A Donkey for Best Supporting Actor?

The Oscars are not that far away, guys. What I'm trying to say here is that before all you nerds go home to fill out your Oscar pools this weekend while laying low with mud facials, martinis, and pre-awards-season bacne treatments, I think you should keep in mind this hot little tip: a donkey should have at least been nominated for a Best Supporting Actor Award in 1966, but tragically was not even credited in the film.

The performance in question was written and directed by Robert Bresson, and the uncredited role of Donkey Saint was portrayed flawlessly by the brilliant but chronically unappreciated Balthazar.

Was dear Balthazar's performance too realistically donkey-like to be considered acting? Was he too method for the voting audience? Were all the other actors jealous enough to blackball him? Did he run away with beautiful Marie and just not give a donkey's cuss about getting his name out there?

We may never know--just like with the Oscars this year. Somebody will win the awards and some people will think other people (or donkeys) should have won them instead. Sigh. What can you do, right?

Ladies and gentlemen of taste, I'll tell you what you should do-- make Au Hasard Balthazar the extremely slow but clever and memorable movie you watch this weekend while most people in this country satisfy their baser urges with fast food, fake butter, and the nonagenarian antics of Robert De Niro and Ben Stiller.

You deserve a treat, after all, in these tough times. And so does Balthazar.

Paid for by the Campaign to Posthumously Nominate Balthazar the Donkey for a Best Supporting Actor Oscar (CPNBDBSAC)


[Incidentally, 1966 was a rich year for movies--The Blow Up, Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, Alfie... -Ed]

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People in Mexico Must Be Afraid of Being Fed to Dogs for No Reason At All

The somehow-always-escalating violence in Mexico over the last decade has just got to stop being so crazy. Thankfully, despite their brutality, our era's thugs still pale in comparison to both the brutal conquistadors and the psychopathic tyrants they supplanted, but still--come on.

It's like Mexico is an episode/season of Breaking Bad--the best show on television--so no matter how bad you think things are going to get they always get much worse and keep you on the edge of your seat.

One day you're a respectable family attending a provincial bullfight, feasting on all manner of delectable street meat, and dozing in the cool shadow of a mountain of used plastic silverware and putrid diapers trucked in from Texas, the next day you have a sack thrown over your heads, get fed into a sausage grinder, and become a hasty buffet for a pack of alpha-male pitbulls raised to ruthlessly erase all evidence of your existence. For no reason. Well, other than the fact that some asshole druglords want to send the government agents and their employers (aka taxpayers) a message that they are not to be fucked with or everybody will die eventually die a horrific, carnival death.

Mayors getting kidnapped and stoned to death in the woods, their corpses lying in the back of a pick-up truck for days before being found?

Wacko lieutenants becoming famous for dissolving bodies in vats of lie? Headless bodies hanging from bridges when the President comes to town?

People's faces being peeled-off and sewn onto soccer balls?

Danny Trejo's severed head riding atop a turtle's shell?

It's like the Mexican druglords have spent the last ten years one-upping each other, hell-bent on bringing home the Most Sadistic Would-Be Batman Villain Ever hardware every year at their annual, always-fabulous Mexican Druglord Conference in Cancun and things are really coming to a head here, the fate of a nation in flux until one of the longtime favorites (or will it be a darkhorse?) is finally cast by Christopher Nolan in his next movie already. [C'mon, Chris, don't be selfish here--think of the people of Gotham. -Ed]

Only then will a winner be declared. Only then will these men tire of the game and get back to being productive members of society, stop destroying whatever they can get away with.

If Christopher Nolan fails us here (he will), no living soul in Mexico is safe. People invited to dinner parties will start making ridiculous excuses like "Oh, I'd love to come, Sandra, but I'm afraid my entire family might be fed to dogs for absolutely no reason if somebody happens to see us in the street" and it won't be funny because they would totally mean it.

Dogs and cats will be murdered in cold blood and often later eaten by starving Mad-Max scavengers--or used as bait to lure a meatier human out of hiding if they feel strong enough for a struggle.

Even budding flowers will fall victim to the casually lethal boot-heels of restless warriors.

Harmonicas can be quite deadly

Eventually the Wild West will reign again, as all men remaining in Mexico will be pitted against each other in a relentless series of unscheduled, unregulated, him-or-me machine-gun duels.

In the end, some Mexican-Jeff-Goldblum eccentric-billionaire type (or perhaps total-Bond-villain Carlos Slim?) will square up against a rough-and-tumble bully from the other side of the tracks and smile knowingly as he smites him with a remote-controlled missile to win--finally--the entire vacant blood-soaked nation as his playground/torture chamber.

