Forgive Them, Movie-goers. For They Know Not What They Do by Kevin Egan

December 20, 2008


When my parents split up, back when I was a young child, my father promised he’d visit my brother, sister, and me every weekend.  To his credit, I barely remember a Saturday when he didn’t make the trip from New York City out to the suburbs of Long Island.  He was as regular as clock-work.  And remaining consistent with his consistency, almost every single one of those Saturdays we spent at the movies.  Some fathers may have chosen this outlet because it was the easiest way to keep children both happy and quiet.  My father, I know for a fact, took us because he loved the movies just as much as we did, if not more.    

I remember one of the first Saturdays he came to visit.  He picked my brother and me up from the local bowling alley, where we were doing what my mother loved best: bowling.  Before we left the alley, my father told us about a new movie that had just come out with a lot of robots in it.  He asked us if that was something we’d be interested in seeing.  I enthusiastically said, “Yes!” while my brother, never one for fantasy films, expressed his interest in seeing something with Walter Matthau.  My brother was eight at the time and his taste in films was obviously a lot different than mine and my father’s.  That film about robots that my father was talking about was Star Wars and looking back, I realize, by saying the film had “a lot of robots in it,” he was doing his best to sell the idea of the film to his children because he most likely wanted to see it as well.  I guess I know that because, as an adult, that’s exactly how I would present it.  

The coin toss to decide which film we were going to see that day took place over an open copy of The Daily News, in which advertisements for both films were visible.  I guess my father didn’t have a quarter on him because he ended up flipping a dime instead.  And which ever way my brother called it, heads or tails, it went the other way and I won.  We were going to see Star Wars. 

There’s no need to discuss how the film affected me.  We’ve heard all the stories about a generation obsessed and carrying that obsession into adulthood, only to be let down by third-rate attempts to carry on the saga that once held the entire world captive.  We’ve  all heard those stories “a long, long time ago.”

But something else happened that day.  And if not that day, then either just before or soon after.   The movie-seeing experience had infected my system like a virus.  The thrill of opening day.  The anticipation leading up to a film’s release.  The coming attractions.  Besides those yearly visits to Yankee Stadium, there was hardly anything more exciting.

Over those ten or more years he came to visit, we saw all three Star Wars films, Jaws 1-4, Raiders of the Lost Ark, Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, E.T., Back to the Future, Gremlins, The Bad News Bears in Breaking Training, The Bad News Bears Go to Japan, Escape From Alcatraz, Vacation, European Vacation, Summer Rental, Platoon, Full Metal Jacket, and hundreds and hundreds of others.  If it came out in the late seventies to mid-eighties, chances are, we went to see it. 

The excitement before the start of a film would usually reach its climax just as we’d sit in our seats with our popcorn and our sodas, waiting for the lights to go down.  During this waiting period, the chatter of the crowd sounded like a explosion of words caught inside a blender.  Voices unified into one uncontestable hum of excitement added to the experience, creating an entire element composed  “of, by, and for the people.”  It was America shining in all its uncontainable glory. 

One moment that still brings about a chuckle anytime I recall it occurred when we went to see a re-release of House of Wax with Vincent Price.  My father had seen it when it was originally released and felt it was definitely something his children should experience.  As an added bonus, the film was in “3-D,” which was something completely new to me.  The level of chatter that day was at an all-time high because there was a group of teenagers in the audience that were most likely either high or drunk.  As a ten year old, I was intrigued by the teenagers and tried to listen to what they were saying to each other.  Because everyone else in the theatre was talking as well, I couldn’t really make anything out.  Their voices, though the most powerful in the room, were still part of that collective hum.  I did, however, hear the one teenager, who was growing tremendously impatient and finally yelled out, “Let’s go!  Start the movie!  I wanna see some ‘3-D’ tits!!!”  I almost spit out my soda as he said it.  Embarrassed that someone had sad the word “tit” in the presence of my father, I did my best not to laugh, though inside I was screaming.  The gods above must’ve heard the teenager’s plea because soon enough, the lights went down and the sneak previews started.  I don’t particularly remember much of the film.  I’m sure I liked it.  I loved Vincent Price as a child.  And it was in 3-D as well.  The sound of that teenager’s voice, however, still resonates inside my head:  “I wanna see some ‘3-D’ tits!!!”

