Critical Apprehensions & Intemperate Discourses

Kip Manley, proprietor

Dirty fucking motorcycle cops.

Fellow Obie Michelle Malkin wants you to know the crimes of the few outweigh the needs of the many, or some such crap:

It wasn’t enough that Portland anti-war thugs burned a US soldier in effigy, and tore and burned the American flag. According to the Portland Tribune, they also knocked a Portland police officer off his bicycle and committed yet another disgusting act:

This splinter group of protesters showed its support for “peace” by burning a U.S. soldier in effigy. It exhibited its supposedly pacifist nature by knocking a police officer off his bike—an action that brought out the police riot squad.

Perhaps the most disturbing scene of the afternoon, however, involved the man who pulled down his pants in front of women and children and defecated on a burning U.S. flag. This disgusting act actually elicited cheers from some members of the crowd, but we hope that the emotion it produces in the community is one of revulsion…

...The anti-war demonstrators who behaved responsibly this past weekend have an obligation to denounce—and distance themselves from—those protesters who purposefully offend others and consequently destroy the intended message of peace.

Still waiting.

A few fringe actors? Not.

—Meanwhile, out in the real world, here’s what a few “fringe actors” think of the last throes of the whole goddamn dead-ender cause:

Larry says all the cops on motorbikes gave the peace sign to the marchers, but he was only able to capture the image of this one. It stands to reason the hearts of many Portland Police officers must have supported the rally for peace on Sunday. Their counterparts in Iraq are frequent targets of insurgent attacks. Their brothers and sisters, sons and daughters in the military are dying alongside the loved ones of peace activists. Keeping the peace is hard. Our police officers know better than many, that creating peace out of chaos often takes small gestures of friendship as a first step.

Small gestures of friendship. —Greg Sargent quite correctly highlights the small gesture of friendship in the Tribune’s editorial, the one so conveniently left on the cutting-room floor by Malkin’s callous elipses:

The vast majority of the estimated 15,000 protesters who took part in a peace march Sunday in downtown Portland did just that. They were well-behaved, well-intentioned and serious about their cause.

[...]

Most of the people who marched on Sunday fully understand [that violence harms their cause]. And by singling out the few who didn’t, we don’t intend to place thousands of demonstrators under one label.

But it’s too small a gesture. The Tribune went on, like Malkin, like Hannity, to demand that someone—anti-war demonstrators, peace protestors, the Left, Fox Democrats, motorcycle cops, the growing majority of all of us Americans—make a show of denouncing the actions of less than a tenth of one per cent of their number. Fuck that. Wake me when someone—Wolf Blitzer, my senators, the last principled conservative, the Washington Post, the Tribune its own goddamn self—denounces the moral monsters who dragged us into this mess in the first place. Between Dick Cheney and some overly enthusiastic trustafarian shit-head who’s drawn all the wrong lessons from direct action, I know which has done more damage to our flag, and our country, and us. —I know who I’d rather have on my side.

—Filed 6895 days ago to Squawkbox; Comment.

Unzeitgemässe betrachtungen.

I don’t at this point remember what the flyer looked like. It would have mentioned Buffy if Buffy had existed at that point, but it was 1992, and Buffy (as we know it now) was five years away. Did it say something about the X-Files? It would have, if the X-Files hadn’t been a year away itself. I’ll say this for them, if nothing else (though I’ve said more, and will again): they were surfing what ended up becoming one hell of a big, big wave.

I don’t remember what the flyer looked like, but it worked on me at least: I auditioned. On a whim, but. I rode a bus out to Hampshire College, memorizing my lines on the way, and stood in the middle of an empty classroom and read them back: the opening lines of the epilogue to The Secret History. (Have I mentioned that Gonzo is my favorite Muppet? He’s my favorite Muppet because he says in the first movie that he wants to go to Bombay, India to become a movie star.) —Anyway, it worked on them: I got the role: I was going to play Harlan, the one who read from the Necronomicon and went mad but nonetheless lived to tell the tale.

“I managed to get out of taking my French exams the next week, due to the very excellent excuse of having a gunshot wound to the stomach.”

