CAFFEINE!

What in the world is it (it being the world) coming to? I just paid eighty fucking cents for a can of pop (not pop [pop]) and they were sold out of fucking Coke Zero, and I still feel Zeroed out and coked up. Please don't make me sit still any longer. The eighty cents is an approximately 6 and 2/3 percent increase on the previous price, which was a reliable $.75, which allowed me to not only buy a pop (fuck soda) with a dollar, but get a goddamned quarter out of the deal, too. The accumulating busts of General Washington in my desk drawer would eventually contribute - in no small part - to my ability to do a little laundry on the weekend, which is a necessity, because the laundry room in my building's basement doesn't have a change machine. So here I am with my Sprite (hm, actually caffeine free. I may have to rethink my mood) and waiting to here the pleasant light tinny clink of two dimes, but am instead bombarded by the resonant gong and crash of four Olympic-Barbell nickels. So not only am I deprived of my daily dose of State factoids (did you know that 2007 was Jamestown's quadricentennial?) but none of my nickels were the Lewis and Clark commemorative editions.

So now I'm thinking of cutting out the pop altogether from my life (again), which is probably healthier anyway. Which I need. But what if I swing too far and start drinking wheatgrass or alfalfa juice and I excreet sweet, dewy, cellulosic scents that no one can stand? On top of this, I no longer am getting my daily quarters, so I can't afford frequent laundry. So my smell getsn worse. Which gets me fired from my job (what if my boss asks what state the Old Man in the Mountain is In, and I am without a reference?) and I loose my apartment. No one can afford that place in these trying times (I think to myself, wistfully inflating my sense of achievement) so it will go unrented, the company goes under, and will get bought out by some conglomerate who puts in a change machine, or those fancy rechargeable-card-operated systems, and I am forced to walk by feeling like I was displaced, the place I was was improved, and someone who could afford the shit anyway profited off of the improvements. And here I am taking shots of wheatgrass or snorting bamboo and wearing hemp (which doesn't need laundered! the smelly girl at the counter told me) wondering how I ever could stand it inside that corporate structure, so entwined and built in upon itself that a five-fucking-cents increase ruins us all.

Start learning to make your own salt pork and shoes, bitches. The depression is a comin'.

Really?

There was a headline on NBC.com that said "Check out Jay's 1984 Lambroghini Countach. The hottest supercar of the 1980s!"

The RNC Election Party

The Capitol Hilton was abuzz with conservative-looking types - guys with crappy hair and Dockers pants and creepy trenchcoats and pale skin that suggested hemophilia. The ties were simple and the mood was OK.

Of the three people I had brought, two were Dems and one "probably would have voted for Obama". We were all excited to be in such a nice hotel, and when we made our way up to the ballroom were were impressed by the chandelier and bewildered by the band, which I think was playing "Mustang Sally" and then played something from the 90s, like Chumbawumba, but not them, and then played "The Twist." We went straigtht to the bar.

Apparently "Paid for by the Republican National Committee" doesn't include drinks, and a separate table sold tickets. Green for cocktails and blue for beers, they were a little overpriced for that sort of thing. Apparently the G.O.P. is looking for handouts wherever they can get them. But one of my posse bought me a beer in return for the ticket, and I went to the food table (food was, thankfully, free) and managed to get a couple of dry oysters down before giving up on them and trying the Pork Chile, which was really quite good.

The giant projector screens were showing the projections, and the crowd cheered when Georgia went to McCain and then when somewhere else went to McCain, and they booed at I think Vermont going Obama.

The room was a large long room, a typical ballroom, with white walls. We entered in one corner that was apparently the back, and the entire front wall was a red curtain, in front of which was the stage where the eight-piece band played it's odd concoction of the history of the pop charts (they played Pink's "I'm comin' out" next). Above the band, on both the right and left, were the giant projector screens, while smaller TVs were positioned along the side walls. The room was in two sides - at the door where we came in were two bars, the ticket table, and the food table that stretched the width of the room. Towards the middle were a few high tables, and then the open space for dancing (although this space was carpeted with the same plush, deep blue rug as the rest of the room, complete with intermittent giant gold stars. There was no real "dance floor"). At the far end of the room, the high tables began again, and the food table, and more bars. A camera crew was set up, pointed at the band.