Once I went away to college, I saw less of my father, though I tried my best to continue our Saturday ritual of going to the movies.  Then, after a year and a half of not doing much schoolwork, I failed out of college and returned home and got a job at the local movie theatre of all places.  The pay was crap but one enormous benefit was that we could see any movie we wanted for free at anytime.  To me, that was the equivalent of getting paid $50 an hour.   On my days off, I would sometimes sit through three or four films in a row.   During that period, I watched Fatal Attraction, The Princess Bride, How I Got Into College, Casualties of War, Skin Deep, Lethal Weapon 2, Dead Poet’s Society, Born on the Fourth of July, Back to the Future 2, Batman, and, again, many, many others.  I took more than full advantage of this opportunity. 

The one thing main difference between this period and when I’d go with my family was that I was going to see these movies by myself.  Suddenly, movie-going became a solitary experience.  And since I would go on “off” days, like Tuesday or Wednesday, usually there was hardly anyone else in the theatre.  I would have it mostly to myself.   Immediately I took to this new experience, enjoying the solitude, as well as the peace and quiet before the film began.  I found it comforting in more ways than one. 

Coincidentally, this was around the same time I stopped going to church and in retrospect, the significance couldn’t be more apparent.  When I’d go see a film, as a solitary man, sitting in a somewhat dark, quiet room, reflecting on my life as I waited for a film to begin, it was much like when someone enters an empty church and is able to kneel before God, reflecting in the peace and quiet of their surroundings.  I didn’t know it then, but the cinema had become my new religion. 

Although, I eventually grew up and quit that job at the movie theatre, the experience of going to the movies by myself continued throughout my twenties and thirties.  In fact, once I moved to New York City, the selection of films increased, which meant I was going at least three times a week, sometimes four.  I also discovered I wasn’t the only person that enjoyed going to the cinema alone.  Apparently, it was a “New York thing.” 

Quite often, I’d go to see a film on a sunny Tuesday afternoon and there would be others sprinkled about the theatre, quietly reflecting on whatever was on their mind.  Again, the parallel between the cinema and church seems worth pointing out.  In place of kneeling before a bloody man, hanging from a cross, people were sitting before a screen that projected ads for local restaurants or puzzles with jumbled names of movie stars.

But all that has changed in a big way.  If you haven’t noticed, these days, before every film (at least in the multiplexes), commercials for television shows, movies still in production, and the latest CD release from the latest synthetic pop star are already playing as you enter the theatre.  I’m not talking about the commercials they run before the coming attractions.  I’m talking about the shit they’re playing twenty minutes before the film begins.

No longer can one sit in peace and contemplate his existence, before watching a story shot at twenty-four frames per second.  We’re forced to ingest this obnoxious presentation of what appears to be the worst pop culture has to offer.  And you can forget about bringing a book to kill the time because the volume is cranked way past “eleven.”  Remember that scene in Back to the Future when Marty builds a gigantic amplifier and blows himself across the room?  That’s how loud it is.           

Which only helps to illustrate my point that these commercials not only disrupt the time that the solitary person once used to reflect, they also project louder than the opening day chatter that made opening day even more exhilarating.  That collection of voices I wrote of earlier can now barely be heard beneath the earsplitting perpetration of products not worthy of our attention.        

It’s sad.  The only real solution to this dilemma, I suppose, is to show up just as the coming attractions are starting.  But what about getting a good seat?  Chances are, most of the good ones are taken already if you wait until that final moment.  This is a troubling and harrowing situation that unfortunately, most modern day movie-goers are forced to confront.

True.  There are still the small art-house theatres.  And thank goodness for them.  Not only do they recognize the significance of sitting quietly in the dark before a movie, the music they sometimes play usually coincides with the film you’re about to watch.  They may play the soundtrack to the film or, if it’s an older film, they’ll at least play music from the time period the film was made. 

Unfortunately, not every town has an art house theatre.  And if they do, even though the selection they offer usually consists of the top-of-the-line indie films, there’s still only a small selection of films to chose from., which leaves the person that goes to the movies three or four times a week with the dilemma of sometimes finding himself at the local multiplex.


I haven’t heard any complaints from my father about any of this.  And he still goes to the movies religiously every weekend.  He’s a creature of habit to the very end.  There is a possibility he makes it to the theatre just before the previews, missing those obnoxious commercials that have become nothing short of a hellish experience for his son.  I doubt it though.  He’s an ex-cop and very regimented.  Chances are he gets there extremely early to ensure he gets good seats.  That’s just who he is.  It’s also possible he’s a more tolerant person than his son, although, in my defense, I feel as if I’ve provided a pretty good argument.   Anyway, next time we speak, I plan on asking him how he deals with this albatross around our collective necks. As for me, I’m still going to the movies but I may be in need of a new religion.  Any suggestions?  


