![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=91.7){kind=small}
Hey, everybody. Well, it’s my birthday, and as you guys know I usually post something about all the other important things that have happened on April 4th over the years. But this year I’m doing something different; I’m thinking not about the day I was born, but the year.
Birthday dinner, as always, is at Waffle House (the Happiest Place On Earth), and I’m looking forward to it because of the Spring Shave; it’s hard to eat greasy food (or food with melted cheese, or gravy, or creamy soups) with a beard and maintain your dignity. As a result, when I go to Waffle House clean-shaven I kind of feel an urge to just get a bowl of gravy and smear it all over my face. But that isn’t ‘til later, so I’m sitting in my apartment listening to a playlist I made special for the day. It’s the best music of the year I was born, 1971. It’s turned out to be a brilliant playlist, because 1971 was a damned good year for music:
Birthday dinner, as always, is at Waffle House (the Happiest Place On Earth), and I’m looking forward to it because of the Spring Shave; it’s hard to eat greasy food (or food with melted cheese, or gravy, or creamy soups) with a beard and maintain your dignity. As a result, when I go to Waffle House clean-shaven I kind of feel an urge to just get a bowl of gravy and smear it all over my face. But that isn’t ‘til later, so I’m sitting in my apartment listening to a playlist I made special for the day. It’s the best music of the year I was born, 1971. It’s turned out to be a brilliant playlist, because 1971 was a damned good year for music:
- David Bowie released Hunky Dory, the first of his truly great albums. It features “Life On Mars?”, which at this point in my life is prob’ly my favorite song. And of course “Changes,” with the epic line “And these children that you spit on as they try to change their world are immune to your consultations; they’re quite aware what they’re going through.” I ask honestly, is any child of the Seventies immune to that sentiment?Pink Floyd had Meddle, their first great album with David Gilmour, my all-time favorite guitarist, and without Syd Barrett. “One Of These Days” is, of course, one of their signature tunes, but if you aren’t familiar with this album, check out “Fearless,” one of the most beautiful and thoughtful songs by a band who did a TON of beautiful and thoughtful songs.The Rolling Stones released Sticky Fingers, with the excellent “Brown Sugar” and “Dead Flowers.”Marvin Gaye released What’s Going On, which for my money is the greatest album in Motown history. ‘Nuff said. Also, the story of how he got it recorded is pretty damned epic, so look it up if you have the time and want to know about an artist willing to wreck everything to do his work the way he feels it ought to be done.Yes actually managed to put out two albums (Fragile and Yes), which is surprising given how much work obviously went into each of them. So I’ve got “Long Distance Runaround,” “All Good People,” and “Roundabout,” which collectively make me wish I still smoked pot.Pearl, the last recording of the nearly-perfect and then-recently-deceased Janis Joplin, is practically a singles collection itself. Every song is beautifully made and well-known, but of course “Me & Bobby McGee,” “Move Over,” and “Mercedes Benz” are the real classics. On a related note, 1971 saw the release of the Doors’ brilliant “Riders on the Storm,” right as Jim Morrison careened madly into the grave. Hendrix also had a couple of posthumous releases in 1971, but I’m sorry to say that I am not fond of them.Really, what can I say about Black Sabbath’s Paranoid, T. Rex’s Electric Warrior, and Led Zeppelin’s untitled fourth album (which at least deserves consideration among the greatest ever recorded) that hasn’t already been said? Every hard rock or metal band since owes its existence to these records, and they all came out the same year I did. Sit and listen to “Bang a Gong (Get It On)” or “When the Levee Breaks” without swaying and grooving, or “The War Pigs” without banging your head. I dare ya.Bob Dylan put out his second greatest hits collection, and he recorded some new material for it, including “Tomorrow is a Long Time” and “When I Paint My Masterpiece,” both of which rank among his top five songs, as far as I’m concerned.Neil Diamond released Stones, which more than any other is the album I grew up on (Mama is a big fan). Surprisingly for a man who made his living as a songwriter, the best songs on the album were written by other people: Leonard Cohen (“Suzanne”), Joni Mitchell (“Chelsea Morning”) and Randy Newman (“I Think It’s Going To Rain Today”). Maybe it’s only because I heard it so much in my formative years, and to others it might seem out of place in this company, but I do love this record.Speaking of Leonard Cohen, his (in my opinion) greatest song, “Famous Blue Raincoat,” came out in 1971. So did Alice Cooper’s “I’m Eighteen,” Don McLean’s “American Pie,” Isaac Hayes’ “Shaft,” Cat Stevens’ “Peace Train,” The Who’s “Baba O’Reilly,” and of course Lennon’s “Imagine.”Last but by no means least, Tom Waits had not yet signed with a record company, but was running around putting out bootleg and underground singles in 1971. I’ve got several of them, including “I’m Your Latenight Evening Prostitute,” “Goin’ Down Slow,” “Poncho’s Lament,” and “Had Me a Girl.” Some of these later showed up on albums, and I’m not sure of the original release dates for them, but you’ll forgive me if I assume they were all released in honor of my birth.
It’s beautiful here in The City, 82 and sunny. I’m walking through my lovely apartment with sunlight and a pleasant breeze streaming in through the open windows, drinking pretty nice wine (gift from Mama), and listening to some of the best music ever recorded. Life is good. I’m 41 today, and I’m happy. Love to all.
- My body's at:1644
- ...but my soul is:
blissed - Right now, I'm digging:David Bowie, "Life On Mars?"
Man, this one took forever. I’m getting closer to my goal of doing videos that are ONLY my own content, but as you’ll see there are still a few photos in this one. I’m starting to experiment with a more cartoony style as well (not that my regular drawings are photo-realistic, you understand) in hopes that it will make the process easier and faster. There’s some of both the old style and the new in this. If you can tell them apart, lemme know what you think of the difference. If you can’t tell them apart, of course, I straight-up win! And as always the script follows, including links to a couple of older stories mentioned in this one. I hope you guys dig all of them.
Hello, brothers and sisters. I am OgreVI, and like everyone else, I have to get the rent paid. I’m too ugly for prostitution and too explosion-averse to cook meth, so these days I pay my way washing dishes at a local eatery.
