You can thank me later!

By now, everyone who knows me knows that I’m a sucker for documentary TV. The History Channel, the Discovery Channel, National Geographic (I ain’t calling it Nat Geo, dammit!)  The Travel Channel,  Science, the Military Channel; I love ‘em all. Hell, I’ll even watch NASA’s hit TV show, compellingly called Education File. (Woo Hoo! You get the popcorn, I’ll mix the cocktails–the next episode of Education File is on.) I thought things had reached a climax when DISH added The Documentary Channel–Oh yeah, baby! Take it like a historian!  But my absolute new favorite  is DISH Network’s satellite network/show–DISH Earth. Don’t  second guess the name. DISH Earth is nothing more than a live-feed camera pointed at Earth from DISH Networks’s  geo-synchronous satellite orbiting 22 million, trillion tera-miles above the planet, or something like that. That’s it. A camera on a satellite points down at the planet from too far away to see anything and you can watch, 24/7/365, while listening to inane 1970s wuss rock.  Since it’s a geo-synced satellite, the view never really changes, except that it gets pretty boring at night. It’s channel 212 on DISH–you can thank me later!

Are you smarter than a crab fisherman?

I was recently watching my favorite TV show of the moment, Deadliest Catch, on the Discovery Channel. For those not familiar with the show, the Discovery Channel has film crews embedded (damn you CNN) on about a half-dozen crab fishing boats during the mid-winter King crab season in Alaska. It’s called “Deadliest Catch” because crab fishing in the Bering Sea is supposedly the most dangerous job on the planet. I say supposedly because I really have no way of knowing if this is true. Personally, I think being a fire fighter, or a Mediterranean sponge diver, or an alter boy would be riskier. But I enjoy the show because of all the angst  and suffering on the boats. Call me a schadenfreudist.

Although I swear that I don’t watch any “reality” television, I guess Deadliest Catch qualifies. It has all the necessary ingredients; crabby people, tight quarters, danger, emotional instability, questionable IQs, and unusual smells (I’m just guessing about the smells.) Ordinarily, these crab fisherman are an entirely predictable lot. The boat captains are sleep-deprived task-masters, the deck bosses are seething usurpers just waiting for the captain to tip over, the deckhands are monosyllabic meat sacks who get paid more than I do, and the green horns are usually brooding and always pitiful targets for the rest of the crew to abuse. All things are as they should be on the Bering Sea. I don’t mean to imply that everyone on these boats is a sadistic moron; there are some marginally normal people who do this job. The boats captains, for example, must be able to read. But most of the guys on the boats are there because, like every Alaskan, they’re hiding from the law.

Every once in a while, though…

On the most recent episode there were two occasions that had me asking my kids, who were watching with me, “Are you smarter than a crab fisherman?” The first was innocuous enough. One of the deck hands, after not-so-nearly being cut in half and dragged overboard, said that the accident almost happened because of “complacency.” I turned to my kids and said, “Oooh, bonus points for excellent word usage.” They both looked at me as if I was drinking…again, so I asked them if they knew what complacency was. Nope. This surprised me not only because they’re smart kids and it’s not really a big word, but more because my kids are complacency masters. I probably shouldn’t be so hard on them. I was the one who bought them the Wii Sit game after all. I defined the word, using both their names in the definition, and there endethed that lesson.

Back on the crab boats one of the boat captains turned over the helm to the deck boss so he could sleep for the first time in three years, or something like that–you know how they hyperbolize everything on these shows. Mid-way through the deck boss’s shift in the wheelhouse he spotted a flock of walrus swimming in the open ocean. Even though these guys have been fishing the Bering Sea for many years, none of the crew had ever seen a walrus so they all “oohed” and “aahhed.” The captain slept through it. When he awoke and was informed of what he’d missed, he was livid. He went off on the deck boss, telling him that walrus sightings always meant good crab fishing and that the captain should be notified immediately of three things, regardless of circumstances; icebergs, mermaids, and walrus. (Okay, I made up the icebergs and mermaids, but those are things I would want hear about.) Apparently no one, not even a Major League baseball player, is more superstitious, and infatuated with walrus, than a crab fisherman. So the captain turned the boat around through perpetually stormy seas and headed back to drop his crap pots where the walrus had been.  I was still belittling the puny-brained captain and his silly omens when they raised their first pot from Wally World, (their term, not mine.) It was plum full of 50 dollar-a-piece King crabs. Apparently no one in my family is smarter than a crab fisherman.

