Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Saturday, November 26, 2005
Sayonara, Funnyman.
Monday, November 21, 2005
Thoughts on the Star Wars Holiday Special, 11/17/78
Here at last are my musings on the Star Wars Holiday Special.
[2023 UPDATE! For the 45th anniversary, I've put together a bunch of individual posts I had made into one post. I didn't quite understand how to use Blogger back in the day, but now I totally have a grip on it... except I couldn't center the pictures. Or fix the janky spacing of the first few pics. Eh, fuck it.]
If you haven't seen it, I recommend immediately picking it up off eBay (I'm sure it's on DVD by now). [Or just watch it on YouTube.] Get it with the original commercials if possible, they're half the fun. This bizarre spectacle, like many of the cheesy variety specials of the seventies, was co-written by Bruce Vilanch. He has a real ear for Vaudevillean shtick, but not so much for the science-fiction stuff. I used to say I disliked this show, but I can't deny having watched it twenty or so times since I got it a few years back, and I can aver without reservation that it is far more entertaining than all the Star Wars films put together. If you haven't seen it... at some point while reading this you may think I am kidding. I am not. It is that peculiar.
Mark Hamill cameos as Luke Skywalker. I'm not familiar with the entire SW canon, so I have to ask: how did Luke end up with Marlo Thomas' nose?
Carrie Fisher as a strung-out-looking Leia.
Chewbacca's dad, the absolutely repulsive Itchy. The Wookiees must venerate their elderly. I mean, how useful is a weak, toothless, mangy Wookiee?
Chewie's son Lumpy, who looks like Adam Rich before he was rescued from a Mexican carnival.
Here's the Christopher Lowell-ish ringleader from the utterly fabulous hologram circus. I love the choreography of the finale, when the music reaches a thrilling, dramatic crescendo, and the performers all take a slight step forward... and then back. And then, the same foot forward... and back. And that's it.
Diahann Carroll as the object of Itchy's affection.
Art Carney gives Itchy a virtual reality porno cassette that he plugs
into the "Mind Evaporator." (Clever name, Bruce!) Here, she's writhing
orgasmically because, as she says, she can feel her creation. I guess
Itchy's got some skeeter bites need scratchin'!
At the beginning of the Mind Evaporator segment, you see these
Sea-Monkey-looking things swimming around. I swear these are seen again in
"Revenge of the Sith," but I forget when. Some nerd can back me up on
this, I'm sure...
Unfortunately, this was the best vidcap I could get from the Spinal
Tap-esque Jefferson Starship segment. The song is just atrocious.
"We'll vanish without a trace in a cigar-shaped object," Marty Balin
promises, but never delivers.
From the rather cool cartoon segment, here we see Threepio camping it up as he minces to the cockpit.
If you look closely at his ATM card, you'll see that Boba Fett's real name is Carl.
Harvey Korman (as creepy, spout-headed stalker "Krelmin") sexually assaults the cantina owner played by Beatrice Arthur.
Bea drunkenly serenades a rodent of unusual size.
Han Solo embarrasses Lumpy by saying his voice has changed. Ugh, can you imagine what a pubescent Wookiee smells like?
Chewie and Mala make out, which is kind of interesting in that they are both played by men.
The Wookiees, clad in robes that must be terribly hot and stifling, do something blurry involving glowing orbs.
The sneaker-clad Wookiees then shuffle celestially into the tail of the Hale-Bopp comet, and it's over.
And now for some words from a few sponsors of the SWHS...
First up, it's the Reggie bar. "The candy they named after me," says Reggie Jackson, stating the obvious with his usual charming smugness.
Tobor,
a very advanced robot who rolls forward... and backwards! At the end of
the ad the VO says, as if dropping a real bombshell, "Tobor is 'robot'
spelled backward." How do you spell "zzzzzzzzzzzz" backwards? Because
that's what any kids who got this piece of parc for Christmas said
within five minutes of opening it.
Here, Marilyn Maksela enjoys some pudding-in-the-mix goodness.
Man, this commercial has more close-ups of cakeholes getting crammed than.. well, ahem, I wouldn't know what, would I?
Happy Life Day!!!
Saturday, November 12, 2005
The Five People You Meet in Hell.
As she prepared to walk out the door for work, I suggested "What about Manson?"
"Please," she declared, "I am so over Manson." Sorry, Charlie.
Friday, November 11, 2005
From TV Guide, this week 1977: "Has The Fonz finally met a girl he can't handle?"
Besides, The Fonz wouldn't fuck that one with Potsie's dick.
11/13 add: I Googled "Potsie's dick" to see if I was the first to virtually conjure this appalling vision, and lo and behold got 73 results. Apparently there's quite a pornified "Happy Days" fanfic movement out there, mostly gay-themed. "Happy Days?" I mean, I could see queering up "The A-Team" or "Dukes of Hazzard," maybe even "Knightrider," but "Happy Days?" Does anyone really want to read about Al cornholing Arnold? Or how about Laverne and Shirley doing the "Mallachi Munch" on Joanie?
