Posted 2:25 AM by sport

One of those occasions when there's nothing appropriate to say.
Someone came into my life during a very difficult time and made it easier.
A brief season that ended in tears.

Your life was too short and too hard, but we found some laughter together
and now you know peace.
Goodbye, Hilly.
Thank you and bless you.
Love, Sport

Posted 3:37 AM by sport

many thanks i give to thee

Posted 2:16 AM by sport

BY THE WAY...

Forgot a couple things in the previous entry.

First, here's a thing I wrote a few years back:
Lois!

And here are excerpts from an email I just got:

Dear "Sport", if I may:

Your remarkable screed entitled 'Jonathan Schwartz vs. Lois Hunt' popped up on my screen as I was Googleing myself in search of a certain ancient LP of mine...

...Earl used to say that we were never really famous, just "half-assed well
known." Therefore, in a sense I cannot truly fault the current 'hot' DJs for
being unaware of our, or my existence. That being said, as you noted there
was no call for the gratuitous, casual cruelty of their assessment of our
work.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart for your unsolicited and highly
articulate response to those worthies.

Most sincerely,
Lois Hunt

Ms Hunt is 80 years old, and couldn't be hipper, from what I see. Made me smile, that did. Bless you, Lois.

Also:
I contributed a bit of text to Irwin's wonderful new Fantagraphics book on artist Jim Flora. My other pal Laura Lindgren (co-owner, with good ol'boy Ken Swezey, of BLAST BOOKS) designed it, and it is well worth your dough.

Lastly:
Prior to election day I sat in with David Garland for an unusual, tongue-in-cheek "vote for my selected tune" program. Dunno how it sounds, but it was fun to do. Here it is if you want.
If that link doesn't work, go to wnyc.org. then to the programs list, then "spinning on air" then "october shows"

Posted 1:31 AM by sport

Naked baby in bag

Posted 1:30 AM by sport

Naked baby with bag

Posted 1:26 AM by sport

Boo!

Posted 1:16 AM by sport

THE PRODIGAL BLOGGER
I return*. Kill the fatted calf.
Autumn was a mixed bag**, but over the mix hung a dire depression. No point in recapping now what I was unwilling to relate then.

A ROOM OF VOICES
What was good, then?
SMiLE by Brian Wilson and Van Dyke Parks, live at Carnegie Hall. Oooh, baby baby!
Did I already mention that? What else?
A few things, but screw it***. The weird part of this past while was the tug of emotions between the babies' first birthday and the about-to-arrive first anniversary of my Dad's death. What can I say? I love them, I miss him, and on we go.

HACK HACK
The other notable bummer was a family epidemic of severe colds, which began in September and repeat-relayed throughout the clan, old and young, for the entire time up to and including tonight. One would recover, another would come down. This one would pass it back to the newly recovered and on it went (goes?). Worst was the way it hit the babies, who are so helpless and unable to communicate their specific complaints but who offer a general, agonized, day-and-night caterwaul for the duration.

Then Mom got it... my worst fear. She is now in hospital, being treated for what was about to become raging pneumonia. Evidently she is improving, but you understand the terror.

ANOTHER YEAR OLDER AND DEEPER IN DEBT
My birthday came and went this past Friday. Not much of anything, though I did hear from a couple of friends. This shocked me, since I've been so out of touch with most, and -- more damagingly -- in touch with some. I see a few friendships sailing over the horizon, like the boat Chuck Berry missed in "Havana Moon." I have not been much fun, nor much of a friend lately, so these bonds do loosen and relationships slip away. Others, I expect, are simply dormant.

But it is some comfort that a few folks took the time to check in with kind regards. You know who you are, and you're better than I for doing it.

HACK HACK pt 2
There actually was a slightly belated celebration arranged by dear Bianca Bob, a tandem tipple for me and b'day mate Don "Deuce" Brockway. However, I had to leave in the middle of the fun to execute my first assignment for the NY Daily News (?!), a review of a Minnie Driver gig (?!?!) at Bowery Ballroom. Got the job the previous afternoon. The show was scheduled for 10pm. Deadline was 11:30pm (!?!?!?!?!?!?!?). Minnie hit the stage a little after 10:30 (!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!??!?!?!?!?!??!?!?!?!?!?!??!?!?!?!?!??). With fellow celebrant "Deuce" Brockway along as assistant/enabler, I frantically typed the piece at the upstairs bar AS the gig proceeded. "Another whiskey, bartender!" I hunkered over the laptop in a big-town fever, just like a latter-day Hildy Johnson until I felt the piece had reached journalistic ripeness (translation: hit assigned word count), then bolted out to a newspaper kiosk on Bowery and dictated the gemlike prose (via Deuce's cellphone) to my editor as traffic shrieked around me.

As I closed the laptop, sucked my viceroy and swigged a spot o' scotch from my purloined glass, Deuce (so dubbed for his Sinatra-inspired bribing of a full-parking-lot attendant earlier) pointed out a Daily News truck rounding the corner. It was a mild, gorgeous New York night, and I felt like the MOTHERFUCKER. Back down Ludlow, where Irwin and Shana kindly waited for us after Bianca and the others had to head home. We four enjoyed the dregs of the Brockway/Murphy birthday hang, and that was that. Next day, there she was in black and white: my premiere offering to the city press. What a blast.

START HERE
Now we wait while Mom recovers. No Thanksgiving at the Old Ronkonkoma Home this year, but such unwelcome evidence of the old life's disintegration is countered by the rapidly recovering Miles and Lily and the new life's continued progress. Maybe we'll all share a belated turkey when Mom comes back home.
Should also mention in passing that I've managed to actually finish some lyrics these recent weeks. For the two albums I plan to make. Seems trivial, but not to me it ain't. Probably gonna make these albums all by myself. Somewhere I hear a blog-reader or 2 going "whew!" in the fresh and welcome knowledge that I won't bug them for help. That's all for now, pilgrim.