We were pretty disappointed that we didn't see more famous people, but I led us to the far side because I recognized some folks that I knew. They had disappeared, so I made myself a sandwich of the large leg of beef that they were carving off of, and then piled up a large helping of mashed potatoes (complete with all the fixin's!). I was pissed about paying for drinks, but the food was incredible. Ohio got called for Obama. Our table simultaneously said "Yes! I mean, agghhh!" and giggled at each other like a bunch of liberal pussies.

Obama was easily going to win. He was at at least 220, California would give him 52 more, and if you added Washington and Oregon, whatever they were, he would clear the 279 mark. The band was playing "Dixieland Delight" by Alabama. I had spent all of my cocktail tabs (and the bartender at this side of the room was more open to pouring doubles for the price of one than the stodgy man where we came in) and was eager to look a little more Republican to my city-fied friends. So I sang along as best I could, and high fived the tall southern boy in a blazer behind me who was also singing along. When the song was over he leaned in and said "Hey man, we should secede again!" I said something along the lines of "yeah we better if we want to keep our guns" and returned to my laughing friends.

The fancy food had run out (or it was so clear that Republicans would be suffering major losses that they decided to pull it away from the masses) and was replaced by mini cheeseburgers, hot dogs, and tater tots. Which looked more delicious in my drunken state than more Mashed Potatoes. So I grabbed a plateful and was happily eating when a group of three girls muscled one of my friends out of her spot on the table and dropped a giant stack of burgers and tots on the table.

"That's a lot of food." She was kind of cute in her dark sundress, solid tan and brunette shoulder-length hair.

"It's for all three of us..." Nevermind. She couldn't even form a decent response. Plus, she was rude. Her friend, though, was blonde and had an interesting face, with a kind of sharp nose and small but prominent chin (pointy?). She had on a blue sweater with huge leather shoulder and elbow pads. I was going to ask her if she played football at Princeton back in '32, but she yelled "WHEN I'M UPSET I EAT!" The band played another Alabama song.

When we left, the mood was mellow, but not angry or surprised. A little disappointed, but not unhappy. I've always read that Republicans are cheerier people than Democrats anyway, and I believed it. Even if they weren't as happy as the people screaming and honking in the streets, theirs was a cheeriness that wouldn't be derailed. The euphoria outside could be quickly turned to sharp despair with the news, but the Republicans seemed to have the ability to say "Oh well. I guess we'll have to learn how to live a little differently." And honestly, I felt the same way - and would have if McCain won, too. It made me feel a little left out when, from bed, I read text messages proclaiming that sixteenth street was like Carnivale "with white people". But I guess that's just the way I am. Progressive politics, but a Republican at heart.

NickelEye stands alone

Nikolai is the guy in the back. He can't help but looking alone...

These days, it seems like everyone in the Strokes is diong a solo project. This is a recent facebook conversation my friend Alex and I had about Nikolai Fraiture's solo project, NickelEye (seriously, it's called that) which you should check out at www.myspace.com/officialnickeleye (these posts are taken verbatim, so "Fraiture" was spelled wrong in all of them. However, all other names were spelled correctly the first time). :

Walter:
Did you know Nikolai Frature started a solo project (just like everyone in the Strokes)? It sounds just like you would expect him to: alone, and copying the Strokes. http://www.myspace.com/officialnickeleye

Alex:
His other songs are just him playing the bass lines to Strokes songs on his very own bass that he bought with the money he saved up from his paper route.

Nick Valensi had previously bought him all his other basses.

Walter:
Yeah, but one time Nick Valensi lost his sunglasses and had to wear a pair that Nikolai had bought him for his birthday and he hadn't had time to throw away yet, so they're even.