Steve Martin to Star in…

I was watching Saturday Night Live a few weeks ago, something I blessedly haven’t done in about ten years, and surprise, surprise, Steve Martin is hosting. I guess it’s his 115th time hosting the show. Apparently Lorne Michaels has a bright red Steve Phone for those unexpected hosting emergencies, and Martin obviously has nothing else going on Saturday nights. It shouldn’t bother me because the show really sucks and I don’t watch it, but Lorne needs to stop giving Steve a reach-around every time Martin comes out with a new movie. I will point out right away that I like Steve Martin, always have. I liked the arrow-through-the-head, “excuuuuse me!”, 1970s Steve; I liked the slightly spastic, bemused, regular guy in Parenthood and Planes, Trains, & Automobiles, 1980s Steve; I liked the go-to-Iraq-to-entertain-the-troops-but-not-tell-anyone, philanthropic 1990s Steve; Hell, I even like his banjo playing–and I hate banjo music (except for my cousin Keegan’s banjo playing, which is freaking awesome!)

But something struck me as I watched Steve’s monologue that Saturday; he’s one gin blossom and maybe 50 pounds away from turning into W.C. Fields. That’s not such a bad thing either. I like Fields as much as I like Martin, maybe more so, since Fields hated puppies and children. To confirm my suspicions that Martin is, in fact, becoming Fields, I googled photos of both. Sure enough, to my eye, there are more similarities than differences these days. The squinty eyes, the pasty complection, the ever-present chapeau, but what really struck me was a headline that appeared with one of the Martin photos:

Steve Martin to Star in All of Me Remake

What the…!?! Is Steve Martin really considering a remake of a fair movie he himself starred in 25 years ago? Can’t be. Steve, the man who made one of my favorite movies that no one else likes, Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid, the man who demonstrated such contempt for Hollywood in the acerbic L.A. Story, this man is going to remake one of his own movies from decades ago? That has to be unprecedented in Hollywood history right? The same actor, playing the same role a quarter century later? I know, you can make a case that John Wayne played the same part in every film for a half-century, and in the case of Rio Bravo and El Dorado, it was almost a complete do-over, but as I recall, Wayne wanted to do the drunk sheriff part in El D., and Howard Hawks had to beg him to play the good guy again. (By the way, if anyone is planning yet another RioBravo/El Dorado remake, I got dibs on the Stumpy part.)

I don’t think anyone has ever tried what Martin is apparently considering–that is, playing the exact same part in a line-for-line remake. There’s a reason movie stars don’t do that. The people who go to see this tripe will naturally compare your original performance with your current one. That’s a no-win situation in the remaking. Imagine an overweight, 1980, Godfather-vintage Marlon Brando in a remake of On the Waterfront. Or, how ’bout the suddenly creepy, Bill Murray of Lost in Translation redoing Carl Spackler, in Caddyshack. It gives me the heebie-jeebies just thinking about it.  Even a dusty, tipsy Harrison Ford knew enough to stay away the latest batch of Star Wars movies, and those weren’t remakes. They weren’t good either, but they weren’t remakes. So, Steve, you think you can pull  this off? I’m telling you it’s cinematic suicide. Don’t do it. You’re no John Wayne.

As I said, All of Me was just an OK movie in my book, he’s done better, but it made Steve Martin an honest-to-goodness movie star. And on the strength of that performance he went on to make numerous original movies.  Three Amigos!, Roxanne, (OK, that’s kind of a remake,) L.A. Story; Planes, Trains…, Dirty Rotten Scoundrels; I’m sure I’m forgetting some, or trying to in the case of Bowfinger. The point is, while they weren’t all box office sensations, Steve is not exactly living in a cardboard box out there in Brentwood. I’m quite sure that a big part of the reason for All of Me’s success was casting Lily Tomlin to play opposite Steve in the original. Tomlin, as much as Martin, made the movie work. She had star appeal well before Steve hit the scene. And she’s damn funny. So what comedic legend is playing the critical female lead in the new All of Me? You ready? Wait for it…

Dana Elaine Owens.

