great grinning american icons, and the rest of you

More unconnected items:

1) Whiskey River, don't run dry...

Willie Nelson turns 72 today.

One of the few pre-college jobs I held was working in the Capri Theater in Panama City, Florida one summer when Honeysuckle Rose was playing. And it felt like it played all summer long. This was a serio-comic tale of an aging country singer (Nelson) who falls for his best friend's daughter (played by a young Amy Irving) while on tour, much to the chagrin of his wife, said friend, the whole band, you name it. It's a little maudlin at times. But there is some fun stuff in the film, and the music is good, and Willie Nelson is a very watchable character, in any medium.

So here's to you, you great grinning American icon, you. We love you, man.

2) What about ET? You bastards!

Researchers at the University of London took a poll and have come out with a list of favorite family-friendly films. They claim that the following movies had the right balance for safe, happy, 21st -century family viewing:

BEST -- Back To The Future
RUNNERS UP -- Any Harry Potter film, Home Alone and...The Goonies?

Dear God, wasn't England an actual empire of forbidding strength at one point? And out of the vast pantheon of films they chose The Goonies? Home Alone is actually pushing it, but The Goonies?

Now that I think about it, this might be a clever trick by Hollywood to get back at them for that whole taxation-without-representation thing that got so much press a while back.

3) Legolas, don't leave home without it

The papers are all a-flurry with the story of how Orlando Bloom stiffed a fancy Brazilian restaurant out of a $750 bill. The Ents told him, always carry enough cash in case the card reader breaks down.

4) The Height Of Creepy

Entertainment Tonight is proud that it has won the exclusive rights to footage of the Mary Kay LeTourneau/Vili Fualaau wedding. In case you forgot, Le Tourneau (age 43) is the former teacher convicted of raping her former sixth-grade student (Fualaau, now age 22), for which she served a 7 1/2-year sentence. Released last August, the two now plan to marry. They say they are very much in love. Their two daughters, ages 7 and 6, will act as flower girls at the ceremony.

Now, let's do our math, students: if a woman age 43 has spent over 7 years in jail, and has 2 children ages 7 and 6 with a man who is age 22, who gets the royalties from the tell-all when they divorce in 3 years?

5) -logues

Recently read about Latinologues and The Panza Monologues, two stage shows focusing on Latin American culture. After The Vagina Monologues, Marijuanalogues, and every other -logue I have read about in the past 2-3 years, I think it's time for this practice to end. Right after the following shows complete their upcoming runs:

The Panda Monologues -- Ling Ling and Chim Chi, two Pandas captive since birth, discuss the hardships of zoo life and the overbearing panda stereotypes in American culture.

The Panzer Monologues -- a trio of German tank commanders reminisce about the better times in WWII Europe, when chocolates and nylons got you a lot further than they do today.

The Fanta Monologues -- Those wacky, sexy, dancing, singing, globe-hopping Fanta models talk about the hardships of spokesperson life and the harsh stereotypes of women in the advertising industry and fashion-color management.

6) Good Guide, Bad Union

The film adaptation of the late Douglas Adams' The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy was surprisingly good. Consistently funny, well-designed, and loaded with a really effective cast, it won over the audience I saw it with (applause is so rare these days) as well as Crys, who went in thinking "Ehhhh..." and came out highly pleased. Mos Def, Sam Rockwell, Martin Freeman, Alan Rickman and the ever-delightful Bill Nighy were all terrific. The sets and effects were dandy. The whole film looked very much like something Terry Gilliam would have made if he cheered up and kept his mouth shut around the investors.

On the other hand, XXX-State Of The Union was a bad, loud, displeasing action flick where no rap song is too loud, no black stereotype is too embarrassing, and no scene goes without something being blowed-up-good. And then there is the matter of Nona Gaye's moustache...

Trivial observation: I believe that Willem Dafoe and Arnold Schwarzenegger have identical teeth. Gappy, scary, reach-out-and-pierce-you teeth. The teeth of nightmarish conquests.