I walk to work every day, and I usually show about half an hour early. That way I can sit and relax a bit, get my mind settled before I clock in and commence the long slog. Monday a couple of weeks ago was cold and wet, but I was thoroughly bundled and I am not made of sugar. I perched on the concrete steps in the alley behind the joint, lit a cigarette, shut my eyes, and proceeded to lose myself in David Bowie. After some time I became aware that someone was speaking to me. I opened my eyes to find a sweet young woman in a floppy white hat.
“Can I buy you a cup of soup?” she asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’s just that you look so cold sitting here. So, you know…if you’re…hungry or…well, anything, ummm, I could, you know, maybe buy you a cup of soup. Or something.”
“Oh. Ohhhhhhh, I see.” I started to laugh, but she was so shy and earnest I was afraid of hurting her feelings. “My love, you’re mistaken. I’m not homeless, just sort of disheveled.”
I laughed it off, because I’m used to people making that particular mistake. You see, I’m a bit scruffy-looking. You guys don’t know that, of course. You only ever see me as I draw myself. This picture is pretty accurate as far as it goes, but you’ll notice that this fella here has recently trimmed his hair and beard. When I trim I’m presentable, but if my job doesn’t require it…well, the periods ‘twixt the brief moments in which I can be troubled tend to run a bit long. So, I look like this rather less often than I look like this.
My clothes don’t help either, especially in cold weather. I hate to spend money, and on the long list of things I hate to spend money on only bail bondsmen rank higher than clothes. As long as they’re comfortable, provide adequate protection from the elements, and obscure the things I can be arrested for failing to obscure, I figure it’s unreasonable to expect anything more from them. As a result I tend to wear clothes far longer than most people would.
On this day I had on a perfectly respectable oxford and slacks for work, but she couldn’t see those. She could only see the hat and coat. The hat is homemade, and it’s a hand-me-down; I’ve had it since high school, but actually it’s older than I am. My coat had already been around the block a few times when I bought it for five bucks at a second-hand store in 1995, and I’ve put quite a few miles on it since. Last winter an actual homeless guy offered to get me a better coat, in fact. But although it’s old and threadbare, it was originally very fine, very expensive, and it’s still quite heavy and warm, so why would I replace it? Any coat I could afford would be inferior.
So, yes, this happens a lot. It’s impossible to guess how often, since most of the time I probably don’t know it. Think about it, when you see a homeless person, what do you say to him? Nothing at all. Almost no-one initiates conversations with the homeless. I know I don’t. I doubt that every person who avoids eye contact with me thinks I’m homeless, but I’d be interested to know what the percentage is.
What made this occasion unusual wasn’t what she thought, but how she acted. Mostly, when folks can bring themselves to speak to me, it’s to say something like, “Excuse me, do you have business here?” which of course translates as, “Would you please fuck off and stop making my customers uncomfortable?” This happens even in places I’m supposed to be. Once I walked into a bar I worked in, and heard a customer telling the bartender, “Oh, God, there’s another one. Want me to throw him out for ya?” When I worked at the library at Marshall University, campus PD accosted me on a smoke break, convinced I was panhandling and harassing the students. I assured them I wasn’t, and they asked to see some I.D. I patiently explained that I didn’t have it on me, not having expected to need it, but that it was locked up in my desk. In my office.”
So, my appearance generally inspires distaste, if not outright aggression, but in her it inspired only compassion.
There isn’t really a moral to this story. I suppose I could say something like “Never judge a book by its cover,” but that’s such a terrible cliché, plus which I don’t agree with it. In my experience the cover is generally a fairly reliable indicator of the contents. If you saw me on the street and thought I was homeless, you’d be wrong, but probably everything else you thought would be true.
Perhaps I could say something about treating everyone we meet with dignity and empathy, but why? Everybody already knows we ought to do that. Either we do it or we don’t, and nothing I say here is gonna instill humanity in anyone who doesn’t already possess it. Anyway, though it’s a point worth making, it deserves a better messenger than me. I’m sorry to admit that I am utterly contemptuous.
My purpose in making this video is rather more personal. You see, once she realized her mistake, the sweet young thing was embarrassed and flustered. She quickly apologized and ran off. For my part, I think very slowly, and it didn’t occur to me ‘til she was gone how remarkable her reaction was. I wish that I’d told her that. So, on the off chance that she watches YouTube, this is for her:
It’s okay. I don’t mind. If I minded, I’d shave and buy some new clothes, so don’t be embarrassed. I do appreciate the thought, and though I don’t need your help, many do, so don’t stop asking. I feel a lot better about the world, knowing that you’re in it. You were a bit of sunlight to me, and I thank you for that. I wish I was more like you. I’ll try to be more like you.
Tell you what, come on back around anytime. Soup’s on me.
Hello, brothers and sisters. I am OgreVI, and like everyone else, I have to get the rent paid. I’m too ugly for prostitution and too explosion-averse to cook meth, so these days I pay my way washing dishes at a local eatery.
I walk to work every day, and I usually show about half an hour early. That way I can sit and relax a bit, get my mind settled before I clock in and commence the long slog. Monday a couple of weeks ago was cold and wet, but I was thoroughly bundled and I am not made of sugar. I perched on the concrete steps in the alley behind the joint, lit a cigarette, shut my eyes, and proceeded to lose myself in David Bowie. After some time I became aware that someone was speaking to me. I opened my eyes to find a sweet young woman in a floppy white hat.
“Can I buy you a cup of soup?” she asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’s just that you look so cold sitting here. So, you know…if you’re…hungry or…well, anything, ummm, I could, you know, maybe buy you a cup of soup. Or something.”
“Oh. Ohhhhhhh, I see.” I started to laugh, but she was so shy and earnest I was afraid of hurting her feelings. “My love, you’re mistaken. I’m not homeless, just sort of disheveled.”
I laughed it off, because I’m used to people making that particular mistake. You see, I’m a bit scruffy-looking. You guys don’t know that, of course. You only ever see me as I draw myself. This picture is pretty accurate as far as it goes, but you’ll notice that this fella here has recently trimmed his hair and beard. When I trim I’m presentable, but if my job doesn’t require it…well, the periods ‘twixt the brief moments in which I can be troubled tend to run a bit long. So, I look like this rather less often than I look like this.
