The RKO Radio Picture logo is significant mainly because it told us we were about to see a picture with Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers in it. It's too bad we don't have that compelling morse code beeping in the background. Someone finally deciphered what the morse code stood for. No, not something indescribably filthy! It just says "A Radio Picture".
Nice early Warner title, if a bit static. I wish they'd stuck with this one - I never liked that obnoxious WB logo thrusting at us, which went along with the equally-obnoxious "doyyyyy" of Bugs Bunny cartoons.
This is the best CBS eye "aperture" logo I've been able to find. Not the greatest, but the few others I've found are closely attached to end credits and can't be isolated. These gifs don't make themselves, you know, and some of them take a long time.
One of the strangest logos I've ever seen: a real find. This is why I keep chopping my way through bad copies of bad logos late at night, because once in a while I garner a gem like this one. I've always loved the Pathe rooster because he seems to take an iconoclastic stand against roaring lions and all that MGM spectacle crap. Give me a crowing cock any day.
I've long believed this is the perfect commercial. It's the combination of sensory enjoyment (seeing, hearing, tasting, smelling) with hypnotic repetition ("Tastes as good as it smells" is repeated FIVE times in the space of one minute). If you watch it carefully, you'll see a brilliant montage of simple, effective black-and-white images, a steaming coffee pot, a white oval cup filling with dark coffee, the cup being slowly raised until the coffee fills the entire screen. . . The oval motif is echoed by the shape of the can, and the perspective between these objects is simply masterful. By the last shot the open can is being tipped towards the camera, and a little avalanche of ground coffee just casually spills down at us.
There's something deliberate about the whole thing, the pacing of it, as if someone is handing you an item, and an item, and an item, not rushing, but each item is solid platinum, you can't put it down. It's the opposite of the loud, pushy hard sell. . . but pitching the slogan FIVE times? I had to count it on my fingers (my brain doesn't go past four) to believe it was that many times. It's something to do with the simplicity of the narration which is hypnotic in a way that's hard to analyze. See the coffee pot, smell the coffee, taste the coffee. See, smell, taste. So seductively are we told this, over and over again, and by such a smooth announcer, that we don't even realize that they are commands. But then there is the final stroke of brilliance, that bongo-ish percolator sound that sticks in your memory forever. As if this needed any more sensory appeal! Yet to watch it is to be completely seduced by an ad that seems unremarkable in its utter simplicity.
There is something utterly perfect, even exquisite about the Oasis cigarette commercial. In this case, it depicts a man and woman tearing around on horseback, which is erotic in itself. The jingle is cool and contagious, and the "Big O" can only mean one thing. What isn't perfect about it? The fact that using the product can lead to coughing your lungs out in a cancer ward. But aside from that -
But catfish is now a verb, something that can be done to you. Stuck to you, more like. It happened to Meri Brown, the cat-riarch of TLC's bizarre polygamist saga Sister Wives. I didn't get to see any of the current episodes 'til last night, though it was already getting near the end of the season. Why? None of the episodes had recorded, that's why. And why is that? I don't know, but I think I deleted "series record" at the end of Season 5. Four neurotic wives, seventeen children and one asshole patriarch was just a little too much for me to stand.
And yet, and yet, here it is again, the Browns growing even more dysfunctional as they begin to have illicit-yet-platonic affairs with people who don't actually exist.
This whole thing is far too complicated to recount in a mere blog post, especially one with as short an attention span as mine. Suffice it to say that Meri, the original/oldest wife, was just conveniently dumped so that polygamist/surfer-dude Kody could legally marry Robyn, his youngest, prettiest, still-producing-babies wife.The reason given was that previously-married Robyn had kids that were going to be taken away from her unless she was legally married to the K-Man.
There had to be another way, you'd think, but no. So Meri had to get out of the way and divorce Kody. Kicked to the curb, and probably no longer receiving Kody's every-four-night's ministrations because she's now a "divorced woman" (which would, let's face it, be immoral), Meri got a little itchy, a little antsy, and somehow or other ended up on-line, late, late at night.
