Wrapped Up Like a Big Apple
Tomorrow I will actually be making good on my previously empty threats to take a vacation, so expect sporadic posts for the next week. In the meantime I suggest you cleanse your ravenous blog-hungry palates with a dose of intelligent trousers, a dysfunctional abominable snowman, that crazy painter guy's brother, or the real “Miami Vice.” Or just read my old stuff again, because it’s just that entertaining (hit “older entries” at left). But first, a few tidbits before I go...

Eating a beef/broccoli/noodle dish with Chocobaby at a restaurant in the Haight:

Her: “These noodles aren’t even that wide.”
Me: “Yeah, they’re definitely Chow Enjoyable, but I don’t know if they’re Chow Fun.”
Her again: “You are so stupid.”

At a bar this week with Chelle-Belle, Shan-Bear and Ry-Ry. Chelle-Belle makes the following observation: “We rock! People who don’t like us suck! Yeah, we’re sitting at a bar drinking canned beer out of cozies, but we rock!” Rock on, my Wayward Sons (and daughters).

The Night the Lights Went Out in Flushing
In an unprecedented act of baseball desperation, the San Francisco Giants sabotaged the entire Northeastern power grid yesterday to avoid being swept by the Mets. Sources tell WULAD that shortstop Rich Aurilia, pitcher Jason Schmidt, and first baseman (and make-out king) J.T. Snow were seen leaving a power plant at Niagara Falls around 4 p.m., while suspicious men in black and orange were reported in nuclear power plants across the region, often carrying wire cutters. Unnoticed by authorities was the fact that Felipe Alou’s ventilator mysteriously continued to function throughout the outage. Now, I’m going to leave Barry Bonds out of this, since he may actually have been with his ailing father, but the rest of the roster has some questions to answer. If the proof is in fact found, I believe the strongest of penalties should be imposed—the Giants should cede at least a first-round draft pick to the Mets for the inconvenience, and possibly some high-level prospects as well. The WULAD newsroom will keep you apprised of any developments in this breaking story.

So Goddamn Fair and Balanced I Nearly Had a Spontaneous Orgasm
I’ve received a lot of mail in the past few minutes regarding my assertion that the S.F. Giants were responsible for the massive power outages in the East, and the most consistent complaint is that my coverage is not Fair and Balanced.

Well, I ask you, Mr. and/or Mrs. Gentle Reader, in this day and age, who is to say what “Fair and Balanced” really means? If by “fair” you mean “having or exhibiting a disposition that is free of favoritism or bias,” then you may have a point; by this definition it may not have been fair when I reported that Rupert Murdoch (guardian of the NewsCorp empire) was a chest-bursting extraterrestrial eater of man-flesh, or that columnist Steve Dunleavy was a member of NAMBLA, or that TV personality Bill O’Reilly enjoyed flossing his teeth with his own pubic hair after gorging himself on a large plate of delicious fried baby—but if by “fair” you mean “of pleasing appearance, especially because of a pure or fresh quality; comely” or “lawful to hunt or attack,” then I believe my comments are as fair as the pale, creamy flesh of managing editor Brit Hume’s buttocks, which I have seen firsthand on many a dreamy night.

And if by “balanced” you mean “taking account of all sides on their merits without prejudice or favoritism,” then perhaps it was not balanced for me to claim that Al Franken was the greatest journalist, author, and human being living on the planet today, and that his new book was directly dictated to him by God Almighty, and is the infallible and indisputable Word and Law of the Lord Most High—but if you mean “containing different elements in suitable quantities or suitably arranged to produce a satisfying and effective whole,” then I say to you every word I write is as balanced as the perfect spheres of conservative author Ann Coulter’s flawless breasts, which I have also seen on many glorious evenings, although Brit Hume has not.

In closing, I must fairly say in a balanced manner that you will find no blog that is more fair, more balanced, or more Fair and Balanced® in all of Creation than this one: your very own, friendly neighborhood, Wrapped Up Like A Fair, Balanced, Douche.

If You Don’t Run for Governor, Don’t Complain
It’s been an introspective day here at WULAD… we’re starting to realize that maybe we’re not among the front-runners for the recall election. Some of you may point out that WULAD is not even officially registered to be on the ballot, or that it’s not actually legal for a weblog (and a fairly unheralded one at that) to run for governor—but those of us destined for true greatness can’t always be bothered with the little details. While we’re not ruling out making a late run as a dark, dark, almost pitch black, so-freaking-dark-you-can-barely-see-it horse, our attention has now shifted to the vigorous competition among the remaining 196 or so candidates to secure the coveted Wrapped Up Like An Endorsement.

