Monday, May 15, 2006

Happy Birthday, Duff!



Today is the Monster's birthday!!

(This post will probably annoy you if you don't care for dogs, but my brother asked for pictures.)

Duff is now eight.
He is one of the smartest dogs I've known, nonetheless, he has:

- Eaten half a tennis ball. surgery to relieve his impacted intestines = $1600.

- Attacked the hapless rattler. covered that here.

- Stung by a scorpion (sort of his shamanistic initiation part 2, one being the snake).


- Broken out my bedroom window five times trying to get at squirrels, the neighborhood terror, foolishly named "Buddha," and who knows what else. The third time he sliced open a vein in his front right paw. The house looked like the Manson Murders, as he ran from my bedroom and hurled himself against the plate glass in the front door (something he does when he doesn't want someone coming in. Maybe he averted a break in), then into the kitched, etc. My pillows and bedding were soaked. There was blood on the walls, in pools on the hardwood floors, and smearing the aforementioned glass. I wised up (after $300 vet bill), and installed plexiglass. It looks a little trashy, but he's not hurt himself the last two times he's broken it. Fortunately we've gone two years without further incident. My toes are crossed.


- Been attacked at least four times by other males who weren't happy to find the Duff large and "intact." They started it, I promise, but he finished it. A prticulary bad one was with Buddha, who has bitten two neighbors and kept a guy trapped in his house up over the hill. My secret nickname for that dog is "Namaste Motherfucker!" Another was a golden retriever who became jealous when his master tried to pet Duff. "Louis," sorry to say, lost a square cm chunk of his ear. It lay like a scrap on the sidewalk, feathers still attached. The owners weren't pleased. They tried to get me to pay, but "my dog didn't aggress," I said. "But our dog got hurt," they whined. I genuinely felt badly, but that ain't the law and I don't have much extra cash to give to affluent Hollywood Hills couples who don't carefully tend to their animals. I guess they couldn't get the Acura detailed for the following two months. I called my boy "Mike Tyson," for awhile after that.

- He has a couple of holes from the bitches, too. He didn't fight back in those cases, but there is a permanent divit in the left side of his snout from Sadie, the irascible Aussie.

- Despite the existing evidence, is beloved in the neighborhood, but canines and humans alike. He has two local nicknames, "Warren Beatty," because the ladies love him, and "Luggage Head," because my sportswriter friend says his head's so big you could pack it for a trip.

- This moose loves little dogs and puppies, and will groom them. He really is a good natured sort, and will let any friendly and playful dog dominate him, particularly little ones. Shares his food.

- Is generally quite mellow, except that he has become an unrelenting pain in the ass in the mornings, ever since RPP moved in and takes him hiking most every day. If she moves her little toe at 7 am, he bursts out through my bedroom door to find her.

- Gets all the table scraps, but won't eat any vegetables excepting the potato, or corn if it's in something.
- Dislikes chicken unless it's smothered in sauce. This worries me about chicken.

- Will not step on any sort of metal grate or manhole or elevator cover in the street or sidewalk. Cannot be dragged across it.

- When scolded, will drop to his side in pseudo-submission, but invariably his leg will pop open, asking to have his belly rubbed. It's complete insubordination.

- Gets a hard-on in the car. Every time. Don't know why.

- Despite the fact that he will follow me from room to room in the house, cannot hear or recognize me at the park


- Loves his toys to the point that I think he might actually mistake them for living creatures. Kitty, who has been around from the start, is number one.
Purple hippo and Hedgehog vie for second. One of the three is generally brought to bed in the evenings. He will sometimes inexplicably whimper over them, like his heart hurts. He also more rarely tries to shake the stuffings out of them, but mostly he cuddles and grooms them. It reminds me of former Fearsome Foursomer (say that five times fast!), Rosie Grier singing "It's Alright to Cry" in the 70s.

- Is well behaved and unterritorial at parties.
Mostly, he'll find a spot and crash. Sometimes it's in the middle of the dance floor.

- He loves Levi, right down to his nubbin.

Sunday, May 14, 2006

In My Mother's Day

Just look at you, Momma, all Holly Golightly in your neo-classical Halston dress, Vidal S. cut, and slender arms. Dad's looking a little overstyled to suit me, but then your husband was never your ultimate accessory. Still, you made a rather handsome couple, and you certainly left Wichita behind, which was always your aim.



