The Bare Formula of Ritual

I caught a few minutes of a PBS documentary last night that focused on a Japanese holiday where an entire community stops for something like a weekend to celebrate in honor of the dead. They make and wear special clothes, prepare special meals, sing and dance, and decorate graveyards and lakes with all manner of beautiful handmade paper crafts. It has the sensory overload of Christmas and the individual expression of Halloween. As a middle-of-the-road American it's hard to watch this kind of thing and not feel somewhat jealous.

About a year ago I read some books that managed to totally dislodge whatever remnants of mother church that may have lingered in my beleif system and I became a staunch Atheist. I grew up Catholic, went to Church on Sundays, understood none of it. I didn't bother the priests and the priests didn't try to blow me. Phew! When I got to college I took some philosophy and world religion classes. I went the Joseph Campbel/comparative religion route while managing to remain objective and critical. But I could never pray. I figured only seriously wise or seriously crazy people were able to pray with any real conviction.

Anyway, long story short, I really love Christmas. I love the rituals. I love the sight, sound, smell, touch and presents by the fucking boatload of Christmas! Is it ok to celebrate a holiday that I don't beleive in? I don't know. There are no Atheist handbooks that I know of to help me.

One of the last shots in the Japan documentary is of these paper boats the people make for their dead relatives and loved ones. Some are very simple and some quite elaborate, but they are all highly personalized. They set various items associated with the person they're honering in the boat, set the boat on fire and push it out into the water. Supposedly water is symbolic of the afterlife. I think it's a gorgeous ceremony. Though I reject notions of a literal afterlife I certainly think a metaphorical one should be acknowledged and celebrated somehow. I wonder if I could hijack this ritual for when I die? A long long long time from now.

That's one hell of a gravestone. Wish it were mine.

--Royal Tennenbaum

Dondante

It's been a long time since a song has made my arm hairs stand up and sway gently. Hearing the song Dondante by My Morning Jacket the other night was, I swear, like hearing Dark Side of the Moon for the first time. The song is epic like Pink Floyd (over seven minutes long) but it's drastically sparse. It's bluesy, the drums are killer and the lyric has something to do with a ghost. Ahhh...songs about ghosts.

I should have prefaced this by mentioning that I was high at the time. More significantly, I was high for the first time in months, which may be where the Dark Side of the Moon comparison comes from. My friend Matt had me over to try and record some songs. We played guitars and ate some pizza, then we took a break and smoked bongs. After one hit I slouched down in his brand new leather lounge chair which basically swallowed me. Matt had the My Morning Jacket performance on Austin City Limits saved on Tivo (It's important to stress that it was a live version of the song because the performance was flawless--not like The Eagles going-through-the-motions flawless, but dazzling like Miles Davis doing My Funny Valentine flawless--and their singer is fucking sick. Jeff Buckley definitely comes to mind.)

The song comes on and it's a heartbeat of just drums and bass. The stage is lit in blue fluorescent lights and you can hear a pin drop in the audience. The singer comes in with a repeating five-note falsetto phrase. The lyric is only partially intelligible but I'm able to make out, "You've never left these streets..." and my spine dissolves into the seat cushions.

The truth about tag

"Principal Terren Roloff told Fox News she chose to ban tag because it encourages victimization."-Oct. 25th, 2006

I for one happen to agree with Principal Roloff. The game of "Tag" is an insidious element in our schools which thrives off of the coercion and victimization of innocent children and must be stopped. Unfortunately, tag itself is only a symptom of the larger issue. The game of tag is, in fact, only a more sophisticated version of the game, "Stop Touching Me, Mom She Keeps Touching Me", commonly learned among siblings in overcrowded backseats of motor vehicals all across America. This is behavior, like racism and drug abuse, first learned in the home. In the comming days, rational and responsible adults will have to face up to the truth that our cars and vans are breeding grounds for hate.

Unholy Godmother

"Madonna's visit to Malawi also has renewed criticism from those who accuse Western celebrities of using Africa and other parts of the developing world as a platform for misplaced, publicity-fueled altruism."--CNN News

So, Madonna has adopted an African baby to get in a pissing contest with Angelina, Bono and the rest? Is that the story? If so, is it really reasonable to believe that Madonna could be so pathologically shallow?

