Kevin Marshall's America
HAPPYBIRTHDAYPAULIE
It’s a new turn of phrase I’m working on.
I’m obsessed with Paulie’s Robot. It made its cinematic debut in Rocky IV, where the titular protagonist is pit against the pharmaceutically-enhanced Soviet murder machine Ivan Drago played by the brilliant (no, seriously, he’s brilliant) Dolph Lundgren. During one infamous scene from the film, Rocky flaunts his wealth by giving the verbally and emotionally abusive Paulie a stupifying birthday present: a real live robot. The robot wishes a confused Paulie happy birthday accompanied by the grating blip-bloops of early electronic music. It’s certainly the low point of the franchise up to that point and would only be beaten out by Rocky V‘s anti-climatic fight (they build towards a championship fight in a boxing ring and instead they fight out in the street).
In constructing this allegory, you’d probably assume I’d lean on people’s perception of the scene itself. That realm, though, is already covered by the jumping of sharks, “Heaven’s Gate“, and a plethora of pop culture references that all amount to the same thing: spectacular failure.
Instead, I’m going to use it as it was intended in the context of the film itself: as an act presented as selfless but is really more about the giver than the receiver. Rocky didn’t give Paulie that damn robot because he really wanted one for his birthday. Rocky gave him that robot to show everyone that he’s so rich he can buy a real robot. It was all about flaunting the wealth, resources, and connections he’d acquired. Rocky gives Paulie the robot, but it’s a gift that means nothing to the receiver and everything to the giver.
Paulie’s Robot can be used for any number of situations. The most obvious use is for when you or someone you know is given a gift that’s more for the giver than the intended recipient. These include a parent who gets their child an electronic gadget or video game that they themselves want to use, someone who’s handy with tools giving their significant other a hammer, someone buying a disinterested friend a membership to a gym because s/he wants someone to play/train with, and so on and so forth.
"SOON YOU WILL SERVE US, MEAT STICK" - The internal dialogue of Paulie's Robot
Obviously, this is a malleable analogy. Over time we could adapt it to mean any number of things, like when someone just brags on Facebook about something they did that’s selfless or charitable.
That’s where you come in. What can we do with Paulie’s Robot?
:(
CNN has cancelled Eliot Spitzer’s “In the Arena“, which was formerly “Parker/Spitzer” until co-host Kathleen Parker turned to him one day and said “wait, you’re that Eliot Spitzer?”
At first, the show was successful in repairing the public image of the shamed former NY Governor, but backstage squabbling led to the eventual departure of his co-host along with the forty-two people that were still watching. When word leaked that Parker had “stormed off” the set, Spitzer’s rep behind the scenes and in trades took a hit.
It’s unfortunate, because just recently I had come up with a list of suggestions for producers to improve the show:
- Change the theme song to “Steamroller” by James Taylor
- Go all the way with the “In the Arena” theme, modeling the set after the Roman Coliseum and forcing Spitzer to dress as a gladiator, complete with a visor that he would lift every time the show returned from commercial break.
- Along those same lines, he would start each segment with “and now, we honor our Empire!” and ending each broadcast with “ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED?!”
- An intimate one-on-one interview segment accompanied by sexy sax music called “Socks On.”
- A segment where Eliot calls Jim Tedisco and leaves him threatening voicemails.
Man. I’m in the wrong business.
Today Casey Anthony got away with murder, sparking outrage throughout the nation. (Joe Burbank, Pool / AP)
There is a sad, unspoken truth to the Casey Anthony case, and it doesn’t even pertain to the case itself.
Other than being aware of its existence from all the chatter I overheard and saw online, I was largely ignorant of the coverage. Shortly before the trial started I read some news articles and it seemed, to me anyway, that it was an open and shut case. The circumstances and evidence seemed far too damning for any defense lawyer to overcome.
Today the verdicts were read: guilty of providing false information, but not guilty of murder or manslaughter. I was legitimately surprised, but that comes with the caveat that as mentioned earlier I hadn’t followed the case since it started. And woe to those among us who either forget or underestimate the abilities of a trial lawyer to defy logic and conventional wisdom and grasp victory from the jaws of defeat.
That said, the real sad and unspoken truth is the reason why everyone’s been obsessed with this trial: because demonizing Casey Anthony makes us feel better about ourselves. The screams, shouts, and cries of outrage aren’t just damning Casey for what we perceive to be her actions, but in a weird way putting ourselves up on a pedestal for…well, not being Casey Anthony. Through the expression of our frustration, we bury our transgressions and sins by shoveling mounds of hate onto her. Some of us even publicly wish terrible things to happen to her; even more terrible than what we think she did to that poor child. The resulting ugliness is supported by a convenient and easy target, a selfish young woman who didn’t even report her child missing and figuratively danced on her grave.