My clothes don’t help either, especially in cold weather. I hate to spend money, and on the long list of things I hate to spend money on only bail bondsmen rank higher than clothes. As long as they’re comfortable, provide adequate protection from the elements, and obscure the things I can be arrested for failing to obscure, I figure it’s unreasonable to expect anything more from them. As a result I tend to wear clothes far longer than most people would.
On this day I had on a perfectly respectable oxford and slacks for work, but she couldn’t see those. She could only see the hat and coat. The hat is homemade, and it’s a hand-me-down; I’ve had it since high school, but actually it’s older than I am. My coat had already been around the block a few times when I bought it for five bucks at a second-hand store in 1995, and I’ve put quite a few miles on it since. Last winter an actual homeless guy offered to get me a better coat, in fact. But although it’s old and threadbare, it was originally very fine, very expensive, and it’s still quite heavy and warm, so why would I replace it? Any coat I could afford would be inferior.
So, yes, this happens a lot. It’s impossible to guess how often, since most of the time I probably don’t know it. Think about it, when you see a homeless person, what do you say to him? Nothing at all. Almost no-one initiates conversations with the homeless. I know I don’t. I doubt that every person who avoids eye contact with me thinks I’m homeless, but I’d be interested to know what the percentage is.
What made this occasion unusual wasn’t what she thought, but how she acted. Mostly, when folks can bring themselves to speak to me, it’s to say something like, “Excuse me, do you have business here?” which of course translates as, “Would you please fuck off and stop making my customers uncomfortable?” This happens even in places I’m supposed to be. Once I walked into a bar I worked in, and heard a customer telling the bartender, “Oh, God, there’s another one. Want me to throw him out for ya?” When I worked at the library at Marshall University, campus PD accosted me on a smoke break, convinced I was panhandling and harassing the students. I assured them I wasn’t, and they asked to see some I.D. I patiently explained that I didn’t have it on me, not having expected to need it, but that it was locked up in my desk. In my office.”
So, my appearance generally inspires distaste, if not outright aggression, but in her it inspired only compassion.
There isn’t really a moral to this story. I suppose I could say something like “Never judge a book by its cover,” but that’s such a terrible cliché, plus which I don’t agree with it. In my experience the cover is generally a fairly reliable indicator of the contents. If you saw me on the street and thought I was homeless, you’d be wrong, but probably everything else you thought would be true.
Perhaps I could say something about treating everyone we meet with dignity and empathy, but why? Everybody already knows we ought to do that. Either we do it or we don’t, and nothing I say here is gonna instill humanity in anyone who doesn’t already possess it. Anyway, though it’s a point worth making, it deserves a better messenger than me. I’m sorry to admit that I am utterly contemptuous.
My purpose in making this video is rather more personal. You see, once she realized her mistake, the sweet young thing was embarrassed and flustered. She quickly apologized and ran off. For my part, I think very slowly, and it didn’t occur to me ‘til she was gone how remarkable her reaction was. I wish that I’d told her that. So, on the off chance that she watches YouTube, this is for her:
It’s okay. I don’t mind. If I minded, I’d shave and buy some new clothes, so don’t be embarrassed. I do appreciate the thought, and though I don’t need your help, many do, so don’t stop asking. I feel a lot better about the world, knowing that you’re in it. You were a bit of sunlight to me, and I thank you for that. I wish I was more like you. I’ll try to be more like you.
Tell you what, come on back around anytime. Soup’s on me.
- My body's at:1644
- ...but my soul is:
creative - Right now, I'm digging:David Bowie, "The Man Who Sold The World"
Hey, everybody. Happy Bogey Day! I know, I write about this every year, but this year I made a video. It's just a little silly thing, but it's fun. Most of the stuff in it, of course, is stuff you've read here before, but if you'd like to watch it anyway, I'll embed it. I hope you all enjoy it, and that everyone's day kicked very, very serious ass.
- My body's at:1644
- ...but my soul is: cheerful
- Right now, I'm digging:The Maltese Falcon
So it’s late, I’m slightly tipsy, and three things have been aggravating me all day. I’m just here to bitch. Stand back.
FIRST Another year, another turkey pardoned. Actually, this year the President pardoned TWO turkeys, named “Peace” and “Liberty.” I’m sure that was a coincidence. I’m afraid the symbolism is rather lost on me; I would rather the President do a bit to preserve actual peace and liberty instead of sparing a couple of turkeys. But the main thing is, why the hell are we once again wasting time on this? Does it really mean anything to anyone? Mr. President, we need some goddamned jobs! How about instead of this mindless ceremony you kick a little Congressional ass until they pass a proper jobs bill? Seriously, I have a proposition for you: I will personally slaughter those two turkeys with my bare hands for $50 each. I’ll be able to pay my rent, you’ll get to dodge this pointless bullshit; it’s a win-win! Except for the turkeys, of course.
SECOND: Bill O’Reilly looks at the cops pepper-spraying non-violent protesters at UC Davis and says, “I don't think we have the right to Monday morning quarterback the police.” And see, this is an important difference between me and O’Reilly. I won’t generalize and say that this is a difference between liberals and conservatives; for purposes of this post we’ll pretend that me and Bill are the only people talking about this. The point is the difference between principles and clannishness. If those kids had been teabaggers, O’Reilly and I would both have been outraged. But because they were OWS, I’m the only one pissed off. That’s because I’m defending a principle, the right of people to speak their minds, assemble peaceably, and petition the government for the redress of grievances, no matter what those grievances are. O’Reilly, on the other hand, is just defending people he likes. Beating, tear-gassing, and pepper-spraying O’Reilly’s allies is creeping fascism, but when it’s done to folks who disagree with him it’s fine. Bill, if your principles don’t extend to those who disagree with you, they aren’t principles anymore. They’re just empty rhetoric.
THIRD: In that same segment, Megyn “Why Is My Name Always Misspelled?” Kelly made a far more widely-reported comment about how pepper spray isn’t a big deal, because hey, it’s a food product, right? They make it from food; how bad can it be? Ms. Kelly, do you know what else is made from food? Shit. I have, in fact, just produced a significant quantity of shit from a ham & swiss on rye with extra mustard and a pile of potato chips. May I smear it all over you? All you have to do is sit quietly, head down, harming no-one, trying to express an idea that matters to you. Would you deserve that? Because if not, then shut the fuck up.