There is some evidence to suggest as much. Few over-the-hill icons have fought so stubbornly to retain their membership in club MTV. Here's a list of her failed attempts to remain interesting:

* Publicly anointing Britney and Christina with "racy" lesbian kisses. The manufactured role of Unholly Godmother to a new generation of hyper-sexual pop divas buys her a few months of press but ultimately fizzles out along with Britney's career.

* Demi Moore achieves end-game in the battle for the over-forty-with-rock-hard-abs crown.

* Kabbalah is looked upon as only slightly less flakey than Scientology since Tom Cruise's public meltdown.

* Filmmaker husband, Guy Ritchie proves merely a lukewarm talent after showing the promise of a young Tarantino.

* Madonna authors children's books that nobody reads.

It looks pretty grim and the press loves nothing more than grim speculation. But who cares? As far as Hollywood publicity stunts go, altruism to the tune of 3 million for a school to help HIV infected children ain't too shabby. It sure beats a sex tape. And what about the little boy she's adopting? His father's cool with it. Damn, he's probably jealous of the little brat. I know I am. Madonna already has two kids of her own. She doesn't drag them onto talk shows or dangle them out of windows. There is no evidence to suggest that she would be anything less than a loving, supportive, sugar momma to a child in desparate circumstances.

But does it set a bad precedent? Screech from Saved by the Bell released a sex tape of his own recently to try and make a little scratch and maybe get a reality show deal. If he starts scooping up third-world orphans then we'll know it's gone to far. Until then, adopt away.

Boxed Out

I'm driving home on the Brooklyn Queens Expressway at midnight when traffic comes to dead halt. For ten minutes I sit there, jerking around with my Ipod, grateful that I don't have to pee. Police lights appear in the rear view mirror, ordering car after car to schooch over and make way for two lone cop cars to...get to the scene of an accident? Chase down some bank robbers? No, they just want to cut the line.

If your driving east bound on the BQE at twelve o'clock at night on a Saturday chances are it's not your first time doing so. For over a year now there has been on and off construction on the Tillary Street exit, always commencing at around midnight, which causes the normal three lanes of traffic to whittle itself down to one lane. It's a total shit show and we, my fellow travelers, have all been there and all know there is no emergency begging the attention of these two little cop cars.

It's perversely satisfying to watch the ridiculously slow response of cars tucking their noses onto the highway shoulder. No amount of flashing lights and whooping sirens can change it. Maybe next time they'll know to have an ambulance or fire truck in tow to help sell their story to us jaded New Yorkers. Tonight they're just going to have to sit and wait like the rest of us.

To Be Taken More Seriously

I have invited myself onto Inside the Actors Studio with James Lipton, in my head.



Here's the transcript:

...the questionairre invented by Bernard Pivot of "Bouillon de Culture."

Lipton-What is your favorite word?
Peter-Sousaphone...spoken with a lisp. The way someone who just got braces would say it.

L-Fascinating. What is your least favorite word?
P-Slacks.

L-What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally?
P-Gas prices under $2.30 per gallon.

L-What turns you off?
P-Pass

L-Excuse me?
P-I said, pass. Next question.

L-Hmmmm. (To the audience) That's a first here on Inside the Actor's Studio...
P-Eyes on me, Lipton. Let's keep this thing moving, I've got other interviews today.

L-Very well. What is your favorite curse word?
P-Cock-fuck.

L-De-lightful. What sound or noise do you love?
P-ummm...A really chunky skateboard grind that's like...

L-What sound or noise do you hate?
P-I haven't finished answering.

L-Crimany! I do appologize. Please continue.
P-Well, I've lost it now. Next question.

L-(Under his breath) Asshole.
P-What?

L-(Under his breath) You heard me.
P-Did you just call me an asshole?

L-(In a booming voice) What profession other than...
P-Pass

L-FINE! What profession would you NOT like to engage in?
P-(Looking directly in Lipton's eyes.) Fat, bald, talk show host.

(James Lipton flies at me! He pulls a straight razor from his boot and holds me hostage there on stage, right in front of Ellen Burstyn, the fat guy from Rocky, Lipton's Asian wife who hates tattoos, and an auditorium full of bewildered acting students. In my head.)

