Tuareg vs. Touareg — Autocorrect FTW!

Tuareg Man

 

It pleases me to announce that I now have a standardized spelling of “Tuareg” programmed into Autocorect in Microsoft Word.

I find that I often type it as “Touareg,” just out of habit, because I find it, visually a prettier word. I was unable to determine what the Tuareg themselves prefer (I don’t think that woudl exactly be the easiest task for a pastoralist nomadic people living in possibly the most oppressive desert region of the globe), so I settled on Tuareg as the standard because it is the most common spelling in English today, and most poeple in the U.S. know Touareg as a model of Volkswagen.

Speaking of which, does anyone remember the Volkswagen Scirocco, named after the Italian word for the Mediterranean wind that blows off the Sahara? Thanks for making North African adventure fiction seem less exotic than ever, fuckers. Maybe you could call your next model the Volkswagen Quicksand instead of the Volkswagen Fech Fech?

In fact, all of Volkswagen’s models from that era were named after winds. Some of them survive, like so:

The Scirocco name derives from the Italian word for the Sirocco wind — and the period in its history when Volkswagen named vehicles after prominent winds, including also Passat (after the German word for Trade wind), Golf (after Gulf Stream), Bora (after Bora), Polo (after Polar Winds), and Jetta (after Jet stream).

I know I am prone to off-color humor, but it seems like a bad idea to name any line of products after a bunch of different winds. I remember being about 12 and playing Trivial Pursuit in Lake Tahoe with some friends.  One of the questions concerned the VW Scirocco and its namesake, the hot Sahara wind. For the rest of the weekend, whenever any of us farted, we announced proudly, “Here comes the Scirocco — the hot Tahoe wind!”

Anyway, back to more dignified concerns: In deciding on a spelling of Tuareg to stick with, it wasn’t just Touareg I had to deal with. If words transliterated from Arabic are a nightmare for speakers of European languages, believe me, ones from Berber tongues are even more confusing.

I rejected the occasionally seen “Twareg” as being a visually hideous word, and although “Touarick” may actually be more contemporary to what I’m writing, I dismiss it as vaguely dysphemistic. I’m sorry, but adding ck’s to a word where none belong is just, I don’t know, unnecessary.

Oh, also, in case anyone cares, I now autocorrect “wadi” to “oued.” Having been so deeply affected by Emmanuel Jal’s War Child, in which it is spelled “wadi,” I will always want to type it with the Sudanese spelling instead of the Algerian one. Both words are pronounced the same way: “wah-dee.”

Just, you know, in case anyone cares.

AUTOCORRECT FTW! And if deciding on a spelling for Tuareg isn’t a First Word problem solved, then I don’t know what is.

Image: Tuareg man in Algeria, by Garrondo, via Wikipedia. Creative Commons.

Herzlichen Glückwunsch zum Geburtstag, Gustav Klimt!

Klimt's The Kiss

Alles gute zum Geburtstag, Gustav Klimt! Es tut mir leid, daß Sie tot sind. Eigentlich haben Sie seit 1918 tot gewesen, so ist es besonders traurig.

Aber wir, die am Leben gelassen werden, sollte um unsere Schulden Sie sich erinnern. Danke!!

Seine Bilder sind wunderschön, und noch bringt mir sehr viel Freude. Ihr Einfluss auf die Kunst war unvergleichlich.

Gut gemacht, Herr Klimt. Sehr gut gemacht. Schönen Dank, und mai Flüge von Engeln Sie zur Ihre Ruh singen.

Bild aus Wikipedia.

Clyde Barrow and Bonnie Parker’s Guns

Two of Bonnie and Clyde’s guns are up for auction at RR Auction in Amherst, NH…but not the ones that dedicated collectors might hope for.

