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[California Seething] Noir Springs

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NOTE: I started this post in Palm Springs on vacation a couple of weeks ago and am just finishing it now. In case you’re wondering what took so long, here is a picture of the Kirk Douglas Theatre filled with 3,000 boxes. Draw your own conclusions.

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Greetings from beautiful Palm Springs! Sure, I know it may seem counter-intuitive to live in LA and vacation in Palm Springs in August, particularly when LA is in the midst of a ball chafing heatwave and I’ve been whining like a Republican about the heat every time I go east of La Brea. Note for Republicans- saying “Black Lives Matter” Cal Seething- 090715- whitelivesdoes not constitute whining- petulantly insisting that “All Lives Matter” does. Look- I’m a 42 year old white man- I’m totally aware of how much my life matters. If anything, I’m a little embarrassed by it. I can walk into a police station and take a crap on the floor and the desk sergeant will apologize cause they don’t have Charmin. I get followed around stores, but only when they’re recruiting for management positions. Cab drivers slow down when I walk by, just in case. My FICO score is “Honky”. Cameron Crowe just cast me in his remake of The Joy Luck Club- to play EVERY SINGLE PART. I’m good. I get it. I TOTALLY FUCKING COMPLETELY MATTER. Now can we please move on to the more pressing issue of black people being murdered by asshole racist cops? Cause THAT’S the only thing here that really fucking matters.

So yeah, while I certainly don’t whine about how my life matters, I have been known to whine about the heat in LA, which makes it all the more mystifying that I chose to vacation in Palm Springs. It’s like living in Albany and wintering in Buffalo. But- hey, wait a second- people who live in cold climates spend their winters in even colder places all the time. Hell, my grandparents lived in upstate New York and spent much of the winters at their place in Cal Seething- 090715- bernieVermont- and we all know Vermont is only known for three things: Bernie Sanders, heroin and SNOW (also, Ben & Jerry’s, which is a hodge-podge of the three). Why would they do that? Wasn’t there enough snow for them in Albany? Were they just dumb?

Of course not- they did it because they wanted to ski (my grandfather did anyhow). They went to a place even colder than the one they lived in so they could perform a seasonal activity which they enjoyed. And it’s the same with me! I go to Palm Springs in August so I can float in the pool, drink gin & tonics and watch a Murder, She Wrote marathon on Hallmark Movies & Mysteries channel in air conditioned comfort. My favorite summer sports! And so much safer Cal Seething- 090715- sonnythan skiing. Look at Sonny Bono. See- look- he’s right over there! Hi Sonny! Anyhow, Bono was mayor of Palm Springs for four years and the worst thing that happened to him is that he ended up with a statue of himself on a park bench so tourists could take selfies. But he goes skiing once and BLAMMO runs into a tree and he’s dead as a Kennedy.

Gotta hand it to him for being the mayor of this town, though- that sounds like it takes a lot of effort and the sun here is a sledgehammer. It beats you flat like a piece of veal and roasts the ambition right out of you. I guess he was the only one willing to get out of the pool long enough to show up for City Council meetings. Me, I’d rather float on my back, stare up at the palm trees and contemplate film noir.

Palm Springs actually makes the perfect place to pontificate about film noir. Not only are film noir and Palm Springs both by-products of mid-century America, they both benefited greatly from the old studio system. After all, the same contracts which compelled actors and film-makers to churn out all those noir classics also required them to remain within a two hour drive of Los Angeles, in case they were needed suddenly back in Hollywood (or, let’s keep it real here, Culver City). And so a glamorous little resort town was born in the middle of the desert, a quick two hour drive from the studios (good thing traffic was better back then, or we’d be vacationing in Glendale today.) And the town that was created is the perfect embodiment of everything noir was reacting to. Row after row of one story houses- low slung and angular, sleek and Cal Seething- 090715- butterflyunburdened by history- like shiny new toasters lined up on the shelf of some long gone department store, just waiting for housewives to snatch them up in a desperate bid to outdo each other. And every house is complete with a shimmering blue David Hockney pool in the backyard, hard-bodied young divers and unspoken implications included.

It’s not an ostentatious place- just a place quietly confident of the permanence of its own improbable existence. A car in every driveway, a lawn for every house, a house for every family – plenty of oil, plenty of water, plenty of land- the finish line in the pursuit of happiness. Quiet, comfortable, climate controlled and cool- it’s the epitome of illusory American greatness during the brief pinnacle of our brief history. Hell, even the names of the neighborhoods simply drip with casual mid-century Hollywood glamour likeCal Seething- 090715- moviecolony a long string of perfect pearls– the Movie Colony, the Racquet Club. OK, well, just those two- but still!

And so, even though I’ve done no research on the subject and am much too lazy to do any, I can easily imagine the great noir screenwriters and film-makers sitting by the pool here and giving life to their darkest fantasies. Hell, I know every time I walk the dog through the silent streets and look over the neat little rows of perfect square houses to the towering mountains beyond I think- “man- what an awesome place for a murder!” OK, well sometimes I think “Seriously, Punky? You’ve got to poop now- right when we’re in the middle of crossing the street- you can’t hold it til you get to the other side?? Ooooh, you’re lucky you’re cute” or “Holy crap, Punky- that bicyclist is like three blocks Cal-Seething--100714--punkyaway WHY IN THE NAME OF GOD ARE YOU LOSING YOUR SHIT OVER IT????? Oooooh, you’re lucky you’re so cute”- but a lot of the time I think “man- what an awesome place for a murder!” Maybe it’s cause there’s never anyone around- just row after row of angular houses with closed doors. Blinds pulled tight to keep the sun’s heat out and the secrets in (eh? eh? pretty mysterious right??) A hot wind listlessly stirs the fronds on tall palm trees like slowly melting ice cubes in a pool-side vodka tonic. The only sounds I hear are the panting of the dog, the soft thump of my sneakers on the sidewalk and the screaming of the cicadas in the trees. Like a restless crowd in a play with no dialogue of its own, they continuously emit a relentless high pitched drone which scratches at my ears like a thousand tiny fingers. A million million hidden insects screeching out the unspoken anxieties of a quiet desert town. Or, you know, that’s what it sounds like to me- it’s probably some kind of mating call or their way of saying “shit, man- it’s hot as fuuuuuuck out here.” I don’t really know for sure, and I’m way too lazy to research it. That would take effort and ambition, and, as you know, it’s hot as fuuuuck out here.

