April is the cruellest month...not in the least because the pinstriped assholes won and the Nationals got killed by the Marlins. All I can ask, as a fan of DC's baseball squadron, is for less than 100 losses this year. Beating the Mets twice would be nice too. (Notice I didn't say, "at all"? I said "twice". That is optimism in the face of your starting pitcher giving up six runs in his first real outing of 2007. May have to bring Alex Ovechkin into the rotation as a stopgap measure. Not like he'll be spending the next few months engaged in any other athletic endeavors, anyway.)
One thing I bet you didn't know about ESPN is, they got experts, son. Like, their Wu-Tang style is immensely strong, and by "Wu-Tang style" I mean "New York bias". Watch "Sportscenter" and you will be fooled into thinking the Mets and the Yankees run baseball, with all the other teams orbiting their combined Gotham awesome on the diamond. A-Rod will cause a mammoth controversy this season when he is overheard at Strawberry Fields in Central Park telling a friend, "Eh, I don't get the big deal. George Harrison was the real genius of the Beatles anyway"; while the Mets will inevitably falter come crunch time, and struggle even greater in the eyes of the media due to the David Wright novelty of last year having worn off, 'cause really, how many saucer-eyed, baby-butt-faced, Roy Hobbs-hearkening players can come along in the nation's premier sports market until you want to projectile-puke on a Derek Jeter poster?
Don't try and sell Tim Kurkjian of ESPN on it though; he predicts a Subway Series in October! Oh golly, that would be super, 'cause America doesn't want good baseball, it wants BIG CITIES and TEAMS THEY KNOW. Hearing certain of the sports media lament last years World Series as "unsexy" and "boring to most of the country" (twas St. Louis and Detroit, if you forgot, or forgot to care) was maddening. Both teams were full of good players (and in St. Louis with Albert Pujols, the very best in the league) and the Cards winning was a great story. The kicker is, the upstart Tigers winning would have been even better. But as was stated: those are Midwest teams. Be East Coast or be irrelevant, is the motto of ESPN.
John Shea, ESPN.com contributor Cubs over White Sox
Battle of the Windy City?
Alfonso Soriano is a selfish talented bastard who will be ducking batteries hurled by overweight schoolchildren at Wrigley Field from midseason onward. If all goes well, anyway. Haters? Nah. Seeing Soriano hit a meaningless home run against the O's last year at RFK was the highlight of the whole trip. Bitter? Sure. Mr. 40/40 used us to pad stats. The team concept was never on his agenda, and it was apparent from the moment he joined the squad and started getting territorial. Again, amazing player...but he'll never win.
Orioles lose. Get used to that.
Royals beat the Sox of Red. This does not bode well for my guarantee that the Nats will at least out perform the Weakin' Blues. Better get steely, Dan.
The Morning Herald "You Said It" section remains bustling with words on local, national and global goings-on. But overbustling?
"To our callers...it has become necessary for the Morning Herald to shorten the time allotted for calls....you should try to limit your calls to 30 seconds.
Quality control on the part of the paper might be a good idea; only one missive of Monday, March 26, was deemed worthy of my blogspace:
"To all of you that say you're an anti-war protester but not an anti-soldier protester, I would like to tell you how wrong you are."
That from Washington County. I had a nice spiel all ready, but then I found another, similar message later in the week, and saved it for that.
TUESDAY, MARCH 27
"Why in the world...would they retry a man who was tried 30 years ago and sentenced to a life term plus years? That doesn't make sense to me."--WILLIAMSPORT
Ah, a reference to a recent story wherein a Hagerstown cop killer may be brought back to trial. I even blogged about it here.
Well, "Weemsport", lemme explain it to you so that it hopefully can make sense. "Judge Beachley found that Melvin Unger's trial judge improperly advised jurors that they were to determine the law as well as the facts of the case. Such instructions were routinely given in Maryland courts until 1980, when the state Court of Appeals ruled that jurors are the finders of facts but not of the law." So not only this case, but a handful of others in the state, are facing possible retrials due to this legal loophole. Is it annoying that it has to happen? Surely. Is it unnecessary? Given the lack of controversy over the original Unger trial, likely. Should it be done at all? Yes. There is no point in having the law if you don't follow it. Words are weapons of mass destruction when it comes to the world of criminal justice; lawyers and judges are simultaneously radars and dischargers.
WEDNESDAY, 3/28
THURSDAY, 3/29
All the controversy about the proposed new hospital for Hagerstown...I just want this city to have a hospital where the ER wait isn't an average of one hour. That's all.
In 1998, I was driven to the Washington County Hospital at 3:30 AM when the pain in my chest became too much to just "ride out". I took a seat and waited to be called. Hell, I anticipated that my current state would precipitate near-immediate care: consistent chest pains, sweating, shortness of breath, inability to speak at an audible level. Surely one does not need more than one half-day of medical school to discern the profundity!
It took 30 minutes for me to be taken in for treatment. In that time, I had added "inability to swallow" to my basket of goodies. Once the nurse got a gander at this young woman in distress, I was led to a stretcher and in no time had a doctor and handful of aides surrounding my prone body, hooking me up to machines and examining my vitals. I had the thought that it was like out of the "ER", but no, "St. Elsewhere", if for no reason other than, the latter was just a better show.
(It was discovered I had costochondritis, which you can read more about at this link. Almost ten years later it still affects my everyday life and can make trying to fall asleep more distressing than anything I face during the day.)