* Please, no suggestions.  Not interested.      










“The Anti-anthem:” Yesterday and Today by Kevin Egan

December 16, 2008



Born down in a dead man’s town

The first kick I took was when I hit the ground

You end up like a dog that’s been beat too much

 Till you spend half your life just covering up

 Not very colorful lyrics, are they?  Recognize them?  They’re the first verse of one of the most popular American anthems of the last thirty years.  They belong to a song that has been used by some of the most conservative institutions to incite feelings of nationalism and patriotism, particularly during the 1980’s, when a new brand of Republicanism ruled over our collective consciousness.  And as we were proudly proclaiming our superiority over the Soviet Union, unions in the United States were being broken up, the groundwork for market-deregulation was being laid, and tax breaks were given to the wealthiest of Americans, setting off an era of inequality that still exists today.  

So, what was this song that so feverishly incited a nation to feel so wonderful about itself?  Bruce Springsteen’s “Born in the U.S.A..” 

After the release of the album of the same name in 1984, Springsteen came to represent the mainstream for most rock ‘n’ roll fans.  It was an album that, on the surface, seemed to be a collection of the shiniest pop trash imaginable.  Silly, childish keyboard riffs like the main motif in “Dancing in the Dark” were found to be so laughable, it was difficult to view Springsteen as the prolific songwriter he had been years before.  To many, he had become a popstar in the same league as Madonna and Cyndi Lauper.  Compared to the punk and heavy metal bands that were blossoming at the time, Bruce Springsteen seemed less threatening than Clay Aiken does today.   

But rockers weren’t the only ones blind to the sentiments Springsteen was truly expressing in a brilliant song like “Born in the U.S.A..”  Almost the entire country accepted the lyrics to “Born in the U.S.A.” as an anthem of pride.  We were under the impression he was expressing his gratitude for being born in the “land of the free and the home of the brave.”   The Cold War was still a reality and the song’s chorus seemed to reflect our nation’s sense of righteousness compared to the Soviets’ “Evil Empire,” where people waited on lines for toilet paper and didn’t have the freedom to chose their own occupations.  It had become a late twentieth century version of “This Land is Your Land,” which coincidentally was also misunderstood by the public. 

In Woody Guthrie’s song, he sings how this country belongs to everyone, not just the landowners.  Included in the entire set of lyrics of “This Land is Your Land” are the lines:


 As I was walkin’ I saw a sign there

And that sign said, “no tress passin”’

But on the other side it didn’t say nothin’

Now that side was made for you and me!



It is a protest song on the subject of the inequality between the “haves” and the “have nots.” 

Springsteen’s song, though saturated with the most hi-tech production of its day, along with a keyboard sound now affiliated with the Eighties exclusively, was, and is, as strong of a statement on inequalities in America as Guthrie’s.  And it is more rich with social commentary than any other song since its conception.  In fact, considering the numerous troubles Iraq War veterans currently find themselves in, after returning from service, “Born in the U.S.A.” is just as significant today than it has ever been before.   

What confused listeners in 1984, more than anything, was the hi-tech, glossed over production.  On Springsteen’s earlier records, like Darkness on the Edge of Town, Born to Run and Nebraska, the production is much more raw, accentuating darker tones that complimented the stark images projected in Springsteen’s lyrics.  For instance, in the song, “Born to Run,” Springsteen’s first big hit, lyrics like “it’s a deathtrap, it’s a suicide rap,” referring to the home the narrator and his girlfriend live in, are screamed alongside one of the filthiest guitar sounds you ever heard, as well as the raunchiest saxophone solo in the history of rock ‘n’ roll.  The marriage of the words and the music help to create one of the most epic rock ‘n’ roll sagas of youth escaping a pre-determined, hopeless fate. 

But on Born in the U.S.A., the album, Springsteen trades in those dark tones for the synth-pop sounds of the 1980’s, leading some to believe he was cornering himself into a time frame that would ultimately be considered an embarrassment by the handful of musicians that survived that period.  And although there’s a good chance Springsteen was actually looking to get rich and sell millions of records and his choice of production was a product of those desires, in “Born in the U.S.A.,” he shrewdly manipulates the production to help tell hi story of a Vietnam veteran no longer welcome in the United States.