Alex:
It's like the time Albert Hammond, Jr. borrowed one of Nikolai's shirts because he thought it looked like it was from a thrift store and therefore ironic.

Turns out, it was just one of Nikolai's shirts.

Walter:
Or the time that Julian Cassablancas said "Hey Fab, how's it going?" to Nikolai, because Julian is a confused drunkard. Nikolai wept because he was overcome with emotion. He wept alone and fell asleep alone.

It's the reason he's still trying.

Alex:
That's reminds me of the time that Nikolai tagged along with Fab and Drew Barrymore and then when Fab left to go to the bathroom Nikolai pretended HE was dating Drew Barrymore.

It's the simple pleasures in life you have to appreciate.

Walter:
Did you hear about how Nikolai Frature created a fake Rolling Stone cover using Microsoft paint in his free time, depicting the Strokes, without him, and the tagline "The NEW Fab Four!", and he showed it to the rest of the band and they didn't understand what was supposed to be wrong with it? But just before he went home, Albert Hammond, Jr., said "Thanks for grabbing that coffee, page!" (That's the band's special nickname for for Nikolai).

It feels good to be appreciated for the things you do.

Shakespeare and MTV

(Pop) pop. (Popular) pop-culture philosophy. That's what I'm calling it. What does it mean?

Example: In a literature class reading Shakespeare, the professor asked that we address a quote from Alexander Pushkin about Shakespeare, "Shakespeare felt for all humanity, and he was the creator of an entire humanity. After God, Shakespeare is the greatest creator of living beings." To break this down is no easy task - famed literary critic Harold Bloom has written an expansive work titled Shakespeare: The Invention of the Human, which deeply explored that very theme. Is it that Shakespeare was able to create real people in writing? Or that his characters were so recognizeable that they were human? Or that before his writing, no one took such an introspective approach to the human emotion and motivation, and so (as the author of the article linked to above, as well as here, suggests is Bloom's final conclusion) has re-created the way that we see the world, and by that means re-inventing humanity?

I suggested they look at an essay from the book Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs discussing the implications of MTV's "The Real World". The author makes the point that the first season of "The Real World" was the most real, becuase there had never been anything like this on television, at all, and the characters didn't know how to act in front of the camera. By the third season, however, the show's cast members would settle into a role, rather than just be themselves. He discusses how stereotypes such as "the militant black guy" or "the virginal southern girl" became the singular dimension of the cast member's personality. It wasn't long after that, though, that he also noticed that even the people he met every day slipped into one of the stereotypes. He ceased to meet multi-faceted, dynamic personalities. He would meet a "Julie" or "a Kevin" or "a Puck", or what have you (read the book -the guy is a certifiable expert). People became one-dimensional. In that way, for his generation (and perhaps mine as well), "The Real World" began to create humanity.*

When I introduced that passage to the class, my thinking was that this was what happened in Victorian times - English men suddenly found themselves meeting "a Falstaff" or "a Cassius", or themselves slipping into those roles. Even today we call a romantic a "Romeo". One other guy in the class seemed to get it, but not everyone bit. The professor himself tried to politely talk the discussion away from that example. Obviously, the idea of comparing the greatest playwright, and perhaps greatest student of human nature (and, in his time, a (pop) pop poet) with something as vulgar as anything on MTV is more than any lover of literature should expect to be asked to condescend to entertain during what should be a serious discussion of the bard's works. However, it should be relevant to any discussion of culture's place in and effect on modern life, so that we can understand what culture does to us, for better or worse.

The author of Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs is named Chuck Klosterman, the poster boy of the (pop) pop mindset. He has constructed the image of "Generation X", which may forever be remembered as the transitional pop-culture generation, by largely writing about the way he feels when taking part in the most banal of activities. The introspective aspect of his discourse is, to a large extent, what keeps it (pop), rather than truly academic. But this is also what makes it an apt means of advancing the study of pop culture: it is reflective of, and part of, what it discusses.