FIRST Another year, another turkey pardoned. Actually, this year the President pardoned TWO turkeys, named “Peace” and “Liberty.” I’m sure that was a coincidence. I’m afraid the symbolism is rather lost on me; I would rather the President do a bit to preserve actual peace and liberty instead of sparing a couple of turkeys. But the main thing is, why the hell are we once again wasting time on this? Does it really mean anything to anyone? Mr. President, we need some goddamned jobs! How about instead of this mindless ceremony you kick a little Congressional ass until they pass a proper jobs bill? Seriously, I have a proposition for you: I will personally slaughter those two turkeys with my bare hands for $50 each. I’ll be able to pay my rent, you’ll get to dodge this pointless bullshit; it’s a win-win! Except for the turkeys, of course.
SECOND: Bill O’Reilly looks at the cops pepper-spraying non-violent protesters at UC Davis and says, “I don't think we have the right to Monday morning quarterback the police.” And see, this is an important difference between me and O’Reilly. I won’t generalize and say that this is a difference between liberals and conservatives; for purposes of this post we’ll pretend that me and Bill are the only people talking about this. The point is the difference between principles and clannishness. If those kids had been teabaggers, O’Reilly and I would both have been outraged. But because they were OWS, I’m the only one pissed off. That’s because I’m defending a principle, the right of people to speak their minds, assemble peaceably, and petition the government for the redress of grievances, no matter what those grievances are. O’Reilly, on the other hand, is just defending people he likes. Beating, tear-gassing, and pepper-spraying O’Reilly’s allies is creeping fascism, but when it’s done to folks who disagree with him it’s fine. Bill, if your principles don’t extend to those who disagree with you, they aren’t principles anymore. They’re just empty rhetoric.
THIRD: In that same segment, Megyn “Why Is My Name Always Misspelled?” Kelly made a far more widely-reported comment about how pepper spray isn’t a big deal, because hey, it’s a food product, right? They make it from food; how bad can it be? Ms. Kelly, do you know what else is made from food? Shit. I have, in fact, just produced a significant quantity of shit from a ham & swiss on rye with extra mustard and a pile of potato chips. May I smear it all over you? All you have to do is sit quietly, head down, harming no-one, trying to express an idea that matters to you. Would you deserve that? Because if not, then shut the fuck up.
* * * * * * *
Okay, I feel better now. I’m going to bed. Love to all.
Okay, I feel better now. I’m going to bed. Love to all.
- My body's at:1644
- ...but my soul is:
aggravated - Right now, I'm digging:The Pogues, obviously
You know, I should start a series about all the holidays I celebrate instead of celebrating the holidays everyone else celebrates. That might be fun. I’ll think about it. Anyway, today is Ed Wood Day, one of the happiest days of the year, and here’s my tribute to the great man (I admit that I’m using a definition of “great” with which some folks might not be familiar). I hope you guys dig it, and as usual, a transcript follows.
Hello, brothers and sisters. I am OgreVI, here to wish you a Happy Ed Wood Day!
You guys don’t celebrate Ed Wood Day, do you? Eh, that’s okay. I don’t celebrate any of your holidays either. I like to make my own holidays. Some correspond with mainstream holidays, so I won’t feel left out while other folks are partying and eating good, but most are just me taking a little time to think about things that are important to me.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. “Sure, I get that, but Ed Wood? I mean, yeah, it’s fun to sit around getting high and laughing at his movies, but does he deserve his own day for that?” Well, in the first place, yes, but that isn’t why he has his own day.
It’s natural for us to have heroes, folks we respect and maybe even try to pattern ourselves after. There are some lives from which we can take lessons as to how to live our own lives. I’ve got several folks I look up to, from Emma Goldman to Bertrand Russell, but my real number one has always been this guy. Eugene Victor Debs. In case you were cheated out of a proper history education, he was a labor leader around the turn of the last century. He ran for President four times, the last time while he was a political prisoner, a seventy-year-old man sentenced to hard labor for opposing U.S. involvement in World War I. He ran his last campaign from prison, and got nearly a million votes. That’s pretty impressive.
Gene might not be your hero, but you’ve prob’ly got one. Maybe Dr. King or Margaret Mead or Cesar Chavez or…whoever. There are any number of suitable choices, but they all have this in common: they set the bar for success a bit high. It’s hard to measure up. They had failures just like the rest of us, but the failures aren’t what we remember.
For example: raise your hand if the first thing you think when I show you this picture is, “Oh, yeah, that’s the guy who lost the Eastern Conference Finals in seven games to the Pistons back in 1990.” People from Detroit are not allowed to participate. Now look around, brothers and sisters. Do you see any hands raised? Of course not. We remember the rings and the game-winners and the Sports Illustrated covers. This is Michael Jordan. This is not.
It’s very American to think that we can do the same, that we can achieve whatever we want if we put our minds to it. It’s a nice thought, but it isn’t true, is it? The fact is that these were extraordinary people, and most of us just aren’t extraordinary. If we were, we’d need a new word.
Ed Wood was not extraordinary, and yet when I mentioned him at the beginning of this video, I didn’t have to tell you who he was. You know his name, and you know his work, even if you’ve never seen it. You know him as the Worst Director Ever. He was not the worst; I’m something of an expert on bad movies, and I could name a dozen worse filmmakers off the top of my head. But here’s the thing: directors this bad usually make one or two films and give up, but not Wood. He made more films than Stanley Kubrick. Anyone else would have found another job, but Wood loved what he was doing.
That’s why his work was so memorable. “Worst Director Ever” is very much an affectionate title. There are Ed Wood festivals every year, all over the world. There’s a church of Ed Wood, which I’ll totally join if I ever find myself in need of religion. Johnny Depp played him in a movie! That’s serious business. His masterpiece, Plan 9 from Outer Space, is still popular enough to warrant a fancy new 50th anniversary DVD release. It came out the same year as Anatomy of a Murder, Suddenly, Last Summer and Some Like It Hot. All excellent movies, but how many internet discussion groups have you seen dedicated to them? Ed Wood has hundreds. How far would you travel to attend a screening of Ben-Hur? When the new print of Plan 9 was shown in San Diego two years ago, people came from all over the world to see it.
