For Your Pleasure

Writers that continue to write snarky reviews of True Blood for the amusement of other snarksters! It’s very clear that you were vehemently against the show from the beginning and were far too cool to take pleasure in its swampy, campy, gothic eroticism of the undead. Like Tru Blood itself, it’s an acquired taste. If you don’t like it, you don’t like it. But seriously, is it necessary for y’all to keep reminding everyone how much you don’t like it, how silly and preposterous the show is and how adept you are at mocking it? It takes a lot more to discuss the show on its own terms than it does to take cheap and easy shots at its obviously (and intentionally) “ridiculous” plot points. I mean, how difficult can it be to deride copulating shape shifters, demonic orgies involving pigs, Southern white trash accents, and vampire-human love triangles?

That is all.

No, wait: I really wish that next week’s episode was called “The Blond Bleeding the Blond” or I’d even settle for “The Blond Leading the Blond” just as long as it amusingly referred somehow to the sexual tension between Eric and Sookie as well as “Vanilla Pudding” and the other Stackhouse. Apparently, the episode is called “Release, Me”. Snooze…and this week’s episode totally should have been called “Meet Your Maker”.

OK, now I’m done.

I was just downstairs at my workplace cafeteria. The options were minimal and all laden with a combination of starch, grease and those invisible yet, obviously, unhealthy additives that smell so delicious. I chose the pierogies with scallion sour cream and spiced applesauce. It was a matter of whittling down to the lesser evil. The cheesesteak, although mighty enticing, was oozing oily bubbles and when the amiable fellow manning the grill station would ask if I wanted fries—as he always did— with that cheesesteak, I wouldn’t be able to turn down his offer as such a response would seem the equivalent of not returning his smile or, worse, an eyeroll. The other option, the grilled salmon seemed rather inoffensive, if not bland, but came with a perfectly square side of panko-encrusted macaroni-n-cheese. Only they weren’t calling it mac-n-cheese; its label euphemistically referred to it as “pasta and cheddar cheese.” I was immediately overcome with guilt for even considering such a decadent side dish. So, I shoveled the pierogies into my plastic container and buttressed them with two solid partitions of an apples/carrots/dill mixture and a cabbage salad.

Once in line, the man behind me snidely remarked in a nasal tone, “They have pierogies today? That’s interesting.” This bespectacled and annoyingly curious man looked down his nose at me as he said this. Then I noticed the two girls in front of me had their own plastic containers. However, their containers resembled what you would place in a small turtle’s tank: two shreds of lettuce, a carrot, three beans just to see if the turtle enjoys them. This is not a hyperbolic statement made for the sake of being clever and/or snarky. Both also had diet sodas. They took one look at my lusty container, raised their eyebrows and then proceeded to flagrantly deride my lunch option with some choice giggling and conspiring with hateful eyes. One mouthed to the other: “I know. Can you believe they serve that?” I could only assume this was directed towards me.

Of course, the cafeteria experience always makes me paranoid. In college, I used to fret about ordering the meat option in front of the proselytizing vegans. Now I am burdened with guilt in front of well-informed, health-conscious dieters with both will power and knowledge on their side. I have just replaced fear with fear. I can either be confident about my, overall, healthy eating habits and unapologetically indulge in my culinary whims, or I can turn the tables and bully these self-righteous meager eaters by dousing their faces in vats of ranch, mayo, and sour cream. In this instance, I just politely paid for my satisfying meal and headed towards the elevator with Billy Joel in my head, whipping me into a self-assured frenzy as he is wont to do.*

• I wouldn’t consider myself a Billy Joel fan, but this song always does the trick whenever I feel as though my life choices are being mocked, questioned, or ignored.