Suggesting that "The Real World" has created humanity is disturbing because it signals a fundamental change in how existence is viewed. But the proliferation of cameras, recording devices, and electronic communications--often sold for their ability to help you "create"--have put a premium on "capturing" rather than creating. Of course, this questions what it means to create, what it means to be "an individual" in so many senses of the word (are you an individual because you have a witty facebook page? Or because you don't have a facebook page? Does facebook allow you to express your individuality, or does it reinforce that you are only a part in society?). And more than this, it takes away the exclusivity of "genius". What once meant the ability to write a book about a man with a great personality, or express and interpret from written words that man with a great personality, now only requires having a great personality. Being the character has become more important, and in the name of equality and respect and individualism more adequate, than creating the character. Performance has been reduced to nothing but spectacle, where it is not interpretation that is on display, but only what draws attention. This is why I say Shakespeare was (pop) pop, because didn't he say that "all the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players"?

But now I feel stuck in a corner, because I've suggested that by writing about myself, I'm not creating, not even eligible to touch genius. Which is true, mostly. But that is what (pop) pop is. It's us telling us what's wrong with us.


*NOTE: The distinction that needs to be made for the sake of Bardolators and the like is that his writing ability is beside the point in this argument. That simple fact - that he is a creator, not only an observer - will forever distinguish him from, really, anyone to whom he is compared. So leave that behind; it is safe. It is only made safer by the medium - dramas must be re-performed over and over, while the nature of the camera is capture. That is, something that seems spontaneous when done by a character in a play must be written, crafted, remembered, and thoroughly rehearsed in order to be reproduced. If caught by a camera, though, it is a happy accident. Which is really what most of "TRW" is, a series of happy accidents. Because what has been suggested that "The Real World" has done on accident (or its cast members have done on purpose for often disturbing motivations), Shakespeare did somewhat on purpose--and that is creating characters that do not reflect the world, but are reflected by the world--what Shakespeare did was in so many ways greater.

The purpose of life

"We are the witness through which the universe becomes conscious of its own glory."

I'm not sure if this is Alan Watts' exact phrasing, because I've never read Alan Watts. But this is how the line is quoted in Werner Herzog's documentary about Antarctica, Encounters at the End of the World. The documentary is really more about those who choose to live in Antarctica, and the utterer of the quote is introduced as only a heavy machinery operator, working a Cat payloader. The film's shallower questions - about how an individual defines himself, or is defined, or what they do, or their relationship with nature - I will ignore, in favor of the deeper question of man's definition and roles and relationships.

Watts' words are beautiful in terms of the Universe as a rational series of particles and energies, and the found footage that Herzog shows, of the otherworldly environments beneath the Antarctic floes, and the space-age sounds that seals use to communicate with each other, only heightens the connection to what we think of as "outer" space. Hubble space telescope images are only a small cognitive step away.

However, they are almost more applicable in terms of a classic Christian interpretation of God - though it shatters some of the faith's most precious, unchanging tenants. In the Eastern Orthodox church, the priest is required to say prayers as he removes his vestments. It is common that an altar boy will read the prayers for him. As a former altar boy, I had done this a fair share. One of the lines thanks the lord "for allowing me to witness the beauty of your mysteries" or something of that nature. But the word "witness" is there. In the framework of Watts' quote, we have the answer to the question that I believe most people would ask God, given the chance: "Why are we here?" To see how good God is at making planets.

Imagine God is - whether alone, or one of many celestial beings - qutie insecure. He creates Angels to serve him, but he knows they only praise him because they have to. So he creates a world and peoples it, then sends envoys and prophets to prove his existence and get people to pray to him, thanking him for the gifts he has given, and otherwise inflating his ego. The large amount of prophets throughout history is probably a sign that God really is new at this game, or, like so many self-concious people, he's never satisfied. The first time he tried to directly influence humans, Adam and Eve only had to say "Ok, we won't eat the fruit. Now go away so we can go forth and multiply", and they could disobey him. Ever since, human life has been defined by punishments for disobeying God's will, and demand for various prayers and sacrifices to give God his oh-so-sought after validation.

