THE MANY MOODS OF WESLEY WILLIS

Time and technolgy have conspired to keep me from updating this space much lately. But I have come across an old article I wrote for a defunct Salt Lake City music magazine. I hope you enjoy it.

(First published in Grid Magazine, late 1996)

When I meet Wesley Willis, he is having one of what he calls his “torture hell rides.” Stuttering, twitching, and sometimes punching himself in the face, Willis is hardly a picture of composure. He speaks of his “demon” that calls him a “stupid jerk” and keeps Willis from going on his “joy ride.” The scene is, at first, more than a little disturbing. Long before I arrive at American Recordings offices to interview Willis, I know that this will not be like any other assignment I’ve had.

The “torture hell rides” are not part of some shtick. Willis was brought up in the violent projects of Chicago’s South Side. After being held at gunpoint by a friend of his mother, Willis developed paranoid schizophrenia. That’s when the demons came. “My demon is the one who spoils my joy rides on busses,” says Willis. “From 1990 to 1996, I have had a total of over 18,000 hell city bus rides with demon torment.”

Willis is obsessed with the Chicago bus system. Good and bad emotions are described as they relate to Chicagoland’s public transit. The “hell ride” takes place on city bus (mostly figuratively, sometimes literally) and often involves involuntary swearing and violent outbursts. The “joy ride,” on the other hand, represents Willis’ best mood and, in an ideal world, takes place on the PACE bus. That’s the line that runs into Chicago’s affluent northern suburbs.

To keep the demons away, Willis began composing songs, lots of them. Over 30 albums and thousands of songs during the last six years. Some deal with his demons while others tell simple crime and punishment stories. The vast majority concern rock concerts he has attended. Almost all of them are identical in structure, with the Country 8 rhythm played on a Technics keyboard while Willis shouts/sings his lyrics. Just so you get the idea, here are the lyrics to “Hootie and the Blowfish”:

This band played at the Metro. About 200 people were at the show. The rock show was awesome. It’ whupped the police’s ass.

Hootie and the Blowfish
Hootie and the Blowfish
Hootie and the Blowfish
Hootie and the Blowfish

The band played it on. The band got down as they stormed the stage. The crowd roared like a lion. The jam session whupped the police’s ass.

Hootie and the Blowfish
Hootie and the Blowfish
Hootie and the Blowfish
Hootie and the Blowfish

(two minute synth-chord solo)

The rock show as over at last. A lot of people met the band. The rock show was awesome like Check Express. It was a great rock show at last!

Hootie and the Blowfish
Hootie and the Blowfish
Hootie and the Blowfish
Hootie and the Blowfish

Rock over London, Rock on Chicago. Budweiser are proud to be your bud.

And that’s about it. Willis’ songs are instantly recognizable. Sure, the ad slogan at the end may change, but if you hear a song title shouted four times over a synthesized rhythm, you’re listening to Wesley Willis.

Willis started performing his songs on the streets and selling his intricate pen and marker drawings. Eventually, he started putting out CDs on his own and through indie labels like Alternative Tentacles and Oglio. And now the Warner-backed American Recordings is distributing his music. Apart from earning him some money, Willis’s music has succeeded in subduing the voices in his head. Since he began recording, the number of times he has been hospitalized has dropped dramatically.

Apart from the music therapy, the hell rides are kept to a minimum with the assistance of medication. But Willis is out of medication when I meet him. Seeing I’m in over my head, American Recordings exec Dino Paredes comes into the conference room where Willis and I are sitting. Paredes signed Willis to American earlier this year and the two seem to have a special friendship. Willis speaks to Paredes like a young child would to a father, rifling off a series of questions on subjects ranging from music sales to wind-chill factors at Lake Tahoe.

Paredes’ presence has a calming effect on Willis, but it is still almost impossible to keep Willis on a single topic. After a few minutes, I realize that my prepared questions will be pretty much useless. Willis is much more interested in making another extremely detailed picture of the Chicago skyline. After being convinced by Paredes to put down his markers for a moment, Willis begins telling me about some of his high profile admirers.

Willis: A lot of people like my artwork. A lot of people love the way I do my art.

Paredes: Like who?

Willis: But my demon in my head thinks I’m not anything.

Paredes: But who likes you, Wesley.

Willis: Rick Rubin likes me.

Paredes: Who else likes you?

Willis: Dino likes me.

Paredes: What bands like you?