While there are no clear favorites as of this writing, we did receive a watermelon this morning from Gallagher, with a note describing it as a “goodwill gesture.” Fruit is fine (no mangoes please) but money talks, people. I would also accept a State chauffer, a Hustler subscription, “Diff’rent Strokes” memorabilia, a Hummer, a hummer, or nude photos of news columnists. In the name of democracy, my inbox is always open, folks.

Trouble in Paradise
We’re going to need some counseling; my wife is also running for governor. I’d like to point out that although she may “look” more gubernatorial than me, she’s very weak on the issues. Sorry, hon!

Those Zany Yellow Journalists!
In case anybody felt the urge lately to sugarcoat the venomous bile spewed forth on a daily basis from the New York Post (resident chest-bursting alien Rupert Murdoch’s oozing propaganda orifice), I came across the following flag-up-his-ass demagoguery. Steve Dunleavy, for anyone unacquainted, is like an Australian Shakespeare—that is, if Shakespeare was a virulently nationalist, race-baiting near-illiterate (his eloquent comment on the 41-bullet salute shooting of the dangerously unarmed Amadou Diallo: “Nobody believes this anti-police nonsense…”)—who seems to think he’s more American than Americans. But the worst part is that I can’t shake the feeling that he’s making it up, that he knows exactly what to say to rouse the rabble, and doesn’t give a koala’s ass whether it’s true or not as long as it furthers the half-truths, stereotypes and bald-faced lies his esteemed news-fuhrer is currently interested in slinging. I can picture him laughing it up while the straphangers rail against the Hollywood-traitor-conspiracy; meanwhile, never is heard a discouraging word on the complete lack of a connection between September 11 and Iraq, and the many connections between Al Qaeda and the buddy-buddy Saudis that the Bush administration is attempting to sweep under the rug. But man, did you see that American Idol?

Funny Things My Friends Once Said, vol. xcviii
My old buddy FayJay, commenting on a coworker of ours: “I used to think L. was weird, but then I realized she’s just Turkish.”

Little, Yellow, Different
Lots of Pac-Man in the news. The universe seems to be telling me to revisit that early obsession of mine, perhaps as a way of integrating the struggle of my inner child with the challenges of the disempowered male adult in a postmodern capitalist society dominated by Western hegemony—it may have something to do with the logos, and it definitely has something to do with the Other. Or it may just be that I’m bored and I’d rather play childish video games than confront the harsh reality of our long, inevitable march toward death. In any case, it’s time for some Wacky Wisdom about our favorite armless, legless yellow hero!

• Many people don’t know that Pac-Man is an electronic rendering of an actual species, seen here in its natural habitat.
• The official story is that Pac-Man’s name came from the Japanese word “paku-paku”, meaning to flap one’s mouth, but this is a dirty Communist lie.
• After an extensive search, the original model for Ms. Pac-Man has been discovered.
• The pattern for the first Pac-Man board was astronomically calibrated by the Druids so that the sun rising on the summer solstice will be perfectly aligned with the back of your pathetic, balding head as you sit at your Atari in your BVDs, listening to “Carry on, Wayward Son”, again.
• The game of Pac-Man originated in ancient Rome, with condemned Christians in the Pac-Man role and ravenous tigers as the ghosts. Instead of little dots, contestants ate shards of glass, and there were no “power pellets”, unless you count the rocks being hurled at the Christians by bloodthirsty spectators.
• I recently listened to “Pac-Man Fever.” Man, what a great song!
• Inky, Blinky, Pinky, and Clyde are based on the Buddhist concept of the pretas or “hungry ghosts”, spiritual beings residing in the hell-realm below the devas and asuras, whose suffering is honored in the symbolic offering of leftover food, and further… I had you there for a minute, didn’t I? Eh?
• At first hearing, it sounds like Pac-Man is saying “waka waka.” But if you listen more closely, you’ll find he’s actually saying, “please kill me!”

Campaign Central
Lots of Demo hopefuls in the news… Bush secret agent and probable Pod Person Joe Lieberman is vigorously attacking Howard Dean and the potential shift away from mealy-mouthed Republican-appeasing in the Democratic ranks. Joe seems to think he's going to win over the pick-up truck reg'lar guy conservatives by being a less charismatic version of Bush. But wait, you may be saying, didn't WULAD express a similar viewpoint in its anti-Department of Peace piece of a few days ago? Sort of. The difference is that I want the potential candidates to stay away from unnecessarily flower-powery language and focus on the very solid grounds for regime-change-at-home. Lieberman actually is conservative in many ways, and doesn’t even want the Democrats thinking about progressive change, let alone talking about it.