"But," you may ask, "isn't God perfect? And all-powerful? And all knowing? Does he really need all this praise? Doesn't he have a plan for us, beyond just demanding blind praise?"

Is God perfect? My answer would be no. But also yes. Any God of this sort is, as far as humans can understand, perfect and all powerful. He had the power to create us, so why not make us just dumb enough and unaware enough to not be able to discern His shortcomings. He's in the back of the limo and we're the drivers. He leaves the partition down just long enough to see the hottie back there with him take off her dress, but then he puts it up and he won't answer the phone. So we don't see when he cries over his E.D. (I mean, think about it. He insisted that one of his most popular prophets was billed as his "son", finally proving his virility). He is greater than us, and can choose what we see. It doesn't make him perfect.

As I may have said before, the Creation story we are given attributes all of humanity's woes on its quest for knowledge (and on women). It was when we ate from the tree of knowledge that sin began, and it is through the advance of knowledge that it continues (which may explain the distrust of intellectualism among evangelicals). The closer we get to truly understanding God and the mysteries of the Universe, the less we depend on him, and the less we are impressed by him. So perhaps there is a built-in failsafe here. The more we "advance", the closer we get to annihilating ourselves ("we" being all mankind - also, see my previous post on the LHC). Then we, assumedly, all go to hell to suffer because God is frustrated with us trying to become actualized without his help, or we get reincarnated in another universe and we are all more reverent because we don't want punished again. Or we get 72 virgins, I'm not sure.

And so we are the eyes through which the universe sees itself. Should we not learn? I'm not sure. Does learning lead to knowing, or for a yearning to know more? I feel only yearning, and I'm not sure I will ever stop. But I also try not to forget to just look, and appreciate the world that I am part of and is therefore made of me.

Theories of existence and the Large Hadron Collider

Apparently, there are twelve different types of particles in the universe. I’d only remembered there being atoms. Or at the most, protons, neutrons, and electrons. Or ions, maybe (which I learned about from TIE-fighters). But I guess there’s also neutrinos (or was it Neutrin-O!s?) and proteons, and these are actually just different types of quarks (I think), and if I try to go beyond that I’m going to have to start making things up. And this isn’t really that kind of piece (unlike every solution to the airplane-treadmill question).
What kind of piece is this? Well, I recently completed Brett Easton Ellis’ seminal novel Less Than Zer0 (note: I bet that Brett felt stupid about that “0” later, or at least mad at his publisher) and it left me, as it no doubt will or at least has at one time left you (that time being at least the first time you read it) with a feeling of meaninglessness, like nothing before had ever filled you with meaninglessness. Part of this is because it has no beginning, no end (does that count as a spoiler alert?) but is simply a randomly chosen time frame.
So then what kind of piece is Less Than Zer0? In the novel "The End of The Affair," Graham Greene doesn’t exactly have a beginning, although he does have an introduction. His introduction notes that a story doesn’t really have a beginning or an end, but simply the point at which we choose to begin telling, and the point at which we choose to end telling (and if I hadn’t given away my copy of this book after the first time I’d read it, I could properly quote the master). Of course, Greene chose to end his book in a very tidy manner that, despite also leaving you feeling meaningless, was at least somewhat contextual with itself. The chosen beginning and end points correspond directly with events in the story.
Ellis’ book, on the other hand, begins and ends with points of time that exist no matter what the characters do – it will end here, whether anything has been achieved or not. Which is really, I suppose, how life is. You’re born at a pretty randomly chosen point, if you think about it, and it is very possible your life will end before its events have really come to a suitable conclusion – even if (perhaps especially if) you choose the moment of ending. And so what if you have wrapped things up? “Life” as a concept goes on. You may have finished that novel, but human existence still seems to build to nothing. Your own life was just a randomly chosen spot to begin and then end the telling of a story that doesn’t have any boundaries, and the only thing unique to your part of it is your viewpoint.
Which is why I’m excited about the Large Hadron Collider, the giant proton-collider that will produce many of those twelve particles that haven’t really ben around that much since the Big Bang. People have raised fears that the thing could get out of control, and create a black hole that would suck the earth into it, and that creating conditions like the Big Bang is dangerous because, well, we just tend to be nervous around big bangs (like Debbie Gibson!).
It’s possible that I’m able to look at this concern with excitement because it has largely been discredited by experts in the field, and even the worrywarts don’t think it’s that likely. But it’s also that this could be it. If this thing does what it is allegedly capable of, this could be the reason that humans were put on earth – or, from a Darwinist point of view, the pinnacle of the evolutionary process. We are put on Earth (or in the Universe) to end it.
It seems pretty morbid when you consider genocide, and war, and global warming, and Gas Prices, and The Hills. But consider this: the Large Hadron Collider creates a black hole, surrounded by particles almost completely absent since the big bang. This black hole for some reason is super-strong, and as it quickly swallows the Earth, thereby gaining gravitational pull, it pulls in the Moon, then Mars, and so on, and rapidly (relative to the Universe, that is – we’re all dead, our time doesn’t matter) sucks all matter and antimatter into itself, and the pure density swallows in on itself until the entire thing gets down to the size of a pin, and the one last particle that is left in the entire universe that wasn’t sucked in collides with this tiny thing and, boom. Big Bang. It all starts again.
To put it another way, according to legends from Pandora’s Box to Eve’s apple, to some other less Judaeo-Christian, Western-centric tales, Man’s real journey from beast to what he is began with the desire for knowledge. And now, some of us (the height of our species evolution?) have discovered the knowledge needed to end - and possibly, ironically, create - the Universe; Gods in our own image, we have learned all that we need to know.

