Part IV: The New American Hero

As I watch this evening's edition of 60 minutes, I am in awe of a man who is humble, eloquent, intelligent and cuts through the bull shit like a hot butter knife.

On January 15 of this year, Chelsey Burnett "Sully" Sullenberger III became the antithesis of a widow-maker. He showed the world his brass balls by successfully laying US Airways Flight 1549 in the Hudson River without causality. Since that day, Captain Sullenberger has enjoyed the Inauguration of President Obama, Super Bowl XLIII, an exclusive interview on 60 Minutes and the creation of his very own Wikipedia page--all in the span of 3 weeks. Boy, do we live in an accelerated society or what.

And if we didn't like Capt. Sully enough, a news story popped up this last week that he called the Fresno State library and confessed that a book he checked out (a book about professional ethics, the guy can't miss) might have a new home at the bottom of the Hudson River. The library forgave any late fees and decided to dedicate the book's replacement to him (and while yer at it FS, name the entire wing of the library after him).

It's rare to have heroes again--and it's something we must embrace and hold high above these other stories of gloom/doom, if-it-bleeds-it-leads media coverage. He said the perfect thing to Couric, that he won't embrace heroism, but he won't deny it either. Goddamn! The man do no wrong.

Sully trumps 'em all. He trumps the passenger on his plane who wasn't satisfied with the settlement from US Airways and is suing the company because he "doesn't feel whole." He trumps the passenger that is taking advantage of her 15 minutes by recording a song about the incident. He trumps Christian Bale's sailor-mouth. He trumps Shane Hurlbut's lack of professionalism. He trumps Nadya Suleman for reasons that are obvious. He even trumps Micheal Phelps because in the end, Sully saved 155 people and inspired a nation to embrace good news again.

And that is a good thing.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
That ends my weekend-long evaluation of our Brave New World. What I learned is that just when it looks as if we're going down the crapper as a society, things right themselves, eventually. I hope that Christian Bale gets some help for the demons that haunt him. He's made some really good movies in a climate where there is nothing but diarrhea coming out of Hollywood's arse. I hope that Nadya Suleman gets forced into treatment and all her children are put up for adoption and end up in good homes. I hope that the Michael Phelps ordeal turns into a new dialogue on why drug laws are as archaic as the attitudes towards gay marriage--to evolve we must advance...

And finally, in Captain Sully, I learned that humility is not a lost quality in America--it's just forgotten. All of us could learn a thing or two from this man's sense of doing the right thing before doing the "me thing."

This Obama world is getting weird...

Part III: Aquaman

By now, my darling readers, you have heard about the current controversy surrounding 14-time gold medal winner Micheal Phelps. If your head has been buried in the sand over the last two weeks, let me give you an update.

Phelps was at a South Carolina college party where kids were drinking, eating foods made of 50% high fructose corn syrup and engaging in sex with people they don't really like in the real world; college parties are weird like that. Undoubtedly, after Phelps rolled off some co-ed's bed after having sex with her and her roommate, he exited the scene with a bottle whiskey in his hand. Kanye's "Gold Digger" was bumping, the party was jumping and Phelps was slowly coming to the realization of the charmed life he was leading. He was living the dream of every 23 year old male in America. He was big man on a campus he didn't even attend. He's the last great American hero.

The story is speculation to this point. What we do know and what everyone has their panties in a bunch about what happened next. Some hesher, no doubt a white guy in dreadlocks wearing his dad's old Jimmy Buffet shirt, presented Phelps with the peace pipe he called "Iceburgh." With orgasmic endorphins and southern comfort clogging his sense of "good judgment," Phelps took a rip from the pipe that the hesher would later rename "Aquaman" in Phelp's honor. Soon after, the paranoia took ahold and Phelps exited the scene, contemplated the end of the world and fell asleep on a friend's futon.

A couple days later, a photo surfaced on the web--a British tabloid site pronouncing, "What a Dope" next to a picture of Phelps sucking fog from the former "Iceburgh" with the lungs of a human fish. Let the shit storm begin...

Two schools of though are represented in the argument over the Phelps issue--those who want to see the Northern Lights available at Trader Joe's and those who want to see canibus cannibalized. Phelps has become the reluctant martyr, who wants to appease to the straights who appear to be the majority and appeasing to his generation--the generation that will legalize the herb when we get our hands on the reigns...if we get our hands on the reigns.

But pressure from straight society has pushed three issues to the forefront. One is South Carolina's back and forth argument on whether to press charges against Phelps (which they shouldn't--see http://www.huffingtonpost.com/norm-stamper/one-cop-to-another-dont-a_b_164346.html). Secondly, the Olympic committee suspended Phelps from the pool for a couple months (which has made Phelps admit publicly that he his questioning his dedication to the sport as a result--good job Olympics, you just pissed off your cash cow/poster boy for the 2012 games.) And thirdly, Kellogg's has said that they will not be renewing his endorsement contract because he smoked some Weedies.

