Hot Times

All it takes is a simple inconvenience, of sufficient magnitude, to see daylight filtering through the cracks in the armor of the arrogant, elitist pseudo-intellects – when the issue becomes large enough to affect not just the lives of the common folk they hold in contempt, but something personally symbolic to them.

The inconvenience could be anything, like the heat. And the dry grassland. I give you the upcoming Independence Day, 2008 Edition. Not just any July 4th – but the driest, and potentially most dangerous in years. Let me not be misunderstood; as Americans, this day should be "personally symbolic" to all of us. But when it comes to those who see value only in terms of dollar signs, we all risk getting burned.

This past week, Governor Schwarzenegger made an urgent request to the state's populace that smacked of an uncommonly high level of common sense, for a politician. He didn't mandate it – he didn't ram-rod it through the legislature and make it a surprise new law – he ASKED us. For that simple favor, we owe it to him to at least listen.

The combination of the heavy dry season, nearly 1,400 wildfires ravaging the state, and the July 4th holiday bearing down, prompted 'Ah-nold' to appeal to the press, with a plea for us all to refrain from lighting fireworks this year.

A blatantly opportunistic "liberal" swipe at our fundamental patriotic traditions, cried the talking heads! (Our republican 'Governator' accused of liberalism?) Why should Californians bear such sacrifice, they asked? The driest summer of a decade? Fires raging up and down the coast? So what??

One such raging mouth, on a local radio program, argued that the Governor's call was a baseless overreaction. There was "no hard evidence" that fireworks cause fires. Huh? Huhh???

True, nearly all of this year's blazes were the result of lightning strikes – those odd, warm thundershowers that pop up sporadically during dry spells, bring sudden downpours that make everyone think the hot spell is breaking, only to dissolve and reappear elsewhere. The part of California where I live had a few. Yet the fires continue. Each morning breeze smells of a gently burning chimney. It's actually kind of nice until you realize that it is everywhere, and actually some huge expanse of acreage – maybe even someone's livelihood – going up in smoke up or down the coast. The evening sun casts a stunning red aura, filtered by the neighboring county's pyre. Radio reports assure us that the blazes are now partially contained. But still very present.

Contrast the percentage of fires caused by lightning throughout the year to those caused by fireworks that are only a factor one day of the year, and sure, the "evidence" probably looks minimal, if not absent, that fireworks are a threat during a dry season. But think slightly deeper. Lightning is an unpredictable force of nature. Fireworks are an unpredictable force of humanity. We're talking about flame-spewing tubes of cardboard, in countless backyards and suburban lots, intentionally set-up and lit by amateurs, likely snookered, whose judgment is probably not that stellar when they are sober.

Those things can, and do, tip over, becoming randomly aimed firebombs launched into neighboring yards, engulfing whole blocks with smoke. I've personally witnessed a few "innocent" backyard fireworks displays go awry and get scary fast. Picture a neighboring house's foot-high hedge suddenly become the Burning Bush of Moses, and our less-than-sober host trying to stomp it out with his bare foot! That is just one image forever emblazoned on my memory from a July 4th celebration past.

At another such Independence Day bash, Yours Truly was loaded enough to walk through a closed screen door without realizing it. Aren't you glad someone else had the matches?

With a "probable event ratio" of 365 to 1, it stands to reason that a pompous erudite could glance at the statistics and conclude that fireworks have been wrongly condemned.

Don't get me wrong. As a child, I enjoyed picking out badass looking planet-busters at the local fireworks stand, begging my parents to buy them, then wiggling with impatience that evening as they were finally lit in our backyard – to either flare up mightily and layer my nostrils with that hoary belch of intoxicating sulphur... or fizzle like a lost erection in an overpriced motel room with a pissed-off hooker.

I grinned wide, zig-zagging, twirling and figure-eighting sparklers against the dark evening shadows, and poked a finger in each ear, with delight, for that small yet mighty king of all fireworks, Piccolo Pete. Each backyard became a mini Los Alamos, and perhaps we should have sported broad-brimmed hats like little Oppenheimers.

I've just described a slice of Americana that perhaps not every future generation will learn to appreciate.