And that's just one of several thousand horror stories. People have been known to wait upwards of four hours for emergency care. Frankly, if the new hospital means quicker care, then it's what is owed the city. People should want what is owed them.
FRIDAY, MARCH 30
"In response to the church organist who feels underappreciated, the only thing I have to say to you is serve your God, then serve yourself"--SMITHSBURG.
First off, you didn't say that; some fucker else did. Second off, church organists do happen to be severly overlooked. Did you ever see the "Bart Sells His Soul" episode of The Simpsons? Did that poor elderly woman get any love after her exhausting version of "In-A-Gadda-Vida"? Precisely.
Funnily enough, in the same section:
"Beaver Creek Christian Church has a one and only organist....every one of us appreciates her and has her on a pedestal, and she knows it. We love her."
Well, super. How is she going to want to serve God fully now that you've given her simple earthly praise? This country is going insane!
"I'm calling to congratulate all those people who support the troops but they don't support what the troops are sent there for. That's like saying I support the cops, but I don't support the cops arresting people."
I support good cops making solid arrests. I do not support dirty cops treating the badge and the people they are sworn to serve like dog shit. Similarly, I have admiration and respect for good-hearted, sincere, decent members of our military and unfathomable sympathy over their current condition. I really am overcome with a sincere sadness when I think of the physical/psychological injury and death borne of the circuitous conflict. War is Hell...it may sometimes be a necessary evil. In this case, I feel it is not. That is why so many are speaking out in support of brave people trapped in a coward's global game of "mine's bigger'n yers".
See, some of us can make a distinction, thanks to our friend "the brain." It's a super thing to have in one's head; among many awesome advantages, it keeps us from laughing when we tickle ourselves. It also stores memories of auditory and visual experiences so that we may remember them later and either learn from them or relive certain emotions through them. When one uses "the brain", they may then understand how one can have seemingly contradictory feelings on a certain topic. For "the brain", when used well, shows us the frequent fallacy of syllogisms, ie:
So when I say that my personal choice for "greatest album cover" of all-time features a comical Satan, I won't be surprised or offended when you jump in with, "Ahh, yeah. 'Satan Is Real'. Lovin Brothers. Hilarious." That particular cover has reached iconic status even among folks who don't peruse web sites devoted to collecting and displaying wacked out cover art, like this one. Admittedly, it's great; two milquetoast thin men pictured in the midst of exaltation while behind them a ridiculously huge wooden Satan oversees flaming tires. But it's not sharp enough, the overall appearance far from crisp. This matters to me.
Behold...
I have never heard the contents of this record. I rather shudder to contemplate what such an experience would do to my notoriously tender soul. Might send me inside any of the 391 churches I pass on my way to work, for one. Or, inside any of the 420 bars I pass on the same trek. (I do have an audio file on disc of Van Impe sermonizing on the sexual revolution, with hilarious results. When I dig it up, I will share. Let's just say, Jack Van Impe don't give a shit about your orgasms, bitches!)
What's to love?
The use of color is brutally effective: one half vertical red, the other vertical black. The lettering and--crucially!--the cross are white.
The head 'n' shoulders profile shot of our humbling host is intended to express that this man proselytizing within brooks no secular nonsense. Gaze upon the expansive forehead, the tight-lipped half-smile as he considers the very little odds that the minions of Lucifer stand against his formidable combined shields of unbreakable piety and a head of hair blessed with all the V05 God's willed allowed. Please note that said picture is framed by a white square. Holiest of holies, color I shall smite thee.
Now--if you can summon forth the necessary inner strength--let's check out the Satan side of the cover.
White letters spell out the seemingly-contradictory title, which seems to be blemished by a rather devilish acne breakout. Hey, I know facial bumps'n'craters aren't exactly sightly, but it's rather rude to equate them with the Habitation of Fallen Angels. Underneath the title are several other words equating with what Christians call Hell (Hades, Gehenna, Tartarus) and the beckoning words--IS IT THE GRAVE? The question mark may seem needlessly greater than the actual words, but these religious record makers are far from foolish; why would you want to listen to Jack Van Impe preach his glorious sermon if you didn't want answers? Christians are always thinking, even when it seems they are not! Which is so very often! But we must remember, thoughts that are not very logical are still thoughts. See, I'm trying to be tolerant and set the good example.
Standing in the middle of some isolated flames, right next to the title like it's his drinking buddy is Satan--a bad Don, indeed.
Except...he's not. Look how small he is. Certainly it is not feasible to expect that the artists would render the Dark Lord to scale, but there's a certain standard we have come to adhere to. The Satan depicted here looks like a goddamn Gummi candy. How am I supposed to pledge to further my soul against the Devil when said evil angel appears before me in such a way that I want to go to 7-11 and raid the entire sweets section? Also, the poor state of his teeth seems to suggest that Satan is English, and golly, that's just xenophobic and inaccurate. I've been to England twice, and let me assure you...Satan wouldn't fucking bother.
So far, an awesome blend. It just needs one more element, one more outrageously silly...YES!
Why is Gummi Satan holding a pitchfork that is easily twice as long as he is? How unwieldy is that? "Obey my word, or I will have to make a few clumsy attempts at stabbing you!" Seriously, I don't think Satan even holds it any way but vertically. By the time he was able to maneuver it into position to give you some extra holes, you could have him in a figure four leglock. (Satan must hate when deceased wrestlers end up in his fiery realm, what a blow to his self-esteem. Wouldn't surprise me if he made a deal with God to send Lou Thesz to Heaven after one double wrist lock too many.)