Even if being from the midwest was truly such an onus, you did have a rather sharp-dressed and pretty mother. At least she was back when this photo was taken, back when they called you 'Cissy.' She's not so delicate, but she always reminds me a bit of Vivien Leigh. Just sturdier.



I love you, Mom, and for a lot better things than your good fashion sense.

Ride the Snake


Though it would seem to be another invocation of Sam Jackson, really I'm recalling a Mother's Day three years ago, when I took my 100 lb. labrador retriever on a hike in Griffith Park. Two-thirds of the way up to the Hollywood sign, my accident prone dog (though he's one of the healthiest beasts I've known), decided to embark on his first shamanistic rite of passage. I don't know if he was channeling the Lizard King because of all the time spent in Jim Morrison's "little Hollywood bungalow" across the street (now inhabited by my good friend and neighbor Joe), or if it was just the usual tendency to hunt that overtook him. Whatever the case, Duffy ran to the edge of the road and trounced a patch of tall grass, which elicited screams of "Snake! Snake!" from my friend, Barbara.


Undeterred by the high-pitched shrieks (probably some evidence he wouldn't be startled by the sudden discharge of a shotgun were we after upland game), my Shetland Pony sized dog trounced a second and third time before I was able to drag him off by his immense otter tail. Seriously, if I make a circle by touching the tip of my thumb and forefinger (and I have rather long hands), that's the girth of his tail. It's like the base of a Louisville Slugger, and it can thwack the shit out of your shins, sweep every knick-knack and water glass off the coffee table in one fell swoop, or just rudder him to and fro in the river, these being the reasons why God intelligently designed it.

After dragging him meters away from the beleaguered serpent, whom I never had the pleasure of actually seeing, I checked him for bite marks and found none. However, Barbara had seen the snake and was certain it was a rattler. Difficult to imagine that so provoked it wouldn't have retaliated, so we assumed the worst, and started to head back down the twenty minute walk to the car. After about five minutes Duff started to get a bit woozily and wanted to lie down.


Barbara and I were trying to devise a way to carry this canine Leviathan, who stands 34" to the top of his immense head, and is well over 40" from the tip of his nose to his haunches (exact measurements are difficult, the metal tape makes him skittish for reasons unknown). It was absurd, he hates to be picked up, and even though the venom was sedating, we still couldn't coordinate any resonable movement down the hill. Now, I'm fairly strong, I can move 90 lb bags of concrete and lift full sheets of plywood. And if I were able to get him up on my back, I could probably do a fireman carry. But I can't possibly lift that much weight and bulk up over my head, and furthermore, the distance was too far.

The only alternative was to prod him down the hill as fast as we could get him moving. I knew was bad because one is meant to lie still as possible after a poisonous bite like that. Still, he rallied, and walked himself back down the hill, though he tried repeatedly to sleep.

Forty minutes later we were crossing Hollywood on the way to the Vet hospital. The two bites on the right side of his throat had swelled larger than an orange by the time I got him there. The next morning, when I went to visit him, he came lumbering out, all dopey on narcotics. He could barely lift his head, which like his neck, was swollen up to the size of a Newfoundland's. Though he couldn't raise his head up when he saw me, his tail started wagging, but in super slow motion. It was maybe in quarter-time of the motion of a pendulum on a grandfather clock. Then he collapsed onto the floor in fatigue.


His four days and nights at the dog hospital, five vials of anti-venom (they run $500 a bottle), morphine (apparently it's among the most painful things a dog can endure, iv's, antibiotics, and a time release painkiller patch like they use on terminal cancer patients fixed him up right. The vet said I'd gotten him in quite fast, and the only necrosis and damage was at the wound. He still has a one and a half inch wide butterfly shaped scar on his throat where the hair permanently fell out, and gray hair on the second, smaller bite.

The house was so strangely quiet during his hospital stay. He's not a barking or whining sort of dog, really the most silent I've had, but you get rather used to the sound of their breathing. It's soothing, actually, Anyway, he's just fine, and I owe a major debt of gratitude to Barbara's husband, who showed up and paid the vet bill in its entirety because "Duff's like an institution on the block." Thank you still, Michael, and Happy Mother's Day.

Friday, May 12, 2006

Frank Mills

(I originally intended to put up a long explanation as to why I posted this song. I think I will elaborate further at future date. Have you heard the original version on the Broadway album? Her voice is girlish and sweet, and fills me with the most bittersweet nostalgia and longing for people who have slipped away. In particular, it reminds me of a certain individual, who bears almost no resemblance to Frank Mills whatever, but the emotion evoked is the same. The tune is really quite simple, melancholic, and yet somehow optimistic. It's just plain lovely.)