It really was a labor of love for him, and you can feel that while you watch his movies. Yes, he was terrible. Yes, he was bankrupt and ridiculed, but he just kept throwing everything he had into making movies. That’s what makes Ed Wood my hero, and that’s why he deserves his own day. Think about it. Anyone can make his mark if he’s got talent, vision, and genius, but Ed Wood made his mark without those things. All he had was intransigence and a dream. To me, that’s far more inspiring.
Ed Wood makes no empty promises to us. The lesson of his career is that if we pursue our dreams with passion and determination, if we commit ourselves body and soul to the things we love, if we ignore the people who say we’re no good even when we know they’re right, we will still fail most of the time. We might fail every time. Sometimes, though, we can fail gloriously.
Today is Ed Wood’s birthday. I hereby declare, according to the power vested in me by nobody, that henceforth October 10th shall be Ed Wood Day. Who’d like to celebrate it with me? Share some bad movies with some good people tonight, brothers and sisters, and remember to cherish your failures. They might turn out to be the most precious things you have.
Hello, brothers and sisters. I am OgreVI, here to wish you a Happy Ed Wood Day!
You guys don’t celebrate Ed Wood Day, do you? Eh, that’s okay. I don’t celebrate any of your holidays either. I like to make my own holidays. Some correspond with mainstream holidays, so I won’t feel left out while other folks are partying and eating good, but most are just me taking a little time to think about things that are important to me.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. “Sure, I get that, but Ed Wood? I mean, yeah, it’s fun to sit around getting high and laughing at his movies, but does he deserve his own day for that?” Well, in the first place, yes, but that isn’t why he has his own day.
It’s natural for us to have heroes, folks we respect and maybe even try to pattern ourselves after. There are some lives from which we can take lessons as to how to live our own lives. I’ve got several folks I look up to, from Emma Goldman to Bertrand Russell, but my real number one has always been this guy. Eugene Victor Debs. In case you were cheated out of a proper history education, he was a labor leader around the turn of the last century. He ran for President four times, the last time while he was a political prisoner, a seventy-year-old man sentenced to hard labor for opposing U.S. involvement in World War I. He ran his last campaign from prison, and got nearly a million votes. That’s pretty impressive.
Gene might not be your hero, but you’ve prob’ly got one. Maybe Dr. King or Margaret Mead or Cesar Chavez or…whoever. There are any number of suitable choices, but they all have this in common: they set the bar for success a bit high. It’s hard to measure up. They had failures just like the rest of us, but the failures aren’t what we remember.
For example: raise your hand if the first thing you think when I show you this picture is, “Oh, yeah, that’s the guy who lost the Eastern Conference Finals in seven games to the Pistons back in 1990.” People from Detroit are not allowed to participate. Now look around, brothers and sisters. Do you see any hands raised? Of course not. We remember the rings and the game-winners and the Sports Illustrated covers. This is Michael Jordan. This is not.
It’s very American to think that we can do the same, that we can achieve whatever we want if we put our minds to it. It’s a nice thought, but it isn’t true, is it? The fact is that these were extraordinary people, and most of us just aren’t extraordinary. If we were, we’d need a new word.
Ed Wood was not extraordinary, and yet when I mentioned him at the beginning of this video, I didn’t have to tell you who he was. You know his name, and you know his work, even if you’ve never seen it. You know him as the Worst Director Ever. He was not the worst; I’m something of an expert on bad movies, and I could name a dozen worse filmmakers off the top of my head. But here’s the thing: directors this bad usually make one or two films and give up, but not Wood. He made more films than Stanley Kubrick. Anyone else would have found another job, but Wood loved what he was doing.
That’s why his work was so memorable. “Worst Director Ever” is very much an affectionate title. There are Ed Wood festivals every year, all over the world. There’s a church of Ed Wood, which I’ll totally join if I ever find myself in need of religion. Johnny Depp played him in a movie! That’s serious business. His masterpiece, Plan 9 from Outer Space, is still popular enough to warrant a fancy new 50th anniversary DVD release. It came out the same year as Anatomy of a Murder, Suddenly, Last Summer and Some Like It Hot. All excellent movies, but how many internet discussion groups have you seen dedicated to them? Ed Wood has hundreds. How far would you travel to attend a screening of Ben-Hur? When the new print of Plan 9 was shown in San Diego two years ago, people came from all over the world to see it.
It really was a labor of love for him, and you can feel that while you watch his movies. Yes, he was terrible. Yes, he was bankrupt and ridiculed, but he just kept throwing everything he had into making movies. That’s what makes Ed Wood my hero, and that’s why he deserves his own day. Think about it. Anyone can make his mark if he’s got talent, vision, and genius, but Ed Wood made his mark without those things. All he had was intransigence and a dream. To me, that’s far more inspiring.
Ed Wood makes no empty promises to us. The lesson of his career is that if we pursue our dreams with passion and determination, if we commit ourselves body and soul to the things we love, if we ignore the people who say we’re no good even when we know they’re right, we will still fail most of the time. We might fail every time. Sometimes, though, we can fail gloriously.
Today is Ed Wood’s birthday. I hereby declare, according to the power vested in me by nobody, that henceforth October 10th shall be Ed Wood Day. Who’d like to celebrate it with me? Share some bad movies with some good people tonight, brothers and sisters, and remember to cherish your failures. They might turn out to be the most precious things you have.
- My body's at:1644
- ...but my soul is: amused
- Right now, I'm digging:Plan 9 from Outer Space
I didn’t expect to write anything about this. Frankly I was surprised, not by the media coverage, but by all the status updates my friends posted on Facebook about it. Did Steve Jobs really mean so much to everyone?
But I’ve been thinking about it today, and…well, here it is. You guys know I take a long walk every night and listen to music. Up until 2007, when I did that I had to carry around a big case full of cassettes so that if I suddenly decided I wanted to hear something else I would be able to change tapes. Now most of my enormous music library fits on one little device smaller than a deck of playing cards. If I start off listening to Echo & the Bunnymen but then decide I’m in the mood for Portishead, it takes five seconds and a few clicks to switch.