But recall if you can, the huge San Francisco area wildfire of 1991, which cost millions of dollars in lost homes and acreage, not to mention a few lives – and was caused by a tossed away cigarette. Hundreds of residents lighting up cardboard flamethrowers hotter than a thousand cigarettes should not be taken flippantly in a drought year like this. Brittle grass, usually green, pliable and difficult to smolder during a year of normal humidity, might go up like oily cigars in 2008. Yet still they keep a'bitchin' and keep a'burnin'.

"WE'RE SACRIFICING AN AMERICAN INSTITUTION FOR THE RAVINGS OF SOME ENVIRONMENTAL CHICKEN-LITTLES."

Well, this year... yes. I'd rather not be chased out of my home in my underwear, by police enforcing a mandatory evacuation, because some Budweiser burping moron set himself ablaze joking for his tribe of little bastards, holding a lit Red Devil "Fire Fountain" to his crotch – shouting "Hey looky everyone I got me a flame shootin' prick!" – and toasted the whole flippin' neighborhood down with him. Thank you very much.

And let's not forget that small-in-number but large-in-stupidity contingent of July 4th revelers who smuggle in those celebratory WMDs from across the border. Can you say "fuego grande de la muerte?"

Anyone who has read Jean Shepherd's "The Great American Fourth of July and Other Disasters" knows exactly what I'm talking about. Shepherd was the author and narrator of "A Christmas Story," and if you loved that, then you gotta read his equally hilarious send up of Independence Day, which continues the adventures of Ralphie & Family. It was made into a TV movie in 1982, but I've never seen it on VHS or DVD since. A young Matt Dillon plays Ralph, a bit more grown-up than the role immortalized by Peter Billingsley in "Christmas Story." Find it. Rent it. Buy it. The point is, Ralphie's dad is just as big a nut
about July 4th as he is about the Yule Season, and one of the running jokes in the film was that the blasting sirens always found their way to the Parker residence.

"THE LOCAL CIVIC GROUPS WHO DEPEND ON FIREWORK STANDS AS A SOURCE OF ANNUAL REVENUE ARE PENALIZED UNFAIRLY OVER A KNEE-JERK FEAR!"

You mean those groups that lobby local government to impose new taxes on us non-members the rest of the year? That won't let us walk on the grass... that restrict us from parking along the coastline to sight-see – unless we're their personal buddies? Those same people who would probably sue a local bar for putting potentially dangerous people out on the street at closing time? Cry me a river. And route it into the valley!!

I don't want to ban fireworks. I get the All-American Tradition of Proud & Patriotic Fun thing, just fine. Trust me. But instead of moaning about rights and traditions, can't we just look ahead to next year, and hope the weather doesn't make our entire state a potential cinder box again. C'mon, you're getting the day off anyway. Nobody has asked us to ban the barbeques!

In the meantime, here on the coast, July 4th at sundown, we still have a huge city-produced, state-approved, fireworks display that lights up the sky for miles around, out over the bay, lit by professionals who know to count their fingers both before and after the show. It's visible from countless front lawns, from the city park and the beach – where thousands gather to picnic and enjoy the day. It's crowded, sure, but no end of excitement.

And you can tell the difference between them, and the people who still insist on homemade firework shows. Just listen which direction all the sirens are going.

Humbly I say, three cheers for the Governor.

A World Without George

George Carlin died this past weekend, and it seems almost surreal, like entering an alternate universe. I'm sure even now the web is peppered with tributes and essays about him that will tower over my humble little collection of words in memorial. On his own website, the standard digital tombstone was already in place, even moments after I heard the news. But let me share a few thoughts from my own perspective – someone who dabbles in comedy myself, and who grew up under Carlin's influence.

First, let's get these rolling, in George's honor: Shit. Piss. Fuck. Cunt. Cocksucker. Motherfucker. Tits.

George had a couple of qualities that were possessed by only one other, Richard Pryor. First, he could utter any taboo without the slightest hint of the hatred connected to it. "Rape is funny. Picture Porky Pig raping Elmer Fudd. Why do you think they call him 'Porky,' eh? I know what you're going to say. Elmer was asking for it. Elmer was coming on to Porky. Porky couldn't help himself, he got a hard- on, he got horny..."

