That’s not a slash fiction premise or a rejected X-Files scenario, but more or less the concept behind the forthcoming NBC crime drama, Aquarius:
Aquarius will be set in Los Angeles in the late 1960s, and Duchovny will play a police sergeant whose personal life is more troublesome than his job, [sic] at least it was until he sets his sights on Manson, who at that point was just released from prison and starting to build his Family of easily swayed hippies. (…)
”The twists and turns of a complicated undercover operation will lead Duchovny’s character and his young partner to the brink of Manson’s crimes that will eventually lead to the Tate-LaBianca murders in subsequent seasons.”
The backstory to the infamous murders certainly gives the folks behind Aquarius some juicy, colorful stuff to work with:
Most people know that career-criminal Manson was also a frustrated singer-songwriter.
He’d pinned his hopes for fame and fortune on his acquaintance with Beach Boy Dennis Wilson, who’d in turn introduced him to Terry Melcher, a record producer who happened to be Doris Day’s son.
Melcher also resided at 10050 Cielo Drive in Benedict Canyon — or had, until he made way for new tenants: Roman Polanski and his wife Sharon Tate…
What most people don’t know — because the Baby Boomers who run the world don’t want you to — is that the Manson’s Family were full-fledged players in the California counterculture.
Even after the Tate-LaBianca murders…
I (finally) have two new books coming out this year.
The first is a short-and-not-so-sweet Kindle edition that was commissioned by Thought Catalog.
Confessions of a Failed Slut expands on themes I’ve explored at Another Conservative Web Site, where I accidentally — almost by default — found myself working the “sex” beat.
Which is odd because I’m the least likely “sex writer” around.
I’m 50, I’m married and — as I admit in the book, “my ‘number’ (as the kids call it these days) is so low that in certain Australian provinces I would still be considered a virgin.”
I write as a one-time Catholic school girl who never managed to shake off that early formation entirely — thank goodness.
The book looks back at the old timey kings of porn like Hefner and Guccione, and the whole toxic “do your own thing” ethos of my formative years, the 1970s.
Fast forward to today, and I try to make sense of “dinosaur erotica, slut shaming and robot hookers of the near future.”
I invite you to check it out — there’s already a review at Amazon! — and incidentally, you don’t need a Kindle to read Confessions of a Failed Slut; you can just download a free Kindle reading app from Amazon and read it on your computer or smart phone.
Editor’s Note: This article was first published in two parts in February of 2013 as “6 Classic Recordings That Have No Business Existing.” It is being reprinted as part of a new weekend series at PJ Lifestyle collecting and organizing the top 50 best lists. Where will this great piece end up on the list? Reader feedback will be factored in when the PJ Lifestyle Top 50 List Collection is completed in a few months… Click here to see the top 25 so far and to advocate for your favorites in the comments.
Today, when every computer ships with GarageBand-type software, sour notes can be sweetened with Auto Tune, and radio stations broadcast focus-grouped computerized playlists, there seems to be no room for the serendipity — – or sheer incompetence and confusion — that helped create some of the greatest records of all time.
For instance, the ultimate irony of the urban legend that “Louie, Louie” is a “dirty” song (there’s a whole book about it) is that today you can just about make out what the FBI(!) couldn’t back in 1963:
What you can’t hear are the backstories: the flukes, accidents, misunderstandings, coincidences, white lies, and willpower that wrenched classic songs from crazy recording sessions.
What you know about a particular recording can change the way it sounds.
If you’re my age, you’ve heard Boston’s “More Than a Feeling” about 10,000 times, which may be 9,999 times more than you ever wanted.
But you may not realize that lead singer Brad Delp “actually hits those high notes; there’s nothing electronic helping him.”
One of the more remarkable vocal pyrotechnics on an album where Delp’s singing gives Scholz’s guitar work a run for its money is on the passage where Delp’s ever-rising tenor rides into the first notes of the signature guitar solo, a move Boylan says was planned and executed flawlessly on virtually the first take.
You may also not know that Brad Delp committed suicide in 2007.
Now, give that 1976 recording one more listen.
See if it sounds… different.
I braced myself as I scrolled down to the list of names.
Who would break my already fractured old heart?
Who would I have to add to my already lengthy “You’re Dead To Me” list?
