Cologne, you took what your father called “useless” courses — art and philosophy, as old and as deep as the University itself, but delighted in the near-contemporary works of Nietzsche and Schopenhauer, and the emerging Expressionist movement.

You’ve always been this way, as far as you can remember. Your mother (and your nurse) despaired to know the cause, and you’re sure you’ve gone through every treatment available to cure it: mineral water (in every orifice, plus much bathing –just your luck you live near most of the major spas), special diets (your parents seemed to have a different one every week), exercise in the Turnhall(ditto), drugs, psychotherapy, sunbathing, everyone’s either trying to pull you into a new age or drag you back to a more natural one…Doctors can find nothing wrong with you. You’re perfectly healthy, short, but very fit, with a rich, musical voice, a square jaw, sparkling dark eyes and high cheekbones, and although you’re not looking to marry any time soon, very attractive to the ladies, whom you treat with the manners of the Hapsburg court.

You’re standing out in the terrace, looking out over the woods, to where the clouds rage in a Spring rain. Your mother is telling you to come back to the party, where they’re all drinking wine and cocktails, and…would you read some poetry? All the girls love you. “Speak. You speak Goethe’s poetry, with Goethe’s authentic voice. You are a scholar, a corpsman, with a baccalaureate from Cologne.”

“And besides,” she says, smiling. “what’s so bad your Father’s money won’t fix?”

You rejoin the party, where in the corner, some bearded gentleman is loudly holding forth on “the charnel house of the modern kitchen” and the merits of nudity and vegetarianism…

The ladies nod, yes, yes….

1938:It’s ten years later. You’re fighting for your life, and all the Nazis want is your father’s money. You live in a place that no one a few years ago would have ever thought could have been possible: a slave labor camp in a town heretofore distinguished only by an art school.
And you’re beginning to see that life in a horror novel is not so thrilling, when you wake up in it every morning, to shit and blood and the dead bodies that smell like decaying pigs. You’ve seen people torn apart by German Shepherds, the noblest of dogs!, with SS standing by, laughing.In some ways, it’s as if the diet doctors had taken over the country — time and time again, you’ve heard the Jews — your people! — described as a pestilence, a plague, a disease rotting away the national fabric, like one of the diet doctors’ ailments.

But you learn something. A sense of humor. A dry, mordant, biting sense of humor. They can’t take that away, can’t make me feel like I’m a piece of rancid pork waiting to happen, I’m a poet, a scholar from Cologne, who speaks in the true voice of Goethe….And then it hits you. All your adolescence, you’d heard of the smell of dead bodies being described as being horrific, the worst ever thing you can smell. And all the diet doctors talking about the charred and boiled corpses of animals…And it’s true. Corpses aren’t the worst, they smell like…bad meat! You laugh, and laugh and laugh over again, and know that you can never be frightened again.

The SS has agreed to release you, and guarantee the safety of your family, if you will give over the family fortune for one Reichsmark.
You walk free six weeks later, to Switzerland, with the help of your mother’s friend Albert Einstein.

As for the rest of your family, as you found out later, the Nazis lied.

1958-72 It’s twenty years later. You’re married, finally. There’s this thing, called ‘sick humor’. You’ve been a chess hustler, (and deported for same), a janitor at Stanford University (and beat 30 of their professors in a simultaneous chess match). You never thought of yourself as ‘strong’, or ‘tough’, but you are, a compact little package, that can deal with anything from dock work to mean drunks. At one point, you wanted to be in movies, and met Orson Welles, but you never made it past bit-player status. Although you sometimes teach German (as a tutor and substitute teacher) you’re now a comedian.

Not like the others, who’ve honed their craft in vaudeville and up in the Catskills, you speak to those you know. College students. Other survivors. People who understand. Your English is excellent, but for the accent that sounds foreign even for a German, which only you seem to know, is miles more educated than those Easterner peasants everyone calls “Yiddish” (you pronounce your semi-blasphemous name as “T’hay-a-dor-(ə), as you’ve been taught to pronounce Attic Greek). You’ve moved to New York, and there it is you will stay.

You’ve ditched any hope of introducing Goethe to anyone but your students, so you stick to Poe, and pastiches of things you’ve read, the pessimistic philosophers, the Symbolist poets, the wild Expressionist writings you recall, even the diet doctors, whose vehement sermons you deliver with the screaming demogogery of a National Socialist, in a Walpurgisnacht of dark imagery, as the audience screams and cries with laughter, and nervously laughs with fright..you call it “stand-up tragedy”. Now and then, you’ll become gentle, and pay court to a young woman who strikes your fancy: at your suave charm, she shrinks away, as if you were a rotting corpse.