I am not sure what the consensus is on this song and I am not sure if I care: “Seven Wonders” is, hands down, my favorite Fleetwood Mac tune. It’s at once breezy and nostalgic, brimming with both hope and resignation. The way Stevie stresses both “hope” and pray” as she sings “If I hope and if I pray/Ooooooh it might work out someday” tingles my spine every time. It never fails to capture the veiled beauty lingering in those regrets we all have of the romantic kind. There’s also a stubborn idealism dwelling in that airy, mythical language our Stevie is so fond of using. The basic gist of the song is this: Stevie is gonna work all her magic in order to see those “seven wonders” (the mystical, ubercool version of a Bucket List or sowing one’s oats) and then she’ll be ready to settle down at the rainbow’s end. We all want to reach the “rainbow’s end” on our own terms—whether or not it symbolizes Lindsey Buckingham (who was gearing up to leave the band at the time of the song’s recording) or a sense of contentment at our life’s nadir, it doesn’t really matter. Even if we can’t decipher the words embedded in Stevie’s unique lyrical cadences, we feel the emotion. Listening to “Seven Wonders” can transform chopping vegetables for your summer pico de gallo into a rather sentimental experience. You’ve been warned. P.S. I heard this and I think it literally butchers the undulating calm and urgency that made the original.

The powers of reinvention have been kind to Alison Mosshart. I like to consider her my own personal Velvet Goldmine. Let me explain:

Mosshart was once, not too long ago, a cute pop/punk vocalist for local Florida band, Discount. Losing the boyish hair and baby fat, Mosshart in a matter of years has become virtually unrecognizable as the vampy frontwoman of The Kills and now The Dead Weather. She’s even become something of a fashion icon with her inky, perpetually windblown hair covering any reminder of what used to be and her cheekbones that look crudely carved due to hard years spent chain smoking, pub crawling and rabble-rousing overseas. She’s replaced the thrift store casual duds with designer skinnies and gold Dior booties. Her Florida social circle replaced with Jamie, Jack and Kate.

Mosshart/VV, in this scenario, is analogous to the Brian Slade/Maxwell Demon character. For those who aren’t familiar, in Todd Hayne’s cult film,  Slade (Jonathan Rhys Meyers) starts out as an androgynous, mediocre folk singer and transforms himself into a glam god seemingly overnight. In actuality the impetus for this change come in the form of an Iggy Pop clone, Curt Wylde, played by Ewan McGregor.  After reaching a dazzling pinnacle of success, Slade is killed onstage and later an 80s rock superstar named Tommy Stone emerges who may or not be Slade inhabiting yet another new persona. Glam fan since adolescence and reporter Arthur Stuart (Christian Bale) desperately seeks out the truth about the Brian Slade narrative as part of a journalistic assignment, but mostly out of a personal need to make sense of his own past.

If you demolish the glam rock historical framework, it almost works. One could view the Curt Wylde character as a Jack White/Jamie Hince amalgam that inspires Mosshart to abandon her palatable punk roots for something darker and dangerous. Like Slade, she adopts a new moniker to work with this edgier persona and thereby distances herself from her past. Mosshart has carefully crafted an aesthetic for herself and surrounds herself with those who’ve done the same—most recently, Jack White. It will be interesting to see whether Mosshart follows the Tommy Stone portion of Goldmine’s plot and “kills” herself yet again in order to assume another incarnation that is more autonomous than those previously assumed. I am not sure if Mosshart would succeed as a solo artist, but I would love to hear the results of such an audacious venture.

Like the diehard Slade fan/reporter character played by Christian Bale  in Goldmine, I feel somehow tied up in Mosshart’s mythology. As a fellow small-town Florida native who’s been a fan of hers from the beginning, I both identify with her need for total transformation and am incredulous of it. Or maybe envious is a better term. While I also escaped Florida, albeit in a less glamorous way, I still possess some stubborn baby fat of my own and I don’t have a rock-n-roll lifestyle to conceal it with or a bunch of pretty, badass new friends. Nor did I every creatively pair up with some male rock dudes presumed by some to be “geniuses” that want nothing more than to make raw and dirty tunes with me. Since this is still a fantasy of mine, I am heavily fixated on Mosshart’s uncanny ability to make it her reality.