Okay Kellogg's, you can stop with this holier than thou approach to your commitment to your customer's sensibilities. This company probably contributes more to children's diabetes than any other evil corporation in America. Also, how much money do you think you make on stoners getting high and gorging on pop tarts and rice crispy treats. Get ready to take a hit for your spokesperson taking a hit as a result, you assholes! Not only has the economic downturn spiked your price to hell--think about all the militant potheads that will be consciously buying products from Post and General Mills INSTEAD of your obesity in a bowl. (Incidently enough, upon wiki research for this post, I found that breakfast cereal was invented and perfected in two different sanitariums in the U.S. In fact, Charles "Chaz" William Post was an inmate at a Battle Creek facility where he made his most significant contribution--further proving that most of America's best ideas came from minds of madness. I wonder if these guys smoked weed--or perhaps they should have.)

ANYHOW, what was I talking about? Oh yeah--the ripple effects of this incident are uncovering attitudes that divide us on the marijuana issue. Hopefully we're heading towards a tipping point--where we finally legalize this silly little plant that makes people contemplate how evil the world truly is. Perhaps, the ulterior motive is to keep it illegal so that people won't be able to see things as the way they are?

Perhaps indeed, Drewsus...

The moral of the story: This isn't the 80's anymore. Nancy Regan telling Arnold on Diff'rent Strokes to say no to drugs worked--but the generation that was brain-washed into believing that smoking truth was evil has come to our collective senses--and we're scratching our heads as to why this was--how did we get from the summer of love to Diff'rent Strokes? I'm still confused...but I kinda get it at the same time.

Bottom Line: There is a lot of money to be made on the dumbing-down of things in this country, our collective disagreement on these laws are no exception.

PS - And whoever took the picture of Phelps taking the b-load--a pox on your house!!!

Part II: Woman gives birth to an Octopus!

Last week, Nadya Suleman crapped out 8 babies in a questionable case of the absence of medical ethics. Already the "mother" of 6 other saplings, Suleman has been both described as "educated" and "addicted to having children," even though one would think that the former would would trump the later with common sense. One would think.

Look, this illustrates the biggest problem in this country--people having kids they cannot raise. Raising 14 children takes time and commitment...and that's factoring in a father. One person raising a baker's dozen is impossible and child abuse to boot. I might sound like an evil asshole, but I have the firm belief that there is a small corner of hell reserved for irresponsible trolls such as Suleman.

And now she has the gall to ask Oprah for 2 million. So troglodytes are eligible for bailouts? And who is the fertility specialist jerk off who "infected" this woman. Where is the grizzled chief of medicine in all this? Where is the check and balance in medicine. Are they above the law? Is this the wild west for a brave new world? Aldous Huxley's ghost is banging his head to his favorite Iron Maiden record.

The moral of the story: You need a license to drive a car--why don't we start issuing licenses to birth children, where one undergoes a psychological evaluation before conception. And while we're at it, make sure that the breeders are committed to being the hunter/gathers of our society. If you can't fulfill these requirements--sorry, get a dog to fill the void your parents left in you.

Bottom Line: Embryo fertilization is playing god--just like abortion supposedly is. We need to draw lines and make distinctions in this society. We need to face the fact that there are too many fucking people in this country and making decisions to stop bullshit like this, thins the herd a bit. That's a good thing.

Micros of the Macro: IV things that have transpired so far in 2009 that hold a mirror up to Ugly America

Part I: Would you kiss a Christian with that mouth?

Four things have happened so far in 2009 that make larger statements about the world at large…and none of them have anything to do with Obama directly.

Audio was released last week that illustrated the rancor that Christian Bale was capable of as he unloaded on the director of photography who was fucking with one of his lights during a pivotal scene in “Terminator Salvation.” At first listen, one thinks, “Jesus Christ, what a potty-mouthed prima donna.” But when more detail came out, we learned that cinematographer Shane Hurlbut was pretty much in the wrong in the situation.
Now, I don’t know either party personally—but I feel like I know Bale. Christian Bale is a rare actor. His first movie was the lead in a Spielberg film…at the pubescent age of 13. For those that haven’t seen that movie, a pox on your house. I remember seeing that "Empire of the Sun" at the Fox Theatre with my folks in 1988 and thinking at the time that kid was great. He was spoiled, humbled, starved, and traumatized. Most importantly, Bale was believable in the role, all before he sprouted pubes. Of course he would become one of the greatest actors of his generation.
I don’t really care that Bale yelled at this douche-nozzle Hurlburt—maybe he deserved it, I dunno. But it doesn’t demonize Bale in my mind, nor does it angelize him either. I saw a comment on a digg.com story and the user said something to the effect—“I’m going to boycott this movie. I will only see it 13 times instead of 15.” Bottom line, no one cares that Bale is a foul-mouthed rageaholic—because Bruce Wayne is supposed to this angry—his parents are dead. He gets a pass.
Naysayers will naysay, “But he isn’t Bruce Wayne, he was just playing a role for a movie.” Well naysayers, tell that the over 500 million dollars and one of the last actors in this class of method who take their job seriously enough to put out a good product.
The moral of the story: Maybe McG should have hired a real cinematographer and not the guy he worked with to make all those shitty Smashmouth videos back when Slick Willy was living up to his nicker in the Oval Office.