A Better Mouse

Blowing my parents mind has become almost too easy. Myspace, Ipods, You Tube, Wikipedia--come to think of it, my mind has been thoroughly blown these past five years as well. The difference is that, while my parents admire and comprehend, for the most part, these recent developments of the on-line age, they have absolutely no interest in ever utilizing any of it. I don't blame them. Who needs a laser screen/music library to fit in your pocket, when you're still constantly struggling to work the DVD player? They've had one for five years and I still get this:

Dad- Allright, I've got it on channel three. That's the first thing!
Me- No, Dad you don't need to do that. Channel three was for VHS tapes.
Dad- Oh. Well, I've hit the menu button now and...

It's not that they're senile, it's that they don't really watch movies anymore. Hollywood, much like the internet, is not catering to people in their seventies. If I ever find my father on Myspace, I'll have a nervous breakdown.
I just like keeping them abreast of new technology. They still kick my ass in Jeopardy and I need things to make myself feel smart around them. But, like i said, it's becomming too easy to simply make them say "wow". I want to impress them with something they can use. That's why I've come up with this years Christmas gift: A wireless mouse!

Don't worry, I'm already patting myself on the back, for you. My parents may not be the most computer savy people around but they manage to use the thing everyday, without fail. For thirty bucks I can switch their surfing experience from Hundai to a Cadillac. They come out of it encouraged to continue exploring the web, and I come out looking like I spent way more money than actually have.

Wiffle Ball

From me to you: The next time you find yourself playing a throw-away game of wiffle ball--the only kind there is--find a newspaper, fold it up and tuck it under your shirt. When it's your turn to play outfield, find that person on the other team who is just begging to get heckled. When they come up to bat, pull out the newspaper, unfold it all the way, and just stand there reading. You wont regret it.

Before this afternoon, the last time I can remember playing a game of wiffle ball is...never. The last time I can remember even throwing a ball of any kind has to be over five years ago. But I was a pitcher as a kid. Before the ninth grade--when kids hit puberty and the gap between real athletes and the rest of us becomes too obvious to ignore--I was a better than average baseball player. I know because my mommy told me. So, of course, today I had to announce my return to the mound with five straight innings of throwing out my arm, and everything else too.

It hasn't fully hit me yet, but I know that aches and pains in every muscle on my upper body are planning me a proper wake-up call. It's just not fair. Shoulder pain? A sore tricep? Sure. I can understand that. But my lower back?...And why do my knees feel like they belong to a sixty year-old dock worker?

Since my thirtieth birthday, I have found occassions upon which I feel truly indestructible an ever dwindling commodity.

7:15am 10/13/06

Intermittent beeps (approximately three minutes appart) emanating from source(s) unknown in and around the kitchen/dining area. A high concentration of electrical doohickeys are possible sources. Fifteen minutes (approximately four more beeps) left before leaving for work to locate and disable annoying beeps. Computer, clock radio, microwave oven, and two cell phones are all possible culprits.

I lie in wait like a pissed-off cobra.



BEEEEEEP

It's no coincidence

That Ewoks look like George Lucas.











And it's no coincidence that
comedian David Cross is set to play a young Allen Ginsberg in the upcomming Bob Dylan biopic
I'm not There. The likeness is pretty striking.

David Cross is funny as hell and a brilliant performer. If you've ever watched Cross' old sketch comedy show,Mr. Show with Bob and David then you know how creative, daring and willing to wear a ridiculous wig he is.

Iraq Study Group Recommendation #22. An Excerpt:

" We must kill them. We must incinerate them. Pig after pig, cow after cow, village after village, army after army..."

-Former Secretary of State, James A. Baker



I actually think Baker sounds like a fairly reasonable guy. Maybe it's naive but I'm hoping for this Iraq Study Group to come up with some semblance of a plan.

Real life scary stories

The NPR show This American Life is requesting listeners to call in with "real life scary stories" to be played on their special Halloween broadcast. I've been wracking my brain to come up with one. I've thought of a few scary instances like skydiving for the first and ONLY time, or when my cousin dangled me over the staircase railing 'till I "learned not to cry". But due to the total absence of the supernatural in my experiences I have no real scary stories to speak of.

