For Your Pleasure

Keep on With the Force, Don't Stop

Michael Jackson: I should have told you earlier, much earlier, that you inspired me to dance. Not professionally although I had entertained thoughts of that as well. But just to dance. Freely. Wholly. Without thinking about where my feet were leading. Without thinking about anything.

There’s VHS tape of an age 3 me dancing to Thriller in its entirety. My brother, a chubby infant, desperately tries to keep up. I take out the pacifier once in awhile to lip synch to “Billie Jean”. I was going to be a star! My whole family loved you. It goes without saying that I loved you the most.

I forgive you for terrifying me with your gaunt, bug-eyed pea-green undead face in the “Thriller” video. Visions of zombies at my window haunted me for way too long than its appropriate to admit. I had begged my father to rent the video and when he finally relented, I begged him to turn it off through my tears. My mother always explained it was just a mask, makeup. It wasn’t you. It always helped to watch the behind-the-scenes where the makeup artists caked you in the creepy paints and prosthetics while you laughed blithely.

I stuck with you through Bad and Dangerous, even when mom and dad said you were getting weirder with the elephant man’s bones, luminescent skin and all. We lost touch in 1994. I had a lot going on: puberty, boys, parent’s divorce, loss. But I’d hear your songs on the radio and always turn them up.

In college, you made a triumphant return. All those crazy kids loved dancing to your hits in the courtyard. And they did so sincerely without a petty, intellectual thought in their heads. That’s the best kind of dancing—when you get away from yourself but somehow become more “you” than you’ve ever been.

It’s true. I was never your biggest fan. But you were my first musical love, forever a part of my history. 

When the news broke, I thought back to how you had sparked my initial love of dancing and how I can always depend on a few rhythmic steps to elevate my mood and make me feel like myself again. I am forever indebted to your otherworldly, impossibly awesome, incredibly soul-soaring, amazingly unbelievable, fancy-schmancy footwork. Without you, I might not have learned where your body can take you.

Jody Hill's Sick, Sad World

Ever since first seeing Foot Fist Way, I’ve been struggling with how I view newcomer Jody Hill’s ability to mock the most depressing aspects of American culture. I recognized people that I knew and even liked in his “comedy” about a slovenly, miserable strip mall karate instructor. This made me feel guilty and unclean. And even though I was laughing throughout, I felt overwhelmed by my familiarity with this sad, sad character’s tacky attempts to garner respect and adulation from overweight kids and sleazy B-movie action stars. It put me right back in the rotting heart of Florida painted over in pastel hues, so no one would notice the sickness at its core. Beneath FFW’s patina of jokes lies something dark and sinister. And I think Hill wants us to respond with an unsettling visceral reaction to this more than he wants us to laugh.

I viewed his HBO show Eastbound and Down with similar ambivalence. Kenny Powers is a larger-than-life asshole but he isn’t exactly hyperbolic enough to remove him from reality. In fact, it is his love of big tits, cocaine and jet skis that render him the most realistic depiction of your average small-town pathetic loser since…well, since FFW’s Fred Simmons. It’s mortifying to realize that you knew/know someone like Kenny Powers and might even have humored the guy by sharing a beer or two with him. I want to laugh at Powers’ willful ignorance but I already feel implicated. There isn’t that distance between the characters and me that I usually maintain when watching a comedy.

And now there is the whole date rape controversy surrounding Hill’s new film, Observe and Report. What exactly are Hill’s intentions? How much does he like his boorish antiheroes? How much does he identify with them? Why can’t the female characters be despicable in a way that doesn’t exploit their sexuality?  The whole Taxi Driver-as-comedy idea seems innovative, but wouldn’t Travis Bickle have blown away a date rapist?  If we view laughter as the death of an emotion, what does this mean when viewing this scene?

I haven’t seen the film yet, but as you can guess I already feel seriously ambivalent about it. I think it’s difficult for Hill to present these ugly truths as something to be experienced cathartically (if that’s even what he is doing).  Ultimately, when you have a rapist onscreen in a comedy, it will look somehow as if you are condoning if not glorifying that behavior because the audience is already expecting to be amused by the actions of the protagonist, or in this case the anti-protagonist played by Seth Rogen. When presented with the image of a sweaty Rogen pumping over Anna Faris’s drugged-up cosmetics counter skank, I can imagine the audience will be bemused but not amused. So, what is Hill really after: cheap laughs, cheap provocation or is he fostering the metacognition of what it means to laugh at these sort of things, these sort of dark and twisted things that aren’t just the stuff of melodrama or fiction? I obviously have no clue. But part of me wants to keep watching to find out. 