Originally written at the same time as the stark, depressing and mournful songs of his stripped-down masterpiece, Nebraska,  “Born in the U.S.A.” tells the story of someone “born down in a dead man’s town” and will lead a difficult life accordingly.  Early on, he gets in trouble with the law and is ironically handed a gun, forced to fight in the Vietnam War.  He comes back but, because of the controversy the war has stirred up, he can’t get a job.  Even his V.A. man (“Veteran’s Affairs”), whose job it is to assist veterans, can’t help him, asking the young man, “Son, don’t you understand?”  Ultimately, as Bruce sings, he ‘s got “nowhere to run, ain’t got nowhere to go.”  

Those that own the 1998 release, Tracks, are familiar with the earlier version of “Born in the U.S.A.,” from the “Nebraska Sessions.”  This version’s kinship with the songs on Nebraska, musically and lyrically, is much more apparent, particularly in the tone of the guitar, which is eerily stark, echoing as if being played in a dirty tunnel somewhere on the outskirts of town.  Springsteen also sings the song in a different key, which serves to articulate the narrator’s frustration and hopelessness as hauntingly as possible.  There is no question as to what sentiment he is expressing in this version.   

On the later version, the one the public knows above all others, 1980’s synth-keyboards, as well as Eighties production techniques, dominate the landscape of the song, creating the undesirable effects previously mentioned, as well as deceiving the listener into thinking he/she is listening to a pop anthem generated for the masses.

Nothing could be further from the truth.  Although, Springsteen had been most effective in his earlier days when the rough and rugged recordings of his earlier albums matched the dark aesthetic of his lyrics, Springsteen actually uses the glossy production and Eighties synth-pop sound as counterpoint to the bleak, hopeless lyrics of “Born in the U.S.A..”  It’s a cleverly deceptive approach, one that has been barely been recognized or celebrated.     

Musically, “Born in the U.S.A.,” has no changes.  Though instruments come in and out at different times, the same musical theme that emulates the chorus of the song, plays throughout the entire composition, which is significant in defining why “Born in the U.S.A.” has been interpreted as an anthem.  Although, the truth is, the repetition of this theme actually symbolizes an American Dream that has been infused in every citizen’s consciousness since birth, which is why it is consistently repeated throughout the entire song without any changes.  It emulates the concepts and ideas that are perpetuated in our schools, on our televisions, and out of the mouths of our leaders.   They are bright, shiny, optimistic ideas about the possibility of everyone in America succeeding, as long as they gave it their best effort.  It seems that even in our darkest hour, when we feel as if our country has failed us, as the narrator does in the song, the selling of the American Dream never fails to waver, much like the musical theme in “Born in the U.S.A..”       

Regarding lyrical structure, like many of the songs written during the “Nebraska Sessions,” the song is constructed in the traditional folk format of verse/refrain, verse/refrain, etc..  Springsteen, however, plays with these conventions, creating a somewhat fragmented version of this structure, one that fits the theme of the song more appropriately.  This change first becomes apparent at the end of the third verse.  The final line of the verse is the V.A. man’s question to the narrator, “Son, don’t you understand?”  It is very possible that it is at this point that the narrator has finally come to a realization that being born in the United States of America does not necessarily grant one the right to “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness,” as promised in the Declaration of Independence.  Perhaps that is why Springsteen decides not to sing the chorus, although the music continues in the background.  In place of the chorus, Springsteen just mumbles, “No.  No.  No. No.  No.,” almost like a person that can’t accept a truth they are forced to confront.

Continuing with this redirection of how the song is structured, the fourth verse concerns the narrator’s brother, who had also fought in Vietnam.  For the first three verses, four lines are used in their construction.  Again, with the exception of the third verse, these verses are then followed by the chorus of the song.  Contrary to these previous verses, the fourth verse has only three lines: 

                                  I had a brother at Khe Sahn

                                 Fighting off the Viet Cong

                                They’re still there, he’s all gone

The fourth line is left out and a feeling of incompletion (for those who are listening) takes over.  What happened here to differentiate these lines from the previous?  Why is there no fourth line?  One can only suspect that the narrator is broken up by the loss of his brother, he can barely finish the stanza.  And once again, no chorus is sung, though the anthem-like keyboard continues, undaunted by this man’s struggle. 