Then again, it doesn’t matter what the cicadas are actually trying to say, because, just like film noir, perception is the important thing. Oh and- did I just transform a rationalization for my totally half assed effort into a perfect segue? You bet, I did! I didn’t get to be the second laziest B+ student to ever graduate from the University at Albany (right behind Steve Gutenberg) without picking up a few tricks. Gutenberg, sadly is also the most famous alumnus of the University of Albany. I know,right? We couldn’t even get Tackleberry!Cal Seething- 090715- tackleberry

But back to film noir, one of the great things is how the characters are most frequently undone not by the law or the mob but by their own twisted perception of the world they live in. And so, much like Republican women, they make terrible choices contrary to their own self interest, because of their warped perception of reality. Oh, I’m sorry- does the use of “Republican women” in that sentence offend you? In that case- please feel free to substitute: Black Republicans, Latino Republicans, Asian Republicans, Any Republicans not born in the United States, Gay Republicans, Transgender Republicans, Poor Republicans, Working Class Republicans, Middle Class Republicans, Young Republicans, Old Republicans, Middle-Aged Republicans, Republicans Currently Serving in the Military, Republicans Who Used to Serve in the Military, and Republicans whose Republican Family Members Went Off to Serve in the Military and Never Came Home Again. Pretty much the only two Republicans who are actually voting in a way that’s consistent with their own self interest are Charles and David Koch. Hell, even Cal Seething- 090715- trumpmexicoDonald Trump is voting against his self interest- I mean, sure he talks big about building a wall, but all of his suits and most of his employees are made in Mexico.

But hey, that’s America for you- always shooting off our nose to spite our face with 1000 rounds of armor piercing ammo delivered for free thanks to Amazon Prime. And, much like the American people, the men & women of noir are their own worse enemies- and in no film is this more evident than Nicholas Ray’s quiet masterpiece In A Lonely Place. Humphrey Bogart plays screenwriter Dixon Steele (real name Davidovich Steimtasky). He used to be pretty successful, but that was before the war. Ever since coming back- he hasn’t quite been the same. Maybe something was unleashed on the battlefield that he couldn’t quite figure out how to shove into the two car garage of a suburban tract home. Now he can’t focus like he used to, lacks empathy, is prone to violent outbursts and, worst of Cal Seething- 090715- bogartall, his movies lose money –to this day the only truly unforgivable crime in Hollywood.

Anyhow, late one night, Dixon brings a young coat check girl back to his Beverly Hills patio apartment – and no- not to have sleazy Josh Duggar sex with her. (Bill Cosby would also be an acceptable reference there. Jared Fogle would not. That prick got off too easy- if we really wanted to punish him, we’d make him keep eating Subway. Hell, he probably just pled guilty so quickly to finally make it stop. I know how he feels. I once had Subway for lunch for two weeks straight and I was one BMT away from being the Zodiac Killer.) Anyhow- like I said- he doesn’t want to do anything dirty- just for her to give him an oral….report (I said nothing dirty!) on a book that he loaned her, since he’s too lazy to read the book himself and has a meeting in the morning to discuss adapting it for a screenplay. This may seem strange to some of our younger readers, but you have to remember that before Wikipedia, if you were too lazy to read a book, it was quite common to bring home random restaurant employees to summarize it for you. Hell, I never would have passed Abnormal Psych if that friendly bus boy from Ground Round hadn’t broken down the textbook for me. At any rate, the coat check girl turns up dead the next day (same thing happened to my bus boy. Ahh Pablo, when I close my eyes, I can still hear you explaining schizophrenia), Dixon is a natural suspect, and the only person who can vouch for his whereabouts during the time the murder was committed is Laurel Grey (Gloria Grahame) his beautiful and mysterious neighbor who lives across the courtyard, and saw Dixon from her apartment as he sent the coat check girl on her way.

Anyhow- Laurel and Dixon fall in love, but the detectives investigating the murder still suspect Dixon and they plant seeds of suspicion in Laurel’s mind. Dixon pours a giant can of water on these seeds with his violent temper and crazy pants behavior and causes them to flower into great big blossoms of doubt (is it me or did this get weirdly Cal Seething- 090715-bogartandgrahmehorticultural all of a sudden?)

Anyhow- I don’t want to give away what happens in the end- but, come on, it’s a film noir called In A Lonely Place- so…you know…it’s not good. Her distrust leads to fear, fear leads to deception, her deception fuels his rage, his rage unleashes violence. By the time she actually finds out if Steele is guilty or innocent of murder, it’s too late- their future together is as dead as the coat check girl (or a doe eyed bus boy with a preternatural understanding of the DSM). It’s been poisoned by their toxic mistrust of each other, strangled by their choices and dumped off the road in a lonely place.

And that brings up one of the other great pleasures of film noir- the Film Title Drinking Game (invented by my wife. Copyright 2015)- wherein you do a shot every time a character says the title of the movie. In fact, there’s one movie called Tension which is worth watching for two reasons- there are a couple of scenes shot in and around the Culver Theater – 50 years before it was converted to the Kirk Douglas Theatre and 60 years before it was filled with Cal Seething- 090715- tensionboxes, and the fact that if you are playing the Film Title Drinking Game- you will get FUCKED UP. The hard-nosed cop played by Barry Sullivan even stretches a rubber band between his fingers throughout the movie just to make the point about how much TENSION (gulp) the characters are under and if enough TENSION (gulp) is applied, a criminal will sooner or later crack because of all the tensidi-tense TENSION (gulp. Vomit)

But of course, we came to Palm Springs to get away from all the TENSION (gulp) of Los Angeles and to soak up chlorine, sunshine and ambiance. And as the sun goes down, the ambiance intensifies. Palm Springs is even more deliciously ominous by night. The cicadas quiet down and the wind takes over as sound designer. And while the cicadas perfectly capture the simmering TENSION (gulp) that lurks behind closed doors under the burning sunlight, the wind brings out all the mystery and intrigue of the city in darkness. It whoshes through trees, tinkles chimes on porches and scrapes a dry leaf across the pavement, scraping the nerves as it travels along. Of course, the lighting helps too. There are no street lights- the only illumination is provided by sconce lights on houses. Some are cold new fluorescents shining through clear glass like hard blue eyes. Others are incandescents in aging plastic, cracked and yellow as nicotine stained teeth. Hell, we’re way past noir town here and heading for David Cal-Seething--090715--cowskLynch country. (The sconce lights on our rental house had the outline of a cow skull cut into them. That’s not really so much evocative of murder, unless it’s the murder of good taste and Georgia O’ Keefe is the primary suspect.) Even the names of the gated communities are evocative and mysterious- the Enclave, Sunrise Palms. OK- just those two- but still! Can’t you just picture a retired Dale Cooper living in a place called Sunrise Palms, spending his days talking into a tape recorder (actually a banana) and drinking sludgy coffee with dwarves (actually Filipino nurses)? “Annie’s just fine, Agent Cooper. You don’t have to keep asking about her. Why don’t you take your pills and have a nice nap? Maybe you’ll see your friend the giant!”Cal Seething- 090715- dale