The weapons in question are the .38 Colt Detective Special (“squat gun”) Bonnie Parker had strapped to her leg and the .45 Colt M1911 in Clyde Barrow’s belt, both taken from the scene by Texas Ranger Frank Hamer, a member of the posse that ambushed and killed the couple on the road in Gibsland, Bienville Parish, Louisiana. (Hamer, incidentally, claimed to have been in more than 100 gunfights during his law enforcement career, and to have killed 53 men. His son, Frank Hamer, Jr., was also a Texas Ranger, and provided the statement that authenticates the handguns on the RR Auction site. Also on auction at RR Auction are Bonnie’s cosmetic case, Clyde’s Colt Army Special (a modified “Fitzgerald Special”), his Elgin pocket watch, a letter by John Dillinger, and some really, really, really weird stuff from Capone.

But lovers of historical firearms know that Clyde Barrow’s favorite weapon was the Browning M1918 Automatic Rifle, or BAR. This bulky .30-’06 rifle was a selective fire weapon, meaning it could be fired single shot or full automatic. Because of the weapon’s size, Barrow famously modified his Browning, chopping down the stock and the barrel. You can see such a modified BAR in the Michael Mann film Public Enemies, where it is ahistorically placed in the hands of the historical gangster Homer Van Meter, a member of Dillinger’s gang. (Dillinger did not use the chopped-down BAR). According to user Mauser at the Internet Movie Firearms Database, the following is an actual historical photo of a chopped-down Barrow M1918  (it’s missing the magazine):

The Browning Automatic Rifle was an infantry weapon designed for World War I and deployed by the US military only late in the war — hence the “M1918,” or “Model 1918″ designation. It was meant to replace the despised French Chauchat and Model 1909, which were prone to frequent malfunction. (The Chauchat may be one of the most hated weapons ever used by the US military).

The BAR was intended to be fired on full automatic by an advancing infantryman with the weapon slung over his shoulder, in a kind of suppressive fire that is called “walking fire” or “marching fire.” In military science, “suppressive fire” is fire that “degrades the performance of a target below the level needed to fulfill its mission.” In other words, rather than trying to hit the target, it makes the enemy troops keep their heads down so they can’t stop the squad from advancing.

The BAR was not ideally suited for doing this on the battlefield, for a couple of reasons. First was the powerful .30-’06 round, which remains a standard rifle cartridge to this day. It’s a popular hunting round and the standard for the US Army’s M1 rifle and its successor, the M14, as well as many other military weapons. But the .30-’06 has a fair amount of recoil — especially when fired on the run. Second, John Browning gave the BAR a rate of fire of up to 600 rounds per minute — good — but equipped it with a 20 round box magazine –bad. Twenty rounds does not last long when one is laying down suppressive fire and glorping across a muddy stretch of No Man’s Land. The BAR can’t use a belt like some other light machine guns (which would probably make the weight prohibitive for walking fire anyway), and the Browning Automatic Rifle could not use a 50-round drum, as could the .45 Thompson.

But while the BAR made it into service in the Great War, it was the Thompson that went into production too late for military contracts. This led Thompson to unload his inventory by advertising the thing in magazines as the ideal weapon for ranchers to shoot coyotes. Bootleggers and bank robbers also found it a great way to take care of unwanted pests.

Having shot a Thompson on full auto, I can say that the weapon’s reputation for jamming is well earned; they jam like holy hell if you ease up on the trigger even for the whisper of an instant. Emptying the drum might seem like a good idea if someone was shooting back at you. The Thompson became known as the “Chicago Typewriter,”  but I’d wager that more memos got written with it in Hollywood than in Chicago. It was not with the BAR but with the Thompson, in The Godfather, “They shot Sonny on the Causeway. He’s dead!” In the Coen Brothers’ brilliant and oft-forgotten Miller’s Crossing, Denholm Elliot’s Irish gangster memoed rival gangsters with the Chicago Typewriter using, shall we say, vivid language. “Fuck off,” he tells them, basically, “Never interrupt an Irishman when he’s listening to ‘Danny Boy.’”

The BAR, on the other hand, ended up remaining in US military service through World War II and the Korean War, but it was used as a light machine gun or squad automatic weapon, not to provide walking fire. In the US military, today’s squad automatic weapons are essentially just beefed-up versions of the AR-15, essentially the M-16 or the M-4 but with increased capacity and a heavier barrel to support fully automatic fire without overheating.