I met a boy called Frank Mills
On September twelfth right here
In front of the Waverly
But unfortunately
I lost his address

He was last seen with his friend,
A drummer, he resembles George Harrison of the Beatles
But he wears his hair
Tied in a small bow at the back

I love him but it embarrasses me
To walk down the street with him
He lives in Brooklyn somewhere
And wears this white crash helmet

He has gold chains on his leather jacket
And on the back is written the names
Mary
And Mom
And Hell's Angels

I would gratefully
Appreciate it if you see him tell him
I'm in the park with my girlfriend
And please

Tell him Angela and I
Don't want the two dollars back
Just him!

- from Hair the musical. Rado & Ragni, 1967

Thursday, May 11, 2006

Best Misspelling Ever

Reading a friend's screenplay I came across this gem:

"Sensory depravation tank."

Is that what we should call those quarter-op adult film booths? Or the inside of Cheney's cranium? Wish I'd thought up that phrase.

Monday, May 08, 2006

Ice Caps

A letter from my brother, with whom I am back in contact after too many years. The picture's from a trip the family took when I was maybe five, and I'm standing between two of my three siblings. The posture cracks me up.



"Hey, thanks for the Glacier pic, fuzzy as it is (matches my memories).
I sent it to R____ who didn't remember the trip at all. Anyway, it is
Glacier, since we didn't get up to Banff. I seem to recall we were
thinking of heading that way, but didn't figure that provinces are a LOT
bigger than states, so it would have been several days extra driving.
I do recall from that trip seeing the Northern Lights for the first time.
I think that was the last trip we took together before things started
really falling apart.

Also, in a few years it will something of a keepsake to remind people
that there once were glaciers. I also read that glaciers are moving
faster now that it's warmer, so the term 'glacial pace' may have to be
redefined."

Thursday, May 04, 2006

Snakes on a Mania!

Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale,
a tale of a fateful trip.
That started from this tropic port,
aboard this tiny ship...




If you haven't heard of it, then you've probably been coiled under a rock for the last eight months. Samuel Jackson is starring in a new air disaster film that is causing quite a bit of cultural bedlam. We've got impending catastrophe, criminal intrigue, we've got sex in a bathroom at thirty thousand, but most of all we've got SNAKES!


Before you go mocking it, consider that this movie appears to be a cultural phenomenon, not in its content, but in the sheer volume of interest it is generating. "Snakes on a Plane" is redefining a space in the pop culture history of fan worship. If it succeeds, it will be nesting in good company: Beatlemania tore the hair and good sense out of lachrymose teeny-boppers in the early 60s;
1977 saw impossibly long queues for the original Star Wars release, and two years later, deadly lines of entry decimated the crowd at the Riverfront Stadium Who concert; the Cabbage Patch Kids were the first instance I recall of the now annual Christmas Stampede at Toys R Us. Now arrives the era of Al Gore’s Internet, where Web surfing can become a tidal wave of pop momentum. Within this context, The Blair Witch Project (1999) pre-release Internet buzz clamored loudly through fan sites, Web rings, et. al. Important to note the allegations that much of the excitement was generated through crafty web plants. Still, the din was heard round the world, and Blair was a genuine success, financially and creatively. This time the excitement's been spontaneously generated, and it's hard to imagine an opening weekend that spells box office Boo, Hiss! The product isn't even out yet, and pre-fans are blogging, meme-ing, slangin', crank phone calling airlines, writing songs, poetry, cartoons, a game and video parodies. Can't wait until the Bunnies at Angry Alien get busy on this one. Till then, settle for their rendition of Jaws.



All of which begs the question, can you parody what you have never seen? More importantly, can you successfully spoof a thing of no real significance? Notable cultural moments don’t occur for no good reason. Something slithery's underfoot. We’re a country at war, in the White House and abroad, and the culture is replete with an ethos of fear (threatened as we are by homosexuals, immigrants, terrorists and sick birds), while Hollywood concurrently bursts with horror genre projects. Scary movie production is at an all-time high. "We’ve got snakes on a motherfucking plane!"