Of course, in reality, nothing much evil is happening at all. The worst crime most people are guilty of in Palm Springs is pulling their white tube socks all the way up to their knees and walking through Trader Joe’s so…fucking…slowly. But that wouldn’t make much of a noir movie- I mean what would you even call it? They Shopped By Day? Push the Cart Slowly? The High Tubesocks? Fearful Flyer? Raw Deal….on Raw Cashews? The Big Schlep? “Look at you- shopping by day (gulp)- pushing the cart slowly (gulp) acting all high and mighty with your high tubesocks (gulp). You’re looking for a bargain- but all you’re gonna get is a raw deal on raw cashews (gulp). So go ahead- look through that Fearless Flyer for savings- deep down you’re just a fearful flyer (gulp) cause you know there’s no saving you. Someday soon you’re gonna take that big schelp (gulp) to the sky and I’ll be able to get the hell out of here with my Riesling and tortellini in less than 45 minutes and get on with my damn life.” So- yeah- not nearly as interesting in reality as in the imagination, but then- that’s reality for you. Fucking lame.

Still, all vacations must come to an end, so now I find myself in September walking the dog through the dusty backstreets of West LA past broken cacti and patches of dirt with receding hairlines of brown grass. There are no cicadas, just the oceanic roar of the freeway and the only mysteries to solve are “why does everyone dump their mattresses here?”, “is the guy in the Montero Sport, like, living in his car?” and “no, seriously – why DOES everybody dump their mattresses here?” and honestly, none of these are mysteries I’m really eager to solve since the answer is likely to be more depressing than the question. Even the street names are uninspiring- National, Robertson- well, OK, just those two- but still!Cal Seething- 090715- tshirt

But, we’ve still got a few noir movies on the DVR we haven’t seen which we recorded during TCM’s Summer of Darkness, like grey leftovers in the fridge that still smell sort of fresh, and I got an awesome Summer of Darkness t-shirt and TCM hat from my wife, who retains her title as Best Gift Giver Ever for the 17th year running as well as being my partner in crime (or crime movie watching anyhow) and most important person in my life. Happy Anniversary! Someday, when we’re old, we’ll get to spend all our time in Palm Springs, but for the time being, it’s just a two hour drive away (or was in the 40’s anyhow), in case the tension (gulp) of Los Angeles gets to be too much. And, meanwhile, if you want to find me, I’ll be at the former Culver Theatre, now the Kirk Douglas, hiding under a pile of boxes and dreaming of my next vacation. Oooh- maybe I’ll see my friend, the giant!

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Oh- and if you’re wondering what the deal is with all the boxes- check out The Object Lesson at the Kirk Douglas Theatre now playing through Oct 4. It’s pretty amazing- almost worth coming back from Palm Springs for. Almost.

[California Seething] Fire, Seethe With Me

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The year was 1990. It was an amazing time to be alive or so Jesus Jones kept telling me. George Bush was bringing great wealth and prosperity to Americans named “Dana Carvey”, those individuals whose first REM album was Document referred to those individuals whose first REM album was Green as “fuckin’ poseurs” and They Might be Giants dropped the bombshell that ocean levels were rising because of their new album. Meanwhile, Generation X was on the way to being the first generation to do worse than their parents, Generation Y was on the way to being the first generation to wear bike helmets without getting the shit beat out of them (they actually got trophies for it) and the height of telecommunications technology was a phone shaped like a football that you got for free if you subscribed to Sports Illustrated. HowCal Seething- 110314- dom far we’ve come since then! Nowadays there’s nothing you can’t do with your smart phone- why, I just saw an ad for an app developed by Domino’s Pizza that uses voice recognition technology- so that you can order a pizza by simply speaking your order into the phone. Can you imagine that?? Ordering a pizza by talking on the phone- WILL WONDERS NEVER CEASE??? Next thing you know there’ll be an app where you can hear the exact time simply by dialing a number, or, even better, a messaging app that allows you to send “mail” using only your VOICE- or,- how’s this, a communications app that allows you to speak with any person in America simply by entering in a personalized 10 digit “number” for their “phone”  OH BRAVE NEW WORLD!!!! And, yeah, OK, all sarcasm aside- I do realize that the whole point of the Domino’s app is that you don’t actually have to talk to a real human being. Brilliant! That ought to make ordering a pizza every bit as easy as calling Time Warner for tech support. There’s nothing I love more than a hot cheese pizza topped with REPRESENTATIVE REPRESENTATIVE REPRESENTATIVE PERSON PERSON PERSON PERSON PERSON PERSON PERSON!!!!! Or you could just avoid the Noid altogether and call Pizza Hut on your fucking football phone (AUTHOR’S NOTE: I don’t actually have a football phone. But OMYGOGOMYGODOMYGOD can you imagine how awesome it would be if I did? I would totally invite over everyone I know and wait for someone to call me so that I could just be like “hey- does anyone hear that? It seems like something is ringing. Sounds like…a phone…but I don’t see a phone anywhere! Just this cheap looking random Cal Seething- 110314- phoneoneplastic football statuette. And- hey- WAIT A SECOND- the ringing seems to be coming from the football. But how can that be?? What can be happening?????? Is it possible that this football is really……. A PHONE???? BOO-YAH! BA – BAM! Brain goes KER-BLAMO!!!! Also Pizza Hut is gross. Not cheddar chili Frito pizza gross- but gross nonetheless.

But there is no area in which there’s been as much progress since 1990 as the spread of human rights, except maybe the eradication of global poverty. GOTCHA!!!! Human rights & poverty- you silly Billy- it’s television! Cause it may have been the first year of the 90’s, but in TV terms 1990 was very much still the 80’s. And, yes, I do realize that technically 1990 was the last year of the 80’s not the first year of the 90’s- so you can just shut up Mr. I Correct People About the Most Insignificant Things in Order to Feel Better About Myself (Or Ms.). You can just go back to writing stern letters to the editor about the shocking decline in the quality of the crossword puzzle while you’re not being invited to happy hour. Yeah- that’s right. Not invited. You know how everybody got quiet when you walked into the break room but you’re positive the last thing you heard was “half price margaritas and riblets”. Yeah. Think about that the next time you respond to a company wide email to tell everyone how I misused “your”. Asshole.