Catfishing is a blood sport that demands a victim, or, better yet, victims (spouses and girl/boy friends caught in the swirl of blood going down the drain). Some people put a lot of planning into these things, especially if they want to hook a big one like a high-profile reality star. It's the little things at first, the warmth with just a frisson of over-friendliness. Then, slowly, subtly, stepping up the flattery, allowing little hints of sexuality to peep through. Photos exchanged, compliments given, sighing, seething. And other things. This is a masturbatory activity if ever there was one, with orgasm guaranteed every time. For a middle-aged woman, for whom the whole thing can misfire all too easily, that's a pretty darn good deal.
Then. . . what do you think comes next? A sudden silence. Confusion. What happened? Where has he gone? Doesn't he love me any more? Jerk, jerk, goes the hook.
Frantic phone calls. Increasingly-desperate declarations of passionate love. Dismay, anger: don't you care about me any more? Don't you care about what we had?
It always ends with some sort of awful public announcement on the catfisher's blog, with all those pathetically desperate phone messages posted for all to hear (see below). Not only that, catfishers are cheered and praised by their legions of fans, who don't quite dare do this sort of sadistic stuff themselves but nevertheless highly approve of someone else doing it.
This is sad. Sad because Meri is infertile and could only produce one baby, with difficulty, in a family which is now looking forward to its EIGHTEENTH child. Sad because she was expendable enough to be expected to abdicate so the nubile new-ish wife could step up and take her place. This goes against every so-called law of polygamy, in which the first wife is always First, and the succeeding wives ever-more-subservient.
So it was catfish time, but the story is even more strange than that. The man who didn't exist, Sam something-or-other (doesn't matter), isn't even a man. Meri's throbbing new beau is a great tough butch of a woman named Jackie Overton, but she also poses as Sam's assistant Lindsay (still with me? I'm not.) The torture was stretched to the most excruciating level when Meri was led to believe she'd be going to Disneyland to FINALLY meet Sam, and instead met up with Lindsay/Jackie, who told her Sam "couldn't make it" (to say the least!) The YouTube video of Meri's voicemail messages (below) features photos of them having a squealing good time in the Happiest Place on Earth.
Insane?
Insane, and it all melted down eventually, with charges that Robyn, the youngest-and-prettiest-and-most-fertile wife, knew all about the catfishing scam and said nothing, claiming it was all going to come out eventually, so why bother to stop it.
Can I click that setting again - you know, the one that says Cancel Series Record?
(Below is the Daily Mail account, in case my version of it is a hopeless garble. It's a warning of the cost of extreme loneliness and naivete, but it's also a story of exquisite cruelty and hook-jerking. And no one pays any sort of penalty for this sort of thing except the victim. Jackie Overton is now gloriously famous, the world's most powerful catfish lady. A bottom-feeder if ever I saw one.)
Sister Wives star Meri Brown has confessed she was recently 'catfished' into a fake online relationship with a man who turned out to be a woman.
The first wife of polygamist Kody Brown said the relationship was purely emotional, and says she's sharing her story to prevent others from falling into the same trap.
'During an emotional and vulnerable time earlier this year, I began speaking with someone online who turned out to be not who they said they were,' Meri told People.com.
The 44-year-old told People that she never met her online 'boyfriend', and regrets the entire situation.
The term 'catfishing' refers to people who create fake online profiles in order to trick others into online relationships, and was popularized by MTV reality show Catfish.
However, reality star Meri said her family had been by her side through the messy online affair and shocking reveal.
'Throughout this ordeal, my family has supported and stood by me. I am grateful to them for their love and strength through this difficult time,' she told the magazine.
Meri, who is 46-year-old Kody's first, legal wife, agreed to divorce him this year so he could legally marry his fourth wife Robyn.
The polygamist patriarch says he and Meri remain 'spiritually' married. The change was thought to be so that Robyn's three children could get his health insurance and he could adopt them.
However, as a result of the shifting family dynamics, Meri has been under emotional strain.
The reality star was allegedly duped by a female catfisher, who posed online as a 42-year-old male CEO named 'Sam Cooper', according to reality blog AllAboutTheTea.
The TV gossip site claims they met in person after Meri traveled to Disneyland in Los Angeles to finally meet 'Sam' this year - but instead met up with the catfish woman, who was posing as his assistant ‘Lindsay’ and claimed Sam couldn’t make it.
They allegedly spent the day together without Meri realizing that 'Lindsay' was actually 'Jackie', who was posing as 'Sam' online.
