When Irish Eyes are Smiling

At left: Katie and David Cassidy. Photo credit: Celebrity Photos.







Mr Daisy was watching "Arrow" DVDs, and the actress playing Laurel seemed so familiar to me. It was driving me crazy. I KNEW I'd seen her.

Her eyes. Very distinctive. I knew I had seen them before.

I can usually spot actors in various roles, even if they are wildly different. It's something I enjoy doing--trying to remember where I've seen them; which movie or TV show they were in previously. I especially enjoy solving the puzzle if many years have passed and they look recognizably older. (i.e. Did you realize that's 17-year-old Laurence Fishburne, primarily known to the younger generation as Morpheus, playing 'Clean' in Apocalypse Now?)

But I couldn't remember seeing this person AT ALL. I was confused. Why do her eyes look so familiar?



And so, finally hollering uncle and officially giving up, I went to the indispensable Internet Movie Database, that great settler of marital disputes.

She is David Cassidy's DAUGHTER. Ahh, so that's it! She assuredly has his eyes; Irish Eyes are Smiling.

Mr Daisy offered the observation that I had stared at David Cassidy's eyes on my bedroom wall for YEARS as a teenager, along with The Monkees, The Who, David Bowie, Iggy Pop, Lou Reed, Michael Jackson, and so many others.

And he's right. David Cassidy's eyes were lodged in my memory. They must have made quite an impression, to make his daughter appear so familiar to me.

~*~

When I visited my father in Indiana as a kid (usually a traumatic experience), I would try to stay away from his house as long as possible by hanging out with my cousins. I liked them a lot, and they thought I was cool for being from a "big city"... yes, you are now wondering why anyone would think Columbus, Ohio, is a "big city"--but in comparison to my father's hometown, it certainly was.

While we would be eating ice cream in front of what was then called the local Five and Dime, somebody would walk by, stop dead in their tracks and then do a double-take and ask me if I was _____'s daughter. In small towns, everyone knows everyone else.

It was galling, intrusive, but strangely validating. I hardly knew my father; years would go by when I didn't see him. Then he would inexplicably get a sudden attack of parental responsibility and drive across state lines to collect me for the summer. In Indiana, everyone would oooh and ahhh at our striking resemblance, which even extended to how we laughed, how we gestured, and our general 'theatrical' nature. It kinda blew my mind, since I had always believed you had to be raised by someone to "be like" them (not just LOOK like them) and it seemed that somehow, that had turned out NOT to be true at all. My mother raised me, not my father, and yet somehow, I was so much like him.

And so it is with young Katie. I knew I'd seen her before, knew she reminded me of someone I had watched before, very closely. It isn't just her eyes, of course. She is similarly LIKE him, as I was "like" my father. "Resemblances" are such an odd phenomenon; it isn't only a physical thing.

The cars stop, the people turn around on the sidewalk and ask Who's Your Daddy?

Everyone's gone to the movies

The futuristic movie SURROGATES (2009) unexpectedly blew my mind... a culture in which affluent humans prefer to stay ensconced in their homes, behind closed doors, directing their (good-looking, able-bodied, young) android-selves (through which they see, smell, hear, taste reality as experienced by the android) was not as far removed from everyday experience as I thought it would be. I mean, I am typing on this contraption that people now use like a 'surrogate'--right? Various events are already not regarded as "real" to people unless they've seen them on TV, and it is through a similar smallish screen that people in SURROGATES engage their world. The people who don't, are either too weird or too poor, and are therefore dubbed "meatbags" for not getting with the surrogates-program.

Scificool.com gave the movie a mostly-negative review:

It is the future, and lifelike robotic surrogates have become commonplace. In fact, they’re so commonplace that only a small portion of the population don’t use them, and these “dregs” of society have cut themselves off from the rest of the world to live in inner city reservations. They are led by The Prophet (Ving Rhames), a mysterious, homeless-looking fella who preaches revolution against the machines. The story proper begins when two surrogates are destroyed, resulting in the death of their human hosts – impossibility, we’re told by the creators of the machines.

This is, in fact, the first-ever recorded murder of a human while “jacked in”. In a world where crime is no longer a viable human endeavor, and murder is practically non-existent thanks to the presence of surrogates, the FBI, led by Greer (Willis) and Peters (Radha Mitchell) are understandably shocked. But as Greer and Peters chases the killer, they begin to realize that a larger conspiracy is at work.

But it wasn't the plot that bothered me, it was the underlying IDEAS the plot was based on. The kids at Scificool are already shrugging, but *I* was disoriented by the basic premise.

It was disturbing. I assume that's why it went straight to DVD ... nobody will pay money to go to a theater (their surrogate might) to ponder at length how seriously messed-up we are.

Because, you know, if there were surrogates, it would be just like the movie... that is the truly disturbing, disorienting thing. The perfection of the androids (like the perfection of movie stars) is intimidating, and the meatbags are at a clear disadvantage. A world of beautiful, fit androids means that more people would opt to live this way... in so many ways, we are herd animals. What if the herd stayed home en masse and sent androids out to work? Lots of people have said (when I have described the movie to them) they'd love the option of sending the android to work for them. But would that persona take over your life, becoming the only acceptable facade you can present to the world?

Mr Daisy has met the authors of the graphic novel, Robert Venditti and Brett Weldele, who say they weren't inspired by Philip K Dick or JG Ballard, but were most assuredly inspired by William Gibson. Bruce Willis doesn't mind going back and forth in his role; in the first half he looks like a movie star, blond hair, about 32 years old... then he abandons the surrogate for his true meatbag self, and he is bald, obviously aging, and banged up in a fight with scars on his face for the rest of the movie. The juxtaposition between him and the beautiful androids is striking. (I found Radha Mitchell largely unrecognizable, so she made an excellent android.)

The ideas in this movie gave me nightmares and continue to do so.

~*~

During the last couple of Thursdays, I huddled up with my bowl of popcorn to watch a night of fabulous Merchant/Ivory films on Turner Classic Movies... but wait. What?

Ask yourself, if a married couple made a slew of amazing, fantastic, Oscar-winning movies, do you think they might mention that? They mention Tracy and Hepburn, who were not even legally married. They mention Bogart and Bacall. They mention Judy Garland and Vincent Minelli. And these are only off the top of my head.

Ismail Merchant and James Ivory were partners. You know, PARTNERS? THOSE KIND of partners?

I recently got the smackdown on another blog for fulminating about this after the recent death of Ismail Merchant; I was self-righteously informed in short order that Merchant, in particular, was a "private man" and IF he was gay, it's nobody's business.