The fragmentation of the narrator’s state of mind then continues on with the fifth verse, if you can even call it that, since now there are only two lines:        

                               He had a woman he loved in Saigon

                              I got a picture of him in her arms now

And for a third time, no chorus, only the keyboards that articulates the feelings of patriotism and American optimism that are associated with the American Dream.  By this time, the keyboard melody seems to be looming so high above the narrator, at such an unattainable height, we can no longer question why he chooses not to sing along.  It is a dream that he can never reach.

Finally, the song breaks down for a sixth and final verse.  Here, Springsteen describes the narrator’s surroundings.  It’s ten years later and he’s living ”in the shadow of the penitentiary, out by the gas fires of the refinery.”  It’s a bleak vision.  And although the narrator chooses to once again sing along to the chorus of “Born in the U.S.A.,” he punctuates that sentiment with the fact that he’s “a long, gone daddy in the U.S.A..”  The final irony being, although this song was used as a propaganda tool to promote America’s superiority over the Soviet Union in the 1980’s, the truth was, there were many people, particularly the soldiers that fought for this country, that were forgotten and ostracized, forced to live lives as hopeless as those lived under the Soviet flag.  In fact, to articulate the continuity of the hopelessness of soldiers returning home from war, including those today returning from Iraq, when Springsteen plays this song live, he sometimes returns to a more haunting key on his guitar and extends the line “I’m ten years  burning down the road” to “I’m ten years, I’m fifteen years, I’m twenty five years down the road,” painting a picture of a never-ending dilemma that soldiers are forced to face.  It has almost been twenty five years since the conception of this song and the treatment of soldiers returning from war are still somewhat troubling.  Veterans’ Hospitals have been reported to be inadequate in their ability to treat the soldiers properly, soldiers have come back to America plagued by the trauma of serving in the war, families have not received some of the benefits promised to them by the government, and soldiers still have trouble finding employment once they finish serving their country.   With the exception of the few lines that actually mention Vietnam, this is a song that could’ve easily been written today about a soldier returning from the Middle East.             

By contrasting bleak and depressing lyrics with optimistic, finely polished American sounds, Springsteen had actually created what can be referred to as an “anti-anthem.”  He had taken an American rock ‘n’ roll tradition and turned it upside down.  And the truth is, very few people at the time understood what he was doing.  It’s very possible that only Neil Young was able to pick up on what Springsteen was going for, since Young’s “Keep On Rockin’ In the Free World” is another song that rallies around a infamously misinterpreted chorus that “celebrates” our freedoms, while the lyrics address children being dumped in garbage cans and our country being ruled by a “kinder, gentler machine gun hand.”  It shouldn’t be a surprise to anyone how, over the twenty years later, both songwriters have remained at the top of their game and at the forefront of their profession.  Their clever, sometimes deceptive approach to their craft is easily what makes them the smartest and most creative tunesmiths of our time.     


I AM “IRONIC” MAN by Kevin Egan

November 12, 2008


Dio with Heaven and Hell @ Jones Beach          pic by Vito Lanciano

Dio with Heaven and Hell @ Jones Beach pic by Vito Lanciano

Webster definition of “irony:” a pretense of ignorance and of willingness to learn from another assumed in order to make the other’s false conceptions conspicuous by adroit questioning.



Webster definition of “satire:” a literary work holding up human vices and follies to ridicule or scorn.


As I write this, I’m listening to Dio: not for ironic reasons, as many hipster or cool kids would think, to mock the excessive drama associated with metal, but I’m listening to him because the songs that struck me at fifteen years old are still ringing in my bones and I can’t shake them.  There’s nothing funny or ironic about Dio to me.  I still take him very seriously.


The “ironic” aesthetic associated with hipsters that has plagued us all over the last ten years or so has become so tiresome, it’s time someone mocks “irony” in an ironic way, just to give these creeps a taste of their own medicine.  How many more “ironic” moustaches or rock t-shirts do we have to endure before we vomit our disgust all over these venomous perpetrators?  Really, is it that funny to be wearing a Def Leppard t-shirt to a party?  Is that the best you have?  Is that the funniest thing you can think of before leaving your apartment?  Good grief. 


It’s the lack of effort that’s most annoying.  If these twerps would take a couple of seconds to really put together something creative and inspiring, going out may be a little more exciting and the world may be a little more colorful than it had been a night before.  But once again, “repetition” is confused with “style.”