I am very proud of my new business cards.

a cornucopia of nonsense

1) A is for Actress

"It was important for me to not go so far away from my persona and what people already knew me as."
-Jessica Simpson, discussing how she played her role as Daisy Duke in the film version of The Dukes Of Hazzard

2) L is for Loogy

At a recent book-signing appearance, an embittered Vietnam vet spit in the face of actress/author Jane Fonda. Ms. Fonda allegedly wiped away the juicy greeting and continued with the signing, displaying rare class and tolerance in this age of retributive action. While I understand his reasoning for wanting to confront Ms. Fonda, I would suggest, as we do to our children, that the embittered vets of the land try using their words when wanting to make a point. Nothing else needs to come out of your mouths in public, kids.

3) D is for Desperation (on the part of "journalists")

Let's be clear: what goes on privately or publicly between the actresses starring in ABC's hit series Desperate Housewives is not interesting, not important, and not newsworthy.

4) T is for That's It!

Kung Fu Hustle actress Yuen Qiu was arrested and fined for illegal gambling when she and a dozen others were found taking part in an underground mah-jongg parlor. Considering the proven and alleged child pornography, molestation, blackmail, shoplifting and extensive drug and alcohol use rampant in the American entertainment community's roster of celebrities, I think we should probably take our hats off to the very honorable misdeeds of the mah-jongg playing titans of Asian cinema. Here's to you, Landlady! (BTW, I have an exposed 2-4-6-8 combo with red dragons and flowers.)

here comes the hammer!

Well, today smoke and bells brought us the lovely and talented...Pope Hammer I! Apparently the Bill O'Reilly of popes, it's rumored that in true Haigian fashion, when John Paul 2 died, Hammer rushed in and cried "I'm in charge!" To which the row of dressed-down sous-cardinals holla'd, "Hammer, don't hurt 'em!"

A fun time was had by all.

Here in America, we still apparently have some issues with priests being inappropriate with children, which may have hurt us in the running. Last week I read a story about a panel meeting to discuss the fate of one priest who allegedly did some "bad things", when it was discovered that the head of the group was found to be a former "bad thing doer"! Imagine that! Irony is not lost on the Catholic faith.

Meanwhile, the apocalypse lurches forward, as Paul Reiser appears in a new film, The Thing About My Folks, which arrives here locally at the USA Film Festival's 35th Annual Growing Disappointment later this week. The USAFF used to be a vibrant, inspiring event each year, but somewhere back almost a decade ago, it started to seem less fun, less inviting, and ultimately just went bad on us. I'm always a little surprised now to see their flyer, which comes out like clockwork one week before the festival so that no one will know about all the top secret wonders they have clung to while preparing for festival week, as it always feels like maybe the previous year was their last one. No event seems to come and go with so little fanfare, so little enthusiasm, and so bare-bones a roster. This year they've actually cut the thing down so far there are no afternoon screenings on the weekends, no late evening shows on most days, and saddest of all, the midnight screenings have never truly resurfaced after dropping out completely several years back. Or interesting ones, anyway.

But I work with another festival in town, so this could come across as festival bashing. Trust me, I speak only the truth. I used to see nearly a dozen films each year back in the days we shall call "good". There is no competition here; they simply declined in quality and now they seem to be decreasing in quantity. Of course, some would say that ever since Dennis Hopper allegedly urinated off a balcony during an after-party back in the late seventies (?-correct me if my dates are off), things were never quite the same.

the worst kind of dysfunctional

I am alternately amused and embarrassed by my enthusiasm over this season of American Idol. But more than following some very talented young people and seeing them bloom on network television, I am writing because AI's creators have allowed the show's flaws to become a reason to watch. And I don't mean the endless string of really bad performers paraded out each year in the initial weeks of the show. No, that might actually be some of the best train-wreck footage this side of actual train-wreck footage. I am speaking of the severe and painfully obvious dysfunctional behavior of the shows host and judges.