Really? And who decided that? Why is it nobody's business? Bullshit, of course it is. When Spencer Tracy protested that he and Katharine Hepburn's affair was nobody's business, did anybody listen? (Tracy was already married and as a Catholic, would not get a divorce; their decades-long affair was always technically an "adulterous" affair.) Why are we suddenly being polite and respectful when some celebrity tells us something is not our business? Since when?

I think some people don't WANT to know.

The fact that these great movies were made by loving partners, is a major reason why they are so wonderful. It is clear that the director and producer had a unified vision, and worked in harmony to bring it to the audience. Just as people enjoyed the witty repartee of Tracy/Hepburn or the sexual electricity of Taylor/Burton or Newman/Woodward... these couples crackled onscreen and made audiences curious about their private lives. Movie magazines delivered all the goods. They were not allowed to declare their private lives off limits, try as they might.

It was the stunning beauty of these films, that we now call "Merchant-Ivory" (a trusted brand name, a sign of high quality) that first made me curious also. How could these men, from such different backgrounds, make such identifiable, signature films, with such a definable point of view? When I discovered they were life-partners, I was not surprised. In fact, it explains so much about their work.

But alas, nobody will mention their domestic partnership when introducing their work on classic movie networks. They are officially "artistic collaborators" only.

Again, we see how gay people are disappeared by the culture at large, as heterosexuality, even openly illicit heterosexuality, is heralded.

~*~

NOTE: Today's blog post title is of course from STEELY DAN. I'd add the song itself, but I could only find a demo version, an outtake version and a 90s live version... arrrgh, if I can't have the exact version I first heard on KATY LIED, I won't print any of them. (musical snobbery)

But the one I linked is the closest.

Sing Out Louise! Smile, Baby!

Graphic from Yellowdog Granny.









I am hoping to make it down to Columbia for the Republican CNN dog-and-pony-show (debate, I mean), but so far, no vehicular luck. Still panhandling for a ride, if any of you brave souls plan to go down there tomorrow to check out the Democratic Process In Action (grunts for emphasis). The Ron Paul people are having their rally directly afterwards, and that sounds like a good place to start witnessing the Third Party Gospel. I'm on it! Well okay, I would ordinarily be on it, if I had a car that could safely sustain a hundred-mile round trip without a thorough examination, which I don't.

Yes, yes, I know, if I had been a conscientious DoBee [1] I would have gotten my oil changed and tires rotated and what-all, but as an unemployed person I have not seen THE POINT. (See, she pauses to point out, HOW UNEMPLOYMENT NEGATIVELY INFLUENCES THE ECONOMY?!?) At any rate, here I am, send notes and emails and Twitters and Facebook IMs and what-have-you, if you are going down to our illustrious state capital to protest or hang out with the Ron Paul people tomorrow.

My first radio excursion on Saturday morning went well. Gregg roused himself from his cardiologist's floor and aided me wonderfully! I was scared to death, and had the proverbial death-grip on my old wooden antique rosary from Notre Dame (Indiana, not France), which was left to me by a deceased female neighbor named Butch, so its very lucky. In addition, I inexplicably required a huge Double Mocha Frappucino to get it done, but I did it! (Next week, will probably be able to make do with a regular single Vanilla.)

PLEASE DROP IN AND LISTEN! WFISradio.com, 1600 AM or 94.9 FM on your radio dial... or online. 9:00 AM on Saturday mornings, which is an ungodly weekend hour, and I apologize for that.

~*~

Be-bopping around the internet today, whilst watching Doris Day (yall know how much I love Doris) in With Six You Get Eggroll. A bad movie that nonetheless fascinated me as a wide-eyed, gullible youngster... as Single Mom-with-kids marries Single Dad-with-kids, and they wholesomely "blend" their families. As many of you know, I desperately wanted my mother to get married and behave in this wonderfully-domestic fashion, particularly if it meant she would stop wearing the bubble hairdos, popping amphetamines, singing in the country and western bands every night, drinking and smoking like a rat-pack member, marrying people she had just met and dammit, ACT LIKE SHE WAS SUPPOSED TO. [2] Ha.

Of course, now I realize, neither did Doris. If I had only known!

Will somebody tell me: Did wholesome TV-dad Brian Keith die of AIDS or is that just a rumor? Am I mixing him up with Robert Reed, since the plot of this movie is where they obviously came up with THE BRADY BUNCH? (It seemed that after Robert Reed died, it was suddenly open season on the nice TV-dads and magically, they all became gay overnight.)

Okay, checked Wikipedia: No, not true. Suicide. I knew it was something uncommon.

A shame. I always liked him.

The sweet, precocious little child-star, Anissa Jones, whom I liked so much on Brian Keith's old show, Family Affair, was an accidental drug death at age 18. We were only 6 months apart in age. The other child on the show, Johnny Whitaker, has spoken at length about his addiction problems, also, and is now a drug counselor.

I guess these Hollywood-fantasy families really were fake, weren't they?

~*~

[1] To the non-baby boomers, this is from the children's TV show Romper Room and has no relationship to the word DOOBIE as a joint or the Doobie Brothers. There were Do Bees and Don't Bees, and of course, we all tried to be good DO BEES! (We marginally succeeded.)

[2] Mama! Get out your white dress/you've done it before/without much success (Stephen Sondheim to the rescue). When I first heard this song as a kid, at maybe 8 years old, I sobbed my little heart out. (And it's where we get today's blog post title.)

See, I thought, the stipper's children understand!

I thought the French had class?

Photo from the UK Guardian.



Gerard Depardieu publicly pees on a plane:

A flight attendant told the French actor that he would have to wait to use the bathroom until after takeoff. So he just relieved himself on the plane's carpet. No biggie!

Another passenger went to French radio station Europe 1 with her eyewitness account of the urination, saying a visibly drunk Depardieu repeatedly asked to use the bathroom, but was told to wait 15 minutes.

"And then he did it on the floor..." the witness said. "No one said anything. It all happened with courtesy."

After the actor peed on the floor, the plane had to turn right back around and return to the gate, where a crew reportedly spent two hours cleaning up the peed-on plane.

A CityJet spokesman confirmed the incident to Agence France, but did not say whether Depardieu was kicked off the flight.

Depardieu, 62, has a history of drunken antics. In 2009, the actor beat up a car, smashing in the windshield with his bare fist. In 1990 he was convicted of drunk driving.

"It all happened with courtesy?" Say what? (I often do not understand Europeans, even when they speak English.)

Ask yourself some fun questions: what if a black hip-hop star, or even Courtney Love behaved like this?