Second was his immense magnetism – you hung on his every word, even when he was bombing. His command of the language, the ideas connected to words, and all possible abstracts connected to those ideas, held you spellbound. It was something more than a stand-up act – it was a college lecture given by the hippest professor on earth.

No comedian today possesses those attributes. There is no one left to pass the torch to. Sure, this or that comedian's fan base may protest that their hero is Carlin's successor. I beg to differ. The Whoopis, Ellens, Robins, Eddies, Chris's, Carlos's, etc. Sorry – they're all pale. None of them really get the entire formula that Dr. Carlin administered.

Please don't bring up Mitch Hedberg. I know he's dead too, and let's show a little respect, but I've heard Hedberg, and frankly am still mystified as to what his cult-like fan following saw in him.

Bill Maher? Maher is to political-social commentary what Jeff Foxworthy is to redneck jokes – the best current practitioner.

Bill Hicks? Well, alright, perhaps Hicks came the closest. Done. Granted. I'm not here to rate your favorite comedian, but to pay homage to mine. Motherfucker.

George Carlin got it. Fully.

The torch was lit by Lenny Bruce – that stand-up comedy demanded to evolve. It could be adult, as opposed to just vulgar. If vulgarity alone was the revelation in stand-up, then we're honoring the wrong guys. Let's dig up the raunchiest burlesque comic and erect a statue to him. Let's canonize Redd Foxx.

Foxx was performing at the same time as Bruce, with an act ten times as dirty, yet it was Bruce whom the police harassed, cuffed, threw in jail, hauled before a judge with Irish red hair and a glass eye. Foxx himself even commented, "Why they keep bustin' that white boy all the time?"

He knew the answer. First, those white cops wouldn't go near the clubs that Redd performed in. Second, Bruce wasn't just saying dirty words into a microphone, like any of a thousand drunk Rotarians at an annual hooch & hooker fest – he was reaching into their world with ideas they couldn't handle, with words that made them feel like he was exposing their darkside to the rest of humanity. Revealing their duplicities. Pulling the skeletons out of their closets and rattling them on the front lawn at the neighbors. "Adult" humor wasn't necessarily dirty, but too honest – it felt like being made to own up to something unsightly, perverse, just wrong. And that's exactly what it was. The fact that it was laced with potty-mouth, was what connected the dots. Sold it as an idea worth examination, to an audience who came to laugh.

The real, untold reason that Bruce was arrested for saying "cocksucker" on stage, was that none of the policemen could get that at home from their wives. A word becomes truly offensive when it brings the sting of the truth home to roost. When it rubs a scab off.

The trick was to divorce the sting, without sacrificing the truth. Bruce blazed a huge trail. Carlin paved it, put up road signs, built onramps and overpasses – made it a legitimate road that we all could navigate on, if we had the guts.

Carlin had his share of detractors, and in the beginning a smaller taste of the bullying from the police, the morality brigade and the censors, that Bruce had taken the full brunt from. But Carlin kept sculpting a new reality, and the new generation embraced it. And embraced him. Because they heard something real – not the cover stories that their parents' favorite comedians were still babbling.

In 2004, I wrote and co-produced a stage show that was a tribute to Lenny Bruce, called, "Mr. Bruce, Do You Swear?" In the program notes, I wrote something that I'm sure made the feathers of a few ruffle.

If Lenny Bruce were Jesus, that would make George Carlin his Paul. From Jew to Gentile. From Gentile to the world.

I'm glad I can say I saw Carlin perform in person. What made the show more than special, was that he was breaking in new material, and hadn't fully memorized it yet. He had a sheet of crib notes on stage, that he placed on a stool, and would quite visibly refer to glancingly throughout the show. Did it slow him down? Not a step. Did it dampen any of the humor's power? Not an atom. It was a thrill just to get to see his wheels turning. A 60s Corvette revving with the hood up. And after he'd given us two hours of rib crunching laughter... he asked if we would accept, as compensation for the "rough" quality of that night's show, another 30 minutes of "classic" stuff from his arsenal. Did we turn him down? Wipe your mouth! No. We sure as fuck-shit-piss did not!

There are a few ironies. George spent his last few years roaring against religion, and died on a Sunday.

