A Puffin, a Hedgehog and a Bunny Discuss: "Top Hat" vs. "Swing Time"

Pete the Puffin: [sings] I'm puttin' on my Top Hat, tyin' up my white tie, brushing off my tails... I don't know why you even bother asking me to comment on this question, you know where I stand!














Fund the Hedgehog: C'mon dude, I'll give you the wacky Deco dreamscapes, but George Stephens was really the only auteur director in the Fred and Ginger series, he had a much greater sensitivity to Rogers as an actress, bringing out her best work, (with the possible exception of Carefree, of course!) and you have to admit the songs and dance numbers are at least as good!














Pete: Well, what do you think?













D.Bunny: ummm...whichever one has "Let's face the music and dance". That's my favorite number, so I guess that would be the best film of the two.













Pete and Fund: You half-wit! That's in Follow the Fleet!














D.Bunny: Oh. Well, I guess this bunny doesn't have a dog in this fight!














Pete and Fund: Oy! Split decision!

Suddenly, Re-Pete, Son of Pete, appears!













Pete: Son! Surely, you can cast the correct deciding vote!








Re-Pete: Sorry dad, I know you're all about the love of the tux, but "Waltz in Swing Time" remains the greatest expression of Hollywood Classicism in dance this young bird has ever seen! It inspires my very moves today!

Well, folks that settles it, Swing Time is declared the winner!

The other stuffed animals have asked me to chorograph them in "The Continental." Maybe...but they've got to finish their location shooting of The Wild Bunch first!

Thanks, Noahie!

I know it's a simple drawing, but he was very eager to give it to me today...and I'm grateful for what love I can get!

Cammie, Kapusta!

Ok, here's a chunklet from the Crazy Mike portion of the novel, written today (mostly), about his reaction after he thinks he's Jesus and gets all his followers killed:

[starts tape recorder. Coughs twice]

I suppose this is to talk about the end of our relationship…

[stops recording. Stares ahead for several hours, then starts recording again]

Life is a series of mistakes, and each mistake, is like a small death. Is entropy a mistake? That would explain a lot. Now if that is true, I suppose we then all go through those, those “stages”, right? Denial, Pissed-off, Acceptance, Grumpy, Sneezy, Doc, Dopey, something like that. Unlike death, we go through these damn stages and still keep living! (Wait – are those things for us, or the dead? I’m never sure) So, if the mistake is large enough, we have to still construct a self that we can live with, a bigger one, so the first thing that loses is memory, than other people who could point out our flaw, and finally reality itself, since it, well, stands in the way of living.

What makes it all worse is sometimes we don’t make a mistake; we see the truth.

In my own life, I would ponder the idea that I was chosen by God for some Really Important Thing, because, well, the idea of that is, er, ah, crazy, but I don’t ponder it because the reality is that knowing that, seeing that, feeling that Divine Truth is what’s made me crazy. And I’m really fine with that, all right? It’s cool. I mean, if God wants my past life, everyone I’ve ever loved, my rational mind, and any hope I might have had for the future, sure, he can have it! I mean, I’m as human as the next guy, it’d have been nice to get something like a Power Ring, or the ability to fly, or something in exchange, but hey, he’s God, so who am I going to complain to if I don’t think he’s being fair?

No, I know the truth – God wants me to stop the Evil. That’s what I call it, anyway, the Evil. I mean, it might not be evil, it just might be misunderstood. Maybe I’m the Evil. I thought about those last two sentences for a couple of minutes, and knew that was just crap. I just include them to let you know that I’ve really given this quite a bit of thought…..See, I know in the most profoundly human way possible – whatever it is I’m fighting must be the Evil because it’s not me! Got that?