And it isn’t only music; at work I listen to podcasts. Last night I listened to Annie Laurie Gaylor talking about the importance of the separation of church and state, This American Life looking back at 9/11 from ten years later, This Week in Science discussing the origin of the universe and new revelations on the nature of gravity, and Grammar Girl exploring the regional idioms of western Pennsylvania. On the way home I listened to Christopher Hitchens’ thoughts on St. Augustine. I’m plugged into everything important in the world.
When I was moving back home from West Virginia I was taking eight-hour drives twice every two weeks, bringing my possessions here. During those drives I listened to audiobooks. My company on those empty midnight highways was Dostoevsky and Douglas Adams, Richard Dawkins and Ernest Hemingway, thanks to that little device. It really has changed my life. It’s by far my most useful possession, the one thing I would least like to live without.
Now, Steve Jobs was a businessman. The $250 I paid for my iPod was all the gratitude he asked for or deserved. Nevertheless, I feel compelled this morning to say thanks. So thanks, Steve. I really do appreciate it.
But I’ve been thinking about it today, and…well, here it is. You guys know I take a long walk every night and listen to music. Up until 2007, when I did that I had to carry around a big case full of cassettes so that if I suddenly decided I wanted to hear something else I would be able to change tapes. Now most of my enormous music library fits on one little device smaller than a deck of playing cards. If I start off listening to Echo & the Bunnymen but then decide I’m in the mood for Portishead, it takes five seconds and a few clicks to switch.
And it isn’t only music; at work I listen to podcasts. Last night I listened to Annie Laurie Gaylor talking about the importance of the separation of church and state, This American Life looking back at 9/11 from ten years later, This Week in Science discussing the origin of the universe and new revelations on the nature of gravity, and Grammar Girl exploring the regional idioms of western Pennsylvania. On the way home I listened to Christopher Hitchens’ thoughts on St. Augustine. I’m plugged into everything important in the world.
When I was moving back home from West Virginia I was taking eight-hour drives twice every two weeks, bringing my possessions here. During those drives I listened to audiobooks. My company on those empty midnight highways was Dostoevsky and Douglas Adams, Richard Dawkins and Ernest Hemingway, thanks to that little device. It really has changed my life. It’s by far my most useful possession, the one thing I would least like to live without.
Now, Steve Jobs was a businessman. The $250 I paid for my iPod was all the gratitude he asked for or deserved. Nevertheless, I feel compelled this morning to say thanks. So thanks, Steve. I really do appreciate it.
- My body's at:1644
- ...but my soul is: grateful
- Right now, I'm digging:Podcast after podcast
Finally! I hope y’all dig it. And Chapter Two, well, it might be a while….
Hello, brothers and sisters. I am OgreVI, and I did not choose my first theme song. It was assigned to me by a young woman for whom I had great affection. She always called me Joey. My name is not Joey, but that was the name of a Concrete Blonde song that she thought was perfect for the two of us, so that’s what she called me. You may know it, it was a hit and one of the best songs of the era, but in case you don’t I’ll include a bit of it here:
If I seem to be confused
I didn’t mean to be with you
And when you said I scared you,
well, I guess you scared me, too.
But if it’s love you’re looking for
I can give a little more
So if you’re somewhere drunk and passed out on the floor
Oh, Joey, I’m not angry anymore.
That does me no credit, of course, but it was accurate. I started drinking every morning when I woke up and kept drinking ‘til I passed out. I made a few bucks here and there playing music, and occasionally took an odd job for a day or two, but I had very little money, and what I had went to alcohol. I wouldn’t even buy food, and frequently went days without eating. I did that on purpose; I may have been a drunk, but I was clever. My reasoning was simple: everyone knew I drank too much, everyone wanted me to quit drinking, and so nobody was gonna buy me alcohol, but they weren’t actually gonna let me starve to death.
I’d show up at someone’s door and the scene would play something like this:
ME: Hey.
HOLLI: Hey, wow, you look like shit.
ME: Thank you. And may I say you’re not such a vision of loveliness your-goddamned-self.
HOLLI: Yeah, yeah. Seriously, though, you look awful. How long since you ate?
ME: I don’t know. They were giving away hot dogs on campus…
HOLLI: Today?
ME: No, it was…
HOLLI: Yesterday?
ME: Was it yesterday? Ummm…it was the day we all went to Doug’s show downtown.
HOLLI: Jesus Christ, that was Thursday!
ME: Okay, so…day before yesterday?
HOLLI: Today is Monday!
ME: Is it? I have trouble keeping track of the days.
HOLLI: Ugh! Get in here. Fix yourself some macaroni or something.
And that was that. We’d stay up late, drinking and talking and…well, and whatever the evening was up to. At the time I was a man, as folks say when they’re trying to be charitable, of no fixed address, so I’d crash there. The next morning I’d leave, wander around the City for a while and eventually end up at another friend’s place. I had a very wide circle of friends, and my idea was to sleep in a different place every night so no one person would be overburdened. This worked for a long time. I suppose that to some extent they took me in because they worried about me, but I flatter myself also that folks just liked having me around.
There’s a certain romance attached to the well-mannered drunk. Our culture is full of them, both real and fictional; the entertaining alcoholic is a staple of our literature. Yes, drink makes him stupid, and maybe a little bit sad. Regret and squandered potential drip off of him. But drink also makes him eloquent and gregarious, charming and funny. It gives him a certain insight, presumably because his muddled perceptions are untroubled by convention and inhibition. It increases his love for his fellow man, an area in which I admit I’ve always been somewhat deficient. The mythical drunk has an oblique and hard-earned wisdom, a respect for human frailty, and poetry in his battered old soul. The folks who dislike him are always the villains.
Growing up I wanted to be these guys. I believed in the myth, and I doubt I’m unusual in that. Many people who don’t grow up with drunks probably think they’re really like that. And you know what? The best of us really are like that. Most of the time.
But not all the time. All drunks are ultimately unmanageable, and so one by one these friends started to disappear. The drunk has, as I say, a certain romance to him, but when you find him passed out in a puddle on the bathroom floor with his pants around his ankles, much of the romance is lost. Folks love the impulsiveness, the unpredictability, of the drunk until he, say, jumps off a third-story roof because you doubted his invincibility. No matter how much you love someone like that, no matter how much you enjoy his company, eventually you’re just gonna get burned out.
