Too Slicko

Tuesday I saw Michael Moore's new flick "Sicko." Yeah, I know it isn't out yet. Preview screening, bitch.

It's a very powerful movie which I recommend seeing. So kudos to Mr. Moore; I'm no hater. But something about his movies rubs me the wrong way.

His message always seems to be, Things are way simpler than you think. Here's the problem; it's super sucky. Here's the solution; it's super easy. All that's getting in the way are bad guys, but if the salt-of-the-earth heroes of the movie all band together, and you join them, even the bad guys can be overcome.

Well, that may sometimes be the case. But I get this uncomfortable feeling that Moore thinks he has to present me with a watertight oversimplification of an issue in order to convince me of its urgency.

In addition to being a little insulting to us the audience, I think this strategy actually weakens Moore's case. He spends his two hours giving you a sock in the gut, and you're left in speechless agreement. But by the next day the message wears off and your belly feels a little sore.

I guess I'm skeptical of campaigns. I would rather have an issue ripped open and explained in great depth. (And in fairness, Moore does a good bit of both regarding health insurance companies in "Sicko.")

Don't smooth the rough edges, Senor Mooro. Trust us with the messy truth.

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Walnuts v. Walnuts

I won't even get into the we-couldn't-think-of-anything bullshit passing as profundity in the Sopranos finale. I don't want to say David Chase thinks he's too cool for his own audience, but David Chase thinks he's too cool for his own audience. Also too cool for his given Italian last name. But that's not what I'm here for.

Believe it or not, there was one extraordinary development in the very last ever episode of God's supposed gift to TV viewers: the revelation of skunk-haired mobster Paulie Walnuts' aversion to cats.

Well, this slight was not taken lightly by our own beloved kitty, Paulie Walnuts. My enthusiasm for The Sopranos had not yet waned when we decided to foster a litter of kittens three years ago. Thus did the kittens become Furio, Silvio, Tony, Carmela and, of course, Paulie Walnuts.

Of the bunch, Paulie clearly grew into his name the most. (Fur, Sil and Ton moved on to other households and, like Mr. Chase, other names.) Both Paulies can go from furry and cute to unexpectedly vicious in an instant. Both love to wallow in self-pity, but are also scrappy survivors. Both have an infectious charm. And if you know the Sopranos or the Polwicks, you know the name is amenable to nicking. (See prior posts.)

All of which made the utter rejection by his namesake, not just of him, but of his entire species, utterly devastating to Little Paulie. Two legs broken in one year and now this. He's chewing the extension cord right now. It's just that hard on him.

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DEEP THOUGHTS

If the sexy never left




then why's everybody on my shit?











(Just ponder it.)

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Hot Man-On-Man Action

John Amaechi:




This guy's so gorge he's made me rethink myself. You see, I'd always found it incomprehensible the way straight men are into lesbians. They're so delusional, thought I. They don't really want to see two lesbians doing it. They want to see two straight women smooch between tequila shots.

But thanks to Gay Former NBA, I now see that I in fact would enjoy watching two men having sex, provided one of them is John Amaechi.

So, thank you, Mr. Amaechi. Thank you for having a British accent AND being able to palm a basketball. You are a great ambassador for gayness.

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USELESS VOCABULARY: "busy"

busy [bizee] adj 1. actively and attentively engaged in work 2. not at leisure; otherwise engaged 3. fancying oneself important 4. desperate excuse for not living one's life

This word is severely overused in our culture. Nay, the very concept of "busy" is abused. "Busy" is our catch-all excuse. Not spending enough time with your children? Can't be bothered about global warming? "Busy" trumps all.

Another problem: when someone cries "busy" he is often positioning himself as a pitiable figure, the victim of his busyness. His shoulders should be massaged and his slippers fetched. But being "busy" is, for most, a point of pride (not to mention, a self-inflicted condition). For to be "busy" is, we assume, to be quite important. So "busy" becomes a double-win: you get to feel important and sorry for yourself!

And oh the respect due the "busy"! What greater compliment than "he's a busy man." What greater source of shame than sitting on your ass and doing nothing. Those too important to clean their own houses are held in high esteem.

I know I sound harsh, Clebketeers. My apologies to the innocently and circumstantially busy. I don't speak of you, but of the "busy" epidemic that enables people to run laps on the great rat-treadmill and avoid dealing with their real lives. To just plain stop now and then isn't the worst thing.

Oh, and sorry for the spotty posting lately. I've just been SOOPER busy.

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Bush II: More Fun Than Expected

When Bush won a second term, didn't you get that doomsday feeling? I did. I remember working up a little list of awful things that could happen, just so I wouldn't be too surprised. Implosion of the planet by environmental abuse, explosion by nuclear bombs, Brian getting drafted to Iraq. You know, daydreams.

Granted, all those things might still happen. But Bush's second term seems more and more like a great period of uncomfortable squirming for the Bush crowd and satisfying revelation for the rest of us. He must wish he lost that election. At least then he wouldn't be the jackass sitting on the throne when the mob comes with the guillotine. I know there are still plenty of horrors being wrought daily by this administration, but pardon me if I enjoy this satisfying denouement. It's the part at the end of the movie when they show a little picture of each Bushie alongside a humiliating capsule description of where they are now.

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A Little Ten Plaguesy

Sorry for my absence, Clebketeers, but it was a little Ten Plaguesy around Clebilicious way last week. Food poisoning. Kitty surgery. Shell-less eggs. Disappearance of free cable. (Feel free to pour a drop of wine for each plague, lessening your own cup of joy in recognition of my suffering. Or pour for homies lost--interesting how similar are the two customs.)

Anyway, expect intriguing new posts soon. Will they be about Hennessey and Camilla's quest for oranger egg yolks? Or the delicious denouement of Bush's second term? Chickens roosting, either way. Stay tuned.

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