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Alice in Shame

Did you ever have one of those friends who compelled you in such a way to do things you normally wouldn’t, and then you regretted those actions afterwards? I had one, and even though we drifted apart, I fondly reminisce about her. To preserve her anonymity, I will just refer to her as ‘C’. C wanted to try most things at least once; I did not. Don’t get me wrong; I am a very curious sort. However, I am a calculated risk-taker, usually. She did not blithely venture into uncharted territory, mind you, but her carpe diem approach to life could be intoxicating. I trust you know what could happen under that influence.

We drove halfway across the country with maxed-out credit cards and no itinerary. I was given a CO2 handgun (no license needed at the time) for protection. I tried to fire it in a roadside motel room, but thankfully, the canister blew into a cloud of cool gas instead. I don’t know if there were any long-term effects of inhaling what the weapon expelled. Guns freak me out, but I felt empowered around my friend, C.

Another time, we turned an uneventful evening into a festival of firsts for her. Well, two firsts, to be precise. After consuming sugary cocktails and Pop-tarts, she dyed her dark, blonde hair red with a box of henna I had encouraged her to purchase earlier. We then ambled over to the nearest tattoo parlor, picked a unicorn off the wall, and spent the next hour getting it inked on her outer calf. She squeezed my hand the whole time; that girl had quite a grip. The artist was a dragger instead of a tapper, and that is a sensitive area, so I appreciated the pain she endured. Okay, I did not get a tattoo. I do have my limits. As an artist, I would only mark up my body with my own designs. Oh wait, I didn’t know I could draw at the time. I probably didn’t have the money. Yep, that’s it. I did put henna into my hair one time. Remember that episode of the Brady Bunch? Just picture Greg with waist-length hair and that show would have reached a new level of melodrama. Now you know why my risks are usually well thought-out. I can’t take complete credit for controlling her destiny that night. She was a doer to my thinker. She encouraged me to think about taking risks, and I thought really hard so that she would believe I was the mastermind of that evening. For the most part, though, I experienced her risk-taking ventures that night vicariously. 

It shouldn’t be surprising, then, that a night spent at an Alice in Chains concert back in ‘93 would not end for us after the curtain dropped. I have always been a big fan of the band, but C had never heard of them until I asked her to go with me. During the course of the evening, she developed a huge crush on Jerry Cantrell. I can certainly see the appeal. Even now—years later—he looks like Greg Allman’s hotter, younger brother. However, I never cared for long hair on men. My older sister and I agreed on many things, but our paths diverged when the conversation turned to the hotness factor of Mel Gibson in Lethal Weapon versus Tequila Sunrise. No contest there, in my opinion. Now, no hairstyle can redeem that man, but I digress. Anyway, despite Cantrell really being the creative force behind Alice in Chains, I was all about Layne Staley at the time. Apparently, I was into scrawny grunge rockers in my early twenties. There was something seductive about that dude, the voice, those intense eyes, and sultry lips. Picture Paul Newman on crack, and perhaps you will understand the allure there. I can’t stand cigarette smoking—he was a heavy smoker—but in my fantasies, he abstained while he sang his trademark growl into my ear. Sigh. 

It was a great show, and their performance of Rooster did not disappoint. I also got a souvenir that will remind me of this evening, whether I want it to or not.

I did not have to wrestle anyone for it. One of the crowd control guys was giving it to me as another hand reached for it. He pulled it away until I was ready to take it. As the crowd started clearing out, I passed by him and thanked him for the token. “You know I was giving that to you, right?” he asked with a lascivious smile. Eww. I played dumb, “Yep! Thanks again.” I made a hasty exit before he could go all Indian giver on me. I was a bit insulted. My body was worth a Hell of a lot more than a cracked drumstick. I was an Accountant, damn it. How dare he assume I was just some tawdry, cheap fan-girl? Puh! 

We were hanging out in my car after the show, wondering what trouble we could get into, considering the night was still young. At one point, I entertained C with my Layne Staley impersonation singing Rooster and Man in a Box—spot-on, in my humble opinion. The topic turned to some key “what if” questions. What if . . . Jerry Cantrell came onto you right now, even though you are engaged? I had carte blanche if Mr. Staley propositioned me, as I wasn’t dating anyone at the time. The whole time in the car, we had a clear view of their tour bus, and were sitting there waiting for a glimpse of any of the band members. Layne was not to be seen, but there was a flash of long, blonde hair at one point. 

After about an hour, the bus started moving. We straightened up in our seats as we exchanged tentative, yet eager glances. “Let’s follow them!” Do I have to indicate who said that? So, onward I drove as I followed them through the back streets. I thought the fun was in the dare, and it would peter out and end there. The burning, sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach I get only when venturing out of my comfort zone came on full-force as we careened into the entrance to I-94N—heading towards Chicago. “Oh my god, we are really doing this!” she exclaimed. “I can’t believe we are doing this!” I screamed. “This is so awesome,” as we giggled like schoolgirls. I pushed hard on the gas pedal, lest I lose sight of their big-ass, black tour bus. This was really happening! 

So, we get to the hotel they were staying at. We happened upon a couple of other grou . . . er, fans, who happened to know the floor, and even room numbers, the band were in. I don’t recall how they came upon that intel, but there it was. As we debated what to do next, Mike Inez—the bassist—sauntered through the lobby. He politely stopped for a photo. He really wasn’t on my radar, but who was I to pass up that opportunity. The guy had a great smile and crazy hair. The amicability of one member gave us the courage to seek out the others. 

As we stood in the elevator, C and I exchanged looks that could pass for either excitement or an urgent need to pee. As it dinged our arrival, we hesitated briefly before exiting onto the floor. Like automatons, we proceeded to their group of rooms at the end of the hall. Did we have a game plan? Of course not. We stopped in mid-stride as we happened upon an open room. We peeked into the door. Inside was a man who appeared to be their security guard, lounging in a chair and inactively watching porn. I say that because he wasn’t more “engaged,” but he was distracted enough that we could zip past his room unnoticed, like a couple of ninja groupies. Yes, admittedly, we ceased being just fans at that point. We heard voices behind door number two. Without thinking, I knocked. Then, the folly of our ways hit me, amongst other things that shone a light on our unbecoming behavior. I turned to make a hasty exit, abandoning C, and was stopped by the security dude. Dang, he was huge. “What are you doing?” he asked threateningly. Looking for inspiration, I just stared back at C. As we stalled to think up something clever, the door opened. 

That sinking feeling in my stomach came again as I stood mere feet from Layne Staley. The first thing that came to mind was, “Shit, that is one tiny dude.” He seemed larger than life on stage, but I could eat a meal off his head, and try to share it with him so he could gain a few pounds. He looked accusingly at his security guard as he asked us what we were doing there. I was ready to apologize that we made a mistake, when C held out a piece of paper and pen, and asked for his autograph. Oh, I wanted to be Down in a Hole at that point. His sexy blues looked at her hands with disdain. He then became physically agitated, held out the bottom of his shirt, and said, “Guys, I gotta get dressed.” SLAM! I guess he told us. I think, not sure. We waited briefly just in case he planned to come back out after indeed getting dressed, even though he was fully clothed already. The disappointment welled up in me as I realized we had been dismissed. I didn’t even get to share my impersonation of him. Surely, along with my cuteness, I would have risen above the ranks of his typical mindless fan. This is not how my encounter with him played out in my dreams. 

I turned my head wearily to gaze up at Mr. Horny and he looked down at me patronizingly, “See, now look what you did. Are you proud of yourself?” Umm, no, quite frankly. The ignominy sunk in hard and fast. I was mortified at what we did. Why did he direct that question at me? I didn’t ask for his autograph. I was trying to get out of there. It was all C’s fault! That’s what I told myself. I also considered that the guard was shitting his pants, because he should have stopped us from getting that close to the “talent.” He would be even in more trouble if they saw the adult movie on the bill. While his employers were snuffing the Rooster, he was choking his chicken. How irresponsible of him. 