McCAIN, OBAMA: "ANYONE WANT TO RUN FOR PRESIDENT?"

I considered sending this in to "The Onion", but they do not accept unsolicited submissions. So I'm copying them instead.

WASHINGTON - Senators Barack Obama and John McCain today held a joint press conference to address the current financial crisis, which many lawmakers and experts have suggested could herald a new Great Depression, and to solicit requests from citizens wishing to take their places.

"It's my belief that this is exactly the time when the American people need to hear from the person who, in approximately 40 days, will be responsible for dealing with this mess," said Obama, adding "and if you want this responsibility, please consult my website at barackobama.com, where you can find all the necessary materials." This message keeps with Obama's trademark mastery of the internet medium and its appeal to younger citizens and fresh, innovative ideas.

Further inquiries into the website revealed only a link to a craigslist posting wtih the title: "Wanted: Strong leader for organization looking to reshape its image. Serious enquiries only." Deeper in the posting were lists of preferred traits such as "respectful, clean, strong knowledge of credit-default swaps trading, good with words."

McCain's pitch, on the other hand, reflected his lifetime of service and "maverick" reputation following years of political life. "I've spoken with several experts and they all seem to agree about what is needed. This country needs someone who is willing to sacrifice for the greater good. Someone who understands tough times." The Senator then suddenly pointed into the crowd and said "Hell, how about you? No? You? Damn it, it was worth a shot."

The monumental task of staving off a financial crisis and possible proletariat uprising that stands before the next president, as well as the debilitating fear that one of them would be cornered by it, did recieve the appropriate lip-service from the candidates. Spokesmen have confirmed that both camps offered their nomination to Hillary Clinton, a move that a McCain aide likened to "Dunking a Monica Lewinsky wrapped in raw steak into a tank full of sharks who had been married to Bill Clinton and starved of media attention since they conceded their party's nomination to a less-experienced but more likeable upstart, but something - probably a shrewd, less-hungry, and sexually satisfied shark cage from Hope - held her back."

A Clinton acceptance aside, it seems that the two current nominees will, by default, remain on the ballot unless they find a taker for the position of scapegoat for four probably inevitable years of economic disaster and likely sniper target.