In the 80’s the only serious theme that you could tackle in a television show was drug and alcohol addiction (Alex P. Keaton taking Cal-Seething--110314--alfspeed to be able to study harder, Sam Malone’s lifelong battle with alcohol, Alf’s rapacious hunger for cats) and that was reserved exclusively for pre-designated “very special episodes” personally approved by Nancy Reagan. And as a result, what we learned from watching 80’s TV was that as long as we stayed away from drugs, the worst problem we would ever face in our lives would be having dates with two stewardesses on the same night and trying to juggle both of them while trying to hide our heterosexuality from our landlords. But if we did smoke pot even once, we were fucked for life. So it was kind of a good-news bad- news situation for all of us when we grew up and discovered that casual drug use wouldn’t ruin our lives but subprime loans just might. If only they had aired that very special Growing Pains where Boner buys a $750k 5 bed, 4 bath 4000 square foot house with a pool in Henderson, NV using a 1% Interest Only ARM loan and then takes a HELOC to remodel the kitchen right before the economy tanks and Mike Seaver blames it all on Obama and fags and tells Boner not to worry cause the rapture is coming.

As far as diversity on TV- we had The Simpsons which featured a panoply of ethnically diverse characters voiced by white people and of course there was Cousin Balki. So while there may not have been any Asian or Latino characters on TV, the island of Mypos was well represented right alongside Latka’s home country, the planet of Melmac and little girl robots named Vicki. Oh- and- of course! How could I forget The Cosby Show with American’s favorite Jello and rape enthusiast. Ahhh….such an innocent time. Cal Seething- 110314- cosbyHow could we know he was using the patterns on his sweaters to hypnotize young women into submission when he couldn’t sneak a roofie into their pudding pops?

And of course any type of non-linear weirdness was strictly verboten. Every series was permitted one Christmas Carol or It’s A Wonderful Life themed Christmas dream episode and that was IT.

So….yeah- the year was 1990 and TV sucked. And it was against this brainless backdrop of banality that David Lynch introduced Twin Peaks to the American public much to the squealing delight of pretentious wierdos like me and my friends. Of course, being pretentious weirdos we didn’t so much “squeal with delight” as we did “cynically smirk with a hint of derision in our eyes and disaffected souls” but we were “happy”. And why shouldn’t we be? Twin Peaks was a gift for pretentious wierdos and there was no one weirder or more pretentious than us- we called ourselves the Art Fag Posse, we joined a Unitarian Youth Group because of their liberal view of dogma and tolerant perspective on blue hair. We smoked clove cigarettes and pretended to like them while we waited outside Albany’s only art house to go see The Cook the Thief His Wife and Her Lover which we then pretended to like as we spoke about it with animated tones in Albany’s only OFFICIAL café (Half Moon, Cal Seething- 110414-buttonbitchez) while drinking black coffee which we also pretended to like. We were the Capital Region’s cultural and intellectual elite and we had the buttons on our denim jackets to prove it  And Twin Peaks was our motherfucking show.  

But why did we love it so much? Why did the recent announcement by Showtime that they were bringing the show back after 25 years cause the nation to buckle and heave with a giant collective Gen X nerdgasm the size of which hadn’t been seen since JJ Abrams agreed to direct the next Star Wars movie and wouldn’t be seen again for a long, long time- or at least for about two weeks when the new Pee-Wee Herman movie was announced- and don’t pretend like you’re not super excited about that, cause I know you are (but what am I?) Anyhow- I wanted to go on a journey back to the early 90’s to remind myself the show’s appeal, so I built a time machine out of a Saturn, filled up a grotesquely oversized ceramic mug of coffee, put in my dubbed Jesus Jones tape (the one with C&C Music Factory on side B), took the football phone off the hook so no one would bother me and then I watched Twin Peaks on Netflix because it’s 20 fucking 14.

Welcome to Twin Peaks
Pop. 51201

Let’s start with the opening credits, shall we (it’s a very good place to start)?

All of the action has been slowed down a little and there is a slight brownish tint to the footage, like it was filmed through the bottom of a slightly used amber glass ashtray. We start with a bird (Bewick’s Wren for those that can’t be bothered to Google.) Then, an exterior shot of the mill. Plumes of white smoke gently puffing from the chimney like a new Pope is being announced only portending something much more eeeeeeevil, like maybe the election of eeeeeeevil Pope. Inside the mill, sparks fly as the blades on the enormous wood cutting wheelamabobs and thingamajigers (I was too lazy to Google this one) are sharpened in what may be the sexiest knife sharpening sequence ever filmed (though I’m no “bladie” so can’t be sure) Then, the music swells, lush, big and romantic like a large breasted hooker with sloppily applied lipstick and we’re in the road heading into town, a road hewn through towering Douglas firs (Sheriff Truman says what these are called in the first episode so no need to Google- hurray!) and we see the sign:

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The music lifts to a crescendo, the name of the show appears (Twin Peaks) followed by the names of the show’s stars. After Michael Ontkean and we dissolve to a shot of a waterfall as the music itself crests and falls. Then, right after Warren Frost we dissolve to a tracking shot of still, smooth water as the music tinkles on and the rest of the credits roll.

We learn three very important things from the sequence:

  1. Washington State is beautiful
  2. Washington State is creepy
  3. Washington State is wet

The town is tucked away among towering trees, isolated from the world by woods and water. The humble mill, symbol of the town’s economy, sharpens it’s teeth, ready for the kill, devouring virgin lumber with no mercy or remorse. The water looks calm Cal Seething-110314-jimmyand inviting, but just nearby it churns with danger. And oh oh oh, then there’s that bird and of course birds are just EW!

And of course all the trees are lush and green and there is water everywhere- it’s like moisture porn for the drought ridden. OK, OK, I get it – we’re all gonna run out of water and die while you folks in the Northwest laugh uproariously as you brush your teeth with the faucet running with gleeful impunity. But you can keep your plentiful reservoirs and green foliage- I’ll take the desert over the woods any day. After all, you never know what’s hiding in the woods. In fact my wife and I were just talking this morning about how we both loathe the woods (the family that hates together stays together.) You’ve got critters and bears and escaped mental patients with hooks for hands just waiting to hack you apart behind every tree. No wonder it was such a perfect place for Evil Bob to hang out just waiting to steal Leland Palmer’s soul and force him to kill his daughter (Shit! Sorry! SPOILER ALERT. I just ruined the entire show. Ahem. Yeah. My bad. Pobody’s nerfect!) The desert, on the other hand, is honest and plain. You know Cal Seething- 110314-bobexactly what’s coming for you- it’s like “Who knows what evil lurks out in the desert?? Wait- I do- it’s Evil Bob. Hey Bob! How’s it going out there? Hot enough for you? Heh heh heh. OK, take care. Don’t kill anyone I wouldn’t kill.”