Willis: Slayer likes me, Mike D likes me, Cracker likes me.

As it turns out, a lot of Bands like Willis. Rumor has it that Foo Fighters frontman Dave Grohl has the lyrics to Willis’ song “Dave Grohl” framed in his office. Jello Biafra, Gavin Rossdale of Bush, and Kato Kaelin (who, technically, is not a band) also count themselves as friends of Willis.

As soon as I learn this, Willis goes back to his drawing. He repeats something about needing to keep his butt busy so the demon won’t take him on a hell ride. He begins speaking in more detail about his demon.

“My demon cusses at me with profanity. My demon says mean and vulgar words at me. My demon makes me beat myself upside my head. My demon makes me bust portable CD players. My demon also makes me cuss at city bus drivers. And when I cuss at city bus drivers all of the time, some of the bus drivers get so sick of my bad mouth that they call the police. And then the police come and get me off the bus. They don’t take me to jail. They know that I am a rock star. But my demon thinks I’m a damn fool…”

Then he repeats the whole story all over again. Willis is a perfectionist. If he mispronounces a word or puts the emphasis on the wrong part of a sentence, he tells me to rewind my tape and starts again from the top.

Willis is also a warehouse of information. When asked about when he played in Salt Lake City, he immediately recites the club name and day of the week that he played. Even though he has put out dozens of albums with as many as 24 songs per, he refers to each of his songs by the album it’s on and the track number, even if he hasn’t recorded it yet. During the course of the interview, he recites the titles for his next three albums and begins listing tracks for some of them.

For a while, Willis performed both as a solo artist, and with a band called The Wesley Willis Fiasco. The Fiasco provided punk backing for Willis’ songs but was a short lived arrangement.

“The Fiasco band broke up because they couldn’t handle my demon hell rides much longer. I made their asses break up,” says Willis. “They they thought I wasn’t going to play a rock and roll show in Toledo, Ohio, I hit my bass player Dave Nooks in the face, and that’s what shut the rock show in Toledo at the Underground down. Then suddenly, my whole band got into a fight. Suddenly, I sat in the chair right in the venue the Underground cracking my ass up.”

Willis begins laughing and Paredes says, “That was a bad hell ride.” Willis continues, “It was a really bad hell ride when the Fiasco band broke up. They broke up in Toledo, Ohio after I shut the rock show down. When Dave Nooks called me up on the state go sing with the band, I was so damn tormented. Suddenly I took my fist and punched him. Suddenly, Dave Nooks picked up a beer bottle and threw it at me. The beer bottle didn’t hit me, the beer bottle broke on the venue floor.”

As Willis’ mood improves, he tells me that some of his songs contain a lot of “evil profanity” because that’s his way of shouting back at his demon. He also tells me of the man who attacked him on bus and left a serious scar on his face. The story of the incident is detailed in the Wesley Willis song, “Now He’s In Jail.”

Later that night, Willis performs in the gallery of the La Luz De Jesus bookstore in Hollywood. He takes the stage early and I miss the opening number. By the time I arrive, Willis is in the middle of a full blown joy ride. No stuttering, no punching, no references to demons. Willis is, however, working the crowd. He makes repeated references to Bob Dole’s defeat in the recent election and suggests that the penalty for losing an election should be, well, something pretty bad. Something so bad that grid wouldn’t publish it even if I included it. Suffice it to say, if Willis’ plan were put into action, people would really think twice before running for office. And bull terriers would become an endangered species.

But the crowd is loving it. Willis invites many from the audience to come up on stage and exchange head butts (his usual form of greeting) with him while shouting “rau.” The head butts are all good and fine, but I get dizzy after about six. Some in the crowd are hardcore Wesley Willis fans and continually shout out the names of their favorite Willis songs. “Play, ‘Don’t Curse in God’s House’” shouts someone behind me. Willis begins playing lounge-sounding intros to his songs.

Then it happens, Wesley actually sings a note. His vocals are usually spoken or shouted, but for two words, Willis actually sings. It happens during his song , “The Posies” and it never happens again after that. Anyone who has heard a Wesley Willis song will think this impossible, but he actually has a good singing voice. Who knew?

After Willis plays several encores, he butts heads with veryone in the audience who will oblige. He also tries (almost always successfully) to sell copies of his CDs to anyone he talks to. Even when rapper and American labelmate Chino XL comes up to say “hi,” the first words out of Willis’ mouth are, “Do you want to buy come of my CDs?”