Never heard of her? Yes, you have. She is that icon of the silver screen, Queen Latifah. This has box office gold written all over it…absolute dynamite…the trades are screamin’ SMASH!  Didn’t Martin learn anything from his other film costarring Owens, Bringing Down the House? Well, of course he did. Bringing Down the House made him piles of money. So did his 2006 attempt at remaking a comedy classic, The Pink Panther. So will his latest effort, The Pink Panther 2. So did two earlier Martin remakes; Father of the Bride, and Father of the Bride II, The Curse of the Black Pearl.  And let’s not forget the forgettable Sgt. Bilko. I don’t know why Martin suddenly likes remakes so much. Wait a tick…yes I do…remakes are easy and cheap to make. For one thing, the plot and characters are already there for you. You poorly imitate Peter Sellers in the real Pink Panther movies, you hire some schlep screenwriter to fill in a few punctuation marks and you’re golden. And remakes have name recognition, so there’s a built-in audience, even if they stink (the remakes, not the audience). Remakes with Queen Latifah? Fuggedaboudit. Yeah, I know, the Queen has garnered some praise as an actress. Hell, she was even nominated for an, ahem, Academy Award. That’s more a reflection on the “academy” than on her, though.  Apparently, Martin and Owens are trying to become the new Burns and Allen, or maybe Stiller and Meara? I suppose I can take some solace in the fact that they’re not trying to be Fred and Ginger.

Note to Steve: Stop remaking classic comedies. Peter Sellers, Spencer Tracy, Phil Silvers, and even funny, original Steve Martin, are rolling over in their graves. And for God’s sake, don’t remake movies you’ve already done. If you must continue with this travesty, consider remaking My Little Chickadee. You’ll save a ton on make-up.

Go away, kid! Ya bother me.

I was born a poor, black child.

Something different

I spent the better part of the past week in the northern Wisconsin wilds, ignoring my suburban heritage. In theory I was up there to help the Wisconsin DNR with their annual sharp-tailed grouse surveys. I do this every year because I find sharp-tailed grouse interesting–call it a character flaw. The theoretical part is that I didn’t hear or see a single sharp-tailed grouse, so conducting a survey with one proved impossible. What I did succeed at, at least marginally, was taking a few photos of NW Wisconsin shaking off the long winter. So that’s it. No jokes. No long-winded diatribes. Just photos from the past week.

Sandhill crane. Crex Meadows, Grantsburg, WI

Bald Eagle. Crex Meadows, Grantsburg, WI

Trumpeter swan. Crex Meadows, Grantsburg, WI

Ringneck ducks, drake and hen(r). Crex Meadows, Grantsburg, WI

Trumpeter swans and Canada geese. Crex Meadows, Grantsburg, WI

Goldeneye drake. Webb Lake, WI

Sandhill cranes, Fish Lake WMA. Grantsburg, WI

Pintail drake. Crex Meadows, Grantsburg, WI

Beaver. Barnes, WI

Red fox. Barnes, WI

Fire and woodpecker-scarred Norway pine. Barnes, WI

Scarred but thriving Norway pine. Barnes, WI

Rampike at dawn. Barnes, WI

The Entropics is No More

After a very brief life entertaining tens of people, The Entropics is no more. Well, the name is gone anyway. I decided this as soon as I found out that “The Entropics” is the name of a cheesy steel drum/calypso act in Key West. The name had to go. I never really liked it in the first place. So from now until I change my mind again this site will be called Drivel Inc., in honor of a great writer from the past–Gordon MacQuarrie. MacQuarrie fans will immediately note that the “Inc.” stand for incorrigible. I think the new name fits better. There’s nothing you have to do differently on your end–the web address remains the same until I get ambitious and swap out the entire site.

“These are the times that try men’s souls.”

It’s April 1, and living in Minnesota (read: hell) naturally, it’s snowing. I call Minnesota “hell” because it is. Tax hell, weather hell, mosquito hell, Scandinavian food hell, take yer pick. It sucks around here. As I recall, it started snowing last August and it hasn’t let up since. Alright, that’s not exactly accurate, but this has been the longest winter in nigh on two score and eight years. (That, coincidentally, was also the year of the great o’cruadhlaoich outbreak which ruined so many lives.)  Technically, I don’t live in Minnesota, either. Not anymore. Now I live a stone’s throw across the river, in Wisconsin. I know it’s a stone’s throw because all three summer weekends, Packerfans knuckle drag themselves to the river and chuck stones, empty beer bottles, and headcheese at the Minnesota side; occasionally someone connects.