"But that's the brilliance of it, woman! God is trying to show how ludicrous Satan is, and summarily, how ludicrous any human would be to worship such a foolish-looking charlatan! You can either find out through the Word of God, or a comical depiction on a record of sermons. You wanna do it the easy way or the hard way?!"
There you have it. Frankly, the cover to Hell Without Hell never fails to bring a chuckle of wonderment to this agnostic gal. Its almost enough to make me rethink my opinion that the world would be improved by the instant obliteration of organized religion. That's a scary five seconds in my brain, lemme tell ya.
Mind you, Vanity Fair proclaimed irony dead after 9/11 and that ended up becoming more prevalent and intolerable.
So listeners have become so blase about the oversaturation of available music that they will now give a similar lack of a shit about degraded audio becoming the de riguer form of enjoying songs? MP3's are so convenient...and as with so many things preferable due to their accessibility and expedience, they're half-assed at their best. Lossy audio formats are unacceptable in the live trading community, so why should they be fine and dandy for actual studio recordings?
It's a disgusting turn of events, and I'm not sure who to be more enraged at, the rich-beyond-sanity motherfucks who still crave more bucks and thus take turns inventing/exploiting every gadget-based trend or the schlubbos who have no respect for art and artists. I'll be damned if I let any of them tell me how to listen. I check MP3s of new albums and if I like the album, I delete the MP3's and buy the actual CD. It sounds better, and I love having shelves of plastic cases. I love the physical experience of taking one and opening it, placing the disc in the player, and even checking out the booklet. Now, if I come across an album I've downloaded that only has a few good songs, will I burn those tracks in lieu of wasting my money? Yes. That's what downloading is good for...previewing someone's work to see if it's worth my cash.
If this causes artists to freak and try to make every song a single so people will listen...bye bye good music.
Time to take it back underground. Fuck the Applefied nation. I'm not dissing technology; I'm on the Internet too much to do that with a cara polo visage. But I'm sick of i-this and i-that. "May as well embrace it", I hear, "it's going to be the norm." Yeah thanks, Steve Jobs. Stop trying to convince me that the way I listen to music is outdated or even wrong. Think about the effects of treating art as a Pop-Tart.
Don't let music be relegated to the background of your life. Don't let hard-working musicians feel hopeless and desperate. Don't settle for 128 kps. Don't cling to the iPod like a security blanket. Take the time to love music.
HOLLYWOOD, Florida (CNN) -- Anna Nicole Smith does not appear to be a victim of foul play, according to preliminary results of an autopsy performed Friday.
Seminole Police Chief Charlie Tiger said prescription drugs were found in Smith's hotel room. However, Perper said no drugs were found in her stomach.
Smith died Thursday after her private nurse found her unresponsive in her room at the Seminole Hard Rock Hotel & Casino in Hollywood, Florida.
"There are a number of possibilities," Perper said, including natural causes, a drug reaction or some combination of causes.
Perper said there was no indication of blunt-force trauma, asphyxiation or other physical trauma.
He said Smith had a small bruise on her back, which probably resulted from a fall in the bathtub earlier in the week.
The medical examiner said his office is awaiting results of toxicological and other tests, but there were no drugs in Smith's stomach.
He said if she had taken a large number of pills, some of the medicine would have remained in the stomach.
Astonishing, no? Of course it's fucking not.
This recently departed "busty blonde" was obsessed with Marilyn Monroe. She aped her fashion sense, sought to act in a remake of Monroe's "Niagara", and even blessed one of her canine companions with the name of her hero. Some of those close to Anna Nicole have stated that she also yearned to leave the world like Marilyn--still young, still gorgeous.
The story persists and festers and expands grotesquely day after exasperating day. The gossip culture needs its own modern Marilyn. Craves it and will cultivate it by any means necessary.
Never mind the the former Norma Jean Baker actually made some memorable performances in some memorable films ("Some Like It Hot", "How To Marry a Millionaire") while Anna Nicole acted so poorly that a "Razzie" award would be an honor. Or that Marilyn Monroe was actually attractive and followed no one before her.
If the proper connections cannot be made in life, well then, look to death.
A large chunk of the Monroe mystique is the seedy mystery surrounding August 5, 1962, the open-ended questions, the whispers that echo greater than shouts even 45 years on. This recent development for the Smith tale no doubt diminishes the flame born of two million calloused hands rubbing together two million toothpicks. Sure, the industrious soul-suckers will twist words like Barbie doll heads and tell us "A means B" and "tiny bruise on the back" is actually "gaping icepick wound to the neck." Oh my God, will we ever know the truth?
Hell, even the soap operas surrounding each woman's demises are day and night. Read any number of reflections, histories, recollections, theories or "exposes" on Marilyn's passing--you will see, over and over, names like John F. Kennedy, Robert F. Kennedy, Sam Giancana. Now that's a President, a Senator well on his way to the highest office in the land if not for a bullet to the head of controversial close proximity, and a friggin' Mafia boss. Today's celeb-culture would literally maim for that A-list. I mean, you'd have to deal with the inevitable C-lister, in this case actor and Kennedy-in-law Peter Lawford, but that's no problem when the world can be so enthralled by the political and criminal intrigue of the stars!
Well, this Anna Nicole drama is full of nothing but Peter Lawfords. Howard K. Stern, lawyer? Congratulations on not being the most famous guy with that name. Zsa Zsa Gabor's husband? I must confess I did not know she was already on marriage 45, although I must marshal due respect for any woman who snags a man nearly 25 years her junior (even if he does bear a resemblance to the killer dwarf in "Don't Look Now.")