Chino winds up buying Dr. Wax and Mr. Magoo Goes to Jail, although he realizes the inequity. “Hey, you got all of my stuff for free!” But that’s how things go with Wesley Willis. Everyone pays. From rock stars, to music company execs, to dashing young music writers, they’re all the same to Willis.

I leave the show and head home to puzzle over some personal issues. Why do I like this guy so much? What does an emaciated pasty kid from the suburbs of Rochester, NY have in common with a giant schizophrenic man raised in the projects of Chicago? Later that night, it hits me, it’s the music. Willis literally lives to listen to music, perform music, and write music. Music saved his life. Anyone who has ever been a teenager can understand that

ROMANCING SINGAPORE

I can't believe I've let Romancing Singapore month pass without comment. But February is the shortest month of the year, so these things can happen. So from the archives, allow me to present a newspaper column I wrote on the subject in March 2004...

When Singapore is mentioned in polite conversation, the average, ignorant, non-reader of this column would likely make the following two comments. 1) “That snotty American kid got caned there, right?” 2) “Did you know that gum is illegal in Singapore?” While snotty-American Michael Fey did get several whacks in the butt about a decade ago (not even President Clinton could save him from the cane), gum is now legal, you just have to get it at a pharmacy. If you want to come off as more savvy next time you and your friends are discussing Singapore at a cocktail party, try this: Singapore isn’t romantic. I’ll explain.

Singapore is a city-state on an island at the tip of the Malaysian peninsula. The city is considered one of the cleanest and safest in the world. Some consider the laws and punishments in Singapore a bit cruel. While the government is dressed up like a British parliamentary system, it’s pretty much a dictatorship.

But it’s an odd sort of dictatorship. Imagine if your grumpy Uncle Joe, the one who is always complaining about things and listening to talk radio, ran his own country. Singapore is what his country would be like. “Those stupid j-walkers! They should fine those people $1,000 for being so stupid.” Done. “Have you seen the public toilets lately? As far as I’m concerned, they should have people monitor the public toilets. If anyone doesn’t flush, fine ‘em $1,500! Then they’ll pay attention.” No problem. “Drug problem? I’ll solve your drug problem! If you got drugs, you should get killed. There, no drug problem.” Done.

Amazingly enough, most of these policies work. I spent about a week in Singapore last month and didn’t encounter one jay-walker, unflushed toilet, or drug dealer. I also didn’t see anyone peeing in the elevators. Singapore has cameras in their elevators to keep such a thing from happening. (I guess not every country can keep their elevators urine-free on the honor system.) The government has gone to great trouble to make their country clean, modern, and efficient. But romance is another matter. It’s not a very romantic place, and now it’s affecting the birthrate.

Singapore’s birthrate has plummeted in the last few years. As a matter of fact, most industrialized nations don’t have a birthrate sufficient to replace the population that dies each year. The notable exception to this is America, and we have our plucky teenagers to thank for that (way to go, kids!)

But Singapore is not the kind of country to take a problem like this lying down. They’ve offered cash incentives to couples to have kids, something on the order of $40,000 for the second child. But that didn’t seem to help. So Singapore decided to work on the romance problem the only way they knew how: by starting another government program.

Romancing Singapore 2004 is designed to send citizens the message that “Love is in the little things.” To make the city more romantic, the government has designed a new fragrance and is sponsoring events throughout the city. The events range from tango lessons to mass marriages. There’s even a jingle. In a rare act of journalism, I actually downloaded the song from Romancing Singapore’s web site. The song is, well, what you might expect if your grumpy Uncle Joe were asked to write a hip-hop song to make the kids feel romantic. It is, quite likely, the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.

Dumb or not, the real question is if it will make reserved Singaporeans any more randy. I honestly doubt it. If you ask me, the government isn’t really serious about increasing the country’s birthrate. If Singapore really wanted people making babies, they’d simply pump Barry White music into every citizen’s home. The problem would solve itself in about nine months.

UPDATE: The government has turned over control of the website to a private company, but still pumps a lot of public money into the project. Alas, the 2004 jingle has long since been pulled. Oh well, I guess you had to be there.

The Singapore skyline photo can be found on this Flikr photostream.