You see, over 200 British authors, actors, musicians and other bigwigs have signed the “Hacked Off” petition, “urging UK press owners to embrace the cross-party Royal Charter on press regulation.”
The English press is legendarily ruthless:
(See also Evelyn Waugh’s barely fictional satire Scoop.)
But in 2011, critics said, British journalism hit a new low, when reporters at Rupert Murdoch’s loathed (and now defunct) News of the World were charged with hacking into the cell phones of 9/11 victims’ families — and, not incidentally, those of some celebrities, too.
Now — led by hacking “victim” and (admittedly adorable) whoremonger Hugh Grant — some celebrities and other leftist power brokers are pushing back, with great success:
While celebrities and victims of hacking fronted the campaign for tighter regulation of the press, it has been the liberal and left-wing intelligentsia and media that have driven the crusade to curb the popular press. It was they who formed Hacked Off, used the hacking scandal to demand and get the Leveson Inquiry into the entire ‘culture, practice and ethics’ of the UK media, and wrote the report’s demands for statutory-backed regulation.
Now more than 200 prominent members of what are sometimes called the chattering classes have publicly signed up to the demand for the press to bend the knee to the Royal Charter. It would be difficult to overestimate the abandonment of liberty that represents. The Royal Charter deal, stitched up by all the main political parties in an infamous late-night meeting with Hacked Off, seeks to impose a regulator using the ancient anti-democratic instruments of the Crown, the royal prerogative and the Her Majesty’s Privy Council. (…)
It evokes grim shadows of the old system of Crown licensing of the press, started by Henry VIII in 1529 and expanded under successive monarchs, under which nothing could be published without official permission.’
Those who defied the Crown licensers could expect to be sent to the Tower or the gallows.
I’d call Steve Sailer “the Malcolm Gladwell” of the Right except Sailer is a smarter, better, braver writer with a better “accuracy” batting average.
Today, he shares an email from “a reader who is either paranoid or brilliant or both.”
The reader wonders if Oprah Winfrey’s upcoming “The Life You Want” tour of America is really a presidential Trojan Horse:
As one of the few surviving men to have experienced being in the studio audience of an Oprah show while free stuff is being given out, [the reader] writes:
“Oprah POTUS … I think this is a trial balloon and the Canada tour [in 2013] was to polish her game. Lots of red, white and blue, stars and strong suggestion in that article image! … I don’t think Hillary can get it done in 2016, but we will know better after this November what the general sentiment is toward the real conservatives. I am closely watching the “other O” for signals and this is a bit conspicuous to me. On the backside of 2003, I am pretty sure Oprah can get a huge chunk of white-woman votes.”
“Having spent about 15 seconds in The Presence in 1987,” Sailer adds, “Oprah remains the greatest natural politician I’ve ever met.”
The trouble is, the “red, white and blue” article image (above) that has Sailer’s correspondent so exercised is just an exaggerated photo-illustration cooked up by the Hollywood Reporter.
In fact, the “Life You Want” campaign’s — I mean, tour’s — real color scheme is yellow and orange, very Sunday Morning with Charles Kuralt.
So, based solely on these flimsy semiotic tea leaves, I’m going to have to go with “paranoid.”
Although, like Sailer, I certainly think Oprah would have been a better “first black president” than Obama.
A while back, I interviewed an executive at Q Scores after they released their semi-regular Dead Q Report.
Corporations pay Q Scores big bucks to determine which celebrities are “most wanted — dead or alive,” then figure out how to leverage these superstars’ popularity in products and ad campaigns.
For whatever reason, this month we’ve seen an uptick in the number of famous dead people hawking stuff on TV.
First, a pixilated, pixie-cut “Audrey Hepburn” stars in a glossy Dove Chocolate spot that the Los Angeles Times condemned as “the creepiest TV commercial ever made.”
I was relieved to find out I wasn’t the only one who finds the practice of virtually reanimating deceased celebrities ghoulish and tasteless.
Now, I realize society is on an extended zombie kick.
However, this particular sun drenched, madcap production — in which Hepburn is chauffeured through the Uncanny Valley portion of the Riviera — is arguably more disturbing than the goriest “living dead” scenario, precisely because it so blithely denies the reality of death.