But while I prefer the desert, I totally understand why Washington State is perfect for mysterious stories of the bizarre and inexplicable- like Twin Peaks or Twilight or the 2014 Seahawks. So what happens when you take a creepy little town like this and introduce the killing of a beautiful young woman? Television gold, baby! (No disrespect to crime victims, every life is precious, something something violence against women blah blah blah blah blah)

 

“She’s dead – wrapped in plastic” Cal Seething- 110314- dead
-Pete Martell

 

Laura Palmer had secrets. Honestly, though, I’m not sure when she found the time to keep them. She was a good student, cheerleader, and homecoming queen. She delivered meals to elderly shut-ins, gave private English lessons, tutored developmentally disabled adults and worked both as a salesgirl at the perfume counter of the local department store AND as a coke whore in a Canadian brothel- all of which while dating the captain of the football team and Mr. 90’s Sensitive Wussy James Dean (what is it about Washington State that turns guys who should be badass into brooding sensitive wussies or “Edward Cullen Syndrome” as the DSM V refers to it) and being menaced by the evil spirit that had taken possession of her father’s body and consumed his soul and would ultimately kill her (CRAP! No! I did it again. Alright- well, just pretend you didn’t read that either lalalalala I can’t hear you I can’t hear you)  It’s no wonder she was doing blow- she was busy! When was she supposed to sleep? It’s clear that Twin Peaks isn’t a gothic supernatural horror story about the mysterious evil that lurks in the woods of the northwest- but rather a cautionary tale about overscheduled kids. Think about that parents the next time you’re in the Honda Odyssey racing from flute lessons to soccer practice. Do you want your kid to end up blowing Mounties for 88 cents on the dollar (and it was way less back them) or washing up on the beach wrapped up like a plastic burrito from Chipolte? Do you??? Well, then maybe you ought to let her drop out of rhythmic gymnastics or take a little break from SAT prep. She can start back up with it when she turns 10.

Cal Seething- 110314- nadineI mean, why did Laura have to do everything in Twin Peaks? There were 50,200 other people in that town- what the hell were they doing all day?? Are they all just coma patients and sock puppets?? Were they all so busy cramming their cherry pie holes and inventing silent drape runners that they couldn’t deliver a fucking meal to an old person or pick up a goddman shift at the brothel?? Seriously, if you’re opening and closing your drapes so frequently that the noise from the runners is ruining your life- quieter drape runners are NOT THE ANSWER- like, if you’re shitting fire uncontrollably, you don’t need a low flow toilet. Not, if you’re opening and closing your drapes that much, you need to get yourself some therapy ASAP for your paralyzing OCD, even if the only therapist in town is obsessed with  Hawaii and wears 3-DCal Seething-110314-jacoby glasses all the time. I mean, I know he needed to wear those so he could see the depth in Sheryl Lee’s acting- but I don’t know if I could share my deepest darkest secrets with a man who’s ready to drop everything at any moment and watch Jaws 3.

If only Laura could be more like that nice Audrey Horne. She didn’t get bogged down with teenage distractions like boys and drugs and the helping the elderly (Kids today! What are you gonna do?), she just focused on the important things in her life like dancing by herself to Now That’s What David Lynch Calls Music…I Guess? (Volume 4) and learning how to tie a cherry stem in a knot in her mouth so she can nail her interview at the Canadian brothel (I can’t tell you how many countless hours I wasted in high school trying to teach myself that trick. Of course, nowadays, all I would have to do is watch this:

but things were much harder back in my day.). Even though she was saving herself for Billy Zane (and weren’t we all a little. Grrroowl.) Audrey defined sexiness for my whole generation of freakazoids. The Playboy Magazine spread with Sherilyn Fenn- clearly one of the highlights of my late adolescence (Remember when you had to buy a magazine to see Sherilyn Fenn naked. Nowadays, all you have to do is watch this:


Sherilyn Fenn Topless by eyecelebs

but things were much harder back in my day.)

Now if something tragic should befall your overscheduled teen daughter in Twin Peaks- there’s no reason to dance manically with her picture, kill a French dude, let your hair turn white, sing impromptu show tunes and send your niece back to MISSOULA, MONTANA!!!  (Leland Palmer’s five stages of grief) because the Twin Peaks Sherriff’s Department is on the case! Under the Cal Seething- 110414-tpsdearnest folksy leadership of Harry S. Truman, they’ve got Andy, who can’t control his crying when he’s confronted with death (sort of like I would be if I was a cop), lovably ditzy Lucy and, of course, and of course long haired wisdom dispensing Native American officer Chief Little Big Microaggression (That’s the word, right millenials? Microagression? For like when you say something like “You’re Jewish, you’re good with money” or “you’re Asian- can you help with my math homework” We had a name for that kind of racial attack, too. I think it was “compliment”)

So- yeah, the TPSD – not exactly inspiring much confidence. Fortunately, though, Special Agent Dale Cooper is on the case and he combines the deductive skills of Sherlock Holmes, the zen-mastery of Phil Jackson and Warrant’s passion for Cherry Pie into one black suited slick haired bon mot dropping super cop. Seriously, pretty much everything that falls out of Dale Cooper’s mouth like a stray cherry is solid gold. Especially the one sided monologues he records into his tape player for his unseen Ms. Moneypenny, Diane (So…if someone were to send you a petition to change “Siri” to “Diane” would you sign? I’m just asking for a friend.) Arguably Cooper’s most memorable scene is the famous dream with the red drapes and the dwarf. Now this scene has been much discussed, analyzed and lampooned by Scooby Doo – and while everyone talks about Laura Palmer and the dwarf, nobody talks about the most disturbing part – that when Cooper wakes up, he has a flap of hair sticking up at a 90 degree angle to Cal Seething- 110414- hairthe top of his head, like a killer wave for surfing lice. It is the most dramatic case of bedhead that medical science has ever seen. Vidal Sassoon is in a bidding war with Tresemme for the rights to examine his scalp when he dies. There are baby ducks on the Gulf Coast with less grease in their hair.  It’s nuts- you could draw a line from the tip of his hair to the top of his head and then use the Pythagorean theorem to measure it – and if the fact that I know this much about Twin Peaks hasn’t shown you that I’m an enormous nerd, than Pythagorean Theorem joke should for sure.