It’s what I did with that knowledge that went kerflooy. Not that I’m blaming myself or anything; what did have to go on? Not having passed the aptitude test for “savior”, I looked around for a decent role model. I just couldn’t see myself with the body image of the Buddha, and I don’t that have that crazy atomic mad-on like I was taught Mohammed had, so that pretty much left Jesus, and I thought, well, I could do worse, right? So you go and do the walk-on-water-assemble-followers kind of thing. And you go forth and try to slay that bad ol’ evil. But all that did was get all of the followers killed, and you never really wanted that, now did you? It’s your mistake for thinking you can wear the sandals of William Defoe, and it’s their mistake for thinking you could as well. So I guess I could take myself off the hook by saying that it is their fault for believing in me, but even though that is what my therapist tells me time and time again is what I have to believe, it just doesn’t cut the mustard, the mustard on the Bratwurst of the Soul that I have to spread. The mustard that is, not the soul. ( sigh, I do miss Tony so…)

It was only right of me to go catatonic when I went got caused the deaths of other people, people who had faith in me. [ stops tape. Lies catatonically for hours on floor in their memory. Starts tape. ] Catatonia shows you really care, like a Hallmark card, like chocolates on Valentines Day. Now maybe I was wrong up there a few lines ago to blame people who followed me, but I think about it now after a good nap, and I think that I was correct in my judgement. Why did they need a savior so much that they would follow ME? What were they thinking?
You do kind of hope that they figured that out in the moments before their death, when the lights came on in the home just before it got blown to hell, but hey, I’m a positive person about that sort of thing.. I’m convinced that they were in as much touch with their angry, terrified selves in that moment as was possible. Enough about them, I’m the only one who really matters here. Still, you just can’t get people wasted, even if I’m not to blame, and even if it is really their own fault for being my stupid followers; there has to be some kind of atonement. And karmically atone I did, which we, you know, you and I, have gotten it down to a brilliant shorthand – any job which involves wearing a tie is atonement for some past life transgression. [stops tape] Even Mike knew what self-deceiving bullshit this was.

Then he knew what he had to do. It wasn’t what the Son O’ God Employee Handbook said you were allowed to do, but maybe this is how he was different, his sublime transgressive act, which I guess was just about right; either he’d come back in three days, or all the past accounts would be squared.
Again, how? There were thoughts of guns, one to the side, one in front, “his cross,” but Bob Vila he wasn’t so he couldn’t really set that one up easily. Ropes came to mind, but no matter how hard he tried his rope looked more four-in-hand than noose, so he reasoned he needed a bit of sancta simplisimus and recall those days when he felt that sailors in uniform with corncobs pipes would idly stroll down the street and make for him the things he needed to hang himself. But this didn’t happen either… He tried hanging around the docks. His encounter with drunken sailors didn’t “exactly go as planned,” to quote Mike, which is all he would tell me.

Ah, the oven…1st attempt, oh, yeah, forgot the pilot to the broiler, well…2nd attempt, right got everything squared away…but while lying there, all he could think of was…the smell of farts. And memories of childhood rhymes happened, and things got shut off, and besides Echo and the Bunnymen were playing in the background, and who could go out to that?

Now…what? He knew why he was here, just not how to be here, the day-to-day, one-foot-in-front-of-the-other plodding how, where he’d still have a purpose buried in the detritus of tax forms, and pedicures, and mocha lattes, and more ephemera than one man can stand. This was his cross to bear, being a creature of electricity in a world of wood. He would bring on the pretty in pink heavy horses, and find some way to do what he was supposed to do. He wisely decided not to destroy his terrifically written suicide note, which he passed on to an agent. Said agent sold it as a sitcom pilot, with a bit of re-writing, became a show about 6 people sharing an apartment and their wacky hijinks, which, much to Mike’s annoyance became highly successful and gave him even more of what he didn’t want, money. God may indeed have granted Mike the gift of reviving things from the dead; he just didn’t tell him what.

The job done went elsewhere!

...there ain't much that can be done, as my Helper Monkey has been replaced by a call center in Bangalore!

Is Noahie a good Helper Monkey, asks Fishwah ever so sweetly?

Nope, I guess I gotta write the dern post outta my own cogitatin' cabbage, so I'll put the mental stove on and make some sauerkrauty ideas!

Step 2

...think about posting something longer than this teaser. On the other hand...

Don't touch that dial!

Hey, Cammie, maybe I'll...

Why write when I can bask?

Rather than drone on about myself on this, my birthday, I decided just to share pics of the women I love dearly...

Cammie, of course, looking through a Portal To The Future, I think...