Because of your dark clothing they call you “Father”, or “Brother”, it
seems to suit you, and you rarely correct them. You play night clubs, coffee houses, you cut a 45 (a makeover of “Berenice”), and now and then, you’re on television.

Television! Yes! The Joey Bishop Show, Merv Griffin, even Johnny Carson. Life couldn’t be better, eh?

1974:It’s the mid-Seventies. The country is a vapid wasteland, as far as you’re concerned. Everyone smiles and wants to be in California, the beatnik era is over, rock music gives you a headache, and there are these odd-looking young folks in black who look like Nazis roaming around. Yeah, it was fun, but the nightclub act petered out after awhile, and Johnny Carson blackballed you after you remarked (to a guest from the Hemlock Society) that you know at least five methods of suicide (having seen them at Dachau) — “and all of them work!” (with laughter and smiles). Your son tells you that you should take it easier, stop bicycling everywhere. On your days off, you take long walks in Central Park and elsewhere, musing on death and the nature of life.. But there’s a place that wants you, that ordinarily holds magic acts…could you do midnight shows? The ads read “Master of the Macabre” and have a sprightly Expressionist caricature of you. You agree, but ask for an admission price of only four dollars. The man is insisting on ten, or even more…just look at how well “Cabaret” did! No, you say, who is going to want to see an old man?…

1980- 2001 The ads read Brother Theodore, with a photograph, place and time. Nothing more. People don’t need anything more. Your backdrop is simply black, you have a table, a chair, a cup of water, and a chalkboard. You do two shows: one on “Foodism”, where you try to talk people out of eating, and one on “Quadrupedalism”, where you demonstrate how much better life would be on all fours. Sometimes, you switch off, mid-show. It’s always the same, and yet, always different. Some people seem to come around every week.

You’re back on TV, and this Letterman person, he’s always interrupting…but a whole lot of young comedians claim you as a major inspiration. Woody Allen, Bogosian, Seinfeld…

Oddly, the older you get, the more people like you: the girl whose cheek you kiss is more likely to pull towards you, than to push you away, these days. (You establish a way to ditch her a moment later, to keep the show going, but see her beaming — his! the one!– as she leaves.) The ferocious-looking young people, with their leather and spikes and Aryan looks, smile and wave if they see you on the street.

“Yo, Bro!”

“Servus!” you call back,”Bruder Corpsmann!”, not caring if they can understand.

And they glow.

You smile, too. When people talk to you out of character, they’re charmed and amazed, not by Herr Doktor, but by you. How well-mannered and well-read you are, your tale (that a few years before was hardly believed) of despair and survival. “Where there’s death, there’s hope!” you joke, knowing that you are finally having the last laugh. They want to know what you really eat and drink. “Ah, Chinese take-out. Macrobiotic foods. Meat, drink not so much. And my doctor tells me no, but sweet things. All sweet things. I get enough exercise doing shows: but really, try creeping a few times a week! You want to be as old as I, do the same.” Your girlfriend is fifty years younger than you, and to see babies and flowers makes you feel light, and peaceful. At night you dream of becoming a swan, swimming in the East River. Someone asks about your girlfriend.

“You know, I’m not half bad of a lover.”
I can only think yes, I’m sure you were, you devil.

UPDATE: Welcome Ed Driscoll readers!

Some people don’t remember Letterman’s NBC days when his show was frequently chaotic and defined comedy in many ways during the 80′s.  Since he moved to the 11:30 slot on CBS (I’m worried about you, Conan) he mellowed out.  We’ve talked about the great Andy Kaufman appearances on Letterman.  Here are some other great chaotic clips from NBC Letterman.

Here’s the Cripin Glover on acid appearance where Dave walked off the show for the first and only time.

The great Brother Theodore.  He was a frequent guest and it’s worth hunting down his other appearances on youtube.

and here’s Joaquin Phoenix’s appearance last night.

Phoenix is a wildly talented actor (Walk The Line anyone?) and this is clearly a put-on.  The discussion this morning should be about how brilliant the two were last night.  Letterman was as quick as I’ve seen him in years and was clearly inspired by Phoenix’s performance.  Bravo!