*,
**
and
***...
BONUS BULLSHIT!!!!!!!!
(one of the nicer Fall evenings involved a post-election day dinner with my pal Ken Emerson, author of the Stephen Foster bio "Doo-Dah!" ...afterwards I wrote one of the many blog entries that never get posted, excerpted below, just for the hell of it. While the following has nothing to do with Ken, it should be noted that he spent a lot of our evening insisting that I try to get work writing for one of the daily tabloids. Who knew I'd start doing just that in a couple of weeks? In recognition of the man's strange sagacity, I'll post this one anyway. It will also, perhaps indicate the kind of things that never get posted, and why)

O, most blessed: a night in New York when you look around and truly see a city that for once is not glowering back. You stand by the gutter, where all bad smokers must go after excusing themselves from the bar where several never-or-formers have just repeated the mandatory annoyance: "that's a terrible habit you know." Sure do, but the reminder always helps, so thank you thank you now let me go and be terrible. So there you are on a rare city night where the street is a comfortable place to stand and puff, not frigidaire frosty nor crowded with others nor humid and reeking nor pissing-wet. Autumn, the one good season of a grown-up's year, wherein a few good nights promise faint hope to the pistol-whipped man in bad need of a lyrical hour.

A few bites and bends of the elbow with a chum was why I came, and a miracle of minute proportions preceded his glad arrival. Here -- in the city most loathed by those to whom cities mean so much they fucking bow and pray toward one every day of their deluded lives -- everybody's groaning over the previous night's election. I say a few words myself, a bland few, chosen to harmonize with those said already and imply that I have no argument with the surrounding assembled. Simple boozer politicking and not insincere, since I can hurl calumny at either side at any time, knowing there's enough "fuck them" to go around and who cares anyway? Some people like to get all worked up about this shit. I like a nice cocktail and a nice ephemeral chat. A smiling companion at the bar is your human connection at fullest flowering, so long as a few stiff ones and a light dance around the topic at hand succeed in avoiding all divisive hints of which brand of killing you prefer. War? Death Penalty? Abortion?
I'm with you... THEY ain't people!
I'm with you... they're PEOPLE!
I like a nice cocktail. I like talk as important as the free peanuts are nutritious. Trivia. Blarney.
A terrible person. With a terrible habit or two. 'scuse me; gotta step outside and send a Beardsley curl of terrible smoke twisting upwards along these lovely buildings, so hated by all those... uh... people.

Asshole credential now established, in case anyone forgot in the long lapsus bloggum, I'll remention the aforementioned tiny miracle. Some gal came on to me! A looker, too! Why? Can't fathom. I showed her pictures of the babies... mentioned the loving wife. Didn't matter. She tendered a parting invitation, effective the following night. How pleasant it was! Such flattery. You think: "she was drunk" ...no, no she wasn't, prick. Neither was I; the night had just started and I'd had but one tequila. She was grabbing a fast one before starting the night's work at another joint down the street. Naw, this was an unaccountable case of unsolicited female interest directed towards me, and I was as puzzled as you.

Let's face it, I'm not exactly cuntnip. Even in the glow of youth I attracted 'em only sporadically, and then they mainly fell into two types. First and most frequent were yer nerdy smart chicks, often a tad porcine, who saw in me a not-completely uncool type with whom they might actually stand a chance for fine romance (to crib a brilliant rhyme from our Bard-o'-the-One-and-Nine, Springsteen the Bruce). Mind you, they'd drop me like a hot spud should some nearby Johnny Depp deign to offer them a chance at cleanin' his clarinet. However, it seemed that these, my female counterparts in tourist class, had a more realistic view of things. They didn't waste precious time as I did, mooning over the unattainable. They lowered their sights to a level commensurate with their station in the caste system of bangability and saw... me. Bland and pale but not ugly, and oddly amusing. Ah! the sparkling memories of these encounters....

(omitted description of several auld encounters, funny but more wisely deleted, went here)

I'm not saying there weren't some loving, wonderful experiences with attractive, sharp women. But those ones WERE drunk, and, no doubt, are now sketching me as an egregious ghost of fuckmas past on their own blogs, if I'm remembered at all. Fair's fair, now. Nor am I suggesting that the ones who'd have me and who had me are somehow embarrassing to my memory. No! They were mostly wonderful people. Just not on my resonant freqeuncy to any notable degree. And, truth be told, the fact that I married my most notable exception to all the above, in a unique moment of clarity and luck, is why I can be so obnoxious about it all now. My point though, is that even when I was supposedly at the prime age of potential desirability, the fish weren't biting. Accepted with due solemnity. Braaap.
This is not unlike the late realization that my music failed because... people don't want to hear it! Because they don't like it! Simple as that. Accepted, at long last, with due solemnity. Urp.
So now, years along, how can it be explained that a choice chick - apparently in full possession of her faculties - throws me the ol' goo-goo eyes? Christ, my every gesture broadcasts sullen surrender; each bon mot drips with killjoy oozins of grim disappointment. My lard-girded middle aged corpus ...no-ones idea of delecti even before the sediment of sedentarianism had accrued ... slogs its weary sloth-march under clouds of black futility. Can I get an amen? Ah, shut up.
So, HOW?

I'd rather not know. A moment of such harmless flattery is a scarce thing. Some months ago, for example, I was joined on the cold curb of terrible habit by a little minx from Scotland, in New York on holiday. She'd obviously been guzzling some heady concoction back inside the ginmill, and was chatty as all get-out. Amidst her monologue on this and that adventure, I opined that I was "a bit old" for someting or other she'd mentioned as a must-do... dunno what... going to a rave or extreme snowboarding or growing one's second teeth... and she said "aw g'wan, mate, yer not that old, are ye?" I disclosed the true and factual antiquity of her fellow smoker, to which she replied, "well, ye don't look it! Ye look a lot yoonger!" I smiled. "Well, thanks, that's nice to hear." She wasted no time adding "well, I'm not sayin' yer attractive! Yer a bit chubby, eh?" Fucking tartan twat.

So, honest, I am not crowing about this lone instance of ego-strokage as if it vindicates me as a late-blooming hunk of oooh-yeah. Far from it. And it means nothing in reality anyhow, since I am not in the market ...and glad of it. Just noting a nice little moment from a nice little night that came and went, as all nice little things must.

Posted 2:51 AM by sport

so what's new? hahahaha
(let's quote song lyrics like all those kids do.)

I've been out walking
I don't do too much talking
These days, these days.
These days I seem to think a lot
About the things that I forgot to do
And all the times I had the chance to.

I've stopped my rambling,
I don't do too much gambling
These days, these days.
These days I seem to think about
How all the changes came about my ways
And I wonder if I'll see another highway.

I had a lover,
I don't think I'll risk another
These days, these days.
And if I seem to be afraid
To live the life that I have made in song
It's just that I've been losing so long.
La la la la la, la la.