THUG LIFE IN PINK

First published in the Daily Sundial, March 29, 2004

It is clear from recent headlines that the gang problem in Los Angeles has gotten completely out of hand. And when I say Los Angeles I mean, of course, Orange County. What else can you make of the recent news from Newport Beach? Six boys at Ensign Middle School were banned from appearing in a class photo because they were wearing pink. School officials were concerned the color might be associated with gang-related activities.

So pink is now a gang color? And not just pink, mind you, students called the color “Easter pink.” If I’m not mistaken, “Easter pink” is a pastel. Gangs, for the most part, try to project a tough, even menacing image. If today’s gangs are trying to achieve this by using pink, it is clear every other color on the palate has been taken. That means, somewhere out there, you can probably find the “Pacoima Periwinkle Posse” the “Torrance Terra Cotta Terrorists” and the “Eastside Eggshell Mobstaz.” Obviously flax, snow pea, oyster, geranium, sunwash, canal blue, watermelon, stone, mocha, tinted aqua, robin’s egg blue, willow, and off-white* were also taken by other street hooligans.

To be fair, finding a good gang color has been tough for some time. As early as the 1980s, the Bloods and Crips had locked up two thirds of the primary colors. Sure they made peace, but they didn’t put red and blue back into the rotation for new, up and coming gangs to pick. So now that all the solid colors have been taken, what are the new thugz to do? Madras plaids are probably the direction you’ll see things go. By adding several colors and patterns, the combinations could be endless. Perhaps this is how tartans got started in Scotland. If the madras trend plays out, America could face the ugly sight of elderly people being attacked for their vacation-wear.

But what of this gang in pink? Just what are they up to? I asked a few friends and I got no suggestions more helpful than, “Well, maybe they work at Fredrick’s of Hollywood.” That was so absurd, it didn’t merit consideration. These are gangsters; they’re not going to be selling lingerie. The real answer is much more obvious: they’re selling Mary Kay cosmetics. Mary Kay sells cosmetics through direct and multi-level marketing. If you sell a lot of Mary Kay product, the company will give you a pink Cadillac. Perhaps Easter pink?

These ingenious Orange County gangsters have mixed mob thuggery with multi-level marketing, and it is obviously a potent combination. They’ve got the Newport-Mesa Unified School District running scared. Perhaps the school principal had been forced to buy cases of lip gloss under fear of violence. I’m sure that fear is real. I’ve compiled a brief history of how the Newport Mary Kay Gang, also known as “The K-G,” rose to power. It is, indeed, a frightful saga.

1996: A band of ambitious pink-clad teens begins selling Mary Kay cosmetics. Within months, they began moving into the turf of the Mission Viejo Melaleuca Madmen, a small-time posse dealing vitamins and facial scrubs. The Melaleuca’s fold quickly and later form a local chapter of the Young Republicans.

1998: Through a combination of terror and makeovers, the K-G control most of the direct-market cosmetic traffic in Orange County. Every K-G member is awarded a pink Cadillac. The day the cars are delivered, the K-G unleash a vicious wave of drive-by shootings directed at the region’s last surviving Avon ladies.

1999: With their new mobility, the K-G expand northward, taking down the Gardena Tupperware Crew. The T-Cs leader is found dead with a mascara stick in mouth. His rouge also didn’t complement his eye-shadow. This deliberate humiliation put L A County’s gangs on notice: mess with the Newport Mary Kay Gang at your peril.

2000: Nothing happened. Y2K bug, whatnot.

2001: K-Gs took on the Westside Amway Gangstaz, one of the most powerful multi-level marketing gangs the city had ever known. The Amways were known for their wide array of cleaning products and their almost fanatical devotion to the gang, kind of like Scientologists, but with drain-cleaner. Many gallons of fake-Windex were spilled on the streets of Inglewood during the violent battle. The K-Gs emerge from the battle victorious. Their power is unchallenged in all of Southern California.

2002: The administrators at Ensign Middle School notice some of their students are dressing and acting in an unusual manner. For instance they’ve been in middle school for six years.

2003: A staff meeting is called to discuss the problem.

2004: After much deliberation, members of the Newport Mary Kay Gang are denied a place in their 8th grade photo. Ryan Seacrest gets involved. Being in a gang seems pretty lame after being defended by the host of American Idol. The K-Gs soon disband. Some begin selling herbal Viagra over the internet.

*All these colors were taken from this month’s J. Jill catalog.