George passed away mere days before receiving the Kennedy Center's 11th annual Mark Twain Award for humor – an honor of which he should have been the very first recipient. In my opinion. The cocksuckers.

He left us during the final months of the presidential administration he hated most. George will miss seeing a "world without George." Something you gotta believe he was probably looking forward to. It's a bit like Moses; leading the Israelites to the Promised Land, but not getting to enter it himself.

He had a memorable routine about death, called "Two Minute Warning." I wonder if he got one? Or if he got his movie? The movie of your life, that flashes before your eyes seconds before you go... the movie of course must include the moment just before you die and see the movie start, then cycle through again and again... endlessly. "Thanks to the movie, we can never die!" You'll never really die, George.

And finally, allow me to show-n-tell my one genuine connecting point to George, my official degree of separation. In 2005 I won the Aristocrats contest, with my cartoon slideshow, "Ball Sack Follies." You can see it on the "Aristocrats" DVD. In this documentary, about the world's dirtiest joke with its lineage going all the way back to vaudeville, Carlin goes back to his own roots, and actually tells a joke. A set-up, and a punchline. It's the very style of humor that he, and Bruce, and Pryor, evolved stand-up comedy away from. You'll never see it anywhere else... and elsewhere on the DVD, I get to tell the same joke. So at some brief moment, along an edge almost microscopic, my world and Carlin's overlap. We never met, but it's something.

He would have seen me as a rube, with little if anything to say. But I hear he was a nice guy in private. We could have talked about his dogs.

R.I.P.

Disastrous Dining

SURVIVING DINNER DATES AND OTHER LITTLE SLICES OF HELL:
A GUIDE

Dining mishaps come in all forms. I don't mean using the wrong fork for your salad! Spills, slip-ups, unsightly smears, projectile vomiting; these can turn a delightful dinner into a bit of a nightmare. Here's a guide to make the best of some messy situations.

The Spew 

Chatting while chewing is never desirable, although sometimes it's unavoidable. When breaking bread with those who never learned that talking and eating are two separate activities, it's inevitable. If you accidentally spit some "collateral" on your company, it can be mortifying, but that's putting it politely. We refer to jerks who get the sudden dysfunctional urge to interrupt you with a "hilarious" backhanded comment, to derail the point you're trying to make. While masking their insecurities, they thoughtfully hock up a frothy mixture of root beer and masticated scrambled eggs all over themselves, and unfortunately, you, and the dessert you were still working on. Classy.

Toss a napkin at them and playfully flip them off. A laugh and a shrug do wonders! If they don't happen to notice that spot that landed on their sleeve, gesture to everyone else that happens by to see. When your companion asks to know what is so "fucking funny," reach over, touch their arm gently and say "certainly not your jokes."

Also, remember to stay alert while chewing! Avoid a pause in processing that mouthful of spinach, even if an electrifying point of conversation is made by someone else at the table. Keep going! Swallow thoroughly before launching a retort. No counter-point, however valid or well deserved by your douchbag dinner companion, is aided on its mission by an accompanying blast of slimey green blowback.

And ladies, that same pause can spell disaster, socially, should it occur just as you bite into a 7-inch kilbassa, or a foot-long hotdog at the ballpark. Providing your boyfriend's parents with a stunning simulated visual of yourself mid-fellatio, will lodge deep in their psyche, and even the sight of your flowing snowy white gown on your blissful day-of-days will not erase it from memory.

The Whole Tooth 

Poppy seeds, fresh ground pepper, and shredded lettuce are top threats to your dignity – much like your poorly developed personality and barbaric social skills. There's nothing like enjoying a delicious meal and leisurely conversation only to discover you've had a ribbon of green stuck around your tooth for the last hour. Even more ingratiating is a still-intact triangle of rich gooey pizza topping, grafted to the front of a white pinstriped dress shirt. If your date points it out, laugh it off and graciously excuse yourself to remove it. Don't try at the table! Walking calmly to the restroom, with a slice of pizza on your chest like Superman's "S" emblem sculpted out of melted cheese and Ragu sauce, will ensure your street cred at that particular restaurant. If you discover it on your own, like that mile of damp toilet paper stuck to your shoe, let it slide or make a light joke of it when you return to the table. If it's a date, blame it all on your ex for "seriously messing with your head," and that you "haven't worked it all out yet – that satanic skank!" Your date will understand and immediately suggest that your relationship skip over any sexual tension that may have existed, and proceed straight to "just friends." Congrats, you're on her inner Post Office Wall – all in one night!