Richard Hofstadter argued that a society in denial of its inherent contradictions gives rise to pathology, "mobilized into action chiefly by social conflicts that involve ultimate schemes of values that bring fears and hatreds, rather than negotiable interests, into political action." This is the "“paranoid disposition," that gives rise to widespread hysterical response. Hysterics, according to Elaine Showalter, are defined as individuals who have lost their capacity to admit and express what they feel. Sometimes the actual voice is lost, 'globus hystericus,' or expression becomes exaggerated in uncontrollable emotion and fictionalizing. These creations of imagination are really metaphors containing the contradiction between what the individual is denying, and what he substitutes as a replacement for the truth.

Think of the Cold War era and the exaggeration of the ubiquitous B horror film, for instance, with it's redundant yet telling theme of invasion, subtextually pointing to communism.
Or examine the resurgence of sensationalism in the 70s cinema, in large part generated by the "Master of Disaster" himself, Irwin Allen.

Was this Vietnam guilt, or simply an extension of anti-communist propagandizing? Whatever the case, Irwin and his peers raised some hellacious storms: natural disasters, noisome animals, and severe technological failures. Consider his credits: Towering Inferno ("One tiny spark becomes a night of blazing suspense."), Poseidon Adventure, The Swarm (from the trailer: "It is a documented scientific fact that a giant swarm of killer bees is now moving towards the United States. The swarm is coming! ...an extraordinary plan for survival."), and for television, Outrage! Cave-In! Fire! Flood! The man made an entire career on the strength of the exclamation mark alone!

Hysteria, it turns out, is well conducted by the age of media. Showalter explores this in her book, Hystories, "Hysteria is part of everyday life. It not only survives in the 1990s, but it is more contagious than in the past. Newspapers, magazines, talk shows, self-help books, and of course the Internet ensure that ideas, once planted, manifest themselves internationally as symptoms."

Art forms work through metaphors, which function to sort out problems both personal and societal. "Psychology regards all symptoms to be expressing the right thing in the wrong way." A preoccupation with horror then is the focal point for a society steeped in fear, anxiously wishing to keep itself safe. When suppression is greatest, mannerism/theatrical affectation and entertainment become more grossly exaggerated. "Follow the lead of your symptoms," advises James Hillman, "for there's usually a myth in the mess (of snakes!), and a mess is an expression of soul." For those of you who doubt the psychological power of art exerted in social/cultural movements, let me direct you to propaganda, the 60s, The Werther Effect, and Stendhal Syndrome.

So I located “snake” in my various dictionaries of symbols, as well as a thesaurus and my American Heritage Dictionary (someday some great benefactor will get me an OED), all of which produced the following meanings:

Traitor (remember the parable about the woman nursing the ailing snake? Once healed he bites her. As she lays dying, she asks, “Why?” To which he replies, “Woman! You knew I was a snake.”)
Bedlam (that's crazy talk!)
Crook (Mostly like a traitor, I suppose)
Complicated situation (snake pit)
Shamanism (Well, it is Sam Jackson, after all.)
Temptation (like the sound of that)




Two additional meanings stood out, "a very significant sign, not to be feared. A sign of healing" and, “the emergence of the unconscious (repressed) material into the light of consciousness." Transformation and Resurrection. Tall order for a Disaster film.

Mikhail Bakhtin authored an entire book about the Grotesque and Carnivalesque in art and culture. a category into which Horror/Disaster surely falls. The Grotesque and Carnival traditions of parody, satire, and exaggeration criticize negative aspects of society, thereby bringing light to the dark realms of societal neuroses, repressed libido, and pathologies, The Disaster Horror sub-genre, though framed as a kind of drama rather than comedy, parodies these weak spots unwittingly, which is why they tend to play out humorously for savvy viewers. Bathos on a Plane! It is precisely this absurdity that seems to be drawing so many people into the Snakes' lair. And let's face it, fear and pain (schadenfreude) are fundaments of funny, hence, "the butt of the joke." But tearing down false or hypocritical social constructs is not just good revelry, it’s healthy for the culture. In fact, it is the essence of democratic discourse. Question authority, question art, question everything.

So, what are we looking at here? What are the Snakes Signifying?

A JUNGIAN VIEW -

Imagine the story as a dream. The plane (a vessel of our direction and travels as a culture), is soaring at high altitudes (lofty ideals and, additionally or alternatively, our consuming desire for rapid success). The snakes Grendel about (monster figures are shadow figures, unintegrated parts of the self) the cabin, terrifying the passengers (citizenry). FBI agents (investigators probing the shadow - ideally, they are truth seekers) Samuel Jackson (hero, also the Law) and his partner (one white, one black - mythically this pairing is potent as a coupling of opposites. One might read in a peculiar function of race here, but there I won't delve. Read Toni Morrison's essay, Playing in the Dark, for a literary analysis. Draw your own conclusions.), escort incognito (more shadow and unrule, though he's an innocent) witness (truth teller - here's another duality, concealed truth - only the shadow knows), whose presence on board summons the snakes. The FBI pair are the best hope for resolution, to avert the "fall" ( avoid the 'fatal retribution' of hubris), or anomie (break down in social order, as well as personal unrest).