I regularly ask myself why I still live here?  Seriously, the women are indistinguishable from the men 6 months a year, and the children are inside with the adults…all…winter…long.  Everyone, I mean everyone, is pissy by the time April rolls around. Even my blushing bride, the sickeningly cheerful Netty Girl is crabby–she got in a fist fight with a recycling bin last night, and limped off to work this morning still cussing about  it. Right now there are three little birds on my bird feeder, Pine siskins, I believe. Gorgeous. One of them is frozen to the feeder and the other two are kickin’ the shit out him. It’s that bad.

So I ask myself again, why the hell do I live here? The answer is obvious; I live here because none of my clan were bright enough to move away once they got here and looked around. One winter should really have been enough for someone of average intelligence. No, not my people. Instead, in their best drunken Irish brogue, they said “Let’s stay here, fuck up the street system and look for an Orangeman to work over.” Stupid folk, the Irish. And I’m just another mick without the good sense to go back to the motherland–where it’s green, and they have palm trees for chrissake.

Yep...Palm trees in Ireland

Instead, I sit here looking out a window at a malignant, gray sky hocking loogies on my April Fool’s Day parade. Funny.

Giving it up for Lent

As a recovering Catholic I don’t usually give things up for Lent, but this year I decided some sort of sacrifice was in order. Since it’s been a long, guilt-ridden winter, I signed up for my local diocese’s new aerobic contritioning program–Pontius Pilates. It’s only been a few weeks, but so far, so good. For the first time in years I’m down to a 1.84 cubit waist, and the enhanced inflexibility is really nice. According to Father M, my glutes are coming along fine too, but I need a lot more work on my peccatus. I’ll get there–the instructor is a genuflection beast.  The hardest part for me is the supplication–bad knees. Oh, and I look like crap in the workout cilice. I’m going to keep going until we’re done with flagellation, but I’ll probably quit before they get to the ascetics unit.  By then it will be Easter and I’ll be in absolutely fine shape, body and soul.

Sincerely,

The Pilates Reformer.

P.S. Yes, I know where I’m going, so you needn’t remind me.

Here we go again…

Sorry, London. We didn't know it was loaded!

Quick, off the top of your head, when did WWII begin?

If you are the producers of The History Channel’s Voyages, evidently it began December 7, 1941. And I quote, “…with the onset of World War II in December, 1941…” Come again? Did the freaking History Channel just say WWII began in 1941? That will no doubt surprise a few million people from Poland, France, England, Germany, Italy, Japan, Russia, China, and many other similarly insignificant little countries who had already been bleeding on each other for more than two years.  I imagine the hundreds of thousands of casualties–if they weren’t dead–would be especially shocked to learn that those first couple of years were just practice.

Battle of Britain? A simple misunderstanding. Dunkirk? A beach holiday. Operation Barbarossa? You Russians didn’t take that seriously, did you? That time when the British sank the Bismarck because the Bismarck had just sunk the Hood? Just kidding…hope no one was hurt. Rommel and Montgomery? Two boys arguing over toy trucks in a big sandbox. And just what the hell was Anne Frank hiding from?

Apparently, September 1, 1939 was just another day in world history. I’m so embarrassed.

Another gem from The History Channel. Sheesh. Really, you guys should stick to monsters, UFOs, and killer asteroids. And change your damn name.  “The Hysteria Channel” sounds about right.

Well known agoraphobe, Anne Frank

Bald is Beautiful

Bald Eagle season is upon us once again. Living near a couple major river systems, I get to see a lot of these grand birds. They never fail to impress. They are our birds. They’re birds with attitude. They’re opportunistic and gluttonous, and they love bass fishing–you just can’t get more American than that.

About the photo: This particular bird was feeding on delicious, bloated carrion in Bayfield County, Wisconsin. If you look carefully, you’ll note the leg band. I can’t quite make out the writing, but I think it says, “Property of the U.S. Government. Not for Human Consumption.” I could be mistaken though.

Bald is Beautiful

Skank Me a Fag, Mate!