The Great Rock-n-Roll Hot Sauce Challenge

Two of my favorite things in life are larger-than-life male rock stars and smokin’ hot hot sauces. Hence, when the two were combined by a few entrepreneurial musicians, it was only a matter of time before I committed myself to a road test of their infernal creations. So without further adieu, I will taste hot sauces by Aerosmith’s Joe Perry, Van Halen’s Michael Anthony and the Lynyrd Skynyrd crew and relay to you my findings and, possibly, some other random insights.

Let’s Take a Look at His “Package”

Joe Perry’s Boneyard Brew looks rather generic. The guitar player shown on the label is indiscernible as Joe Perry himself. It could be any average Joe and this lack of clarity regarding Perry’s visage does his product a great disservice. When partaking in Perry’s sauce, we, meaning the female consumer, want to see the sultry dark eyes looming behind that sexy, tousled mess of hair. Also, “Boneyard Brew”?  Sounds like a BBQ sauce created by some sad sack, not the spicy condiment of a bonafide rock god.

Based on appearance alone, Mike Anthony’s Mad Anthony’s XXXtra Hot hot sauce seems like it is seriously overcompensating for the rather minor and subordinate (re: bitch) role Anthony played in Van Halen. Hey, I’m not saying it was right, but that’s the way it is. He seems so desperate to prove that he isn’t just one of the boys; he’s the ultimate man providing the most diabolical, most depraved and ruthlessly hardcore hot sauce on the market. This explains why the bottle looms over the other contenders in terms of height. Also the name of the hot sauce is troubling. The XXX wordplay is silly and puerile and the three habanero peppers lassoed by a blatant rip-off of the Van Halen logo is corny not to mention sad.  It’s little wonder why Eddie allegedly booted Anthony over his hot sauce enterprise.  At first glance of the bottle, I would’ve been embarrassed too since its misguided egoism is far more cringe-worthy than anything Diamond Dave ever attempted. And as a lover of the underdog, I had really wanted to champion lil’ Mikey.

Lynyrd Skynyrd actually represents their product, a Habanero hot sauce, in a savvy way that incorporates the band’s image without resorting to tired “Free Bird” references. The image of the Rebel flag as the head of a raging bull with feathers (!) decorating the horns unabashedly plays up the band’s Southern roots transforming their brand into accessible, bad-ass aestheticism. The flames encircling the band’s name are the perfect finishing touch to the literal, no-frills interpretation of a hot sauce made by the boys of Skynyrd. It meets our expectations, which is more than the other two contenders managed.

The First Taste

Boneyard Brew is a smoky mélange of habanero and chipotle peppers with tangy undertones of fresh lime juice …and what is that I taste? The taste of sweet perspiration beading on an open chest as the bluesy guitar solo in “Rag Doll” hits its seductive groove? Oh, no. It’s actually Xanthum Gum.  Still, this sauce provides a potent punch of flavor that is a pleasant departure from the garden-variety of straightforward pepper –n-vinegar mixtures out there. And I say that as a hot sauce enthusiast whose preference usually leans towards the classics a la Tabasco.

You know those old Pace Picante commercials with the cowboys sitting around the campfire and one asks if anyone has any salsa. And some doofy cow roper hands him some vomitous canned shit he calls salsa and when the doof reveals where it was made, the whole posse of wranglers scoff in disbelief, “NEW YORK CITY?” Well, that’s what Mad Anthony’s tastes like. Canned salsa that’s all chunks of tomato and no bite.  There’s plenty of heat, but absolutely no complexity. The texture does not suit a Michelada well and if I wanted pico de gallo in my taco, I would make it myself. I am not one to chew my hot sauce. Then again, maybe I am just not “Mad” or man enough.