(If the idea of a cerebral horror movie with lietmotivs by the barrelful appeals to you, I would not hesitate to check out that movie.)
Then we have Larry Birkhead. I am tickled that he is described as a "entertainment photojournalist." Dude takes pictures. He is probably snapping some heart-rending shots of his own teary face as we speak. I swear all the best male photographers are gay, and yes that peeves me. I want Richard Avedon in on this scandal so bad....
Anna Nicole Smith's most spectacular legacy, then, is her demonstrable failure at imitating her idol in life or death. Acting in movies, fucking lots of schlubby dudes, courting the bipolar adoration/calumniation of the press and shuffling off this mortal coil in defiance of the established life span is not cutting das mustard.
Washington County Circuit Court judge ruled Friday that a man convicted of killing a Hagerstown police officer more than 30 years ago is entitled to a new trial.
Washington County Deputy State's Attorney Joseph S. Michael said his office and the Maryland Attorney General's Office will appeal the ruling in the Special Court of Appeals to retry Merle W. Unger Jr.
Unger, 57, is serving a sentence of life plus 40 years for murdering Officer Donald Kline during a gun battle on Dec. 13, 1975.
Kline was off duty and tried to arrest Unger after he robbed a Hagerstown business.
Unger will remain in prison while the appeal is processed.
"We are confident that Mr. Unger will serve the rest of his life in jail for killing Donald Kline. ... We believe Mr. Unger got a fair trial," Michael said during a Tuesday press conference where he was flanked by a handful of Hagerstown police officers.
Michael said the ruling of a higher court in a case similar to Unger's prompted Washington County Circuit Judge Donald E. Beachley to order another trial.
The Washington County State's Attorney's Office is disappointed by the ruling, but understands that Beachley was bound by law to make his decision, Michael said.
Unger has escaped from custody at least eight times, Michael said. Authorities will take special precautions to ensure that doesn't happen again should another trial occur, he said.
If the case is tried again, Michael said Unger's confession to Kline's murder probably would be reintroduced.
"We expect all of that evidence to bear against him again. ... It is still possible there won't be another trial," Michael said.
The Maryland Attorney's General Office will argue the appeal, he said. The Washington County State's Attorney's Office would retry the case.
Hagerstown Police Chief Arthur Smith said he regretted that Kline's family will have to "relive this again."
Seeing this in the "old-fashioned" version of The Herald Mail gave me a jerk of recognition.
The murder of Officer Donald Kline occurred two years prior to my birth, so this story didn't dredge up unpleasant memories of outrage and despair over the callous dispatch of an officer of the law. Nor did anyone in my family know Kline. However, within a few years after this tragedy, our clan would welcome two Hagerstown PD street cops into the circle. One married my oldest sister; he would eventually rise to the rank of Lieutenant and retire with honor. The other wed my second-oldest sister; in life and in vocation, he never rose beyond the status of bitter grunt. Their marriage lacked the durability of its counterpart, ending after eight years. Despite the passage of 13 years since this divorce, this walking talking bit of detritus has kept a steadily nagging (some may even say "stalker-ish") presence in my sisters life--bipolar correspondence left sticking from windshield wipers, vague phone calls regarding the couples trio of classically-alienated sons. Although he now resides in Clear Spring, it's plain to see that those years spent cruising and pounding the perpetually-cracked pavement of Hagerstown as one of its blue finest ingrained in him not only the cynicism, racism, sexism and xenophobia that become trademarks of so many in that line of work, but also the tendency to impose yourself in the life of an ex that so many males in the Hub City possess. (Yes, of course women do this almost as an art form, which is why the preponderence of men unable to move the hell on when a relationship has been ended is by turns puzzling, hilarious, and sad.) I speak more from the experience of friends than myself here; how many times have I had to hear the sad lament of the woman who has had to change her cell # over a rejected former love who calls six times daily just to ask:
1. "Um, what're ya up to?" 2. "So how long are you gonna keep this up till you come back? C'mon." 3. "If you're free, you wanna go to Ledos? I'll pay."
Fortunately, I have no horror stories along the line of, "My friend was butchered by her ex-boyfriend and half her body fed to his bull terrier." Although it is no exaggeration whatsoever to admit that I and other family members have fretted hours about the potential of our sister ending up as a victim. As long as he's alive, that will always remain in our minds.
Times were once better. The now-pariah once ingratiated himself into the hearts of his folks-in-law by arranging for our family reunions to be held at the FOP Lodge. For three straight years, all told. I was in my preteens when these functions occurred, still young enough to be wowed at the drive to, and size of, the actual lodge and surrounding land. The world seeming smaller as you get bigger (read: older) is a cliche, but only for being utterly true.
At this point I was just beginning to hit my peak in terms of antisocial behavior. As my sisters, in-laws, and brats spawned therefrom all mulled and milled around, as tables and chairs were being appropriately placed, as the TV blared some meaningful baseball game (the fact that asshole ex-brother-in-law is a Yankees fanatic is reason no. 876 to despise those pin-striped dickheads), I would be sitting at the far end of a black leather couch, speaking only when spoken to, my verbal economy borne of the discomfort and ennui that would soon intensify when I entered the sheer hellish miasma of high school.
Of all the police paraphernalia displayed within the wood-panelled lodge, nothing impacted my eyes and mind like the black-and-white framed headshots of slain local police, hung in memoriam. There were...four, five? No more than that, just enough to solemnly line one-half of the wall the TV was placed against. The only one I can recall is Donald Kline. Mind you, I never remembered his name; but when I read the front page article yesterday and saw the photo of the officer in question...it was the very same picture as was hung at the FOP Lodge.