So the English Beat is coming to Minneapolis in April. Hooray! Well, maybe a subdued Huzzah is more in order. The English Beat is now really just front man Dave Wakeling with a new band touring as The English Beat. No Ranking Roger, no Papa Saxa, no Andy, no David, no Everett…you get the picture.  I’m sure Dave can still belt out the lyrics, but I agree with my friend Rich, who, upon hearing of the upcoming Beat gig said, “There should be some minimum standard that no less than two original members of a group have to be doing the tour for them to retain the use of the band’s name.”  In other words, there ought ta be a law. Amen, Rich, but I may just go anyway.

You may not know The Beat, but I sure as hell do. They were a frenetic rockin’ Ska band from Birmingham, England in the late 1970s and early 80s, and their music was omnipresent in my life. It was like a Trenchtown sound system, rumbling along behind me wherever I went. When we had pick up soccer games Sunday nights back in high school, I would back my truck up to the field, break out the bigass speakers, and pump Special Beat Music across the field. I loved it and everyone else must have too. At least I never heard a complaint. Not that I could have heard them anyway. I still have Beat-induced hearing loss. That youthful infatuation with the music also remains. I am unable to remain seated quietly when an old Beat tune pops up on the Ipod. It’s perfect workout music, and really bad to listen to in church.

Dave Wakeling was the lead singer, but co-founder Ranking Roger was every bit as important. He was the toaster. Part singer, part MC, part poet, and pure energy on stage. In one of my only brushes with fame I met Ranking Roger. I was on the dance floor at the legendary club, First Avenue, in downtown Minneapolis. Roger and Wakeling were then touring as General Public–sort of a Beat alter ego–and they were the headliners that night. Friends and I were at the show and we were milling around on the big, famous dance floor listening to piped in Ska and waiting for the main event. Roger had his hair dyed into a sort of zebra striped pattern back then, so when he walked up to me I knew immediately who I was looking at. I said nothing. Says Roger, loudly over the music, in a heavy northern England accent, “Skank me a fag, mate!” I handed him my pack of cigarettes. He took one, lit it off mine, and melted back into the crowd. That was it. I didn’t even say Hi to him. Schmuck!

Sometime after the concert, which was amazing, of course, I started thinking about that bizarre little encounter. First, the language Roger used to convey the message couldn’t have been more convoluted. Roger wanted a cigarette. I had many. He had none. He was in a strange city, in a foreign country, on a jammed dance floor, surrounded by people in various altered states, and he wants someone to “skank him a fag.” That’ll get you punched in lot of places I’ve been thrown out of.

Second, what the hell was one of the lead vocalists from the main act doing on the dance floor bumming fags from strangers five minutes before show time?  Shouldn’t he be in the dressing room with the star on the door, telling some lackey that  he needs a midget dressed as Terpsichore to feed him fuchsia M&Ms…Now, dammit! Nope, not Roger. He’s out on the floor, jonesing for nicotine. He picked the right guy, of course. I had cigarettes. I knew who he was. I was starstruck. As a unrepentant anglophile I’m also acquainted with British slang. If he had asked me to “check out the bird smuggling peanuts”, I would’ve known just where to look.  On the other hand, I weighed about a buck-forty back then and I wasn’t afraid to use it, so he was taking quite a chance hitting on me with that line. Brave man that Rankin’ Roger.

Third, prior to that night I had no idea that the word skank was so malleable. Of course, we all know the classic American interpretation, i.e., “Lindsay Lohan is a Skank.” Some of us also know it as that easy, loping, high-stepping dance made popular by Bob Marley and the scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz.  But when did it come to mean “give me a cigarette”? Hell, maybe it was that night, right there on that dance floor. Maybe I was in the presence of patois history. Yep, that’s it. I was the inspiration. Keith and Roger a Go Talk. So now you know:

Skank (n.): slutty, disgusting, vulgar, unattractive, promiscuous person; usually female; frequently associated with dirtbags, hos, and Rude Boys; see Lindsay Lohan.

skank (v.):

1. To dance in a rhythmic, hypnotic style while under the influence of reggae, rock steady, ska, or marijuana.

2. To request a flammable, portable, nicotine delivery mechanism from a complete stranger. Origin: Crowded dance floor in Minneapolis, Minnesota, circa 1984.