The day Brando failed his screen test

Though Hollywood  keeps its tacky red mouth shut about things like this, James Dean wasn't the only person they had in mind for Rebel Without a Cause.

They also thought of Marlon Brando.

They thought of Marlon Brando, who hadn't even made a movie (yet) and didn't know his way around a camera (yet). They thought of him cuzzadafact that he had already made a searing splash as Stanley Kowalski on the stage, and somebody must-of thought: this boy has talent, and not only that, I'd like to suck his face.

I lied a while ago and said that I wasn't reading the massive 1994 Brando bio by Peter Manso. I've started reading it to get to sleep at night, and it works, except it cuts off the circulation in my legs. I wonder what this Manso thinks of Brando. I know he was eccentric to the point of craziness and scarfed down Mallomars by the box, but. . . I've been watching some clips of interviews with him, later ones like the Connie Chung one in which he seems pretty much like an old crank. But once in a while, a certain facial expression, a light in those dreamy eyes will bring back the hard-bodied but soft-faced, almost androgynous hero who ripped his way through a couple dozen brilliant films, playing everything from Marc Antony to a goofy little Japanese guy in a teahouse.

Brando wasn't always good, he wasn't always in good films, and some of them were fatal mismatches (Sky Masterson? The guru in Candy?), but he was as intrepid as Captain Kirk aboard the Starship Enterprise, grabbing at one means of expression after another. He was a primitive with an intricate mind, emotionally damaged, and a leveller: of egos, of feelings, of human mystery. All would be smoothed flat by the forward blaze. I believe he was frustrated and angry and curious and very much like a small child rushing around in the woods, ripping things up and eating them and spitting them out.

Anyway, that's what I think. Though he failed his screen test, he's still worth making gifs of, 60 or so years later.

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Holy Crappoly! Look what I found! (or: the Methigel Column)

Holy crappoly. Look what I found!

I wrote this in, I think, 1995.

It appeared, or it must have, in the Tri-City News, the paper I wrote for for years and years and years. I remember it because I had to beg for my cheques. Then one day, after 15 years of service, they casually canned me for no reason they would state.

Them's the breaks. But here it is, this thing I found while trying to find my Google Author's Profile, which is right now having a nervous breakdown on Internet Explorer and flashing and jerking all over the place. I found it on some forum-or-other, and who knows where the person ever got it. It's almost like finding one of my columns from the (choke) Hinton Parklander!

The cat, whom I've written about before, is long since dead, though I was sentimental enough to make a scrapbook of his best photos, vet records and a lock of his fur (just kidding - I found enough of that on the furniture to not want to see it ever again).

"Methigel is extremely palatable," the directions on the tube of
medication said. "To stimulate taste interest place a small amount of
Methigel on animal's nose or directly in mouth. Cats: 1/2 to 1
teaspoonful twice daily. Dogs: 1 teaspoonful twice daily."

To me, it looked like old beef gravy which had been allowed to harden
into a quivering semi-solid. To my cat ... well, when I unscrewed the
top of the tube, he took one sniff and ran the other way.

I don't blame kitty for his critical response. Cats loathe medicine,
especially the really noxious stuff. Murphy hates it, just as he hates
to admit that with the onset of middle age he has developed certain
urinary problems familiar to 50-year-old males everywhere.

There is a treatment: Methigel. But why are the manufacturers so
insensitive as to suggest that this stuff is equally "palatable" to
cats and dogs? That's like saying a medicine is suitable for guppies
and giraffes. Frogs and finches. Amoebae and antelope.

Everyone knows there is a world of psychic difference between a cat
and a dog. Just take a look at their owners.

Dog people wear thick Cowichan sweaters, smoke three-dot Brigham pipes
(even women), drink Dewar's White Label, read Hemingway, and sit by
the fire with their faithful pal at their feet. They like to be in
control - of their dogs.

Cat people wear claw-marked cashmere, gave up smoking years ago (Tabby
doesn't like it), drink whatever will get them there fastest, read
Dorothy Parker, and know enough to sit very still so Precious will
deign to jump up and snuggle. They love to be in control - but not of
their cats, who can bite and hiss and scratch and still be named
"Cuddlebug".

Murphy eyed me with mistrust. "I suppose you think I'm going to take
this greasy gunk without a fight," he stated as I prepared an oral
syringe full of the dreaded methigel.

"No, but I do expect you to take it," I countered, grasping 16 pounds
of cat between my knees for the twice daily struggle.

"Good for cats and dogs? Bah -," Murphy spat, decorating the wall with
most of the dose. "A dog will eat coffee grounds."

He's right, you know. I've seen it. Dogs aren't fussy. In fact,
they'll lick up any old swill with the greatest of enthusiasm, then
sit up and beg for more.

Dogs are prose; cats are poetry. Dogs embody the spirit of rugged
manhood. Cats are the spooky eccentricity of woman. Dogs doggedly
follow. Cats disappear.

I'm writing to the manufacturer of this medicine to suggest a change.
"Methigel for Cats?" No, let's call it Tuna Delight, a tasteful puree
of assorted fish-heads.

There will be a twist to the instructions. Before the owner is allowed
to administer the first dose, he or she must swallow a full
tablespoonful.

Good for cats. Humbling for humans.

Post-blog: Aren't you glad I took that Creative Writing course at Pinetree Elementary School in 1996? Since then, my prose has soared to new heights. Speaking of fish, this piece is suitable for wrapping it. But hey, I thought it was way good at the time!

Post-post: Just dredged up this bit of writerly nonsense. Showing off again, are we?

If a fish is the movement of water embodied, given shape, then cat is a diagram and pattern of subtle air.”
 - Doris Lessing

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It's late, I should go to bed, but I have this horse. . .