Like the worst stereotypical bad families, AI has all the required roles: Randy Jackson plays the loud, sign-throwing, dawg-calling oldest brother, who acts as though he is oblivious to all the family's troubles despite frequently feeding into them with his faux soul attitude. Paula Abdul, perhaps the most heinous offender, comes across as the manic-depressive momma, always cutting off those who disagree with her, inciting the mob to do her bidding, looking like she just hid her "special flask", and annoyed that she isn't the prettiest woman on the block anymore, yet has to give feedback to so many more gorgeous, younger women. And what feedback! The epitome of constructive criticism (this is where the sarcasm really takes hold), she lets everyone know how wonderful and deserving they are, never able to be "real" as she and Randy always pretend they are, and ultimately sounds as insincere as...well, as a record executive. Maybe sitting next to Randy all these years is what has made her so awful. Then there is Simon Cowell. Simon is the successful, smart and experienced businessman who comes home and gets badgered left and right by his harpy of a wife, to the point that he finds himself quietly storing away all the rage and indignation of the situation. He begins overstating things rather than speaking simply and plainly. He says "I'm just being honest" when we all know he's being honest, because we all know that's all he has, his honesty for these people who trudge through each year, thinking they're the next Christina Aguilera or Stevie Wonder, when actually they are the women who do Christina Aguilera's hair, and the men who shine Stevie Wonder's shoes. Simon is left to wallow in all that pent up anger, and sometimes he gives away hints of how strong it has become, with sideways glances at Abdul that would decimate the former failed pop star if her eyes met his, which they will never do, because she must live in constant fear he's going to one day leap up from that judges' table and slam her face into the acrylic dance stage behind them, or merely put a gun to her head and blast her empty skull across four rows of eager, screaming Constantine bait.

And then there is Ryan Seacrest. The Nth degree annoying neighbor.

Seacrest is so awful, at once the school guidance counselor and the robotic sardonicus, he falls back on a clearly broken relationship with Simon, trading insults almost every week. But Seacrest's barbs seemed dipped in a most foul and venomous poison, so much so that I am very curious to know how he's kept his job. If I spoke to my employers that way, I'd be on the dole again.

Assuming Simon maintains some control on the production side of the show, I would hope he'd sit everyone down in a meeting when the season ends and clean house. But maybe he likes being belittled and shouted down week after week. Maybe he's a glutton for punishment.

I suppose, listening to that many dreadful singers every year in hopes that a Next Thing (big or otherwise) will appear, that you might become sort of dulled by it all. It's a shame no one wants to listen to the one guy from whom they could learn the most.

Controlled Burning, OUT.

snappy happy

...and by the way, forget that "seasonal spring rain" is redundant. I like that "traditional snappy apple" indicates perhaps there was just "snappy apple" at one point, which was improved in such a way that they called it "new snappy apple", and like New Coke, failed so miserably that they re-issued the original, forever to be known as "traditional". Mmmm, snappy.

excellent bloom

We are having a bit of a standoff here at Casa de Controlled Burning over our personal choices of bathroom sprays. Deodorizers and germ killers, be grateful, for you are loved so that the holy balance of marriage rests on your quivering shoulders.

My wife likes Oust, a new product that makes many great claims. I prefer Lysol, which has been our old standard for freshing rooms and making less the stanky chore of gastrointestinal distress.

But while this is roiling on, I find a new competitor at my place of work. There they utilize a product whose brand escapes me, but flavors grasped my attention immediately. Their bland, plain labels bore the following names: "Traditional Snappy Apple" and "Seasonal Spring Rain".
These products boast "excellent bloom and suspension time". And the sheer humor in them almost makes them worthy of a trial period.

...and speaking of bad smells: something stinks about the recent letters to the editor at our local New Times publication, The Dallas Observer, regarding the behavior of local singer and professor of positive vibes Erykah Badu. Two letters have indicated that Ms. Badu, at a recent concert, began raving about the war and Bush and in an angry, inciteful way. Which is almost understandable, though it is implied that she also made remarks that could be viewed as harmful toward caucasians. This concerns me, as a peaceful caucasian man in my early 40s, for I'm fairly certain I would stand out in a crowd of Erykah Badu's followers. I love Badu's music, in fact I will state here and now for the record that a few of the best times of my life have included her as the soundtrack. But I don't care for anyone's version of a race card, especially when it implies violence toward others. So I hope she was confused, or maybe someone misinterpreted her burdgeoning stand-up act (?). I'd hate to think that one of the apparent few forces for goodwill in the country has decided to go down a different path. What a shame, what a waste, that would be.