A la Norman Bates and his mother, pretending dead people were still alive used to be a sign of insanity.
Now it’s the premise for a sales pitch.
Baby Boomers have a vested interested in pushing the myth that America in the 1950s was boring, sanitized, conformist and deeply unjust.
“You rubes should be grateful we finally came along to liberate you!” Boomers chirp at every available opportunity, as if Woodstock was Omaha Beach with brown acid.
Yeah, thanks for disease, divorce and the Grateful Dead.
One of the most offensive movies I’ve ever (almost) seen wasn’t Hostel or Cannibal Holocaust but the smug, simple-minded Pleasantville (1998) — “almost” because its arrogant, ham-fisted Promethean concept infuriates me so much I can’t sit through it.
Even Boomer and unrepentant leftist David Macaray scoffs:
Everything that the boomers believed happened for the first time during their coming-of-age years actually happened a decade earlier, and in a more disciplined, modest and elegant fashion — the critical difference being that these remarkable phenomena didn’t affect the masses or spill out dramatically into America’s streets. That wouldn’t happen until the turbulent 1960s.
Lenny Bruce, anybody? James Baldwin? Sylvia Plath? Allen Ginsberg and Norman Mailer?
Even if you don’t care for them, they were the originals whom lesser talents spent the 1960s (and beyond) emulating.
And those were the radicals.
Below, check out the two most popular, highest paid — and therefore most mainstream — entertainers of their era, in action.
Yeah, the 1950s were so bland and uptight…
Editor’s Note: This article was first published in January of 2013. It is being reprinted as part of a new weekend series at PJ Lifestyle collecting and organizing the top 50 best lists. Where will this great piece end up on the list? Reader feedback will be factored in when the PJ Lifestyle Top 50 List Collection is completed in a few months… Click here to see the top 25 so far and to advocate for your favorites in the comments.
Monty Python saved my life.
I was ten years old in 1974, when the Buffalo PBS station across the lake began airing the iconoclastic BBC comedy series every Friday night.
Being stuck in a cheap, dinky apartment that overlooked a burned-out church, with my bullying alcoholic stepfather and a meek, “see no evil” mother, surrounded at school by more extroverted, rough-and-tumble classmates — and very likely, without knowing it, clinically depressed — that half hour once a week sitting two feet from the TV was one of the only things I felt I had to look forward to.
Maybe ever, I thought at the time.
Ironically, my crappy stepfather was the one who turned me on to the show.
The first night, he “made” me watch it, the same way he was always trying to “make” me get a suntan or take up horseback riding or keep all the closet and cupboard doors in the house either open or closed depending on his inscrutable whim of the week.
My pouty resentment faded fast. For whatever reason — the cool accents, the breathless pace, the tame “naughtiness,” the “question authority” iconoclasm, the ineffable cuteness of Michael Palin — I got hooked on Monty Python’s Flying Circus.
In high school, I finally met a couple of girls who shared my passion, and we became those insufferable sorts who communicate almost entirely in Python (and SCTV) catchphrases.
I bought all the Python’s albums and books by and about them, and repeatedly signed out hard to find titles from the library, like the one detailing their lawsuits and censorship battles.
I’ll be 50 years old this year and I’ve never lived in a house.
OK, that’s not true:
When I first moved away from the apartment I grew up in, I shared a house with a bunch of people for three months.
We were broken into. Twice.
I wasn’t surprised.
Apartments — I just knew from personal experience — were safer than houses.
Too high to get flooded.
Too big to get swept up in Dorothy’s tornado.
Too tall for any kidnapper’s ladder.
No spooky basements or attics.
If you lived in a house, Dick and Perry would get you, or maybe the Manson Family.
The creepy covers of The Amityville Horror and Where Are the Children? — damn you, Wendell Minor — confronted me at every checkout counter.
No matter that my formative years coincided with The Towering Inferno, and the efforts of Roman Polanski, J. G. Ballard and David Cronenberg to shift the locus of horror from the small town Victorian haunted house to the 20th century urban apartment.
Lady Gaga and Miley Cyrus rip her off without even realizing it, as do countless teenage (and older) girls around the world.
She probably helped inspire Hedwig and the Angry Inch, the last great musical of the 20th century.