But what truth needs to be told? What could the snakes represent?

THE TRICKSTER (Freaks on a Plane?)

The trickster character is a recurrent mythic device in literature. Jung defined this archetypal figure as "a primitive cosmic being of divine-animal nature, on the one hand superior to man because of his superhuman qualities, and on the other hand inferior to him because of his unreason and unconsciousness." Often represented as animals (ravens, foxes, coyotes and SNAKES), as well as "freakish" god-humans (tremendously un-p.c., but historically, this includes dwarves, the mentally ill or deficient, the blind, hermaphroditic, minorities...),
these figures, also known as psychopomps, have often represented access to other worlds. They are "seers" and instigators of change. In accordance with Grotesque traditions, tricksters seek to tear down; they are class levellers. As Bakhtin wrote, "Privilege is a death blow to theater (culture). All that is High wearies in the long run." Tricksters are social cleaners - they take out the trash, they eat the Sin. So the snakes aboard the plane are trying to eliminate what isn't working, what has grown stale. As with all disasters, real or cinematic, no one is spared, rich, poor, young or old. But like all good Tricksters, they do what they do with humor.



TALIBAN (Snakes in Bahrain?)

In our current climate, post 9-11, with an ongoing War on Terror, the most obvious conclusion is that the Snakes are Terrorists. Air travel is inseparable from our zenophobic fears after Flight 93. The airplane has become one of our most tightly controlled social sectors. Even without pernicious interlopers, there is so much that can go wrong. Many people fear flying, and not without practical reasons. Heavy with protocol, the airplane is a "repressed" vessel, a pressurized cabin. The potential of humans creating disorder aboard, makes it moreso. Shades of Orientalism turn those snakes right into Fatwa missionaries, enemies of Liberty and Justice. Oddly enough, this wouldn't be the first representation of Islam as a serpent. During the Crusades, and in Romance literature, Islam was a Dragon that Christendom sought to slay. Can't imagine what else St. George and the other Knights might have wanted from the Turks, but it all sounds vaguely familiar... Come, let's go to Constantinople.

The IMMIGRANT (Scapegoating the Snakes: More People We Want Off the Plane?)

Closely tied to the Terrorist fears, immigrants have long represented "invasive" forces to citizens worried about their employment and the depletion of their pocketbooks. Just this Monday (5/1), we had another Immigrant Protest Day. I'll not make too much of this, but the country continues to be quite focused on the issue (is Buchanan still trying to erect that wall?). Certainly it's easy and traditional to blame would-be citizens for societal problems. Hell, scapegoating's a favorite cultural past time, and precisely a thing the Trickster/Snake would like to bring down.

FEAR OF SNAKES

Poisonous ophidians are dangerous. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.
Before I sink into tautologies, this might best be illustrated with a bit classic film dialogue:






Indiana Jones: There's a big snake in the plane, Jock!
Jock: Oh, that's just my pet snake Reggie.
Indiana Jones: I hate snakes, Jock! I hate 'em!
Jock: C'mon, show a little backbone, will ya?

PESTILENCE (I got nothin')

"See, I will send venomous snakes among you, vipers that cannot be charmed, and they will bite you..."
- Jeremiah 8:17
Anxieties run high when disease is present. Avian Flu, like AIDS, is heightening social tensions. Dangerous, winged, it flies through the air with the greatest of ease, (frankly, I'd focus my health fears more realistically - namely worry about those steaks they serve on the plane). Fortunately for us, Sam Jackson tends to "get medieval." Of course, that's part of the problem to begin with. Disease alludes to the Plagues of Egypt, just so Fundamentalists can have more fun. Back to Showalter: "in a supportive cultural environment, after entertaining the mainstream of popular culture, hysterical syndromes multiply as they interact with social forces such as religious beliefs, political agendas, and rumor panics." Suddenly the snakes are the Lord's dark emissaries, sent to smite the wicked.