Ah, I see Nicole has brought a present!


Mira, impatiently waits for...? I can't tell...


Hey, Julianne! Whatcha lookin' at?


Sandy, don't get all goofy on me now!


Hmmm...Ginger seems to have a clue...


Scarlett, aren't you going to get ready for the party? Well...maybe nevermind!



And once the ladies have left us? Well, Noahie and I will have fun with just a straw...

I'm Open To Suggestions!

Me Birthday is next Tuesday, the 31st...What I'd like to ask people is what should I do? If it's interesting, I may well do it, and blog it also!

vox populi, vox dei!

Victoria asks, so I'll have a bash!

If you check the loverly (my Dick Van Dyke British!) Sundries blog, she has a great post on this fantastic Egyptian theatre in her neck of the swamp...and in the comments she asks me to come up with other Florida related films.

let's see...

Key Largo, of course
The Cocoanuts, complete with Marxian Florida Land Speculation ("Why a Duck?")
Earl Morris has a cool doc, Vernon, Florida
2 Fast 2 Furious! for the cheese value.
A Florida Enchantment, 1914's answer to Transamerica!
Miami Blues, an odd and funky Alec Baldwin vehicle

Cammie's son, 3 1/2 year old son Noah, gets in a vote for Chicka Chicka Boom Boom, which has nothing to do directly with Florida, but is tropical in spirit I suppose. He would vote for CCBB for greatest Film Noir as well, which shows a loyalty to the script and the director which exceeds the bounds of film criticism, which is a good thing.

All I can think of offhand!

An Early (for me!) Morning post! What does it mean?

I just thought I'd give Cammie something to chew on, as Washington Journal ain't ringin' my bell this morning!

Sometimes I view the Internet like my neighborhood, and I like to start the day by making my "rounds," not unlike walking around downtown to see what's new! The drawback is that you can easily get too locked into certain places, which makes exploring a bit tricky...on the other hand, it's near-inifinite in it's ability to surprise you!

I shall now make more coffee, and seek more cheap thrills...

My moods -- like taxi cabs!

So I stand in the rain and wait for one, but the wrong one comes along, and the next thing I know is that I'm headed downtown, when that's NOT where I wanted to go! So I get out, catch a mood going uptown, but dammit, it's the wrong mood, and not wanting to shoot myself somewhere in the upper 40's, I get out and walk. Can't afford a limo, and the subway? I'm just not ready for the subway of my mind just yet. Could I take the bus? Sure why not? So that works for awhile, but I see just the right mood out the window of the bus, and I stop to try and catch it, no matter where it's going...but I never do. Always in a cab, even if I have no place to go.

The Cars, Like Jewels

Maybe it's me, but don't the cars in films in films from the late '40's to the early '60's look fantastic, better than they do now? I noticed this looking at Liz Taylor's little Sunbeam in Butterfield 8. Then I saw it in Dorothy Malone's Allard in Written on The Wind, and again in Grace Kelly's car (what is it?) in To Catch a Thief. Is it just the women's cars? Do we have to wait to James Bond to get a cool ride for men?

Just thinkin' about it!

Cammie's Coffee defines the Year!

Nothin's going on, which, at this point in the year is how I like it! Yes, so far, it's about the sublime enjoyment of coffee and the pedestrian enjoyment of taco chips.

mmm....coffee....

Ashes and Dogs

My next door neighbor growing up was a woman named Fern, who, of course, I called Aunt Fern. She was a very sweet person, and even her husband Bud, Uncle Bud, was basically a nice guy. Bud didn't talk much, and didn't hang out. What he did was sit on his stoop and watch the world. He wasn't doing anything in particular, but it was important for him to acknowledge those who would pass by, half friendly, half like an MP. As he got older and grayer, he became more and more motionless on that porch to the point of being sphinx-like. He seemed to me like an ash on the tip of the cigar of the world; as long as he stayed still he could seemingly be there forever, but one quick motion and he was gone for good, which, as it turned out was how he left us...