There's also been a lot of buzz about an army guy nobody knows much about—the buzz is probably due to the fact that, well, he's an army guy, and presumably can't be accused of being anti-army. (Although it's interesting that while both of our most recent Commanders-in-Chief took steps to avoid military service, Clinton is considered a yellow-bellied draft-dodger, while Bush is a walking, talking G.I. Joe figurine, complete with flight suit. As my mother was fond of saying, "Don't these people remember that everybody was trying to get out of going to Vietnam?") I agree it might be nice to have somebody speaking for the left (a presumption, since he hasn't declared a party affiliation) who would counter the right-wing propaganda talking-point that questioning the administration's policies is unpatriotic and/or cowardly.

Wrapped Up Like A Governor
Amid all the madness surrounding the California recall election, it has been discovered that virtually anybody could be our next chief executive, from Arnold "I'm Detective John Kimball! I'm a cop, you idiot! Stop whining! I want to ask you a bunch of questions, and I want to have them answered immediately! You son of a bitch! Who is your daddy, and what does he do? But I hope you leave enough room for my fist because I'm going to ram it into your stomach!" Schwarzenegger to Larry "Responsible for my Sexual Awakening" Flynt. Accordingly, WULAD has decided to begin a preliminary process to research and assess the potential creation of an organization to gauge the support for the possible formation of an exploratory committee to raise awareness and build a network for the conceivable campaign of WULAD to be a candidate for the next governor of the Great State of Iowa! California, I mean. Donations, in the form of money or liquor, will be accepted, and they are tax-deductible, in the sense that you will have less money left to pay taxes after you give some to me. Just drop me an e-mail and I'll forward your generous gift to the committee, which is currently chaired by my cat Babbaz, who is very good with money. Those donating $10 or more will receive a voucher good for one special pork-barrel favor, such as a veto or lucrative state contract. And may the best man or blog win!

It's Friday, which means it's time for…

Wrapped Up Like A Mailbag

Dear W.U.L.A.D.,

godammit, stop ragging on dennis kucinich. see, you're more guilty than most because you can actually appreciate the value and potential of a department of peace, but you still belittle it because him for it because it makes him "unelectable." he is only unelectable because people like you, who are intelligent and informed, won't grow some cajones and support the motherfucker. he's just trying to run for office with honesty and integrity and make some real changes. He's certainly better than howard "politician face" dean who, once in office, will certainly continue to support the status quo and pat himself on the back for making minor clintonesque changes that will be utterly forgettable and reversible the minute some snaggle-toothed conservative sumbitch takes over the office again.

—Obstreperous at Your Office

Well, Obstrep, if I'm guilty of anything, I'm guilty of caring too much. But seriously, "Department of Peace" smacks so much of the 60s hippie "liberal" stereotype that has been forced down the collective American throat by the right (and effectively, I might add—it's no wonder liberals now want to be known as "Progressive") that you may as well nominate Slim Goodbody or Grandpa Al Munster. The sad fact is that much of our electorate doesn't know that they agree with liberals or progressives or whatever on many if not most issues—just like many women don't want to be called "feminists" but they want equal opportunity and pay and sexual freedom and all that other jazz that feminism stands for; it's the idea of feminism they don't like, an idea carefully cultivated and stigmatized by its enemies. So I believe it's important that a potentially successful democratic nominee not oversell his peace and love credentials. Bush, for example, said all the right words about unifying the country, tolerance and blah blah blah to appeal to mainstream voters (who incidentally would have elected Gore in a landslide if not for the endlessly insulting breaches of trust of Clinton), but once elected (or whatever you want to call it) has of course revealed himself to be further to the right than Reagan.

The American Left is lacking something all right, but it's not cojones—it's the ability to build a coalition based on common ground with the Center, and there is a lot of it. And that means being sensitive to the fears of the mainstream populace who have been brainwashed to believe that liberals can't wait to run up the white flag and hand the country over to Osama. And if by some miracle Kucinich were elected and began instituting "real changes" to the government, there would most likely be enough voter backlash (we don't after all, live in Denmark, and the right will continue to be a major force for the foreseeable future) to hurl him out of office faster than a speeding Peace Train and possibly finish the Democrats as a major party for good.