I knew who Lovecraft was at the time, even if I hadn’t read much Lovecraft at all. Maybe “The Call of Cthulhu.” (I’d played the game.) But of course I’d heard of the book. Who hasn’t? —I’ve read a lot since then. Even the Houellebecq. He was very, very good at what he did, Lovecraft, but what it was he was doing wasn’t writing, per se. Took me a while to figure that out.

I’d almost forgotten this part, so I might as well write it down now. They were still looking for someone to play—was it Harlan’s girlfriend, whose name I can’t remember? Or Liz West? Who later became Harlan’s girlfriend, when I simplified things. Whichever; anyway. I actually asked the girl who was working in the software store in the live mall if she was interested in auditioning. (It was called the live mall because it had actual stores in it, and was across the frontage road from the dead mall, which is where I was working, in the market research phone bank.) She was blond and sharp and dressed in the sort of suits you wore to sell software in retail shops in those days, and I rode the bus with her down to Hampshire for her audition in the TV studio we’d later use for the bluescreen work, and I couldn’t tell you who was more nervous, me or her: her because she’d never really acted before; me because I’d been crushing on her for months. (I’d asked her out once before, right after I’d seen Husbands and Wives in the live mall movie theater, but she hadn’t noticed, and anyway she had a boyfriend.) Whichever it was, it didn’t work out. —She got a ride home from her boyfriend. I rode the bus back to Sunderland.

This wasn’t the film student, mind. Nor was she the other girl at the live mall I’d occasionally hangdog around, who worked in the Sam Goody or whatever it was called, and who’d been mishearing the lyrics to “Fuck and Run” until I pointed out it was “fetters and sodas.”

Yeah, I know. I still like it better.

Filming—taping?—filming started in November or so of 1992 and ran through the spring of 1993, on just about every campus in the five-college area: the Hampshire library, the UMass physical plant, exteriors at Amherst, me dancing shirtless in a Mount Holyoke dorm room. (I don’t think we shot anything at Smith, come to think of it. Did we even shoot anything in Noho? I don’t think so.) There was a camera guy and a sound and lighting guy and the writer and the director and the guy who would have been the producer if there’d been more money involved. (Glenn was there, too. Glenn could tell you a lot more than I can. I’m terrible at this sort of thing.) The writer faded away after a bit, though I don’t want to speak ill of him, and the director and the producer guy, especially the producer guy, ended up writing a lot more as scenes had to change given the locations and the actors that were available. —I ended up writing some, too, ad libbing in the scenes in Harlan’s room, where he reads from the Necronomicon and goes mad; I’m afraid I was reading The White Goddess at the time, and so there’s a lot of “I am the shield for every head; I am the tomb of every hope” in that stuff. I wrote a scene between Harlan and his girlfriend that I was really happy with, when we got the physical plant for a couple of days to shoot in, until somebody pointed out I was riffing on what Harrison Ford and Carrie Fisher had done to rewrite their scene in Empire Strikes Back. —Have you ever done a play or a student film or anything like that? Then you know what I mean. (Do you? I haven’t made any actual gestures in that rhetorical direction. Ah, fuck it: I just need the transition. —And anyway if you haven’t, let’s face it: this digressive blog post isn’t going to get you any closer.)

I’ve mentioned in the past the last time I took anything hallucinogenic? When I ate mushrooms with the crazy Greek up in Butterfield? And I spent most of the trip grabbing people by the lapels and demanding they show me, right then, something magic, and laughing maniacally when, of course, they just stared at me blankly. Magic? In this day and age? Please. —Pretending to be someone who’d read from the Necronomicon and gone mad for months on end had taken its toll, you see. It’s my only excuse. The crazy Greek finally got tired of my whingeing and dragged me outside, up to the top of the hill above Butterfield, where some crazy artist at some point had built Butterhenge. —There, he said.

Wow, I said.

And I’ll always love him for that, and forgive him anything, even though he used to bellow Ladies! Kiss me! It’s okay, I’m a Lesbian! (He was from Lesbos, you see.)

I rewrote his role as Jamshid. The Exco 347 scene is I think maybe the one most directly lifted from the original script.

“As bad as it looked, there in the Albemarle, I still think we could have patched it up somehow. It wasn’t from desperation that he did it. Nor, I think was it fear.”

