Smiles Everyone....welcome to Kony Island

Friends, Romans, Country Fans,  I come not to praise Jason Russell…nor to bury him as it would seem he’s doing a bang up job of that himself.  But I figured with all this adoopla going on about Kony2012 and The Invisible Children and Jason Russell in general, it couldn’t hurt to stick my big fat head in.

For what it’s worth, I watched the movie. I cried when Jacob talked about wanting to die and then broke down when talking about seeing his brother again in Heaven.  After it was over, I clicked the website and was fully intent on purchasing a nifty bracelet only to find they were all sold out.  So instead I clicked over to Facebook and read some posts from my more liberal amigos who almost across the board, to a person, have decided to shit all over Kony2012.  Why?  I didn’t get it?  Isn’t this PRECISELY the kind of thing that you would normally get behind?  Aren’t you all the people who usually scream at the top of your lungs, “why are we only worried about policing the world when there’s oil at stake…when…sniff sniff…there are plenty of other monsters out there!”  Well, isn’t this one of those other monsters?  Even Angelina Jolie with her smug Angelina Jolie face said that those (like her) in the international community have long hated Kony and that  it was good to see young people “raising up as well.”  So what gives, Libs?

So with a resounding “to the inter-web” I did some searching and found that there is a weeeee bit o’ controversy about this film.  Blog after blog have put forth mucho criticism about the film that basically, in my view, boils down to the following:

·         The film makers are self-aggrandizing douchebags

·         They have taken liberty with the facts and oversimplified a very complex situation

·         The organization makes a shit-ton of money—some of which it uses to help, most of which it keeps

And it really does seem that these are correct statements…especially the douchebag part.

But I also think the critics are missing the point.  Because Kony2012 is not a movie. It is not a documentary or a call for action.  It’s not a world saver nor is it a charitable institution.

Kony2012 is a marketing juggernaut.  And as such it is a resounding success. And you should bow down.

And really, what did you expect?  In depth analysis carefully plotted and presented with a deft yet soft empathetic touch by idealistic and generous souls yearning only to spread a message of hope and peace with no thought as to personal gain or credit?  A discussion of options that we can then take to our own families and friends and engage in spirited intelligent debate and come to a consensus and then decide the best way to act?

This is America, people.  We choose our artists on fucking game shows.  Does this not represent the best of what we have to offer?

We are a disposable culture and it ain’t about what’s right…it’s about what’s right this minute.  And you know it and I know it and the American People know it. 

We HAVE to be spoon fed over-simplified sound bites with musical cues to inform us the requisite emotional response to spew or not only are we not gonna get it…we aren’t gonna WATCH it!  And we certainly ain’t gonna care it about it unless you tell us to.  Is it the film’s fault that after watching, nobody bothered to investigate further? 

And for the record,  Kony2012 does exactly what it says it’s going to do: It makes Joseph Kony famous.  You weren’t talking about him before…and be honest, you didn’t know who he was before…no you didn’t…no you didn’t…no. you. didn’t.    Yes, it’s disingenuous for them to allow you to presume that 100% of your money goes to support the children…but…once again, and I don’t want to sound like a cynic here, but what charity does that?  And to repeat: the goal is to make Kony famous (mission accomplished).   But mostly, if we are honest here, the goal is to make Jason Russell famous.

Which leads us to…

YES. They are self-aggrandizing douchebags.  The movie reeks as Jason Russell’s audition reel…perhaps he fancies himself the next Michael Moore (self-aggrandizing douchebag), Morgan Spurlock (self-aggrandizing douchebag) or Werner Herzog (their King) and if that’s the case, he’s in pretty good company.  What’s wrong with self-aggrandizing?  As an artist, you kinda have self-aggrandize…I wish I could find a bigger platform and I’d flipping aggrandize all over the place…there certainly ain’t no one else lining up to aggrandize me. 

And I once again bring us back to:  all that stuff on the website is sold out. The film is a success.  People are talking about Kony.  Instead of shitting all over the poor Invisible Children, why don’t you grab a camera and (as my hero, Lloyd Kaufman is apt to say) make your own damn movie.  Be your own douchebag.

Betcha won’t.

Why? Because it’s hard to create something.  Much easier to kick something down.  So maybe the Douchebags ain't the only douchebags...just sayin'

In defense of the Kardashian brain trust

Now I’m normally not one to get caught up in celebrity feuds and all that adoopla.  Honestly it always feels a little like high school to me…oooh Katie and Julie are fighting and that’s really sad because they were such good friends and now who knows if they will pull it together and even though neither one of them knows I exist and if she did, wouldn’t piss in a bucket if I was on fire, somehow this affects my life.