Hey, whatever--heavy is the head that wears the crown, right? Jeff/Carlos will kill 'em all, eat 'em, play the game, and figure the rest out later! Once he wins the competition!

After all, if the end result of all his efforts is for whatever reason less than ideal, he can always just drink himself to death at an abandoned luxury resort in Acapulco while writing one hell of a suicide note. If that is indeed Jeff/Carlos' path, I hope that he also has the foresight to attach the lengthy missive to a particularly-burly trained seagull's foot before he dies and send the winged slave to find A Living Person in America Who Would Open a Random Piece of Mail Delivered by a Seagull and Be Able to Make Some Sense Out of Nearly-Illiterate Post-Apocalyptic Pidgin Spanish with no delay.

Once I get my hands on that suicide note (ohpleaseohpleaseohplease) I can finally publish my (unrelated) bestselling novel about the unsympathetic, stomach-churning trials and tribulations of a notorious, suddenly-repentant-at-the-end, murdering asshole that The New York Review of Books will call "Lyrical, raw, and positively breathtaking--an astonishing debut focusing on a megalomaniacal prick who is so delusional he actually thinks he is a normal person, a person with strengths and weaknesses you can weigh, despite all evidence pointing to the fact that if he is not the spawn of Satan he may as well be."

That kind of success being something I could immediately take to the bank, I will probably set up direct deposit to an account in the Cayman Islands and never be seen or heard from again once the raucous celebration--for the humble but well-appointed launch of what will turn out to be the groundbreaking novel of a burgeoning Golden Era of Literature, the captain of the elite avant garde--winds down and I seize the perfect opportunity to sneak away unnoticed.

I will disappear in plain sight and live on the lam under the assumed identities of a series of retired international playboys who share a voracious appetite for women, adventure, and the fruits of the sea.

I will rewrite my memoirs for the rest of my life--on stained cocktail napkins stapled together--until I accidentally fall off a hotel balcony in paradise and nobody ever even figures out who I was, much less what wisdom I wanted to impart to the Earthlings I left behind.

But enough about me--what will all of you do, America? Will it even affect you? Will you even notice that your drunken trips to coastal Florida are not taking place in Cancun, a beloved resort you will never be able to visit for the rest of your life because murderous warlords own the streets? Will you join them or fight them when the furious, probing tentacles of their violence become too much to bear?

Please send me your well-reasoned answers and I shall peruse them with casual interest while traveling aboard one of my many identical yachts speeding in different directions across the vast watery stretches of globe, while wearing a clever disguise that just makes you want to weep for its beauty.

Thank you,
Goodtime Charlie

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Advertising, Like Most Things, Used to Be So Much Easier

• In the 1930s, Alex Osborn, with BBDO, made them an ad campaign, in which was included the following slogan: "The season's best."
• The 1940s featured a magazine advertising campaign with actress Lizabeth Scott as the face, next to the slogan "RC tastes best, says Lizabeth Scott".
• In the 1960s, Royal Crown Cola did an ad campaign featuring two birds, made by Jim Henson
  
• Nancy Sinatra was featured in two Royal Crown Cola commercials in her one hour special called "Movin' with Nancy" featuring various singers in November 1967. She sang "it's a mad, mad, mad Cola... RC the one with the mad, mad taste!...RC! "
• Royal Crown was the official sponsor of New York Mets during the 1960s, 70s and 80s. A television commercial in the New York area featured Tom Seaver, New York Mets pitcher, and his wife, Nancy, dancing on top of a dugout at Shea Stadium and singing about RC Cola... "the mad, mad, mad, mad Cola! RC, the one with the mad, mad taste! RC, RC, RC, RC...." (Commercial fades out).
• In the mid 1970s, Royal Crown ran an advertising campaign called "Me & My RC", the most famous of which featured actress Sharon Stone delivering pizza on a skateboard. Others featured people in a variety of scenic outdoor locations. The jingle, sung by Louise Mandrell, went "Me and my RC! Me and my RC!..What's good enough for anyone else, ain't good enough for me."
• RC was introduced to Israel in 1995 with the slogan "RC: Just like in America!"

(courtesy wikipedia.org)

What happened? Now it's all that complicated shit, like "Drink Coke." I yearn for the simpler times, when doctors prescribed cigarettes, wars made sense, and no meant yes.

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The Trouble With Baby Boomers

Jeffrey Skilling, age 1

'Baby Boomers'

Such a cute moniker. It makes them seem cuddly, permanently wrapped in soft blue and pink blankets, shaking their rattle, full of innocence and limitless potential.

The truth of the matter is much bleaker, however.