The reality star appeared increasingly distant during the last season of the show as the divorce storyline played out.
(About the YouTube video. C'mon. Cut me some slack. I only posted a minute-and-a-half of what could have been a seven-minute recording. I needed to provide a sample for reference, though it disturbs me to think of that great fat bitch Jackie licking her feral lips over Meri's desperate pleas for Sam to pay attention to her. Can't pay attention when you don't exist!)
There had to be more. . .
These are just a few of the mildly-sexy photos Meri sent to her catfish lover Sam. I found another one with her shoving the banana into her mouth, presumably mimicking fellatio, though it would be hard to perform fellatio on a catfish you've never met (let alone a woman). The truly winsome ones are kept under internet lock and key and can't be saved, unfortunately. The thumbnails above are watermarked to keep us from blowing them up and selling them as masturbatory aids.
And then there's this. . .
This scum-of-the-earth Jackie character is gradually letting more and more artifacts leak out, prolonging the embarrassment. What jeebies me out about this is the constant reference to "love". How can you feel love for/feel loved by some anonymous dame in a basement, clacking away at 3:00 a.m. just to keep a reality star on the emotional hook? What exactly did she SAY to Meri to make her feel so "loved"? How can this happen with a person you've never met? Hasn't she ever heard of FICTION? Apparently not. I have heard of cases where women were duped out of a quarter of a million dollars by total heartless sociopathic fake-outs.
Let's see now. . . Meri Cooper Brown. . . M. C. B. . . Ms. Meri Brown-Cooper. . . oh, screw that, let's make it Mrs. Sam Cooper!
The Catfish Strikes Back!
Inevitably, new material is surfacing claiming that there really is a Sam Cooper, that he's a flesh-and-blood man instead of a catfish, and moreover, he and Meri have been getting it on hotly for some time now. It must be true, cuzz I've seen it on all sortsa show biz sites! Are you paying attention, Meri?:
"However, since her opening up, the person behind the catfishing, previously identified as Jackie Overton posing as Samuel Cooper, has taken to their personal blog to continue addressing the claims, and has even added new sections with voicemails left by Meri, and a password-protected section which allegedly proves sexual encounters with the reality star.
In a first post, the allegations that Meri was catfished is denied, and that there were physical meetings between them:
"I have 194 voicemails from Meri, that prove not only did we fall in love, were in love, but we were together. At Disneyland, twice, in Utah for a whole week, and all the number of times in and around Las Vegas. We talked every single day, for 6 months. It started March 1st of this year and we broke up August 23rd of this year...," the post reads. "I DID NOT CATFISH Meri...I am a guy and it's ridiculous I have to even say that Lol In my opinion, it's easier to go with the rumors that have been floating around for 2 months and go with the catfish story the internet trolls and SisterWives haters created in order to keep the media damage at a minimum. She does not want to admit to an affair, she does not want to admit that she fell in love with me and she does not want to admit we had sex, a lot.."
In the second post, the need to request a password to see proof that 'Sam' and Meri had sex is detailed as well:
"I added this page to prove without a doubt that I am all man Lol. And Meri and I had sex over 60 times. Nothing has been edited. Nothing. You can clearly see her, you can definitely tell its me. You can't deny we were happy, having fun, and in a consensual sexual relationship."
(Note that a lot of these posts have been taken down. Not sure why. These things normally don't turn legal, mainly because they're not illegal. It's OK to pretend to be somebody you're not, so long as money isn't involved. And in any case, a lawsuit would just make Meri look like the vacuous, love-starved diva she really is.)
(but wait, there's more. . . )
There's always More, and in this case, More-more. "Sam Cooper" keeps a blog called Not Batman Yet, and it's very interesting in that it drips with hints about his/her "relationship" with Meri Brown. Of course, Sam Cooper is really Jackie Overton, the sadistic bitch who very quickly hooked the head Sister Wife at a vulnerable time, when she had been more-or-less cut loose by the family. This strange blog has a curiously blank, devoid-of-personality quality to it, bloodless, and the "gallery" of photos consists of very cheesy generic Google images, as if playing with the reader to suspend his/her disbelief. One entry goes on for a few thousand words, but here's the gist of it:
"The path that I am on now is only towards you. I can’t wait for all of the things we have talked about. I’m excited to get to know everything about you and your life. It sounds challenging. It sounds that you have been doing it alone for so long already, that sharing yourself with me might be an adjustment at first. But you say you want to. I can’t wait to show you my life and everything about me. I am so excited that I found love again! It’s exactly what I need. And I will take care of you. I want to. I live for that. You are my every desire. Making sure you stay happy will be my top priority. Your wants and need are as important as my own. And I know you will definitely take care of me. You are so loving. So kind. I’m in awe of that. It really is like a dream to me that you exist in my world. And I love you very much."