This doesn't mean I think Democrats should say what the voters want to hear just to win the election, or pretend to be conservative (a la Daschle), or actually be conservative for that matter (a la Lieberman, who I'm convinced is a Republican plant); I think they should look for the areas where they can build support (the economy, corporate welfare, the environment, sensible foreign policy, civil liberties) and leave the ruinously divisive ones (gay marriage, the death penalty, disarmament, etc.) for later, when we actually have some clout. In closing, help me Al Gore, you're my only hope!

Dear W.U.L.A.D.,

Enough with the endless political diatribes. Show us something funny already.

—Groaning in Greenland

Fair enough. Here it is.

The Wisdom of Age
As today is the 29th anniversary of my entrance upon the world stage, I thought it appropriate to share some of the insights that have occurred to me during the many ups and downs and unders and throughs of my ever-waning life. Therefore, W.U.L.A.D. presents for your edification and infotainment…

The Paradox of our Time
The paradox of our time in history is that we have taller buildings, but shorter tempers; wider freeways, but narrower viewpoints.

We have multiplied our possessions, but reduced our values.

We have computers that can balance our checkbooks, but can't murder our enemies.

We have more productive crops, but not more productive craps.

We have Wrapped Up Like a Douche, but we don't have Wrapped Up Like a Family.

We can tune a piano, but we can't chicken salad.

We have movies like "All-Asian, All Anal," but not "All-Asian, All Kindness."

We have Wrapped Up Like a Douche, but we don't have Winona LaDuke.

We can go to the Moon and back, but we can't walk across the street to spy on our sunbathing neighbor.

We can take the boy out of the country, but we can't take the country out of the boy, except surgically.

We have more possessions, but fewer demonic possessions.

We have taken God out of our childrens' schools, but we can't keep Him out of their hearts, except with really good porn.

We have hi-speed internet connections, but we don't have hi-speed riding lawn-mowers. But man, if we did…

We think old people are soooo cute, except when they're racist.

We rush to buy the new Madonna album, but I saw an Echo & the Bunnymen CD on the floor of the bus today.

We're not gonna take it, no, we ain't gonna take it.

We have projectile vomiting, but we don’t have projectile happiness.

We have a payroll of $86 million, but we're in last place in the NL East.

We have six-foot Brazilian She-males, but we don't have six-foot Brazil nuts. Think of all the freakin' Brazil nut butter, though.

We have more smooth jazz stations, but fewer torture chambers.

We have the Sausage McMuffin with Egg, but we don't have the Sausage McMuffin with Bacon.

We have Wrapped Up Like a Douche, but we don't have Wrapped Up Like a Douche-bag.

It is a time when technology can bring this letter to you, and a time when you can choose either to share this insight, or to just search for a naked picture of Britney Spears, which is available here.

In honor of the anniversary of her nativity, W.U.L.A.D. proudly presents…

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Shan-bear
(Note: I had to remove the links to individual photos, but you can click here to see the entire series of 13. Just click on the arrow above each photo to see the next one.)

I
Among twenty snowy mountains
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the Shan-bear.

II
I was of three minds
Like a tree
In which there are three Shan-bears.

III
The Shan-bear whirled in the autumn wind
It was a small part of the pantomime.

IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a Shan-bear
Are one.

V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflexions
Or the beauty of innuendos,
The Shan-bear whistling
Or just after.

VI
Icicles filled the window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the Shan-bear
Crossed it, to and fro.
The Mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.

VII
O thin men of Hyde Street,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the Shan-bear
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?

VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the Shan-bear is involved
In what I know.

IX
When the Shan-bear flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.

X
At the sight of Shan-bears
Flying in a green light
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.

XI
He rode over Polk St.Station
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
for Shan-bears.

XII
The river is moving.
The Shan-bear must be flying.

XII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The Shan-bear sat
In the cedar limbs.

God Day at W.U.L.A.D.
This guy gives a lot of pro-God arguments before admitting that he left Atheism because he met a hot girl with a Bible.

These guys (who you remember from the Virgin Mary on the frozen window) chime in. (Elsewhere on the site you'll find interestingly biased takes on the Inquisition, Papal Infallibility, and other fun stuff.)

These philosopher dudes think they can kick your faith's ass.

Read this. Now read this. Now this. Now read this one. And now this. Got it?

In this interview, the Big Guy reveals that, among other things, he's big on clichés and platitudes, and loves scenic vistas 'n' shit.

He's also wondering "what part of NOT don't you understand?"

But it turns out He's actually got his own home page, so this is all moot.