The truth, however, is this: nothing excuses that much darkness in us. This woman and that child are strangers. The murder and its fallout do not exist in our realm of perception beyond what’s displayed on a television or monitor screen. We know only what Nancy Grace, the exalted Queen of Phony Outrage, has told us.
As excuses pour in over the next few days, people are sure to cite children in their family as the reason behind the emotional baggage that was unleashed earlier this afternoon. That carries little water when the same outrage isn’t even present, let alone expressed, when those very same people read and at times even discuss more terrible acts and atrocities committed to children throughout the world on a daily basis. Nor should it, for if we were to get this upset with every terrible deed we read or saw, we’d never get a good night’s sleep again, and we’d be driven mad with rage and indistinguishable from those we vilify.
None of this is to say Casey Anthony should be forgiven for what she did. It’d be easy if we could accept the verdict of the jury on faith alone, but our experience with the justice system in our country (great but imperfect as all things must be) won’t allow us to do that. Even still, some solace can be taken in the fact that while justice may not have been served on this day, her name will go down in infamy. Everywhere she goes, and everything she does, will be under a microscope. Times will be few when she will escape whispers or outright shouts of “murderer”. She may have avoided a legal conviction of murder, but she will live her life in a prison of shame, distrust, and judgment. She will have to carry that burden for the rest of her life. It is little solace for those who needed justice for that poor child, but it is something.
But we’re not the ones that need it. This case does not endanger our own children. It does not indicate that someone can get away with murder in this country any more than the O.J. Simpson verdict. Guilty persons have gotten away with crimes before, just as innocent people have been convicted. No system can be perfect, and to expect such is unreasonable.
So why are we so angry? It could be that like so many other things, we’re letting out anger and frustration over unrelated things and attributing it to this trial. Maybe we carry an insecurity that requires us to show other people that we’re a good person, and we think that rage against what we perceive as a great evil will do just that. Perhaps there’s something deep down that’s frustrated with Casey Anthony getting away with the unthinkable while we face consequences every day for far lesser misdeeds and mistakes in our own lives. Regardless of the reasons, all this anger can’t be healthy.
I’m not saying we can’t be upset. I’m just saying that all this talk is for naught if we aren’t willing to examine why we’re having this conversation in the first place.
See also: What we are guilty of in Casey Anthony’s case (Rev. Alan Rudnick)
Kyle Richards after his January arrest.
Kyle Richards trudged through the winter snow, fresh bills spilling out of his hands and pockets, reaching his apartment a few dollars short of the $900 he demanded from the TCF Bank Teller just after noon on that biter cold day. He had no weapon other than intimidation and no plan other than escape. The police found him shortly after by tracking his footprints in the freshly fallen January snow, along with the stray cash outside his apartment.
As he awaited sentencing five months later, the embarrassment of his capture was overshadowed by an indignity he suffered due his jailer’s policies.
“No,” they said. “You cannot have hardcore pornography.”
Do we live in a nation where a man could be so harshly treated and subjected to such cruel and unusual punishment? To sentence a man to a felony that due to prior convictions could land him in jail for potentially the remainder of his life is one thing, but to then deny him his God given right to pornography? His life, like so many pages of Hustler, was essentially ruined.
But Kyle Richards did not take it lying down. Not letting his right hand go to waste, he used pen and paper to handwrite a lawsuit filed last week against the Macomb County Jail. The lawsuit alleges that the Jail is violating his Constitutional rights by withholding pornography from him, and that doing so contributed to a “poor standard of living” and “sexual and sensory deprivation.” Good thing he wrote that last part instead of telling other prisoners.
…Sam the Eagle.
Happy Independence Day. Wherever you go, whether it be your back yard or a lookout or Empire State Plaza or Joseph L. Bruno Stadium, be safe and keep in mind the safety of others.
And also, if you get a free moment, use the time time to remember, rediscover, and revisit our nation’s history. By that I don’t mean fetishizing or white-washing. Because we are the sum of all that came before and the culmination of prior triumphs and transgressions. If you love this country as you say you do, then you love it for what it really was and is…warts and all.
Leave it to a mainstream American news periodical to class things up a bit by marking the anniversary of a death by throwing an undead corpse on the cover.
(AP Photo/Newsweek)
Kate Middleton: “So, uh, heh. Been to any good shows lately?”
Di: “HRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR”
Kate: “West End, is it? I heard good things.”
Di: “HRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR”
Kate: “I just love your hat.”
Di: “BRAAAAAAAAAAINS”
Kate: “…yes, quite right. Hats cover our brains.”
Di: *jaw falls off*
I know I’m a couple days late on this, but Newsweek: what the Hell were you thinking? You mean to tell me there was a meeting – a meeting of professional editors and journalists that were real, honest to God adults – and nobody at any point in the process spoke up against it? Not when the idea was put forth to age Diana to 50 years and throw her on the cover? Nobody thought that would be insensitive? And nobody, when the image came back, said “you know what guys, noble intentions and all but she looks like a harbinger for the end times”?