My head was literally hanging low as we slinked back to the elevator. As it made its descent, my hot and heavy imaginary love affair with the troubled rocker cooled precipitously. “What the Hell did we just do? This is horrible. I can’t believe we would do that to someone,” I said between long-suffering sighs. C didn’t see it that way. “What an asshole. Did you see how he looked at my pen and paper like I was offering him a plate of shit or something?” She might have said that, I don’t remember. I was too overwhelmed with shame and regret. She, naturally, had a great time and would do it again, despite his “rudeness.” 

But he’s long dead, more than 10 years now. 

Yes, when Mr. Staley’s bloated corpse was found alone in his apartment, dead weeks earlier from an overdose, I thought back to what we did. What demons was he unable to exorcise? Did his obsessed fans smother him, or was he drowning in a Sea of Sorrow of his own making? My guess is that it was a combination of both, evidenced by his self-portrait in the Mad Season CD-jacket as being crucified while he sang into a microphone. His respectful, appreciative fans could not shine a bright enough light on his dark soul, so he self-medicated to his demise. 

Despite all my cognitive dissonance in what we did, I can set that aside as I tell this tale in my usual jocular, self-deprecating fashion. Levity is the best psychotropic.

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Mo’ Mondegreens!

As promised almost a year ago, here is installment number two of my collection of mondegreens, i.e., misheard lyrics. Finally! I trust you have been waiting with bated breath for this. You may now, devoted reader, breathe a sigh of relief. I have come to deliver on that promise. Incidentally, Microsoft Word does not recognize the term, so my vision is currently being assaulted with the underlined red squiggle under “mondegreens.” There it is again. How dare these miscreant software developers offend my sensibilities so? Even the paperclip seems to be looking at me disapprovingly. Smug bastard.  

As last time, I am following the same format as in the famous books: misheard lyric; performer; song title; correct lyric.

Tell them all hookah, is smoking character . . . One man on the chessboard . . . and your mind is moving all . . . Have fallen softly dead . . . And the requiem’s offed his head. Remember, what the doormouth said.
Jefferson Airplane “White Rabbit”
Tell ‘em a hookah smoking catepillar . . . When men on the chessboard . . . and your mind is moving slow . . . Have fallen sloppy dead . . . And the Red Queen’s “Off with her head!” Remember, what the dormouse said.  

That’s right. I butchered the crap out of these lyrics. I was reminded of that when I got the urge to sing it in the shower recently. I drew a complete blank on the correct lyrics, so sang what I thought they sounded like. Yes, I read Lewis Carroll’s classic. So, I should know better, right? Besides, I’ve heard it a bazillion times, since Grace Slick’s opus is ubiquitous as a soundtrack to let the audience know that something trippy is going on. Incidentally, I always thought this song was about drugs. “Go Ask Alice” is a famous diary from a drug-user, and there was some kind of mushroom involved. What other conclusion could I draw from that? Besides the time it was released, the lyrics sound like they were inspired by an acid trip. I suppose by association it is about drugs. Do you have a better explanation for how LC came up with that psychedelic imagery? It was like H.R. Pufnstuf in lit-form. Certainly, it wouldn’t pass for children’s fiction today. Oh wait—then how does one explain the Teletubbies? I digress.

Where is my job today?
Paula Cole “Where Have All the Cowboys Gone?”
Where is my John Wayne?

I don’t mean to be such a downer, but in this economy, this one isn’t such a stretch.

Been through the desert on a horse with no brain
America “Horse With no Name”
Been through the desert on a horse with no name

This might have been the product of the listener smoking pot while listening to this song, which, pretty much, is the best way to enjoy this tune.

If the horse had no brain, but did have a name, would he know? I might be able to ponder that philosophically if I wasn’t so baked.

What if I’m a mummy in these jeans of his?
Tori Amos “Crucify”
What if I’m a mermaid in these jeans of his?

Pfft. Mermaids are so 80’s. Mummies are the “it” mythical creature du jour. They are like caterpillars emerging from their cocoons into beautiful . . . zombies.   

Run amok that ill
Kate Bush “Running Up That Hill”
Running up that hill 

This is just stupid. It is beneath my intellect to even formulate a response. Puh!

He got a raisin in his shoe
Jim Croce “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown”
He got a razor in his shoe

What up, bitch? I’m walkin’ on nature’s sunshine fruit. That’s right. I’m bad.

As an aside, is it just me or does the new version of the Sun-Maid girl look like she would spread her legs for anyone who found his or her way into that vineyard? Just curious.

Kiss your soul heart. I’ll take your breast away
Sarah McLachlan “Possession”
Kiss you so hard. I’ll take your breath away

Wow. That is . . . awful. As if the song wasn’t creepy enough, that crosses the line from stalker to serial killer. Thanks for tonight’s nightmare.    

I believe I saw La Bamba (jet planes)
CSN “Woodstock”
I believe I saw the bombers (jet planes) 

It was a passenger plane in which the music died, not to get technical.

Watch the freakers eat Kenneth is your, Benzedrine all wet?
R.E.M. “What’s the Frequency, Kenneth”
What’s the frequency, Kenneth, is your Benzedrine, uh-huh.

Um . . . what? It sounds like their Benzedrine did get all wet, with some unforseen side-effects. Either that, or they got hit harder than Dan Rather did by the lunatic who attacked him screaming that question.

We are the priests of the temple with earrings
Rush “The Temples of Syrinx”
We are the priests of the temples of Syrinx 

Since most priests are closet homosexuals, that doesn’t surprise me. I know I know. It’s wrong. Sick and wrong!

And you steal rat meat in your Jesus Christ pose
Soundgarden “Jesus Christ Pose”
And you stare at me in your Jesus Christ pose

Maybe that’s why communion wafers taste like crap? 

Bunnies on the table, the fire is cooking
Temple of the Dog “Hunger Strike”
But it’s on the table, the fire is cooking

That doesn’t sound like much of a hunger strike to me. Don’t get me started on the fluffy bunnies. 

If there’s a barstool and your head rolls, don’t be alarmed now
Led Zeppelin “Stairway to Heaven”
If there’s a bustle in your hedge row, don’t be alarmed now

No chance of being alarmed, of course, considering my head inexplicably became detached from my body at the mere presence of a barstool. At most, my last sentient thought would be trying to connect the dots on that non sequiter

You can tell by the way that I use my wok, that I’m a wooden man
Bee Gees “Staying Alive”
You can tell by the way that I use my walk, that I’m a woman’s man 

You get a hard-on while making kung pao chicken? Kinky.   

Grab your teeth I’ve come to take you home
Peter Gabriel “Salisbury Hill”
Grab your things I’ve come to take you home 

Said the man to his grandfather in Salisbury Hill nursing home. Totally plausible.  

The pinball wizard’s got such a super ass
The Who “Pinball Wizard”
The pinball wizard got such a supple wrist

I bet Elton John made that very observation.

Leaping lost anus
Sheryl Crow “Leaving Las Vegas”
Leaving Las Vegas 

Since a lot of people have had their asses beaten in Vegas, it is apt, albeit a bizarre way to put it.

My dad lay and poohed on my room below
Pearl Jam “Jeremy”
The dead lay in pools of maroon below

No wonder that kid lost his shit.

Hey Joe, where you goin’ with that gum in your hair?
Jimi Hendrix “Hey Joe”
Hey Joe, where you going with that gun in your hand 

To add insult to injury, the cheating bitch spat her Wrigley Spearmint into Jimi’s fro? Damn right she deserved to get shot!

In Nam’ bodies float
Jimmy Buffet “Margaritaville”
It’s nobody’s fault 

And napalm sticks to kids.

Woman shits on the water, very queer
Crosby, Stills and Nash “Wooden Ships”
Wooden ships on the water, very clear 

A floating version of a Boston plate job; that’s definitely some kinky shit. 