“One day my log will have something to say about this. My log saw something that night.”
-Log Lady

Cal Seething-110414-logladySo, yeah, I was an enormous nerd- a lot of us Twin Peaks fans were. And this was before being a nerd was celebrated, before the very word “nerd” was appropriated and used as a slightly self-effacing badge of honor by anyone with even a slightly above average interest in a particular subject area (E.G. “Ohmygodyouguys I’ve seen Bring in On like 10 million times. I am SUCH a cheerleading nerd.” No. You’re not a nerd. You’re literally the worst person ever. Even though that is a truly fine film – pre-Spiderman Kirsten Dunst is the best Kirsten Dunst.) Back when Twin Peaks came out nerds were still marginalized and persecuted. Revenge of the Nerds was a glorious dream not an economic reality (watching it now, it’s our Django Unchained.) We were given huge plastic eye glasses to identify us, rounded up from our homes and sent to Computer Camps. And on TV we were marginalized and reduced to a punchline- Fraiser Craines in a Sam Malone world.

Then, Twin Peaks came along and put freaks and weirdos in the spotlight with biggest nerd of all calling the shots. Suddenly, there was a genuine, bona fide, Newsweek certified pop culture phenomenon and we were right in the center of it because we GOT IT. Every week David Lynch threw down the gauntlet of weirdness and we. we few, we nerdy few, accepted the challenge time and time Cal Seething- 110414- horseagain. A lady who carries a log around and talks to it? SURE! A biker bar where they listen to Julee Cruise and fight in slow motion? WHY NOT? A dancing dwarf, giant with a bowtie, white horse in the living room, owls that AREN’T WHAT THEY SEEM and copious, uncontrollable, prodigious weeping FUCK YEAH- BRING IT ON!!!! This was our moment and we reveled in it. We shared cherry pie and coffee at viewing parties, made bets during Calculus class over who the killer would be (her dad. CRAP! I keep doing that!) and taught a generation of TV executives that they could create something smarter and cooler and weirder than they had ever dreamed possibleCal-Seething--110314--copro and that people would fucking watch. Of course, in 1990 a generation of TV executives also learned that they could create a rock musical police procedural and viewers would flee in disgust but, you know, can’t win em all.

“How’s Annie?”
-Dale Cooper

Like many great shows, Twin Peaks ended ignominiously with Dale Cooper spending two hours trying to find the right conference room in the Black Lodge before becoming possessed by the evil and terrifying Bob who then compelled Cooper to do the most evil and terrifying thing that David Lynch could conceive of and SQUEEZE A TUBE OF TOOTHPASTE FROM THE MIDDLE.

Oh the humanity!!!! What could be next? Drinking milk from the carton? Using the bathroom and leaving just one little square of toilet paper on the roll?? NOT CLEANING THE LINT FILTER?????? Mother fucker’s the devil. Oh, also he broke a mirror with his face and that’s kind of evil. I guess. Anyhow, the show ended and we all thought this would be the last time we would be visiting the little town of Twin Peaks on TV.

“That gum you like is going to come back in style”
The Man from Another Place (Dwarf)

And now, it’s almost 25 years later. Many of us have little nerds of our own that we can introduce to Twin Peaks. Others, like me, Cal-Seething--100714--punkyhave dogs that don’t give a shit. Hi Punky! Punky Punky Punky Punky! Who’s my little Punky Wunky??? Who’s my little Punky Wunky??? PUNKY!!!!

Ahem. Sorry about that. It looks like I’m gonna be retarded for the forseeable future.

Anyhow, like I was saying – we all thought we saw the last of Twin Peaks, until Showtime announced that they will be coming out with new episodes in 2016 – 25 years after the show went off the air. And while it’s gonna be a little depressing to see just how old they’ve all gotten I know that I can not wait to hear that theme music start up again, see that Bewick’s Wren and go over the waterfall into the madness

But as much as I’m looking forward to it- I know the show’s not really for me. It’s for that misunderstood teenager stuck somewhere out there in Suburbia who sees David Lynch’s vision of evil in a small town and knows in his bones that Lynch is talking to him.

Meanwhile, for all of us old fans- I’d just like to ask that you put your one remaining hand over your heart, smile maniacally into the mirror and repeat after me:

Through the darkness of future pastCal Seething- 110414-mike
The magician longs to see
One chants out between two worlds
FIRE, walk with me.

See you in 2016. I’ll meet you at the corner of Sparkwood and 21. Seriously, David – WHAT IS SO FASCINATING ABOUT THIS FUCKING STOP LIGHT???? Is jaywalking yet another of Bob’s nefarious crimes? I guess we’ll find out real soon.

Cal Seething- 110416- 2016

 

[California Seething] This Post Has Nothing Whatsoever to Do with Dogs

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Right, OK, where was I?

Oh yeah- that’s right- I was gonna write about the Simpsons before I went all Debbie Dead Dog on you people. So…yeah…the Cal-Seething--100714--punkySimpsons. Funny stuff, right? There’s Homer and Marge and, of course, Bart and Lisa and Punky. Hi Punky! Punky punky punky punky!!!! Can I rub your belly?? Can I rub your belly?? Rubbing. Rubbing. Who’s a good girl? Who’s a good girl?? Punky doodles! Kisses Punky. Can you give kisses? Punky give kisses? Punky give kisses?? Oh thank you Punky for the kisses! Thank you for the kisses Punky Wunky. That Punky that funky Punky. Who’s a good girl? Who’s a good girl?? It’s Punky!!!

Ahem. Excuse me. It appears I’ve adopted a small white dog named Punky and also turned into an idiot.

OK- let’s just get this guilt part out of the way. Yeah, we got a new dog a couple of weeks after we lost Lenny. No, we didn’t do it to replace him. Losing him sucked. It still sucks and it’s still weird that he’s not a part of our lives. Hell, I still have him as my desktop wallpaper on my laptop- and that’s only partially because I’m much much too lazy to change it. But much like I’ve said before that the only thing worse than doing theatre is not doing theatre, the only thing worse than losing a dog is not having a dog- so- we brought Punky into our lives. RESCUED her, in fact, from the POUND, where she would have DIED. Or worse yet- been Cal-Seething--100714-curledADOPTED by someone even more RETARDED than ME- like…uhm….and early 2000’s CELEBUTANTE or a JAMES BOND VILLAIN allergic to CATS. So…yeah. How you like them apples, fucko? Now who’s feeling guilty? Punky’s not feeling guilty. Does Punky like apples? Does Punky want to go outside? Does Punky wunky want to go outside for pee pee weepie? Punky go pee pee? Punky go pee pee???  Let’s go! Let’s go Punky! Let’s go pee pee!!! Let’s go pee pee with Punky!!! Pee pee Punky pee pee!