McCain added to his request, "I mean, it's a pretty good job. Sure there's a lot of responsibility, but you get to live in that house. I'd take it...but some stuff came up. I really wish I could take it."

In addition to McCain's "stuff," Obama reportedly has some "things to deal with." Other potential nominee Jonathan Edwards has "a previous engagement." Rudy Giuliani pretended to hear his wife calling, Mitt Romney "has to go return some videotapes," and Joe Biden "just has other shit to do."

McCain spokesman Tucker Bounds reports that they are positive that an alternate nominee can be found within the 40 days remaining until the election, and Obama campaign manager David Axelrod assures reporters that, while they haven't heard back from any, there have been actual responses to their web efforts.

Both campaigns said they are praying someone will come to the country's rescue before they can no longer pretend no one is there when Sarah Palin calls.

A Smurf's a Smurf

Someone told me that in France, pop is called "le soda." Which at first seemed too simple to me (like when you translate words into Spanish bay adding '-o' to the end of words. Like 'el work-o') but, before too long, made me think of "Le Big Mac".

Of course, as you all know, "a Big Mac's a Big Mac", as Vincent Vega described in apt metaphor in Pulp Fiction, right before informing us all that in France, the Quarter Pounder is called a "Royale with cheese". Isn't that kind of, you know, American-Centric? What about a "Royale avec fromage"? I know it's not nearly as quotable, and probably would have singlehandedly lost the Academy Award for that screenplay (would you have watched that movie once in college if it had't been for "Royale with Cheese?")

And then it comes to me that that whole dialogue is, really, a commentary on the Americanization of the world, and the ignorance that Americans show for other cultures. Who goes to Europe and talks about nothing but the McDonald's when he gets home? I mean, really, there wasn't some Bistro where you had a slice of Gouda, while some guy (Guy?) talked about Derrida and Foucault, and Baudelare, while a mime acted out the Dunkirk miracle? No, just beer in McDonald's, and a sandwich whose name was changed to the vaguely French "Royale", and even though "with cheese" is unaltered he talks about the damn burger like it was a cultural leap. But the real kicker, is that he was so closed-minded, that he "didn't go to Burger King" - whose vague allusion to royalty (Royale?) is just a little too European anyway.

Which brings me to Casablanca. Well, sort of. Peter Lorre played a little man who talked with a combination of an accent and emphysema and was, at best, a sidekick. But the important thing is that he was Moroccan, in a movie about Americans who want to escape from America but don't really want to lose American culture. Sure, Casablanca is a little more cosmopolitan than L.A., but sometime you should watch (and I'm not being condescending by assuming you haven't) Woody Allen's great philisophical inquiry onto the boundaries between cinema/fantasy and "real life", The Purple Rose of Cairo. The New York they show in that movie is awfully cosmopolitan, yet still at least an American fantasy. Casablanca just moved that fantasy to Northern Africa, and it became escapist, became exotic. And an Austrio-Hungarian character actor (Sellers) played a little man who, more than any real Moroccan, became so strong a symbol for Morocco that a close parody of him became part of an American cartoon whose popularity level I couldn't begin to guess at.

The cartoon was called "Secret Squirrel" and it was part of one of those three-part cartoons that would have one episode of the main cartoon (like Garfield) then an episode of the secondary cartoon (like whatever the farm animals in the middle of Garfield were. I just remember a pig named Orson, which is hilarious), and then either a second episode of the main cartoon, or the second part of the first episode of the main cartoon. Secret Squirrel was the secondary cartoon to the much-inferior (if that can really be said) Two Stupid Dogs. Now, the secret squirrel that I watched was a nineties remake of a sixties cartoon, and even then it was in reruns on Cartoon Network. Oh, and I forgot, Secret Squirrel had a partner named Morocco Mole.