They come to pluck the rooster
Alice in Chains “Rooster”
They come to snuff the rooster 

Is plucking the rooster foreplay for choking the chicken? Me torture you long time, Yankee!

Feelin’ like a ham and mustard shake
Stone Temple Pilots “Interstate Love Song”
Feelin’ like a hand in rusted shame 

Huh. Oddly specific, but I suppose it would suck to feel that way. Or at least you’d feel like Hell after you drank that!

Dr. Bronner’s Manic Soap

This image of Dr. Bronner’s Magic Soaps is probably a familiar one. They are a line of hemp-based, castile soaps that do not have any harsh detergents in it, just organic oils that are saponified into soap and glycerin. Being a natural product, it is available in whole-health and food-type establishments; it can also be found in big-box stores such as Target. The basic soap, being scented with peppermint, is gentle and tingles on the skin as it cleanses the body. It is labeled “Certified Fair Trade,” promoting its holistic purpose. Oh, it is certified, or maybe “certifiable” would be a better word. It occurred to me, as I read what is essentially a manifesto on the bottle, that the aforementioned tingle is the slight burn one feels as a holy liquid touches wicked flesh.   

This bottle of madness is a convenient, albeit unorthodox (ironic word choice, I know), delivery of the ultimate message: Absolute cleanliness is Godliness! Teach the Moral ABC that unites all mankind free, instantly 6 billion strong & we’re All-One. “Listen Children Eternal Father Eternally One.” I would say you couldn’t make that shit up, but Dr. Bronner did. He needed an editor, most definitely. He had serious diarrhea of the pen. Besides that, we hit 7 billion this year, and yes, someone is counting. Also, what is up with the oddly placed capitalizations? I understand the God thing, but All-One, Children Eternal, etc.? Is there only one? Did he know something that we don’t? Apparently, and he laid it all out to his minions for some light reading while being anointed by his magically miracle soap. 

The Moral ABC is an amalgamation of Rudyard Kipling’s poem If, as well as Dr. Batty’s (I know, ad hominems won’t get me into Heaven) views that supposedly evolved from Buddhist and Jewish as well as Christian teachings. I read Kipling’s poem. Like Manson gleaning murderous intentions from the Beatles’ Helter Skelter, Doc B’s interpretation of a poem about what passes for British virtue is almost as puzzling. I say almost, because it was considered an inspirational poem. And with that, I guess the Moral ABC is meant to inspire us to be good. I am assuming he consulted the Bhagavad Gita in his research; I haven’t read it. If it is anything as vast as the Moral ABCs, I’ll pass. They make Martin Luther’s 95 Theses look like a grocery list in comparison. 

I think there are 144 of them, but am not sure. He skipped around a lot. He jumped from the 1st to the 5th to the 7th, eventually to the 13th. On the back of the bottle, he miraculously got to 76, and then fast-forwarded to 144 at the bottom of the label. I won’t bore you with the details, but here are some blurbs: 

God’s Spaceship Earth (Umm . . . huh?); All One! All One! Exceptions Eternally? Absolute None! (Again with the caps and weird syntax!); Small minds decay! (I’ll buy that); Each swallow works hard to be perfect pilot-provider-builder-trainer-teacher-lover-mate, no half-true hate! (Eh, I got nothing); Thank God we don’t descend down from perfect Adam & Even to sinful sinner (Well duh, a sinner is sinful. Fucking Christ do I hate redundancy in writing); Free Speech is man’s only weapon against half-truth (Fred Phelps must use this soap); To dream that impossible dream! To reach that unreachable star! (Try making your goals a little less lofty, m’kay?)‘Til All-One, All-One we are! (For those about to rock, we salute you! Testifyyyyyy!) 

The bottle keeps rolling off my desk and quite frankly, I’m tired. I have perfect vision, well, maybe not Adam and Eve perfect, but reading that small, white print is straining my eyes. But dagnabbit, do I feel especially saved right now. What’s that parable about a blind man? Anyway. 

I trust I am not the first to write about this soap, nor will I be the last. There is even a documentary about the man, which I have not seen. That said, I figured in writing this, I should use my journalistic skills to find out more about the man behind the soap. 

Okay, so I am not a journalist. I just googled his name and clicked on links until I found a photograph: 

Why doesn’t it surprise me he looked insane? However, I didn’t expect such an uncanny resemblance to this guy: 

That’s right—Herr Döktor from The Human Centipede. Take a moment to compare the two. Scroll up, scroll down. Coincidence? 

Like your average mere mortal, I just went to Wikipedia for some background information. I can’t confirm if Dr. Bronner, born Emanuel Bronner in Germany in 1908, was really a doctor, but it sounds like he had a pretty tumultuous existence. His parents were killed in the Holocaust and he suffered shock treatments in an Illinois mental hospital after he was arrested for publicly announcing his Moral ABCs. He later escaped from the hospital, settling in California to start his soap-making enterprise. He died in 1997; I assume it was of natural causes. His surviving family has continued his legacy since then. It stated they modify the label as needed, but I find that claim suspect. 

Gotta give him credit, the guy was devoted to his crazy cause. Okay, I’m finished picking on that whacky dude. He lived a rough life, so I’ll give him latitude for that. And I have to say: His soap rocks. 

This has to be the most multi-functional product I have encountered. It is meant for cleaning the body (and soul), but it works just as well on other things. I clean my cat’s litter box with it—just a few squirts in the water are enough to neutralize the odor. I can also use it in the laundry. Because I was cursed with sensitive skin (why hast thou forsaken me with that affliction?), I can’t use artificial fragrances in my soaps and detergents. While those “free and clear” detergents do clean just as effectively as their fragrant brethren, they don’t handle pungent odors well. All it takes is a few drops of his soap with the detergent, and my laundry smells fresh again! 

I also make a sugar scrub with it and sometimes add more coconut oil for extra moisturizing. I don’t mean to imply that St. Bronner needs an abrasive substance to help scour the impiety from flesh, but there is no such thing as over-compensation in the war against evil. Plus, I do feel extra purified afterwards. 

I recommend not using the soap on your naughty bits, and definitely do not get it in your eyes. While not as bad as throwing holy water on a vampire, it is quite unpleasant. Apparently, those dirty parts of the anatomy have seen and experienced so many nefarious things, they are beyond redemption. 

I stumbled upon an additional use for this soap recently. How to start? Umm . . . I, erm, was given—AGAINST MY WILL!—a couple of glass thingamajiggies used for something unholy. Yes. God makes this iniquitous substance, so it should be okay, right? No, he did it just to test us! They were too pretty to throw away, so I decided—for the greater good—to salvage them. Nothing was working to purge these pipes, er, demonic delivery devices, of the vile contraband. Repeated soakings with dish soap, as well as numerous rubbing alcohol dips, did little to make these objects chaste once again. In a rapturous moment, it occurred to me to soak them in hot water and his hemp (the irony did not escape me) soap. Dr. B exorcised the ashes of that evil plant straight to HELL! Yay-yah! Dr. Bronner saved me from eternal damnation! Again! 

I trust this soap has even more uses, but it is a bit pricey at $9.99–$14.99 a bottle. That exorcism used up a few bucks worth alone. Perhaps I am governed by my household budget, but it seems I shouldn’t be so indulgent with my Savior’s resources. I’m sure it says that somewhere in the Bible.

Hot diggity yog-a!

I have had an on again, off again, love affair with yoga for the past 15 years. This form of exercise is excellent for the mind, body, and soul. It has a calming effect as it improves flexibility, strength, and overall fitness. Then why can’t I stick with it, usually? Yes, the time and money are commitments I am not always able to afford. Even then, I could practice it on my own. Unfortunately, there are certain activities that fair better with a group dynamic, i.e., motivating someone who is not a great self-starter, such as I. Thinking back to some of the rituals that are woven into the practice, I realized that it is the “soul” part I have issue with. 