Everything was filmed. Taped? Filmed. On little 8mm videotapes. I have no idea what became of the footage (I only ever saw the trailer, which premiered some months after the filming was finished; again, Glenn could probably tell you more). I know it was finished, because they told me, and I asked if they were sure, and they said yes, and I asked if they were damn near positive, and they said Kip, Jesus, we’re done already, it’s in the can, and I said okay, and I cut all my hair off and shaved off my beard. I looked so different they used me as a Miskatonic University administrator in one of the last pickup scenes it turned out they needed to film.

When filming began? Back in November? I would have told you love was a crock. It didn’t exist, and if it did, it was a mug’s game. Which was maybe why I’d been able to ask the girl who worked in the software store in the live mall if she wanted to try out for a movie, even though that sort of cold call is otherwise terribly out of character for me.

By the time it was done? I’d already kissed Jenn for the first time, in December, which I’d like to think surprised us both.

Wow, I said.

We moved to Portland in 1995, and by one of those quirks of fate that unites places like the Pioneer Valley of Massachusetts and the People’s Republic of Multnomah County, the director and the producer guy and the guy who’d done either the camera or the lighting and the sound (I remember the guy, just not whichever thing it was he’d mostly been responsible for) had all moved to Portland, too. I actually worked in the same building they had offices in for a while, as Portland is when you get right down to it a terribly small town. —Anyway, for one reason or another they decided they wanted to redo the whole damn thing from scratch. The Necronomicon. You know, some college kids find a copy and read from it. Hijinks ensue. They wanted to know if I was interested in writing—rewriting?—the script. They’d use it to go chasing dot com money, which was thick on the ground in those days.

Turned out I was interested. Who knew? —What resulted isn’t technically speaking mine, though I did write most of it. I’ve long since lost the original original script, the one we actually filmed back in Massachusetts, so I can’t tell you for sure what little was lifted from there. Nor can I tell you which bits were written by Amy Glynn, or which bits were cut by her, either. I won’t play coy and tell you she did the funny bits. There’s some (very) weak stuff in here, yes (I will play coy a little), and only some of it was intentionally put in so the producer guys would have had something to cut if this version had ever actually found some dot com money to burn. There’s stuff I regret leaving out, yes, like the dialogue that would have rationalized the gun, and maybe I would have put it back in before the cameras had ever actually filmed that scene, if. If. —But I’m mostly happy with how it ended up, the script anyway, or I wouldn’t be sticking it in the commonplace book. Mostly, rereading it, I’m fascinated by how quickly it’s become so anachronistic, having characters who so flagrantly smoke. You know?

Amy, by the way, used to have the same voice teacher as Mark Eitzel, but that’s a story for another time. —As for the here and now, folks, I give you:

• Act I: “Some secrets of this world, that God has damned.”
• Act II: “You just want it to be true.”
• Act III: “Satisfaction brought it back.”

1. A young man cannot possibly know what Greeks and Romans are.
2. He does not know whether he is suited for finding out about them.

—Filed 6901 days ago to Indulgences; Comment [5].

Time to Frenzy.

Distressing news via BlogTown: Reading Frenzy, the amazing zine and comics and independent press emporium that’s been a Portland fixture for 13 years, needs our help. Here’s the message from Chloe Eudaly:

We’re rounding the corner on our 13th year, and while I’m not particularily superstitious, it does seem to be adding up to a rather unlucky phase in our long, illustrious history. A series of unfortunate events, both business and personal, have brought us to a critical juncture and we need your support to see us through.

As a faithful reader, I’m sure you appreciate Reading Frenzy and what we offer to our community of readers and publishers: a rare outlet for independent and alternative media, a hub of local literary activity, and a cozy space for art and literary events. Internationally recognized for our devotion to the small press and zines in particular, we’ve even inspired others to follow suit and open shops in their own towns.

Reading Frenzy is as much a community resource as it is a business, and as such has always depended on the generousity of volunteer staff, a team of supportive professionals who help us for free or cheap, and the occasional fundraiser. We have a couple bigger events in the works, but in the meantime here’s how you can help break the spell:

• Go on a Reading Frenzy shopping spree! Can’t find what you want now? Buy yourself (and a few of your friends) gift certificates!
• Buy a Co-Frenzy membership for $100—you receive a 10% discount for one year, plus a signed/numbered Reading Frenzy/Spiral Bound print by Aaron Renier!
• Have a bright idea for a fundraiser? Bring it on! We’re thinking rock show, spaghetti feed, and book sale—but not at the same time!