Lynyrd Skynyrd’s hot sauce contribution offers nothing that the host of wing sauces and marinades that overcrowd the grocery stores haven’t covered.  The acid with just a tinge of heat does the trick, but it’s quite underwhelming compared to the band’s fiery musical repertoire. This sauce is sorely lacking the brio of “What’s Your Name” or the cahones of “Give Me Three Steps.”

Eatin’ Their Words

Joe Perry says: My goal is to produce original recipes using only natural fresh ingredients. My family and I take extra time and care to provide the finest quality foods available. If it’s not something in our pantry, it’s not in our products. All the best, Joe Perry

This intimate message conveys Perry’s simple and unassuming approach to his business endeavor. It’s rather charming and domesticated. But cheers to him for showing another side of himself.

Michael Anthony says:  Time to separate the men from the boys! Turn your favorite meal into a five-alarm inferno with Mad Anthony’s XXXtra Hot Private Reserve. And don’t forget to have the Fire Dept. on speed dial!  - Michael Anthony

Give it up, Anthony! Seriously:  you’l l never be “runnin’ with the devil.” The most you can hope for is a jog with someone’s evil mother-in-law! Accept your fate as the wingman, the Baxter, the straight man. There’s nothing wrong with this role; it’s vital, it’s necessary, goddamn it, it’s yours to own!

Lynyrd Skynyrd chose to have their hot sauce speak for itself. I can’t decide if this was a bad call or not.  On the one hand, it’s admirably bold not to make any claims for your product. But when your hot sauce is rather lackluster, it might help to have some down-home country, wise-ass boastings to distract you from the banality of your tasting experience.

Crankin’ it up to 10: the Heat Index

Joe Perry’s heat isn’t felt until the end and that’s just how I like it. He isn’t going to give it all upfront; he makes you work for it. It’s a slow burn that lingers just long enough for one to savor it fully.

Mike Anthony overpowers with the heat factor.  His sauce has all the fire of a mild pepper taste that persists long after desired. He’s unrelenting in his pursuit to make you taste his potency. And that’s just wrong.  Very wrong.

Lynyrd Skynyrd provides a fickle flame on the taste buds. This bird has flown the coop before it’s even landed. Yes, when you fail to provide the heat, you’re due a trite “Freebird” allusion.

The “Greatest Hit” to the Tastebuds?

Joe Perry’s Boneyard Brew. It has an authentic flavor, doesn’t make empty promises and gives you that warm and pleasant feeling long after your meal has ended.  It’ll take you straight to the other side and you won’t wanna come back. Forget Bret Michaels, Perry and his poorly-named hot sauce are here to rock your world.

Mad Dreams

Last night’s dream:

Jon Hamm takes my arm at a party as if we are going for a stroll in a 19th century garden, but we are actually at some bizarro hotel banquet.

JH: So, what do you think of Heidegger?

Me: I’ve only read The Question Concerning Technology.

JH: And what did you think?

Me: I thought it was muddled.

JH: I agree.

Something Wilder

I wish I was a Jonathan Demme heroine from his 80’s screwball period. I want to take up residence in the director’s technicolor, melting pot urban landscapes, a free spirit on the run from forces of conformity or violence charming the world with my ecletic downtown wardrobe, a coquettish smile and my unwavering belief that a world gone mad is a world I can live in proudly.

Married to the Mob’s Angela de Marco and Something Wild’s Audrey “Lulu” Hankel are two comely brunettes (one natural, one false) fond of utilizing the shimmering, rouge-y, lacquered effects of drugstore cosmetics and incorporating animal print into their attire. The silvery sound of costume jewelry marks both their entrance into a scene and represents the dazzling, hypnotic way they captivate the audience and anyone they encounter within the film’s confines. They live at full volume just to drown out the sounds that plague them, that stifle them, that keep them from truly being heard. Usually, this antagonistic silence is embodied by a dim-witted and volatile hood, all oily smirks and blackmailing lechery.

With the help of the thug’s foil—a mousy, conservative type with boyish looks and good hair, who’s in desperate need of some dirty fun—Demme’s new wave femme fatales drop the artifice, attempt to rid themselves of greasy crimelords (sometimes resorting to lethal means) and then etch out their own space in the city that affords them autonomy, security and self-respect. And yes, they invariably return the amorous feelings of the well-meaning Mr. Milquetoast at the end. This I can overlook as the romantic ending is usually accompanied by a really great Tom Tom Club or reggae song.