Morocco Mole was a straight send-up of Lorre's character. He wore a fez, and a little monocle, and wheezed his sidekick-ey advice to the overconfident and suave bushy-tailed agent. Now, I don't hold this cartoon for changing the geo-political outlook of normal Americans, nor to their affinity for psuedo-escapist fantasies that allow them to appear wordly without ever having given up yankee comforts. Becasue I wouldn't remember it at all, except for one promo that Cartoon Network would show ad nauseum every time that I stayed home all day:

A red convertible is cruising down a road during what must have been an L.A. night, I guess from the neon reflections on the shining surface of the hood (this was all done in a strange, patchwork animation style, by the way. Very cool). Droopy Dog is driving, and Shaggy from the Scooby Doo cartoons is the passenger. Droopy says "Tell me again about the 79 countries [in which Cartoon Network was shown]"

"[It's] the same in those countries as it is here, except for, like, little differences"
"Example?"
"You know what they call Pound Puppies in France?"
"They don't call them Pound Puppies?"
"No. They don't have pounds in france, they use the metric system. They call them 'Les pups royale.'"

"and in Morocco, Morocco Mole is just called 'Mole'". So now it's suggested that Moroccans relate to and identify with Peter Lorre's character, in such a way that they don't even need to be told that he is parodying them - like if Captain America just went by Captain.

Of course, not everything changes ("a smurf's a smurf"), but that's because the exportation of a purely American product is really mostly for Americans.

So what does this all mean? I forget. But it is interesting that while watching Secret Squirrel cartoons as a youngster I was enthralled by a commercial that parodied not only a scene from a movie that would become one of my favorites, but also mentions a character that is a parody of a character from a movie that would become one of my favorites. And the character, the scene, the cartoon - all are about exporting Americana.

Which is probably why I was then in the mood for some good, old-fashioned, produced-for-domestic-use Americana. So I turned the channel to T.V. land, and developed my love for sketch comedy through the Sonny and Cher Comedy Hour (I remember George Burns, dressed as Posiedon, calling Mark Spitz the King of the Ocean. Great stuff), whose format really wasn't all that much different than those three-part cartoons except that it lasted an hour and involved a bunch of crappy songs in between while I waited for a comedy piece (just like when I watched Disney movies and was annoyed at all the musical numbers, except the Louis Prima piece in the Jungle Book).

However, following the I Got You Babe couple was my favorite show of all time, Hogan's Heroes, and then an OK show, Green Acres. Which was also somewhat about expanding America's way of life, in that a city slicker and a foreign woman moved to a little farm and did chores, while she whined about being away from the city and he...well, I guess he farmed in a suit and overcame incompetence with dumb optimism.

The more intrepid readers will already see where I'm getting at. When Jules says he doesn't eat pork, Vince argues with him, and they ask if a dog, like a pig, is an unclean animal. Jules says, "Well, a dog's got personality."
"What if a pig had personality, would you eat that?"
"That'd have to be one charming motherfucking pig. It'd have to be way more charming then that pig Arnold on Green Acres."

Now, between the time that I would last see the commercial on Cartoon Network and the first appearance of Arnold on Green Acres, with Sonny and Cher and Hogan's Heroes in between, was about the same amount of time as there was between the two scenes in the movie. My entire cultural lexicon for two periods of my life were based off of each other in a format - first I saw something (Secret Squirrel) based on something that had already come (Pulp Fiction), which itself referenced something I saw immediately after the first thing (Green Acres), even though it had happened long before either (and originally around the same time as the original of the first thing), but their significane wouldn't be realized until I saw that second thing - that is right out of Pulp Fiction's timeline.

Cool things about the Hipster party

- Good music
- You don’t have to worry that the BO smell comes from you (even if it does)
- That chick would be hot if she shaved her legs
- That chick would be hot if she shaved her moustache (and/or weren’t a dude)
- Those two chicks are hot. Ooh - but obviously not available
- You feel miles cooler than everyone who walks in after you
- You feel days cooler than anyone else who looks uncomfortable.
- But hey, this is pretty good music