Lastly, I have changed my e-mail account from the glitch-and-error-laden Hotmail to the shiny newness of the Google Mail system called Gmail. I would love to invite you all to join in, but apparently it is still in its Beta Phase. I am hoping it will emerge successful, as it is a nifty, speedy creature in the land of e-mail. So from here on out, if you have feedback on the site or just want to say hello, send your expressions of glee and resentment to steven.norwood@gmail.com.

Hey baby, que paso?

you go, go kart!

I don't feel like I've accomplished a thing when exercising if I don't sweat. Profusely.

This has absolutely nothing to do with the title of this blog, which is a phrase that came to me one day and sounded funny enough, but really has no subject matter tied to it, so perhaps it's the title that has nothing to do with the above observation.

Nor does the following: I went to an art/spoken word display last night and saw some folks I haven't seen in almost 5 years. I went alone and could have stayed longer, but leaning against walls and quietly observing people is something best done in brief installments. The art, like all art, was subjective in its grasp, but the spoken word invoked a certain level of disappointment. Those I heard who I've heard years before performed mostly the same works I knew them for then. I wished that, with years of time between them, those performances past and present would not be so identical. It saddens me slightly, but perhaps I am imposing a certain level of necessary prolificacy on those who do not wish to be filled with literary fertility, who may not find poetry to be the all-encompassing and self-imposed trial that I have. And maybe some double hypocrisy on my part that I have been so blocked for so long that blogging is now my poetry progeny and poetry has itself become stillborn.

Ehh...it was nice to get out, at least.

And here I sit, wishing that my text could be as humorous as my title. And that my title could be as prosperous as my wanting.

recent observations - reprehensible!

So imagine our surprise Saturday evening when a little boy knocked on our door and asked if his mommy was there?

This poor kid, who couldn't have been older than 10, was searching from building to building for his mom, who we'll call "Betty", who apparently had gone to one of the apartment buildings in our complex to visit a fella, who we'll call "George". "George" lived on the second floor, somewhere, and the boy didn't know which building, which apartment, or even the guy's full name.

At first I answered that his mom was not there, but then I went after the boy and asked him if he was supposed to have met his mother at a certain place, certain time, and told him to come back if he couldn't find her and we'd walk around and help him look. After a couple of hours, my conscience was gnawing at me and I went looking for the kid. He was playing with some boys he didn't seem to know, even though when I asked if he had found his mom, he said no, that he was just going to play with his "friends" until she showed up. I asked if he knew his mother's phone number, and he said yes. I decided to stop asking questions for fear of making him scared of anyone who would ever try to help him out. I told him to be careful, and left him striking a small branch against the sidewalk in angry, short bursts. And that was the last time I saw him.

That night, we wondered what happened to the boy. We wondered what kind of mom would go to visit a man and just leave her kid high and dry, lost to wonder around and knock on the doors of strangers. Of course, for the sake of fairness, I wondered if the boy had run off on his own against his mother's wishes, or maybe knew exactly where she was, or just if he had lied, for attention or something else that I'll never understand. And apart from watching the boy until his mother showed, what do you do? Calling the police seemed like the only other option.

But it was hard to get that one question out of my head: what kind of mother...?

The wrong kind.

my new favorite bumper sticker

I realized yesterday that there is every probability that guns don't kill people; unobservant drivers of Escalades in mall parking lots could probably kill people in small groups, though.

it's not that I'm old; those kids really are disrespectful

Saw a late showing of The Ring 2 the other night. Small theater, packed, mixed crowd. But the back two rows were almost exclusively teenagers, I'd say high school age. My son's age.

They were noisy during the commercials and trailers, but I expect that. When the film starts, I expect you keep it down. But these kids were just disrespectful little jerks. Another phrase comes to mind but I'm trying to keep that stuff to a minimum here. After about the fourth outburst, the management was called in, and then the pay-per-cops, and they made routine visits for the remainder of the film. In the final act, someone actually lit up a cigarette, and by that I don't mean cigarette. Strangely, this all made the experience far more interesting than if I had been able to focus solely on the film, which was weak to say the least.

