Tuesday, March 27, 2007

Bon Anniversaire


What better celebration of mass murder can there be than the road movie.

As we mark the fourth year of crushed villages, mutilated bodies and over 650 thousand killed, the number four film at the box office is Wild Hogs, where we laugh at the reconstruction of masculinity through the roar of burning gas.

The biker adventure may remind one of the no less misogynist Easy Rider, but at least that film revealed the national sickness that provokes brutal imperialism.

Also immersed in 1960s misogyny, Godard's Week-end of 1967 remains unsurpassed at depicting the driver's indifference to slaughter.

Mangled vehicles and corpses appear everywhere as anti-heroes Roland and Corrine complain about the traffic.

For Iraq, it's not just that the invasion never happened--as our recently passed prophet Baudrillard said of the Gulf War--it's that the denial brings jubilation.

Hey Mr. President, thank you so much for not laying waste to a country so I can continue to drive my...
"Aaaaaaaah! Aaaaaaaah!"
A woman wails in agony as flames spew from a three car wreck. A man, shirt soaked with blood, crawls on the ground.
"Mon sac! Mon sac est Hermes!"

Tuesday, March 20, 2007

Playtime


William-Adolphe Bouguereau (1825-1905) - The Remorse of Orestes (1862)

"Shwu shwu shwu shwu baaaaAAAAAh," the sound is between the raspberry lip imitation of a Harley and a crow squawk. Clapping hands add to the improvisation.

In the late '80s I saw Maria Joao vocalize her sparkling guts out to a small crowd in a Chicago loft. She would jump from a tender melody of scratches and hisses to blasting a note of operatic dimensions--the call of Eumenides must be heard.

"BeeAch BeeAch zzzzz Bzzzz eyoyoyoyoy yip yip hsssss," the sharp and constant changes rattle the ears of the riders, but most resist turning around.

We play the avoidance game, like an opposite polarized magnet, our heads repelled by the back of the bus.

But today there is an accompanying ballet.

Short blonde hair, dressed in a hooded winter jacket, grey sweatpants with black stripe, torn at the calf, and battered running shoes spotted by white paint, he squats on the seat in front of me, sticking one leg out and then the other, like a Russian folk dancer. He turns toward me, still squatting on his seat. Now I am too close to the stage.

One spring afternoon, while my friend and I eat lunch on a bench around 77th and 5th Avenue, a group of elementary school children pour off buses from a private Hebrew school. They surround us, staring with wide eyes as if we were the latest edition to the Central Park Zoo.

The dancer becomes a track and fielder as he moves off the seat into the aisle covered with tootsie roll wrappers and begins doing long thrusts, preparing for a sprint. Next, he's a surfer, balancing the bus as it swerves from lane to lane.

Most ignore the show, but one guy with a bundle of papers and pen in his hand turns around and stares.

The avant-garde ensemble in the back continues--vocals, clapping, knee slapping and window rapping--going silent at points but rising back to mad cacophony again.

The audience is getting restless--as if they intended to see Beauty and the Beast and stepped into Avenue Q by mistake. A few begin shooting annoyed glances at the entertainers.

Now Andy Irons has become Alexander Popov, squatting with his hands pointed forward about to launch himself. He turns one way, then the other, checking out his competition. When the bus screeches to a stop, he uses the momentum to launch forward.

"Sorry buddy," he says after bumping a rider huddled in the clam position, his recognition of others suddenly breaking the fourth wall.

It's my stop. As I move toward the back door, I finally look at the back-seat performers. Laminated name tags adorn their chests.

Wednesday, March 14, 2007

The Dream Life

The brilliance of David Lynch's Inland Empire is found in its unveiling the maggot life of movie stardom.

The Hollywood gloss--tummy tucked, muscle molded, Versace clad icons pouring out of stretch limos for red carpet premiers--becomes indistinguishable from the Hollywood real--sidewalks puddled with urine and laden with cardboard blankets.

When a small intestine ripped from an old man's stomach with a pitchfork in The Hills Have Eyes 3 evokes roaring laughter, we know the viciousness of our city's attack on residents of L.A.'s contemporary Hooverville--skid row.

This viciousness reflects the sentiment of tourists and Angelenos alike scurrying past lepers of The Boulevard with fear of long grime filled fingernails gripping styrofoam coffee cups.

As the 217 pulls up to the corner of Hollywood and Highland, frustrated by a 20 minute wait, a mass of some 30 bodies rush the door. By the time I get on, the bus is packed with standing riders all the way back, but one seat in the second row rests empty.

She has her head slumped completely forward and mumbles softly as I sit down. The kids behind me laugh. The object of aversion is a tree of lightening reds--from maroon skirt, to pink Victoria Secret sweatshirt to ruddy salmon face topped by tangled blonde hair.

Passenger dread no doubt comes less from her appearance than her swaying and strange voicings--she must be ill. I feel unease myself until the bus comes to a sudden stop and her head slams hard against the seat in front. Startled, she quickly sits up straight.

Some of us get nightmares when we go to sleep, others when we wake up.

Wednesday, March 07, 2007

Patience

"Can you help me?" A woman in her 80s, her body a series of well chewed toothpicks somehow glued together is trying to pull upright with a leash an old chocolate lab lying on the grass. "Come on Sam, Come on," She was saying.
I look down at sad charming eyes and greying snout.
"My dog isn't moving."

As I approach his tail starts to wag, and he looks up in hope. I lean down and start giving his hips a deep massage.

It is 4:30 in the afternoon and I am headed to Target. I have to go home, change and be in Northridge by 7, but I have plenty of time. My Target store is but a 15 minute bus ride to Woodland Hills.

His fur is greasy and dandruff, or the doggy equivalent--skin scab remainder--sticks to my fingers.
"Oh he loves that!"
"What a sweetheart," I give him more rubs.

"He's the best. I know he's very old, but I can't let him go. We take care of each other."

After a few minutes of love, I stand up.
"Bye Sam. It was nice meeting you."

Walking on, I turn back occasionally. She is still tugging at his collar, trying to pull him up.

I realize that, while they appreciated the greeting, I had not helped.
I shout back, "Do you want me to lift him?"
"Oh, could you? He would really love that!"

I walk back to the dog, still cemented to the ground.
Gently, I hug his stomach and lift, as the woman continues to pull on his collar.
His wobbly back legs seem ready to fold, then, like a precariously balanced easel, he nearly falls over. I hold on as he slowly moves his legs.
"Thank you so much. He'll be ok now."

It doesn't look like it. His back legs are crisscrossed, and they seem to just drag along as he pulls forward in the front, with her help.
"We're ok. Thank you so much."

I walk away, looking back frequently. "Come on. Come on," she continues to coax him along.

I arrive at the bus stop about 4:45. A half dozen people are waiting. At this time on a weekday, a bus is scheduled to come at least every 7 minutes. Knowing I have to be back at my house by 6, I start getting a little anxious when 5 rolls around. 5:05, 5:10, 5:15. That's it! I turn around and head back home.

It is getting dark as I pass the little plot of grass where my old friend lay. The warmth of a dog smile rises from crumpled oak twigs.