She wasn’t just a defector from Communist East Germany:
She found the perfect refuge in mid-1970s London, a city that has always embraced eccentrics, and her timing couldn’t have been better.
Raised in an atheist environment, she was baptized in 2009.
And this week, child opera prodigy turned punk pioneer Nina Hagen turned 59.
Hagen’s views on faith and politics are as blunt and unorthodox as her music and style:
The books by Huxley and Orwell with their terrible visions of the human race being genetically manipulated, in which there is a slave race and everything is controlled, everyone has chips — we are growing into such a horror scenario right now if we don’t inform ourselves and unite. My pastor and I wrote a book called “Vorboten der Zukunft — wie wir die Welt verbessern” (Harbingers of the Future — How We Can Improve the World). That’s exactly what I’m talking about. There are many civil initiatives coming together and joining forces — beyond party lines. It has nothing to do with political parties because they offer no solution. They only want to achieve power but no one is addressing our problems.
Nina Hagen would fail any conservative or libertarian purity test, as would most individuals raised in welfare-state Europe instead of America. Shaking off that utopian worldview is harder than many of us can appreciate.
And like a lot of Protestants, she really doesn’t like the Catholic Church (because she doesn’t understand it.)
But as an energetic embodiment of individuality, I’ll take Nina Hagen over pretty much anybody who spoke at CPAC this year, or who plays insipid Christian “rock.”
Editor’s Note: This article was first published in February of 2013. It is being reprinted as part of a new weekend series at PJ Lifestyle collecting and organizing the top 50 best lists. Where will this great piece end up on the list? Reader feedback will be factored in when the PJ Lifestyle Top 50 List Collection is completed in a few months…
I may be a blogging pioneer, but I’m not otherwise technically savvy.
I’ve never played a video game or “texted.”
I don’t even own a cell phone.
But along with blogging, one “techy” thing I know a little about is SEO, or search engine optimization.
At least, I did until Google ran their Panda and Penguin algorithm updates , and changed lots of their rules (mostly for the better) to punish folks who’d been trying to game the search-engine system.
And when you think of what’s at stake, it’s easy to understand why some “black hat” SEO “gurus” are always seeking the elusive formula for algorithmic alchemy, to turn search engine results placement into literal gold.
After all, an estimated 90% of Google searchers never visit page two of their results; getting your company’s site into those precious ten “page one” results for a popular and lucrative search phrase like “San Diego real estate” can mean increased business.
As well, dominating that first page when potential employers, spouses, or malicious trolls google your first and last name is a vital part of online reputation management.
I’m not an expert, but I’ve learned a few things about how to own (or at least, easily “rent”) your name on Google’s first-page results.
There’s not much you can do about nasty sites or pages devoted to dissing you unless they are literally slanderous and you can get a lawyer to send the site owner a “take down” notice.
However, you can try to push down embarrassing or nasty stuff by “owning” your page-one Google results.
These tips aren’t “tricks” — everything I’m about to tell you are all “white hat,” non-controversial things you can do to start taking control of your online presence.
TIP: Before you google yourself, ALWAYS sign out of your Google account, clear your browser cache and, if possible, use a program like HideMyIP to choose a different IP address.
Doing all this will more closely replicate what a total stranger will see when they search for you.
Hitchcock’s 1948 film Rope is regarded by some as one of his lesser works, a mere gimmicky curio:
A movie made in what is supposed to be one long take, the better to recreate the experience of watching a stage play (which Rope originally was).
Because that would have been technically unachievable at the time — a Technicolor camera’s film cartridges had to be replaced every ten minutes — Hitchcock challenged himself to employ the fewest cuts he possibly could.
It fell into semi-obscurity until a 1984 rerelease prompted critical reevaluations and introduced the movie to a new generation.
I’ve never understood why Hitchcock was disappointed with the movie.
Then again, I’ve always been very fond of Rope.
Its themes intrigue me.
Editor’s Note: This article was first published in three parts in April and May of 2013. It is being reprinted as part of a new weekend series at PJ Lifestyle collecting and organizing the top 50 best lists. Where will this great piece end up on the count-down? Reader feedback will be factored in when the PJ Lifestyle Top 50 List Collection is completed in a few months…
The “Academy of the Overrated” scene in Woody Allen’s Manhattan (1978) is meant to get us to hate Diane Keaton just before Woody Allen changes his mind and falls into bed with her.