HUMAN INTERACTION IN VENICE

I was going through some old magazines when I stumbled upon this rare (for me) foray into the world of serious writing that was published about 9 years ago. I was actually an email that I sent to some friends after the event in question. It got forwarded around and eventually it got sent to the editor of a magazine, who asked if he could publish it. I said he could.

With a few grammar edits, the piece is unchanged from the original email. The only thing the editors altered was the title. I gave it the title you see above as a reference to the David Mamet play "Sexual Perversity in Chicago." I've never seen the play, nor have I seen the movie they made out of it, so I don't know why I chose the title.

Of course, the editors chose a title that was even more obscure to me. Anyway, enjoy, and I promise I'll write something funny later this week.

The Urban Samaritan: Being and Nothingness
Published March 1998, Sunstone Magazine

In order to fully explain this story, I need to tell another one. About six years ago, just south of my hometown of Rochester, New York, two football players from a local college saw a woman trying to get help at the roadside. They pulled over, got out of their truck, and asked what the problem was. Seconds later, a man jumped out of the bushes and shot each of the football players three times. The man drove off in the football player’s truck, and the woman drove off in the car she said was broken. I read the story later in the newspaper and was, of course, appalled.

But now I’m in Los Angeles—Venice, actually. It’s not the nastiest part of town, but it’s not all that nice either. That’s actually one of the cool things about it.

So I’m off to Hollywood to see the new Parker Posey movie I’ve been dying to see for a long time, but I have to go to the ATM first. It’s after dark, so I drive to an ATM not too far from my house, near the Coast Highway. Across the street from the ATM is a red van with drapes in the window. I park behind it, and an old, somewhat grungy-looking man walks up to my car. He asks me to roll down my window, and I inch it down just a hair.

“Do you have jumper cables?” he asks.

Without thinking, I answer, “Yeah!” because I do.

“Good, I need a jump. My battery is dead.”

I pull my car around to the front of his and realize just how stupid I had been. What was I thinking? This could be any nut, or a killer, or a mugger, or a carjacker, or someone like that. I get out of my car, open my trunk, and look down at my jumper cables.

“Dude, I guess my cables are at home. I was using them for something else, and I forgot to put them back in my car. Sorry, man.”

I drive across the street to use the ATM while the man tries to flag down other drivers. With my money in hand, I scoot back into my car and drive off.

And I feel like crap. I had just lied to a guy and left him stranded on the street. While staring at my jumper cables, I told him they weren’t there. I run through all the questions in my head. What would he have done to me? Would I have helped him if he was a white guy? (he wasn’t) How much danger was I in? How awful a person had I become where I wouldn’t help somebody who was in trouble?

I pull over, take the jumper cables out of my trunk, and put them on the passenger seat. I want to make it look as if I had gone home and found them. Still nervous I drive around the block a few times before heading back to the street with the ATM. And the guy’s still there, trying to get a jump. I pull up next to him, hold up the cables, and yell, “Behold, yon cables!”

“Thanks. You know, most people are just too scared to even help,” he says.

I shrug and give a big sigh. Then his friend comes over. When I was doing my risk vs. morals math, I had only factored in one guy. Now there are two. The second guy is younger, and bigger. He just sort of stands behind the older guy and looks at me. Absolutely positive that I’m going to be on the front page of tomorrow’s LA Times, I hand them the cables.

“Can you come over here and help us?” asks the younger guy. “We don’t want to blow anything up.”

Trying to conceal the sweat that is now forming on my forehead, I quickly attach the cables to my battery. Fifteen seconds later, the van is running. They thank me and I throw my stuff back into my car and drive away quickly.

And I’m still wired and upset from the adrenaline that is now coursing through my veins. And I’m upset by how upset I am over the incident. And I’m upset that I’ve been taught to fear the people around me. And I’m upset that fearing the people around me is basically a good idea and pretty much essential for survival in a big city.

And I turn up the radio as loud as it will go. And I keep telling myself, “You are not a liar. You are not a bigot. You are not dead to the suffering of others.”

And in a few weeks I may believe that again.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU, IRAQ WAR!

First off, apologies for neglecting this space for the past two weeks. My schedule hasn’t permitted much writing lately, but there is “product in the pipeline” as the “industry types” “say.” For now, I offer up something I wrote on the eve of the Iraq war. I was in Washington DC interning at CNN when the war started. (At the time, I didn’t want to name the organization, for obvious reasons.)

