Animal Movies, Where The
Animals Talk
Whether their lips move, or whether you can just hear their thoughts, I love
movies where the animals talk. I often try to imagine what my dogs would say
to me if they could speak. They consider me to be a God don’t they? I’m
afraid it could get ugly. I think one of the all-time great moments in the
history of cinema occurs in the remake of Dr. Dolittle, with Eddie Murphy,
when those sheep come into his clinic and announce, “Our butts are sore.”
That’s Oscar material, dammit. My favorite “talky” animal movie though, is
“Homeward Bound: The Incredible Journey”. Within ten minutes, I completely
forget it’s really Michael J. Fox drooling all over everything and getting
into so much mischief. However, I can only watch it in a darkened room.
Shoot, I’d wear a bag over my head if I could still see the screen. You see,
toward the end of the film, when Shadow, Chance and Sassy are reunited with
their family, my face becomes dampened and streaked with a strange, salty
discharge… as I deal with my unmanly shame.
I love Bugles. That’s right, I said it. Unlike Fritos, Ruffles, or Pretzels, we really don’t know a lot about Bugles. We know corn is somehow involved, along with a good deal of oil, and it’s fashioned into a sort of knitted, weird trumpet shape… like something the Grinch or Dizzy Gillespie might play. The rest is a complete mystery. To be caught eating a bag of Bugles is tantamount to rejecting all reasonable diet advice. To hell with fresh fruit and vegetables! Give me that processed corn, oil, and the equivalent of an all-day salt lick! And, you’d better pray to God that no one pops in to your home and find you with a chest full of Bugles crumbs, drinking Koolaid, and watching Jerry Springer. The news of a cultural “black hole” such as that could clear a man’s social calendar for the rest of the year. What’s that? Oh, you think you’re better than me, don’t you? I bet you eat Pringles “Potato” Chips! Yeah, I thought so! Join me on the couch, my brother. After the commercial, Jerry is bringing on “Bipolar Lesbians.”
Barry Manilow Records
As a musician, admitting I’m a Barry Manilow fan has caused me more than a
little grief. I’ve tried to convince my fellow players how talented the man
really is.
He’s a brilliant arranger!
“He’s a pussy.”
He’s an excellent songwriter!
“He’s a pussy.”
He’s a great musician with real class!
“He’s a pussy.”
You can see what I’m up against? I stand my ground though. I love the
musical spell he weaves with “Mandy,” “Weekend In New England,” and “Could
It Be Magic.” And I remain resolute in my conviction that Barry Manilow is
one talented mutha. Hell, I dare any man to listen to “Even Now” without
some long forgotten memory of an old girlfriend coming back to haunt him.
When I’m watching TV with my buddies and Barry appears, I start to sweat a
little because I know what’s coming; “Hey David, here’s your man!” I always
hope that Barry will blow a wad of snot out of his nose, scratch his balls,
or maybe even hit one of the guys in his band… ANYTHING to show my friends
he’s not a pussy. It never happens.
As a relatively poor southern boy, my lifestyle included several singular distinctions: I went barefoot 95% of the time, ALL sandwiches were prepared with white, doughy Sunbeam bread, and we drank a helluva lot of Kool-Aid (and if we were still thirsty, we drank water from the hose). The flavor didn’t matter, as long as it was red. All summer long, my chums and me proudly wore the “scarlet tattoo” of the Kool-Aid drinker above our upper lip. We were lean, despite drinking gallons of the sugary solution; probably because we were outside playing all day since we couldn’t come in the house till suppertime. Kool-Aid was cheap, but we didn’t know it. To us, it may as well have been Dom Perignon. When I drink Kool-Aid these days, usually at company barbeques, or at kiddie birthday parties, I silently savor the taste and the memories it conjures; memories of beating the hell out of snakes with a baseball bat and nailing the carcasses to an oak tree. Ahh, those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer.
Barney The Purple Dinosaur
I know it makes no sense. It may be the worst show EVER on television. You
have a guy wearing a very large, very cheap looking purple dinosaur suit,
surrounded by bubble-headed children with huge fake smiles, right out of
central casting. They sing horrible songs, are painstakingly polite… sort of
like Goofus and Gallant, but without Goofus. It makes Mr. Rogers look
positively Shakespearean. And it all sends the creep-o-meter into the red.