Baby boomers in the media, at work, around the family dinner table, like to chide the members of younger generations for their cynicism, sarcasm, apathy, and selfishness.

Well, is this not a product of the sociopolitical climate they have presided over for far too long?

Flagrantly corrupt, immoral, and hypocritical politicians. A government ruled by special interests. An environment ravaged by their greedy corporations and their greedy disposable lifestyles, their mentality that the world will always be one of plenty, that resources and landfills are not finite. A military/industrial complex that is rapidly leading to a guerrilla World War III. An illogical, strict intolerance for gays, abortion, immigrants, and alternative energy. A refusal to solve health crises, because (as Chris Rock once said) the money is in the treatment, not the cure. Pure, unadulterated greed. A dearth of heroes, a plethora of villains.

It must have been nice to grow up in a world where people would have jobs after college. Where somebody with a history degree might end up becoming a CEO, an advertising executive or a college professor. Where you didn't have to acquire an MBA to answer phones, a master's degree to teach kindergarten. Where you worked only 40 hours a week and had full health and pension benefits. Where only one parent had to work and you could afford a house and a car and food on the table. I suppose it makes sense--such luxury must have spoiled you rotten.

Baby boomers, do you not see how drastically that world has crumbled on your watch? There are no jobs. College tuition has tripled, quadrupled. Housing costs have skyrocketed. Wages have failed to keep pace even with mere inflation, much less the artificial rise in costs of products due to the corporatization of every major industry, every type of retailer, big or small. A cup of coffee costs $3. Minimum wage is $6.55/hr. Health benefits have disappeared. Asking for a pension would be laughable. Doctors and hospitals are in the pocket of the pharmaceutical industry. The same diseases linger. Art has become a commodity, ruled by fearful bean counters. Confidence in government, medical professionals, financial managers, and just about everybody else is at an all-time low.

And it is not at an all-time low because we are being cynical and enjoy hatching conspiracy theories just to fuck with you, to rebel. It is at an all-time low because even if we only look at the people who have been CAUGHT for the evil deeds they have done, our cynicism and 'crazy' theories and critical thinking have turned out to hold much more water than your idea of blind trust in professionals and leaders. Your idea of 'put your nose to the grindstone and never look up, people are inherently good and will take care of you, have a little faith' suddenly holds no water.

How many of you trusted Bernie Madoff? How many of you trusted your financial managers who told you the market will only go up? How many of you trusted your doctor when he put you on bum, possibly even unneccessary, medication that made things worse or killed you? How many of you voted for Ronald Reagan/George Bush/George Bush? How many of you now blame Obama and 'crazy young daredevil traders' for the problems their policies and cronies caused?

I do not mean to imply that all Baby Boomers are necessarily complicit in our societal downfall--but the fact of the matter is the multitude of innocents among them have done little or nothing to stop things. Protest? They make fun of protests! That was something hippies did! That is something crazy youngsters on drugs do! [Nevermind that they would have just been tear-gassed and wrongfully imprisoned by the man if they had protested, if there hadn't been enough of them to overrun the Bastille and start beheading people]

99% of Baby Boomers fall into one of two categories: the perpetrators and the gullible lambs led to slaughter. They did not question authority; they had faith in the integrity of their leaders; they trusted blindly. And look where it got us.

Yet they chide us kids for our fact-based, knee-jerk, implicit mistrust in those in power.

They are at retirement age. Most of them are still working, holding on to jobs that should be ours, would have been ours, if they had acted like their parents and actually retired at 55. Many are well into their 60s and going strong. Why are they still working? Because they are greedy, they have gotten used to having a ton of money coming in, used to being able to buy a vacation house, another car, a boat, going on lots of vacations, piling up more and more savings for retirement, playing the game.

Another, more disturbing reason, is that they have been a generation so used to working hard--because, I commend them, most came from very humble beginnings, and have earned what they received by working loyally and diligently--that most of them wouldn't know what to do with themselves if they retired. The men cringe at the idea of sitting around the house with their old wives all day, with nothing to occupy their time, because they rarely acquired any hobbies or interests beyond sitting at the office or in front of a TV screen; the women cringe even more at the thought of having to deal with their husband being around the house all day, when they have grown accustomed to their peace and quiet. And so the men continue to work and the women let them.

It is too bad that they don't realize we are a generation that works even harder, even longer--for much less. And that sad reality only makes us want to work less, only fuels our cynicism, only further chips away at our faith in humanity, at our hope for the future.

I want every Baby Boomer reading this (are there any?) to look at themself in the mirror and think about what kind of world--moral, intellectual, physical--he or she has left us.

What reasons do we have not to be cynical and apathetic?