There is one story I have of being so frightened that there might as well have been a supernatural component involved. I was in the fourth or fifth grade, home sick from school. Both my parents worked, so I had the house to myself. It was awesome. I got up just when my mom was leaving for work. She left, and I made some pancakes and hit the basement couch for a good eight hours of unencumbered television bliss.

I watched cartoons 'till eleven when The Price is Right came on. When it was over I found myself hard pressed to find anything other than talk shows or deranged soap operas to watch. So I got down from the couch and began switching channels with the giant knob on the tv. I eventually found something that looked grainy, like saturday morning kung-fu only with white teenagers. The teenagers were sneaking around a farm in the middle of the night and, before I knew it, one of them was slaughtering a pig with what appeared to be a sledge hammer. I was horrified but couldn't look away. They were killing the pig to get it's blood in order to dump it later on Sissy Spacek at their highschool prom. I proceeded to watch the rest of the 70's horror classic Carrie, regretting every minute of it like a fat man devouring his child's birthday cake.

By the time it was over I was almost too scared to breath. I turned the TV off and suddenly the basement looked absolutely cavernous. I was convinced that Carrie's mother was waiting for me on the stairs, making the sign of the crucifix over and over with a carving knife. It's an uncanny feeling to be scared out of your wits on a bright and sunny tuesday afternoon.

In fits and spurts of sheer courage I managed to make it upstairs from the basement. I changed out of my pajamas, put on regular clothes, and hightailed it up town to the pizza parlor. Even though I had a temprature and even though I had no business doing it, I had to get out of that big, empty house and around people that I knew didn't want to kill me.

If there was a supernatural aspect to that day it was that television censors in the mid-eighties could allow a movie like Carrie to show in the middle of the afternoon with only the bad language taken out. I have since been exposed to Eminem's lyrics, as well as Janet's nipple, but none of it has come near to warping my mind like the first time I saw this-

Thanks for nothing, Standards and Practices.

You're a Wi-nner!

Remember this scene from Boogie Nights? Dirk Diggler and Reed Rothchild are laying down tracks for an album which they mean to be their legitimizing break from pornography. It's the early eighties, and director P.T. Anderson spares no historical details: plenty of red leather, head bands and blow. The music that Dirk and Reed fumble around and strain to create is totally eighties. One of the duos original songs You Got the Touch is a delightfully sharp reference to a substrata--for lack of a better term--of mainstream eighties songwriting, not-dissimilar to the Power Ballad of the early-nineties but significantly more overlooked.

Solipsistic Anthems like Hearts on Fire by John Cafferty, You're the Best Around by JustD and What a Feeling by Irene Cara dramatizing the plights of exeptional underdogs like Rocky, The Karate Kid and the dripping-wet- steel-worker chick from Flashdance, were obligatory in eighties blockbusters.

They show up first in the training montage:
Highway to the Danger Zone...


Then again in the final victory sequence:

You're the best around
nothings gonna ever keep you down...


The lyrics are fairly interchangeable as are the "high-octane" rythms and syrupy guitar solos. Verses that begin with an ultimatum admonishing the hero to take stock of his lilly-livered self:

"You'll never say hello to you/Until you get it on the red line overload."

"Silent darkness creeps into your soul and removes the light of self-control"

end with a clear metaphor commonly dealing with engines, heat or weaponry, instructing the hero in the one way in which they may become at least worthy of the very air they breath:

"Walk along the razor's edge but don't look down, just keep your head."

"Hit the wheel and double the stakes
throttle wide open like a bat out of hell."

No doubt these songs were a manifestation of a castrated, Post-Carter Administration vibe--Greed is Good. Maybe because I don't watch many Jerry Bruckheimer movies these days I've missed the modern equivalent.

My idea is to put together a compilation of these self-actualizing, self-congratulating, solipsistic, fight songs and make myself a million bucks selling it at two-thirty in the morning on Comedy Central.

Will Mark Foley be Sent to Prison?

The guy was in Congress for ten years. He had his own PAC. Men like that tend to have a few extra cards to play when it comes to matters legal. I, myself, hope he walks.

Hear me out.

If convicted, Foley will spend, maybe, three years in rich-white-people prison. Big deal. What you want to see, trust me, is a team of lawyers bleed Foley dry for six-months in court until he's backed into such a financial corner that he's forced to write a book.