But back in the 1930s, “suppressive fire” has a lower threshold of effectiveness  if you’re, say, a bank robber shooting at local cops with .38 revolvers or FBI agents who aren’t legally entitled to carry weapons. In this context, Barrow found the BAR effective, especially since the .30-’06 rounds he was able to steal from National Guard armories in the Midwest could reportedly pierce the heavy steel doors of 1930s automobiles. For this purpose, one of Barrow’s BARs was used by the 90-pound Bonnie Parker to pin down law enforcement officers in a shootout in Joplin, Missouri.

Incidentally, you know that caliber I was talking about? That’s right, .30-’06. Now, if you’ve read this far you probably already know this, but in case you don’t: It’s pronounced “thirty-ought-six. In this case, “ought” is an antiquated way of saying “zero,” and it was a “thirty caliber” round developed in 1906. If you are, say, a writer, and can learn only one thing about firearms, this is a pretty good thing to learn, though the difference between “9 mm” (a common pistol round) and “.9 mm” (a copyeditor’s shooting offense) would also be worth learning. The thirty-ought-six is quite possibly the most common U.S. hunting and military rifle round of the twentieth century — unquestionably so prior to about 1970, and it remains standard. So you can imagine my annoyance when, listening to an audiobook about hunting safaris in Africa, I was subjected to the narrator’s repeated insistence on calling it a “point-three-oh, point-oh-six.”

Ouch. Let Tom Waits explain it to you, and sing you out while he’s at it:

Image from Wikipedia.

Friday the 13th: Kill Kill Kill Kill… Die Die Die Die… Bad Bad Bad Bad… Hair Hair Hair Hair…

Friday the 13th

 Yes, it is that day again…and time for an afternoon viewing of Friday the 13th, the film that most thoroughly typifies the “Have sex, get killed” equation in American cinema. Thank you for dying, Kevin Bacon.

If you haven’t seen this flick, then you are missing out on numerous cultural touchstones. You probably don’t even know the meaning of the word “Kill kill kill kill…die die die die…ow ow ow ow…” which my friend Jonathan used to say whenever anyone was foolish enough to hand him a butcher knife.

To this day, I find that simple term, like mise-en-scene, joi de vivre, or Schadenfreude, to be highly useful in many conversations; it is almost universally understood.

More accurately, the sound in question (sometimes known among film nerds as the “Jason Sound”) is “Ki ki ki ki, ma ma ma ma,” at least according to composer Harry Manfredini, who said — and I quote — “Everybody thinks it’s cha, cha, cha. I’m like, ‘Cha, cha, cha? What are you talking about?’” (That’s Manfredini’s voice, by the way.)

Incidentally, Betsy Palmer, who plays a rather central role in the film, reportedly called the script a “piece of shit” after reading it. She never would have taken the role if she hadn’t desperately needed a new car.

Well, Mrs. Voorhees. We all do things that surprise us sometimes, don’t we?

Palmer was a very mainstream actress at the time, and a guest on many TV shows including “The Joey Bishop Show,” “Password,” and “The Kraft Television Theater,” and would later be in “Murder She Wrote,” “Knots Landing,” “Columbo,” “Newhart,” and many more. According to the IMDB trivia page, when Friday the 13th came out, many of Palmer’s fans were not pleased. One critic was so pissed off he published her home address and encouraged her outraged fans to write her in protest, but published an incorrect address.

I don’t quite agree with the esteemed Ms. Palmer. For all its bizarre faults (Five minutes of screen time making instant coffee, anyone?), there is no disputing what an impact on cinema this damn thing had. Better yet, it’s an object lesson in what happens when people get all hopped up about the end of civilization sure to be caused by things like movies. In the early-’80s culture wars, we were told that the slasher film genre that Friday the 13th and Halloween represent was sure to turn my generation into an army of babbling psychopaths who kill with machetes at the drop of a hat. Little did they know it would actually take antidepressants, text messaging, Grand Theft Auto and the internet to do what damage hadn’t already been done by Dungeons & Dragons.