But I was yaHooing the other day and came across some article about a “huge” feud (read: slow news day) between John Hamm and Kim Kardashian. 

In some interview, John Hamm said:  Whether it's Paris Hilton or Kim Kardashian or whoever, stupidity is certainly celebrated. Being a fucking idiot is a valuable commodity in this culture because you're rewarded significantly."

Kim, on Twitter, gave her response: “I respect Jon and I am a firm believer that everyone is entitled to their own opinion and that not everyone takes the same path in life. We're all working hard and we all have to respect one another. Calling someone who runs their own businesses, is a part of a successful TV show, produces, writes, designs, and creates, 'stupid,' is in my opinion careless."

And, shocking as it may seem, I have to agree with HER. 

I think it’s way too easy to dismiss someone of her ilk (the Paris’s, the Jessica’s, the Situation’s et al) as being stupid.  As someone who has spent a good chunk of his life trying to make a dollar and a dime in this business of show, and for the most part, except that one time in 2000, having FAILED miserably at said task,  I can attest that it takes a special kind of savvy and drive and ambition and smarts to make a dent in the sand of the Entertainment world…and Kim has built an empire there.  

And before you toss that accomplishment off and say “whatever, she got famous because of a sex tape”, let me point out to you that there are a ton of people with sex tapes.  Pam Anderson has a sex tape. Amy Fisher has a sex tape. Joanie Laurer has a sex tape. Dustin fucking Diamond has a sex tape.  But I don’t think they have clothing lines and perfumes and multiple reality shows.   I don’t believe Screech could sell the rights to his wedding in prime time.  

So I have to disagree with Mr. Hamm. 

Kim Kardashian is not a fucking idiot.

Kim Kardashian is a fucking shithead.

And the fact that she is uber smart, creative and business savvy makes her even MORE of a shithead. 

And the real problem is that somehow she’s also become a role model and there are a ton of girls aspiring to be shitheads too. I wanna be famous I wanna be famous I wanna be famous and it doesn’t matter what for.  Fame is not just its own reward any more.  FAME is the end result, instead of being a byproduct of DOING SOMETHING COOL.  And that is the real shame of all these shows. They’ve stopped inspiring people to be creative.  Why do I have to make art and bare my soul when I can bare my ass and get there all the faster.

Now in the interest of full disclosure I have to, for the record, state that I despise reality television.  And, as I was once on a reality show (Starz Network’s Looking for Stars), you may call me a hypocrite but I just think that I have perspective…hypocritical perspective granted but it’s still perspective so shuttayouface. 

It’s a cliché to say that Reality TV is as scripted as Desperate Housewives but it’s also true.  The themes of these shows are well thought out and planned in advance.  There are probably story sessions where each of the “real” characters arcs are meticulously planned. 

And, I guess, according to Kim, as she “produces and writes”, she’s involved in these meetings.  That means…

That means at some point, she had to develop an idea:  I will get married and it’ll be a prime time special that I can sell ads and pocket millions and THEN I will quickly file for divorce right before the season of my show comes out that will document the dissolution of my marriage thereby giving folks ample time to get really pissed off but then they won’t be able to NOT watch my show; the ones who doubt my marriage was legit will watch for clues so they can yell “SEE!!!!” and the ones who believe will watch with teary eyes and say “AWWWWWWWWWWW”  but they will ALL BE WATCHING.  This is not only the work of someone with intelligence but also a lot of BALLS.

To conceive of a plan so devious takes great mental acuity. We’re talking Keyser Soze. But really…what’s the fucking point?

Because why not do something great, Kim? 

If you want to be a narcissist, be a narcissist.  Hell, you’d be in the company of some truly bad ass artists.  I, myself, have been accused of narcissism and I’m a loser (by society’s standards, not my mama’s).  There’s nothing wrong with being a narcissist. There’s nothing wrong about being rich.

There’s not even anything wrong with being famous.

But can’t you at least be famous because of something instead of being something because you’re famous?

for her. She (who will not be named)

You fit into me
like a hook into an eye

a fish hook
an open eye

Margaret Atwood

She’s not someone I talk about.
Honestly she’s not really even someone I think about; after all it’s been almost a decade.  But I do, from time to time, drift back…

Last night was one of those times.