I’d mostly like to reside in these narratives because I could strut through the L.E.S. circa 1986 wearing an awesome wig and edgy accessories, leading a dangerous double life accompanied by the music of New Order, The Motels, or The Feelies. 2009 promises to be an incredible year, but this fictional era in cinema comes in a close second for me.

Q: Are these female characters just a more mature version of the MPDG (Manic Pixie Dream Girl)? I’d like to think that the presence of an actual character arc renders them more than just a male yuppie fantasy.

9 Resolutions for '09

9. Erase Kanye’s verse from “Swagger Like Us” and then dub my own kick-ass freestyle in its place. Possibly record performance of said freestyle on YouTube.

8. Discover the key to Paramore’s success.

7. Convince others that The City is the Melrose Place to The Hills’ 90210. And how this isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

6. Stop coveting Whitney Port’s backless dresses and shady Aussie boyfriends or, better yet, stop knowing who Whitney Port is.

5. In all instances, deny watching Rock of Love Bus.

4. Prevent the Year of the Gentleman from being over by inviting the following chaps to a three-course dinner at my apartment: Chuck Bass, Ne-Yo and Mickey Rourke. Imagine the conversations that would transpire over shrimp scampi and vodka gimlets! If one fails to RSVP, invite that anime character from Tokio Hotel.

3. As I do year after year, pray and pray for a hair metal renaissance.

2. Learn the “Single Ladies (Put a Ring On It)” routine. Possibly record for YouTube viewing. Totally serious.

1. Bowl a 200 while Tom Petty or Plies’ “Bust It Baby Pt. 2” plays in the background. Celebratory Bloody Mary optional. Celebratory alley dance mandatory.

How Do You Know It's Christmas Time?

When the angels on high send you their pretty, New Wave earthbound seraphim to greet you in sonorous tones. It’s the greatest gift one could receive. All of one’s icons are accounted for:

Paul Young, well…he’s pretty cool.

Boy George: the painted saint of blurring the lines between good and evil, soul and pop, man and woman.

Saint LeBon whose names translates to “the good” for a reason. This glam god need only a bit of hair gel, a white linen suit and a harem of Brazilian swimsuit models to part the seven seas.

Pre-saint Bono back when his hair was as sincere as his intentions.

Pre-prick Sting back when his megalomanical douchedom didn’t involve Eastern sexuality and mistreating the help.

and the Lord that reigned in the age of supergroups for good causes :

Our Pop Savior George Michael!

One note from Mr. Michael could make babies gurgle up cupcakes contained in bubbles, it could make pigeons weep and alligators sigh, it could cause it to rain gold from public water fountains or mirages of tropical paradise to appear within the blink of an eye. It could cause the clouds to fornicate and the Earth to hum. But, sadly, his voice could not cure world hunger. Hey, nobody’s perfect. But being responsible for “I’m Your Man” and “FastLove” makes you pretty darn close.

Band Aid’s “Do They Know It’s Christmas?” is the holiest of holiday hymns. It’s the convening of my childhood idols ostensibly for a cause greater than themselves. And even if charity was just a passing fad for them or they were all hoodwinked by that charlatan Bob Geldof, all is forgiven because, hell, it’s Christmas. I’d rather my pop stars preen than preach, anyway.

Peter Horton's Very Merry Christmas

Dear Santa,

Please release the entire series of thirtysomething on DVD, so that on those frigid winter days when the skies range in hue from pale grey to dirty, dirty grey, I can cuddle up in front of the inferno that is my heater, drink White Russians and revisit my yuppie chums Hope, Melissa, and that bastard character played by Ken Olin.

Those Baby Boomers were so entertaining. As a child, I didn’t know enough about the young and upwardly mobile to despise them. Instead, I liked watching their marriages crumble under societal pressures and that ginger Timothy Busfield yap his jaw.

Give me back those days of 80s suburban ennui and Trivia Pursuit parties. Give me back pre-Grey’s Anatomy-directing, long-haired Peter Horton. Give me back adult angst before I knew what the hell that was.

Santa, I plead with you: Make this happen.