And now, the moment you've all been waiting for…

Contest Results
The first semiannual W.U.L.A.D. contest is officially over, and what a dazzling array of creativity! I want to emphasize what a difficult decision the judges faced, and that, due to the overwhelming quality of responses, you should all consider yourselves winners. That said, here are the Official Results:

Receiving the prestigious Second Prize, we present the following staggering entry from… Mandrew!

If I were a frog and all and the frogs took over then I would be king. (Not to mention I get to carry around a bunch of males on my back with those enlarged throat sacks. They would all want my extra reproductive organs that resulted from exposure to the common pesticide, atrazine, banned by most European countries, and yet for some reason, not by the US ... hmmm. And since the American Dream pretty much states that bigger is better, and more is better, then with two or, better yet, three sets of reproductive organs I would be better. Hence, what I was saying—I would be king.)

Way to get political on our asses! For your efforts, you'll receive the Second Prize, which is… nothing! Better luck next time, Mandrew.

And now, earning the even more prestigious First Prize, we present the following entry, coming all the way from… Chocobaby!

If I were a frog and all and the frogs took over, I would make sure that Ian never missed the bus, which is coming in ten minutes, and if he misses it he'll be LATE!, but I wouldn't let him miss the bus, if I were a frog and the frogs took over.

Way to work in a personal reference! It's just this kind of variety and ingenuity that made this contest so special. C-Baby will receive a signed photo of G-Monsta in a compromising position. I'd give her the thong, but she'd never wear it.

Which brings us to the most prestigious prize of all, the Grand Prize, which goes to… Nobody! Because I only got two freakin' entries! I want all of you "loyal" readers who couldn't take time away from your "precious" jobs as emergency physicians, etc. to go sit in the corner, and think about what you did. I shall say no more on this subject.

A MESSAGE FROM YOUR REGIONAL ZOXON OVERLORD
GREETINGS EARTHLINGS. ON BEHALF OF THE SECTOR SUBCOMMAND, I EXTEND OUR WISHES THAT YOU AND YOUR SNIVELING UNDEREVOLVED HUMANOID FAMILIAL UNIT EXPERIENCE A PLEASURABLE DIURNAL CYCLE.

FIRSTLY, OLD BUSINESS—PLEASE REMEMBER TO REPORT IN ZOXON ALPHABETICAL ORDER ("§" COMES BEFORE "µ", PEOPLE!) FOR DAILY MEDICAL "ADJUSTMENT" AT YOUR ASSIGNED PROVINCIAL SUBSTATION. I EMPHASIZE AGAIN THAT WE EXPECT CHEERFUL COOPERATION WITH THESE NECESSARY AND MINIMALLY INVASIVE PROCEDURES. AND I MUST ADD THAT IT STIMULATES OUR HUMOR NODES WHEN YOU PROTEST YOU HAVE NEVER BEEN ANALLY PROBED BEFORE—YOUR SUB-PRIMATE MINDS ARE OBVIOUSLY UNABLE TO FATHOM THAT ZOXON CABLE CARRIES YOUR SHOWTIME NETWORK.

AS WE MENTIONED IN OUR EXECUTIVE DECREE OF 234.34.3.5545 FOLLOWING THE UNFORTUNATE UPRISING IN HOBOKEN OF THE EASTERN SECTOR, GATHERINGS OF 4 OR MORE HUMANS WILL NO LONGER BE PERMITTED, UNDER PENALTY OF SPECIES REASSIGNMENT. HOWEVER, IT HAS BEEN BROUGHT TO OUR ATTENTION BY ONE OF THE MANY DISGUISED ZOXON OPERATIVES LIVING AMONG YOU THAT A CUSTOMARY ANNUAL RITE OF CELEBRATION IS APPROACHING—IN A SHOW OF OUR UNDERAPPRECIATED GOODWILL TOWARD EVEN EARTHLINGS, THE LOWLIEST SERVANTS OF OUR EXALTED EMPEROR, HIS HOLINESS ALF VI (MAY ORGON BLESS HIS NAME) WE HAVE DECIDED TO FORGO ENFORCEMENT OF THIS RULE ON 2376.345.365 (THURSDAY, JULY 24 OF YOUR PRIMITIVE SOLAR CALENDAR) FOR THE COMMEMORATION OF THE "BIRTHDAY" OF HUMANOID 2187G-76T, KNOWN TO YOU AS "IAN ______."

