Thursday, December 27, 2018

Spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, spam



Repetition is the sincerest form of flattery. In this art world, this is especially true. Because repetition is the sincerest form of flattery in the visual art world. Live any lover, in the throes of passion, the artist cries, "Do it, again! Do it again!" And so, the artist does. Again and again. The history of visual art is replete with obsessive examples. Monet had his mountain, Slab had his cheese danishes, Jacques Halbert had (and has) his cherries. But these pale in comparison with photographer James Mackay.

In the early 1970, Spam became Mackay's obsessive subject. (It is to this day, but we refer to his peak period.) The photographic artist-photographer captured more than 10,000 images of this now-iconic symbol of consumerism and processed pork shoulder meat.

None is more iconic than "A Study in Spam." (circa 1973). It is, to use a pedestrian term, a wonderful image. So wonderful, we can only wonder what we're wondering about. Let us do so now.

What do we see when we see what we see? A monochromatic image, a photograph created in a darkroom, no ones and zeroes involved. We have entered a world without color, a world defined in shades of grey. Within this world, a tin of SPAM rests on an indeterminate planar surface. Asphalt, perhaps? A badly-maintained badminton court? The tin itself is in harsh focus. Harshly lit from the side, casting a long linear shadow to the viewer's left. Behind it, we see the blurry images of palm trees, the lumpy suggestion of human dwellings, and a contrail in the sky. Or perhaps a darkroom mistake.

At first glance, the image is simple. At second glance, it remains simple. At third glance, not so much.

The figure-ground discordancy of this image creates a fugue state which leads the viewer to question the validity of their own perceptions. The biomorphic indeterminacy of the background creates a subliminal frisson of cognitive dissonance when juxtaposed with the foreground image — the seemingly benign, mechanical/inorganic mass-produced, consumer-oriented geometry of a tin of SPAM (emblazoned with its own lifeless "art" proclaiming the indeterminate "meat" within). Is there, in fact, a Caravaggesque sense of drama and lurking threat within this image? No, there is not. But the question was well worth asking.

I should be called to task if I neglect to mention the artist's use of chiaroscuro. He indeed uses it. A lot. But this pales in comparison to Mackay's use of Spam. His fixation on this subject matter is no less than monomaniacal.

But why? 

According to the artist, "affordability."

Special thanks to the meatpackers of Austin, MN - whose ingenious inclusion of "meat byproducts" — helped to make the purchase price of the subject affordable to the protean artist.

According to the Artist's Statement: "If 'classic' attributes of an image can be correlated to its 'timelessness,' then the Sodium Nitrite and Sodium Nitrate preservatives ensure that this image — and the very contents of the can of SPAM — are relevant to today's artists (and viewers.)

Friday, December 14, 2018

Justice has a new face.

TEASER TRAILER

EXT, BAR, NIGHT

The first thing you see is a Steadicam point-of-view shot. Mystery Man walks into the seedy bar and everybody reacts to him. Funny looks. Expression of derision and loathing. (OK, OK, kinda like that scene in “Terminator II.”) You’re seeing the bar through the man's eyes. You don’t know what he looks like at first.

Mystery Man sits down at the bar.

The guy sitting next to him looks at him contemptuously and starts laughing.

Laughing Guy: You’re not from around here, are you?

Mystery Man doesn’t answer. He takes a picture from his coat and puts it on the bar. A young girl, about 11 years old.

Mystery Man: I’m looking for this girl.

Laughing Guy: How? I don’t see no eyes up there.

Bar reacts with laughter.

Mystery Man: Have you seen this girl?

Laughing Man imitates him, making farting noises into his hand.

More laughter. But the Bartender senses danger. He's not laughing.

Mystery Man: I asked you a simple question. I'm trying to be polite.

Laughing Guy: Uh-huh. (snickering) Well I got another question for you!

Bartender: Lay off, Leroy.

Laughing Guy: (ignoring him) So … What do they call you, anyway, fella? “Buttface” …? “Assface” … ?

Mystery Man reaches out and grabs the Laughing Guy’s hand. That hand is holding a glass of beer. Mystery Man crushes his hand and the glass within. Blood and beer stream out. The Laughing Guy screams.

Mystery Man: (Clint Eastwood-esque) I’ll repeat my question.

Laughing Guy: Eaggghh!

Mystery Man: Have you seen this girl?

Laughing Guy: No, sir! No, I ain’t seen her! Honest! Lemme go! Please!

Mystery Man: Well. Since you asked politely.