With the war’s birthday just past, it seems a good time to revisit.

Originally printed March 12, 2003

Well, it’s final, we’re going to war. Technically, it’s not really final. The United Nations will do some voting and the French will stomp their feet and the protesters will do some marching, but it’s really a moot point. We’re going to war.

If you saw President Bush’s press conference last Thursday, he said the final decision had not yet been made about military action against Iraq. But he smirked every time he said it, so you knew he was lying. The decision has been made, the troops are in place, the news stations have their cameras in the best locations. We’re going to war.

At Unnamed News Organization (hereafter referred to as UNO), the 24-hour news channel where I’m interning, we’re in full war mode. After Thursday’s presidential news conference, (in which the Washington Post described Bush as appearing “medicated”), several UNO reporters were informed they were leaving for Kuwait. Plans were unveiled for elongated work schedules once the war begins. Somewhere, someone was composing the theme song for the new war.

Those who are to remain in Washington have been issued protective suits in case of chemical attack. We interns were not issued protective suits; we perform the important “canary in the coal mine” function. If the interns keep dropping dead, the reporters know it’s not safe to take off the chemical suits.

People in the newsroom disagree about just when the war will start. The U.N. vote on the second resolution is on March 17, and most expect the war will start shortly after that. A few reporters think the United States will try to “shock and awe” Iraq by striking a day or so before March 17. One guy actually thinks we’re just posturing and we’re not going to war at all. UNO is putting him on a plane to Kuwait next week.

Those of us in the prestigious UNO intern corps are divided about the war. Most interns at UNO are the kind of bleeding-heart lefty peaceniks you’d expect to find in journalism. As you can imagine, most of us oppose the war. But there’s one catch: Being a news intern during a war looks great on your resume, so we all have something to gain by the U.S. going to war. That’s right, if our government kills thousands of people on the other side of the world, it will help us advance professionally.

This, I’m learning, is one of the great dilemmas of journalism. The worse things are, the better your job is. When there is relative peace and there’s not much going on, journalists have to do stories on stupid things like El Nino or what the president does with his cigars. Journalists make their reputations covering war, disasters, and mass murders. The worse the story, the better it is professionally for the journalist, assuming the story doesn’t personally affect the reporter.

So the march to war is on, and the careers of many journalists may be made or ruined by what happens in the next month. Back in the UNO newsroom, we’re taking bets on what the war will be called. Some think it will be called the “Iraq War,” while others figure the war will spread and be named the “Middle East War.” I nose into the debate by saying it will be called “Gulf War II: Electric Boogaloo.”

After everyone stops laughing at that hilarious joke I’ve told 1,000 times before, someone offers another possible name: World War III.

We all get uncomfortable and go back to our desks.

REACHING FAR BACK

First off, the mob has spoken. Picture two is the clear favorite, and will go out with our (now late) Christmas cards. If you think you might not be on our Christmas card list, get me your address.

Second, the rigors of the holidays, work, and a nasty cold have severely curtailed my blogging time over the past week. I'll post more new stuff, soon. Until then, I came across something I wrote while still living in LA, and I was a bit amused by it, and I hope you will be, too. Some of the references are a bit dated, but, well, it's better than nothing.

Now I'm going to drink a whole bottle of NyQuil.

First published in the Northridge Daily Sundial, October, 2003:

If you’ve lived in Los Angeles more than ten minutes, you know that it is a complete cultural wasteland. While sophisticated New Yorkers take pride in their long tradition of world-class theater, music, architecture, and art, we’re lucky if we can produce an episode of “Everybody Loves Raymond” that’s actually funny. And then there’s Europe. They’re way ahead of us, although it’s really not fair to compare our scene to theirs. After all, they had a 1,000 year head start.

There is reason to believe things are changing. First, Arnold Schwarzenegger will be our governor next month, and his absence on the movie scene for the next three years can’t help but improve LA’s cultural output. But that alone won’t allow us to catch up with places like France with their 35 hour work week, café culture, and state funded arts programs. We are becoming more sophisticated, however. Observe the three following developments: 1) Workers at Southern California’s three major supermarket chains are on strike and there’s no reason to believe it will end any time soon. 2) MTA mechanics are also striking and have effectively shut down the region’s public transportation system. 3) Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Deputies, prohibited by law from going on strike, are coming down with cases of the “blue flu.” Deputies in certain positions have been calling in sick and disrupting work in many courthouses around the county.