What IS funny is “satire.”  Let’s take the film Spinal Tap, for instance.  This monumental commentary on the often ridiculous rituals associated with hard rock runs so deep and strikes a nerve so shattering that even the thrashiest of thrashers can’t help but to laugh, for no other reason than it rings true.  It’s that clever.  It goes so far beyond just wearing a rock t-shirt for “ironic” purposes.  It is a perceptive study of a culture that, like it or not, ruled the Earth for a short period of time.  And the makers of that film focused on the specifics of that culture so insightfully, the film has ultimately been embraced as a classic.  A rich kid thinking it’s funny to rock a denim jacket and sport a giant pair of sunglasses can hardly compare to a piece of art like Spinal Tap. 


“Ironically” enough, a few years back, when hipsters were deep into their “ironic” metal phase, they tried to form bands that reflected their take on the genre.  Few succeeded, for the most obvious reason:  You need to know how to play an instrument to play metal.  There is no way around that.  Most hipsters subscribe to the aesthetic that you only need to learn a couple of chords and you’re ready to play in a band.  That may have been true for The Ramones but they were the exception.  True metalheads actually stayed home on Friday nights and practiced their guitars until six a.m..  That was one thing hipsters hadn’t anticipated, that it takes a skilled musician to play metal.  This realization must’ve taken some of the zing out of their “irony” since there isn’t anything funny about breaking your ass to learn how to rip on the guitar. 


True, there are many amusing things about Dio, as Jack Black has humorously pointed out in Tenacious D’s hilarious song about the master of metal, “Dio.”  But that was done out of love and was, in a way, a salute to Dio.  I suppose the lesson to be learned here, for hipsters especially, leave the comedy to the comedians. 







Alaska? I Nearly Killed Her by Kevin Egan

November 7, 2008

One thing I like to boast about more than anything is the fact that I’ve been to forty-nine of the fifty United States of America.  For a few years, I was only able to boast about conquering the “Lower Forty-Eight” until I finally ventured to Hawaii, where I got sun-poison the very first day I was there and had to spend the following day at the movies, cringing at the comedy wreck that was “Talladega Nights.”  Still, when I returned home, I crossed “The Aloha State” off my list, leaving one state left before I could proudly claim I had been to all fifty. 


Two stories over the last couple of months have brought that last state into the spotlight in ways it had never been before.  For the first time in the state’s history, one of their major political figures was chosen to be a Vice-Presidential candidate.  Alongside this “historic” precedent, U.S. Senator, Ted Stevens, also from Alaska, was found guilty on seven felony charges, including accepting gifts from an oil executive.  It’s been quite an eight weeks or so for the state that hasn’t been known for much else besides lingering between Northern Canada and the former Soviet Union. 


Sarah Palin, Governor of Alaska and Vice-Presidential candidate, proved herself less informed and less prepared for office than the inarticulate numbskull that has been occupying the White House for the last eight years.  Not only had she once been exorcised of evil demons by a witch doctor, she also failed to ask a simple question about which magazines she reads.  Her “folksy” enthusiasm during the campaign reminded me of a line from The Simpsons, “Your moxie more than makes up for your lack of talent.”  Luckily, Americans from the “Lower Forty-Eight” were bright enough not to fall for her act and sent her back to Juneau packing. 


Unfortunately, this past Tuesday proved that the Palin fiasco wasn’t just a one-time mistake.  It looks like, even after his conviction, the citizens of Alaska have actually re-elected Ted Stevens, despite his criminal activities. 


What this says about the Alaskan people and whom they vote for is something, we, down here in the Continental United States, as well as Hawaii, should consider before feeling as if this state has truly become a part of the Union.  First they elect a woman who may look like Tina Fey but has the voice and the wit of Mrs. Pool from The Hogan Family.  They then elect someone who is most certainly going to be spending the rest of his life in jail.  Does anyone remember when Washington D.C. actually re-elected Marion Barry after he was convicted of smoking crack?  Same thing.    


One can only wonder whether or not the unique changing of the seasons that occurs up there in that corner of North America may have somewhat of a “freezing” effect on the brain, causing all rationality to disappear when entering the voting booth.  Heck, once George W.Bush is out of a job, he may consider Alaska as the next state to claim residence in, in case he ever wants to serve in public office again.  I’m sure the folks up there could easily find it in their hearts to forgive the man for the atrocities he has wreaked on our nation.  He certainly has that “folksiness” thing going for him.  Apparently, that goes a long way in this state that was so easily duped by Palin and Stevens.