Based on my work commute this week, I have concluded the following:

When departing the train and arriving at your work destination, it is far better to be greeted by the sight of a dozen helium balloons that resemble shiny gumballs than the sight of a wild-eyed homeless man attempting to wash himself on the platform, disturbed by the sight of well-dressed onlookers assiduously going about their commute ritual and pretending they hadn’t witnessed his sad and vulnerable plight.

1. Vampire blood, particularly that of the brawny, brooding, and dead-sexy Nordic variety. True Blood’s Eric Northman is the most fascinating character on television right now.

2. Roseanne re-runs prior to 1997 and/or the introduction of fake Becky.

Whenever I feel defensive, insecure, useless, hopeless. Whenever I want to take a dip in a piss-warm pool of schadenfreude, I turn on Roseanne instead. She and her blue collar brood remind me how funny, smart and incredibly real life can be when you aren’t in the upper tiers of the ivory tower or, better yet, you can’t see the ivory tower at all.  I’d taking living with the Connors over shacking up with the Bass/Barts/Humphreys any day. Sometimes it’s better to stick with what you know than what you think you want.

3. Ron Howard’s Parenthood

Seriously , it’s a solid film that depicts a wide range of family situations and not one feels hackneyed or forced. Quite a feat considering the director. Also,  it’s the last time we see Tom Hulce before he’s sucked into the vortex of obscurity. Also, young Joaquin and an adorably (keyword here: “adorably”) dim Keanu! Oh, and also: Martha Plimpton and the girl from Problem Child 2. This movie gets better with age because it consistently satisfies all one’s nostalgic desires in a very real and moving context.

4. This Guy:

Excerpt from forthcoming untitled Vincent D’Onofrio biography:

Prior to joining the cast of esteemed crime drama Law & Order: Criminal Intent and even before his sensational turn as closeted superhero Thor/ gruff auto repair owner in Adventures in Babysitting, actor Vincent D’Onofrio had a clear artistic vision. Only his first time around, it involved playing the saxophone at Sweet Mama’s Biker Bar in Deland, Florida.

In 1983, Sweet Mama’s was a popular stop for burly hog enthusiasts and their raunchy women on the way to Daytona, the epicenter of biker debauchery. It was also the place D’ Onofrio chose to call home for 9 months before getting his first break as a struggling thespian. D’O intended to take a brief respite from the big city ratrace by living with relatives in Florida while gaining other life experiences that would further enrich his craft. His Uncle Leo owned Sweet Mama’s and offered Vince room and board in his sweet-ass beach condo in exchange for hired help at Mama’s full-time.

Vince looked at his indefinite time as a barback in a filthy dive as just another role in which he could fully immerse himself. Therefore, he did not cut his long, wavy tresses that he’d grown for nearly a year to play Valmont in Dangerous Liasons off-broadway. It was 1983, after all folks, and D’O knew that big hair would work to his advantage when catering to a rowdy crowd fond of Iron Maiden and Dio.

Which gave him another idea. What if he could channel his creative impulses somehow while on the job? That’s when he approached Uncle Leo about starting a house band.

At first Leo was skeptical. The wiry fellow with a mustardy handlebar mustache perched on dry lips and a coarse, salt-n-pepper ponytail cleared his throat. He then spit out a massive loogie into his Dixie cup designated for chew before responding to his nephew’s proposal.

“I don’t know, Vinny. House bands are usually just a bunch of shitty musicians doing shitty covers of shitty music. My patrons won’t stand for that sort of shit.”

“I promise you this will be different. I know what appeals to your redneck Florida beasts. I won’t let you down, Uncle.”

“It’s not me you need to worry about. Don’t come crying to me or your Aunt Vera when those filthy, stinky behemoths make marmalade out of your brains because they don’t like the fucking tunes you’re playing. That is not on me, boy.”

D’O. laughed heartily, took the keys to Leo’s pickup off of the bar counter and set out looking for some instruments and some players.

Uncle Leo spit again into his cup and shook his wizened head as the bar door closed.