Culture mavens like me see this as a deliberate move toward the French way of life. One of France’s most enduring images, behind that of the Eiffel Tower at night and the street mime, is the striker. Every summer, one can turn on the news and be treated to pictures of Frenchies sitting on the mighty A1 freeway outside of Paris. They’re eating baguettes and drinking wine having what looks like a merry time. They can’t go anywhere because striking truck drivers have blocked all major streets going into town. Apart from having a tasty lunch on the roadside, these stranded travelers are obviously writing plays and novels and poems and designing nifty new buildings and otherwise adding to their country’s rich cultural heritage. This type of creative output only comes when large portions of the population have nothing much to do.

Despite the strikes here in LA, I have yet to see anyone sitting on the side of the 405 chewing on an In-N-Out burger while composing haikus about the Screen Actor’s Guild. Clearly we are not up to French standards yet but, again, they’ve had a lot more time to get their act together. France is on the cutting edge of strike technology. They’ve developed something called a “general strike” where everybody stops doing everything. It’s not clear exactly why they stop working, but there certainly must be a reason.

I’ve even heard a story where the unemployed in France went on strike. This action raises several vexing questions. First, how does an unemployed person stop working? What do you stop doing? Do you stop not working and begin doing somebody else’s job? Also, what type of bargaining power does an unemployed person have? Sure, people care if a striking worker doesn’t pick up their garbage, but do they care if someone has stopped being unemployed? Is there an unemployed union in France? The most amazing part of the story is that the unemployed people apparently succeeded in their strike and exacted concessions from the French government including the 35 hour work week.

It may be some time before we reach that level, but I think the workers of Los Angeles have made a good start. Might I suggest a few other workers who could (please?) leave their posts for a week or so. CSUN staff and faculty (wouldn’t it be nice to have a “fall break?”), CSUN parking enforcement (just because), John Ashcroft, and whoever came up with the idea for “The Next Joe Millionare.” I hope to join you all dining on the side of a local freeway soon.

Sonogram? Sono-sham!

First published: April 23, 2003

A friend of mine just announced he and his wife will be having a baby several months from now. Actually, she'll be having the baby, he'll just watch. Because these people are clever and tech savvy, they sent the announcement in the form of an audio file emailed to all their friends.

When you (well, me really) open the file you hear, well, nothing. Not really nothing, it sounded kind of like static recororded from a quasar billions of light years away. Some people who listened to it thought their computers were broken. Other people, however, didn't hear static, but a baby's heartbeat. These people were, not surprisingly, parents.

Modern medicine has brought us many wonderful things, laughing gas comes to mind. Occasionally, however, they just make up medical procedures for people who are vulnerable. And who's more vulnerable than a pregnant person? A guy in a coma, that's who. People who are in comas aren't all that funny, though, so we'll go back to making fun of pregnant people.

Pregnant people are vulnerable because their hormones are so far out of whack. Because of this, they'll do just about anything. Those pregnant people, they'll eat pickles with ice cream, they'll cry when they see a really good dry cleaning coupon in the newspaper, they'll even watch Paulie Shore movies. They're capable of just about anything, even producing another human being out of materials they already have inside their bodies.

Doctors are hip to the erratic and, dare I say, suggestible nature of pregnant people and are ready to cash in. They offer to sell parents-to-be an audio tape and photo of their child, before he/she/other is even born.

They call the procedure "ultrasound" and "sonogram." Both procedures are complete shams. Anyone (who isn't pregnant) who sees an ultrasound photo can figure it out. An ultrasound is basically a photo of what is known in the television world as a "snow pattern." A snow pattern occurs when a TV can't pick up a signal. In other words, it's static.

When a normal person sees static on a TV, they either change the channel or make threatening calls to their cable provider. When pregnant people see static on a TV, they see a baby. This is not uncommon. If you hold up any object in front of a pregnant person (an apple, for example) and ask them to identify it, they will invariably say, "That’s a baby, a baby!" This is a good test if you're curious to see if your friend is really pregnant or just trying to make up excuses for sudden weight gain

Pregnant people love these photos and love showing them to their friends. They'll hand you this photo of, well, nothing and say, "Look at the photo of our baby!" You'll look at it for a few moments, hoping that an image will appear if you stare at it hard enough, sort of like those "magic eye" pictures. After a while, you get the sinking feeling that comes from knowing a friend of yours just paid $300 for what is essentially an electronic ink blot.