You know, I don't really care if you're young and wild and free and want to act stupid and loud and assholic. Just maybe go about it in theater 17, 19 or 23, where Miss Congeniality 2, Hitch and Guess Who are playing.

I can wait to see those on DVD.

10 things to do without using your wrists

God Of War has taught me that my wrists - moreso than my hands or fingers - are gentle, delicate things that need sweet love and affection (and heated rubdowns) after extensive sessions of minotaur killin'.

If you've been enjoying the same stress I have and need some respite, I'd like to offer some suggestions on how you can allow the healing to take place without excessive exacerbation of the wristal area...some things to do without use of the hands:

1 - Take a walk
That fresh air/sunshine thing is NOT over-rated. Requires only the feet and legs be particularly viable.

2 - Smooch
Requires a partner and working lips. And your partner will probably appreciate you not using your hands anyway.

3 - Renew Your Love For The Classics
Watching a DVD does not require much movement. Especially if someone else has the remote.

4 - Sleepy Time
Napping never hurt anyone. Kind of like taking a walk, only internalized.

5 - Discover What That American Idiot Hubbub Is All About
Listen to some music. Green Day is not required, but recommended. Especially if you're tired of all the Wagner, Radiohead and Erykah Badu you've been listening to lately.

6 - Just Don't Gesticulate Too Wildly
Conversation is as healthy as a good walk, and often makes you seem intelligent and thoughtful. Of course, again, partners are recommended.

7 - Practice Your Standup Act
You heard me.

8 - Be Like The Guy In The Sea Inside
Write poems by using a pencil you control with your mouth. Or even better, paint a picture using the same method. Your friends will be fascinated, and you'll still have the ability to move around when you're through.

9 - Call Up An Old Friend
Just use a hands-free device.

10 - Contemplate Your Next Blog
You need to think these things out before you write them down. There's nothing like a blog filled with desperately dashed-off material that isn't very well conceived.

everyone seems to forget about us

Air America, the left-handed radio network that is expanding slowly across the country in an effort to loosen the Fox News/Rush Limbaugh/Bill O'Reilly death-grip on politicized airwaves, has been made available in my area recently. Granted, it's on a feeble AM station so weak that in their first day, they were knocked off the air by a little black rain cloud. They sound like they are transmitting from the bottom of a well, and not one of those nifty wells from the Ring movies, but a really stanky well. A well of defeat and protracted failure.

What gets me about both sides - red/blue, left/right, liberal/conservative - is that they are so into their own their own argument and their attacks on each other that they seem to have forgotten about us here in the middle...the majority, I'd like to think. Bill O'Reilly sounds like a bitter, angry, school-yard bully. Al Franken sounds like a monotoned depressive. Janeane Garofalo comes across as neither cute nor funny, as I recall her from days gone by. Rush Limbaugh seems like a pompous blowhard. That these are some of the key players in the fight for what's right according to (name your side of the aisle) makes for a pretty bleak outlook.

Maybe we just need to clear the air - and the airwaves - of all this jabbing and ranting, and get back to what radio should be all about. Common man, common sense spokespersons who surround themselves with strippers and (actually funny) stand-ups. I'll take Howard Stern and Russ Martin over the political players any day of the week.

Unless it's best of, or Terri Gross is interviewing someone really cool.

the angels wept, but it wasn't up to the angels to decide

When Terry Schiavo finally passed away, I believe there was a far greater sigh of relief in this country than some people would have you think. I don't get political (which is often the rallying cry of some of the worst political supporters, but bear with me), but there was so much coverage of what would, in any other situation, have been a quiet, anonymous, personal tragedy, that it makes me a little sad and sick inside to see how far some people will steal away with someone else's crisis to forward their own agendas. Maybe my naive is showing, but I don't care.

I think the situation should create in all of us the outrage one feels when a celebrity, because of their status and public visibility, gets off light after committing a crime, when you or I would have the book thrown at us.

Perhaps the reason I say I don’t get political is that in this case, politics should never have entered into the matter in the first place. This was, at its core, an estate issue between a husband and wife, period. It was personal. It simply wasn't anyone else's goddam business.