I didn’t see Friday the 13th until well into the ’90s. I viewed it from the start as an absurdist enterprise, and the entire franchise as a Beavis and Butthead punchline. It’s not a horror film so much as a comedy skit in the woods. I almost can’t watch it without thinking of its clueless teen machete fodder and crazy old weirdos as drag queens and kings who might at any moment burst into a torrid English drinking song with excruciatingly obscene lyrics (yes, this means you, Kevin Bacon). I don’t so much watch Friday the 13th, I watch the Friday the 13th that’s playing in my brain — the Friday the 13th I didn’t see when I was a kid, filtered through everything I’ve learned since I didn’t see it that makes the zeitgeisty terrors of 1980 seem cartoonish and ridiculous, and the terrors of 2012 seem tiresomely been-there, done-that.

As if that wasn’t enough, add to it the fact that I was already an occasional semi-pro horror writer before I ever saw the flick. My good friend Alex S. Johnson, who is probably the reason I ever started writing horror to begin with, even wrote a Friday the 13th tie-in novel. Nancy Kilpatrick wrote two. Before I saw the thing, Friday the 13th was already furniture in my life. The Jason universe was like the World of Darkness — I might go there, even hang out there, but I didn’t take it that seriously.

So maybe Friday the 13th never really had the chance to scare me — unlike John Carpenter’s Halloween, which I did see when I was young. Several of Carpenter’s other movies are among my very favorite films of all time — but then as now, I find Halloween dull, underdramatized, unimpressive. Halloween had the chance to genuinely scare me, and blew it because in my estimation it’s an overrated film; regardless, for better or worse Halloween simply doesn’t work for me. On the other hand, I was laughing my ass off at Friday the 13th before the curtain ever rose.

Viewed in that context, I love Friday the 13th. But I’m sorry to say that thirty-two years on, after half a dozen viewings and numerous drinking games, the most horrifying things in this film are the hairstyles. “Ow ow ow ow” indeed.

Tchaikowsky’s Skull

Tennant as Hamlet and Tchaikowsky as Yorick

Yes, that’s The Doctor himself getting up close and personal with…Tchaikowsky’s skull!

Say what!?

That esteemed noggin, from the BBC2 production of Hamlet starring David Tennant, once belonged to twentieth century Polish pianist and composer André Tchaikowsky (not to be convused with the more famous nineteenth century Russian composer and conductor Piotr Ilyich Tchaikowsky or, commonly in English, Tchaikovsky — who is no relation).

Mr. Tchaikowsky, who was born in 1935 and fled Poland to escape the Holocaust, was a Shakespeare fan. He adapted the Bard’s Seven Sonnets for voice and piano. But he had even greater aspirations for the stage.

When he died of colon cancer in England in 1982 at the age of 46, Tchaikowsky donated his skull to the Royal Shakespeare Company, hoping it would be used as the skull of Yorick in Hamlet. If you’ll allow me, here’s where things get weird.

Tchaikowsky’s Wikipedia page says:

For many years, no actor or director felt comfortable using a real skull in performances, although it was occasionally used in rehearsals.

…That’s until in 2008, David Tennant played Hamlet at the Courtyard Theatre in Stratford-upon-Avon and used Tchaikowsky’s skull, per its prior owner’s wishes. But, says the Wikipedia article, as that caused some press attention to be lavished upon poor Yorick, it’s claimed the RSC then traded the real skull for a fake one.

Here’s what Tchaikowsky’s website says, rather proudly:

From July to November, 2008, the skull used in the graveyard scene in the Stratford Royal Shakespeare Company (RSC) production of Hamlet was that of André Tchaikowsky, but the use of the skull was a secret. When the production moved to London in December, 2008, the secret got out and the RSC announced they would not use the skull for the London run. However, this was not the case and the RSC continued to use André’s skull right through to the last performance on January 10, 2009. Thus, André had his time on stage and was returned to a box in the RSC prop room, but for only for a short while because the BBC decided to make a TV dramatisation of the RSC production with David Tennant, and to once again use André’s skull.