The face of Officer Donald Kline as captured in that photograph struck me superficially as belonging to a cop of two decades earlier. A Car 54, Where Are You?-type visage. The lack of color doubtless contributed to and encouraged this impression, but there was more. The fullness of the face, dark hair thinning and slicked-back, prominent ears which struck me most of all. He looked, even in spite of the presence of a discernible dimple, like an exacting type of cop. The type who breathed the badge, who lived for the unpredictability of the streets, the camaraderie of the job, the prestige of the position...the precise kind of cop who, off-duty, would make it his business to try and stop a robbery in progress.
For the time that has elapsed since those family reunions--about 17 years--I have seen, read and heard about many cop killings. As we all have. In almost every instance I have remembered the stern face of that cop whose name, until just recently, I had forgotten. Even when the deaths are fictional.
In my favorite novel of all time, 1974's The Choirboys(a fantastically riveting story of ten LAPD patrolmen written by former cop Joseph Wambaugh) the elder of the foot soldiers is shown shortly after roll call beseeching a lieutenant to hang the framed portrait of his former partner, a recent on-duty suicide, in the precinct along with the other men so honored for losing their lives while in service of the city of Los Angeles. The supervising officer refuses, reminding the infuriated beat cop that, unlike his beloved partner, those men were murdered in the midst of performing police duty. He is unmoved at the officer's insistence that a cop turning the gun on himself is doing so mainly due to the incredible stress brought on by the job, and can thus be said to have died as a result of his police duties as much as the cop who was blasted twice in the head point-blank while trying to break up a robbery.
The detail of the framed portrait took me right back to the one I had seen in the Lodge. I could never shake it. It wasn't that it made me uneasy, mind; just I firmly believe everyone of us has a story, and a damned interesting story at that, and the fact that this officer's tale ended so obviously abruptly fascinated me. ------------------------------------- Remember the asshole I used to refer to as my brother-in-law? Well, he and my sister used to live directly next door to my parents when I still lived there, and the proximity cannot be understated. By this time, I was well into high school and the antisocial behavior alluded to earlier was now in bloom. During one particularly brilliant summer I grew fond of going up to the attic and crawling my chunkafied frame out through the window onto the roof. Right next to our window was one where I could peer into my sisters attic. It struck me to check if their window was in any way secured. It was not, and I giddily lifted it and plunged my big self forward.
Amid the piles of toy packaging and decimated Nerf basketball hoops I stumbled--quietly as possible--upon quite the treasure, what I came to recognize as "His Stash." Police procedural manuals, high school yearbooks, Yankees memorabilia, Joseph Wambaugh novels (already a devoted JoWa reader at this time, I was wowed to find these in his possession), and scrapbooks. How many scrapbooks I can't remember; not a hell of a lot. Most of them were filled with clippings from the local paper, detailing some particularly heinous criminal activity, or some outstanding cop heroics. One clipping combined both: the murder of Officer Donald Kline. I was immediately struck--I knew that face, goddamnit. My brother-in-law, I knew by then, was a rookie when the murder went down. I also understood, thanks to Wambaugh's novels, how all cops despaired when a fellow officer was slain.
The impulse to rip the clipping from the page on which it was stuck visited me and left almost in a single step. I placed the scrapbook back and left the attic with some of the police manuals instead.
Melvin Unger will most likely die in prison. Donald Kline will return to the recesses of my memory.
Maligned by many though he was (and may still be), hey--at least Ringo Starr could write some good songs as a solo artist. He truly wasn't some useless clueless stool-stump.
Queen are remembered as "Freddie Mercury and some other guys", but all four members have at least one number one song among their writing credits. Brian May penned "We Will Rock You", Roger Taylor wrote "Crazy Little Thing Called Love", John Deacon pounded out "Another One Bites the Dust", and that frontman of some charisma managed to give us "We Are the Champions."
The greatest band in music history, Sonic Youth, have gone through eight different members over fifteen official releases. None could fairly be deemed "without worth"--Richard Edson brought a funky style no other Yoofskinpounder has dared approach; Bob Bert brought the possibility of his name being "Robert Bert"; Jim Sclavunos has been outed by Lydia Lunch as a bisexual freak fond of anal insertion, in addition to manning the bulk of SY's first full-length; Steve Shelley's tight-as-a-young-boy-ass drumming took the band to uncharted structural terrain; Thurston Moore the lanky foxy guitar heathen with an eternally musical soul; Kim Gordon being the second most amazing woman to walk the earth's face (my mother being number one), a fiery artist with a genuine tendency towards subversion; Lee Ranaldo, space pirate Beat-brat; and latterly, Jim O'Rourke, jack of all trades and master of more than several, with the fashion sense and wanderlust befitting an eclectic genius.
I'm getting at something.
Great bands tend to lack dead weight. It's not a prerequisite, but it's real close. Les Georges Leningrad were an average quartet till they dropped the blonde chick, going instantly from whipped cream hurling Residents yentabes to Quebec's reigning maniacs, the anti-Arcade Fire. As just one example.
But tonight, watching the indispensable DVD collection of Devo'svideography, The Complete Truth About Deevolution, I was reminded of why ifs and buts could give us all happy holidays. Because great bands--certifuckingfiably great--can and do have dead weight.