Yes, as Mariel Hemingway’s character puts it, Keaton and her beau are “creeps” — but mostly because their “academy” inductees are so gauche, as is their decision to inflict their pretentious pillow talk onto hapless acquaintances on a public sidewalk.
Let’s face it:
Some artists really are overrated, especially today when words like “genius” and “classic” (and the current go-to empty-calorie adjective “iconic”) have been neutered by lazy, know-nothing writers.
First, we prick the inflated reputations of 5 rock and pop stars with XY chromosomes and little else to recommend them.
#5: Pink Floyd
Let’s tackle Roger Waters’ reputed antisemitism first, since it lets me put off having to actually talk about his dreadful “music” for a bit.
Waters made news most recently when New York City’s famous 92Y, under pressure by Jewish groups, cancelled his scheduled lecture.
I’m not a fan of anybody trying to get someone else’s public appearances cancelled, and not just because it’s happened to me.
What’s unusual about this particular instance, however, is that critics’ “accusations” against Waters are true.
Some will object that “anti-Zionism isn’t necessarily anti-Semitism” and if we existed on a pure and sterile plane of Platonic forms, they’d be right.
But here on planet Earth, anyone who’s engaged a rabid “anti-Zionist” in “conversation” knows that within moments, their opponent will slip up and spit out some slur upon “the Joooozzzz!!!”
I save myself time and simply assume that long-time anti-Zionists are Jew-haters, because life is too short and I have laundry and stuff to do.
Those who grew up with Pink Floyd’s 1979 double album “The Wall” will remember it as the perfect antidote to the crueller aspects of teenage life. Chronicling the mental breakdown of a pop star, the rock opera rages against suffocating parents, tyrannical teachers and social conformism. The story concludes with the hero hauled before a nightmarish court, where everyone in his life testifies as an adversarial witness. Before the defendant can say a word in his own defense, the judge bellows a guilty verdict: “The evidence before the court is incontrovertible. There is no need for the jury to retire!”
I was reminded of this scene Saturday while attending a session in New York of the Russell Tribunal on Palestine, a self-appointed people’s court that has met periodically since 2009 to sit in judgment of Israel. (…)
Another reason to be reminded of “The Wall”: Roger Waters, Pink Floyd’s chief lyricist, was a member of the jury.
It was ubiquitous in my steel mill home town — a whining drone blaring from every paneled suburban basement and tricked-out Chevy van.
But those of us who’d discovered punk wanted nothing to do with the overproduced bellows of millionaire dinosaurs like Pink Floyd.
That doesn’t make Pink Floyd’s music any more palatable, however.
Had their efforts been presented matter of factly, I’d give them a pass.
But every Floyd album was held up by under-read, musically unsophisticated teenage boys as a deep, profound commentary on society (man!!!) as well as an example of superior performance and production.
They’d show off their stereo system using Dark Side of the Moon, sounding like Joe Pesci in Goodfellas:
“Check it out! One instrument comes out one speaker, and another instrument comes out the OTHER speaker!!”
Have you, now a sober adult, actually listened to Dark Side of the Moon lately?
Can you scrape off enough encrusted nostalgia to acknowledge that album’s sheer awfulness?
And while those Wizard of Oz weirdies aren’t Floyd’s fault, they’re not helping matters, either.
When I scream “The Who are better than that stupid band you like,” I’m thinking about Pink Floyd first and foremost.
Canadians are supposedly really good at making apologies, so here’s one from me:
You know all those shouty “we’re all strong beautiful women” songs your daughter makes you listen to in the SUV?
Those anthemic musical training bras for budding bimbos, “sung” by Katy Perry, K$sha, Miley Cyrus and other balls-out, in-your-face ladies who don’t need no man for nothin’?
Yeah, well, those songs were probably co-written by this Canadian guy.
You see, Ottawa’s Henry Walter works for another fellow you’ve probably never heard of, one “Dr. Luke”:
[M]ost of the iconic hits of the last 10 years were written by the same person.