I've stopped my dreaming,
I won't do too much scheming
These days, these days.
These days I sit on corner stones
And count the time in quarter tones to ten.
Please don't confront me with my failures,
I had not forgotten them.

- Jackson Browne (!) for Nico's CHELSEA GIRL

..this is an answer to the question implicit in your checking this blog.
hey... great seeing you.
give my best, ok?
great.

Posted 2:07 AM by sport

Still out of touch with everyone, still reeling from an unexpectedly brutal anniversary of Sept 11 and a terrifying false alarm regarding Miles' health, here I am with more whinging - but first a toast.

Two of my pals, actor nonpareil Brad Dourif and jokewriter now-and-later Steve Young, were nominated for Emmy awards, but neither nabbed the trophy. Still, I applaud both gentlemen for taking their great talents to such heights of professional recognition. Brad’s loss was compensated (in my world, anyway) by winner Michael Imperioli’s surprising thank you to John Cassavetes. I dig Imperioli’s work on The Sopranos lots, but now I owe him a drink if we ever occupy the same dive. Dear Claudia looked stunning alongside Brad at the gala event, and young Cleo got to meet Larry David at the afterparty, so all in all, it looked like a good time was had in Hollywood
What about life on Long Island, though?

Shelley’s busy back at work. Alex is busy back at school. Miles and Lily are busy continuing to grow in brilliance and beauty. And Sport continues to swell like a hog tick as he shuffles listlessly from room to room.

I’ve succeeded in isolating myself from everything and everyone. My brain is shriveling like some plum decaying in time-lapse footage. Apart from the babies, all I busy myself with is file sharing. A possible advantage of the disintegration of creativity is this newly revived enjoyment of all sorts of music and sounds; I’m discovering and rediscovering things without any “anxiety of influence” thanks to the free-flowing mp3 tit. Primitive electronics, many Frenchmen, massive orchestral densities, Chinese moonsongs, Drunken celebs cutting voiceovers, children playing with Panasonic portables, disco relics and raver favorites. I grab ‘em and burn ‘em and spin ‘em all day and night. It’s odd to encounter peculiar facets of real beauty in even the Rodd Keiths and Jandeks of the world that I cannot find in any of my own work.

I can see lush gardens where most folks see nothing but ugly weeds, yet I can’t raise me a blade of goddamn grass. So it goes, and so it went. With this in mind I’m glad that devouring this huge accumulation of cdrs is just pleasure without envy. It feels a bit like the obsessive pursuits of my younger days, when I couldn’t grab LP records fast enough to satisfy the thirst. It doesn’t bug me that kids like Daedelus are making such cool stuff or that folks my own age - like Nick Cave – boast catalogs of unreleased toss-asides that shame my best efforts. I’m just enjoying the music. And despite all common sense, there are weak blips of activity even here in loser’s alley.

I’m scheduled to do a couple of tunes at a benefit in October. 2 or 3 numbers. I hope it’s fun. I haven’t performed since an unpleasant Knitting Factory set about two years ago. Actually, there was another set the next day at a benefit for an ailing acquaintance, but that was too rotten to regard as anything more than a death rattle. Some friends I enjoy and admire are kindly accompanying. It’ll be a weirdly active interval, since I’m also attending Brian Wilson’s SMILE concerts and a Neil Innes gig around the same time. House hubby making the scene! Better eat my Wheaties.

In my mind, and on scraps of paper and tape… but mostly in my mind… there are two albums. Both would be relatively modest as far as number of tracks, but the conceit behind the plan calls for two distinct collections, made simultaneously. This should help prevent the eclecticism that was one of the hallmarks of my prior flops as well as providing plenty of busywork to keep me out of trouble. I got a Fender amp and a heap of drum breaks to help fashion these guaranteed solid sinkers, should time and metal energy ever permit (not to mention the seemingly impossible prospect of learning how to use the digital mini-studio my wonderful and optimistic wife got for me a few years ago). This time it’ll be pretty much just me. I can inflict my hobby on KRS and they may accept or reject, but I can’t ask real musicians to expend much effort anymore.

So here I am, back where I started. A rabid music fan who plays with tape recorders in his room.

Posted 4:36 PM by sport

yo

Posted 4:35 PM by sport

howdy

Posted 4:35 PM by sport

greetings

Posted 4:35 PM by sport

hello

Posted 1:42 AM by sport

My late, great Father, Seamus Murphy and Ruby, the great-granddaughter who was wrenched from his life after he'd lost his treasured grandson, Pete.

Posted 1:38 AM by sport

Ladder 118 buried under rubble.

Posted 1:37 AM by sport

A news photo of Pete's truck heading to the WTC... notice the watermark, signifying copyright. The paper will sell you a print of this image: 8 by 10 for 35 bucks, 11 by 14 for 60 bucks.

Posted 7:55 PM by sport

Pete, Brian, me and David at my wedding.

Posted 7:48 PM by sport

ALL I SEE ON THE FUCKING TV IS FOOTAGE OF THE FALLING TOWERS.
Here, by way of acknowledgment of an anniversary that still fucks me up completely, are some old emails, with addresses omitted.

Subject: worried
Date: Tue, 11 Sep 2001 18:13:02 -0400
From: sport
to my friends in and around nyc - please send a brief reassurance that
you're ok as soon as you can. my prayers and love go to you on this
awful day -
love, sport

Subject: Re: worried
Date: Tue, 11 Sep 2001 19:29:05 -0400
From: sport
thanks for the note, ***. glad you're ok. a great number of my friends
live and work downtown, of course, so i'm on tenterhooks right now. so
far no bad news on any personal level, but christ, what's to come? my
sister's son is a fireman right now assisting down there. i dread his
account of things, but those i've spoken to - including writers/photogs
and veterans of european war and other global devastation - tell me the
scene is as bad or worse than what they've seen. christ. my best to you
and yours.
Sport

Subject: (no subject)
Date: Wed, 12 Sep 2001 00:32:45 -0400
From: sport
i just found this out... my nephew peter, with whom i was raised like
brothers, is mia - he's a firefighter whose company was one of the first
called in after the initial attack. all of them are unaccounted for. if
anyone prays, please pray for him and all the others.
Sport

Subject: Re: checking in
Date: Mon, 17 Sep 2001 00:41:57 -0400
From: sport
thanks, *****.
I'm with you on Bach. Music has been very hard for me to take in
general. I played Appalachian Spring, which Peter and I used to bliss
out to during our young years and on later, drunken nights. Old American
Songs by Copland, too, though I couldn't take it when I listened to some
of them - too severe, too painful. Ives' "Thanksgiving And Forefathers'
Day" got me through one afternoon... it's a very important piece of
music to me, particularly in regard to God.