PLEASE REPORT TO THE BAMBOO HUT (479 BROADWAY AT KEARNY OF THE SAN FRANCISCO REGIONAL FIEFDOM) AT APPROXIMATELY 8 PM ON THE AFOREMENTIONED DATE TO COMMENCE APPROPRIATE FESTIVITIES. [FOR THOSE HUMANS WISHING TO BEGIN EARLIER, THE PRE-FESTIVITIES WILL TAKE PLACE AT SPECS, 12 SAROYAN PLACE (COLUMBUS AT BROADWAY), FROM THE COMPLETION OF YOUR DAILY WORK CAMP SCHEDULE UNTIL THE OPENING OF THE BAMBOO HUT.] ALLOW 5 OF YOUR MINUTES FOR BODY CAVITY SEARCH.

WE ARE TOLD THAT LOCAL CUSTOMS DICTATE THE INTAKE OF FERMENTED LIQUIDS LEADING TO HUMOROUS DISPLAYS OF AFFECTION, BATTLES FOR CLAN LEADERSHIP AND MATING RITUALS. THOSE DIRT-DWELLING HOMINIDS WHOSE APE-LIKE ANTICS STIMULATE AN EXCEPTIONAL NUMBER OF OUR NODES MAY BE SELECTED TO APPEAR IN THE NEW HOLODISC "EARTHLINGS GONE WILD! VOL. ±¥«.", NARRATED BY ZOXON MINISTER OF ENTERTAINMENT JOHN-XARXQON TRAVOLTA.

FOR MORE INFORMATION CONTACT YOUR LOCAL HUMAN PACIFICATION COUNCIL AT THIS PRIMITIVE ELECTRONIC MAIL ADDRESS.

THAT IS ALL. LONG LIVE THE EMPEROR, OUR BENEVOLENT PROTECTOR! OBEDIENCE IS STRENGTH!

Cryptozoology in the San Francisco Bay
SCENE: Treasure Island, that charming radioactive landfill eyesore sunk in the middle of the Bay, 11pm, the not-so-distant past

DRAMATIS PERSONAE: G-monsta, ChelleBelle

After mysteriously being drawn on to the Bay Bridge at the end of a night on the town, Monsta and Belle have found themselves leaning against a railing at a vista point with a radiant view (one of the few selling points of an island without many marketable qualities) of The City that Always Sleeps. The tide laps against the rocky, trash-strewn shore.

Belle: What is that?
Monsta: What?
Belle: That. That thing right there. [pointing]
Monsta: [Looks] You mean that whitish thing?
Belle: Yeah, what is it?
Monsta: I dunno. Trash maybe?

[Pause]

Belle: But it's moving.
Monsta: Prob'ly just the tide.

[Pause]

Belle: Yeah, but look, it looks alive. See, it just stuck its head out of the water.
Monsta: What? Nah, it's just the tide moving it. It's trash.

[Pause. Both stare down at the water.]

Monsta: Wait a minute, that time it did look like it stuck its head out.
Belle: I told you! Maybe it's some animal that got stuck in the rocks.
Monsta: Like what? It's not a seal or anything.
Belle: It looks like it's alive, though. It's moving its tentacles or whatever. It's trying to get unstuck!

[Both stare intently.]

Monsta: What the hell is that thing?
Belle: I can see its eyes. Can't you see them?
Monsta: It’s the Treasure Island Monster, is what it is. What could we call it? Umm… [thinking]
Belle: TIM!

[Both laugh. They continue to stare down at the rapidly moving mystery object.]

Monsta: If I was younger and dumber, I'd climb over this fence and go down there right now. [Thinks.] You know what, I'm too young to be saying stuff like that, goddammit.

[Monsta steps over the fence, and starts slowly down the treacherous rocks towards the water.]

Belle: No trips to the hospital, OK?
Monsta: Nah, I got it.

[Monsta gingerly makes his way over the slick rocks until he is 5 or 6 feet from the water. He stares carefully.]

Belle: Can you see it?
Monsta: Yeah. Yeah, you're going to be disappointed. It's just…
Belle: What? What is it?
Monsta: [Stares, cranes neck.] Um… well… [agitated] What the fuck is that?!

[Monsta continues toward the water.]

Monsta: If I can just get a little closer… [grunts as his foot slips between two wet rocks and he falls, scraping his ankle and scuffing his new orange & blue shoes.] I'm OK!
Belle: What? What happened?
Monsta: Just fell. This was a bad idea.

[Monsta is directly over the mystery object, which continues to move erratically and emphatically.]

Monsta: [Angrily, grabbing ankle.] WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT THING?!

[Curtain.]

See an Artist's Conception of the creature here.