The concept of a soul is an intangible, thus nebulous, one. I don’t believe we have physical souls, not in a religious sense. I am not biased against spirituality, per se, because it can mean different things to different people. My views happen to align more with Eastern philosophies than the monotheistic principles ever prevalent in our Western cultures. I feel there is positive and negative energy, but as is scientifically proven, it cannot be created or destroyed. Thus, we must convert what we have. We should draw on what is around us, such as nature, to enrich our spirit (life essence) to make us feel “whole.” I put that in quotes, because I really don’t know what that means, much less what it feels like to be complete.  

As I am fundamentally opposed to organized religion, I certainly don’t attend a yoga class for a ceremony. Due to a pesky little Generalized Anxiety Disorder, I seriously need to achieve a Zen-like state if I don’t want to have a premature death from some stress-related illness. But, I need to discover that on my own while enlisting help as needed. It is called inner peace for a reason; it’s private, damn it. Also, I feel rather stupid participating in some of the peculiar mantras I’ve been exposed to in different forms of yoga. 

Of all the styles I’ve tried, Vinyasa is my favorite. The poses are challenging and numerous. It is a real workout. When I leave class, I am calm and my mind clear as I focus on my body that I pushed into a delicious fatigue. Depending on the instructor, the class could be peppered with some philosophical ramblings that I must focus energy on tuning out. I get nothing out of them, and they distract me from my purpose for being there. One instructor actually read a passage out of some Taoist text. I couldn’t even follow what she was saying. I tried to listen initially, but I was in the back of the room and her voice was getting lost. I was left sitting there for five minutes, doing nothing. Could I get a refund for that portion? The hour-and-a-half class cost $18. I want my $1.00 back! Oh yeah, Namaste and all that. 

All forms of yoga are designed to improve flexibility, strength, as well as breath-control. Hatha is a gentle style with an emphasis on poses that promote tranquility. I guess that would explain why the instructor wanted to keep her vocal instruction soft and tender so as not to jostle us out of our meditative state. That was very thoughtful of her, but it had the unexpected result of making me giggle. That isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but when my is in a constant state of unrest, perhaps I needed more focus. As we were in corpse pose—the most common way to end a class by lying on the back in complete relaxation—she spoke ever-so gently to us. “Close your eyes, and reeelllaaaaa . . .” No, the ‘x’ is not broken on my keyboard, nor did she get something stuck in her throat at that last syllable, she deliberately omitted it, evidenced by three more requests that we rela [sic]. Okay, I gave her that one. Perhaps the sharp sound of that coveted Scrabble tile is a bit harsh. “Shanti shAHHHNTI . . . SHAhnti.” said what? I wanted to describe phonetically the way she chanted that, or should I say, sang it. Be that as it may, it was plain goofy. What does shanti mean, anyway? I just looked it up. Peace, it means peace. Then fucking say that instead of getting all pretentious on me with a word I would never use in normal conversation. Yeah yeah yeah, Namaste

I should beware of what I wish for, I know. I get it! I got a Groupon I am currently using up at a school that promotes peace in all forms: Peace yoga, self-defense, peace-breathing meditation, peace, peace, and more peace. I’m fine with that, even if it was to basically dig out a niche in the market of this vast and popular form of exercise. Really, the poses weren’t too different from those in Hatha. What really sets it apart, I found out within a couple minutes of my first class, is the breathing exercise they practice. “Inhale wooooorrrrrrrllllldddddd. Exhale peeeeeaaaaaccceeee.” Over and over again. Yes, in the grand scheme of things it is innocuous and means well. But, it is a platitude, and platitudes annoy me. I complained to a friend that no matter how heavily we aspirate our desire and positive energy for world peace, it ain’t gonna happen in a modest yoga class. She said that it probably meant that you were supposed to wish peace for yourself. Well, then, it should be “Inhale meeeeeeee, exhale . . .” Anyway. 

I could forgive that banal, albeit stupid ritual. I could not abide my awful experience when I went to one of their Saturday classes recently. It started out strangely enough with an odd way to stretch. The instructor didn’t just pull her head to her shoulder, her head and shoulder spasmed together for two repetitions. I thought pulsating stretches went away with the Flash Dance era; they risk injury. While it looked cool when Jennifer Beals’ dance-double did it, it is much safer to ease into a static stretch. This just looked silly. As I tried to mimic her tic—which did nothing beneficial for my muscles—I felt like I was trying to do the beginning of the “Thriller” dance. You know the one. I then started to think about zombies. Since they are so popular right now, why not develop a form of yoga in homage to the mythical beasts. Zombie Yoga. Zombya. Vampire Yoga would be ill-advised. First, we’d have to get in and out of the poses faster than humanly possible. Plus, some of them have the potential to turn bloody and violent, which is antithetical to the yogi way. Zombie Yoga makes more sense. “Inhale wooooorrrrrlldddd” GRRRRRRRR. “Exhale peeeeeaaaaccceeeee.” GRRRRRRRR! Their disposition, or if the undead can even have one, can be argued both ways. Are they just chilling, or are they in a perpetual state of agitation due to their constant quest for food? If the former, it is a Zen we should strive to achieve through practice. If the latter, then it could get weird. “Inhale bbbbrrrraaaaaiiiinnnsssss. Exhale eeeeeaaaaaattttt.” Something to ponder. I’m calling firsties if a Zombya studio pops up, by the way. Nyum-nyum-brai, grr, I mean, Namaste

I can ignore the spazo-tic and just stretch my own way, so that’s what I did. I can’t ignore kids. Being a peace-promoting school, they encourage children to participate. I think that is great to introduce the wonders of yoga at an early age. Like the dojo, it needs to be respected. The evil brats I was surrounded by were obviously brought there by force by their peace-loving parents. Ironic, eh? I also commend any new mother to get back on the fitness wagon, but shit, leave the newborn at home with a sitter. My was a bit bothered from the cooing, but I figured that was my problem. What sweeter sound is there than a happy baby? A quiet one, I say. When the baby turned fussy and started crying, it became everyone’s problem. The mother spent the rest of the class in the bathroom, so our practice was accompanied by muffled cries the whole time. At one point, a photographer came in to take pictures of the students. Of course, she aimed the camera at me. Since I was sans make-up, had my hair in pigtails, and no doubt had a pissy look on my face, I certainly wasn’t photo-ready. But what could I do? My third eye visualized a missile taking her out and freeing me from her crosshairs is what I did. What the hell was she doing there, anyway?  

Midway through the class, we were in meditation pose and focused on our breathing. After several inhale worlds and exhale peaces, the instructor thankfully had us continue on our own. Ahhh, silence. When she spoke again, a kid behind me sighed, “Finally.” It was pretty funny in retrospect, but inappropriate. My sense of humor at that point was conspicuously absent. I lay blame on the frequent interruptions from my own quest for inner peace with the imps’ chatter. I know they are still fairly new to this whole ability to talk thing, but why can’t they nix the conversation for an hour? Since they will have extra years on this earth if they stick to yoga, it is a relative brief period of time that would be gone in a blink of the eye. They have their whole lives ahead of them to flap their gums. There was one hellion positioned behind me who was very ungraceful and loud as he did his poses. Thump thump thump! Cripes, a zombie would be lighter on his feet. It was seriously skunking my . I told myself that the next crash from one of his limbs would result in a warning slam of my fist right in front of him. Peace could bite me; I’d declare war on that little monster. 