Sure, Barney seems to be a perfectly lovable purple hulk, but one has to
keep in mind that John Wayne Gacy made a pretty decent-looking clown. On one
show, I could swear I saw one of the little tykes with a coloring book and
when she tilted it toward the camera, you could clearly make out, “Call the
police.” I didn’t. It’s an awful show, and yet, I ALWAYS watch it if I’m
channel surfing... alone. I guess it’s the same instinct that causes me to
rubberneck at a traffic accident. Guilty pleasure? I’m plumb ashamed.
“Alien Baby Found In New Mexico!”
“Noah’s Ark Discovered… With Survivors!
“Hillary’s Torment: Monica Pregnant With Bill’s Child!”
"Head Transplants Now Possible!"
How can you not love this stuff? Better yet, how could the major “legitimate” newspapers miss these scoops? I mean, discovering Noah’s Ark is a fairly big deal in my book. And, if they’ve really discovered aliens in New Mexico, aren’t we entitled to that information? At the end of a long grocery-shopping trip, these trash papers are one pretty payoff. I love them, and yet, I can’t bring myself to buy one. Well, I did buy one once, and the look in the cashier’s eyes was enough to make me wish I hadn’t. I’m certain she figured me to be a QVC addict, or a loser who still lives with his mother, reading Soap Opera Digest on the throne every morning while refunding the previous night’s Hungry Man dinner.
“Kennedy Assassination Solved!” How could the New York Times ignore this story? Let’s bring back the Warren Commission!
Playing With Trucks
Show me a guy who says he doesn’t enjoy playing in the dirt with those
large, heavy Tonka trucks, and I’ll show you a goddamn liar. It’s the best
part of having kids. Here I am, a full-fledged adult with all the adult
problems and responsibilities... and I’m in a dirt pile making motor sounds
with my mouth. A round of golf with the boys? No thanks; I’m fine right here
with a load of dirt in the truck and another load underneath my fingernails.
I’ll admit though, it is a bit embarrassing to be outside asking your kid to
come out and play trucks with you. For you and your son, playing with trucks
is a bonding moment like no other. And NOBODY can make mouth-motor sounds
like a five-year-old boy. Now my kids are grown and the trucks have been
given or thrown away. This guilty pleasure will now have to wait until I
have grandkids. It looks like I may even finish this crazy ride the way I
started it…. with no teeth, wearing a diaper, and playing in the dirt.
I’m a southerner, which means I was raised on the classic Southern Diet of “fried this, fried that”... and please pass the sweet tea. Only in the south, will they actually throw a steak in a vat of boiling oil. We call it “Country-Fried Steak” to give it an air of culinary legitimacy, and, by God, it’s mighty tasty. Especially covered in heavy gravy. In the Deep South, we’ll fry anything; okra, squash... Hell, we’ll even take a hunk of corn-meal dough, lump it into a ball, and throw THAT into the fryer… Hush Puppies. One of the regular dishes on our childhood menu was fried squirrel. I never even questioned my folks on the merits of eating rodent. That’s real trust. I now get a bit squeamish at the memory, but back then; it was life, as I knew it. Those southerners who continue this practice of arterial suicide are doomed to die of heart failure... oh, by the age of about 35. It wasn’t until I left home, that I discovered you could actually broil a piece of fish, or roast a chicken. I also discovered you could eat vegetables without pork fat. Imagine that! Now, as I eat my grilled fish, I look over to the next table at a group of people enjoying a heaping plate of fried calamari, and I think... that used to be me.
Ani DiFranco
Openly bisexual, Ani DiFranco is a folk artist with a punk attitude. She is
huge with the lesbian crowd. She is a bit outrageous in her lyric poetry and
even in the very physical, staccato way she plays a guitar. Why is she a
guilty pleasure for me? For one thing, I don’t exactly fit her demographic.
Staunchly heterosexual southern guys like me don’t exactly walk around
wearing Ani DiFranco t-shirts. If we did that, we’d spend all day answering,
“Who the hell is that?” questions. We’d never get anything accomplished.