There really ARE different standards of behavior for different people. A white European movie star who pisses on the airplane carpet is regarded as embarrassing and even amusingly gross. Other people acting similarly could be (and have been) regarded as a threat or as dangerously out-of-control. Even though Depardieu has a history of actual violent behavior, Anderson Cooper couldn't stop giggling while reporting this story on CNN. Would such a stunt be equally funny from an African-American NFL star? Just sayin.

It all depends on who you are. The laws are literally enforced differently, depending on what observers are feeling about who you are and the persona you project. That is what "profiling" means. It means you make people uncomfortable.

Make them comfortable, and as the world's most successful con-men will attest, you can get away with anything.

PS: Gerard apologizes, blames prostate.

Quote of the week

[The television commercial] is not merely therapy. It is instant therapy. Indeed, it puts forward a psychological theory of unique axioms: The commercial asks us to believe that all modern problems are solvable, that they are solvable fast, and that they are solvable fast through the interventions of technology, techniques and chemistry. This is, of course, a preposterous theory about the roots of discontent, and would appear so to anyone hearing or reading it. But the commercial disdains exposition, for that takes time and invites argument. It is a very bad commercial indeed that engages the viewer in wondering about the validity of the point being made. That is why most commercials use the literary device of the pseudo-parable as a means of doing their work. Such "parables" as The Ring Around the Collar, The Lost Travelers Checks, and The Phone Call from the Son Far Away not only have irrefutable emotional power but, like Biblical parables, are unambiguously didactic. The television commercial is about products only in the sense that the story of Jonah is about the anatomy of whales, which is to say, it isn't. Which is to say further, it is about how one ought to live one's life. Moreover, commercials have the advantage of vivid visual symbols through which we may easily learn the lessons being taught. Among these lessons are that short and simple messages are preferable to long and complex ones; that drama is to be preferred over exposition; that being sold solutions is better than being confronted with questions about problems. Such beliefs would naturally have implications for our orientation to political discourse; that is to say, we may begin to accept as normal certain assumptions about the political domain that either derive from or are amplified by the television commercial. For example, a person who has seen one million television commercials might well believe that all political problems have fast solutions through simple measures--or ought to. Or that complex language is not to be trusted, and that all problems lend themselves to theatrical expression. Or that argument is in bad taste, and leads only to an intolerable uncertainty. Such a person may also come to believe that it is not necessary to draw any line between politics and other forms of social life. Just as a television commercial will use an athlete, an actor, a musician, a novelist, a scientist or a countess to speak for the virtues of a product in no way within their domain of expertise, television also frees politicians from the limited field of their own expertise. Political figures may show up anywhere, at any time, doing anything, without being thought odd, presumptuous or in any way out of place. Which is to say, they have become assimilated into the general television culture as celebrities.

Neil Postman, Amusing Ourselves to Death, 1986

Charlie Sheen: Hero of the hour?

As you have undoubtedly heard, Charlie Sheen's live shows didn't go over so well over the weekend. Practicing alcoholics are never as funny as they think they are, in the long haul. With editing, yes. For a whole show, no. From ABC:

After all but getting booed off stage at the Detroit, Mich. debut of his live show, "My Violent Torpedo of Truth/Defeat Is Not an Option," it's unclear if or how Sheen's month-long tour will proceed.

Anticipation ran high for the event. Ticket holders milled about the Fox Theater in downtown Detroit before the 8 p.m. start time, sometimes yelling Sheen catchphrases like "tiger blood" and "winning" to rev up fellow attendees. As of Saturday afternoon, all 4,700 seats at the theater had been sold.

...

Sheen managed to up the crowd's enthusiasm for the start of his act. Before his official debut, he played a montage of video clips including scenes from "Apocalypse Now," the film starring Sheen's father that Sheen claims to be obsessed with. He then strutted on stage with his "goddesses," Bree Olsen and Natalie Kenly, who proceeded to engage in a passionate kiss, much to the delight of the crowd.

They then went backstage to burn a bowling shirt similar to the one Sheen wore on "Two and a Half Men." While footage of the shirt on fire in a garbage can played on the big screen behind him, Sheen urged the crowd to hold up their lighters, asking, "Doesn't anyone smoke cigarettes anymore?"

The spectacle mirrored the ranting and raving Sheen's done online and in interviews over the past few weeks. But after that, things took a turn for the weird.

Sheen stood at a podium in front of a pseudo-presidential looking seal saying "Warlock States of Sheen" and launched into a nonsensical speech seemingly directed at his critics.

He started, "Tonight I am delivered by cyber cloud, with the stomp and glisten of heaven's produce section." He then talked about burning something "down from the mount of olive" and "gasoline rainbows." He frequently damned "trolls" -- presumably, "Two and a Half Men" creator Chuck Lorre and his former bosses at CBS and Warner Brothers. He called Sarah Palin a "whore" for no apparent reason.

No apparent reason? Of course there is an apparent reason, that you media-swine refuse to take seriously: He's a misogynist pig.

The fact that so many people find his woman-hating amusing and worth celebrating, lets us know exactly how far we have to go.

Anna Holmes' piece in the New York Times, linked above, details all the woman-pounding Charlie has humorously engaged in over the years. And as a rich, privileged white man, he gets by with all of it (paging Chris Brown! Chris Brown, call your office)... and of course, since so many of the women getting pounded are mere actresses, models and sex workers, they 'deserve' it:

A woman’s active embrace of the fame monster or participation in the sex industry, we seem to say, means that she compromises her right not to be assaulted, let alone humiliated, insulted or degraded; it’s part of the deal. The promise of a modern Cinderella ending — attention, fame, the love and savings account of a rich man — is always the assumed goal.

Objectification and abuse, it follows, is not only an accepted occupational hazard for certain women, but something that men like Mr. Sheen have earned the right to indulge in. (Mr. Sheen reportedly once said that he didn’t pay prostitutes for the sex; he paid them “to leave.”)

Haha, ain't that funny? Is he serious or joking?--go the predictable onlooker-comments... ohhh, he's just being funny. Actually, I think he means everything he says, and he has repeatedly proven that he is willing to back it up with a nice right to the jaw, if any nearby female should argue.

Indeed, it’s difficult for many to discern any difference between Mr. Sheen’s real-life, round-the-clock, recorded outbursts and the sexist narratives devised by reality television producers, in which women are routinely portrayed as backstabbing floozies, and dreadful behavior by males is explained away as a side effect of unbridled passion or too much pilsner.

And so, a pricey live show-tour by a woman-hater, or should I say ANOTHER woman-hater (there are oodles of rock stars and hip-hop stars and country-and-western stars who have gotten plenty rich off of women-hating... paging Eminem! paging Ted Nugent! etc) ... and then I see Phyllis Schlafly (barfs for emphasis) on C-Span over the weekend, telling us that feminism is over with and no longer necessary, and what are these harridans and harpies still so pissed off about?