The Problem with These Things
Sometimes I'll accidentally check this page to see if it's been updated, momentarily forgetting whose responsibility it is to update it. So far, there have been no phantom entries, but I can hope.

It's too freaking FFFFhot today to do anything meaningful, so here's this (apologies to ChocoBaby, who had to listen to this crap all through the movie):

Top Ten Problems I Have with The Goonies*
*all these years later, but having just seen it again

Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeere we go Number 10…

10. Why does the fat kid smash his food against the window when he sees the car chase? Nobody would ever do that.

9. Why do all the non-rich kids have to leave town just because the country club is expanding? Couldn't they have relocated, since presumably their parents still would have jobs?

8. Were there really pirates in Oregon? I don't remember ever hearing anything about that. I thought the were from, you know, the Caribbean.

7. Why are there 80s glass "lightning balls" in Mikey's attic, and why do they have wooden, ornamental bases? I thought that was supposed to be pirate stuff.

6. Why didn't Brand just steer away from the cliff on the little bicycle, instead of going straight off it? Duh.

5. Why does a bunch of kids banging on pipes cause a major public works meltdown resulting in disappearing faucets and exploding toilets?

4. What Andie plays on the organ bears no relation to what she's saying. Also, the printed music is a long, single line and she only plays chords. Also, A-sharp and B-flat are the same note.

3. Why did One-Eyed Willy build really cool waterslides into his hideout?

2. How does Mama Fratelli know to call the dead pirate "Mr. Willy"? Has she been following the scenes she's not in?

1. Why do the Fratellis make the Goonies walk the plank (and let them swim to safety) when only a few minutes earlier they were trying to kill them? And why, when Sloth comes to the rescue, do the rest of the Goonies jump off the plank anyway? And then why does Sloth throw the Fratellis off the plank? Now everybody's in the water.

Okay, I lied, there are more than ten…

0. Why do the Fratellis just walk up to the cops and turn themselves in at the end? Couldn't they either a) have walked in the other direction, or b) stayed on the freakin' pirate ship and made off with the loot?

-1. How do they know the jewels the Latina Stereotype Lady finds are worth enough to stop the construction of the golf course? Seems like that would be a lot of money. And who's to say Mikey's family doesn’t tell everybody else to take a flying leap and keep the dough for themselves? And wouldn't they be subject to a lengthy legal battle and probably be public property anyway because of their historic significance?

-2. How is it possible that Martha Plimpton and George Plimpton are related? That's almost as weird as Klaus and Nastassja Kinski. And doesn’t Klaus Kinski look like an evil mutant version of George Plimpton? What strange forces are at work here?

-3. Josh Brolin is Barbra Streisand's stepson and has probably seen her naked. This is more of an observation than a problem.

Note: C-Baby's answer to all of the above (except the naked Streisand one) is "IT'S A MOVIE… ABOUT KIDS… WHO FIND PIRATE BOOTY!"

New Lease on Life
So after 13 days of (self-magnified) suspense, the verdict is in, and your favorite WULAD/G-Monsta/G-Man/Gord/Eenie/JazBoy/Inker-Stinker is (for now) Not Dying. I'm reminded however of the scene in Hannah and Her Sisters where Woody's hypochondriacal TV producer is told he doesn't have a brain tumor, and spurts giddily out of the office to the tune of Jimmie Lunceford or something, only to stop dead in his tracks when he realizes that someday, some way, the news will not be so good. This plunges him into a typical Woody Allen existential crisis—how can we live our lives, knowing that old age and/or death inevitably awaits us (what I describe to Belle as The Mango Truck at the End of Each of Our Streets)?

MICKEY
Do you realize what a thread we're all hanging by?

GAIL (offscreen)
Mickey, you're off the hook. You should be celebrating.

MICKEY (walking around to the front of his desk, gesturing)
Can you understand how meaningless everything is? Everything! I'm talking about nnnn--our lives, the show...the whole world, it's meaningless.

GAIL (gesturing)
Yeah...but you're not dying!

MICKEY
No, I'm not dying now, but, but (gesturing) you know, when I ran out of the hospital, I, I was so thrilled because they told me I was going to be all right. And I'm running down the street, and suddenly I stop, 'cause it hit me, all right, so, you know, I'm not going to go today. I'm okay. I'm not going to go tomorrow. (pointing) But eventually, I'm going to be in that position.

—

MICKEY (continuing)
...you know it, it just takes the pleasure out of everything. (gesturing, pointing) I mean, you're gonna die, I'm gonna die, the audience is gonna die, the network's gonna-- The sponsor. Everything!