You know Devo, right? The "Whip It" guys? Those flower-pot wearing NEEEEEEERRRRRRRRRDDDSSSS!? Awesome racket-gang, I think. Their first three records are pyramid pattern classics. The fourth and fifth are very good and very underrated. As for the remainder of their output...nah. Not heading over there. Staying right here in this particular spot of the potato patch, thanks.
In addition to some formidable audio, Devo left a truly stunning legacy in the world of the music video. Fucking around with primitive (groundbreaking at the time) technology, vocalist/bassist Gerald Casale masterminded their mini-films and thus assured Akron, Ohio's finest would be a visual reality as well as a musical one.
Watching these historical clips, a few facts become apparent: 1. Potatos rock. Without them, no french fries. 2. Cross-eyed Asian women would make lousy hitpeople. 3. At the moment of your death, you will taste chocolate donut. 4. "Disco Dancer" really sucks. 5. You wanna know...keep on reading.
Tonight I had an epiphany. The circumstances were near-perfect: last day of work for the week and my boyfriend Patrick and I had just wrapped up a couple hours QT. Mind clouded by the effects of multiple orgasms, I put in the Devo DVD right after putting on some clothes.
"Bob Casale was a useless piece of shit." The brother of Gerald, synthist/guitarist. Honestly I had never given the matter much thought before, and some may argue I'm not really giving it a hell of a lot of thought right now, but it was then I realized: THAT motherfucker, out of all five motherfuckers in the band, was a big ol' do-shit lump. His brother was a genius; Mark Mothersbaugh, the walking talking personification of the entire Devo concept; Bob Mothersbaugh brought great skill and showmanship to his role as guitarist/occasional backing vocalist; Alan Meyers actually looked "devo", like the first time he saw Revenge of the Nerds he cried over the bond he felt with the Anthony Edwards character. But Bob Casale, the fuck?
Patrick is a frequent devil's advocate. "Maybe Bob did a lot in the studio."
I am a frequent persistent bitch. "Okay. or, maybe, as some close to Devo have claimed, Jerry Casale is a self-absorbed paranoid prick who felt so intimidated by the Mothersbaughs he brought in his own sibling to even things up. Like, watch these videos. In 'Whip It', he does shit."
"Well then let's do it. Let's see." Yes, fucking let us. Sans "Jocko Homo" and "Secret Agent Man", both of which are Bob2-free.
DEVO CORPORATE ANTHEM
Hardly Exhibit A, or even Q. Everyone's just saluting the fan blowing their magnificent Devo hair. Bit of a chronology fuck, as this is off their second album, Duty Now For the Future
SATISFACTION
Just a cover, your ass. This is reinvention. Jerry provides a jittery thunder while Mark goggles his way through legendarily lustful lyrics in the classic vocal delivery of a singer who cannot in fact sing. Bob2, aka Casale, congrats...it is not everyone who can be the tallest person in a group and still just manage to blend in. At least Bob1 had the toaster guitar, in case he wanted some Pop Tarts. Bob2 was probably the goddamn Pop Tart gofer for the shoot.
Speaking of toasters, because aren't we as concerned citizens always...I saw this video as a very young gal (the days of MTV not swallowing the entire cock) and was instantly, totally compelled to ape the monkey boys. I stuck the nearest fork in the nearest toaster; but instead of being electrocuted, I was visited by homicidal Care Bears giving Strawberry Shortcake what she had coming to her. WITH TWO BY FOURS. Seriously fucked up my shit. Upon reflection, I wonder if Bob2 has ever had a moment that interesting in his life ever.
COME BACK JONEE
All the party people in the place too busy to be, do you love drunk bowling just like me? Hey Bob2...your backing vocals are dull. And where's your enthusiasm? Everyone's all hyped up except you! "Uh, whoa, don't throw that sign over here pal!"
THE DAY MY BABY GAVE ME A SURPRISE
The first scene of this video is the greatest shot in the warped history of the now-defunct artform.
The band are synching in front of a blue screen, Casales manning keybs with varying results. Gerald is a Mexican jumping bean while Bob is...standing there. Like wow, your focus astonishes me. When the scene shifts to a lab, we see the band administering tests on a young girl; Bob1's, it turns out. Bob2 couldn't even have his OWN kid to use! Loser.
The topper is when the members not named Mark are shown scrolling across a Najavo-blanketed screen: Bob1 rocks out like a mildly-toasted surfer; Gerald bops; Alan the metronome; and Bob2...well, Bob2 is either doing some wacky improvised lower body dance or there's squirrels fighting in his pants.
WORRIED MAN
Part of Neil Young's flick, "Human Highway." My orbs have yet to absorb said movie, and likely never will. I think it can be safely said that Devo's section is the highlight, lambpit.
Devo play nuclear waste transporters who sho 'nuff get the glow. They get to do some acting before bursting into cover song, loading up the truck, and destroying yet another precious patch of the planet. It is decided that Mark gets the Oscar (he already has an Emmy). Patrick deems Gerald the least-convincing ("We're not gonna get ANY breakfast") but I of course make the case for mumbly-ass Bobbo2. Not gonna get any breakfast? Your brother's obviously eating the mashed po-fuckin'-tatos already!
WHIP IT
By their third LP, Freedom of Choice, Devo's music took a poppier turn and their image would enter its most cited phase: energy domes, kid. Which I am still convinced they ripped off from the Snoopy Sno-Cone Machine (a classic which predates this song by 15 years, so UH!).