Vince would return with three balding goons outfitted in blue jeans and bifocals that he found working at the local Sam Ash. Dave, Carl and Gene were Steely Dan Fans but also knew a lot of Crosby, Stills, and Nash tunes. While familiar with Sabbath and Kiss, they tended to keep away from the “newer shit out there.” All were technically brilliant but, creatively, formed a mediocre mess.

D’Onofrio had learned to play the saxophone during a summer stock adaptation of a Cortazar short story about Charlie Parker. He played fairly well and wished to incorporate the instrument into his fledgling band’s sound.

The Sweet Mama’s house band played their first show three weeks after Vince’s initial talk with Uncle Leo. It was a Friday night. The bar was packed with whiskey guzzling ne’er do wells, pool sharks, dope fiends, hapless losers, mouthy, wiry fellows on amphetamines, and garden-variety 80s floozies. Only one non-floozie stood in this bunch of revelers. Her name was Dusty Fitzsimmons, D’Onofrio’s first love.

They’d met at the Jersey Shore one summer and had their first kiss after noshing on some funnel cake. D’Onofrio went back to the shore every weekend for some more Dusty and carnival snacks until he couldn’t stomach it anymore. One night he fled as Dusty rode the Tilt-A-Whirl. As she spun violently around next to some sticky-mouthed whippersnapper, Dusty saw D’Onofrio make a run for it, funnel cake still in hand.

She never forgave him. He never forgave himself. He was young, stupid and still holding out for Jane Fonda or some other Tinseltown beauty to sharpen his craft. Dusty was cute but dim. Her feathered hair a rusty tinge of blonde, her eyeliner too crude and blue, her mouth just a little too glossy and expectant. Vince was destined for better things. Or so he thought. After nearly a month in Florida, he’d become accustomed to its unrefined beauty, the inviting barbarism of its denizens, the simple luxury of sipping a perspiring cold one at sunset. He now thought he had been asking for too much. It wouldn’t be so bad to be the frontman/saxophone player in Sweet Mama’s house band until whenever. Not too bad at all.

“I dedicate this song to a Dusty Fitzsimmons,” Vince muttered, hulking over the microphone, before the band launched into Quarterflash’s “Harden My Heart.”

Each melancholy note Vincent blew on his sax pained the soft, sweet heart of Dusty. She put her warm beer down as her liquid eyeliner formed sea green rivulets through the cakey terrain of her rouged cheeks.

He bellowed in his gravelly voice, “I’m gonna harden my heart/I’m gonna swallow my tears” with such raw emotion that the rough-n-tumble crowd watched in rapt attention.

“I always thought this was a killer song,” a bearded maniac whispered to his buddy.

The song came to a close. D’O tossed his hair as he looked out into the crowd and recognized a familiar face. No expression registered. His acting coach always said he was convincing when it came to portraying the stoic figure. DUSTY FITZSIMMONS! SHE WAS HERE! perhaps comprised his inner monologue at that moment.

Vince could barely get through the rest of the set. By the time he reached the encore of “Southern Cross”, his mind could only behold the image of a young Dusty with powdered sugar at the corner of her lips taking her place on the Tilt-A-Whirl, so trusting and innocent.

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A midnight boat ride on a local canal a few weeks later would prove deadly for Dusty. Falling overboard after too many Tequila Sunrises, she would fatefully become the repast of some malnourished alligators. Vincent would bear witness to this gruesome tragedy and later channel this immense darkness in his haunting performance as Private Pyle in Full Metal Jacket.

You know that you’ve been fully indoctrinated into the pop culture cesspool of reality television when you view London’s triumphant return to Daisy of Love as irrefutable evidence that it is possible for reality courtships to surpass mere versimiltude and attain a sweet authenticity albeit between two scumbags. You are absolutely beyond redemption when you find yourself thanking Riki Rachtman for making this sordid love connection possible.

I don’t have much time to write on here presently, but I took some time today to document my deep, deep distaste for the sound of flip-floppy shoes walking past my cubicle door. Flip-flops are not made for such purposeful, office-bound gaits. It’s a revolting paradox in action. And I don’t really like flip-flops in any setting…There they go again, plodding past, pair after pair of stupid, noisy sandals…