If you have attended a photogenic pool party in the last five years, or even watched a video of a pool party while sitting alone in your house, chances are you were dancing (or crying) mostly to music written by a guy called Dr. Luke. “TiK ToK”? “Dynamite”? “Till the World Ends”? “Wrecking Ball”? Pretty much any song by Katy Perry? They’re all the work of this single relatively unfamous songwriter, who has written or co-written 40 hit singles since 2004.
Add in Dr. Luke’s frequent co-writer Max Martin, and these two guys have pretty much written everything you have ever heard if you were born in 1999.
The first SCTV bit I ever remember seeing was also the first one I thought of when I learned of Harold Ramis’s death.
For a split second, I hesitated referencing his fake PSA “So You’re Dead, Now What?” on my blog, which isn’t like me.
My instinct to run with it proved sound:
Ed Driscoll thought of it too, and then I saw it cited elsewhere, without a single “too soon!” complaint in the comments.
That’s rather startling, given our hypersensitive, easily offended, concern-trolling society.
Then again, maybe it isn’t.
To his credit, Harold Ramis’s daunting creative output contributed not a jot nor a tittle to the spread of the toxic, politically correct culture that metastasized during his lifetime.
For that alone, he deserves all the praise he’s been receiving this week.
In the summer of 2012, millions of non-football fans first learned of the existence of one Jerry Sandusky, the once revered (and then disgraced) Penn State football coach.
So on July 15 of that year, Steyn repeated blogger Rand Simberg’s recent observations that Penn State’s roster of employees also included Michael Mann:
In the wake of Louis Freeh’s report on Penn State’s complicity in serial rape, Rand Simberg writes of Unhappy Valley’s other scandal:
“I’m referring to another cover up and whitewash that occurred there two years ago, before we learned how rotten and corrupt the culture at the university was. But now that we know how bad it was, perhaps it’s time that we revisit the Michael Mann affair, particularly given how much we’ve also learned about his and others’ hockey-stick deceptions since. Mann could be said to be the Jerry Sandusky of climate science, except that instead of molesting children, he has molested and tortured data in the service of politicized science that could have dire economic consequences for the nation and planet.”
Not sure I’d have extended that metaphor all the way into the locker-room showers with quite the zeal Mr Simberg does, but he has a point. Michael Mann was the man behind the fraudulent climate-change “hockey-stick” graph, the very ringmaster of the tree-ring circus. And, when the East Anglia emails came out, Penn State felt obliged to “investigate” Professor Mann. Graham Spanier, the Penn State president forced to resign over Sandusky, was the same cove who investigated Mann. And, as with Sandusky and Paterno, the college declined to find one of its star names guilty of any wrongdoing.
If an institution is prepared to cover up systemic statutory rape of minors, what won’t it cover up? Whether or not he’s “the Jerry Sandusky of climate change”, he remains the Michael Mann of climate change, in part because his “investigation” by a deeply corrupt administration was a joke.
Speaking of jokes, Mann duly sued over Steyn’s and Simberg’s quips.
One of the lawyers for Michael Jackson’s family should really explain to them the definition of “chutzpah.”
There’s no point asking their accountants, since they’re likely the ones responsible for this:
The IRS has served notice that the estate of Michael Jackson severely understated worth and income and is demanding $700 million in back taxes and penalties.
Documents have been filed with the U.S. Tax Court that alleges that the executor’s for Jackson said his net worth at the time of his death was $7 million while the IRS has assessed the worth at $1.125 billion. (…)
A good portion of the difference was attributed to the value of Jackson’s likeness which the estate valued at $2,105 and the IRS says was worth $434.264 million. In addition, the estate said that Jackson’s portion of the ownership of both his songs and those of the Beatles was worth nothing.
Yes, you read that right. They said the Beatles songs (and his) were worth $0.
The IRS said it was more like $469 million.
In a separate, in-depth article examining the Beatles’ fortunes fifty years on, David Fiorenza, a Villanova University economics professor who specializes in art and entertainment, said that the Fab Four’s “financial impact today is bigger than any other artist, living or deceased.”
So those Jackson family shenanigans are funny in a “can’t you believe it?” way, but the fact is, celebrity estates are serious business.