Hey, Broseph--pass the bong and let's disappear into a fantasy world once again...it's so much better than reality. You get that job at Starbucks yet? Oh, you just finished your stint at Coffee University and are waiting for an offer? Shit. I should do that--I'd love to make $10 an hour...


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Bonus thought for the day:

As Lord Acton once said: "Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Great men are almost always bad men."

I think it is interesting that most people repeat this quote as "power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely." It leaves out one of the most important aspects of his insightful observation. Power corrupts, sure--but, more importantly, more simply, power attracts the wrong kind of people. And so we are smart to be wary of them, to keep watch over them, to be fearful of ulterior motives. To not do so would be ignorant and emboldening to them. As they have proven time and time again...

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One Great Leap...

It struck me the other day--and not for the first time, I might add, since I'm so ahead of the game it would blow your mind--that terrorism is not that surprising an offspring of more 'conventional warfare'. For all its detractors, terrorism is but another notch carved into the scarce virgin territory of mankind's belt, a further honing of skill in that most loathsome of crafts--murder.


For your consideration:


476 A.D. -- The Roman Empire Falls. Long ago, before even unicorns were invented, the almighty Roman Empire was decimated* by hordes of barbarians from the Germanic tribal regions of Europe. The highly-organized, efficient, top-of-class Roman Army was no match for the raw, brutal tactics of the barbarians--kill/rape, pillage, burn, move on. No sharp uniforms, no fancy swordplay, no philosophers--yet.



1775 -- The American Revolutionary War. The finely-tuned war machinery of the then-alpha-male British Empire simply could not compete with the ill-trained, ill-equipped rapscallions hiding behind trees in the Colonies. Whatever happened to gentlemanliness in warfare? I mean, tut-tut--how can you have a good war if you don't all simply line up and walk towards each other--slowly--shooting at each other, in a match of 'which nation of pillagers can afford to have the most soldiers with guns?' It's clearly the only way to do battle...or, more properly, was.



1945 -- The Atomic Bomb. Who needs a fucking army? We'll just spend millions of dollars, rape the world's greatest scientific minds, and drop a goddamn instant-apocalypse on you. Easy. Done. We're smarter than you, so we win.




2001 -- September 11th. "Tell ya what--we're smart enough to know you're dumb enough to let us use your own icons of technological advancement against you. All we need are a handful of dudes with fucking box cutters and we will cripple your nation for the rest of its life. Better still, you will never be able to fight back--enemies have never been so clearly undefined. We are not a nation--we are a merely a people with a common interest. We are everywhere. We are dedicated. We win. Eat that."

Shit, man--what's next?

Notes from the Rijksmuseum

"In fact, by the late seventeenth century, piss prophets were no longer considered reliable."

"As the old sing, so the young shall peep."

Best Pitcher Ever goes to Johannes Lencker, for a gilt-silver Merman blowing a conch while balancing on a dolphin's tail, a foxy female hanging around his neck.

During the Golden Age in Holland (1600s), rich people ATE peacocks.

* "For those who are on a diet but who really want to eat something meaty, peacocks are the answer. The fat content of peacock meat is very low, only 0.8 to 1 per cent, while the levels of protein, vitamins, calcium and other microelements are high. The nutritional value of a peacock is much higher than that of fish or snake." --China Star

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Logjammin'

"Largest Log Jam in the World---It took 150 lumberjacks, five teams of horses, and one steam engine SIX MONTHS to break up this log jam on the Mississippi River in 1894. Located near Little Falls, Minnesota, the log jam was almost SEVEN MILES LONG, a half-mile wide, and 60 feet thick in most places. It was estimated to contain over 4 billion feet of lumber."

Really makes ya think, don't it?

When was the last time you spent six months doing anything?

And masturbating doesn't count...

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Further fascinating reading:

"Log jams occurred at places where the water was shallow, or where there were bends in the rivers. The river drivers did their best to keep the logs moving, but with thousands of logs, it was hard to stop a jam once it started.

"Log jams were broken by either using dynamite, or by digging through the pile until they got to the key log. The key log was the one log that was holding the entire jam back. It could be many feet inside a log jam, making it very dangerous to remove.

"Many lumberjacks, sometimes five or six at a time, were killed while removing these jams. Due to the high danger associated with river driving, the river drivers were the most highly skilled, and the most highly respected men in the logging camps.

"They were able to ride the logs through rapids, fast water, even dams built in the rivers (dams were sometimes necessary for the water to be deep enough to transport the logs). Because the river driver's work was the most dangerous in the camp, they were the most highly paid.

"For a days work, they were paid anywhere from seventy-five cents to a dollar."


photo/info courtesy of logrolling.org

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