Charles Schulz

Today marks the tenth year anniversary of Charles Schulz' passing. I almost let it slip by; it was only when last night's episode of The Office made direct mention of the great man himself (and is there a worse example of character assassination than having Erin be ignorant of Snoopy?) that I remembered.

Of all the celebrity deaths I've lived through, his was the only one that brought me to tears. And no, not just a moment to myself to mourn a man that felt like a wise uncle to me, despite my never having met him. I mean I was a mess that entire Sunday. I obsessively taped TV news tributes. I reread strip collections. I marveled at the poetry of his life and death.

Peanuts was the greatest work of American art in the 20th century. For fifty years--a full one-half of that century--Charles Schulz crafted a universe of children who possessed preternatural perception and mother wit, as well as the classic pettiness and vindictiveness. His female characters--Charlotte Braun aside--were so well-defined, so completely their own persons, that they are still not fully understood.

The world is immeasurably richer for having him in it, for a time.

Science Is Whatever We Want It To Be

Nursing an aching back and catching up on some oldies. I had just cued up Grand Funk Railroad's All the Girls in the World Beware when I noticed it was released in 1974. I instantly thought of the Tao of Homer, which states:

“You guys don’t know Grand Funk? The wild shirtless lyrics of Mark Farner? The bone-rattling bass of Mel Schacher? The competent drumwork of Don Brewer?”

"Everyone knows rock attained perfection in 1974. It's a scientific fact."

Oh Lord.

It was way too perfect. Patrick recently wondered if the hit-miss ratio for rock music was demonstrably stronger in '74 than any other year, and after tossing the idea around I let it drop to the ground like the soggy burrito it ultimately was. But this circumstance today was too perfect.

Well, if rock music did reach its apex in 1974, it sure as shit wasn't because of GFR. All the Girls is like every other album I've heard by them: middling. Sometimes it really gels ("Runnin'"), other times it never gets out of the gate ("Look at Granny Run Run"), and frankly it's disheartening. Of ten songs, I liked five. Proof that Homer Simpson is less jerk-ass than blue-collar tin-ear.

It did, however, come over the speakers like friggin' Pet Sounds compared to the album I'd listened to just before: Auto-American by Blondie. I thought there was no way that record could be as bad as its reputation. It is! Debbie Harry's rapping is really the least of the crap! Man, just download "Angels on the Balcony" and save your ears.

Always Beating Carell

Alec Baldwin in front of a camera is a guaranteed good time.

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Everyone at some point in life requires something similar to this legendary scene, a slick, greasy, profanity-ridden call to balls to walls. I got mine recently. Does it count if you give it to yourself, though?

Proclamations

I hereby decree that all musicians will stop doing covers of the following:

"Surrender," Cheap Trick
"Hallelujah," Leonard Cohen
"Walk Away Renee," Left Banke
any and all Beatles songs

Adherence will result in the overall state of music improving by a hearty 64%. Obstinate refusal can lead only to your embarrassment.

2010 And It Begins

So, am I buying this myself or is someone getting it for me?



In less blissfully cute news, I've started the search for a new job. In a county an hours drive from where I live now. Yeah. Do it up.

Take Your Iron Boots and Stick Them Somewhere Uncomfortable

I never finished Ocarina of Time. I may never finish it. I mean shit, it's been eleven years.

It's an anomaly for me to not finish an epic game, which is why I don't feel so bad about admitting that I flat-out gave up during the Water Temple. Hundreds of carrots and rupees sacrificed in the name of horsey acquisition didn't do me in, but constant screen-switching did. I couldn't help it--the equipment screen was beginning to appear in my dreams.

Can you consider a game you never saw all the way to the end with your own gamer hands to be the greatest game of all time? Can you be in such awe of intricate puzzles that required a patience you simply didn't possess? (And by "patience" I also mean, "game guide.")

Thanks to YouTube, I get to see players far better than I do Ocarina walkthroughs. These videos swell up something inside of me, right in the gut, or the craw, just left of my druthers. I am suddenly overwhelmed with the need to revisit the game and finish that fuck. I want to fight Shadow Link. I can beat him. I can beat Ganondorf's phantom pianist ass, and I can take down Ganon. (Mild digression: that last boss battle has got to be one of the most intense of its kind in the medium. When he transforms from 'dorf to beast GANON with the swords bigger than Link himself, my sweet Jesuscakes. The only thing that would make it more undeniably epic is if the instrumental to Danger Mouse's "Change Clothes" remix off the Grey Album started playing. Think the sample, now.)

But then I remember that I just don't have the time anymore. Immersing myself in a fictional world of my own creation rather than that of someone elses is far more important these days.

If only I could have my next book come out in gold.



(Another Ocarina treat, featured on only the first two releases of the game: the original Fire Temple music, complete with Muslim prayer chanting. You can guess why it was removed from future versions.)

Watt is Pigpen

I don't do Peanuts is Timeless anymore, 'cause honestly, I think I've proven the point. Also, the process of hunting down, compiling, and commenting on those links is time-consuming. However, when a particularly superb reference to a character or trope related to the greatest work of American art in the 20th century blips on the radar, I can't pass it up. Ladies and gentlemen, Iggy Pop.

What was your first reaction to the news that the Stooges will be inducted into the Hall of Fame in 2010?
Well, very surprised. I didn't think I'd ever see the inside of that neighborhood actually. Probably because the group had a very long outsider history, going back way back before there was ever a Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. It took us a lot longer to get some sort of general acceptance than probably most people.

You've been eligible for about 15 years or so.
We've been rejected seven times and we would have set a record I think if it happened again. We would have been the record holders I think. The first few times I'd always hear we got nominated about a month after it happened. Then the lag time started decreasing until it'd be the day after, all these people calling me to say "congratulations." It sort of became one of those things like Charlie Brown and the football. And it's always Lucy's idea. I'd run for the damn thing. But somebody every year was nominating us and then it was like, "OK, Stooges, come on, just run and kick the ball." Whoops.

Inducted alongside the Stooges: the Hollies, Genesis, Abba and Jimmy Cliff. A pretty mediocre group, Detroit's near-finest aside. I don't care about Cliff 'cause I don't care about reggae; Abba had some of the greatest pop singles ever, but made full albums as well as I make wedding cakes; the Hollies and Genesis, I look at them the same way--some good songs, but mainly forgettable when not downright terrible. Donna Summer was passed over this year for induction, and "Hot Stuff" on its own destroys anything those last two bands ever put out. Come on, she got a motherfucker who hated disco to do a guitar solo on her disco song.