 

Oh God. I hate myself. Seriously I never want to stop punching myself in the face. The teddy bears won’t even talk to me anymore- but can Cal-Seething--100714-bearyou blame me for acting this way? Just look at her. And she’s so damn affectionate. She licks my face! She snuggles up to me! She pees with excitement when I come home from work- no one has EVER been that happy to see me. Hell, I’m lucky to get a “sup” or “hey man” or “internet’s down”- but urinating on the carpet with wild abandon??? I never dreamed I could be so lucky (sniff). Sure, they used to urinate with glee when I’d show up at the Powerhouse- but only because I came to fix the toilet. But I don’t need a plunger to unclog Punky’s heart- she’s just pleased as punch that I walked through the door.  I mean, Lenny of blessed memory had many wonderful qualities- but enthusiastic greetings wasn’t one of them. Living with Lenny was like living with an unemployed, stoner roommate- like Zach Galifianakis with more acting chops and less hair. I’d come home after a hard day at work, he’d be lying in bed undressed and we’d sort of grunt hello at each other and he’d go back to scratching himself. Then I would go into the kitchen and he would amble in, bleary eyed all like “dude- are you making dog food? Cause I’ll totally have some.” I swear- if he had thumbs, we’d have gotten him a bong and an X-Box and a SUNY Albany diploma. He was a drink the milk from the carton and put it back in the fridge with a super-tiny amount kind of dog.

With Punky, though, there’s much of a sense of occasion to my  homecoming. Hell every time I come home from work, I’m like a soldier coming home from Afghanistan for a surprise reunion with his family at halftime of a Dallas Cowboys game in a particularly manipulative Budweiser ad- assuming, of course, I come from a family of midgets  who lick each other compulsively and have incredibly poor bladder control. And we all Cal Seething-100714-duggarknow there’s no such family cause if there were they’d have a show on TLC right between I Turned My Wife Into a Cum Guzzling Fetus Factory for Jesus and Here Comes Diabetes! BTW- I realize that it’s a big misogynistic for me to assume that Jim Bob “turned” Michelle into a Cum Guzzling Fetus Factory. For more misogynistic opinions about the Duggars- check out my hip new misogyny blog  “the Gyst”- recently called “a refreshing alternative to Jezebel” by DouchebagDudeBros.com and Stephen A. Smith. Be sure to read Roger Godell’s latest post “I made everything pink- what more do you gals want?” and our Unwanted Advice Column for women- “Ask A Straight White Guy” – this week’s tip “just giggle and take it as a compliment”.

Ooooooh! Does Punky want belly rubs? Does. Punky Want. Belly. Rubby Rub Rubs???? Belly rubs for Punkyyyyyy. Belly rubs for PunkyRubPunkydoodles.

Oh God. Somebody shoot me.

So- at this point, you might be asking- wasn’t this supposed to be about the Simpsons? Yes. Yes it was. But let me tell you how we got Punky instead. PUNKY!!!!

It was a couple of weeks ago on a Friday and we had pretty much decided that we had found a dog who met all our criteria: medium sized, male dog, mix of poodle & cocker spaniel (the poodle is the baby laxative of dog breeds- you can use it to cut a pure breed and still sell it for the same price. Supposedly it’s because poodles really smart and don’t shed, but we all know it’s cause every word’s funnier with the addition to “poo” – go on – try it “weiniepoo”, “cockapoo” “pit poo”- you can’t go wrong! )- not a terrier, so he wouldn’t be too spastic. His name was Willie and he was temporarily residing at the East Valley Animal Shelter in Van Nuys. We weren’t totally sure we wanted another dog yet- but we figured- hey- we’d go check him out. We had tickets to see La Cal Seething- 100714-traviataTraviata that night at LA Opera, an anniversary gift from me to my wife- but we figured- we’d leave work around 1 PM, head out to Van Nuys, check out Willie, grab lunch and have plenty of time to go home, change and have a nice, romantic, anniversary dinner and arrive at the opera in a leisurely fashion. If we did decide to adopt him, he would still have to be neutered- so we wouldn’t be able to pick him up until Saturday and therefore we wouldn’t have to worry about what to do with him while we’re at the opera. Perfect! Kismet! Everything was falling into place.

So we got in the car and headed for Van Nuys with a sense of adventure and excitement (no one in history has ever said that before) but, as the Old Testament says “Fortune rarely smiles on a Jets fan.” When I called the East Valley Shelter to check if Willie was still available, I was told he’d been adopted just moments before. All of the air went out of the car. We were aimlessly and doglessly drifting towards Beverly Hills. When the dog we weren’t sure we wanted became the dog we that we couldn’t have, we knew for certain that we couldn’t go back home to an empty house. After a bit of searching on the iPad- and perhaps a slight loosening of our criteria (maybe doesn’t have to be medium sized? maybe doesn’t have to be male? maybe just has to be available?) we found that there were a bunch of possible dogs in the South LA Shelter. By then it was around 2:30 – so we figured- ok, great- we skip lunch, drive down, get there by 3:30, check out some dogs and still have plenty of time for a nice, romantic dinner before the opera.

We made it down to the South LA Shelter, conveniently located at the corner of “I’m not a Racist” and “Yikes! Close the Windows” around 4 PM and began walking among the cages, trying not to think about the fact that we were window shopping on Death Row. We found a few dogs that struck our fancy- one in particular was part dalmatian part poodle (dalmapoo- see-always funny!) I went looking for a staff member who might be able to help us meet the dogs we were interested in. Turns out all of the staff were ensconced behind a door marked “Authorized Personnel Only- Do Not Enter” as a safety precaution against helping the public. It was Cal Seething- 100714-selmathere that I met Mona- who had all the grace, charm and governmental customer service acumen of a Latina Selma Bouvier (and sort of the hair, too). Mona pulled out the dalmapoo who was even less enthusiastic about meeting us than she was.  There was another dog  we were interested in who wasn’t available yet, and so we came to a cage with a grey-white little fluffball with matted, tangled fur and a Chihuahua so absurdly eager to please, he should have been wearing a little bow tie and saying “Yo quero ha-cha-cha!!! Eh?? Eh??? Is this thing on?” We wanted to see the fluffball, but the Chihuahua came too. At this point, Mona, realized she had a couple of pigeons in her shelter, and so she switched gears from inconvenienced bureaucrat to used dog salesman – (from Selma to Gil.)