I will chance "Sheep May Safely Graze" by JSB, though its Christmas
affiliations may be too much to bear. My own music hasn't been very much
in mind. I waver between wanting to make an album for Peter, and not
even wanting to contemplate such a thing. He was always there at my
gigs, and I don't want to consider doing one without him there. I
understand what you mean about songwriters and their importance. I don't
know if Im one of those, and it doesn't even matter. I wrote a song
called "Home Is Far Away" for Peter and his Mother, my sister Maureen. I
listened to it and it sat on my ears like a wet rag.

I sing to Peter - in my head I sing Sondheim's "Not While I'm Around"
which was a core song for us, our way of assuring each other of the bond
that kept us going through a lifetime of frequent grief and periodic
separation. The other day I was singing it in my mind to him, and it was
shattered by the chorus of that Chumbawamba song "I get knocked down,
but I get up again..." which Pete adopted as a New Year's Eve song the
past few years. I took it as his way of assuring me he was ok, shouting
down the Sondheim ballad with his usual brave optimism. Now I wonder if
all my faith in his rescue is just my mind attempting to deny it all. I
still cling to hope.

Went to Brooklyn yesterday to see my sister and Pete's little bro, David
and David's dad Ira. Candlelight vigil on 15th street... mass at Holy
Name, where we went to elementary school. Magic Beans is imbued with
that neighborhood, which will always be my heart's home. It's so fucking
hard, friend.

Thanks for being there - I dunno if I can talk yet, but I can write here
and there. Speaking usually collapses into grief. I need Peter back. I
grieve for everyone... and our nation, and our world, but fuck, I need
Peter. I'd better stop now.
Love to you and family -
Sport

Subject: wrote this a few nights ago - grab a shovel
Date: Sat, 06 Oct 2001 00:58:30 -0400
From: sport

Apologies in advance for what follows, especially since I have no idea
what it will be as I begin tapping out these words. I'm writing/sending
this for the same reason poison labels say "induce vomiting" ...delete
it now if that's a problem. It'll be long and bitter. Sue me.

My nephew Peter Vega was my "kid brother." We grew up in the same home,
spent summers, vacations and holidays together. We played guns, told
dirty jokes in backyard tents, roamed the streets bar-hopping, sang and
cried together. When he was in the Air Force, we shared frequent, long,
inebriated phone calls over whatever distance lay between us.
Unfortunately, in recent months our relationship was strained; this
situation remained unresolved when he died trying to save lives in the
World Trade Center collapse. Some of the reason for this strain may be
traced to a family of utterly evil scum called the Grices (spelling
uncertain, but shit stinks regardless of garnish), one of whom he wedded
and with whom he fathered a now one-year old daughter. This brood of
lace-curtain mick psychotics is now doing its level best to compound the
misery of my sister Maureen, Pete's mother. I'll leave that subject
alone for now, and I mention it only as a way of explaining - to some
degree - the tone of my current thoughts. As far as our unresolved
conflict, I bear neither guilt nor resentment. He knew I loved him, I
know he loved me. People who love each other have problems. So it goes.
I'll tell you more about Peter later on.

Today, as I brought my deeply heartbroken and severely ill mother to the
doctor, we entered a taxicab piloted by a standard-issue longhaired Long
Island loudmouth, who immediately started a harangue about the "fucking
towelheads" and how all the other cabbies at his company were banding
together to prevent the hiring of any of "them." I assume this extends,
as it usually does, to Indians, Filipinos, or any other brownish people
with funny accents. He even threw in a few oblique remarks about "the
niggers" before I told him to "shut the fuck up... my mother lost her
grandson in this and you're upsetting her." Idiots aside, we've also
been unable to bear newspapers, news shows, or anything other than
diverting entertainment: Our Gang comedies, Golden Girls, etc. After
quitting my 4-newspaper-a-day habit, I realize how much easier life is
without absorbing the pathetic travails of the goddamned human race and
the impertinent opinions of columnists and critics. Wish I'd realized
this sooner... before my self-respect and joy in making music was
destroyed by their complete dismissal of my work. Too late blues,
always, always.

So after the first wave of post-disaster response, during which every
jerkwad in the nation sobbed cascades of luscious grief, lit candles and
sang Irving Berlin kitsch that still sucks as much as it ever did,
America returns to its characteristic belligerence and cocksure
stupidity. Hippies piss and moan about the "scary militaristic
atmosphere," and vermin like our cabby hurl bile and worse at every 7-11
counter-person they encounter-personally. Others send insipid emails
about "God's mercy and love" or animated gifs of Bin Laden getting
beheaded or beshitted (depending upon the relative "edginess" of the
sender's self-image). Petitions of all sorts... "food for thought"
(sure, "thought")... heartfelt messages from concerned celebrities...
stunningly prophetic song lyrics from old albums... suggestions where to
donate money... threats of viruses virtual and actual... every chunk of digitized bullshit imaginable. What about me? I said
novenas to St Jude (which is rather like “she loves me, she loves me
not” in the canon of pointless comforts), I'm writing this, and no doubt
I'll compose some sorry-ass tunes about the varied ramifications of this
catastrophe on my life. I'm as impotent as the rest of y'all. And
probably - obviously - more inappropriate in response.

Everyone finds a way to cope with all this, and I'm sure that Bon Jovi
singing a slow, sensitive version of "Living On A Prayer" must deeply
move somebody. It ain't me, babe. Nor am I solaced by the homily of a
priest in my old neighborhood church, where I attended a mass the week
of the incident: "Through the prism of my tears, I see a sorrowful God."
Some God you go there, padre. Great weeping Jesu! Still, leave us each
our fairytales, and let's all rah rah the tiny little flags that are
mandatory now on the radio antennae of every SUV that cuts us off,
blasting popular songs exclusively concerned with money and schtupping.
There's your culture, Rollo... wallow. How many of these patriots even
bother to vote? Well, who cares... America's united now. The lump in my
throat is probably cancer from all the viceroys I'm sucking, but dammit
it's a picturesque lump anyhow. I'll be right there with you all when/if
our duly appointed president (whose father was a lot quicker to bomb
Iraq over oil than his son is to deal with dead Americans, even if
Hussein was left untouched and undeterred) gets off his ass and begins
the glorious beguine of massive slaughter. But I won't be cheering, and
I won't be weeping. And I sincerely don't mind if the first retaliatory
scud lands directly on my benighted skull. However, I am satisfied that
the USA is as fine a place to spend our short spell of long sorrows as
any yet devised by earthlings. I only wish Theodore Roosevelt were in
charge.