One wonders if she has flipped her channels lately, over to ABC (live video of Charlie at above link) or to the millions of other outlets that have advertised Charlie's zealously-sexist antics over recent months. Hello? What planet is Schlafly on?

They deserve each other, most assuredly.

Elizabeth Taylor 1932-2011

The most beautiful woman in the history of the world (and the subject of Daisy's major lifelong celebrity crush!) has passed on... I simply can't talk about it. :(

Below, some of my favorite photos of Elizabeth, from an older post.

Old Hollywood is officially over. Goodbye, dearest Elizabeth.

PS: You know you're getting old when your icons start dropping like flies...

~*~

Scientology Examined by the New Yorker

"When we need somebody haunted we investigate. When we investigate we do so noisily always." - L. Ron Hubbard, MANUAL OF JUSTICE, 1959



I first met Scientologists when they showed up (uninvited) at various and sundry Yippie events, particularly Smoke-Ins, throughout the 70s. They seemed to think they could convert pot-smokers. This is possibly because the only time their theology makes any real sense is when you are stoned out of your mind. We regarded them as just another kooky 70s cult, like the Moonies, who would usually show up wherever and whenever the Church of Scientology did. It's like they were competing for the same members.

The Scientologists used to set up shop in a little booth (always smiling smiling smiling in a spooky, eager-beaver fashion), with those little tin-can things for "auditing"--called an E-meter. You see the E-meter, you know who it is.

A band of Yippies trooped up to them at one such local event, rudely pawing the sacred E-meter and peppering them with dumb questions. Finally, one Yippie put one tin can to his ear as the second Yippie started bellowing into it: "What?! What?! Play some BLACK SABBATH!"... causing onlookers to guffaw appreciatively. Rather than becoming merely grim and humorless (as Christians might) or rolling their eyes and telling us all to GROW UP (as right-wingers would), the Scientologists suddenly appeared completely furious and could barely contain their anger. One became red-faced and livid: "Back off!" he hissed at the Black Sabbath fan, who seemed shocked and put the tin can down, appropriately backing off. "Those people are crazy," he whispered to me later. "You can feel the insanity vibe, just radiating off them," he said. Wow, really?

Some years later, I would walk by the same E-meter audit-set-up in downtown Columbus, Ohio (in front of the State House, no less), accompanied by some bright yellow balloons. My daughter, about three years old at the time, pointed at the gaily-colored balloons and wanted one. Pointing at the auditing cans (flanked by numerous copies of the tell-tale book Dianetics), I replied, "You don't want those balloons, hon, those are Scientologist Balloons!" --chortling at my own wit. Then I saw a business-suited-woman standing near the booth, and felt embarrassed she had heard me. I felt sheepish and giggled (exactly as I might act in front of a nun), but the Scientologist (auditing-Thetan, in this case) wasn't amused. She gave me the most hateful, evil look I have ever witnessed--and this includes nasty looks from right-wing maniacs and Reaganoids I have protested against over the decades. It was a glowering, focused, scary look. Damn, these people mean business, I thought. And from that point onward, I was very interested in the Church of Scientology. Rather like The Visitors who come in peace... well, sure they do.

Scientology-founder L. Ron Hubbard once wrote an amazing horror novel titled FEAR, which can scare the beJesus right out of you. After reading it and having a few nightmares, I realized that a man who could write like this could easily get to the bottom of an unruly or confused psyche and turn it upside down in record time. (I could not even bear to put the novel down, and I knew it was by L. Ron Hubbard.) FEAR's level of restrained paranoia/freak-out is incredible; the dramatic tension is not fully resolved until the last pages. Any religion started by this guy is going to be BLOODY HEAVY indeed, I thought.

And now, we have a famous Scientology-defector they can't eliminate, drive crazy or simply ignore: movie director Paul Haggis, who has gone public. He reached the second-highest level in the Church, Operating Thetan VII.

I have seen the New Yorker article titled The Apostate: Paul Haggis vs. the Church of Scientology posted in about a half-dozen places already, so let me add my link.

It's long, but contains some real doozies. Brother and sister scandalmongers, you must read it:

Many Hollywood actors were drawn into the church by a friend or by reading “Dianetics”; a surprising number of them, though, came through the Beverly Hills Playhouse. For decades, the resident acting coach there was Milton Katselas, and he taught hundreds of future stars, including Ted Danson, Michelle Pfeiffer, and George Clooney. “Most of Hollywood went through that class,” Anne Archer told me.

...

Jim Gordon, a veteran police officer in Los Angeles, and also an aspiring actor, spent ten years at the Playhouse, starting in 1990. He told me that Scientology “recruited a ton of kids out of that school.” Like Scientology, the Playhouse presented a strict hierarchy of study; under Katselas’s tutelage, students graduated from one level to the next. As Gordon advanced within the Playhouse, he began recognizing many students from the roles they were getting in Hollywood. “You see a lot of people you know from TV,” Gordon says. He began feeling the pull of the church. “When you started off, they weren’t really pushing it, but as you progressed through the Playhouse’s levels Scientology became more of a focus,” he told me. After a few years, he joined. Like the courses at the Playhouse, Scientology offered actors a method that they could apply to both their lives and their careers.

Finally, an explanation for why so many actors are Scientologists; they actually targeted the industry from the inside. I had mistakenly believed they zeroed in on celebrities from the outside, you know, like they did the pot-smokers. Nope, they get them while they are studying for something else entirely. Interesting.

Katselas received a ten-per-cent commission from the church on the money contributed by his students.

Katselas died in 2008, and Scientology no longer has a connection with the Beverly Hills Playhouse. Anne Archer told me that the reputation of Katselas’s class as, in Gordon’s words, a “Scientology clearinghouse” is overblown. “His classes averaged about fifty or sixty people, and there would be maybe seven to ten people in it who would be Scientologists,” she says. But the list of Scientologists who have studied at the Playhouse is long—it includes Jenna Elfman, Giovanni Ribisi, and Jason Lee—and the many protégés Katselas left behind helped cement the relationship between Hollywood and the church.

More goodies from the article, which you should read and pass around:

David S. Touretzky, a computer-science professor at Carnegie Mellon University, has done extensive research on Scientology. (He is not a defector.) He estimates that the coursework alone now costs nearly three hundred thousand dollars, and, with the additional auditing and contributions expected of upper-level members, the cumulative cost of the coursework may exceed half a million dollars. (The church says that there are no fixed fees, adding, “Donations requested for ‘courses’ at Church of Scientology begin at $50 and could never possibly reach the amount suggested.”)

That pesky inflation!