And it was there, in the small square of patchy grass which was balding like Dylan McKay before he first left the show and then mysteriously came back with more hair that we first encountered Punky (not yet called Punky). She was pretty but she was a mess- a Pasadena Rose Princess turning tricks on Hollywood Blvd (are there still hookers on Hollywood Blvd- and if so- where do they park??) but when I got down on all fours and looked into her eyes and she gave me that curious flat smile of hers- well- I knew for sure that she was coming home with us. And she knew for sure that I was a crazy person who had just gotten down on his hands and knees on grass so utterly covered in piss it would make Port Authority blush just to get to know her better. And Mona- well, Mona knew for sure that there would be one less dog stuck at the shelter that night and it wouldn’t be the Chihuahua (“that’s ok folks- I’ll be here all week! Unless somebody adopts me….anybody…..take this dog- please????”). PunkyEric

Right, so now it’s 4:50. The shelter’s closing in 10 minutes and we’ve got a dog we like- great! Except- crap! La Fucking Traviata! (Verdi’s original name for it) Fuck! If we leave her at the shelter, she might not still be available in the morning but we can’t adopt her and then leave her home alone all night- I mean, sure we could leave her home alone all night if we wanted to come home to find our place entirely covered with urine and feces but we weren’t feeling that nostalgic for Port Authority so we were at an impasse until our salvation arrived in the form of an announcement over the loudspeaker “Chameleon is Down! The Computer System is Down!” Surely this means we won’t be able to adopt Punky (not yet called Punky) tonight and they’ll have to let us come back tomorrow to get her. Hurray for incompetent IT departments!!! (are there really any other kind?) The opera is saved! Fortune is finally smiling upon us! Could the firing of Rex Ryan be far behind? And then a very stressed out looking woman in a lab coat (like Doctor Without Borders level stressed out), Doctor Whateverhernameis, came out confirmed that, in fact, we wouldn’t be able to adopt Punky (not yet called Punky) with the computer system down and that she would be willing to make an exception to the standard shelter policy and hold Punky (again, not yet called Punky) over night so we could pick her up the next day- and would that be ok with us?  “FUCK YEAH!” we thought “Sure, I suppose, if we must” we said. We struggled mightily to hide our inner glee behind a mask of inconvenienced disappointment and headed for our car as fast as our little legs would carry us. And, then, just when we thought we were out:

“Chameleon is online! The computer system is up!” CRAP!! This is just like that Patriots – Chiefs game- too good to be true! Mona, whom at this point had made it her life’s mission to make sure that we weren’t getting out of there without that motherfucking dog grabbed us by the elbows and yanked us into the office. A medical history was produced, forms were printed, the shelter workers were moving with an urgency never seen by bureaucrats in a situation where neither cake nor collective bargaining are involved. Wait wait wait- here’s another announcement: “CHAMELEON IS DOWN!” Woo-Hoo!! “CHAMELEON IS BACK!” Doh! And before we knew it, and before their totally useless computer system could collapse again (why would you name a computer system after a creature that never looks the same way twice?), Mona was shoving Punky (not yet called Punky) into my arms wrapped in a flee ridden pink sheet (“just in case she pukes in the car”- oh boy! something to look forward to!) and we were on our way out of the shelter, headed north with a filthy, small white dog wrapped in a filthy pink sheet at 4:57 with absolutely no idea what we were going to do with her for the night.

It was at this point that I texted our dog sitter with what is hands down the bougiest electronic message of all time since Richie Cal Seething- 100714-richieRich Tweeted “Consuela got the caviar but forgot toast points. Who’s got two thumbs and is eating Beluga like a bitch with a spork? #thisguy #thuglife” My message was: “So….we just adopted a small white dog. Have opera tickets tonight. Could we please leave her with you for a couple of hours?” And, Donna, being awesome and also thrilled to have her best clients back texted back “Sure :) Can’t wait to meet her” Great! The First Worldiest of all First world problems- solved! So…it’s 5:15 PM- plenty of time to get up to Donna’s, drop of Punky (still not named Punky), pick up a few essentials for her, stop for a quick dinner and make it to the opera on time!

Yeah, that wasn’t gonna happen. We got to Donna’s around 6:30. Dropped off Punky (whom at this point we were thinking maybe we’d call Dolly?), hit the pet store and then, at 7:10 PM- we headed towards Downtown for the opera, cramming a leisurely, romantic pre-opera dinner from Jack in the Box into our grease holes in the car as we crawled through traffic heading downtown on Washington Blvd like a soldier bleeding to death crawling to the First Aid station through the desert who is stuck in a huge line of other soldiers who are bleeding to death trying to get to the First Aid station because one asshole soldier who’s bleeding to death in a Prius is trying to turn left. Finally, we made it to the opera at 7:57, took out a quick second mortgage to pay for valet parking, ran inside not even stopping to pee and collapsed into our seats just in time to wait around for the opera to start ten minutes late. After a beautiful and extremely restful performance of La Traviata (SPOILER ALERT: Everybody’s sad and the nice hooker dies) we rushed back to Donna’s, picked up Punky (Roxie? Moxie? Tallulah? Sam?) took her home and passed out around midnight only to wake up the next day with a filthy, adorable, tiny little fluff ball licking our faces so that, Cal Seething- 100714- bartmuch like Bart when he wakes up to find he joined the Junior Campers, we were wondering just what the fuck we had done the night before. We were pretty sure, though, that we were gonna call her Punky.

So- yeah, that’s how we set out to adopt an an available male, medium sized, cockapoo and ended up with a female, tiny terrierpoo (huh. that one doesn’t work so much) who was met absolutely none of our criteria except “available”.  And in need of a good home. And adorable. And ours. And that’s why the Simpsons is the greatest show on television. Got it? Does Punky get it? Does Punky like the Simpsons? Punkydoodles like the Simpsons? Punky Wunky like the Simpsons? Yes she does. Yes she does. Who’s a good girl? Who’s a good wittle girl?? Who’s a goodie-woodie wittle girl?? Punky!

Please. I’m begging you. Shoot me now. I’m not sure how much longer I can stand myself like this. The next post, I promise, will be all about the Simpsons and nothing about Punky. Although- wait a second- did Showtime just announce they were doing a new EricPunkyJetsseason of Twin Peaks episodes??? Holy crap!! I’m excited as as Dale Cooper having that first cup of coffee in the morning. I’m as excited as Pete finding a fish in the percolator. I’M SO EXCITED I COULD…..uh oh….oopsie….gotta go. Now I know when Punky feels when I get home. Is Punky excited?? Is Punky excited????? IS PUNKY EXCITED???? Yes. Yes she is.Now we’re both wet. Oh well. Who needs dignity anyhow when I’ve got PUNKY??? Clearly not me. Just look at the Jets shirt. It’s totally not me. Dignity was always more of a Lenny thing.Cal-Seething--091514--lenny

See what I mean?