I re-read the book of Job at some point in order to find any kind of
perspective on the disasters that seem to regularly visit my family. I
found the same utter gibberish I've always found. The same gibberish
humans have used from time immemorial to justify their terminal
bloodlust and kid themselves that there’s some mystic reason for all
this hideous pain we endure and inflict upon each other. The bible is a
collection of random documents written by ancient bungholes who
occasionally - accidentally - landed on some insight. The koran is an
even sillier work of lunacy that was written solely as a separatist
affront to the bible (much as kwanzaa was invented by racists of african
descent to piss on whitey christmas and jew-bastard hannukah… and you’re
welcome to infer any bigotry on my part from any part of that, since I
don’t give a rat’s ass what variety of p.c. makes you happy any more
than I feel compelled to respect any group’s version of “justified”
bigotry). All we want is to hate each other. Yeah, I've read the gita
and the tao te ching and Rumi and all of it. Nice stuff here and there,
much like Mad magazine, but far less consistently rewarding. So there's
your holy books... feh. Where to find wisdom and solace? Beats the
living shit out of me. Have I lost my faith in God? Naaah. There's
something higher. My logical proof of this is that we are so low, and we
know it. So whether it's fantasy or metaphysical reality... holy mystery
or improvised delusion, I'm on board. Individually. Where 2 or more are
gathered in anyone's name, there is evil. So the human equation is: me
and you can share a cuppa java. The minute you wanna go find some others
to form a rock band, a fraternity, a ballteam, a prayer group, a sewing
circle, a fan club... sayonara.

What do I see in our culture in this great age of communication?
Internet geeks and madmen posting illiterate drivel as ephemeral as
their worthless lives... Hannity versus Combs with a congress of the
same yattering disembodied heads they call upon for every thing from
JonBenet to Clinton's Cock... Howard making fun of retards and
discussing - with great wit - the silicone implants of some sad crack
whore... Bill Maher coaxing provocative thoughts from deep-thinking
celebrities... Leno telling "jokes" that even Bob Hope would have fired
his writers for excreting... College students advising anyone patient
enough not to shoot them that we should all read Noam Chomsky, 'cause he
KNOWS, maaaaan... Pat Robertson coming in his pants because this boosts
the rapture business higher than viagra stock.... Captains of industry
bemoaning the "needed" layoffs as they frantically protect their
fortunes like junkies guarding a stash... every tinhorn weasel you meet
daily, blabbing on and on about "what should be done" the way they
discuss baseball... urp. I'll pray, thanks. To what? Who knows? Who
cares? If I know anything about God I know it cares not a whit what
happens to us. It's more like a water fountain you take a refreshing sip
from. Helps for a second, then it goes the way of all else... down the
loo. Is life hopeless? Fundamentally, of COURSE it is. Provisionally,
never.

So what can I contribute to our shattered dialogues (rather, volley of
monologues)? There are friends who have shown deep concern and empathy.
That matters. There are others conspicuous in their silence. I resist
drawing conclusions about this, since my impulse to always to assume the
worst is often correct but I'm no more reliable or compassionate than my
least considerate friend. There is music, still, if you look REALLY hard
in the hidden corners of well-stocked stores. There's sex: the sublime
reality-obscuring game for one, two, or more players. There's the
consuming act of consolation, which can vary from a phone call to a gift
(money orders, please) to physical help. There's the awe-inspiring
example of people like my nephew Peter's brethren in the FDNY, who
fucking rise to the occasion and do something, even if I dearly wish he
hadn't been so brave. There's the comforting reality that nothing means
anything, so try and overcome your pointless anxieties and enjoy a
minute of this transient day along with some other human. There's
memory.

I remember Peter and me listening to Appalachian Spring, feeling
powerful and bonded in love and rapture and Jameson's. I remember
building him a truck from a corrugated box one Christmas eve, which
looked like shit and occupied his blissful attentions Christmas day
until it fell apart... I was probably 11 and he was probably 5, and we
were a team. I remember sitting with him in a diner in NYC after a Skels
show - just us two - making the pianist play "Round Midnight" over and
over. I remember him driving me to the local store for smokes every
holiday, which felt like an annoying favor, but was actually a ritual
escape to brotherland away from the bustling family for a few minutes.
These are just scattershot memories among the many that are mine until
my lights dim. I need to make more memories with those still here, and
savor them as fully as a lifetime's tutelage in loss informs me I
oughtta.

But first there's a "memorial service" on Saturday. It was decided by
his widow – deeply bereaved after knowing him a couple of years - that
this needed to occur NOW, in spite of the fact that my father is in the
hospital recovering from a hip fracture and my mother is virtually
immobile with grief and already taxing illnesses. In spite of the fact
that my sister would prefer to wait a few weeks and not drag our parents
into the service so soon. I am begged by Peter's best friend (who I also
consider a dear friend) not to express in any way my seething hatred for
Pete's in-laws. He says we all need "closure."

Closure. Right. He means well.

My wife has saved my sanity through this, working hard to help, and
gracefully absorbing the extreme emotions I've been unable to express to
anyone else (this long screed hardly scratches the surface of my
blooming misanthropy and desolation, trust me). We will celebrate our
first anniversary immediately after the ordeal Saturday. (I'll be
reading some tripe from the christian bible for my sister’s sake… one of
the few acknowledgments of Peter’s real family permitted in this
detestable pantomime) Then it's on to the agonies ahead. On to the brief
ecstasies ahead. On to the inevitable, blessed nothingness somewhere
ahead after all our inadequate attempts have passed, all our ridiculous
hostilities have abated, after all our dreams and loves have been
explored or exhausted or exalted. I sure hope the anthrax doesn't hit MY
family's water supply, or yours. I sure hope nobody kills you or anyone
you love, or anyone else I love. I sure hope I overcome these shamefully
nihilistic feelings I'm drowning in, and acquire a smidgen of the
selflessness that drove Peter to make a career out of rushing into
burning buildings to save other people's lives. I doubt it, but there's
Pete's kid brother David and the rest of the family to consider, so
maybe.