And by the way, although the church doesn't like it when you refer to the E-meter as "tin cans"--according to this article, it STARTED as mere SOUP CANS, seriously:

During auditing, Haggis grasped a cylindrical electrode in each hand; when he first joined Scientology, the electrodes were empty soup cans. An imperceptible electrical charge ran from the meter through his body. The auditor asked systematic questions aimed at detecting sources of “spiritual distress.” Whenever Haggis gave an answer that prompted the E-Meter’s needle to jump, that subject became an area of concentration until the auditor was satisfied that Haggis was free of the emotional consequences of the troubling experience.

And finally... yes, at long last, we're getting to Xenu! You knew he was coming!

Only a really great horror/sci-fi mind could have hatched Xenu:

The church, which considers it sacrilegious for the uninitiated to read its confidential scriptures, got a restraining order, but the Los Angeles Times obtained a copy of the [Thetan] material and printed a summary. Suddenly, the secrets that had stunned Paul Haggis in a locked room were public knowledge.

“A major cause of mankind’s problems began 75 million years ago,” the Times wrote, when the planet Earth, then called Teegeeack, was part of a confederation of ninety planets under the leadership of a despotic ruler named Xenu. “Then, as now, the materials state, the chief problem was overpopulation.” Xenu decided “to take radical measures.” The documents explained that surplus beings were transported to volcanoes on Earth. “The documents state that H-bombs far more powerful than any in existence today were dropped on these volcanoes, destroying the people but freeing their spirits—called thetans—which attached themselves to one another in clusters.” Those spirits were “trapped in a compound of frozen alcohol and glycol,” then “implanted” with “the seed of aberrant behavior.” The Times account concluded, “When people die, these clusters attach to other humans and keep perpetuating themselves.”

As that wise old shopkeeper on the old Friday the 13th TV show was always saying: It all makes a terrible sense.

And you wondered when Tom would show up.

In 2004, Cruise received a special Scientology award: the Freedom Medal of Valor. In a ceremony held in England, Miscavige called Cruise “the most dedicated Scientologist I know.” The ceremony was accompanied by a video interview with the star. Wearing a black turtleneck, and with the theme music from “Mission: Impossible” playing in the background, Cruise said, “Being a Scientologist, you look at someone and you know absolutely that you can help them. So, for me, it really is K.S.W.”—initials that stand for “Keeping Scientology Working.” He went on, “That policy to me has really gone—phist!” He made a vigorous gesture with his hand. “Boy! There’s a time I went through and I said, ‘You know what? When I read it, you know, I just went poo! This is it!’ ” Later, when the video was posted on YouTube and viewed by millions who had no idea what he was talking about, Cruise came across as unhinged.

Ya think?

(More fun with Tom below. Could not resist!)

As the father of two gay daughters, Haggis finally broke with the church over their funding of anti-gay Proposition 8, which banned gay marriage in California. And then he studied and found out more...

As they say, read it all.

~*~



[NOTE: The only other time I have written about Scientology at DEAD AIR, was about the death of Jett Travolta, which was predictably covered up.]

Edit: The last few seconds of the video cautions that all copies are quickly removed by the church of Scientology, so you should download it yourself and upload it to YouTube after this copy is removed. Create a different account for this purpose, since they go after that, too.

Open: An Autobiography by Andre Agassi

Andre Agassi's autobiography, Open, was surprisingly wonderful. How rare to find an athlete with such articulate self-awareness. His memoir thoroughly convinced me that he really does hate the game of tennis, the game brutally forced on him as a child. Unfortunately, he can't quite stay away from it either, because it is the thing he knows how to do best in the world; the thing that makes him feel in control (as he never was during his childhood). A fascinating contradiction, and likely one that many child-stars have experienced.

What I kept wondering is: Why does this work so well?

Yes, we know it's bad to harass children to death...but take a look at those boffo results. (Obviously, this is what dad was thinking, too.)

Granted, it doesn't work on every child prodigy... After all, there were three sons before Andre, who failed and couldn't deliver, forever regarded by their father as disappointments and losers. Andre felt the pressure, as another tortured child, Michael Jackson (fifth son, to Andre's fourth) certainly felt it. I also think of Mozart, Patty Duke and countless others, including even Agassi's two wives: Brooke Shields and Steffi Graf. (Agassi is so deeply defined by his childhood-prodigy experience, that I seriously doubt he could bond with any woman who did not in some way share it.) At one point, Shields refers to Jackson as "just like us, he never had a childhood"--and it is clear that the show-biz kids identify very strongly with each other; the psycho-stage-parent thing is its own unique gestalt. (To his credit, Agassi doesn't take potshots at the infamous Teri Shields, but I would have.)

Agassi's father, an Iranian immigrant and former boxer working in Las Vegas (extremely determined to hit the big time), started on him when he was tiny. Andre daily faced a machine nicknamed "The Monster"--shooting tennis balls at him at a furiously fast rate. And little Andre hit them back, over and over and over, hour after hour, day after day. These sections are very difficult to read, since they are basically an account of child abuse. But it's legal child abuse. The book introduces us to a whole world of tennis camps and stage-dads, endlessly haranguing and pimping the kids. It's grueling and horrific. The Florida "tennis camp" is like Basic Training; they even sleep in barracks and eat gruel, shipped out by bus to a local school for prearranged half-days, which guarantees the kids plenty of time to practice, practice, practice. Hours and hours and hours. Andre learns to channel his considerable anger over these circumstances, into his game. He becomes a very aggressive, precocious player and enjoys beating everyone who takes him on. As a teenager, the capitalists come calling, giving him the endorsements he needs to drop out of school (in ninth grade) and hit the road. For a working-class kid who has always lived hand-to-mouth, the money is jaw-dropping and intoxicating, and he is quickly hooked on the life of a star. He collects an entourage, and the real games begin.

My question for discussion is: Does this child-prodigy-routine work or doesn't it?

I offer Andre, Mozart and Michael Jackson as proof that their dads seemed to be onto something. And as long as stage-parents can produce these kinds of results? The Oliver Twist-tennis camps will still be in business.

Would he have won eight Grand Slams without his father's horrible machine, firing those endless tennis balls at him and teaching him to return even the strongest, deadliest serve at astonishing speeds?

Can we make champions without child abuse? Would Michael Jackson and Mozart have existed without child abuse? Of course not.

It's a paradox. We watch the champions, we watch the movies, we watch the stars, and we are dazzled... but we also disapprove of the process by which they learned to dazzle us.

I speak as one long dazzled by Agassi's return volleys. And now I ask myself: was I dazzled by the results of child abuse? Apparently so.

Andre makes us aware. He had the awareness forced on him, and now, he shares it with us.