The fucker had to take a piss, so of course he announced it to the whole class with a whack! whack! of his legs. I welcomed the respite from that little ball of evil, albeit briefly. When he finished, he felt it was more important to close the bathroom door all the way than not disrupt the class. Whomp! Whomp! SLAM! My shoulders collapsed as I turned to him and gave him a “really?” look. He was unphased. That is, until his father came from the front of the class to scold him in a harsh whisper. I rather enjoyed that, until I realized: You dumped your kid in the back of the class to leave us to deal with him? My said, “Bugger this. I’m outta here.” My body stayed, but my spirit took a hike as my mind plotted World War III. Kiss my ass, Namaste

Pointless mantras are bad enough, but that last experience risked souring me to yoga. It was the first time I left a yoga class more tense than when I arrived. It was beyond frustrating. Then, my friend came to the rescue with a gift of a hot yoga class.  

Hot yoga is the generic name and derivative style for the Bikram method. Due to copyright protection, only Bikram-sanctioned studios may use that name. For the others, the postures may vary but the concept is still the same. Participants perform 26 Asanas in a 105-degree room; reason being that the heat and humidity warm the body to make the muscles and joints more flexible for deeper stretches. The body must also expend energy to cool it off, thus resulting in anywhere from 500-1,000 calories burned in an average 1.5 hour class. I was excited, but due to my heat-sensitivity, a bit apprehensive. 

Deciding to only bring positive energy to the experience, I was stoked when I arrived at the studio. I walked into the room and felt like I entered a sauna. I then thought I was screwed. But, I followed the rules and didn’t talk and just focused on acclimatizing myself to the heat while in corpse pose. When the class started, the instructor introduced me and said that I had a free pass. Meaning, the regulars get the verbal equivalent of a riding crop to their rumps if they slack off, while my only goal was to stay in the room the whole time. While the amnesty I was granted was reassuring, my competitive side did not wish me to be complacent. I got through the whole class with sitting out on only three reps (each pose is performed at least twice). There were several times that I thought I was going to pass out, and about five Asanas into it, I was hoping for a 45-minute corpse pose, but I stuck to it. The instructor told me at the end that I did a great job and she forgot a few times that I was a beginner. That was rewarding, but I didn’t need the compliment. I accomplished one of the most difficult workouts I have ever endured, and live to write about it. While the class didn’t end that way, I would have happily done so with a Namaste

And you know what? I kind of loved it. There was no ceremony, no platitudes, just instruction on how to push your body to its limits. The mind can focus only on the moment, leaving the spirit to sort things out later. As I discussed in my last post, Starting Over, I have a blocked vein that makes a lot of activities more challenging. Being a lymphoma survivor, my lymphatic and circulatory systems—those responsible for fluid movement—are sluggish. This is the most I’ve sweated in about 20 years. I looked like I jumped in a lake with my clothes on, and felt like I was internally cleansed of impurities. Going in and out of the poses left me breathless and lightheaded at times because of the blockage, so it was extremely difficult. But, I could feel that the more I do it, the stronger I will get and the less my condition will bog me down. It can only benefit me, so the time and money are worth it. As I stated in Starting Over, I am worth it.   

Vinyasa is still my style of choice, but between running and hot yoga, my mind and spirit just may show my body who is boss.

The Human Dementopede

One of my first posts to this blog was a review of The Human Centipede back in 2010. https://thepurplepedant.wordpress.com/2010/05/27/the-human-centipuke/ 

I had a legitimate reason why I inflicted such a horrific display of cinematic depravity on myself. The concept really spooked me and it kept me up into the wee hours. Watching the movie allowed me to take control and put the ridiculousness of it in perspective. Regrettably, I have no reasonable explanation why I did the same for its sequel—The Human Centipede 2—when it became available on IFC On Demand this month. I didn’t think it could get more sickening than the first one, but, oh, I was terribly wrong. Tom Six, the, er, creative genius behind it, like a Criminal Minds unsub, escalated his twisted creation to new and repulsive depths. He out-icked himself. I think for the rest of this review, I will refer to him as the more aptly named Mr. Sick. His mother must be proud.

To add insult to injury, I spent $6.99 (plus tax) to suffer through what is no doubt one of the most disgusting movies in existence. And I saw Faces of Death! It leaves about as much to the imagination as your average snuff film. Does that drive my point home? This film was horrifyingly horrible. Thankfully, the movie was only 90 minutes long, which amounted to 7.766¢ per minute. While it seems nominal when put that way, the possible damage it did to my psyche cannot be recompensed.

I suspect Mr. Sick was aiming for a noir-esque feel by filming completely in black and white. What he got was more reminiscent of Eraser Head, complete with that perturbing ambient white noise. What was that hissing radiator sound about, anyway? Really, an homage to that chin-scratcher of a flick is unnecessary. Still, viewing such a grisly display in monochrome does take a bit of the edge off. Thanks for that bone, Tom.

While the first film’s tagline was “100% Medically Accurate,” this one is “100% Medically Inaccurate.” How tongue-in-cheek. That would be because the psycho in the first one was supposed to be an actual surgeon with credentials, but the one in the second was just plain psychotic with no surgical knowledge whatsoever. Bwahaha! That is . . . hilarious. 

The central character, Martin Lomax, was a mentally challenged and disturbed night watch security guard of an English parking garage. His visage was repulsive with a pair of googly eyes that made Marty Feldman and Peter Lorre look merely surprised in comparison, man boobs, an atrociously large gut, all on what appeared to be a sub-5-foot tall frame. Plus, he had no shoulders. Odd for me to notice, I know. One can imagine him hacking his halitosis into the air during his many asthmatic attacks. He was disgusting from top to bottom. There was no positive quality in this dude to be seen. Of course, such a pivotal role required an actor that looked the part.

God was in a bad mood when he created the recipe for that gene pool. He looks like Dr. Evil’s deformed clone—MutantMe. I guess the audience is supposed to feel a bit sorry for the guy, as he was sexually abused as a child and as an adult, still lives with his crazy mother who blames him for her husband being jailed for life. “Keep crying, you’re just making Daddy’s willy harder.” Wow, that is creepy. We can only sympathize so much when the psychological damage manifests itself in the desire to inflict some of the worst tortures man—Tom Sick in this case—can imagine. Perhaps I am getting ahead of myself in this review.

Speaking of, I would say that Mr. Sick should quit while he is ahead, but he never was ahead. He just needs to quit.

You know, I suspect the actor who was suckered into playing Martin Lomax, Laurence R. Harvey, initially welcomed the acting challenge of portraying such a deviant character who had no speaking lines. It must have been a fascinating exercise to emote mostly through facial and body language. To his credit, he was successful. As for the other actors, I believe they displayed the appropriate level of horror. I wonder if any of them asked Mr. Sick, “What’s my motivation?”

By the way, Roger Ebert reviewed the original and its sequel. He gave the first movie one and a half stars (in a world where stars don’t shine, as he hilariously put it), and this one zero stars. I believe that might be overly generous. I am trying to picture how he must have looked before and during this movie.

Roger Ebert before The Human Centipede 2

 

Roger Ebert during The Human Centipede 2

There is not much difference, eh? At least I have the ability to express my horror in what I am watching—verbally and physically; he doesn’t. Poor guy is all bottled up with his disgust. Whatever he was paid to review these movies, I trust it wasn’t enough. But I digress, again.

Focus! Something I wish Mr. Sick had not done quite so sharply; it would have made it easier to watch if it were filmed a bit blurrier!

Okay, back to the movie. I hope to sum it up as expeditiously as possible. To spend more time than necessary is to risk venturing again down that path of revulsion from which I may not be able to return. Yes, I am going to spoil the whole plot for you so that you won’t have to experience what I did. You’re welcome.

The first 55 minutes was spent implying the sources of Martin’s pathologies, as well as setting the stage for his modus operandi. He watched The Human Centipede during his shift every night, while paging through a lovingly crafted scrapbook containing highlights from the film. Thus, it was obvious he was obsessed with the movie. As he shot and clubbed random victims he spied on the security cameras in the garage, and stowed them in a warehouse, his plans were laid bare: He wanted to create a 12-segment human centipede. His ideal goal was to incorporate the three actors from the original centipede into his freaky, little magnum opus. He was successful in acquiring Ashlynn Yennie—the actress who played the surviving middle segment—by claiming to be a casting agent for a new Tarantino film. The other two were busy with other projects. Do you have an idea where this is going? Let me just say that one moral of this story could be that actors should be choosier with their roles.