Bottom Line: Method acting and hack photo-directors whose resume includes “Drumline” and “Crazy/Beautiful” don’t mix. Was Jeff Cronenweth too expensive, McG?

Easy, Tiger!

So here we go again, 2009--the year it all goes down--when the old faces rot and make way for the trail blazing fresh faces that have been waiting in the dark wings of gargoyls blinks their reptilian wings at the full moon that get closer and closer each year...

Do you ever feel like you're playing a game you can never win? Do you ever feel like the game is fixed in such a way that the winner is always predetermined without your knowledge, thus making you the loser in the end?

...I used to think that way.

I woke up in 2009--fully aware of the scams and schemes set up but the primordial lizards that shift in the night, awaken in the morning to a power suit and a few lines of pure, stepped-on china white. These chemicals, they rise in us, boil our brains with popping acid and we are the puppets on parade.

I think that my brain has flipped poles, like the earth might in 2012. My brain controls the world, unconsciously. I see the cracks in the paintings, I see the designs of ancients tribes flashing in my eyes as I sleep and lucidly manipulate the world inside my brain. How is waking life any different?

I won't play the game anymore, bygod. I phoning in for a bail out. I'm heading for a new astral travel, to usurp the Prussian czar in charge of this wormhole. This only makes sense to me...

...and I like it!

Put a Coffee Can and a Candle in Your Car!

Klosterman puts on his novelist hat for the first time and doesn't nearly knock it out of the park as much as he hit one into the deepest part of left field and hustles around the diamond and slides into home, dirty and safe. "Downtown Owl," is a novel about nothing and something simultaneously.

Being a rural boy myself, I have always dug Klosterman's style, voice and penchant for the Heavy Metal gods of the 80's. There is a light dusting of music here and there, but Klosterman does a great job of focusing on the characters' quiet desperation. It reminded me of the Bret Ellis novel, "The Rules of Attraction," only the characters aren't as hallow--they're real Americans--simple on the outside, yet complex on the inside. The brilliant thing that Klosterman does is that he exposes the characters complexities at the exact moment that they discover them.

I won't give away the ending as much as I'll comment on it. It's a stab at local media and how they often get the story wrong--you'll see what I mean.

Way to bring the ink, Young Master Klosterman!

(x-posted in Amazon Review)

Point of Origin

To quote Staind, "It's been awhile." (Can you believe that the band still records and tours to this day, a band that Fred Durst discovered over 10 years ago. Sometimes you have to scratch your head at the longevity of some bands--I'm looking at you Bon Jovi).

So, okay--I moved back to the valley in August to teach at the Community College I attended 10 years ago (Porterville College). More to the point, I moved to Exeter, the rival town to Woodlake, the town which I grew up in. Exeter is a much cleaner, utopian town than my beloved Woody. Exeter is also the town that my dad and my brother partially grew up in. In fact, a lot of Stutsmans inhabit its city limits.

The picture in the house above is the one my parents and my brother lived in before I was born. The story goes, my parents moved into the ranch house in Woodlake a solid month before my fetus hatched. The significance of the house above (100 Albert St. Exeter, CA 93221) is one of origin, or conception for that matter--for I was verifiablly conceived in the house sometime in the early autumn of our country's bicentennial.

Have you ever pondered what album you were possibly conceived to? For those of us who didn't grow up under the tear of liberal new-agers for parents, we are positively frightened to ever ask our parents this question. So for the sake of making this blog post more interesting and poignant, I'll make it up.

Mine would be Boston's eponymous album, the one with the Space Invaders space ships on the cover that looked like an early generation model of the large cylindrical object that tries to communicate with Earth's extinct humpback whales in Star Trek 4: The Voyage Home.

I think Boston wax was spinning on the long play for two reasons:

1) The album came out roughly 9 months before my self-titled debut and 2) my parents had this album in their collection.

ANYHOW, I am not surprised that I have never pondered the when and the where the deed was done and isn't that funny? The single most significant event in our personal history will always play second fiddle to the most repugnant thought that we could muster. I think that says something about out society at large but I have to go and find the nearest trashcan to throw up in.