"I needed to be rescued from myself. Honestly, my love, I was drowning. My life had become mundane and plain. Go to work, come home. Repeat. I want to explore. I want to travel. I want to see your eyes light up when I surprise you with anything. I want to feel you when we hug. I know that building on the love we have already created will be such a great feeling. My heart already starts beating faster anytime I am talking to you. I think I had to grieve and really take my own time with it. Time heals all? I guess it does. But you have to want it and that’s the change in me.
I realized something the other night after we got off of the phone. You are happy too. I think maybe you were in a little bit of a bad place too before we found each other. Am I making you feel this way? I hope so. Doesn’t it feel great! I wish everyone could feel this good. There is so much more I want to say to you. So many more stories about my life I want to share. I could talk to you all day and night."
He also mentions reading the book of Mormon and scouting out property in Utah to build a casino, where gambling is illegal. Really, isn't that why the Browns moved to Nevada? Their whole family system seems pretty dicey to me.
It's not every day that things like this happen to me. In fact, they never do. But I've found something that I never thought I'd find. Ever. In a million years.
In re-reading the detailed, fat and juicy but pretty-damn-scathing Split Image: The Life of Anthony Perkins by Charles Winecoff, I've fallen into Perkinsville again. Or else the Black Hole.
So I'm back finding again. Dredging, sort of like they dredged that car out of the lake in Psycho.
Kind of finding, but never finding, as it was with him. He was hard to know, hard to be with, from all accounts, but people needed to be with him because he created that need. Lousy at intimacy, he created intimacy in his voice, in those compelling dark eyes. He drew you in and, like some sticky-fingered, carnivorous insect, refused to let you go.
Teen idol first - no, stage actor first, and a damn good one, but could he get beyond agonized youth and struggles for heterosexual identity? He did try, but his latter stage roles (Martin Dysart in Equus comes to mind) were stiff and mannered. What happened to him, what set the glue?
But even now. Even now when I listen to him sing Summertime Love from Greenwillow - and I won't do it now because I'll start bawling and go around with raw eyes for the rest of the day - I hear something unbreakable, yet breakable. Fragile strength. Whether he wanted to or not, Tony reflected a good many disturbing truths about the human condition, and managed to look incredibly dishy while doing so.
Impossible to place, but nowadays we'd just call him a Nathan Lane-type and jam him into precious, stereotypical fag roles. He wouldn't be able to play straight, though straight men (Brokeback Mountain, anyone?) are constantly playing gays. It just ain't fair, boys.
But wait, there's more! This is only the beginning of my sweet return to a dead guy whose wife was blown up in a plane on 9-11. There is something yet sweeter here to be revealed.
The find of the day, of the week, of the year. . . perhaps of a lifetime.
THE TONY PERKINS PAPER DOLL.
This is so exquisite that I can't even say anything about it. Should I print it out and put the outfit on?
Now, I dare you to listen to this. I'm not listening to it now, simply because I can't. I must get on with my day.
After each highly publicized gun violence incident, some lawmakers—whether with good intention, for political gain, or both—declare that we must have laws to keep guns out of the hands of people with mental illness. It is therefore stunning and profoundly important to note Sunday's blog post from the American Psychiatric Association's president, Dr. Renee Binder.
As chief executive of the major lobby group that advocates for the interests of psychiatrists, Binder might have been expected to recommend an increase in psychiatric treatment for the mentally ill as a way to reduce gun violence. Amazingly, she not only did not make that recommendation, but she made the powerful—and well-documented—statement that people diagnosed with mental illness are far more likely to be victims of violence than perpetrators of it and that most of the mentally ill will never commit acts of violence against others. Thus, to pass laws to prevent the mentally ill from owning guns is no way to reduce the frequency of murders. In fact, as Binder pointed out, "Stronger indicators of risk include a history of violent behavior, domestic violence, and drug or alcohol abuse."