"The path of the righteous plane is beset on all sides by the iniquities of these snakes and the tyranny of those evil motherfuckers. Blessed is the plane, who in the name of charity and good will, shepherds the snakes through the friendly skies, for this plane is truly the snakes keeper and the finder of lost as shit motherfuckers. And I will strike down upon thee with lots of venom and motherfucking anger those who would attempt to crash my plane and destroy my snakes. And you will know my name is Samuel L. Motherfuckin’ Jackson when I lay my taser upon thee." Esnakeiel 25:17

Which brings us to...

SEX (Cakes on a Plane!)

I understand that in an effort to boost the "PG-13" rating up to a solid "R," Snakes went back into production for a round of reshoots, including a "Mile High Club" scenario. That's right, somebody's gonna 'do it' in the bathroom (Jakes on a Plane?). As if that weren't enough, I hear the snakes, who are naturally shy creatures, get their fangs a-salivating at the introduction of pheromones, intentionally released into the cabin. Makes 'em feisty - something straight out of "When Animals Attack," or "Snakes Gone Wild!"

Need one point out the phallic imagery of both the snakes and the plane? If there is sex on this plane, small wonder it's headed for disaster. If you watched any of the slasher films of the 70s and 80s, you know the central 'morality play' device, wherein virginal teenage girls are caught 'in flagrante' and mortally punished. These are cautionary tales, like modernized versions of the Victorian Fallen Woman, except the modern girl doesn't kill herself, a psycho/sociopath cuts her into ribbons. One imagines those movies backed by the Moral Majority, which, like the 700 Club, really was neither. If anything fuels an hysterical fire, it's a repressed sexuality, whether it be Puritans and the Witch Trials, (I've already mentioned the Victorians), legions of sexually unfulfilled and overmedicated Eisenhower-era housewives, or the contemporary Horror of Untraditional Marriage (Snakes on a Mountain? No way, that's Gay!). What is it, exactly, that we think could happen? Remember, we didn't let the Sam Jacksons of our country marry for quite awhile, either.

But sexuality is divine and sacred, and few mythical figures represent that notion more potently or universally than the snake. When the Cretans and the Hebrews went about worshipping snakes, they didn't try to separate the two. (Hey! Nice Cakes!)
Gnostic literature praised the serpent of Eden for bringing the “light” of knowledge to humanity, against the will of a tyrannical God who wanted to keep humans ignorant. In Babylonian iconography, like the Garden myth, the snake offered man the food of immortality, which really is sex. Likewise, in Kundalini the snake is coiled at the base of the spine (root chakra), symbolizing immense life power. As it rises, it creates a spiritual awakening and healing.

The symbol of the caduceus contains these yogic notions and is unmistakeably evoked in the Snakes on a Plane movie logo. It is also a fertility symbol. Often depicted (along with the Easter Lily), as the rod of impregnation to the Virgin, it was delivered by a Seraphim, the root word of which means "fiery serpent." Mostly known to us now as the symbol of medicine, the caduceus was the Hermetic "wise serpent," representing commerce and the tree of life. Also found in Aztec and Navajo art, the snake is shamanistic. It sheds skins and is reborn in perpetuity; the snake is the circle of life. If the Snakes are generative, which makes them inherently sexual, then they have a spiritual purpose. So, these sexual impulses we've repressed mandate expression, otherwise the life cycle ends. Rob Brezny paraphrases Carl Jung, who "believed that all desires have a sacred origin, no matter how odd they may seem. Frustration and ignorance may contort them into distorted caricatures, but it is always possible to locate the divine source from which they arose."


And maybe THAT'S why Samuel Jackson is now making a movie with Christina Ricci, about a white nympho who must be cured by a black bluesman, Black Snake Moan.











IT'S JUST PLANE FUNNY



Why even bother to interpret it? Could just let it be, but the fans have run amok - burlesque, caricature, flim-flam, whatever you call it,
there is something sublime and flattering to mimicry. The Grotesque-Carnivale tradition embraces these notions, even when the lampoonery seems merely to skim along the surface. Here's some more of the fun it has already generated.

Whichever interpretation suits you, it will be most entertaining to watch Samuel Jackson, like a modern St. Patrick, driving the snakes out (never you mind there are no snakes in Hawaii).










This whole thing has already reached Rocky Mt. High Altitudes. Check out the cute snowboarder:








And when the Mother Fucking Snakes gross $100,000,000, we'll have "Remakes on a Plane." Sam might be tired of those snakes, but I can hardly wait.