(God, I hate that word…)
This week back in 1972, the stunt was described in less lofty terms:
It’s hard to come up with a contemporary parallel, since nowadays, the permanent daytime hosts are already “John and Yoko”:
Rosie O’Donnell, Whoopie Goldberg, Ellen DeGeneres and their colleagues reflexively dole out that week’s trendy received liberal wisdom, normalizing formerly taboo topics and opinions.
You see, that week in 1972 is usually remembered as “historic” and brave and radical — a laudable if inevitably awkward attempt on everyone’s part to bridge the “generation gap.”
That the voting age had just been slashed from 21 to 18 energized millions of young people, and no doubt frightened some of their elders.
(Who had nothing to worry about: That year, with the Democrats running radical anti-war candidate George McGovern, and the hippie movement supposedly ascendant and crushing everything in its cultural path, Nixon won anyhow. That didn’t turn out so well, of course, but it proves once again that the eventuality you’re most worried about is usually nothing compared to whatever actually occurs…)
We’re also informed that John and Yoko’s chosen guests were rarely seen on American television, and that Mike Douglas was a good-natured if bewildered old fuddyduddy throughout.
You know what’s coming next…
Editor’s Note: This article was first published in two parts in May and June of 2013. It is being reprinted as part of a new weekend series at PJ Lifestyle collecting and organizing the top 50 best lists of 2013. Where will this great piece end up on the list? Reader feedback will be factored in when the PJ Lifestyle Top 50 List Collection is completed in a few months…
Then the rest of the week to come up with the rest.
For someone who is as cohort-sensitive as I am, who rages constantly about “kids these days,” and who feels most comfortable socializing almost exclusively with other X-ers, I found this assignment surprisingly daunting.
I used a HighLowBrow post about Gen-Xers to try to kickstart my brain.
That site calls us “Recons” and counts those born between 1964-1973 as members of that generation.
The article features a labor-of-love list of famous Recons/X-ers that was invaluable in helping me put together this column.
Predictably, I take issue with their chosen start date, however.
It’s a weird definition of “Generation X” that excludes the guy who popularized the phrase (Douglas Coupland, 1961) or the fellow who wrote our “national anthem” (Gordon Gano, 1963):
On February 9, 1964, the Beatles performed on The Ed Sullivan Show, reaching an audience of over 70 million.
Overnight, America emerged from post-Dallas national mourning, thanks to the upbeat musical ministrations of those four loveable strangers from Liverpool.
One minute, no one had even heard of the Beatles; the next, thousands of hysterical girls spontaneously descended upon New York’s newly rechristened JFK International Airport to welcome the quartet.
“Beatlemania,” we called it.
The U.S. had never seen anything like it — and neither had the English, who promptly press-ganged more guitar groups to mount a “British invasion.”
The fiftieth anniversary of this epochal night in pop culture has prompted a flurry of books, think pieces and TV specials, all repeating the above received wisdom by rote.
The truth, as always, isn’t quite so pat.
In fact, some of this potted history is just plain wrong.
Next week I’ll be writing about the 50th anniversary of the so-called British Invasion and the Beatles’ epochal debut on The Ed Sullivan Show.
(I’ll also be debunking some of the myths that quickly grew up around that event…)
Meanwhile, this week marks the 35th anniversary of the Clash’s first American tour, to support their Give ‘Em Enough Rope LP.
Sure, their debut U.S. single — a thundering cover of the Bobby Fuller Four’s “I Fought The Law” — was climbing up the American charts.
Fans and detractors alike wondered if Big Bad America would also crush the Pistols’ only still-standing rivals, especially since the Clash had dubbed their first visit the “Pearl Harbor Tour,” and launched almost every U.S. gig with the bitchy anthem “I’m So Bored With the U.S.A” — to determine “if the crowd had a sense of humor.”
Appropriately enough considering the tune had started out as a song about love — not a love song, per se, as those were frowned upon — that gesture rather resembled a little boy’s expression of affection for his female crush: pulling her pigtails.
Because for all their faddish political bombast, the Clash’s frontmen had loved America from afar for years.
I haven’t seen the new documentary MITT and I’m not sure I can bring myself to do so.
Living in the real-life aftermath of Romney’s failed presidential campaign is depressing enough without sitting through a cinematic autopsy, too.