Then, as an update, the site adds:

January, 2010 – The DVD was released of Hamlet featuring the skull of André Tchaikowsky, used in Act 5, Scene 1 (graveyard scene). You can view this scene and scene text using the links below. Be prepared – the opening of Act 5, Scene 1 shows André’s skull in close up.

Ghoulishly, Tchaikowsky’s site then has not only twin YouTube links of both parts of the scene (Part 1 here and Part 2 here), along with downloadable clips of the scene. Is it just me, or is that going a little too far? I mean, when I’m gone, feel free to pimp my body parts, but Mr. Tchaikowsky’s skull seems to be going a little overboard here.

Oh, hell, why not? I can be ghoulish, too, and I’m not even related to the guy:
 


 


Anyway, the Wikipedia article claims actors were uncomfortable using a real skull as Yorick, and this BBC article says the RSC’s director removed the skull because it was too distracting to the audience to have a real skull up there. (That article, incidentally, even has a “timeline of the skull.”)

But in fact, this 2009 BBC article says that for the original performance in Stratford-Upon-Avon, a permit for Tchaikowsky’s skull was needed from the UK’s Human Tissues Authority, so a different human skull was used. (Just how many skulls does the Royal Shakespeare Company have, anyway?) More:

Mark Rylance used a cast of Tchaikowsky’s skull 20 years ago after initially practising his performance with the real thing. The musician’s remains then went back to a box until the skull was used by Tennant.

It had to be given a special licence for use and a stand-in had to be used until permission was given.

Doran said: ”When the Human Tissues Authority (HTA) licence had not arrived by the evening of the Dress rehearsal in Stratford last July, and we had to place André back in his box, our Theatre Collections Curator, David Howells, allowed us to use another skull he had in the collection, which as it was more than 100 years old, did not come under the jurisdiction of the HTA.

”It was the skull used as Yorick by Edmund Kean in 1813. A piece of theatre history happened that night on the Stratford stage as David Tennant, a 21st century Hamlet, stared into the empty eye sockets that a nineteenth century Hamlet had used. For those of us watching, a little shiver of connection occurred.”

Doran, who is also chief associate director of the RSC, added: ”I suspect André would have been amused by the fact that his cranium became a question on Have I got News for You?, but his bequest to the RSC was deeply sincere.

”I hope other productions may, with the greatest respect for André, use the skull as he intended it to be used, for precisely this purpose.”

That article was from before the BBC2 production, incidentally. Apparently, by the time the cameras rolled, André Tchaikowski was ready for his closeup. Perhaps the Human Tissues Authority had seen the light…or perhaps some government regulator had been visited in the night by a mysterious, shadowy figure…

This wee bit of stage history, by the way, comes to me via Stephen Fry’s QI, a “game show” that is less like watching TV than it is like hanging out with interesting relatives with buzzers. Want to know all sorts of shit that nobody but you and your friends really cares about? Fry’s your man!

Comment Spammers and The Devil

Baphomet

Okay, comment spammers. You’ve beaten me.

I hate the living holy hell out of Akismet, but it’s re-enabled. WTF was I thinking? It was naive of me to believe for one second that I could leave the comments open without an anti-spam solution, and somehow the whole trend toward 99% of the comments being spam would have, you know, like, “blown over.”

And that is how subhuman THINGS make the web no fun for anybody.

Comment spammers retain a very special place in my personal pantheon of evil. If I ever die and discover that I really was as big an asshole as some people say I am, and I go to Hell, and find myself face to face with The Devil, perhaps he will say:

“You have served me well, minion, what kind of super-being would you like to return as in order to better serve me?”

And I will say: “Spammer-torturer, my Liege. Let me track down spammers and cause them to suffer screaming in agony for many decades!”

And he’ll say, “No, no, no, I said I’m the DEVIL.”

JK, natch. Luv ya, Jesus, with the mercy and the forgiveness and all that. Love ya, srsly…great message, but then, they ddn’t have comment spammers in Biblical times, did they?

Then again, maybe they did. Maybe this explains Saint Paul…

Image: Baphomet, from Eliphas Levi’s “Dogme et Rituel de la Haute Magie”, 1854.