It appears the filmmaker is a practical jokester, as well. The agent left a callback number for Martin: 713-499-0913. Since it wasn’t the usual fake “555” movie number, of course viewers will dial it. Guess what? The subscriber doesn’t accept calls. Screw you, Mr. Sick!

Oh yeah, Martin also had a real centipede as a pet, and it had a role outside of a heavy-handed symbolic device. Keep reading. It’s epic.

He eventually acquired all twelve necessary victims. In between that, he bludgeoned his mother to death and used her corpse to lure his skinhead bully of a neighbor as another victim (I really don’t feel like explaining that one). I would say the murder of his mother was his trigger, but that chamber was emptied long before that. Oh, he also shot his psychiatrist in the head because he kept rubbing his knee. That’s right, Martin’s doctor was sexually attracted to him. I know, hard to swallow, but so is this whole movie. While we are on that subject, if you must see it, don’t eat during it.

Onto the last 35 minutes. He laid out all his tools that he acquired from his mother’s kitchen. He even grabbed a fork. Better to have it than . . . whatever. He had a fork. Anyway, Martin took a break from preparing and assembling his victims to pick up the unsuspecting Ashlynn Yennie and drive her to the warehouse. As is typical of horror films, just as she realized what she was walking into, he whacked her on the head with a crowbar. Oh yeah, that was his weapon of choice outside of the gun. He’d cripple them with the gun, then knock them unconscious with the crowbar. Since head wounds tend to bleed profusely, all the victims had duct tape wrapped around them like headbands. Actually, wherever there was a wound there was duct tape. His monster was going to look like trailer trash, to boot.

After positioning Miss Yennie as the front segment, he was ready to create his centipede. At least, Herr Doktor from the first film used anesthetic and proper surgical techniques. That was pretty humane, relatively speaking. Martin, however, just started hammering, cutting, and slicing away. Tap, tap, crack! Out goes his neighbor’s teeth with a hammer. Slice! Off goes Ashlynn’s kneecap tendons with a vegetable knife. One lucky guy died from blood loss as Martin tried to create the butt flaps that would be attached to another’s face. I am very grateful he had to abandon that approach, in retrospect. Anyway, off to the side segment #1 went.

MutantMe was getting quite frustrated as his vision was not unfolding as planned. He lost segment #2—a pregnant woman (awesome!)—who seemed to die just from laying there. He listened to her belly, and there was still a fetal heartbeat. I could feel my toes tighten and curl in revulsion as I feared the reason he was checking to see if the fetus was still alive. Thankfully, he just moved Mom off to the side to join the other guy. He was left with making only a 10-segment bug. Alas.

Only 11 minutes passed since I had checked the DVR clock last at that point. Cripes, I was really hoping that the ending credits would take up at least 10 minutes, so that I’d only have to endure this for no more than 14 more minutes. Since the butt flaps didn’t work, he went straight to the staple gun. That’s right. Ass to mouth, carpenter-style. It became horrifyingly obvious that Martin had an anal fixation that mind-bogglingly surpassed Freud’s vision, as he did everything possible to get everyone to shit and eat. One of the kitchen gadgets he brought was what looked like a beer bong. Since Ashlynn was being recalcitrant, he pushed the tube down her throat to force-feed her. Since digestion isn’t immediate, he started rubbing everyone’s belly. That must have been soothing. It started to have an effect. He pulled out a syringe that he filled with a laxative. I don’t remember seeing that before, not even as a gun on the wall. Regardless, it served its purpose. Everyone got an injection in the ass. He didn’t even change the needle. Hello? Did he not know about HIV?

The results were bloody disgusting. Even a coprophile would have lost his erection. Diarrhea shit splattered everywhere, even on the camera lens. Remember the scene from Jaws when water splashed on the lens during a shark attack? It made you feel like you were in the water, watching it unfold. Not the same effect here. I didn’t want a front-row seat to that nasty Gallagher concert.

Let me try to wrap this up. Ms. Yennie screamed too much for Martin’s liking, so he pulled out her tongue. Technically, she could have kept yelping, but it shut her up. One of the braver chaps ripped his mouth off to separate from the rest of the team, causing the centipede to branch off into two segments. Oddly enough, that looked even more horrifying. That disrupted MutantMe’s paradigm, so he started executing them all, segment by segment. I trust he didn’t appreciate what a favor he was doing them at that point. Ashlynn, being the spunky actress that she was, eventually retaliated as he got to her. After valiantly striving to turn off the lights to gain the element of surprise, when Martin turned them back on she hurled his beloved pet centipede at him, causing the aquarium to shatter and free the bug. Okay, so here comes the epic part.

As the last living segment, the soon to be out-of-work actress exacted her revenge to the best of her abilities. She somehow knocked him in the groin and de-pantsed him. Conveniently, the beer bong and centipede were within her reach. Do I need to describe what happened next?

He really should have wound up in the hospital, and possibly died from internal injuries. But, like a trooper, he was back to work. Although, in truth, I don’t know how much time passed. Nor do I know how he got rid of the dead insect. I just realized the double entendre there. I could be talking about the dead people, or the centipede slithering through his colon. I believe Mr. Sick wanted the ending to be nebulous: Did he survive and go back to business as usual, or did he fantasize the whole thing? I don’t know if it matters; we probably will not see these actors in anything credible. 

Oh wait, there’s one more thing. The pregnant woman wasn’t actually dead, and thus was able to escape. She got into a car that still had the keys in the ignition. Inconveniently, she started giving birth as Martin tried unsuccessfully to break into the car. It only took a few minutes for her to spit out the baby. I guess trauma is a great labor-inducer. The newborn spurted onto the floor of the car, and in the mother’s desperation, she slammed the pedal to the metal. Yes, indeed, the baby’s head was between the floor and the gas pedal. Mr. Sick, you officially went too fucking far with that. Why did that need to happen? I would not want to get inside his brain to mine for that answer.

I weep at the prospect of a third movie. Shudder. One can only hope that cannibalistic, venomous centipedes everywhere will rise up and put a stop to Tom Six sullying their good names. 

 
 

Flight risk

Back in July of 2005, I spent a month in Florence, Italy to attend art school and live the Bohemian dream. My average day started with a Renaissance drawing class, complete with a break at the local bakery for a café Americano and pastry. After class, either I stopped at an eatery to spend a mere two Euro on a panini (how I miss the ignorance of the exchange rate) or at the grocer for food to prepare a meal in my apartment by the Duomo. After lunch, yawn, it was naptime. A couple hours later, stretch, I’d wake up and head outside to wander around, take in the sights, sketch, and shop. Sometimes I would go back to the art studio to work. When evening rolled around, I connected with my mates for dinner, conversation, and possibly a concert, museum visit, or whatever else struck our fancy. Those were the days. How I yearn for the carefree lifestyle of the unfettered yet dedicated artist.

Being on a tight budget, I was quite frugal with my money. I couldn’t resist, though, the opportunity to purchase made-to-order plaster casts from the school’s sculpting instructor. I selected a skull, as well as a wall-mount head of St. Jerome. I thought 90 Euro was a great deal for the two, considering I didn’t have to pay for shipping or sales tax. Never mind that the U.S. equivalent was about $150. Every bona fide artist has a plaster cast to use for academic study.

 I couldn’t risk my acquisitions getting damaged, so I wrapped them in towels in my carry-on luggage when the time came to return to the States and, alas, to the responsibilities awaiting me there. Unfortunately, that required me to check an extra piece of luggage, costing me 75 euro for exceeding my baggage limit. Okay, the casts weren’t quite so economical anymore, but there was no turning back.