And I'll eventually make another album of my songs that nobody will
hear, and dedicate it to my brother Peter. And if that ambition seems a
little hollow and insignificant, you have glimpsed what I now feel,
every moment of every day. If Pete was more like me - vain and selfish
enough to make crappy music instead of saving lives, he'd be here today,
and I'd probably share in this Live Aid orgy of righteousness and jingo
and gas and weltschmerz. But he was brave. And so he's gone. And I'm
typing this. And let me drop my black mask one moment:

I cannot fucking believe Peter is dead. He was too young… too strong.
Not perfect or angelic, but a hero and a beloved brother. He overcame
the traumas of an absent father, dyslexia, weight issues, etc, to become
a noble, good man and father. I dread the effect on our family, which is
already considerable. I want it to be September 10 again, so I could
call him and settle our issues, move on to more memory-making and forget
the bullshit. I want his daughter to grow up and know her father, for
his wife to escape the dementia of her family and spend life with Peter
in all its mundane glory. I want David to wisecrack with me and Pete
around the Thanksgiving table. I want my sister’s easy laughter back. I
want my parents to bounce their great-granddaughter as proud papa looks
on. I want to worry about nothing more urgent than my own failure. But
here we are.

I’m confused… weak, snarling, sarcastic, depressed and scared. I loved
Peter. I love you. I’m sorry… I hope for better things. I do not expect
them. To those who’ve written and called, my deepest thanks… it means
plenty. To those who didn’t? Well, imagine some tender and understanding
reaction on my part, pretend that’s how I would have felt, and let’s
leave it at that. Permanently.

Subject: In search of understanding
Date: Tue, 16 Oct 2001 02:52:29 -0400
From: sport

As Oprah Herself will tell you, one of the most important things we can
accomplish in this frightening, divisive time is a better understanding
of each other. After writing a long spiel about my family’s ongoing
tragedy, I realized that I’ve been remiss in reaching out to others who
believe in different truths than I do. My understanding of Islam had
more to do with the “Nation Of Islam,” a noble faith which teaches that
I and my pale race were created, way back when, by a renegade wizard…
and that the honorable Elijah Muhammed circles the Earth – even now – in
a spaceship, waiting for the proper moment to swoop down and immolate
our ofay asses.

Fair enough - and by gum we deserve it – but this, as it turns out is
not True Islam. So what is True Islam, if not a recent invention that
mostly permits black guys to change embarrassing given names like “Lew”
and “Cassius” to cooler ones like “Kareem” and “Muhammed” (as well as
surnames like the demeaning “Little” to the crisp and e-z to spell “X”)?
I resolved to find out.

My first attempts to befriend and learn from my Muslim neighbors were
awkward at best. Spotting a beturbaned gent at the local Kohl’s, I
dropped my armload of (hunter and persimmon-hued) bathroom products and
approached him (maybe a wee bit over-enthusiastically) with a cry of:
“Hello! Hello, my brother! Tell me about Allah, et al, that I may know!
That I may understand!” Rather gruffly, he snapped “No, no, I’m a
Sikh!” I felt that familiar pang of guilt over pan-cultural ignorance.
He sure didn’t LOOK Italian, and I’d never have bothered anyone who was
under the weather.

A few days later, after listening to numerous recordings by some dead
guy named “Muskrat Alley Fatwad” (borrowed from my pal Josh Utne, who
knows a lot about world music and recommended it to me as a proven
chill-out / transcendental kind of thing plus that guy from Pearl Jam
sang with him once and maybe Sting or some shit), I returned to my
quest. Heading for the local deli on shank’s mare (which, in the
traditional argot of the ancient, drunken Celts, means: “can’t afford a
cab”), I mused “now how can I tell if those guys who work there are
Muslim? Maybe they’re Jain or Zoroastrian or Crustacean or
Quoteacrostic!”

Dilemma.

Bingo: two guys in fezzes were just then driving tiny cars down Parkway
Boulevard. Upon each fez was emblazoned: “Mecca” in really hep
embroidered script. This time I was determined to play it cool. Seeking
to impress them with what I’d learned, I ululated like the fat dead guy.
“UluUluUluAieeeeAieeeeAhhhh” I melismaed. They stopped cold and cast a
bewildered glance in my direction.

This time I dropped the condescension (which even foreigners can smell a
mile away, Clem told me), and tried the casual approach. “Hey, fellas.
Just doin’ a bit of chanting here. Yep… just chantin’ and a-chantin’. It
really puts me in touch with Gaia or something.” “Sure mister, sure…”
one replied, thrusting a tin can toward me “…wanna give a buck to the
fund for childhood burn victims?” Having no cash on hand, I quickly
offered to assign my song royalties to their cause. “I’m a Kill Rock
Stars artist!” I crowed. “Huh?” they swallowed. “Sleater-Kinney…” I
penguinned. At this they brightened, claiming great affection for, as
they put it, “whatever the fuck you’re talking about.” Sensing an
opening, I donned a tux. But before I could telegraph congratulations to
the cast, I needed to satisfy this curiosity about Islam, so I queried
my new chums: “So, guys. Tell me what it is you believe.”

“I believe I need a drink,” quipped one. “I believe it’s half-past and
we’re late for the meeting,” added the other. Inscrutable as Chinamen,
these Muslims. Off they sped (well, putt-putted), leaving me more
confused than ever. Again, aside from the exotic garb, they looked no
more Semitic than Lyle Waggoner. I was sure getting a reality check on
my own prejudices! Figured I, time to consult my own trusty Deity for
some of that guidance He supposedly offers. I dropped to my knees and
invoked the words of a dimly-remembered childhood prayer:

“O mightest of yon holiest… one true God of true God who hath in Thy
boundless mercies shewn Thy servants thru Thy holy torrents of gushing,
viscous blood that Thou art greatest among utmost holies… delivereth and
comfortheth me, i plead in utter, wretched, sin-caked humility. For thou
arteth mine Shepherd and mine Mencken, before whom all others are mere
Bombeck, and to Whom i turneth in mine detestable worthlessness for the
succour borne every minute on Thy righteous wind, Amen.”