And so I gradually found myself in a city where fewer and fewer doors would open when I knocked. I became like a ghost, invisible and intangible to all but a very few people. Once a man has reached that point he has two choices: he can fix himself, and set about repairing all the relationships he’s ruined, or he can vanish. Go someplace where nobody knows him, build new relationships, and hope he doesn’t ruin those quite as quickly. The former requires willpower, courage, and a genuine interest in the feelings of others; it requires you, in short, to grow up. So, I chose the latter. I left home and set off across the country, in search of a new life and a new theme song.
Hello, brothers and sisters. I am OgreVI, and I did not choose my first theme song. It was assigned to me by a young woman for whom I had great affection. She always called me Joey. My name is not Joey, but that was the name of a Concrete Blonde song that she thought was perfect for the two of us, so that’s what she called me. You may know it, it was a hit and one of the best songs of the era, but in case you don’t I’ll include a bit of it here:
If I seem to be confused
I didn’t mean to be with you
And when you said I scared you,
well, I guess you scared me, too.
But if it’s love you’re looking for
I can give a little more
So if you’re somewhere drunk and passed out on the floor
Oh, Joey, I’m not angry anymore.
That does me no credit, of course, but it was accurate. I started drinking every morning when I woke up and kept drinking ‘til I passed out. I made a few bucks here and there playing music, and occasionally took an odd job for a day or two, but I had very little money, and what I had went to alcohol. I wouldn’t even buy food, and frequently went days without eating. I did that on purpose; I may have been a drunk, but I was clever. My reasoning was simple: everyone knew I drank too much, everyone wanted me to quit drinking, and so nobody was gonna buy me alcohol, but they weren’t actually gonna let me starve to death.
I’d show up at someone’s door and the scene would play something like this:
ME: Hey.
HOLLI: Hey, wow, you look like shit.
ME: Thank you. And may I say you’re not such a vision of loveliness your-goddamned-self.
HOLLI: Yeah, yeah. Seriously, though, you look awful. How long since you ate?
ME: I don’t know. They were giving away hot dogs on campus…
HOLLI: Today?
ME: No, it was…
HOLLI: Yesterday?
ME: Was it yesterday? Ummm…it was the day we all went to Doug’s show downtown.
HOLLI: Jesus Christ, that was Thursday!
ME: Okay, so…day before yesterday?
HOLLI: Today is Monday!
ME: Is it? I have trouble keeping track of the days.
HOLLI: Ugh! Get in here. Fix yourself some macaroni or something.
And that was that. We’d stay up late, drinking and talking and…well, and whatever the evening was up to. At the time I was a man, as folks say when they’re trying to be charitable, of no fixed address, so I’d crash there. The next morning I’d leave, wander around the City for a while and eventually end up at another friend’s place. I had a very wide circle of friends, and my idea was to sleep in a different place every night so no one person would be overburdened. This worked for a long time. I suppose that to some extent they took me in because they worried about me, but I flatter myself also that folks just liked having me around.
There’s a certain romance attached to the well-mannered drunk. Our culture is full of them, both real and fictional; the entertaining alcoholic is a staple of our literature. Yes, drink makes him stupid, and maybe a little bit sad. Regret and squandered potential drip off of him. But drink also makes him eloquent and gregarious, charming and funny. It gives him a certain insight, presumably because his muddled perceptions are untroubled by convention and inhibition. It increases his love for his fellow man, an area in which I admit I’ve always been somewhat deficient. The mythical drunk has an oblique and hard-earned wisdom, a respect for human frailty, and poetry in his battered old soul. The folks who dislike him are always the villains.
Growing up I wanted to be these guys. I believed in the myth, and I doubt I’m unusual in that. Many people who don’t grow up with drunks probably think they’re really like that. And you know what? The best of us really are like that. Most of the time.
But not all the time. All drunks are ultimately unmanageable, and so one by one these friends started to disappear. The drunk has, as I say, a certain romance to him, but when you find him passed out in a puddle on the bathroom floor with his pants around his ankles, much of the romance is lost. Folks love the impulsiveness, the unpredictability, of the drunk until he, say, jumps off a third-story roof because you doubted his invincibility. No matter how much you love someone like that, no matter how much you enjoy his company, eventually you’re just gonna get burned out.
And so I gradually found myself in a city where fewer and fewer doors would open when I knocked. I became like a ghost, invisible and intangible to all but a very few people. Once a man has reached that point he has two choices: he can fix himself, and set about repairing all the relationships he’s ruined, or he can vanish. Go someplace where nobody knows him, build new relationships, and hope he doesn’t ruin those quite as quickly. The former requires willpower, courage, and a genuine interest in the feelings of others; it requires you, in short, to grow up. So, I chose the latter. I left home and set off across the country, in search of a new life and a new theme song.
- My body's at:1644
- ...but my soul is:
retrospective - Right now, I'm digging:I'll give ya three guesses...
I didn’t get my “Coffee with Claire” this morning, as a result of which I’ve been bitchy all day. So I took a night off from the endless drudgery that is the making of “Joey” to make this. It’s just a little fun thing, although I sincerely hope it upsets the person it’s addressed to. Also, I hope you guys enjoy it, and as usual, a transcript follows the video.
Hello, brothers and sisters. I am OgreVI, and I’m in a sour mood tonight, on account of there was no “Coffee with Claire” this morning.
You see, there’s a young woman on YouTube named…Amen-AH-kin? Maybe A-MEN-akin. Or it might be Amen-achin’, which I believe is an obscure joint disorder you get from spending too much time on your knees praying. I’m gonna call her Amena, which is shorter, prettier, and easier to say. I hope she doesn’t mind.
Anyway, some time ago Amena made a video, the subject of which was that she doesn’t really understand how evolutionary theory works. That may not have been her intention, but it was the effect; things don’t always turn out as we plan, do they? On the strength of this video she was named Wildwood Claire’s “Dim Bulb of the Week” last Sunday, and was nominated for a coveted Golden Crocoduck Award. Both Claire and Potholer 54 (who awards the Golden Crocoduck) made videos about Amena, which is to say making fun of Amena, and she didn’t like that. I sympathize. Nobody likes to be laughed at.
Her response, though, was to file copyright-infringement claims against both Claire and Potholer, and either she or someone acting on her behalf also flagged Claire’s video for “hate speech.” YouTube backed up this latter claim, which is why Claire was too mad to make her show this morning.