GAIL (chewing)
I know, I know, and your hamster.

MICKEY (nodding emphatically)
Yes!

GAIL (chewing and pointing to Mickey)
Listen, kid, I think you snapped your cap.

(Please don't sue me, Woody. I saw you standing on the corner of 5th Ave. & 13th Street one day in 1997, and although I could've bothered you or falsely gushed about your clarinet playing, I chose to remain silent.) Belle of course has a different set of criteria for health-related worrying:

1. Is it bleeding?

2. Is it falling off?

3. If the answer to either 1 or 2 is "no", then shut up.

In the movie, Mickey finds serenity through falling in love with Dianne Weist; not being a sappy middle-aged guy, I'll have to content myself with Miles Davis's Porgy and Bess, Good ol' JJ's ramblings, and a really good corned beef sandwich.

Bloomsday No. 99
… is upon us.

Stately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed. A yellow dressinggown, ungirdled, was sustained gently behind him by the mild morning air. He held the bowl aloft and intoned:

-- Introibo ad altare Dei.

Halted, he peered down the dark winding stairs and called up coarsely:

-- Come up, Kinch! Come up, you fearful jesuit!

…of course the first 18 Bloomsdays were unobserved since the Big Book hadn't been published. But in honor of that fateful day, we at W.U.L.A.D. are concentrating on things Joyce. (After some whiskey & ale, Shan-Bear & I spent some time in the gutter last night in honor of The Great Cataloguer's less polished moments.)

First of all, Jorn Barger runs the web's best omnibus of JJ info at IQ Infinity… there is a wealth of information here for all of the Canon, including extensive source info, pictures, history, sound samples, and the kind of scholarly discourse not likely to be found in the hallowed halls of academia.

My own semi-literate romp through Joyce's works (begun when this guy bought me my first copy of Portrait) is currently hovering over ReJoyce (corny title, the UK version has the more on-topic Here Comes Everybody) a loving and incisive overview of The Man's oeuvre by none other than Anthony Burgess (forever associated with violent guys in longjohns). Particularly interesting to me are his thoughts on the popular misconception of Joyce as primarily a trickster or hyper-intellectual whose main purpose was to confuse and dazzle the reader—Burgess rightly points out that underneath the technical and structural mastery of the books lie universal themes (fathers and sons, love and death, history and myth) that are served by technique but are not subservient to it. As a student of jazz, I've come to appreciate technical mastery only to the extent that it is in service to an idea, and lose interest when the mastery exists only for its own sake.

All of you should read Ulysses at some point in your lives. I had the good fortune to give it a whirl when I had a lot of down time at my old horrible job, and without getting overly verklempt, the connection I felt with the book's characters and their struggles (especially Stephen, Joyce's youthful parallel, coping with his mother's death, his seemingly stillborn artistic career, and tripping over his own ego at every turn). My favorite (simplistic) interpretation of the book's overall theme is the idea of Joyce's young and willful self (Stephen) meeting his older and wiser self (Bloom), and the lessons they might or might not learn from each other. Or as mentioned repeatedly in the book in various contexts, he is himself his own father.

And blah-ty blah blah. Where to begin? I recommend Gabler's corrected text (although any modern edition will suffice), and the following companion books are pretty near essential: The New Bloomsday Book, an excellent chapter-by-chapter synopsis by Harry Blamires; and Ulysses Annotated by Don Gifford, the most comprehensive line-by-line reference guide; as well as a good dictionary. Maybe read a chapter cold, then read the Blamires summary, then read it again with the annotations. I wish I'd read the whole book cold first, but I doubt I would've been able to finish it. The bottom line is enjoying the book and following the story line(s), so anything that helps the reader do that is OK by me. OK, semi-academic bullshit artist hat coming off.

El Futuro is here to stay
Jose Reyes belted a 2-2 Jerrod Washburn pitch (you guys remember the Angels, right?) over the Edison's left field fence last night for a Grand Slam, the first Met to hit a salami for his first career homer in 36 years. Rey Sanchez can most likely begin scouting out hair salons for his retirement, as I believe the few stubborn Mets fans left would dismantle Shea Stadium cinderblock by ciderblock if interim GM Jim Duquette sent the Boy Wonder back to the farm. More, please.

On a fambly note, Papa G (who has lately had many more gigs than I have) had a triumphant turn as the baritone soloist in Mozart's Reqiuem Saturday night, with myself & Sista G in attendance, and made the old ladies cry.