Just picture what a glorious sleaze fest it'll be when Mark Foley schleps onto The Maury Show with his tell-all memoir: I Let the Bottle do the Texting.

Maury will be so happy!!


Here's a survey question-

You know Maury would...you know Springer would...you know Orpah, The Daily Show, and The View would NOT.

If not convicted, will Mark "The One Eyed Snake" Foley be allowed on Larry King Liveto peddle his book?

What's more American than a Pentagram on a Soldier's Gravestone?

Sgt. Patrick Stewart died, fighting Islamo-fascism in Afghanistan, a professed member of The Church and School of Wicca. This Neopagan religion of indeterminate origin, thought to be practiced exclusively by gloomy college-age lesbians, has apparently found somewhat of a toe-hold amongst enlisted men in their thirties.

Go figure.

Questions Upon Waking From a Five-Year Coma

1) Can I smoke in here?

2) Who knew orangutans were so ornery...and strong?

3) Do I even want to ask what my insurance rates are like?

4) Why is Arnold Schwarzenegger wearing a tie? Is he?...oh dear god.

5) Why do these cards read "From Cherryl and MIKE."?

6) Who's Mike?

7) Are you sure I can't smoke in here?

To Any Future Potential Employers of Mine Performing a Background Check

Hi, How are you?

Um...How did you find me?

Just kidding.
Welcome! What do you think of the wall paper?
See the little doctor's office on your left?
Get it? Vaccination?
Yep, did it all myself. I don't list "HTML" as a skill on my resume for nothing! LOL :)

"LOL" is blogger-speak for Loyalty-Oriented...Dynamic, Self Starter.

Just Kidding! LOL ;)

Anyway, feel free to have a look around. You'll find all materials here on my personal blog to be the benign products of a robust imagination which I am eager to channel in ways beneficial to the company. Be assured that all refrences to drug use and atheism are made purely in service of fiction. I think you'll find the views and opinnions expressed are in-step with many of the core values of your organization...I mean, our organization?

Let me just go ahead and say, before you move on to disecting my myspace page, that I found our interview both informative and pleasant. If, for some reason, I gave the impression that I smelled kitty litter in the waiting area I hope you will just chalk it up to nerves. I truly enjoyed meeting you.

So, please feel free to have a look around and then to...leave. Now. I certainly have nothing to hide but, having gone through some pains to shield my identity,...I don't walk up on you and the rest OF THE BOARD MEMBERS HITTING FUCKIN' GOLF BALLS AND SLAP THE DICKS...!!

Ok, Wait. I don't mean that. Please accept my sincerest appologies for that unfortunate outburst. It is in no way indicative of the kind of behavior I am known to exhibit as an employee of...whatever soul crushing, NIGHTMARE, KITTY LITTER, URBAN DECAYING OFFICE...!! LEAVE, LEAVE NOW! THIS IS DISCRIMINATION! THE PROLETARIAT WILL RISE AGAIN! YOU WILL BE HEARING FROM MY LAWYER!

Sincerely,

Peter

References Furnished Upon Request

Smart People Should be Honest

I just got through listening to two Economists debate the pro's and con's of the Bush Tax Cuts on NPR. Economics is a soft science, I know, but it is still a field which demands a high level of expertise to speak knowledgably on. Non-experts, like myself, must defer to people like Dan Mitchell, Ph.D, senior fellow in Political Economy at the Heritage Foundation and Jason Furman, Senior Fellow at the Center on Budget and Policy Priorities for their insights, right? Otherwise, how the fuck do I know who to vote for?

What I want to know is this: How can two expert Economists, at the very top of their feild, be diametrically opposed on every single point concerning Bush's 2001 tax cuts? How can they examine the same mathmatical data and come to such staggeringly different conclusions? You don't see heart surgeons behaving this way. Cigarrets and alcohol are bad for your heart, exercise and carrots are good. Maybe they differ on the role genetics plays in all of it but that's it. Based on the expert knowledge I get from heart surgeons I am able to make an informed decision on ways to manage my body.

You know, it's not just laziness that keeps the voting public uninformed. It's the academics, and people who's nine-to-five job it is to master serious disciplines like history and science, not being objective about their findings that makes it very difficult to make an informed decision.

Howard Dean lost the Democratic nomination in '04 because his voice cracked in public. And you know it.