Me and the Mrs. scored tickets to see Wicked on B’way and it was in the last moments of the show…no spoilers I promise…that there is a song called “For Good”. Now for those who know the show (or have seen the Wizard of Oz), you’ll know that the song is between Glinda (the ‘guh’ is silent) the good and Elphaba (The Wicked Witch) and it’s basically the two of them saying goodbye and the whole point is that they have been changed by knowing each other. Even if it’s not necessarily a good change…they hope it’s a good change…they are forever different people because they came into each other’s lives.  It’s a pretty sweet song…and I promise I have a point.

While watching that moment in the show, I suddenly had that weird feeling in my stomach, that goose bumped flesh, that welling behind the eyes, a bona fide reaction and I did not at all know where it was coming from; it certainly wasn’t a sudden catharsis for the green lady and her blonde friend.  It was palpable and powerful.  This song. Meant something. To me.

And then…the flood…

I remembered.

It was the end. And I mean the E.N.D.  As in: the last straw, endgame, final days, the fat lady singing, all over but the crying, all’s well that ends in hell.  It was OVER. We just didn’t know it.   Because it had been over before. Many times and various volumes and intensities it had been over.  Phones smashed. Walls punched.  The “c” word on a few occasions (not my best moment). And tears. And screaming. And Screaming and more screaming.  It had been over more than it had been on.

But somehow we just kept at it.  And I wish I could say that it was all her. I wish I could chalk it up to the original thesis (chix is whack) and wail against the horrors of loving a crazy woman.  And she was crazy.  She was crazy (wasn’t she?).

But.  And this is the moment of painful self-reflection and awareness:  The reason she was crazy is because I made her crazy.  And she made me crazy so I made her crazy. In other words,  WE WAS FUCKING CRAZY.

The people that knew us then liked to say that we were just oil and water but that was not true. Oil and water repel each other. They don’t mix.  We were baking soda and vinegar—two harmless ingredients that are perfectly awesome and useful by themselves, but when combined explode into a bubbling, sticky, stinking mess.  Alone we could make a fine salad or leaven a cake…together we could dissolve bone.

We were a perfect storm of passion and co-dependence; of remembering that first magical year of loving someone like crazy and now hating every fiber of that same person’s being;  of not wanting to give up again when things get rough like I always do and damn we really should end this.   We were a hot sexy passionate two month summer romance that turned into a six year…six fucking years…descent into hell relationship.
And I could tell you stories…many stories that would make you laugh and cringe and shudder and probably think much less of me…and maybe one day I will but probably not.  It’s not important now. Right now I want to talk about the end.

It was August.  I’d come up to see her in her hometown…did I mention we didn’t live in the same city? We didn’t even live in the same state.  We had to physically be in different zip codes just to be able to function in society at this point.   Anywhoo…so I had come up to visit, to fulfill an obligation that the two of us had agreed to do a year before…some 48 hour film thing.  And we had, surprise surprise, fought the entire forty eight hours non stop. And it was a particularly ugly day that had culminated in someone’s sister being called a whore and someone else smashing that someone’s glass vanity table into oblivion (I told you we fought mean and dirty)  and her mom was crying and we were screaming and I was trying to pack and just get the hell out of there. And I’m packing my car and she comes out.

“I want to play you a song”

“I have to go”

“I need you to hear this”

“let me go!”

“just let me play you this one song”

I figured…fine. I’ll listen to this song and then we can have yet another fight because I won’t understand what it’s supposed to mean but I’m tired so let’s just get this over.
We sit in her car and she takes out her Wicked Original Broadway Soundtrack.  She was obsessed with Wicked.

“This song reminds me of you. When I hear it, I think of us”

And she played the song. THAT song. “For Good”.

And sitting in that car with her, listening to that song together, with six horrible years behind us and God knows how many horrible years in front of us (none it would turn out, but we didn’t know that then)  was strangely calming.  Your basic Eye of the Hurricane moment I guess.  We sat there. We listened. She cried. I cried. And then I got out of the car, hugged her and drove home.

And that was the last moment I was in her physical presence. We imploded…ended with the cellphone smash heard round the world…and went on to live rather normal, happy lives.  And this six years became, at least for me, a dark embarrassing blip in my past.

And I forgot, honestly forgot about that song.  Until last night.

And having a decade between the first and second times I heard it…a decade and two different loves: one stupid and one awesome…afforded me a sense of clarity that I was lacking the first time.