Lots of guys--my friends included--have sort of a weird thing about women
with in-your-face opinions, who do not and will not worship at the toes of a
man. “Man-hater,” is a word that’s thrown around. Most men, deep down, feel
that a lesbian woman just hasn’t met the right guy yet. In other words, men
are usually thinking of that “C” word… conversion. Ani isn’t half-bad
looking either. I love her intelligence and I love the way she makes some
people squirm in their seat. Unfortunately, the idea of going public with
this makes me squirm in mine.
Before you throw me on that garbage heap of guys who chew their toenails or cut off skin moles with a pocket knife, hear me out. I’ll guarantee you; a large paper clip cleans an ear canal better than it holds together a wad of paper. I’m not talking about jamming a sharp end of the opened clip into my ear! I’m talking about jamming the smooth, rounded end of the clip into my ear! I have never performed this procedure in front of another human being, and I don’t plan on it. It’s far too risky. Besides, it’s a guilty pleasure, dammit! If any of you need any office supplies, just let me know. I have plenty.
The Movie, “Matilda”
So help me, I’ve tried to deny my affection for this movie and I can’t do
it. It may be the greatest movie of all time for its ability to please all
age groups. The little ones will love Matilda’s magical powers and the
clever ways she uses them. Teens will laugh at the maniacally vicious Agatha
Trunchbull, the school principal with the strength of Laurence Taylor and
the personality of Attila The Hun. Guys of all ages will see the sexual
potential in the sweet, Miss Honey. Danny DeVito and his wife, Rhea Perlman,
are hilarious. It’s well-written, well-made... hell, it even features a
small role for one Paul Reubens. You may remember him better as Pee Wee
Herman, before he got caught playing with his Pee Wee at a peep show. So why
is this movie a guilty pleasure? It has to be the wimpy title. “I’ll take
Platoon, Raging Bull, Rambo 3, and... ahem... Matilda.” Nope, I can’t see
it. This movie is a pleasure, but will remain a guilty one.
Maybe the greatest “guilty pleasure” of all, depending on your religion. You know good and well what I’m talking about: Dinner for one. Summoning the genie. Dishonorable discharge. Dancing with the one-eyed sailor. Nod if you’ve heard enough. Yes, God bestowed on all people, natural urges that demand attention. It’s why men look like Popeye on their right side, and like Olive Oil on the left. If it weren’t for this secret forbidden activity, teenagers would become little Ted Bundys, wreaking immeasurable havoc on society. Through the years, we’ve warned them about growing hair on their hands, going blind, becoming cross-eyed, or stunting their growth. They either ignore us or they grow up looking at their bodies as foreign objects, rejecting their own genitalia the way transplant patients reject a new heart. Is it any wonder why so many people are screwed up? Is it a pleasure? Indeed it is. I say, from here on out, let’s walk into the sunset, men and women, hand-in-hand, with our lotion and our shower massages, and vow to slap a nice red sirloin steak over this societal black eye.
Wasted Wits
The Internet can be educational, it can foster an international sense of
community, and it can serve as a catalyst in the lifelong thirst for
knowledge and understanding. And then there’s Wasted Wits. Rarely has there
been an Internet site so devoid of worthwhile contribution; so devoid of any
ideas for the good of mankind whatsoever. With their smarmy sense of ironic
detachment, the creators of Wasted Wits feel that they can say anything they
want, hiding behind their humor shields like the cowards they are. And then,
if anyone is offended, they pull out that tired, shopworn chestnut,
“Heeeeeey, it’s just a joke! Where’s your sense of humor?” Is Wasted Wits a
guilty pleasure? It is if you derive pleasure from making fun of others. It
is if your entire conversational style consists of clever, witty asides...
as hollow as the hipbone of an 80- year old osteoporosis patient. It is if
you are sick and tired of flourishing sites such as eBaum’s World, growing
fat and buying 850,000-dollar office buildings off the contributions and
backs of those lemmings they call fans. Say what you will, but Wasted Wits
at least bakes it’s bread on-site! True, we operate out of a split, grey
airstream trailer with no running water or electricity, but we haven’t sold
out to the MAN, and we never will. Guilty pleasure? By God, we hope so!