The Spaz  

You lift your fork to take a bite of tomato basil linguini and then SPLAT, it's all over your lap. That is called premature ejaculation, and there is therapy for it, but you can handle the aftermath with grace. Nah, joke! Of course we're talking about a food related stain – wink, wink, Monica. Just smile and say "whoops," then gently wipe yourself off with a napkin. If the spill calls for a more hardcore anecdote, excuse yourself to the bathroom to wipe it away with soap and water. It's better than feverishly scrubbing at the table – though far more interesting to watch.

Remember, no matter how magnificent your companion's pectoral presence, eyes-front-and-center when you raise anything to your mouth at the table.

A powerfully distracting dining miscue is a sudden 4-alarm nose bleed just as you begin your salad. The spicy fumes of a Thai delicacy are usually good for this. Sechwan mustard. Your companion's overzealous use of Sarah Jessica Parker Lovely. There is no, and I mean NO easy way out. Jumping up to dash for the bathroom, leaving an axe murderer's crimson trail in your wake, is certainly an option, though not a good one. Otherwise you can sit there with your life's essence plop-plop-plopping onto your plate, and down your front, vainly trying to halt the red tide with a tiny napkin that is all but useless in this situation, and signal a waiter to call 911. Your date sure as shit won't. She'll grin awkwardly with "wow, what a doozy" and subtly scan the building for a quick and stealthy escape route. Ever wished to know where you stand with your companions? Start bleeding in their presence and see how hard they rush to help you.

The only thing to do is play it up! You might as well, because nobody else is going to help you play it down. It's your blood being lost – be proud. Look across to a neighboring table and proclaim, "Did you know that if you order the giant lobster, they make you fight one to the death? I'm lucky to be alive, but damn it, chow's on!!"

The Drop Out 

If you drop a utensil on the floor, call the waiter and politely ask for a replacement. He or she will generally retrieve the fallen item, so you don't end up diving under the table. If it's a fork, stomp the pronged end with the toe of your shoe, to see if you can make it flip into the air to land in someone else's plate across the restaurant. Handle it as a non-event and move on with your meal. If you're at someone's home, subtly retrieve the item and go to the kitchen to rinse it off, keeping select cusswords to a whisper. Please don't drop it while using the utensil in a fashion it wasn't designed for – like picking at a scab on your wrist. Not only does this clue your date that you are a blazing freak, it tells her you are a clumsy one too.

If you happen to be on the losing side of an argument at the table, a good way to turn the situation around in a hurry is to deal your opponent an explosive euphemism. Try "fuckface," "shit heel" or that old reliable workhorse "asshole." Then bring the utensil – knife or fork – down hard on the table-top, and leave it there, sticking upright to accentuate your rebellion like a gleaming metal exclamation point! The argument will end abruptly with them shutting the hell up for the rest of the night, and remaining skittish and extra cautious not to provoke you further. Garnish this new reality by staring at them blankly at intervals, to add an air of unpredictability to your commanding presence. You win. Eat your dinner in a relaxed, carefree manner – the final word on any subject will be yours for the remainder of the evening. And you'll have the same table all to yourself next time. Peace at last.

The Food Face  

Even for the most cautious diners, certain foods are always a bit messy; extra saucy calzone, barbecued chicken, double-decker burgers, or that platter-sized goat cheese and hollandaise omelette you ordered a while back – holee-gawd-on-rubber-crutches – for instance. If a speck ends up on your cheek, no worries. Delicately wipe it off. If you aren't aware of it, and your companion points it out, wipe it away with a good-natured laugh and a "what the shit are you looking at?" When your dinner date is the one with a little stray sauce on his or her face, a simple "you've-got-a-little-yummy-right-here" is code for "I've got a little yummy down here," as you point below to your own crotch. It will let them know in an amusing embarrassment-free way.