As far as completing my quest to reach that “fifty state” mark, I’m thinking I may hold off for a while.  I’m not quite sure of what to expect if I ever made the journey.   Sarah Palin frightened the hell out of me.  If there’s more of them like her up there, then I say, “Leave ‘em up there and let’s all remain down here, where common sense has finally regained its rightful place.”   


Hilarious Duck Classics.

October 20, 2008


Where have you gone, Mr. Furley?  A nation turns its lonely eyes to you.

Where have you gone, Mr. Furley? A nation turns its lonely eyes to you.

On Deathbed, Man Claims He “Put The Bomp In The Bomp-A-Bomp-A-Bomp”

October 20, 2008


The song that started all the controversy

The song that started all the controversy

By Carl Kuckell



Appleton, Wisconsin (AP)-This past Sunday, 83 year old, Arnie Glurm, aka “Arnie Wheeler,” while on his death bed, admitted to friends and family that he, in fact, was solely responsible for putting “the bomp in the bomp-a-bomp-a-bomp,” back in November of 1959, causing an unnamed female to fall in love with singer/songwriter, Barry Mann. 

 It was Mann, who, two years later, in 1961, asked the infamous question in one of his own songs, “Who Put The Bomp,” causing a worldwide search for the mysterious tune that actually changed the mind of the young girl who originally had doubts about the love between her and Mann.  In Mann’s song, the lyrics state:

 I’d like to thank that guy that wrote the song

That made my baby fall in love with me       


 Then, after a subtle but effective drum fill, he sings:


Who put the bomp in the bomp-a-bomp-a-bomp?


Before passing away quietly in his sleep, Glurm shared with his loved ones that it was his 1959 minor hit, “Give the Schnook a Break,” that was able to sway the young woman’s love towards Mann and away from then upcoming pop icon, Gary “Flash In The Pan” Cartman, who’s career coincidentally fell flat after losing her affections. 

Glurm also disputed Frankie Lymon’s own claim that it was he that “put the bomp in the bomp-a-bomp-a-bomp” in Lymon’s musical response to Mann, which was released the very same year under the title, “I Put The Bomp.”  According to Glurm’s son-in-law, Walter Fleck, Glurm’s very last words were, “That little bastard, Lymon, was too full of shit at the time to have written a song that powerful.  He had already peaked at 14 with ‘Why Do Fools Fall in Love.’  That was three years before Mann and that young lady even met.  It was my song that convinced her.  By the time 1959 came around, I was on a fuckin’ roll!”

The young woman, who had remained anonymous since the release of “Who Put The Bomp,” was rumored to be Shirley Fenton of Jackson Heights, Queens, who worked as a waitress in a diner, two blocks away from where Mann was struggling as a songwriter.  Since Mann went on to marry one of his songwriting partners, Cynthia Weil, in 1961, soon after the release the song, he refused to confirm any relations with Fenton, though many that knew the two, still insist they were very much in love by the end of the fifties. 

Gladys Drepp, 73, of Albany, New York, states, “I remember Barry and Shirley constantly holding hands, eating ice creams, doing all the things lovebirds did back in the fifties.  When they broke up, everyone was so shocked because Barry waited so long to win her love.  But then, out of nowhere, he fell for Cynthia and everything came crashing down, especially for Shirley.  I don’t think she ever really recovered.”

Fenton died under mysterious circumstances in St. Vincent’s Hospital in Greenwich Village on Christmas Eve, 1964.  At the time, Mann had “no comment.”

Ironically, Arnie Glurm’s career as “Arnie Wheeler” also came to a somewhat of a tragic end when his left hand became mangled inside a player piano, when drunk and claiming he could force the machine to translate anything he sung.  The machine obviously did not listen to Glurm’s commands and “chewed up” three of his five fingers.  After the accident, Glurms was unable to write or perform, leaving him no other option than to leave show business and return to Wisconsin, where he worked as a shoe salesman until he retired in 1991. 

Whether or not Glurm’s deathbed confession is accurate or not is now one for the musical scholars to debate.  And debate they will.  Already, counterclaims and rebuttals are surfacing, bringing this shocking story to an unbelievably climactic peak, one that may even become bigger than the song Glurm claims to have inspired.

Still, one last question remains unanswered.  And since Glurm has passed on, the chances of solving the mystery may, unfortunately, go unfulfilled.  If Arnie Glurm did, in fact, “put the bomp in the bomp-a-bomp-a-bomp,” then who “put the ram in the ram-a-lam-a-ding dong?”

Perhaps we’ll never know.    