Some say that if this documentary or something like it had been screened before election day, Romney’s chances would’ve improved.
Obviously we can’t know that for certain.
I feel more confident declaring that had an infamous but little seen Barry Goldwater campaign film called Choice aired in 1964, he still wouldn’t have won.
Americans weren’t going to dishonor their recently assassinated Democratic president by failing to vote for his successor. Period.
It didn’t help that the elites had successfully painted Goldwater as a racist, warmongering loony.
(Here’s an exhaustive history of the Democrats’ legendary “Daisy” commercial that made such a libelous liberal case against the Republican opponent — for one thing, it was Democrat JFK who brought America closest to nuclear war.)
That aside, the fact is:
Millions of Americans who educated themselves about Goldwater still found his real views too radical.
So had he allowed the wide release of Choice, the election would’ve turned out the same way.
The real question is:
If this long-form commercial had aired more than twice, how would it have colored public perceptions of the Republican Party into the future?
Splitsider — a website by and for stand-up comics — called it “one of the most obvious findings ever”:
…a study in the British Journal of Psychiatry has confirmed that comedians possess more psychotic characteristics compared to their non-comedian peers. The researchers asked 523 comedians from Australia, Britain, and the U.S. to complete an online questionnaire designed to measure levels of four psychotic traits — “unusual experiences,” “cognitive disorganization,” “introvertive anhedonia,” and “impulsive non-conformity.” Unsurprisingly, the comedians ranked high in their levels of all four psychotic behavior indicators.
“The creative elements needed to produce humor are strikingly similar to those characterizing the cognitive style of people with psychosis – both schizophrenia and bipolar disorder,” said Gordon Claridge of the University of Oxford’s department of experimental psychology, who led the study.
Although the traits in question are known as “psychotic”, Claridge said, they can also represent healthy equivalents of features such as moodiness, social introversion and the tendency to lateral thinking.
“Although schizophrenic psychosis itself can be detrimental to humor, in its lesser form it can increase people’s ability to associate odd or unusual things or to think ‘outside the box’,” he said.
“Equally, manic thinking – which is common in people with bipolar disorder – may help people combine ideas to form new, original and humorous connections.”
Say, did you know the working title for Woody Allen’s Annie Hall was Anhedonia?
So there’s that.
And there’s an entire — highly recommended — podcast devoted solely to mental illness and stand-up comedians.
(And I’m not talking about Marc Maron’s WTF. Although I could be, because man, oh man, have you ever listened to that thing?)
No, it isn’t “Bash Old Rockers” week at PJMedia.
But we need to talk about “Uncle Ted.”
This isn’t even about his headline-making rant at the Vegas Shot Show, in which he called President Obama a “subhuman mongrel.”
Ted Nugent doesn’t need puny little Canadian me to “defend” his legal right to use that expression, even though I believe we should keep the adjective “subhuman” chambered until someone more like Dr. Mengele is in our sights.
Rather, I’ve been thinking about Nugent all week after reading a searing takedown of Woody Allen and his Hollywood sycophants by Gavin McInnes. (EXTREME language warning.)
McInnes has children; I do not — hence the “EXTREME language warning,” probably. That is: This difference likely colors my feelings about Allen, which remain frustratingly ambiguous and were better reflect by this piece in, yes, The Onion.
That’s because Woody Allen, like the Monty Python gang, were a gargantuan part of my often otherwise unpleasant childhood.
Allen’s impact was deeper, though, because his movies gave me a glimpse into another possible world, in which intelligent, creative people enjoyed deep yet witty conversations in gorgeous urban environs.
The scene in Annie Hall, in which Allen’s character travels back in time to his public school, surveys his unpromising looking classmates and declares, “Even then, I knew they were just jerks” literally changed my life.
I don’t remember my first kiss, but can easily recall that moment in the darkened downtown movie theater around my 13th birthday. I finally felt… understood.
An orphaned duckling imprints on the first creature it sees, however ridiculous its cloying affection for that indifferent St. Bernard looks to us.
And as far as I know, that imprinting can’t be reversed.
I could probably rewire my brain to hate Woody Allen, or any of the other dubious individuals who “imprinted” themselves on my impressionable young mind.
The thing is: I’m not sure I feel like bothering.