SAD (but three-dimensional!) update

So there I was on Sunday night, idly flipping channels as usual, and I suddenly came upon numerous hotshot CELEBRITIES with million-dollar winter-tans, trillion-dollar designer-gowns, thousand-dollar botoxed facial expressions (or lack of them) and fancy upswept hairdos, wearing... what?! 3-D glasses! They looked like my dearly departed grandpa at the drive-in movie! (In fact, it was a segment of the Grammy Awards.)

I admit, I laughed my ass off and made Mr Daisy come look at the spectacle of rich people with astronomically-expensive faces, hair and makeup, wearing cheap-ass 3-D glasses that looked like they came out of a Crackerjack box. HAHAHAHA! Did they know how stupid they looked? DEAD AIR certainly hopes so!

Interestingly, I can't find any photos of this humorous event online... did the stars agree to do it only if nobody took photos of audience-members while they looked dopey? If I'd known that, I woulda grabbed my camera for a video capture...


EDIT: In response to this post, skinner.fm has helpfully provided us with video captures of celebs in 3-D glasses at the Grammy Awards.--DD

~*~

In other news, blogging is becoming an old people's thang (something I have long suspected!):

Could it be that blogs have become online fodder for the — gasp! — more mature reader?

A new study has found that young people are losing interest in long-form blogging, as their communication habits have become increasingly brief, and mobile. Tech experts say it doesn't mean blogging is going away. Rather, it's gone the way of the telephone and e-mail — still useful, just not sexy.

...

The study, released Wednesday by the Pew Internet & American Life Project, found that 14 percent of Internet youths, ages 12 to 17, now say they blog, compared with just over a quarter who did so in 2006. And only about half in that age group say they comment on friends' blogs, down from three-quarters who did so four years ago.

Pew found a similar drop in blogging among 18- to 29-year-olds.

Overall, Pew estimates that roughly one in 10 online adults maintain a blog — a number that has remained consistent since 2005, when blogs became a more mainstream activity. In the U.S., that would mean there are more than 30 million adults who blog.

"That's a pretty remarkable thing to have gone from zero to 30 million in the last 10 years," says David Sifry, founder of blog search site Technorati.

But according to the data, that population is aging.

The Pew study found, for instance, that the percentage of Internet users age 30 and older who maintain a blog increased from 7 percent in 2007 to 11 percent in 2009.

Pew's over-18 data, collected in the last half of last year, were based on interviews with 2,253 adults and have a margin of error of plus or minus 2.7 percentage points. The under-18 data came from phone interviews with 800 12- to 17-year-olds and their parents. The margin of error for that data was plus or minus 3.8 percentage points.

So why are young people less interested in blogging?

The explosion of social networking is one obvious answer. The Pew survey found that nearly three-quarters of 12- to 17-year-olds who have access to the Internet use social networking sites, such as Facebook. That compares with 55 percent four years ago.

With social networking has come the ability to do a quick status update and that has "kind of sucked the life out of long-form blogging," says Amanda Lenhart, a Pew senior researcher and lead author of the latest study.

More young people are also accessing the Internet from their mobile phones, only increasing the need for brevity. The survey found, for instance, that half of 18- to 29-year-olds had done so.

All of that rings true to Sarah Rondeau, a freshman at the College of the Holy Cross in Worcester, Mass.

"It's a matter of typing quickly. People these days don't find reading that fun," the 18-year-old student says.

I can't improve on that last line. ;)

(Thanks to Vanessa for the link!)

~*~

Pardon my spotty blogging over the past month, sports fans. I have had a pretty pronounced bout of Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) this year, and my reliable herbal standbys, Rhodiola, Ashwanghanda and Ginseng have not helped me as much as they usually do. And then I read the Newsweek article, about how all of these BigPharma anti-depressants may be just as good as a placebo (OR AN HERB, Daisy interjected):

The research had shown that antidepressants help about three quarters of people with depression who take them, a consistent finding that serves as the basis for the oft-repeated mantra "There is no question that the safety and efficacy of antidepressants rest on solid scientific evidence," as psychiatry professor Richard Friedman of Weill Cornell Medical College recently wrote in The New York Times. But ever since a seminal study in 1998, whose findings were reinforced by landmark research in The Journal of the American Medical Association last month, that evidence has come with a big asterisk. Yes, the drugs are effective, in that they lift depression in most patients. But that benefit is hardly more than what patients get when they, unknowingly and as part of a study, take a dummy pill—a placebo. As more and more scientists who study depression and the drugs that treat it are concluding, that suggests that antidepressants are basically expensive Tic Tacs.

Hence the moral dilemma. The placebo effect—that is, a medical benefit you get from an inert pill or other sham treatment—rests on the holy trinity of belief, expectation, and hope. But telling someone with depression who is being helped by antidepressants, or who (like my friend) hopes to be helped, threatens to topple the whole house of cards. Explain that it's all in their heads, that the reason they're benefiting is the same reason why Disney's Dumbo could initially fly only with a feather clutched in his trunk—believing makes it so—and the magic dissipates like fairy dust in a windstorm. So rather than tell my friend all this, I chickened out. Sure, I said, there's lots of research showing that a new kind of antidepressant might help you. Come, let me show you the studies on PubMed.

It seems I am not alone in having moral qualms about blowing the whistle on antidepressants. That first analysis, in 1998, examined 38 manufacturer-sponsored studies involving just over 3,000 depressed patients. The authors, psychology researchers Irving Kirsch and Guy Sapirstein of the University of Connecticut, saw—as everyone else had—that patients did improve, often substantially, on SSRIs, tricyclics, and even MAO inhibitors, a class of antidepressants that dates from the 1950s. This improvement, demonstrated in scores of clinical trials, is the basis for the ubiquitous claim that antidepressants work. But when Kirsch compared the improvement in patients taking the drugs with the improvement in those taking dummy pills—clinical trials typically compare an experimental drug with a placebo—he saw that the difference was minuscule. Patients on a placebo improved about 75 percent as much as those on drugs. Put another way, three quarters of the benefit from antidepressants seems to be a placebo effect. "We wondered, what's going on?" recalls Kirsch, who is now at the University of Hull in England. "These are supposed to be wonder drugs and have huge effects."

The study's impact? The number of Americans taking antidepressants doubled in a decade, from 13.3 million in 1996 to 27 million in 2005.

To be sure, the drugs have helped tens of millions of people, and Kirsch certainly does not advocate that patients suffering from depression stop taking the drugs. On the contrary. But they are not necessarily the best first choice. Psychotherapy, for instance, works for moderate, severe, and even very severe depression. And although for some patients, psychotherapy in combination with an initial course of prescription antidepressants works even better, the question is, how do the drugs work? Kirsch's study and, now, others conclude that the lion's share of the drugs' effect comes from the fact that patients expect to be helped by them, and not from any direct chemical action on the brain, especially for anything short of very severe depression.