Man. Next time you think the Times Union has made a bad editorial decision, just remember that they had the good sense not to mark the anniversary of Erastus Corning’s death last month by showing us what he would look like at age 101. Sure, I give them crap for taking advantage of my generosity, but credit where it’s due. Rex, et al, from the bottom of my heart, thank you for not scaring me half to death first thing in the morning with a front page image of a long-dead political figure that looks like s/he is about to jump off the page, rip open my throat, drink my blood and leave my corpse a hard, flavorless husk like the chunks of ice at the bottom of a slurpee.
Newsweek, Bad Decision of the Week award goes to you for your decision to go with your Black Lantern Princess Di cover. And if you got that last joke, then shut up and give me your lunch money right now, geek.
And kudos to Vanity Fair for providing the best reaction I’ve seen to this whole mess:
He would have been so proud of those boys.
A piece from Tim Schapker's "Mere Mortals," which opens this Friday at the Romaine Brooks Gallery.
Tim Schapker is flying perilously close to the Sun.
At least, that’s what some might say of the artist, whose show “Mere Mortals” opens this Friday at the Romaine Brooks Gallery (top floor of the Pride Center of the Capital Region at 332 Hudson Ave). The show marks a shift in Tim not only as an artist but in his personal and professional life as well, leaving behind a successful graphic design career to pursue his lifelong passion of art.
I was introduced to Tim by Gallery curator and local artist Alan Ilagan during last month’s installment of 1st Friday Albany, where we struck up conversation on a number of topics, mostly focused around his forthcoming show and the focus of his creative pursuits.
Tim’s inspiration for “Mere Mortals” is the tale of Icarus, son of Daedalus, who attempts to escape the isle of Crete using wings constructed by his father. Daedalus warns him not to fly too close to the Sun but Icarus, euphoric from the experience of flight, foregoes and refuses to heed his father’s advice. The wax melts and Icarus, who initially sought only to use the wings as a means of escape, becomes a victim of elation, hubris, and his own ambition.
Naturally, Tim takes issue with the moral of the mythological tale, which led to a conversation about some of the more absurd lessons and elements of ancient mythology. Why does Zeus, the all-powerful King of the Gods, need to disguise himself as a bull to get laid anyway? Tim’s fascination with both the tale and his inability to reconcile its lesson with his own life and personal fulfillment inspired and informed his work on “Mere Mortals,” depicting models as Icarus in mid-flight, sans the restrictive and limited endgame of the original mythos. There are no wings, warnings, or melted wax. There is only Icarus and his ascent.
Tim was kind enough to answer some of my questions about his work and give us a preview of what’s in store for the unveiling of his work on Friday evening.
“Mere Mortals” will be unveiled this Friday at the Romaine Brooks Gallery (332 Hudson Ave., Albany) featuring a reception with the artist from 5:00pm until 9:00pm.
———
KEVIN MARSHALL: What is “Mere Mortals?”
TIM SCHAPKER: Mere mortals are ordinary people. We’re all mere mortals. And yet some of us do extraordinary things. Not because we have special powers, but because we choose to ignore the conventional thinking and the constant voices that say “you can’t, you shouldn’t.” In every image from Mere Mortals, whether the models are flying through the clouds or floating just inches from earth, they are transcending the classification of ordinary and flying, if only for a moment.
Ladies and gentlemen, today is the 10th Anniversary of the release of “Pootie Tang,” the big-screen adaptation of a character from the HBO series “The Chris Rock Show” created by Louis C.K. and portrayed by fellow show writer Lance Crouthers. The concept behind Pootie Tang was simple: he was a guy cool, confident, and assured that he could speak nothing but complete gibberish and everyone around him would either understand him or enthusiastically pretend to be able to. Although Rock himself was unsure of the character, Crouthers’ execution was flawless . The audience took to the character and it quickly became a regular feature on the show.
Pootie Tang even ran for Senate.
When adapted to film, the character was tweaked a bit to include elements of 1970s Blaxploitation films. The movie also featured Chris Rock in various roles along with Wanda Sykes as Biggie Shorty (who isn’t a prostitute just because she “likes to dress fancy and stand on street corners”), Andy Richter, Robert Vaughn, Wire alumnus J.D. Williams (Bodie!) and Reg E. Cathie, and pretty much every stand-up comic working at the time (and some that weren’t). The film was written and directed by Louis C.K., his first and only foray into directing a full-length theatrical film.
The man himself.