SNL, Palin and the Death of the Joke by Kevin Egan

October 20, 2008

companion video by Davis Fleetwood at:      

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Chevy Chase as a Bumbling Gerald Ford

Chevy Chase as a bumbling Gerald Ford

Recently, for a very brief moment, one had the feeling that Saturday Night Live, after years of catering to the mainstream, had once again strayed away, regenerating the controversial balls they had lost years and years ago.  Tina Fey’s portrayal of Sarah Palin was not only hysterically funny on a comedic level, it was satirically accurate, in regards to the Vice Presidential candidate’s ignorance of the issues, refusal to speak with the press, and condescending approach to the “average American.”  It was a satirical indictment of what is very, very wrong with the McCain/Palin ticket.  Anyone in this country with half of a brain cheered the portrayal, since we all felt the McCain/Palin ticket were taking us for fools.  It also articulated a frustration many of us had been feeling since 2000, when the most inarticulate and most grammatically incorrect President in the history of our country seized control of our nation, driving its future into ruins.  Although over the past eight years, SNL rarely criticized, mocked or satirized the Bush Administration, it seemed as if they finally were once again taking an anti-establishment stance, by taking legitimate comedic jabs at the most unqualified and frightfully conservative Vice Presidential candidate this country has ever known. 

But that was then.  By now, SNL has already had Palin appear on the show, doing her own comedy routine, “responding” to Tina Fey’s portrayal, alongside the show’s creator, Lorne Michaels.  Her appearance on the show, no doubt, will show what a “good sport” she is and how she can take any criticism, including Fey’s more than accurate interpretation of her patronizing of “Joe Six Pack.”  SNL, as they have always done since the mid-eighties, have once again played it “safe,” by bringing in the brunt of the joke and allowing them to respond in their own charming way.  Although they have been selling themselves for over twenty years as “cutting-edge,” the truth is, the last thing they would ever want to do is upset the powers that be.  And in case that happens to be McCain and Palin down the line, it must have seemed like a good idea to soften the accuracy of the joke by allowing Palin proper response time.   No doubt, the fact that NBC is owned by General-Electric had something to do with this.

The problem here is not only political (which it is, and we’ll get to that), or economical (which it also is, TV=money), but it lies in the most fundamental aspects of good comedy that have been betrayed by Lorne Michaels, servant to the establishment and killer of all things funny.  From a comedic standpoint, there was no need to bring Palin in to “respond” to Fey’s portrayal.  The joke had been executed effectively and that should have been that.  Time to move on to the next zinger.  I don’t remember Gerald Ford being brought onto the show a week after Chevy Chase portrayed him as a clumsy, imbalanced goofball.  Nor was Mr. Rogers ever brought on the show to challenge Eddie Murphy’s hilarious version of Roger’s program, “Mr. Robinson’s Neighborhood.”  To bring in Mr. Rogers would have been going for the cheap laugh, stealing away the effects of the social satire that Murphy was articulating.    

Palin’s presence was an insult to Fey’s spot-on, and truthful performance, which should earn her an Emmy, if the gods above are just and fair.  Bringing Palin on the show was the equivalent of the chicken returning to the scene of the crime to justify “why he crossed the road.”  Pointless.  Senseless.  And most importantly, not funny.

Politically speaking, obviously, Michaels cowardly chose to not “take a stand,” so he did what was fair and brought Palin in to make light of the entire affair, again, weakening Fey’s indictment.  The problem is, and this also brings us back to the fundamentals of comedy: A joke always takes a side.  It has to.  Otherwise, it’s not funny.  There has to be a victim.  Jokes are never fair and never polite.  There is always a subject addressed in the joke and that subject is always ridiculed.  That is the point of jokes.  Groucho Marx never came out at the end of a Marx Brothers movie and apologized to Margaret Dumont for mocking her throughout the film.  To do so would’ve robbed us of all the laughs he generated by ribbing her from all angles.  Abbott never apologized to Costello and Charlie Brown never kicked that football.  If it had been any other way, we never would’ve watched. 

What Michaels did, by allowing Palin on the show, was apologize for the hilarious examination of Palin’s posture, presentation, and inconsistencies by Tina Fey.  By doing so, he failed to stand behind the joke, as well as Fey.  What he did was an insult to Fey and her abilities as a comedian.  He took back every laugh enjoyed, as we relished in Fey’s highly creative approach, bringing to light the stupidity, the patronizing tone and the frightfully effective touches of the Sarah Palin character.