The Royal Flush  

We've all been there. There is really no perfect or completely delicate way to handle it. You're at your sig's house, dining with the parents, watching your manners, on your best behavior, when out of nowhere, deep down in your gut, you get that low boiling rumble that means you'd better excuse yourself from the table NOW. Dinner was excellent, but it somehow took a short-cut to your colon, and now it wants to see daylight again.

"Where's the mensroom?" Wow. That will sure tell her parents what a clueless dick you are. This is a family residence, not a Shell Mini-Mart.

"... the little boy's room?" Never mind the gay undertone; you've just demonstrated your utter bankruptcy of any trait remotely masculine. Might as well ask her mother if she can spare a tampon. While you're gone, both parents will plead with her to "get rid of the putz." This means YOU.

Rise, pat your stomach thoughtfully, grin wide and state "Well, looks like it's good ol' Take-A-Turd Time." Bingo, playah! You'll soon be back on Match.com with a revised bio, like "seeks relaxed gal with no petty hang-ups." Translation: I fart holes in wicker chairs – I need a woman who's okay with that.

Of course, there are exceptions to the rule. If her dad quips, "mention my name, you'll get a good seat," then there may be hope. Her mother married a true barroom diplomat, so that could mean that your mate is used to "the life" herself. But don't overplay your comical retort, however grand your relief, as you do the Cheek-Clinch Cha-Cha down the hallway. Some examples:

"If I'm not back in 45 minutes, call the bomb squad."

"I'm going to see if the Navy has launched the fleet yet."

"I need to go release a flock of blackbirds."

"The chef just called – a loaf is done."

and

"They need me at the carnival – the roller coaster is stuck again."

Ladies, we know how delicate your system is, too. And we know how much better you are than we, at excusing yourselves to the powder room with charm and modesty. It isn't always what is said when rising, but the follow-up remarks uttered upon your return. That kindergarten giggle may suffice when Jocko tells one of his trademark bar jokes, but it isn't nearly fresh-enuff to glaze over a sudden involuntary bodily expulsion. "Goodness, I frew up in there. Anyone got a mopsy?"

Sorry, no dice.

"Couldn't get them undies down in time, if ya know what I mean."
Yes, we do. Classy little baglady, you.

If you're stuck for a closing line, make it impressive. Don't sweat the gross-out factor – that battle was lost the moment you got up from the table and scrambled down the hall, with the seat of your skirt wadded up in your panicky little pink fist.

Go for the gold!

"Just call me Lemonade Lucy!"

"Wow, that brownie would've won the bake-off!"

"Hershey's don't make Kisses THAT big!"

"Good thing I had extra tissues stuffed in my bra!" ( A double-whammy! Let Mr. Right know that you not only take bowl-filler sized craps, but you're flat-chested!)

So now you are set! Stop pondering the dining what-ifs with a trembling brow. And if you need any more advice, I'm free after lunch!

The Summer Blows

Where to begin. How about a general question. Does anybody make real movies anymore?

I have now seen most of the 2008 summer blockbusters, with the notable exception of "Sex In The City," a cinematic experience that Donald Trump couldn't write me a big enough check to sit through. So far only "Iron Man" has managed to live up to its own hype. The rest have chugged their own Kool-Aid. Hard. After each of them, I groped for the handrail toward the door, with the same uncanny phrase on my lips: "Holy shit, what were they smoking?"

I imagine that somewhere, George Lucas is phoning up Steven Spielberg, hoping to score some of that killah hippy-lettuce they were burning, the night that the concept for "Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull" wafted into their hazy minds. The conversation must have been something like...

STEVEN: Y'know what, Georgie? Y'know what?

GEORGE: Pass the jay back, man, you're Bogartin' again.

STEVEN: We gotta do another Indy Jones, man.

GEORGE: Huh?

STEVEN: Yeah! YEEEEAAAHH-HAH! That's what we gotta do, Georgie. Another Indy! ANOTHER FUCKIN' INDY JONES!! Gawdamn!!!

GEORGE: Yeaahhhhh, another Indy Jones! We gotta. We gotta. Sure thing.

STEVEN: Yer with me, right?

GEORGE: Oh shit-yeah, all the fuckin' way! Another fuckin' INDY! Yeah. Only, what's it gonna be about? I mean, like, Harrison's collectin' Social Security by now, right?