As the inexorable rise in the use of antidepressants suggests, that conclusion can't hold a candle to the simplistic "antidepressants work!" (unstated corollary: "but don't ask how") message. Part of the resistance to Kirsch's findings has been due to his less-than-retiring nature. He didn't win many friends with the cheeky title of the paper, "Listening to Prozac but Hearing Placebo." Nor did it inspire confidence that the editors of the journal Prevention & Treatment ran a warning with his paper, saying it used meta-analysis "controversially." Al-though some of the six invited commentaries agreed with Kirsch, others were scathing, accusing him of bias and saying the studies he analyzed were flawed (an odd charge for defenders of antidepressants, since the studies were the basis for the Food and Drug Administration's approval of the drugs). One criticism, however, could not be refuted: Kirsch had analyzed only some studies of antidepressants. Maybe if he included them all, the drugs would emerge head and shoulders superior to placebos.

Now, we need to talk about placebos and why they work. I think, you know, it's something quaintly known to some of us as FAITH.

Which leads me to...

~*~

Left: Cross by Wes-Wilson (1968)



And finally, more brawling over Jesus, Krishna, Moses, and all their friends. Good God (joke deliberate)--will I never learn? Why do I do this? I should know by now to listen to myself and what I hear myself saying: The atheists are as intractable as the fundamentalists. Buddha's extremely sane Middle Path will never go over with either party, so why on Earth do I bother?

I quit arguing with the fundies, since I decided their minds were already closed, but I really hate giving up on the atheists. I thought they were supposed to be SMART? If they are, do they honestly believe that the VAST MAJORITY of people in the ENTIRE WORLD will give up our magic talismans and superstitions?

Barefoot Bum, in above link, keeps lambasting me unmercifully as superstitious... but what he doesn't seem to understand is that I fully grant him the point. Now, in his perfect religionless world, what is he going to do with all of us incurably-superstitious people? Psychiatric hospitals? Gulags? Collective farming in the countryside? It's all been done. Didn't work. Now what?

Honest question, not at all rhetorical, and I put it out there for all "militant atheists" (name of thread wherein aforementioned brawl took place) to answer. I know what the fundies think. What do you think? You can't consign us to hell, since you don't believe in it, so would you lock us up? Barefoot Bum says no, of course not. But if you think certain people are DANGEROUS and spread evil and ignorance simply by existing, don't you think they should be locked up? If not, you must not really think we're that bad and it's all an exercise in advanced rhetorical hubris.

The above argument was borrowed from Michael Kinsley, who used to demand (during his stint on CNN's Crossfire) that pro-lifers answer the question: Would you put all women in jail who obtain abortions? If you say no, you must not truly believe abortion constitutes the crime of murder, as you SAY you do. Gotcha.

If Christians are dangerous wackos, it seems you would believe we should be locked up in hospitals for wackos. If you think we are spreading vicious awfulness and engaging in horrific hate-speech, you would of course want us to at least be ARRESTED, yes? And you don't?

Excuse me, radical atheists, I call bullshit.

Restating the negativeness of the universe

I hereby apologize to all of my very patient email correspondents. If you are wondering about my rudeness, I have not checked email in days; ON STRIKE against the email, which is threatening to colonize my soul. It's currently taking more of my time than mere blogging or Twitter, God help me. Trying to sort it out and make lists of priorities, blah blah blah. In the meantime, bear with me, yall!

How does the internet do this to us? Does everyone else feel the constant encroachment of ONLINE into "real life"--maybe the problem is that we divide our consciousness into these categories...do the kids manage their time better than we do? I think if you grow up communicating online, you learn to make time for it in a more natural way and can do it anywhere. The rest of us have to figure out how to integrate it fully.

Then again, maybe not. Maybe the kids are as frazzled as we are?

~*~

Photo of Jessica Lange at this year's Emmy awards by Dan Steinberg, Associated Press.



Reprinting my indignant comment over at Feministe (cross-posted to Echidne of the Snakes) ...which was brought about by THIS New York Times column by Maureen Dowd, and THIS endless thread at Huffington Post. (click on the latter at your own risk!)

Suddenly inflamed by cable-TV busybodies, I wrote:

The thing people are missing is the age component. The “research” (using word advisedly) at HuffPo suggests women are unhappier AS WE AGE. Probably because they will not stop fussing at us to look young, and have upped the ante. Now we are expected to diet, use botox and collagen and look good forever. This is impossible to achieve after a certain age without considerable anxiety and anguish. Women in past generations were never expected to be “matrons” and look hot.

Still shocked that one of those nasty “fashion” TV-round-ups criticized Jessica Lange for showing her old-lady arms at the Emmys. Never mind that she won! (They didn’t even fucking MENTION that!) But they did mention her (likely) plastic surgery, while sneering that her arms still look bad. Jesus Christ, she’s 64, has two Oscars… is there NO ESCAPE for ANYONE?

No matter how well-achieved a woman is, no matter that she has had her face stretched to the limit already, dammit, just look at those ARMS!

Infuriating.

Reprinting the comment here for EMPHASIS.

Infuriating!!

~*~

Speaking of infuriating, the much-beleaguered First Lady of South Carolina, Jenny Sanford, is writing a memoir:

Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House Inc., said Tuesday it will publish Jenny Sanford's “inspirational memoir” in May 2010.

The publisher says Sanford “will grapple with the universal issue of maintaining integrity and a sense of self during life's difficult times.”

The book is currently untitled, and financial terms were not disclosed.

Mark Sanford was once a rising star in the Republican Party. He acknowledged in June that he had a yearlong affair with an Argentine woman he called his soul mate.

Jenny Sanford moved out of the governor's mansion in August, but she and her husband have said they're trying to repair their marriage.

Inspirational?

Oh, hell no.

Let's hope it isn't one of those unreadable, born-again "women's memoirs"--incessantly dotted with Bible verses. Or, worse, every emotion described is carefully catalogued with accompanying chapter and verse, so you know that even her most wayward thoughts are okay with Jesus.

Yes, I have been plied with a few of these in my time. They should NOT be confused with real memoirs.

Let's hope Jenny's account is a little better than the majority of these.

~*~

More in South Carolina fun-house news: My senator, Lindsey Graham, trashed Obama on the Sunday-morning talk shows as "being everywhere but the food channel"... which was admittedly funny. (Well, I toldya he was damned charming.) Meanwhile, he says he is ready to "compromise"--which could mean anything, coming from him.