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A. J. Clemente: the f-bomb and the death of coherence

This has to be a hoax.

Right?

Beside the fact that the guy immediately fires off the f-bomb (along with a quite charming, accompanying s-bomb), he is absolutely bloody awful, worse than some high school student shooting a YouTube video during spring break.

His partner (whom he seems to address as "man") not only stumbles over her copy (perhaps understandably, since the co-anchor has just bleeped his career all to fxxk) but has a noticeable lisp.

Anchoring is usually considered to be the prestige job in any newsroom. Who knows why, because I think reporters out in the field work much harder and put themselves at far more personal risk. Usually this means careful screening of candidates, not scooping some foul-mouthed idiot off the street.

We won't get into the ludicrous errors passed off as truth,  clownish stumbles in grammar and useage that nobody even notices even more (such as: shouldn't the verb match the subject? Didn't we learn that in kindergarten?)

Here's a very simple example: "Having dug a hole under the fence, Ricky went to look for his missing dog." The worst of it is, people aren't reacting to this kind of verbal soul-murder any more because, like a lot of excruciatingly bad grammar and useage, it is worming its way into passive acceptance and will soon be considered "correct", even cited in modern dictionaries. Do you know why that happens? Because it is done over, and over, and over again until people don't hear it any more. 

A particularly excruciating example pops up in my memory: an anchor introduced a story by talking about "chickadees". "Parents should not be giving chickadees to their children for Easter." Well, THAT seemed right enough.

The clip was, of course, about baby chicks. As in: baby chickens. As in: those little yellow fluffy things that come out of eggs at Easter time (for the express purpose of being mauled to death by children).

Not one person complained or even noticed that chickadees are small, sparrowlike birds that don't migrate but stay here in the winter. They make a sound similar to: chickadee-dee-dee-dee-dee. . . (I know, because I have seen/heard them.)

When I wrote in to complain to the station, their response was, "Well, no one else has complained about it." This is a defense I particularly loathe. Why? It's similar to that repugnant question, "Are you sure?" This question denigrates your feelings and in fact negates them completely. If you're not "sure", you're either lying or vacillating so much that nobody should be taking you seriously anyway. And why ask? It means your credibility (not to mention your mental competence) is seriously in question.

"No one else has complained" means that valid, proper complaints require one thing: NUMBERS. The higher the number of complaints, the more seriously they are taken. One person complaining about something is completely irrelevant, making the protestor look like a foaming crackpot who won't have the least effect on the ratings. 

Your complaint will only be considered valid if it's clumped in with hundreds or even thousands of others (but even there, it's in danger of being buried by the lemming stampede of public conformity). If no one else has complained, you might as well keep your mouth shut and go away.

Then again: your comment may have a tiny grain of credibility. But only if you're sure.

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Mugatu 2: Renaissance monster

For those of you who think the Mugatu was just some weird conglomeration of King Kong, Godzilla and Bigfoot, let it be known that he was a creature of many manifestations/talents.

As witness the Mugatu action figure. I can't find out how tall he was, but. . . wouldn't you like to have one?

(Look OUT, Captain Kirk!)

Here he is, still in the unopened box. Calling eBay!

This is, presumably, Lego Mugatu. Note the ferocious look on his face.

Rockin' Mugatu. Perhaps left over from an early Star Trek convention. The color one would make a great banner.

Just a closer walk with He.

The softer side of Mugatu. Who knew he could be that cute?

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MUGATU!: or, Battle of the Star Trek Monsters

We all know the Gorn,

and since I was born

He always scared me silly.

He attacked Cap'n Kirk

Cuz he wuz such a jerk. . .

Such scenes always gave me the willies.

But then came a blur

Made of spikes and fun fur

Mugatu was  mean and unkind

He was six different monsters

Kind of all stuck together

Desilu couldn't make up its mind

But old Furr-a-saurus 

Had to join the angel chorus

When Bones went and whipped out his phas-ier

It went zap and kazoom

And the monster went boom

Didja ever see anything craz-ier?

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Just in time for Earth Day. . .

 

 

Never more true than now.

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An unspeakable act

The position at the start is as follows: 

Man's left foot behind the right, left toe at the heel of the right, both toes turned out—his partner's right foot in front of her left, her right heel at the toe of her left foot, both toes turned out.

The man raises the left foot and at the same time raises on the toe of the right, turn both toes in, twisting on the ball of the right foot. 

With the feet in this position, both toes are twisted out, with the man's left heel in front of his right toe—his partner's right heel in front at her left toe.

The man raises his left foot, at the same time rising on the ball of the right foot, and twists both toes in, then puts his left foot behind the right one, and on the balls of both feet twists both toes out—his left toe behind at the right heel. 

His partner raises her right foot, at the same time rising on the ball of her left foot and twists both toes in, then puts her right foot in front and on the balls of both feet turns both toes out—her right toe in front at her left heel.

A toddle movement is taken through-out all the steps, on the foot on which the weight happens to be. 

(Excerpted from: Dance Steps That Will Never Die: The Charleston, 1929)

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Where did this come from?????

Camel Blues

If you steal a camel, I’ll have to make a bet

You’re better off with a stringy marionette.

A real one doesn’t make a good pet

‘Cause it drinks once a year, and gets you all wet.

If you’d like to be in the worst kind of debt,

Bring home a camel, then take it to the vet.

“He’s covered with sand! He’s a lousy pet!”

The bill is $90.00, not gross but net.

It’s true, he’s the worst thing you’ve ever met,

‘Cause he tries to run away, and you have to grab a net.

After a while, you decide you’ll just let

The creature fly away on his own hired jet.

 (PAGING AIR DUBAI!!!!!)

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