It’s Gettin’ Real In the Whole Foods Parking Lot

 

As a longtime shopper at natural food stores and a veteran of Whole Foods Parking Lots in Oakland, San Francisco, Carmichael, Los Angeles, and Austin, Texas among other places, I was tickled all to hell when my roommate K. shared with this dope jam from DJ Spider. It’s one of my favorite comedic videos of all time, ranking right up there with the Saturday Night Live classic “Comedy Can Be Hazardous to Your Health.”

How can you not love lyrics like this?

This fool’s on his iphone, talking to his friends
Trying to pick up some cayenne pepper for his master cleanse
You the most annoying dude I ever see, bra
Could you please move? You’re right in front of the quinoa…

 

Now that’s comedy. Word up, bra.

 

Whole Foods Parking Lot

Your Nightmares Will Now Be Televised


 

 

 

The unbelievably dumb-ass Geico commercial above has been annoying the living holy hell out of my girlfriend Bridgitte and me.

In it, an interviewed couple says “Home security systems are expensive, so we decided to adopt a rescue panther.”

That’s about as hilarious as the ad gets, so don’t bother waiting for the punch line; please just pause now to slap the shit out of your knee till you shatter your kneecap. I mean, is that comedy or what?

geicosucks

Y’see, right out of the gate we’ve got one of the stupidest ads in the history of advertising, even before we get to the “punch line.” It’s is not funny, nor does it make any sense. There is no joke there that we’re missing. It’s just one of those Chewbacca Defense moments; it…does…not…make…sense. Who the hell signs off on this shit?

Anyway, the truly annoying part is that the reason you shouldn’t wait for the “punch line” is because nobody seems to know what it is. The punchline comes when the couple is shown in bed in the middle of the night being watched over by the clearly dangerous panther — and the husband says…something.

Just what he says is the subject of some speculation on the interwebs, by people who apparently have just as much time on their hands as I do. Nobody seems to be able to figure it out, but it appears to involve a phantom “Shhhhhhh!” that potentially comes from lips unknown. It could be the wife. Or could it?

First and foremost, I consider it outrageous that in making this commercial, they inconvenienced a perfectly good panther who, I hope, promptly devoured its agent. But how the hell could they produce this thing and not realize how unbelievably obscure the “humor” is? Not in the manner of Terry Jones’s dada-est compositions like “I Like Traffic Lights” or “Here Comes Another One.” Just in that special way that says “The audience (remember them?) can’t even tell what’s supposed to be funny.”

Now, I’m as enthusiastic about another viewing of the Zapruder Film as the next guy, and believe me, I love NOTHING more than watching lame suburban couples get eaten by big cats. But in the case of this stupid commercial, I admit there’s no there there. There isn’t even a lesson to be had in how to (not) write comedic advertising spots. But sometimes I just get FREAKIN’ PISSED OFF at how stupid advertising is. I’m a pit bull for stupidity, which maybe sounds like something Harlan Ellison would have proudly proclaimed circa 1985 when boasting of yet another lawsuit…but if the Cruel Shoe fits, wear it.

Yes, it’s a little weird watching a goddamn Geico commercial over and over again on You Tube just to freakin’ figure out what the hell the joke is supposed to be when I’m damned sure it’s not going to be funny, but at least other people are similarly annoyed by it.

But if it’s adding self-inflicted injury to insult for something that’s such a waste of space to begin with to drive me to distraction, well, it gets worse, for me at least. It’s been annoying both of us because it’s on heavy rotation on — wait for it — Project Runway. This would be bad enough, if it didn’t follow on a short-lived orgy inspired by my much-beloved Oakland roomate K., who tempted me into the wicked embrace of American Idol, So You Think You Can Dance, and yes, even The Tonys.

geicocosucks2

 

And in case you’re wondering, yes, the sound of breaking glass you just heard was the infinitesimal remnant of whatever goth cred I had left, making short work of my apartment window. Hell’s bells, the television I put up with for the women in my life. Sons of Anarchy, where are you now? I promise, I won’t even complain this time when you assholes fly to ireland.