Now, instead of the spuds being the sole freaks on display, we have a pudgy Hispanic woman in charge of dispensing vittles, cowboys and cowgirls guzzling cheap beer and hooting cheaper innuendo, the Asian woman who's totally seein' double here! and oh yeah, the woman who lets Mark "whip" off her attire.
"And Lily Tomlin got offended by this!" Patrick remarked with a cute smirk.
She did. Devo were all set to perform on the comedienne's talk show when she got wind of this video, deemed it horribly sexist and put the kibosh on the whole shebang. Makes me want to break a rocking chair.
Anyway, Mark and Jerry are center stage trading off vocals, but only Mark is where the action is, so to speak. The other guys are corralled off in a pen, playing away. Alan is the first one we actually see, half his face covered up as he shows off his very-underappreciated skill. Bob1 provides sly, so-key guitwork while Jerry lays down a bed of hot synth punctuated with nasty whipcrack effects. Bob2 plays three notes on the keyb strapped around his neck. Repeatedly. Repetiveness is his job! It's his job to be repetitive! His job!
When the "now whip it!" part kicks in, he is the one responsible for that horror flick-style bed of synth which Patrick claims "makes the song". But did he write it? ANY of it? EVER? Mark and Jerry handled the bulk of the songcrafting, and Bob1 has the awesome distinction of co-writing "Blockhead", but the second Bob?
"Patrick, wait. That's not even the highlight of the song for him."
That would be the closest thing "Whip It" gets to a solo, a single whiny synth note played at the end of each bar.
"Look at that fuckin' determination!" I am by now on the floor as I spit this out, next to the screen, eyes like Stanley Roper, hands gesticulating wildly. "That guy is so fuckin' Devo!" The money shot is Bob2 hitting his note and jutting his chest defiantly forward, as if to say, "Even if I do not write, I play, and I play with the bearing and potency of a Roman god! You would never be so bold as to whip off my apparel."
GIRL U WANT
Should have been Devo's biggest hit, but then I remember the world makes no sense. The spuds are doing it discolored for an audience of screaming gals so homely I actually look fuckable compared to several.
Mark's dancing in this clip inspires Patrick to accuse Erase Errata vocalist Jenny Hoysten of outright fruggin' thievery. Gerald tries his hardest to make the Keytar look cool, but in this matter I have to concur with Dave Mustaine--Lars Ulrich sucks. I mean, the Keytar is a futile attempt by keyboard players to appear as cool as guitarists. Bob1 is winning the game of life with his "potato" guitar slinking out the radio-ready riff that had O-hi-O diehards squealing "sellout!" Even Papa M. (no, not the band) is given lens love, as General Boy is spotted backstage manning the controls of Devo's stage dancers with a glee befitting Mr. Burns about to shut down an orphanage.
Bob2 is once more an impotent penis. Just kinda there. I shit you never, Timbaland put more effort into manipulating this song for Tweet's masturbation smash "Oops! (Oh My)" than Bob2 did this whole shoot. That footage of the fat kid on some antiquated exercise equipment? Eerie foreshadowing.
(Also...homely or not, guaranteed Jerry Casale smashed half those girls, easy.)
FREEDOM OF CHOICE
How 80s can you get? LA Rams headphones, for God's sake.
The first time I watched this DVD and saw this video, I nearly flipped. The scene with the chocolate donuts...I distinctly remember seeing that on MTV as a young girl. In between Huey Lewis and Rod Stewart, no doubt. Patrick was hyena over my bug-eyed reaction.
The choreography is crackin'; check the skateboarders moving perfectly to the music in the beginning.
Bob2 gets to hold onto Mark's leash (he's the dog who licked two bones). It's cute how you can see him jiggle the leash in a sweat-desperate attempt to look like he's doing something. No one loves drummers, but at the end, when the skaterats get Pygmalioned by the Great God Gap, who is invited to join their shadow-altering ranks but Alan Meyers!
THROUGH BEING COOL
Bob1 cowrote this, so score one for cocaine. The band themselves play a minor role; mainly we see actors of questionable dancing ability zapping the Hinky Dink Crew. Although, Devodid give them their spudguns. Not so minor, then.
LOVE WITHOUT ANGER
Funny; when my dad hit my mom, her head never popped off.
Patrick was bemused by this vid for different reasons. "I don't know how you can do. I really am having a hard time telling the Bobs apart."
"Well, okay. For one, Bob Casale is taller. And..."
"Yes?"
"Bob Casale is also the one who's completely fuckin' useless."
"You are relentless."
"Thank you."
BEAUTIFUL WORLD
Gerald Casale's crowning achievement as a video director...and he sticks his baby brother at the end, damn near! HAHA! Tremendous song, too; I have a soft spot for those songs where Jerry sings like he's posing for a sculpture.
TIME OUT FOR FUN
Toffy! The first of the trio of vids from their last great album, all shot on the same stage. More boring Bobness abounds. You bore me, boy! No excuse whatsoever when the song itself is so damn upbeat.
"I love those shots, when they show Mark and Jerry straight on, and Jerry's over his shoulder", Patrick comments. That is coolness quite, but the peach pie prize goes to Bob1. He has a limited part in the song, so when he's not playing, he just stands perfectly still, fists balled on hips and a face frozen in a stare of comical stoicism. When he does play, the facial expressions kill--almost as if the act of picking the strings is excruciatingly painful after all that time spent statue.
Fun fact: Jerry sings on this song. Mark lipsynchs in the video. On the DVD commentary, neither of them comments on this.