Politicians on the Sunday morning news shows either failed to read Binder's essay or chose to ignore it and plowed right ahead, pushing for gun laws about the mentally ill. And on Monday morning, former Congressman Patrick Kennedy appeared on CBS, making an impassioned plea to prevent the mentally ill from owning guns and making the bold—and unfounded—assertion that that such a step would have prevented the most recent mass shooting. It will be worth watching to see if over time, Binder's strong statement alters politicians' proposals. Today, Republican Presidential candidate Ben Carson made a similar plea.
Two important points shed further light on this matter. One arises from the fact that the primary way that "the mentally ill" are identified is by having been given psychiatric diagnoses, but a vast body of work over three decades has revealed psychiatric diagnostic categories to be constructed and applied with little or no scientific support, so attempts to divide the populace into "the mentally ill" and "everyone else"—and aim to pass laws affecting the former—make no sense.
The other relevant point is that the ballooning numbers of categories and subcategories that are called mental illnesses has led to the psychiatrizing of our society, the tendency of therapists, media people, the public, even some novelists to try to explain every aspect of human behavior as caused by a mental illness. This often takes the form of, "Person X did Y, and the fact that they did Y proves that they are mentally ill, because Y (almost any action or expression) is a mental illness." Defense attorneys operating in a system that is often stacked against the accused, especially if the latter are poor or women or people of color, understandably try to get their clients diagnosed as mentally ill, hoping to argue that the psychiatric disorder is reason for a reduced sentence. As a result, a confounding factor we will increasingly need to consider is that an artificially created correlation between a diagnosis of mental illness and commission of a violent act will result, as anyone charged with an act of violence is increasingly likely to be labeled mentally ill. As that happens, it will unjustifiably become ammunition for those who want to base laws on the notion that "the mentally ill" are more dangerous than the rest of the populace.
POST-BLOG THOUGHTS. I've added a couple of things that might be relevant. Below is one of those cut-and-paste Facebook messages about depression, which are, I guess, better than nothing - but not much. They strike me as paper doll or cookie-cutter responses, don't cost anything, and can give you a false sense of having done your bit (so you can wash your hands of it all). These are posted for just one hour, then, I assume, taken down - but why? Why is it considered so dangerous for people to leave a post about depression on their page? Why the necessity of reassuring people with statements like "I did it for a friend and you can too" (which smacks of "well, my friend has this problem. . . )? The whole post seems to be saying, "it's OK to display a message about this completely taboo topic, because no one will ever know".
For many people, even mentioning the subject to offer "a moment of support" is just too great a risk, likely because they fear being exposed as a sympathizer. "If I don't see your name, I'll understand" is a very sad statement: I know you can't risk mentioning your name, because people might think you're "one of them". As I've said before, and I will keep on saying it, mental health issues are where gay issues were in 1970, and cancer issues in 1950. I have some things to say about all this (as usual). Below the Facebook quote and my response to it, I've posted a link to something you really need to see, if this subject interests you at all. (Please note: this is what you should NOT wear as a Halloween costume.)
Facebook cut-'n-paste message:
Yes depression is such a bitch and seems relentless. A lot of us have been
close to thatedge, and some
have lost friends and loved ones. Let's look out for each other and stopsweeping mental illness under the rug.
If I don't see your name, I'll understand. May I askmy family and friends wherever you
might be, to kindly copy and paste this status for onehour to give a moment of support to
all those who have family problems, health struggles, job issues, worries of
any kind and just need to know that someone cares. Do it for all of us, for
nobody is immune. Hope to see this on the walls of all my family and friends
just for moral support. I know some will!!! I did it for a friend and you can
too. You have to copy andpaste
this one, no sharing.
My response to these one-hour-long, "if I don't see your name"
messages of support: We're starting to see more about depression on
Facebook these days, and people are pasting and sharing and doing all manner of
things. But do you know what might do even more to help the cause? If you know
of someone who is off work with depression, don't avoid them or pretend it
isn't happening. Ask them if they're up to a visit at home or in the hospital,
and go see them and bring flowers or something else they might like. Depression
is disabling and hurts far worse than a heart attack or a broken bone, but
there are virtually no flowers sent to psychiatric wards. People's aversion
runs very deep. Let's get over it, shall we? THAT would be really helpful.
