Friday, June 25, 2004

 

From the "Colossal Waste of Time" Files...

Holy Macaroni.

The journalist's choice of presentation is affected, but it doesn't diminish the comedy of the story.

If you hanker for tales of behind-the-scenes bizarro, the Lordy, you're in for a feast.

(Via ArtsJournal.)

posted by Dan 5:35 PM
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Wednesday, June 23, 2004

 

And In The Morning, I Shall Rise & Work Anyway

Last night, my little girl had a return to the restless sleep of her infancy. I had wanted to sleep well, to get an early start on the day, but children have no interest in our schedules. Every hour Ruby woke, crying, like she did when she was three months old. Only now, she has the capacity for speech, the ability to offer alternatives to sleeping, like playing with her toys, or telling stories in the rocking chair. Every hour, I had to re-explain the situation to her. Every hour, she would re-explain the situation to me. Each session would end with me sitting next to her crib, singing folk-songs, Music for Aardvarks, and numbers from Mary Poppins.

By the 3:30 am session, I couldn't take it anymore. I knew I wasn't getting that early start, now I just wanted to get to work on time. I rubbed her back and told her that I was counting to ten, and then going to bed, and I wasn't coming back until the morning. By the time I reached three she screamed, "No count! No count!" So I said good night and went to bed. She sobbed as I stepped away.

And then she quickly settled down and went to sleep. Wow, I thought, that was surprisingly painless. I'd expected at least fifteen minutes of her painful howling, with me writhing in the bed, using every iota of willpower to keep from leaping to her rescue. I'm not too bad at this daddy gig, I guess. I kept my temper, held the line, and it worked. Except now, I was wide awake.

I looked over at my wife. The collar had slipped off of her shoulder. It looked like a scoop of ice cream in moonlight. Now's as good a time as we ever get, I thought, if Ruby's finally asleep. I kissed her shoulder. She responded. But out of the corner of my eye, I saw somebody peeking around the corner into the bedroom, than dart back.

Dammit. I must've left the garden door open. Now we've got an intruder. I quietly rose, peeked around the corner, and saw a woman with shoulder-length hair running into the kitchen. Wonderful. Either a stupid kid, or a drunk hipster who thought breaking and entering would be a hoot. Maybe she's the reason my daughter keeps waking up. I picked up a hammer from the shelf. No sense in underestimating this. Who knows who she is? And she could have a partner.

I stepped into the kitchen. She was standing there, in a jumpsuit, grinning at me. Behind her was her partner, a taller man, bigger than me. His jumpsuit matched hers. "Who are you?" I said. Or I tried to say. Suddenly my voice was hoarse. Making sound took a lot of effort. She grinned. I repeated, mustering all my strength to speak. "Who are you?" I felt a hand slap my chest.

It was my wife. I was in bed. Dreaming. It was hard to speak because I was talking in my sleep, as I often do. Talking loud.

I heard the cry from Ruby's crib. I went to her, picked her up, rocked her and sang songs. That was "She'll Be Coming 'Round the Mountain," sweetie. This next one is called, "Daddy's Subconscious Has a Sense of Humor"...

posted by Dan 12:29 PM
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Tuesday, June 22, 2004

 

An Open Letter to Michael Moore

Dear Michael:

I used to admire you.

I have wonderful memories of our first encounter, Roger & Me. It was playing at the local art house, the one in every mid-sized American city, the one that showed Spike Lee and Rocky Horror on Saturday nights. The smart, naughty movie theater. I loved Roger & Me. I especially loved the way you chased around GM CEO Roger Smith like a heckling kid. As a heckling kid, I felt a kinship.

I understood, and understand, that it isn't a documentary. It's comedic polemic, so I forgave your futzing with the facts, your arrangement of scenarios to give the appearance of the impromptu. Letterman did it, and so did you, and you were both funny, and that's all that mattered.

I continued to enjoy your mid-90s polemics, "The Awful Truth" and Canadian Bacon. They too were funny. "The Awful Truth" was shrill at times, and Canadian Bacon's gags were sometimes stale, but I blamed the former on the rigors of weekly production, and the latter on Alan Alda.

Then came Bowling for Columbine, and I realized that people no longer considered you a comedic polemecist, but a documentarian. I was confused, Roger. I don't believe that documentaries have to be dry and academic, but I do know that they need a healthy dose of facts. You played fast and loose with those, Michael, and I wouldn't have cared, if you were still a comedic polemicist, and not Hollywood's Darling Cub Reporter. I was glad you got Kmart to stop selling ammo to youngsters. That was well within the scope of your shambling activism. But you staged shots, Michael; you altered sequences to suit your narrative, you put words in people's mouths, you told falsehoods, and worst of all, you did it under the guise of an advocate for truth, only ditching that cap when the heat was on. Perhaps it was your award from the International Documentary Association for "Best Documentary of All Time" that was the final straw, but somewhere in the brouhaha of phony title cards and your faltering Everyman routine, I stepped off your train.

Now we have Fahrenheit 9-11, which you have stated is an op-ed piece, not a documentary. Good. Some will think it's a documentary, but you're not to blame for that, any more than John Lennon was to blame for Charlie Manson's Music Appreciation Course. And yet, Michael, you are still about to cross my better-hadn't-dare line. You're about to prove that your Man of the People bit is just as phony as -- and I'm just pulling a name out of the clear blue sky -- Bill O'Reilly's. Because you're threatening to do what Bill did, that is, sue people who disagree with you.

"We want the word out," says Mr. Moore..."Any attempts to libel me will be met by force," he said, not an ounce of humor in his familiar voice. "The most important thing we have is truth on our side. If they persist in telling lies, knowingly telling a lie with malice, then I'll take them to court."...

Mr. Moore is readying for a conservative counterattack, saying he has created a political-style "war room" to offer an instant response to any assault on the film's credibility.

That is whiney-baby talk, Michael. That is the resort of pampered celebrities, like when O'Reilly threatened Franken. Real men don't brag about their war-room and their lawyers, ready to slap a suit for vague, unspecified libels. And I'll tell you, people smell weakness when you announce such things in papers. If you have a press agent worth their salt, they will tell you to back off this line, now, because it's a good way to become a punch-line. As a comedian, I'm sure you can appreciate the seriousness of that.

For further instruction, see Slate.

I hope that you will come back from that phantom land of litigiousness. It's unbecoming, even for a man who wears his pajamas to work.

With Love,

Dan

posted by Dan 4:49 PM
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