PEEK A BOO
That insane laughing, good God. If you ever play this game with your baby and they laugh like that, burn them. Without delay.
THAT'S GOOD
I cannot utter a fib--this has got to be the shining moment of Bob2's life. Oh, I know he has kids, but could children even BEGIN to live up to the glory of THIS? An average song is saved, fucking REDEEMED from the 80s new wave trashbin, by Bob2 swinging his body (and, by extension, keytar) in precise time with the handclaps that punctuate this ditty. Patrick and I were ready to fuck all over again upon witnessing this shocking brilliance. Snoopy hats off to you, Robert! Gerald was so proud, I bet. Aww, hugs in the editing room.
DISCO DANCER
Song sucks. Video sucks. Yay cocaine, huh? No, wait--yayyayo. Rush rush. Hey, who would win in a kickboxing match between Debbie Harry and Paula Abdul? Seriously. Whatever time you waste pondering that is still better than watching this ish.
POST-POST MODERN MAN GVC VERSION
Devo don those "Smooth Noodle Maps" suits, the ones colored like the phones in Duran Duran's "Rio" video. Wow, now there's a videography I need in my collection.
One of the few listenable later Devo tracks. "I'd cry if you died--were I not a post-post modern man!" The open road is duly traversed by our boys after they all rode the train on some Playboy bunny chick, the idyllic adventure shattered by Mexican carjackers. Sucks to be Devo! Bob1 steals the show as per usual by being asleep when the enchilada snackers snatch him from the backseat. Bob2 is shown with the face Patrick gets on those rare occasions I let my teeth slip.
POST-POST MODERN MAN ROCKY SCHENK VERSION
GVC did not direct this QVC-inspired song-ad, and thus the band did not care much for it. Bob2 is bland as ever, but sadly the video as a whole is pretty dull. It's not bad, just not distinguished. I still feel Bob2 coulda saved the day ala "That's Good" by leaping to the forefront and showing the shrinking segment of the garden that still gave a flying spud that golly gosh galoshes, Jerry's little bro DOES have personality, presence, talent, charisma, and all the other characteristics he has failed to show in damn near any other video! Clearly, "That's Good" was a fluke.
The concept is Devo for the conspicuous consumer, ie, Kevlar suits, Snoopy hats, NuTra pomps, flying younguns. But for the maximum fun you can bleed from this succession of images, pop the disc into your computer, and set it up so you can play the scenes where scantily-clad hotties parade around in front of the seated spuds on a loop. Now fire up the hip hop classic "Superhoe" by BDP. Concentrate your gaze on Jerry. SHIT! (If the East Coast is not your syrup, feel free to substitue with Ice-T's "Girls Let's Get Butt Naked and Fuck" for the West flava, or rep the Dirty South with the unimpeachable 2 Live Crew legend, "Me So Horny." It's all Jerry!)
Be sure to cast a glance at Bob2 during this flesh fest; he's just checking those chicks like they're pieces of gallery artwork to be politely appraised. Pussywhip it good!
R U EXPERIENCED?
Not on the actual DVD, 'cause the estate of Jimi Hendrix wasn't having it. Thus, we hunted it down on the Internets. One of 3 listenable songs on "Shout" (guess the other 2 and win cookies), this shows Devo as Grimaces with bowl wigs. Well running dry?
DOCTOR DETROIT
Not on the DVD, 'cause the estate of Dan Akroyd...oh wait, he's not dead. Well, he should be. What an unfunny Canucker he is. Take him out of "Blues Brothers" and substitute him with a wooden martial arts practice dummy named Tetsujin and no one would have noticed.
I have meaningful beef with this cop sucker. As a young lass, I was snug comfy in bed when I happened to stop the TV on one of his Julia Child parody skits he did on SNL. As "she" cuts up a turkey, the knife slips and "blood" spurts prodigiously into the air, onto the counter, the turkey...that shit some people think is comedy singlehandedly ruined something inside me. I feel immediately nauseous and faint when I now see ANY blood--real, fake, in person, on a person, on screen, in tubes. Thanks, asshole.
Nothing makes sense about the movie (professor turned pimp, yes I'll have another) and the video follows suit. Mark is running in place, in what I suppose to be a futile attempt to escape his hairstyle. Ooh, look, Bob2 is fiddlin' with equipment. 'Cause that is what useless loser assholes DO. They man the control panel. (Check "Beautiful World")
Bob1 and Alan are dressed up as cowboys, for which I must again say...bless you, cocaine. Exalted drug of kings!
Dick is all over this clip. Dan Akroyd IS a dick; a rising pink balloon gets pin-popped by a stern-looking Asian woman; Jerry sings his part holding a dildo; and Bob2 gets the meter rising (woo woo) with some broad who's come to help him man the panel. YEAH, BABY, I'D LIKE TO MAN YOUR PANEL! Entirely plausible. Jerry probably fucked that same girl immediately BEFORE AND AFTER that scene was shot. "Here's a ball, Bob2. Perhaps you'd like to bounce it."
So. What have we learned, Charlie Brown? 1. Sonic Youth, Snoop Dogg, Yoshimi, and the Grateful Dead have all given "Peanuts" propers. So why don't Devo acknowledge their obvious debt. Duty now for the dog! 2. Breathing detritus being in your racket-gang DOES NOT automatically impede your overall Awesome. In the case of D-E-V-O, 3 geniuses and a guy what kept beat real good cancelled out that other douche. 3. To have inspired all this, Sir Bobert of casale must have quite a bit going for him. So here's to him! You magnificent bus stop.