Mystery Man releases his hand. Picks up the photo. Walks away. Stops. Turns to look at the horrified bar customers. And the Laughing Guy, who’s turning white and holding his bloody ruined hand.

Anus: The name … is Anus.

Reveal of Mystery Man’s face. It resembles an anus.

And the title appears …


A Man Called “Anus”

In cinemas everywhere. March 1.

Monday, December 10, 2018

Disney on Ice Part Deux


EXT, FROZEN POND -- DAY

Donald Duck looks down at the bloodied corpse of Walt Disney on the ice. Which resembles a Jackson Pollock painting.

Mickey and Goofy walk up to him.

Mickey: Ha-ha. What’d you do, Donald?

Donald: (looking at the blood on his white-gloved hands) I’ve … I’ve killed my creator. It was an accident, honest!

Mickey: Could happen to anybody, ha-ha. Why …

Donald: Because he made me so f**king angry, that’s why! He kept pushing me. Always pushing! “Donald’s the epitome of everyone I hate.” S**t like that. I told him to back off. “Please back off, Mr. Disney.” I told him … I warned him … He wouldn’t listen! He just kept pushing! (screaming at Walt Disney’s corpse) You happy now, a**hole? You happy?

Goofy: He don’t look happy.

Donald: (collapsing in a heap of despair) Oh no. Oh woe is me! What do I do?

Goofy: Gorsh. You better do that right thing, Donald.

Mickey: Yeah. Let’s put this Nazi-f**ker on ice before anybody gets wise.

Goofy: That’s not what I …

Donald: (blushing shyly) Well … gee fellas. I did bring my ice pick.

Mickey: Good thinking, Donald! That’s planning ahead! 

Donald: It wasn’t premeditated. It wasn’t!

Mickey: No … of course not. Ha-ha. Let’s get going!

Goofy bends over the frozen pond and vomits.

Sunday, December 9, 2018

Hyperstring Santa from the Nth Dimension



How the hell could Santa Claus be present in so many different malls at once?* How the hell could he deliver Christmas presents to every child in the world (aside from naughty Third World children) in a single night?

Glad you asked.

Here's my scientific explanation ...

One variant of string theory postulated that every electron and positron in our universe is actually a segment of a single N-dimensional hyperstring which cuts in and out of our 4-D bubble of space/time. (The particle is positive or negative, depending on the angle of attack.) I theorize it's the same with Santa. There's actually a single N-dimensional HyperSanta cutting in and out of our universe and manifesting in multiple locations. Krampus is, of course, the AntiSanta — who appears whenever the string intersects at an opposing angle. If Santa and Krampus ever met, our universe would explode. The would, of course, ruin Christmas.

A plausible theory, I think. The premise would also make a great, bad “Star Trek” episode on the original series. Sort of like The Alternative Factor. Except that the episode would end with Santa Claus and Krampus. Hands at each other's throats. Forever locked in agonizing combat in the void between universes.

In our universe, Kirk and Spock would glumly contemplate their fate.

Spock: The universe is saved, captain.

Kirk: Yes. But what of Santa Claus? What of Santa Claus?

* Thanks and a hattip to Michael O'Donnell for reminding me of this question and sparking this bizarre train of thought.

Thursday, December 6, 2018

The A**holes Creed


The Assholes Creed

I believe in Me, the Trumpster Almighty, creator of Trump Towers and The Apprentice. Do you believe in Yourself? If you happen to be Me, the answer is "yes." I believe in Me, Myself and I, Donald J. Trump, who was conceived in defiance of the rhythm method, born with a silver spoon in his mouth, suffered under Spy Magazine, was elected, glorified, and televised; if you’re not Me, you’d be better off dead.

Monday, November 5, 2018

Latin Americans

EXT, Parking Lot - Day
Roving reporter addresses camera.

Reporter: I'm standing outside Home Depot. The scene I see before me is repeated across this country. 

Camera pans to reveal ...

Toga-wearing Romans, lined up, waiting for jobs. The experienced old pros hold signs in English, the newcomers' signs are in Latin.

Reporter: Latin Americans. Willing to work. And willing to work for less. To some, it's an opportunity, to others a threat. 

A bearded Professor runs into the frame.

Professor: Of course it's a threat! Look at this toga party! You might as well call it Rome Depot!

Reporter: But why is that a threat to you?

Professor: Because ... it's not fair, is it? Just look at him!

Reporter: Who?

Professor: (pointing) Him! The smug creep with the leaves around his head. I'm an adjunct professor at a local community college. He's a philosopher and a master of rhetoric! How can I compete with that toga-wearing bastard? 