I have many stories of Aunt Fern, but for now I'll relate the happiest. She had a small bay window area that overlooked the backyard, and she filled it with both books and plants. Growing up in very claustrophobic houses where "airflow" was almost a dirty word, a place that you wanted to go to because you could both read and breathe was a better attraction than a roller coaster for me as a kid. Aunt Fern enjoyed having me there, and we would take turns reading her books aloud.

For my birthday one year she got a book that remained a childhood favorite; Man's Best Friend, a National Geographic book on dogs. It didn't have the greatest prose, or the most technical advice about dealing with dogs; what it had were paintings. The dogs in those paintings...they were almost the Platonic Form of their respective breeds, serene as a President on a coin, and always in the best form of presentation. Working dogs working, toys having fun. Those paintings gave the animals a gravitas that mere photos could not; even when you knew the "specifications" of each dog, (height, weight,etc.) the seriousness of their image told you that was the right creature, perfectly aligned with the natural world; having a fistful of factoids about them trivialized their real power. As a child you could also gain love for both the written word and art for this book combined them to give you knowledge, and I knew in my heart how much in love with knowledge I was through simple books like this.

As an adult of course, you know that Truth and Beauty are not necessarily conjoined; but I think you actually have to believe that for a time in your life, just so that when you grant them their divorce in adolescence, your appreciation of them as individuals is that much more mature...

I am depressed...but then I remember...

"I am now the most miserable man living. If what I feel were equally distributed to the whole human family, there would be not one cheerful face on earth. Whether I shall ever be better, I cannot tell. I awfully forebode I shall not. To remain as I am is impossible. I must die or be better it appears to me."
--Abraham Lincoln

Good enough for him; good enough for me.

I don't want to stay depressed; it's just not easy to see the way out. But I will see the way out.

Ennui -- with Ranch

Today was a day to forget -- a bit of wackiness, a cool call from Cammie early in the evening(!), -- hey where's master Noah? -- even in the background he seemed full of energy that could not be contained by the apartment...thus his urge to trash the place..., and a pack of Veronica Mars to watch! Plus Butterfield 8 which, to my surprise, was produced by none other than Pandro S. Berman, the producer of all the Fred and Ginger musicals! I'll be damn! Potato chips...too many were consumed...why eat dinner when a plastic bag is full of BBQ goodness....Potatoes and I, we go way back...

No editing here, consciousness in full stream mode...perhaps I will dream of dancing spuds...Adieu!

Cammie and I worry about Holiday Spending

"Isn't everything just ducky, Cammie, darling?" "Why yes, Ron, every little thing is just wonderful!"

I'll take up Cammie's Challenge!

I am 43% Punk Rock.

Well, I may know what punk is, but... Okay maybe some people think I am punk, but is that enough? Nope.

Take the
Punk Rock Test
@ FualiDotCom

Ah, but that means I'm from Green Day...

All Earthly Blogging is Fleeting

B and S showed up for a brief visit last Sunday. I've known them a long time, and they remind me how much I enjoy long time friends. Even though we haven't seen each other much, due to work things, when we get together you can just leap right in and start swingin' the bat. I think the time of awkwardness for getting back with long time friends is a sort of middling time, a week or two. People do change, in ways that they would notice and adapt to if they were around regularily, but it's a bit of a shock when you see a bunch of small changes over a few days. You get over it, but the that reconnecting time is odd...

Anyway, we went to lunch, (good lunch!) and well, I got off a one liner that broke S up! I mean, it was funny, but she laughed so hard it got me laughing at that! B sat there a bit nonplussed as the lunch conversation was takin' a Saturn V right to the gutter! We pulled it out, but it made my afternoon, and I was going to put it up here. Then I let it go...

Yesterday, I found that S's sister is very ill and may pass away. She has gone to be with her, and I send her deep, long term love and support. So I'm puttin' this up to remind me to catch the blooms when they're fresh, and share them on the blog. You never know how long your blogroll will go on!

Off to that Great Chicken Run in the Sky

With the probable exceptions of Vartina and Diamanda Galas, the tune that has most annoyed my friends over the years is the now late Link Wray's Run Chicken Run. I always that this was unfair; if I ever directed a low-budget Smokey and the Bandit, that would have been my 'chase the moonshiners through the hills' car chase music!

Mr Wray, thanks for so many cool tunes!