Thanks so much for your continued support!

Go. Continue your support. And spread the word!

—Filed 6902 days ago to Indulgences; Comment [2].

“Supergirl could really use some Scott Pilgrim.”

True that. Hell, we could all use a little Scott Pilgrim.

—From Project Rooftop’s recap of the best and brightest of the Draw Supergirl meme; this one’s by Chris Haley, with April Steel and Diana Nock for the assist. I’m also awfully fond of Joel Priddy’s (Supergirl, like all of us, could also use a little Hicksville), but my favorite super-girl this week at least has to be Mary Marvel in Jeff Smith’s Monster Society of Evil.

—Filed 6903 days ago to Sequentualities; Comment.

That’s one! One Galbraith! Ha ha ha!

When I heard our “torture guy” Attorney General was giving a press conference, I immediately tried to remember what those things were called, and wondered whether Gonzales would start racking them up. —I agree with Henry; this:

Let me just say one thing. I’ve overcome a lot of obstacles in my life to become attorney-general. I am here not because I [pause] give up. I am here because I learn from my mistakes, I accept responsibility, and because I’m committed to doing my job. And that is what I intend to do for the American people.

is indeed just that: a Galbraith Score of one.

—Filed 6906 days ago to Squawkbox; Comment.

Anatomy of a slur.

Astoundingly enough, Ann Coulter appears to have been a mite too subtle with the English on her invective.

Here’s what the noted bigot and plagiarist said, this weekend over at the CPAC:

I was going to have a few comments on the other Democratic presidential candidate, John Edwards, but it turns out you have to go into rehab if you use the word “faggot,” so…

The ellipsis, of course, placeholding for the enormous roar of approval from the punters. —And a number of people here at the sinistral end of the Islets of Bloggerhans have said any of a number of insightful things about the remark and its fallout, among them the irreplaceable David Neiwert:

Coulter’s mockery in this case is aimed, of course, at the “political correctness” that conservatives love to inflate as a sign of liberal hypocrisy and stupidity, and perhaps overweening authoritarianism. In Coulter’s world, calling someone a “faggot” requires rehabilitation or “reeducation.” Pity the poor schlubs, she’s telling us, who just want to call a faggot a faggot.

In the real world, of course, calling someone a faggot isn’t cause for forced rehab—though it is the kind of ugly, hateful remark that may indicate a deeper problem (such as, say, substance abuse) that does require rehab. Coulter herself may want to look into this. She can ask her pal Rush for pointers, though I don’t think he’ll be much help.

David obviously doesn’t have a boss enamored of Grey’s Anatomy, or he’d know what it was Coulter had in mind:

Grey’s Anatomy star Isaiah Washington has entered a residential treatment facility in an effort to quell the controversy surrounding his anti-gay remarks—and save his job, Life & Style has learned exclusively.

According to an insider, Isaiah, who issued an apology for his statements on Jan. 18, agreed to undergo a psychological assessment after talks with ABC executives.

[...]

“ABC has told him he must enter a program to examine why he would say such hateful words,” the insider says.

So while there’s something so-last-month declassé about Coulter’s remarks, it’s not (just) a fevre-dream of reëducation camps pulled from her festering imagination. —Now, the various nuances of apologetics and instarehab culture in a creative community running on a speed-of-light spin cycle are beyond the scope of my current level of interest, but the context is something you’ll have to keep in mind when you’re mindful of this latest low-water mark in conservative rhetoric. (A back-of-the-envelope Google comparison would seem to indicate maybe one in ten are making the link.)

Of course, it doesn’t take an appreciation of nuance or even more than the average helping of insight to figure out what’s coming next: a chorus of straight conservatives wailing how they all call each other faggot, so why can’t we, I mean what’s the deal, it’s just a word, capped by Jonah Goldberg pretending to be bewildered by how pissed off people get when he cops an old Andrew Sullivan routine: “The faggots have got to go. I love gay people but I hate faggots. I am tired of faggots. Tired, tired, tired.” —Can’t you take a fucking joke?

—Filed 6915 days ago to Squawkbox; Comment [1].

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