This is an example of something that affected my childhood just as profoundly as those horrendous Civil Defense TV announcements with theirheadsplitting deeeeeeeeeet sound that convinced me I was heading for certain doom ("This is only a test"). During the Cuban Missile Crisis it very nearly happened, but that is another story.
When I was going to McKeough School in Chatham, Ontario, back in 19-blah-whatever, every once in a while there would be an Announcement. This would come from one of the spinster schoolteachers (all our teachers were Miss Somebody-or-other, no men or married women, we didn't think they could teach), and would set our little hearts a-thumping: we would be seeing a "fillum" that day.
We were trooped with military precision down to the basement of that hideous neo-Gothic structure (recently ripped down due to dry rot and excessive haunting) and sat on the damp floor. This is how we did things, how we moved bodies around: we marched in to school to military music in the morning, the boys on one side of the building and the girls on the other, as if grade school kids were going to indulge in some sort of awful debauchery.
There we saw a Fillum, or Fillums rather. These were boring beyond measure, always produced by the National Film Board, and had no story to them at all. They were industrial things about how to manufacture pencils, or prim lessons in manners and decorum, how to obey your parents, etc. etc., though sex was off the table then, if not forever.
I'll tell you why we were transfixed by all this. It was a Fillum, that's why, and a bit of a break from the deadly boredom of all those lessons on penmanship, obedience and being a good citizen. But most of all, it was because of THESE things, which I didn't know went by the prosaic name of film leaders. To me they were a sort of rocketship into the land of soaring imagination, or at least the National Film Board. We were told NOT to do the countdown out loud, though many of us whispered it and, of course, filled in the missing "2" and "1" (and I am still not sure why it is always absent). By this time the space race was on, so that we actually were listening to countdowns on TV as one pathetic rocket after another fizzled and fell.
There is still great mystery and beauty in these things, since they're all different and all so utterly incomprehensible. If they have a purpose, I will never know what it is. Maybe filmmakers strung them all together into a countdown stag reel, who knows. (I'd be up for it.)
Anyway, they don't seem to exist any more, which makes them even more precious in my eyes. That sound, too - the phhht, blp, blp, THUD, bzzzztztzt - all that stuff, the fuzzy splicky staticky noises I'm having such trouble describing - these danced with the splashy urgency of the images, the rush of descending numbers, the flash of - what? - that thrilling countdown that so quickly disappeared.
So where am I getting these, from whence have I dredged them up after all these years? As is usually the case, I 'm not sure of their origin. Before YouTube, all this treasure was just lodged in the back of my brain somewhere, so that I really didn't know if it had happened or not. If I tried to talk to anyone about it, they looked alarmed, as if I had gone dangerously insane or was at least delusional, so I quickly learned to keep my mouth shut. Then, of course, it all turned out to be True, because here it is again, flashing right in front of my eyes in a never-ending Mobius of magic.
This last one is a bit of a cheat, since I was still on Gifsforum (poor, dear, defunct Gifsforum), which gave you many options, including three speeds, turning colour into black and white or sepia, and reversing direction, not to mention captions and gifs that lasted up to 30 seconds. (These, which seem fairly long compared to the violent 2-second lurches you usually see, are only 20 seconds maximum.) So just to see how it would look, I ran it backwards.
By the way, if you are very, very quick, you might be able to catch the subject of the film. I can see that one of them says "ice fishing" (it's only on one frame or something), and another says "Pream" (remember all the Pream gifs I posted a while ago? Oh well.) The leaders are mostly gleaned from those YouTube compilations of old commercials and/or TV sitcoms of the '50s like Topper and I Married Joan, and no doubt are edited out in a lot of cases. But give me the big, sloppy sprawl of rotting old video, the kind of Fillum we used to devour while sitting on the damp floor of the basement of McKeough School, give me that raw unedited footage complete with the wild ride of the leader with its mysterious. seemingly useless and impenetrable countdown.
P. S. Watch all of these, they're all different and it took me two years to make and collect them. I went to a lot of trouble. Okay?