This is bad for everybody. Obviously, facetious copyright claims (as well as groundless flagging) endanger all of us who make videos, besides which these are two of the smartest, funniest, and best YouTubers out there, so anything that endangers their channels threatens our enjoyment of the site. Furthermore, Claire is a YouTube buddy of mine, and what hurts her hurts me, too. My Sundays depend upon “Coffee with Claire,” and my morning was ruined. Well, not completely ruined, ‘cause I still had “Literally Genesis,” but half-ruined.
Speaking directly to Amena: sweetheart, I know you don’t give a shit about hurting me or Claire or any of us. But this whole thing has turned out badly for you too, hasn’t it? Two weeks ago nobody in our little community had ever heard of you. A week ago you were just one of a hundred folks we laugh at and then forget about. But now half the people I’m subscribed to have mirrored Potholer’s and Claire’s videos about you, which has greatly increased the number of people making fun of you. Many, too, have made their own videos calling you a crybaby and a coward. This isn’t because of your Darwin video, and it isn’t because of Potholer and Claire. It’s because of your overreaction. A hundred thousand people or more who would have never heard of you or just ignored you now regard you with utter contempt. So, as I say, this has turned out badly for all of us.
Now I too am making a video about you, but my intention is different from the others. I’ve come not to insult you or scold you, but to bring you a bit of wisdom handed down to me by my grandmother. She was a good woman, a smart and funny and loving woman. But she was not a nice woman. She was downright abrasive, not to say mean-spirited. That woman hurt a lot of feelings in her time. She loved me very much and treated me better than she did most, but I still wasn’t off-limits for the barbs of her wit.
One day, when I was four or five years old, she was laughing at me, and my feelings were hurt. I started to cry (I was a very soft-hearted boy). She came and knelt beside me, put her arms around my shoulders, kissed my cheek, and shared with me a truth about the world that I’ve never forgotten.
“Oh, honey,” she told me, “if you don’t like being laughed at, don’t say stupid shit.”
Amena my love, I hope you’re paying attention.
You see, there’s a young woman on YouTube named…Amen-AH-kin? Maybe A-MEN-akin. Or it might be Amen-achin’, which I believe is an obscure joint disorder you get from spending too much time on your knees praying. I’m gonna call her Amena, which is shorter, prettier, and easier to say. I hope she doesn’t mind.
Anyway, some time ago Amena made a video, the subject of which was that she doesn’t really understand how evolutionary theory works. That may not have been her intention, but it was the effect; things don’t always turn out as we plan, do they? On the strength of this video she was named Wildwood Claire’s “Dim Bulb of the Week” last Sunday, and was nominated for a coveted Golden Crocoduck Award. Both Claire and Potholer 54 (who awards the Golden Crocoduck) made videos about Amena, which is to say making fun of Amena, and she didn’t like that. I sympathize. Nobody likes to be laughed at.
Her response, though, was to file copyright-infringement claims against both Claire and Potholer, and either she or someone acting on her behalf also flagged Claire’s video for “hate speech.” YouTube backed up this latter claim, which is why Claire was too mad to make her show this morning.
This is bad for everybody. Obviously, facetious copyright claims (as well as groundless flagging) endanger all of us who make videos, besides which these are two of the smartest, funniest, and best YouTubers out there, so anything that endangers their channels threatens our enjoyment of the site. Furthermore, Claire is a YouTube buddy of mine, and what hurts her hurts me, too. My Sundays depend upon “Coffee with Claire,” and my morning was ruined. Well, not completely ruined, ‘cause I still had “Literally Genesis,” but half-ruined.
Speaking directly to Amena: sweetheart, I know you don’t give a shit about hurting me or Claire or any of us. But this whole thing has turned out badly for you too, hasn’t it? Two weeks ago nobody in our little community had ever heard of you. A week ago you were just one of a hundred folks we laugh at and then forget about. But now half the people I’m subscribed to have mirrored Potholer’s and Claire’s videos about you, which has greatly increased the number of people making fun of you. Many, too, have made their own videos calling you a crybaby and a coward. This isn’t because of your Darwin video, and it isn’t because of Potholer and Claire. It’s because of your overreaction. A hundred thousand people or more who would have never heard of you or just ignored you now regard you with utter contempt. So, as I say, this has turned out badly for all of us.
Now I too am making a video about you, but my intention is different from the others. I’ve come not to insult you or scold you, but to bring you a bit of wisdom handed down to me by my grandmother. She was a good woman, a smart and funny and loving woman. But she was not a nice woman. She was downright abrasive, not to say mean-spirited. That woman hurt a lot of feelings in her time. She loved me very much and treated me better than she did most, but I still wasn’t off-limits for the barbs of her wit.
One day, when I was four or five years old, she was laughing at me, and my feelings were hurt. I started to cry (I was a very soft-hearted boy). She came and knelt beside me, put her arms around my shoulders, kissed my cheek, and shared with me a truth about the world that I’ve never forgotten.
“Oh, honey,” she told me, “if you don’t like being laughed at, don’t say stupid shit.”
Amena my love, I hope you’re paying attention.
- My body's at:1644
- ...but my soul is: helpful, in a backhanded way
- Right now, I'm digging:Somebody singing "Happy Days Are Here Again" in German.
Oh, man, this is cool. There’s a guy name of Phat Larkin on YouTube who is, I guess…well, is it proper to call him a fan? Am I at the point of having fans? Well, anyway, he really digs “Angry.” A couple of weeks ago he sent me a message asking if I’d mail him one of the sketches from that video. He and his friends, he said, had taken to quoting the line “Stop hasslin’ me, you goddamned lunatic!” in my voice to each other. That’s the same line Claire has clipped and uses occasionally in her videos, so I guess folks like it. Anyway, he wanted the sketch of Angry Ogre that appears onscreen when I say that. So I sent it.
Anyway, he’s now joined the Facebook page for OgreVI, and apparently he’s made a poster or something out of it. He just posted it on the page, but I’m copying it here so you guys can see it:
Seriously, is that cool or what?
- My body's at:1644
- Right now, I'm digging:Tori Amos, "Sweet the Sting"
- My body's at:1644
- ...but my soul is: cheerful
- Right now, I'm digging:Leonard Cohen, "Love Itself"