The greatest purveyor of stand-up tragedy in the history of mankind. Watch Letterman’s reactions to Theodore.

Part 2

“I’m just plain folks!” Amazing…

The Last Unicorn (1982)
Rated: G
Written by Peter S. Beagle
Directed by Arthur Rankin Jr. and Jules Bass
Starring: Mia Farrow, Alan Arkin, Angela Lansbury, Jeff Bridges, Tammy Grimes, Robert Klien
Tagline: There’s Magic in Believing!

By: Shelley Stillo

I was never really a unicorn kind of girl when I was a kid. I was more into Star Wars and doing unspeakable things to my small collection of Barbie dolls. But I must’ve seen the movie The Last Unicorn several hundred times before I was a teenager, starting at five or six years old. Part of this repeat viewing habit came from the fact that my parents, like many others, took full advantage of the VHS as babysitter trend that emerged with the advent affordable home viewing equipment. But it was more than circumstance that drew me to this movie.

The Last Unicorn was one of a handful of animated movies, like The Secret of NIMH, The Hobbit, and Dot and the Bunny, distributed when I was a child that was not released by a major studio. These films provided an alternative to the princesses and talking animals that were the provenance of Disney, but also to the pandering animated dreck, like An American Tail and Land Before Time, that came from the Speilbergian horror, Amblin Entertainment. The material in these non-studio animations tended to be different in terms of content—much of what I remember from The Last Unicorn and similar films seemed designed more for the Dungeons and Dragons crowd than the Mickey Mouse crowd—but also in tone. Something about these films felt less safe, and, to my mind now, more adult than the animation that was more readily available. Need I remind anyone of the childhood trauma that was Watership Down? With the Natsukashi crowd, I think not.

Even though I saw The Last Unicorn more times than I can count as a child, my memory of it has become very clouded since my last viewing, which has to have been at least 15-20 years ago. What has stuck with me from the film has stuck with me quite vividly, though. What I remember:

• an intense scene about a harpy. I’m not entirely sure what happened in this scene, but I remember it being scary, and I remember that as a child I found it something like profound.
• I remember something about a clock and another scary image, the Red Bull. When I think of these images, I feel like the film had a fairly complicated mythology for an animated endeavor.
• I can’t forget, can’t imagine anyone who has ever encountered this film at any time for any length of time could forget, the soundtrack, which featured America. The theme song is particularly striking. It’s the kind of song that will be stuck in your head for hours at the mere mention of the film’s title. At the time, I found it emotionally engaging, though thinking about it now, it starts to smell a bit of cheese. “I’m aliiiiiivvveeee”

New memories: Though the story is simpler than I remember, the incomparable vocal (it seems that all roads in my life lead to Christopher Lee!) and animation talents ensure that The Last Unicorn ages much more gracefully than a 1982 cartoon scored by America should. Though I found Mia Farrow’s voice grating, the acting is so good that I even teared up a little during the emotional scene where an aging Molly Grue lashes out at the unicorn for visiting her now, rather than “twenty years ago? Ten years ago? …when I was new?” And Angela Lansbury ensures that the harpy scene is just as scary now as it was when I was the young girl Molly Grue longs to be.

The animation may be even more beautiful in this day and age, when computer generated graphics ensure that most animated experiences are big, loud, and in your face, than it was at the time. The animation here is subtle, full of cool blues and frightening reds, seemingly inspired alternately by Maxfield Parrish and medieval unicorn tapestries. At times, the film effectively and charmingly recalls these tapestries intentionally, and these are some of the film’s most beautiful sequences. It is no surprise to learn that Arthur Rankin and Jules Bass, the producers of the film, often worked with the animation firm Topcraft on their pictures, the firm that help launch Hayao Miyazaki’s career.

The biggest surprise is America’s soundtrack.  “The Last Unicorn” and “Walking Man’s Road” somehow manage to fight off growing any of the musical moldand remain emotionally resonant. They also help the soundtrack stand out as fairly original, as they work more as rock themes than the Broadway-esque musical numbers you find in the Disney and Amblin counterparts. Beware, though, they’re just as mind-numbingly addictive as they were when you were a kid. You’ll be breaking out the hairbrush microphone and the power-ballad facial expressions as you belt out “I’m allliiiiiiiiveeee” for your stuffed animal collection.

Will Shelley still believe in unicorns? Check out the podcast below or download it here.