I believe, in any case, that I am the first to use Potsie as punchline when positing a situation in which one would not wish to engage in intercourse with an unappealing woman such as to preclude the act even in the case of supplanting one's own penis with that of an inferior.
Malph would probably work too.
From TV Guide, this week 1979: The Afterschool Special that taught me everything I needed to know about high school
From TV Guide, this week 1979: I spot a trend...
"At last," I exclaimed on that November 13, "reality television! A man who sings while washing the windows of the Empire State Building! A story on the Jewish Home and Hospital for the Aged! Now if only they could combine those two segments into some sort of lowbrow game involving avarice, debauchery and general lowest-common-denominator morality, then you've got something!"
Thursday, November 10, 2005
Ad from the Newsday TV Book, this week 1978
Johnny seems to be smiling a little. Maybe he enjoys the attention just a mite. Hey, at least he's getting noticed by those three cool-looking guys. Maybe they're not cool, but their houses probably don't smell. If the Enurtone Method doesn't work, I'd recommend this to Johnny's folks.
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
Sunday, November 06, 2005
Report to Hell, you fucking jackanapes!
Once or twice a year, I Google the name of our zine, and this time around I found something to regurgitate that vile taste: one "Raindog" (whose poetry is every bit as trite as his sadly self-applied moniker would imply) has grunted this dropping on, I think, his own website. (Trust me, it really doesn't afford further investigation.)
"EPG: So how did you first get into publishing?
RD: I started writing poetry again seriously in about 1993. I got a computer in 1994, my first computer. And I had sort of this renaissance of writing. I wrote 150 poems that year. And somewhere in there . . . somebody brought it to my attention that there were all these magazines out in the world that accepted poetry. The first magazine I submitted poetry to was called, "Report To Hell." It was a little stapled digest-sized thing that was kind of thrown together. It didn’t really look that great. And the editor insisted I use my real name as opposed to my writing name, which pissed me off. I thought, there’s gotta be a better way to do this. After successively trying to get published in other magazines and getting rejected; or having things published but then having the magazine look like garbage, I decided, well, I’ll publish my own magazine."
I felt a perverse need to reply to this. Here's what I emailed to "RD":
I was the main editor of Report to Hell. I didn't "insist" that your real name be used. It's just that the name "Raindog" was so douchey (and still is, and will be forevermore) that I couldn't bring myself to use it. I printed your poetry simply because I received it, having, at the time, some hippie notion that any and all poetry was at least worth distributing. I changed that ridiculously liberal policy soon after, and eventually stopped publishing entirely because I finally realized that nearly everything I got was crap. Good riddance to zines (as far as I know and care), and fuck poetry and its dead mama in the ass.
Best,
Paul
I like that he considered writing 150 poems in a year a "renaissance." I'd call it unrelenting diarrhea. At least I knew my crap was crap--this guy thinks his is literature. I bet he reads his poetry out loud, the pussyfart. "It really didn't look that great." Gee, I'm sorry this zine out of Calabash, North Carolina didn't look like Utne Reader, you stupid, self-aggrandizing twat. And yes, I know that the name is a Tom Waits reference: when he uses it, it's cool; when you call yourself it, it's just gay and embarrassing.
I guess that's my first official blogrant. (And to be fair, RTH had its occasional charms.)
11/6, 6:17 pm... Okay, I'm less angry about the whole thing now, so to put it into perspective I dug out the issue of RTH with Steve "Raindog" (ugh) Armstrong's poetry in it. Ironically, the way the mag looks is one of the few things I like about it, but I can see why the hacks we published rarely liked it. It obviously doesn't take the whole zine thing seriously, and these people were nothing if not dogmatically earnest about their dubious art. I see that I did use the name "Raindog" in the front, but the page with his poem uses his real name, heaven forbid. I recall that he sent a bunch of poems. The one I used is terrible, so I can just imagine the wretchedness of the rejects. I probably shouldn't print it here, but I'll sum it up: hotel as metaphor for relationship, or some such blather. It's like, I'm gonna paint this place and clean it with Murphy's, and then you can check in and someone will take your bags. That is seriously about the gist of it. It's called Vacancy, which also describes his imagination. Anyway, "Raindog" answered my admittedly pissy (and piss-drunk) missive. He agreed that 98% of what's out there is crap and that it's good I don't do it anymore, and that was it. What a dullard. He could've at least called me an asshole.
Looking through that RTH has invigorated me, though. I think I'll start writing uninspired poetry again and inflict it on the poor dopes still publishing that crap. Except this time around, I'm going to call myself "Thundercat."
Friday, November 04, 2005
50 more days!
So my point is that I am listening to christmas music now and it's real nice. Don't be surprised if you see lots of 70's Christmas images popping up here soon and continuing for two months (with a stop-off at Thanksgiving, of course)...