On Saturday, downtown, I saw several Joe Wilson T-shirts and bumper stickers. Yeah, they LOOOOOVE him! CNN's Political Ticker reports that he has raised over $2 million on the strength of his ill-mannered temper tantrum.

Once more, I put out the SOS. Just in case you missed it the first time!

~*~

The title of today's post comes from the following clip... the reference to Play it Again Sam in yesterday's post, reminded me of this:



:D

How we've changed, continued

Karen Carpenter with her beloved drum kit. She was capable and confident while playing, but when she was forced to come out from behind the drums, front the band and wear dresses, that's when trouble really began. Photo from LeadSister.com.


~*~


Yes, I'm here to weigh in, once again, as an official old-timer chronicling How things have changed (belated-birthday edition).

Posts on this Feministe thread talked about weight gain:

College does not make it easy for people who struggle with issues with food. Eating disorders are rampant, but rarely discussed. We’re all familiar with the glance to a friend’s plate, to see whether she is eating macaroni and cheese or salad, and the implicit self-judgment that follows

We are? No, we aren't... and then I realized this is another age (class?) difference.

I don't remember growing up with this dynamic at all.

We didn't monitor each other. Even those of us trying to get thinner in dangerous ways, totally personalized this endeavor as our own private failure, and I don't remember paying any attention to what other girls ate, except to be jealous that they could "eat anything they wanted"--while I never could. I remember all of their ice-cream sundaes, but little else. (We didn't even know about healthy vs. unhealthy fats in those days.) Was this my working-class environment or the era I grew up in?

Back in the day, I recall eating disorders as way under the radar, and consequently, very easy to get by with. As a teenager, I starved myself repeatedly, and nobody noticed anything but the end result, for which I was widely praised. (Nowadays? They'd be onto me in 10 minutes.)

Karen Carpenter's increasingly-alarming, wispy frame was not remarked upon, except to say "Wow!"; people would say she was "dieting" too much. Because she was such a well-known, perfect, archetypal "good girl"--her death had an enormous impact on everyone.

Carpenter's death took recognition of anorexia into the mainstream, just as her music had been so accessible and mainstream.

~*~

MAD MEN continues to do a fabulous job in contrasting NOW with THEN. In the recent episode, we learn that a man who lost his foot to a riding mower (hilarious gallows humor) will also lose his job, all because of his disability: "He'll never golf again!"--may be the best line I ever heard. But anyone startled by that should remember, that is indeed the way it was in 1962. If they didn't like your disability, they could legally get rid of you for that reason alone.

Betty Draper's nightmarish birth experience (after smoking and drinking like a Rat Pack-member throughout her pregnancy), was another historically-accurate and thoroughly instructive exercise in How Things Have Changed. My mother, aunts, cousins and millions of other American women gave birth under such cruel, punishing circumstances during this era.

And remember: feminists radically changed the birth-experience for women, not pro-life fundies.

~*~

The ease and omnipresence of cell phones has made decades of phone-jokes and comedy routines (in vintage movies and television shows), truly incomprehensible to the kids. They don't quite understand how it was to get calls from people you don't know. They also don't understand that once upon a time, talking on the phone all the time was regarded as rude as hell, as well as socially inept and backward (like a teenybopper). Old movies such as Woody Allen's Play it Again Sam, in which Tony Roberts (movie-still at left) is constantly calling his answering service to leave his call-back number, was riotously funny back in the 70s... while also simultaneously communicating the idea that Roberts was unbelievably self-centered and narcissistic. But now? What, the kids wonder, is wrong with Roberts' behavior? OMG, the man must track down his unreturned calls!!!!

((sigh))

I am reminded of the social mores of the past that I regret losing...and phones in their proper place is one of these.

Not everything from the past was bad, you know. ;)

~*~

I got both a rainy day and a Monday...

Re: this video. Nobody could look good in that dress, why didn't somebody put her in some DECENT CLOTHES?! Always tried to make her look like some damn choirgirl. growf!

Rainy Days and Mondays - The Carpenters

One of the Living

1) I can't find my phone.

2) My acid reflux has returned, I fear because I am drinking way too much Yerba Mate. (But I love it!)

3) I also love Multilieve (photo at left) an excellent natural pain-reducer, which contains Corydalis Yanhusuo, Chinese Peony and California Poppy.... (Wicked Witch of the West voice: poppies! poppies!) No, I have not been compensated with anything but free samples.

4) Currently reading Maureen Orth's too-fabulous gossip-ridden and scandalmongering book The Importance of Being Famous, which totally rocks the house! How did I ever miss this book when it came out in 2004?

Orth has completely convinced me of the guilt of Michael Jackson AND Woody Allen, sad to say; she is a tireless journalist and investigative reporter (these articles were first published in Vanity Fair). She also writes extensively about Arianna Huffington, claiming she has never totally extricated herself from new-age guru-flake John-Roger. This stuff is fantastic, I can't recommend it enough.

5) One chapter in the aforementioned volume is about Tina Turner, probably the only celebrity interviewed in the entire book who emerges as a wholly-likable person. I started reading and thought, hey (my mind works in strange ways), whatever happened to that song, One of the Living, which I remembered was written by 80s wunderkind Holly Knight. It was used in the film Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome.

And so I dug it out of the YouTube vaults and listened to it... damn, I still love that! Although it DOES bring back an unpleasant time in my life: my second divorce, just as I was starting to wonder if I could get along with anybody. During this emotionally-overwrought period, your humble narrator would sometimes attend as many as 2-3 AA meetings a day.

From one addiction to another.

Carrie Fisher once described what one does in detox/recovery: not drugs. And that is what I was doing. I was falling apart, financially destitute, with a child not even two years old and a divorce imminent, but I was ...NOT DOING DRUGS!

One nice person who commented on one of my irate Kennedy posts yesterday said "as a fellow 12-stepper" and I did not have the heart to tell this person that I no longer consider myself one. However, after you've done the TOTAL IMMERSION AA-thing (nods to Baptists in readership), you feel like you are stamped with it for life and it is somehow encoded in your DNA, just like LSD.

So, oddly, this song makes me think of AA meetings, one after the other, an endless balm of talk-talk-talk that soothed and tranquilized me in some way I can't readily or sensibly describe.

Don't wanna fight but sometimes you've got to
You're some soul survivor
There's just one thing you've got to know
You've got ten more thousand miles to go

As a bonus, we are reminded by this video that both Tina and Mel Gibson were looking especially hot back in the 80s.

Enjoy!

~*~

One of the Living - Tina Turner from Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome (1985)



PS: Tina won a Grammy for this, which I didn't know, or didn't remember.