 After a peculiar request from security to see the contents of my bag, I sat down to await boarding. Our flight ended up being delayed several hours due to an impromptu air traffic controller strike. I noticed that the work ethic was a bit more lax than in other countries. That was in stark comparison to Germany, most definitely; we missed our connecting flight when we arrived in Dusseldorf. They didn’t give a scheiße that it wasn’t our fault we were late. Germans are on time no matter what, verdammt! I was stuck there for the night, because the next flight to New York wasn’t until the following morning. Frick

Looking every bit the peace-loving artist in my hand-made, ankle-length flowing, purple skirt, I arrived at the airport after my complimentary stay and meal at the airport hotel. That was nice of them, although it wouldn’t surprise me if they hit Italy up for the tab. I lugged my bag onto the conveyor belt, and moments later an irascible security guard picked up my carry-on. With a guttural demand he indicated for me to follow him off to the side wall, away from the screening area. He dropped the bag onto a table and tersely ordered me to open it. “They are plaster ca . . . “. I couldn’t even finish my explanation as he barked like a German Shepard, “Pull them out!”

 Okay! Jeepers. I even had to remove the casts from their terry-cloth cocoons to prove to him that I wasn’t smuggling something, or whatever he suspected from this yoga-loving hippy. What up? I even listen to Dylan, damn it! And what gives with the harsh treatment of one of his sisters-in-Deutch? (I’m only half German, but it’s a matter of principle.) At least he yelled at me in my native language. How magnanimous of him. The thought did cross my mind that I got a teensy taste right then for what the Jews had to endure. On top of everything else, dealing with those Nazis must have been one serious slice of Hell. I know, that is sick and wrong of me to contemplate. However, those German guards are scary mean, even the ones who don’t pack heat. American cops lose street cred when they use Segways to troll their beat. Put a legion of Germans on them and they’d be fit to blitzkrieg Poland. I’m just saying. Anyway, he was mollified (relatively speaking) after he confirmed what I tried to tell him in the first place. Really, how many terrorists dress like gypsies? I was a bit insulted. Did I get an apology? Nein!

 I all but forgot the shoddy treatment when I boarded the plane, as I was treated to the luxury amenities of a business flight. I got to stretch my legs, nosh on warm nuts, and wash them down with red wine in an actual glass. I stretched my legs and ate a hot lunch while I watched a movie on a personal television. I reclined to my heart’s content when I wanted to sleep.

 My stopover in New York meant that I was required to abandon that sweet ride. I had to go through airport security again in order to change planes. As I went through the same rigmarole, I was emotionally prepared this time and gave the attendants an unsolicited description of what I was carrying. They started laughing as my luggage made its way through the x-ray. I walked through the sensor as I offered to show them the contents, “I can open my bag and remoooo-holy SHIT!” The screen showed what could easily be mistaken for two severed heads suspended in some morbid aqueous humor. No wonder. Although, I doubt traveling executioners are all the rage. If they exist, they wouldn’t be carrying their spoils, and they certainly wouldn’t go through a German airport with them. Still, Occam’s Razor should have been poking Herr Wachmann in the back when he was treating me as if I were channeling Izzy Borden. Ugh, whatever. I shared the laugh as I offered again to prove that I wasn’t an axe murderer. They assured me that it was okay and I could go through to my gate.

 Is there a moral to this story? Well, there is a possible inference that serial killing is a more accepted practice in the good ole US of A. More importantly, when traveling abroad, there are other costs to consider than actual hard dollars expended:

One panini: $3.60 U.S.
Two artistic plaster casts: $150 U.S.
Penalty for exceeding baggage limit: $135 U.S.
The experience of being mistaken for a jet-setting psychopath: Priceless

What happens in Vegas, can stay there.

Bloody Hell, do I hate Vegas. I was recently there for the second time—both for business purposes. I believe I hate it even more the second time around. I would never vacation there. If not out of necessity, the only way you’d find me there again is if my corpse was dropped on the strip as some bizarre act of revenge against my principles. I just hope I never piss anyone off enough to insult my carcass in such an ignominious fashion. While there, I proclaimed my disdain for that den of iniquity to anyone who would listen. Despite my daily verbal declaration of my feelings, I don’t feel that I’ve expressed myself to my satisfaction. My contempt, I’ve decided, is best laid out in list format. 

Forty-One Things I hate about Vegas 

1. That place has rightfully earned the name Sin City. I am not religious, but even my theoretical soul feels unclean after being there. 

2. The fashion is hideous. Metallic purses and leopard skin? Really? 

3. The casinos still allow smoking. I had to walk through a miasma of tobacco to get anywhere. 

4. I guess since smokers are willing to gamble with their health, so goes the same with the slots. Ergo, they make better customers. 

5. How many 12-step programs rely on Vegas for their business? 

6. If I had that proverbial nickel for every obscenely short dress I saw, I certainly wouldn’t need to feed the slots with my earnings. 

7. In case you were wondering, yes indeed, there was a dress that was so short the bottom of her ass cheeks was exposed. I felt like I contracted an STD on my eyes, and regretfully, the memory didn’t stay in Vegas. 

8. Incidentally, I found out from a cab driver that the award-winning slogan was censored. “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas, but the rash goes with you.” Yeah, that sounds about right. 

9. Smoking, drinking, gambling, and aforementioned Vegas attire, are ever-present. Even at 6:00 a.m. Time is relative and apparently always after 5:00 p.m., at least in the casinos. Also, there are no clocks. There is something inherently wrong when Einstein is vindicated in such a hedonistic fashion. 

10. The hotels could save some money by occasionally turning off the non-stop commercials in their elevators. Really, I can sacrifice being reminded repeatedly that you have a glorified Slurpee bar accompanied by what appears to be the soundtrack for a bad porn film. 

11. Celine Dion. Do I need to explain that one? 

12. Where are all the crows? It is the desert, and it is shiny. I just find it a bit suspicious. 

13. If leopards knew their lovely coats were cheapened and disgraced, there would be a feline uprising. You think what happened with Sigfried and Roy was bad? Hah! 

14. My point is that leopard patterns do not look good on humans under any circumstances. 

15. Click-click-SNAP! Here’s a card to an X-rated girlie show. Anyone who has walked up and down the strip knows what I am talking about. 

16. Why are you trying to hand me that card? Do I look like I would go to a tit fest? 

17. The sidewalks are littered with discarded cards. Even I have to side with Greenpeace on this one. 

18. I think I’ve seen enough Botox and sequins to convince me that I will never get Botox, nor wear sequins. Ever. 

19. I had to abandon my outdoor runs because I would start sucking wind after a mile due to the higher altitude—more than 1,300 feet higher than my hometown. That does not make Vegas a bad place, per se, but it was just another thing to upset my paradigm. 

20. I spent $15 on this drink. Where’s my buzz? 

21. I did the math on potential costs to gamble. It took me approximately 27 seconds to lose $2 in the slots. That is 7.4¢ per second, translating to $266.40 for one hour of entertainment. Wait, couldn’t you come on Elisabeth Shue’s face in Leaving Las Vegas for that much? I don’t even have a penis and that seems like a better deal to me. 

22. The presence of a spastically waving Mickey Mouse does not make the place family friendly. Mickey might as well hand out candy cigarettes to the kiddies while he’s at it. 

23. Speaking of that, I thought cigarette girls were obsolete. Sadly, they still exist. I hope they at least charge more for their product than my $15 drink. 

24. I question the decision of parents to bring their kids to Vegas. If they are willing to spend the money on the overpriced food, accommodations, and gambling, then they can spring for a babysitter. It would be cheaper than the child therapy they would no doubt eventually need. 

25. What is up with all the neon? There is already a SETI program. Let NASA handle communicating with space. 

26. I wonder how many people developed coulrophobia after seeing the creepy Circus Circus Hotel-Casino sign. Google it, then you’ll know why I ask. It is disturbing. 