I realized that that moment in her car was our swansong. But more than that…it was HER moment of grace.  See I know now that we humans are for the most part a planet of the fucked up but each of us, everyone at some time is capable of purity; a moment of true and absolute grace.  And embracing these moments bring us closer to the divine. Or something.  She was saying goodbye to me. Maybe she knew it and maybe she didn’t but that song in her car was the best way for her to tell me that even though it was buried somewhere deep inside and scarred from many years of battle, inside her heart was a love for me. And when we give our heart to someone and love them fully with everything we have and everything we know how to give, then we are changed. For better or for worse we are fundamentally different beings.  And because of her I was different. And because of me she was different. And because of us, we were different. Forever, maybe not for better (apologies Mr. Ono) but changed.

So I thank her. For the good times. For the fun and for the love.  And I forgive her for all the shit and I really hope she forgives me because I am truly sorry for it all.  But most of all, I want her to know that from this moment on, when I do remember her…when I talk about her (I’m not gonna do that a lot)…that day in the car…that song, will be what I close with.  Because in the middle of all of it, she chose to send me off with a message of hope and grace; that no matter what we had done and what we went through, at the end of the day,  we’d be okay.

And you know?  She was right.

my summer of Dalton

I graduated High School in June, 1989. Having inherited my Uncle Don’s (and in some unspeakable way it was also my Mother’s) wanderlust I was almost instantaneously gripped by the urge to get the hell out of Waycross. Of course I was too chickenshit to actually move to L.A. which is where my 17 year old wannabe poser rockstar id was screaming to go, and it would be yet another six months before I was able to piece together “the plan” with my best friend…which involved Orlando, construction work, a girl with a dragon tattoo (but not THAT one) and a lot of really selfish stupid decisions but that’s a tale for another day and I digress…sooooo for the moment I was 17, stuck in Waycross and victim of this bubbling NEED to go somewhere. Anywhere. Which is why, sans even a splinter of reason, I decided to pack up my Red Escort and leave my sobbing mother in the driveway as I moved to Gainesville, Florida to live with my Dad. After all, Gainesville was much more “city-ier” and certainly would offer a wealth of opportunity to a sheltered, slightly narcissistic, unscrupulous yet decidedly good looking young scalawag. This dashing bold adventure would last exactly one month, and in time, via reflection, would turn out to be a defining moment in my character…the birth of a pattern of behavior that would eventually take decades to undo.

There were two immediate problems with my new living situation: 1) I didn’t really like my father and 2) he lived with my grandmother in a tiny, rotting mobile home in the middle of the woods in Central Florida…which meant…wait for it….ROACHES. And I’m not talking about your garden variety “ooooo there’s a bug kill it honey” roaches of your normal cities. No. I’m talking about huge, thick, evil palmetto bugs that were so brazen, they’d actually crawl in bed with you at night….just to show you who was boss. I’d pull out the couch-bed, do my nightly ritual of creating a “moat” around it by spraying a ring of Raid, turn off the lights and try to sleep; all the while trying to shut out the hideous “SHHHINK CRRAAAATTTT SNNNICCKKA SNICCCKAAA” sounds of a thousand tiny feet running around in the kitchen. I’d hear “PLINK” in the dish drainer and know I wasn’t eating the next morning.

Despite the horrors at night, I was actually able to get into a few bona fide shenanigans: hooked up with a few rocker-types, went to a few parties, got hassled by Mall Cops and even fell for a girl whose name I cannot remember but looked EXACTLY like Gloria Estefan and actually opened our first conversation with “sometimes I like to get really drunk and have violent sex”. Check please! Wooo hooo!

Now that I’m actually thinking about it, it’s kinda funny how epic this FEELS to me now even though it literally lasted only a month…but you know how memory is subjective and time means absolutely nothing when you delve into the past.

Anywhoo…the real purpose of my moving to Gainesville was to start my life…to find a job…to be a grownup. Certainly I couldn’t sponge off my Dad forever, right? So every day, he’d give me some money and I’d tell him and my Gramma that I was going out to all these job interviews and then I’d go to the Oaks Mall and watch movies. That was the Summer of Batman. That was the Summer of the First (and, who are we kidding…the ONLY) Major League.

That was the summer of ROAD HOUSE.

Sam Elliot. Kelly Lynch. Ben Gazzarra. Jeff Healy Band. Crusados.

Swayze.

Dalton.

The Mullet.

“Pain don’t hurt”

“I thought you’d be bigger”

“Prepare to die….you are such an asshole”

And….

Wait for it…..