This is a tragedy that is replaying itself daily across this nation, but I'd rather light a candle than curse the darkness. Many of you reading this will one day be pregnant, perhaps even on purpose, and I'm willing to do my part to help you during that trying time.

Instead of getting an ultrasound for $300, send me $50 and I'll send you a video tape I made when the antenna broke on my TV a few years ago. It's mostly static, but sometimes you can make out figures of people deep in the background, perhaps even Sienfeld. You can show it to your friends and tell them it's a video of your new child. Don't worry, your insurance will cover this.

ONE FROM THE ARCHIVES

Today I read that several nations are interested in sending people to the moon. Two years ago, operatives from the Bush administration said the president was going to announce a new moon mission as part of the '04 campaign. As it turns out, it never became at major plank of Bush's reelection campaign, but he managed to get a second term anyway.

But before any of that happened, I wrote a column for the Daily Sundial on the subject. When it hit print, some guy wrote me a letter saying I was a part of an evil cabal that included the New York Times and Michael Moore. In honor of that writer, I offer this piece from the archives...

"BUSH DARES US TO GO TO THE MOON... AND BELOW!"
(January 24, 2004)

It’s campaign season again, and that means it’s time for our leaders and perspective leaders to wow us with their deep thinking and stirring vision of the future. Candidates generally do this by standing in front of large banners that say things like “A Reformer With Results,” or “Patriotism and Pride,” or “Keeping it Real in the USA,” or even “Reforming Patriotism Resulting in Real Pride.”

Things are much better if you’re actually the president while campaigning. First off, you can stand in front of banners that say things like “I’m in Charge of Everything!” Who’s going to argue with that? You also get to fly around on Air Force One, preempt television programs for your speeches to Congress, and fire missiles at things.

Best of all, you have access to trillions of pretend dollars and you can make up fun ways to spend them. President Bush’s latest proposal to spend money and inspire people involves (wait for it) putting a man on the moon.

The president’s moon proposal is a bold and forward-thinking initiative. It will likely be embraced by the American public. I have reason to believe the president will go even further once his campaign really starts going. Through my extensive Washington contacts, I have been able to obtain a copy of a speech President Bush plans to give in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania late next month. Remember, you saw it first in the Sundial.

“My fellow Americans, our nation stands at a crossroads unprecedented in our history. Our economy is in distress, the cost of healthcare is spiraling upwards, our government is running substantial deficits, and international terrorism continues to threaten our borders. Many Americans are sharply divided on how to solve our country’s problems. As I mentioned last month, I believe we should go to the moon. But my vision for the future goes further than the moon.”

(look away from teleprompter, smirk if necessary)

“Tomorrow I will submit to congress a proposal to send a man across the Atlantic Ocean, in an airplane, by himself. The time has come for transatlantic manned flight. As a nation, we have come together to accomplish many great things. With hard work, sacrifice, and billions of dollars, we can do it again. I will devote sufficient resources to ensure we reach our goal by 2006. My administration will immediately begin a national search to find the hero who will pilot the new plane. The vice president will vet all the candidates. At the end of the search, the vice president will select himself to pilot the plane.”

(give the audience time to get joke, nod head to prompt audience if necessary, if all else fails, smirk)

“After we succeed at transatlantic flight, I propose we build a hot air balloon and circumnavigate the globe in 80 days. Man has always dreamed of one day floating through the skies, lighter than air. I believe we can develop the technology to make that dream a reality by 2007. The captain of the balloon will be able to bring back stories of exotic and savage lands far beyond our borders.”

(wait for applause, think about making “tiger claw” gesture to suggest exotic animals that may be found during the balloon tour)

“I have saved my grandest vision for the final year of my second term that Karl Rove has assured me I will get. America, it is time we explore the Louisiana Purchase. This vast tract of land is key to our country’s future. If we can discover a water route to the Pacific, we may be able to establish an efficient trade route to India. They have spices there, and we’d like some. In 2008, I will set aside 400 billion dollars to build a canoe and stock it with provisions. Two explorers will pick up a ‘native’ guide and explore the waterways of our new territory. The narratives and pencil sketches the explorers produce will inspire us all for generations to come!

“Now is the time, America! Seize your destiny!”

(smile, raise fist into air)

“Resist the Stamp Act!”

(wave, smirk, repeat)