27. I had an anxiety dream while I was there that I bet $500,000 on black, justifying it by pointing out that I had a 50/50 chance of winning. I lost it all. My unconscious forgot the green that lowers the odds, as well as the probability that the machines are calibrated to fuck me over. Vegas owes me a Xanax.

28. In all seriousness, I wonder how casino workers sleep at night after witnessing one house of cards after the other tumble to the ground as people gamble their lives away, every day. 

29. People! I’m drowning in people! 

30. Sidewalks should not have stairway detours every other block. Whoever designed that place needs to be chained to a revolving step-mill until his feet blister as much as mine did. And, yes, he; only a man would pull that crap.

31. Okay, so I choose not to fit in and relish the debauchery. Damn it, some of us have to work around here, and there is a code of decency to follow. There are just some conversations I’d rather not have with my colleagues. That’s what office parties in the ‘90s were for. 

32. That said, Vegas isn’t even on my list of vacation spots. 

33. Hello, Vegas? This is the recession calling. Trickle-down economics doesn’t work. Unless you’re paying $266.40 to a hooker. 

34. I have only so much willpower to resist the compulsion to lift those over-priced mini-bar items off the sensors. The cost of one of those things is higher than the co-pay for OCD meds. 

35. If we must waste our hard-earned money in the middle of a desert, at least put humidifiers in the joint. The scaly-skinned, reptilian look, shockingly, isn’t as hot as you’d think. 

36. If I want a painfully dry mouth and throat, I’ll just go on a hallucinogenic bender. It would be much more entertaining. 

37. I’ll admit, there is a superficial appeal to the place. It is why plastic surgery is so popular. 

38. Vegas is the Joan Rivers of cities. Her, or that freaky socialite who looks like a lion. Both of them make me laugh for the wrong reasons. 

39. Since we are on that topic, why does the MGM, or any hotel for that matter, need a lions’ den? Fake ones would suffice. 

40. Synthetic cities have no heart. They just have defibrillators that send electric shocks to agonizingly prolong its existence. 

41. If it is true that what happens in Vegas stays there, why can’t that include the weight gain?

A Sprinklage of Dinklage Makes Cinema *Sparkle*!

Props must be given to the spouse for that title. If it isn’t obvious whom this is about, I am referring to the recent (and richly deserved) Emmy winner, Peter Dinklage. I had a rant mentally scripted if he didn’t win that award. It involved a fantasy of him storming the stage à la Kanye West, grabbing the statue from the undeserving winner, and whacking him in the knees à la Tanya Harding with it. What am I talking about? Bah! He wouldn’t à la anything, he’s above aping those cretins. A feral, baritone roar would make the arena quake as he came out swinging a mace in a circle of death above his head, barreling towards the idiot judges who deemed him unworthy of such accolades. If you diss the Dink, you enter a world of pain. 

I have seen him in only a half-dozen performances, but every one has been terrific and completely engaging. His intense gaze, strong features, and mellifluous voice, command attention. Unless it is a prominent feature of the character, it is easy to forget that he is actually a dwarf. Just as I don’t focus on the fact that John Lithgow (another favorite), as an example, is a very tall man; I am riveted solely by his acting. Warwick Davis is a fine actor, but I always am aware of his stature. As for the Dinkster, it is no Napoleon Complex; this man is a strong actor with a powerful presence. Without further ado, allow me to bestow upon you a sprinklage of Dinklage:

Look at those penetrating blue eyes. Hmm.

He, um . . . wow. He works out.

Excuse me for a moment. . . . 

*   *   *

 All right! I’m back! Sorry about that momentary interruption. Those hypothetical deserted islands don’t populate themselves. Ahem. Onward.

 Back to my main point: Every show or movie I have seen him in is exponentially more entertaining because of his presence. Ergo, Peter Dinklage makes cinema better. Allow me to present examples to support my claim. 

The Station Agent 

This was the first time I experienced Dinktstacy. It was a subtle movie in ways, and in a lesser actor, the spirit and comedy of it would have been lost on the audience. He didn’t play an immediately likable character; he wanted to be left alone with his thoughts and his trains. Eventually, he became a person with whom the audience could identify. Perhaps it was when he leapt into a ditch to avoid an oncoming vehicle. That scene garnered the biggest laugh, yet, it showed a more fragile side to his stoicism in a very humorous way, and that exterior slowly dissolved as he allowed outsiders into his world. It was completely believable that women were attracted to him. Not only is he handsome, he is also a person we can understand. It took Peter Dinklage to make this movie work as well as it did. Sorry, Warwick. You must stay on your side of the pond. 

Elf  

I had absolutely no idea that the disembodied, menacing voice on the phone was Peter Dinklage. This character was all about his dwarfism and over-compensation, i.e., Napoleon Complex, by being a royal dick. The main character mistaking him for an elf was the ultimate insult that had to be punished with physical violence. This was a very funny movie, but the image of him running with bloodlust vengeance across the conference room table to attack Will Ferrell makes me giggle every time I think about it. That scene pushed the movie to a higher plane for me. 

Game of Thrones 

Really, what needs to be said about this? The series is excellent, but for me, I found myself hoping a Tyrion-less scene would end so that one with him could begin. What better way to introduce such a complex character than showing a close-up of him slovenly swilling wine as he is getting a blowjob from a prostitute? That was a rhetorical question. He upset expectations by revealing the man as the most complex and ethical of the Lannisters. Oh yeah, and his British accent was pitch-perfect. Sorry again, Warwick. You just wouldn’t have been able to pull this one off. 

The Last Rites of Ransom Pride 

I saw this movie on my DVR queue, and was ready to ask the hubby why he recorded that. Then, I saw that Peter Dinklage was in it. No further explanation was needed. It had an interesting supporting cast, but as I got close to halfway into it, I started to wonder why I was watching it. There was nary a Dinker to be found. This movie was a real chin-scratcher, and I felt myself reaching the same level of frustration that I did while I watched Eraserhead. Not even the presence of the two biggest living bad-asses of country music in Dwight Yoakam and Kris Kristofferson could raise me to an acceptable level of enjoyment. I really was ready to hit stop and delete the recording. Then, this appeared:

Okay, we were getting somewhere. He was only in a few scenes, but again, he was my main focus. What a bizarre character he created. I still wasn’t crazy about the movie, but Peter Dinklage did make it worth watching for me. 

Death at a Funeral (American version) 

I haven’t seen the original, British version. I hear it is far better than this one. There really was some funny stuff in it, especially some of the punch lines Chris Rock delivered. However, I see this as a skillful throwaway for Fair Dinkums. His homosexual was not over-the-top. He was very calm as he delivered his blackmail ultimatum. As ridiculous as the premise was, I found myself believing that he would follow through on his threat, albeit in the most genteel fashion. I actually was disappointed when I thought his character croaked. His response as he resurrected while in the coffin made me double over in hysterics. I have to see the original to find out if he played the character the same way. I doubt it; British humor has a different flavor to it. 

I just looked at his IMDB; he has been in a lot of stuff. I want to see everything to further my assertion, thus proving my theory that: A Sprinklage of Dinklage Makes Cinema *Sparkle*. I long for the days of Blockbuster and Hollywood Video. I could walk to the nearest location, whip out my membership and credit cards, and go on a Dinklagian film fest. Sadly, Redbox does not fully appreciate his sublime Dinktacity. I can’t bring myself to order Netflix. Despite his extensive resume, I won’t commit to ordering at least three items every month. Eventually, I will run out of Dinktation. That would be a Dinktastrophe of epic proportions. 

There is a movie currently in production called Knights of Badassdom. Mr. Dinklage’s character is named Hung. Can you think of three more compelling reasons to see that movie? Great title, great character name, and of course, the Dink-o-matic is starring in it. I am so there when it comes to the theaters.