“I used to fuck guys like you in prison”

I am not exaggerating (or at least I don’t think I am) when I tell you that I saw that movie every single weekday I was in Gainesville. And honestly I could do a whole book about the awesome that is Dalton, but for now I’ll just say, man to a 17 year old kid in 1989, that film struck some kinda chord. To this day, when I hear that opening guitar riff to “Don’t Throw Stones” (and WHY wasn’t that song on the Soundtrack???) I get goosebumps. Instantly I’m a kid again. Sitting in that theater. Wondering what the hell am I gonna do with my life…in that awesome, totally un-self aware teen angst kinda way, thinking the world was on my shoulders and everyone had paused just waiting for my next brilliant move. Miserable. Why the hell am I here? And then….

Dalton.

Dalton didn’t worry. Dalton was philosophical about things. Dalton didn’t have to make plans. Dalton stayed until the job was done. And “when the job’s done I walk”. He was my hero. At 17, that’s what I wanted to be.

And that’s what I kinda became.

Because when Road House left the theater, I left Gainesville. “Sorry Dad, the job’s done; and when the job’s done I walk”. I packed up, did NOT say goodbye to the Gloria Estefan girl and drove right out of town…I wish I could say to a bigger city, but it was back to Waycross. That was the first time I “Dalton”ed a place.

But not the last.

In fact, for the next 15 years I “Dalton”ed a lot. Whenever it came time to leave: Orlando, college 1, College 2, Grad School, New York, I didn’t make a fuss, I didn’t say goodbye, I didn’t keep in touch. I packed up my car and drove out of town, never looking back. I fucking DALTON-ED that shit.

But I never really got it. I didn’t realize that the thing that made Dalton the true badass is that…in the end…

Dalton stays. He doesn’t leave when the job’s done. He stays with the girl and makes a life. Because no Dalton is an Island, and eventually every ronin has to find a home.

It took me a long time and many broken hearts and a few lost friends and several bridges burned beyond repair to have that realization.

The Dalton that left when the job was done was lacking.

The Dalton that stayed was a man.

wisdom of the organization

In honor of the most recent issue of Esquire, where they feature notables like Danny Devito and George H.W. Bush (with Barbara!) talking about stuff they’ve learned, I’ve decided to try to put together a list of stuff that I’ve learned.  Or also just stuff I think. Enjoy…or don’t…it doesn’t really matter in the end…

• William Goldman once wrote: “nobody knows anything”.  King’s X wrote “Everybody knows a little bit of something”.  King’s X was more right.
• If someone says “now I don’t care if you’re black, white, green orange or purple…” the very next thing he or she says will be horribly racist.
• Right now, you can purchase for $20K a system that will beam first run movies into your house at a cost of $500 per movie. Within 2 years, you’ll be able to do this on Netflix and that price will go down to $50…2 years after that, it’ll just be regular prices to see a first run movie in your house instead of going to the theatre.  A whole bunch of you will praise Jebus for that saying “finally I don’t have to deal with all the bullshit of going to the movies…the cost…the crowds…the stupid no good punks who won’t shut up” and for a while you’ll be totally happy. But, mark my words, first run movies beamed to homes will be the first nail in the coffin for our society as a whole.  The beauty of movies is catharsis…you can’t get catharsis at home alone….or even at home with twenty friends.  Catharsis MUST be societal.
• I used to love movies more than anything. Trying to get into the movie business was the second biggest heartbreak of my life (don’t ask). If I’d know it’d all end up on a fucking phone, I wouldn’t have bothered.
• The problem with our society is that we officially worship fame for its own right. This means, if you want an acting career, it makes more sense to film yourself eating dog shit and posting it online than to study acting.  The “Shit eater” guy will get more meetings than the guy with an MFA from Yale.
• The purpose of art is not to change the world. The purpose of art is to communicate an experience.  That it can sometimes change the world is a wondrous and happy accident!
• Heartbreak. True, agonizing heartbreak is the great liberator.
• Sarah Palin is not stupid.  While the left is busy making jokes and feeling smug, she’s building an EMPIRE.  
• Jessica Simpson is not stupid. While I am busy making jokes and feeling smug, she’s building an EMPIRE.
• Ageism is very much alive and well in the entertainment industry. Which confounds me because everyone under the age of 30 is a fucking moron.
• Wanna know how I spent my 20’s? A solid decade of flipping back and forth between nailing everything that walked and being pissed off because the world owed me.
• There is nothing more pathetic than a former lothario who has become fat and ugly. And THAT is how I spent my 30’s!
• There will be a new American civil war in our lifetime.  It will be over abortion.  It will start as a healthcare issue/debate, but as it builds momentum, it’ll just be about abortion.
• That my wife is much better looking than I am is a total bonus; people automatically assume I must be uber-charming and I don’t have to work as hard in social interactions.