STEVEN: We just make that a part of the story – Indy's gettin' old. But he can still kick ass. Yeah, only now he has a son! And... and... and and and, his son is all tricked out too. Like Indy's a throwback to the 30s and all that shit, so his son will be all, aallll, you know.... Brando! He's all Brando – the fucking Wild Ones Brando! Yeah, andandand, he'll have his own style apart from his dad's, but yet indentical – like Indy uses a whip, so his son is into... swords!! Whips and swords – it's a ZORRO reference! FUCKING-A, man, I'm so fucking brilliant with this shit!!!

GEORGE: Ants!!!

STEVEN: Huh? Where!! You getting the DT's on me, Georgie??

GEORGE: No – ANTS!! Fucking bigass ants! We have a scene where they have to haul ass from a gawdamn landscape covering swarm of killer ants!! Right after a fucking car chase and a sword fight. And dig it, a sword fight with an S&M nazi-ass amazon bitch with a deep voice.

STEVEN: Georgie, you're a genius! I see it! This fucker is just flying together!! Pass the reef, dude, I need me another whiff.

GEORGE: And, andandand, dig this...

STEVEN: Yeah?? YEAH???

GEORGE: In the last reel, when they finally figure it all out, whatever it is, they end up at some temple like a pyramid, only it's an ancient fucking spaceship!!

STEVEN: Oh. OOhhhhh. OOOhhhh fuck yeah!! FUCK ME, YEAH!!!!

GEORGE: And what ever it is they fuckin' do, it reawakens the fucking aliens who've been dormant! Extra-fucking-terrestrials, man, and –

STEVEN: And... fuck. FUCK! We fucking tie-in the Indy Jones loop... with Close Encounters... Fuck... Fuuuccckkk...

GEORGE: You alright, Stevey?

STEVEN: I think I just came, man...

GEORGE: ... and at the very end Darth Vader shows up, and –

STEVEN: No no no, that'd be a little too much.

GEORGE: It would?

STEVEN: Let me think about it. Any Twinkies left?

GEORGE: Dude I could scarf a whole box of Twinkies right now.

Twinkies, which brings us to THE INCREDIBLE HUCK.

First, a preamble: I'm a comic book nerd of the 70s and 80s, so when I hear that a big-budget movie of one of my classic hero faves is in the works, my heart skips a little beat and I count the months, weeks, days, to opening night. I want a little more than entertainment – I want vindication. I want to be justified for all that time spent sprawled on the couch absorbing a latest issue, or holed up in my room sorting through my ever growing collection of pulp-paper treasures. Time that I now realize would have perhaps been better spent... I dunno... learning a job skill or two... expanding my social network... planning for a future... dating...

I've got a lot of resentment to wash down.

Staggering in the darkness toward the glowing red exit sign, as those endless credits crawled up the screen, having endured an opening night screening of "The Incredible Hulk," I knew I'd been owned. I knew it. And I'd paid for it. A feeling not dissimilar to limping home after an especially rough session with a dominatrix who doesn't quite realize she hits just a bit too hard, and who sometimes confuses my safeword with someone else's.

I'd heard it all. I should have guessed it was too good to be true.

"But this time it's got Edward Norton..."
"But this time it's directed by Louis Leterrier... "
"But this time they're gonna... this time it's gonna be... they're... they've... it's... "

It didn't matter.

It stunk. Just like the last one. It didn't work. They threw even more money at it, and it just sucked it all up, and kept right on sucking.

A number of woeful problems plagued "Hulk," in my not-so-humble opinion. First, was it a sequel to Ang Lee's 2003 Hulk movie? Or was it a mega-million dollar do-over? A reboot? Shouldn't that just shoot all of Marvel's street cred down the toilet? Do they now think all moviegoers were ADD kids? That as long as Hulk's all big and green and kicks ass, we'll just happily shovel our money into their pockets?

That's drug dealer logic.

Secondly, is it my overloaded imagination, or was the 2003 Hulk a better "grafique?" The Hulk is a special effect – duh. CGI. The Lou Ferrigno method just isn't "big" enough for the cinema's new-millennial era. I'm sorry, but the 2008 Hulk just seemed... not as well rendered as the 2003 one. He looked "hurried," unfinished – more like what he was, a glorified cartoon.