Reporter: You seem personally insulted.

Professor. I am! And he insulted me! He had the nerve to ask me what an "anacoluthon" was! I had no idea, but who cares? 

Roman: An anacolothon is an abrupt shift in the structure of a sentence indicating an interruption or different train of thought.

Professor: I teach impromptu public speaking, not ... go back to Rome! 

Roman: What is Rome?

Professor: You're bad for this country! 

Roman: But what is the good? 

Professor: Not you! 

Reporter: Economically, the threat is more than rhetorical. The impact on the local construction industry has been profound. 

INT, Developer's Trailer - Day

Developer: I wanted an aqueduct, OK? Every contractor I spoke to just laughed in my face. But these fellas rolled up their robes and got to work — man, they built me an aqueduct in less than a week! About a month later, I wanted a road. FDOT said it was impossible. These Romans said "Non forsit." They got 'er done! In days!

Reporter: And what about the sport of boxing?

INT, boxing ring arena. A Boxer stands in the corner.

Sound (OS) Ding!

The Boxer stands up. A Gladiator appears and runs him through.

Sunday, October 14, 2018

Wizard, Shmizard, Tin Man, Shminman


INT, WIZARD OF OZ THRONE ROOM
The Wizard has now revealed himself. Dorothy and friends surround him. The Wizard holds a sack full of junk and addresses the Tin Man. 

Wizard: Well, my galvanized friend. In consideration of your kindness, I take pleasure in presenting you with a small token of our . . .

Reaches into bag and pulls out heart-shaped watch. Tin Man takes it.

Tin Man: Seriously? What the hell is that?
Oz: A heart.
Tin Man: Thanks.

Throws watch across room. It shatters.

Tin Man: I don’t need a f***ing heart.
Scarecrow: Actually, I think it was a watch.
Tin Man: I don’t need a f***ing watch.
Lion: Well what do you need?

Music up. Wizard rolls his eyes.

Scarecrow: Yes. Explain it to us in a song!
Wizard: Yes, please. You already did in the second act. But please, explain it again.
Tin Man: Happy to oblige.

He starts singing …

Tin Man: A tinsmith built my body
But his work was kind of shoddy
He left out a vital part
He thought that sex was naughty
So I can’t attract a hottie
Because I lack a schlong.

If I had the right equipment
I’d deliver on the shipment
That makes ‘em sigh and moan.
I’d be Mister Heavy Metal.
I’d be banging like a kettle.
If I only had a schlong.

Scarecrow: Gee. I always thought …

Tin Man: People ask me “Are you gay?”
Then they’ll say that, “It’s OK.”
But they’ve really got it wrong.
The tinsmith also left out balls.
I’m not anything at all.
If I only had a schlong!

Dance number, instrumental. 

Tin Man: I’d be Mars, and she’d be Venus
If I only …

Wizard: Stop singing. Please. Take this … Just take it.

Hands him a box.

Tin Man: What’s in the box?
Wizard: A mechanical device.
Tin Man: What kind of device?
Wizard: Well, Dorothy wouldn’t know that because she’s only sixteen.
Dorothy: The hell I wouldn’t.
Tin Man: But you know, right?
Wizard: No.
Tin Man: Why not?
Wizard: Because I only know what she knows! It’s obvious, you idiots!
Tin Man: Not to me.
Wizard: Listen, morons. This is all her dream. 
Tin Man: Wha…?
Wizard: We all exist in Dorothy’s head, get it? She’s real — we’re not.
Scarecrow: That’s metaphysically confusing, Wizard.
Wizard: Tell me about it.
Scarecrow: And logically inconsist—
Wizard: Shut up, strawhead! Just get the hell out of here, OK? All of you!
Tin Man: Fine by me. 
Scarecrow: (to Tin Man) Say, you wanna trade that “device” for my diploma?
Tin Man: F*** off.

Walks out. Dorothy takes his arm.



Friday, October 12, 2018

Philip K. Duck



Let us now pause to remember the most amazingly prolific duck SF writer who ever lived. Philip K. Duck's novels included ...

The Asshole in the High Castle
The Three Smegmata of Drumpfer Shmendrick
The Quack in Space
Udick
Through a Spammer Darkly 
Counter Cock World
Election of a Crap Artist
Do Android Farmers Screw Electric Sheep?
Galactic Pot-Dealer
Radio Free Albumen
WEEVIL 

Thanks and a hattip to Bobby London for several Dick related puns.