With this I rent my garment, since I don’t actually OWN a tux, and
stood: waiting for divine guidance.
The sky remained calm.
A butterfly fluttered past.
In the distance, I heard bass thumping from a really awesome car stereo.

Ja Rule?
Backstreet?
Dio?
Couldn’t tell… but I knew it sucked.
Somewhere, someone was using a leaf blower.
Asshole. Too lazy to rake?
And I stood. Waiting.

About 2 hours later, I decided that, if the good Lord insisted on
remaining mum, that was good enough for me. As He had so many times
before in my hours of deepest need, He calmly offered bupkis, that I may
suss it out for myself. How does He restrain Himself so from blatantly
laying out His Divine Plan (which would deny me the blessed fruits of
sheer faith, the crafty So-and-So)? Well, that’s why He’s God and I’m
just a little lost lamb. I steered my woolly ass back toward home. Maybe
the Internet would shed some light on my confusion. I did a search on
ISLAM. In a flash, I had my results:

“GOGETEM.COM has found 18,553,430 matches for your inquiry; you may
narrow your results by adding more search terms! Click HERE to instantly
contribute to the Microsoft USA_CARES_FOR_USA fund and receive your free
limited-edition commemorative flag decal boldy emblazoned with the
stirring words: 'Look... I got a flag too! Hell yeah!”

I elected to narrow my search and forego the contribution.
For now.
Sure would like oneathem flag stickers, though.

So I added more search terms… since I was tired from all that standing
and trudging, I simply used common search words I’d often employed
before: STEWARDESSES, LATEX, RIM, etc.

Better luck this time… first hit:
…sweating like a warthog, I SLAM my stiff meat into her… (30%
hornyhoneys.com)

second:
…plus the bancobunco courtesy shopping card IS LAMinated with sturdy
plasticoat for your convenience and… (23% heyrube.net)

third:
…brushing back her lush tresses with a haughty smirk, supermodel Trish
Van Voorhees answers my question with a question. “IS L.A. More fun than
New York? IS LAMborghini better than Hyundai? At the end of the day… "
(85% insiderdish.org)

And somehow, through all the detours and insignifica, a bright ray of
enlightenment pierced my dark confusion. We’re all basically the same!
It all means one thing! Namely, NOTHING! Eureka! And the best thing I
can offer my Islamic brethren is to ignore them just like I ignore the
rest of the schmucks I meet each day! And only then did I truly
understood what God had been trying to teach me all along! To wit:
“Go about your business, mister. Have your fun, leave me out of it, and
don’t bother the rest of us with your silly fucking creeds!” Such a
simple, eloquent truth… so perfectly inane it stank of Divine wisdom
itself.

So, thus satisfied that my search had ended… my quest fulfilled…
I pulled on my rubber surgical gloves, donned my hepa filter mask,
adjusted my goggles and walked to the mailbox to see what the postman
brought today.


Subject: Peter Vega, R.I.P.
Date: Fri, 04 Jan 2002 14:01:43 -0500
From: sport
It's the last batch-mail on this subject I plan to send, because I
figure enough is enough. But on the morning of January first, recovery
workers at the WTC ruins found the body of my beloved nephew (little
brother) Peter Vega. The news brings a measure of comfort to many that
loved him, if not to me. My mother talks of dream visitations; my sister
talks of various mystical communiqués. I'm glad such things solace them,
and I wish I could claim similar experiences, but there ain’t none. I've
completely lost the faith that sustained me through recent years, so
there's only this. Words. Just what everyone needs… more words.

It's now clear to me that that "faith" was an entirely self-generated
delusion that did indeed sustain, as other delusions have sustained me
all through life. Fair enough; in the vastness of all that was lost in
Bin Laden's charnel house, the fairy dreams of one idiot have little
significance. The same applies to my current feelings about all this,
many of which are extremely ugly. So forgive the gloom... instead of
the long and tortured continuation of this email I've written, re-read,
and decided not to send, I'll only add a prayer sent to me by an admired
stranger who has been very kind to me, and I call that a friend. While
the religious aspect may leave you cold, it has more to do with the
individual human's power to effect a benign influence on earth. The
individual human who wrote is was Francis of Assisi.

As for me, tomorrow we bury Pete in Green-wood Cemetary (where we used
to wander as children through the beautifully morbid Victoriana and
imagine lurking vampires), and then it's on to the next album, a gesture
or an attempt entitled "Uncle" ...the next batch email will be a plain
gig announcement. No replies to this are necessary.
Love and fond wishes to you all, and... hit it, Saint Frank:

Lord, make us instruments of your peace. Where there is hatred, let us
sow love; where there is injury, pardon; where there is discord, union;
where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope; where there
is darkness, light; where there is sadness, joy. Grant that we may not
so much seek to be consoled as to console; to be understood as to
understand; to be loved as to love. For it is in giving that we receive;
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned; and it is in dying that we are
born to eternal life. Amen

Posted 3:02 AM by sport

Criminy, reader, the strange swoops-n-snarls of a mind subjected to forced idleness and constant fatigue! Got a nice batch of pleasant email from people I truly miss and want to reconnect with, but the few replies I could muster were bland and brief. These rare contributions to the blog likewise suffer from a lack of the sort of pizzazz that would render my whines at least moderately less redundant.

I’m no more capable tonight of typing anything interesting than I’ve been the last few times, but I reckon it’s time to try. If it means anything, I’ve decided to expel from my mind all wearying hatreds. There is nothing to be accomplished railing against the likes of grice-Vega and the murderous hordes of muhammed, and brooding over it all means I’m taking on a burden that is really not mine to bear. I am no more in a position to forgive than to affect matters, so off it all goes into the pyre along with the frustrations of my creative misadventure.

The misadventure itself will presumably continue if it wants to, so acceptance of that must include acceptance of its one true purpose: to keep my brain alive. There is, after all, an album here, which needs only to be chipped, like David, out of the stone surrounding it (and there’s a tellingly pompous simile for you). If even the 3 righteous motherfuckers who express some interest in helping to realize the thing decide to bail, then by gum I am only where I began anyhow, and I can’t lose much by having at it all alone. Same with the comic, which is worked out page by page awaiting only pencil and brush on Bristol board to manifest all its sweet satisfying irrelevance. Since I truly believe a patiently constructed model train layout is infinitely superior to a passionately held conviction about how to fix the world (did a song called Frogs are Singing about that), calling the stuff irrelevant is no self-castigation. The former inspires a benign smile; the latter inspires religions and fights.