No amount of soulful, misty-eyed interaction with Liv Tyler could counter-balance the Hulk's cloying unreality. It may not entirely be the CGI crew's fault – she couldn't connect with Edward Norton either. A scene where they trade gazes of wistful longing went on for what seemed an entire reel – the whole film ground to a wincing halt for this silent – pisshole-at-midnight silent – moment of unspoken desire. Only the desire was out of the room. They both looked like they wanted to flip out their cellphones and ring their agents. You could almost hear Leterrier whisper, "okay, now stare at each other like a pair of shit-for-brains ghouls, in love, but... da time ain't right."

Thirdly, I have a real bone to pick regarding the script, and most scripts these days. It seems that the craft of screenwriting has dwindled down to the science of the hard sell. Movies just don't stand alone as stories, anymore. Ultimately it dawned on me that this entire film was a sales pitch – a 2-hour trailer for its own sequel. No closure. No satisfying crescendo note.

"Incredible Hulk" begins with a blink-and-gone montage of the Hulk's origin – a quick "highlight reel" to get everyone up to speed. It's a fast, easy to digest concession to the rubes who never read the comic-book, never saw the TV show, or the cartoons, or the freaking 2003 movie, and are therefore clueless how Mr. Big Green-N-Mean was birthed.

For those who took Screenwriting 101, the Hulk's appearances are timed to stop-watch perfection. The textbook final-reel showdown tableau is established efficiently. The Hulk lets the Abomination (the Anti-Hulk) open a jumbo can of green whup-ass on him just long enough to create a sense of edgy doubt as to the film's outcome, but we all know the Hulk is "doomed to succeed" as Roger Ebert would say. Hulk bellows his signature line, "HULK SMASH!" and delivers the victory blow of super-heroic finality. Fight over. Villain vanquished. But wait! A late development, plot-wise, bursts on the screen right at the very last minute... black out. TO BE CONTINUED IN THE SEQUEL, SUCKERS!!!

So we have a quick hand-job of an opening... followed by two hours of overscripted foreplay... then just as we sense a mad rush to a big messy green climax... the movie PULLS OUT. No afterglow. No cigarette. But a cryptic promise of more to come... later. Way later. Gotta go, babe.

I remember when one of the hallmarks of a great movie was the presence of a beginning, a middle, and an end. "Incredible Hulk" has no beginning, and no end. It's just a big MIDDLE. And that's why 300 people hit the exit doors wondering...

Did I spoil it? Awwww. Boohoo.

Movie no good. Gotta-go weewee. Me want go home now.

June Randomness

A neatness freak is someone who can't stop rubbing.

Recently I began writing a list, entitled, "Complete Idiots Who Somehow Make More Money Than Me." I had to stop. It got scary.

Be loyal, hardworking and demand excellence from yourself and others, and some day you'll look back and wonder where the hell your life went, and why everyone hates your guts.

I just threw away all my porn, and drank an entire six-pack of diet soda. Does that make me a better person?

Talent is your ticket to fame. Fame is your ticket to money. Money is your ticket to getting laid. Getting laid is your ticket to marriage. Marriage is your ticket to being stuck with someone who sees your talent as evidence you're queer.

My bad haircut is worse than yours, because it is on ME!

Those of you who have it all figured out are annoying the hell out of us who still view every day as an adventure.

Bikers only age well in the movies.

When in L.A. you see someone in a Mercedes convertible, wearing a neon colored baseball cap, that is likely someone ripping off someone else who has legitimate talent.

I'd like to see one of the national news anchors use the adjective "fucking" just once, or sternly refer to some group in the news as "the fuckers."

Never, never insult a drunk midget with a pair of pliers in his chubby little free hand.

"Your results may vary" is ad-speak for "but you, my friend, are screwed."

Funny is a corporation handing out free pens with "Shop Local" printed on them.

I once held romance sacred. Now I think the self-centered little twats can have it, too!

Dubya is closing out his presidency with a big chug of the ol'e Kool-Aid.

Diet Chocolate Cherry Dr. Pepper. My gawd, my gawd, what have they done!!