Saturday, September 29, 2018

Ken Burns' "The Civil War." With Dinosaurs.



Dearest Mother,

I write you from the battlefield. The Battle is over, for now. Night has fallen, or something did. We have set up camp on an old spittoon waiting for the next Battle to begin. I am weary, and tired, and sleepy, and other things having to do with not being fully awake. I am eating hard tack right now. That is all we ever eat. Hard tack soup; hard tack sandwiches; hard tack ice cream cones. I’ve lost almost all of my teeth because that hard tack is so ferociously hard, as its name would imply, O, Mother. But this is mere selfishness and vanity! I must not think on my own concerns or the insults to my fragile corporeal body on this Earth. The tribulations of Others are far, far greater than my own. Last night, a Velociraptor tore our Captain in half. He was shrieking something fierce. (The Captain being my meaning here, not the Velociraptor.) His pitiful cries did not dissuade the Veliciraptor from sinking its teeth into him. And then, with its prodigiously powerful yet surprisingly small forearms, the Velociraptor ripped the poor man asunder. Intestines splattered every which way! O horrible sight! Such Horror has become a common occurrence in our Struggles, though I am not inured to it. I do not long for Death, Mother, though I long for what comes after. In the next World there will be no more Dinosaurs. Of this I can only hope.

I remain your most loving and dutiful Son —
—Clement

Sunday, September 23, 2018

Pissed-off Yorkshire Actors Shutter Play They Haven't Read



Load of Bollocks: Theater News Theatre News
When The Show Is Oh No No-Go: Pissed-Off Yorkshire Artists Skip Audition and Shut Play Down Before Reading Script.

On Wednesday, September 19, several Yorkshire artists received an invitation to audition for a play called “The Adventures of Robin Hood” by playwright Roger Screwe. The play is the second production in a series of Screwe's historic plays called “Tales of Merrie England.” The ugly truth is “The Adventures of Robin Hood” is inspired by the fraudulent 19th-century British writers who distorted an ancient legend to make Robin Hood a self-exiled Saxon noble fighting Norman lords. Both the original legend and the subsequent Victorian confabulation have no basis in fact! According to Wikipedia and most historians, “Robin Hood” never existed at all.

The production, which was slated for a December 2018-February 2019 run at Dolamite Theatre in Danby Wiske, was not only written by the Irish playwright Roger Screwe, but was programmed to be directed by the Liverpudlian director Jennifer Lastnamehere. Over the course of the past few days, actors in the Saxon and Norman communities in Yorkshire have called for the show to be withdrawn from Dolamite’s upcoming season. Load of Bollocks asked some of the artists who were invited to audition for “The Adventures of Robin Hood” to comment on why they are speaking out against this production:

According to Saxon actor Kenneth Rawhead, “Who’d’ve thought in 2018 we’d be back to Robin fannying about in Sherwood Forrest, eh? It’s one stereotype after another, and no lie. The Saxons live in forests and shoot arrows. The Normans are fat, speak bad French, eat quail and the like. Wot a load o’ rubbish, that! It’s simplistic, in’t it? That there programming stirs up like Saxonphobia and Normanphobia and I dunno all wot else as I ain’t read the sodding play. Have a real Yorkshireman and/or Yorkshirewoman put pen to paper or finger to keyboard or what have you, or don’t write the play at all!”

Welsh actor Ian Fluellen noted, “That scouse bitch asked me to audition—I spit in her face, I did! ‘I’m Welsh, you bint, are you blind?’ That’s wot I said, I did. It’s wrong on every level, this. You got Saxons playing Normans and Normans playing Saxons, and wot’s with the sodding pantomime horse, eh? Real horse or no horse, I say! Bloody abomination, that. Kiss my leek!”

Cornwall-based artist and activist Ella Leek quickly added that, “As an artist and an activist, I am outraged at the disruption Brexit is causing in the—oh, this isn’t about Brexit? Sorry. I’ve done five interviews this week and I just naturally assumed … sorry.” 

After three days of back and forth between artists in Yorkshire and administrators at Dolamite, the play is now being pulled, to be replaced by a different, and entirely uncontroversial, script as yet to be announced or, for that matter, written.

Friday, August 31, 2018

Hemingway Chicken

"Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road?”
—As told by Ernest Hemingway

"Close to the northernmost limit of the Alaska Highway there is the dried and frozen carcass of a chicken. No one has explained what the chicken was seeking at that altitude.