The film bombed. Critics derided it as stupid and poorly executed, with some going so far as to say that what was released seemed like the cut of a film that would have been left on the cutting room floor. A lot of the film’s problems were due to Louis C.K.’s inexperience as a director (which he discusses in an interview with The Onion’s AV Club) and Paramount’s re-cutting of the film to include narration that is, as C.K. notes, overly defensive and far too aware of the film’s own inherent quirkiness. So in that sense they were right, however I think much of the initial hesitancy and at times outright hostility towards the film comes from their frustration with not being able to understand some the character’s nuances and especially elements of the culture the film lampooned.
Still, warts and all, I love it.
I remember the first time I saw the film. I had come home from a bar late one night, pretty heavily tied on and dragging another embarrassing episode behind me. Not yet ready to retire for the night and a glutton for further punishment, I got another drink, turned on the television, and was greeted with this film on one of the HBO channels. I couldn’t even fathom what I was watching and had no idea it had even been made, let alone released in theaters. A few weeks later I viewed it with sober eyes and completely fell in love with the film.
There is, I strongly believe, such a thing as smart nonsense. It can be done and executed in a way that’s clever, different, or even just interesting. What worked in the movie is the same thing that worked in the original show, and much of that is due to the earnestness with which Crouthers approaches his portrayal of the character. Pootie Tang speaks gibberish, deflects bullets with his belt buckle, records three minutes of silence in a studio that becomes a hit record, and punishes bad guys by whooping on them with his belt. These aspects all seem ludicrous and ridiculous to everyone, but they aren’t to Pootie.
Most of all, though, I love that moment where you find someone else that loves this film. Perhaps not surprisingly, the first person who accidentally shared this secret with me was my brother, who made a Pootie exclamation in passing and sparked what was at least a ten minute conversation regarding our appreciation of the film. Since then there have been a handful of others with whom I have bonded over our shared love of this film. Ten years later, we still talk in a language that seems all our own but actually belongs to Lance Crouthers, Louis C.K., and the fictional Pootie. And just this morning I saw fellow Times Union (but paid) blogger C.J. Lais mark the milestone himself over at the Movies blog.
Most of the principal figures involved with the project obviously went on to bigger and better things despite the film’s derision amongst industry experts and critics. Crouthers, the film’s star, has spent his time since in writing rooms for television shows such as the 2007 season of “Real Time with Bill Maher,” the acclaimed but short-lived Wanda Sykes vehicle “Wanda Does It,” “Everybody Hates Chris,” and his current stint as a writer for “Lopez Tonight.” With the exception of acting as an occasional warm body in sketches for “Frank TV,” he never acted on-screen again.
And so on this, the 10th Anniversary of Pootie Tang, we hip our hays out loud and stack our dammies in punny town. Sa da tay, Pootie Tang, and ram that bitty on the runnie kind.
More videos and links after the jump.
A three-year-old child from the Pine Hills neighborhood has been missing since approximately 8:30am.
Thankfully, he’s been found. More info here.
Senator Goofball. There you go, Senate staffers. I just created a new nickname for you to use.
Various behind the scenes maneuverings and goings on were unveiled over on the New York Times’ City Room blog, including this little tidbit concerning Greg Ball’s public wishy-washiness over his vote and eventual “no” vote despite the last-minute inclusion of the very same exemptions he publicly stated would allow him to vote for the bill:
It was a brazen request, gay marriage advocates thought.
Senator Greg Ball, a Republican, told them that if he voted to legalize same-sex marriage, he wanted assurances that national Republican leaders would campaign for him.
His top choice: former Vice President Dick Cheney.
The advocates privately chortled. Mr. Cheney had recently had major heart surgery and the possibility that he would travel to New York to endorse a state senator seemed beyond slim.
Mr. Ball, of Putnam County, eventually voted no. But he said he did not regret his request.
“As far as Cheney,” he explained by e-mail, “we suggested the need to have nationally prominent conservatives ready to support moderate Republicans willing to support either civil unions or marriage equality, in tough primaries.
“Hopefully, they listened, because some of these voting yes are going to have a tough re-election fight.”
Amongst Ball’s other choices: George H.W. Bush, Teddy Roosevelt, and Abraham Lincoln.
I kid, of course, but that’s ludricous! Justify it all you want, but Ball looked more than a bit wonky telling same-sex marriage advocates “hey, get me Dick Cheney and you got my vote!” Not to mention the fact that he shouldn’t have openly conceded to the opposition that they were right and that his vote wasn’t a vote of conscience but of political necessity. In fairness to Ball, he’s far from the only Republican that played the “woe is me, I’m so morally conflicted” card when in actuality the only thing weighing on him was politics.
It’s certainly embarrassing, though not nearly as embarrassing as his own planned version of Peter King’s Muslim Radicalization hearings would have been had he not relented after King was basically roasted on a national stage for it.
No, that one’s not a joke. He was planning on having Muslim Radicalization hearings. Greg Ball. The State Senator.
Look, I know State Senators and Assembly members aren’t usually the sharpest knives in the drawer, but what is up with him lately?
STALK ME