Thursday, August 16, 2018

Chandler Chicken

“Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road?”
As told by Raymond Chandler

Los Angeles. My office. Philip Marlowe, private detective. People confuse me with the playwright. But he's dead, and I'm not. Though business hasn't been good lately.
It was four o’clock in the afternoon, mid-August. I had no idea what day it was. I wore a wristwatch, but didn’t have a calendar. If this case paid off, maybe I’d buy one. Colonel Sanders was dead. I got the news like anybody else, and then got the call. An hour earlier, which would’ve made it three o’clock in the afternoon. I still had no idea what day it was.
I remember the call like it was only an hour ago.
Women’s voice. Southern accent. Like butter, if butter instantly triggered the gallant reflex. Which I suppose it did, in the right hands.
“I’d like to discuss a case. Are you free this afternoon, Mr. Marlowe?”
“It depends on your definition of freedom. There’s some disagreement on that point.”
“Are you free to come see me?”
“You come here. Bring a calendar.”
We set a time. She showed up on time.
My secretary buzzed her in. And there she stood in the doorway. Like a metaphor poured inside a simile that didn’t quite fit.
I stood up.
“Have a seat, Ms. Sanders. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“You know my name.”
“I know a lot of things. It’s my job.”
Thank God for Caller-ID.
She sat; I sat. You know the drill.
The dame slid a packet of crime scene photos across my desk. I opened it, and got a good look. Colonel Sanders, naked in an alley, dead as a sack of doornails. He was holding a bucket of chicken. Not entirely empty. They’d cut off his little colonel, breaded and fried it. Extra crispy.
“What do you see, Mr. Marlowe?”
“A deceased white male, approximately 90 years old. White hair, white goatee. No distinctive tattoos. Signs of violent trauma. Lacerations and bruising on lower abdomen and upper legs. Missing genitalia.”
“Look closer, Mr. Marlowe.”
There were chicken tracks all over. Big ones.
“Well, that narrows down the suspects to giant chickens.”
“Which one, Mr. Marlowe?”
“Well, that’s hard to say, Ms. Sanders. Every chicken in the world had a beef with your … I’m sorry. What was your relation to the deceased? Father? Lover?”
“Yes.”
She pulled out an elegant cigarette case. Silver, reflecting her pretty blue eyes. She removed a cigarette, as I figured she would, being a detective and all. I lit it for her. She took it like her due. She sat for a minute, her pretty faced wreathed in pretty blue smoke. She was thinking. Or maybe she had a migraine. Then she finally spoke.
“Pardon me for stating the obvious, but I want to get the bastard who did this, Mr. Marlowe. Money is no object.”
“That’s great, Ms. Sanders. I have no objection to money. You got any leads?”
“Ask him.”
She pointed out the window. Like a good boy, I turned to look. That’s when I saw him, through the slits in the Venetian blinds. A giant chicken, crossing La Brea Boulevard.
“What’s he doing?” she asked.
“He’s crossing the road. Why the hell is he doing that?”
“You tell me, Mr. Marlowe. It’s ‘your job,’ right? Do your job.”
She stood up. Then tossed something thick and heavy on my desk. It landed with a thud.
“Here’s your goddamn calendar, Mr. Marlowe.”
The chicken in question got to the other side. An hour later, I got him in the backroom. Then I grilled him, in the metaphorical sense. He had an airtight alibi, in the literal sense. At the time of the murder, they put him in a diving bell over at UCLA research. “The scientists will all vouch for me,” he pleaded. “Just call them!” I called. They vouched for chicken.
“Can I go now?” he asked.
“Sure … as soon as you answer my question.”
“I’ve answered your questions!”
“I’ve got one more.”
I stood up. I knocked over my chair and threw stuff around. I wasn’t really angry. With punks like this, you have to look intimidating sometimes. It’s an act, and I’m good at it. I took improv with UCB last summer.
“Why’d you cross the road?”
“Road? What …?”
“Stop stalling chicken! La Brea Boulevard, 4:15 p.m. yesterday. I saw you with my own eyes! You crossed! Why?”
“I want a lawyer.”
“I want a house on the beach. Why’d you cross the road?”
“To get to the other side.”
I slapped him. Hard.
“Can the doubletalk, chicken.”
I slapped him again. Harder.
“I want a real answer, this time! Why’d you cross the road?”
“To get to the other side! To get to the other side!”
I slapped him harderer.
The chicken blubbered like a weak sister. Or a chicken. He stuck to his lousy story. I finally let him go.
Two days later, they found him. In a breadpan, kicking out dough. Reflex action. The chicken was dead. And I had no more leads.