So I hope to complete these little train layouts and remain content to watch my loco motives chug around and around. Opting for the “sweet lemon” over the sour grapes a while, remembering that success is often the killer of life’s joys. To wit:

I’m reading Nick Kent’s THE DARK STUFF along with Peter Guralnick’s LOST HIGHWAY and John Strausbaugh’s ROCK TIL YOU DROP. These turn out to be very interesting contrapuntal choices at this juncture in my life. I'll explain once I’m done with all 3.

Had a weird morning last week… with Shelley and the babies safely asleep, I had a few green hours with 4 bottles of absinthe (no, I didn’t down all 4 bottles, silly): Versinthe blanche from France, Mari Mayans and Serpis dry from Spain, and Mata Hari from Austria. High thujone. They conspired to create the exact state of sensitivity I’d hoped for; music sounded SO fucking good. It was like being 16 again and discovering everything anew. Nice thing is, you don’t need to drink a lot of it and so you remember it all and don’t get hungover. But the sensitivity became too acute when I listened to a Thomas Moore number entitled “Farewell! But whenever you welcome the hour.” The song is on a tenor-with-harp collection of Moore’s adaptations of ancient Irish melodies, which I’d bought awhile back and first listened to along with my parents in what turned out to be the last of our little “cd concert” evenings together. I was suddenly overtaken by the most intense waves of grief since Dad died. Sobs and sobs and blubbering communion with all I was somewhat prevented from fully feeling by the need to keep Mom together last winter, and somewhat cushioned from through the early months of my own fatherhood.

One day a few years ago, the Skeeter Davis record “The End of the World” came on during a car ride and brought on a similar tsunami of sorrow regarding Pete.
Fucking music, man.
Anyway, I wept and bawled and played the fucking thing over and over. An aging Irishman on absinthe… damn I miss my Dad. What’s the point? I dunno. I’m glad I can still feel that deeply, I guess. Whenever we bring the babies to visit my Mom, Miles stands by her chair (where Dad used to sit and watch the tube all day), staring at some nonspecific place above her head. It’s the damndest thing. He’ll play and crawl around and all that shit, and periodically go back over there, staring up for a while, smiling. Everyone asks: “What is it you see, Miles?”

Who knows? He sees something, though. And he doesn’t need absinthe for his epiphany, and he’s not crying about it. Keep an eye on him and Lily, Pop. Me, I just endure the incredible stress of minding them every day with the incredible joy of their presence as reward. There’s something in all this that might be served by the making of another album after all. Not that anyone will or should give a fuck, but part of releasing hatred can maybe include releasing that infernal work-stopper as well. It would be nifty to make at least ONE album that I can play for the kids someday and say, “listen… this one wasn’t too meaningless.” Dad was proud when Richard Robert and Baptiste told their readers about “Uncle,” so it’d be good to make the bambinos proud of their Daddy’s stuff. I never wanted fame and money, just a goddamn audience. If it’s down to these two, then I’d better look sharp. They already have better taste than most of you*, and you are reading this, so you have better taste than most others.

Oh, yeah… had some home-crafted Poteen, too! Slainte, Dad!

*they dig Dean Martin, Ives and Leonard Cohen. They ignore anything on MTVH1.

Posted 2:56 AM by sport

Marcus hisself

Posted 2:47 AM by sport

Uncomfortable in the slough of despond that produced the previous, I decided to take the MEDITATIONS of Marcus Aurelius down off the shelf and consult. Landed on chapter 8, and here are some excepts. Sometimes this kind of thing helps. Who knows? Hit it, Marcus:


Consider that men will do the same things nevertheless, even though thou shouldst burst.

Thou hast not leisure or ability to read. But thou hast leisure or ability to check arrogance: thou hast leisure to be superior to pleasure and pain: thou hast leisure to be superior to love of fame, and not to be vexed at stupid and ungrateful people, nay even to care for them.

Wipe out thy imaginations by often saying to thyself: now it is in my power to let no badness be in this soul, nor desire nor any perturbation at all; but looking at all things I see what is their nature, and I use each according to its value.- Remember this power which thou hast from nature.

It is not fit that I should give myself pain, for I have never intentionally given pain even to another.

Different things delight different people. But it is my delight to keep the ruling faculty sound without turning away either from any man or from any of the things which happen to men, but looking at and receiving all with welcome eyes and using everything according to its value.

Take me and cast me where thou wilt; for there I shall keep my divine part tranquil, that is, content, if it can feel and act conformably to its proper constitution. Is this change of place sufficient reason why my soul should be unhappy and worse than it was, depressed, expanded, shrinking, affrighted? And what wilt thou find which is sufficient reason for this?

A cucumber is bitter.- Throw it away.- There are briars in the road.- Turn aside from them.- This is enough. Do not add, And why were such things made in the world? For thou wilt be ridiculed by a man who is acquainted with nature, as thou wouldst be ridiculed by a carpenter and shoemaker if thou didst find fault because thou seest in their workshop shavings and cuttings from the things which they make. And yet they have places into which they can throw these shavings and cuttings, and the universal nature has no external space; but the wondrous part of her art is that though she has circumscribed herself, everything within her which appears to decay and to grow old and to be useless she changes into herself, and again makes other new things from these very same, so that she requires neither substance from without nor wants a place into which she may cast that which decays. She is content then with her own space, and her own matter and her own art.

Enter into every man's ruling faculty; and also let every other man enter into thine.

Posted 11:28 PM by sport

So why all the push and pull about keeping up on this blog?

Tiredness, sure; as the babies grow there are new concerns and demands all the time and I’m too brain-tired at day’s end to write at all. This applies to email as well, and as a consequence my “social” circle has dwindled drastically; email having long been the main avenue of adult human contact outside the family.

Mainly, though, it’s disgust that all I ever write about is personal angst shit that is a personal drag as well as nobody’s business. However, the two things that seem to have been central in the past – friendships and creative work - are effectively nonexistent. This leaves the blog as double substitute. Written monologue replaces live discussion… web-published kvetching replaces songwriting, recording, artwork and all other outlets of this once-precocious art-maker turned superannuated also-ran.

Been trying to get started on a comic and some songs. I've got plenty of ideas, but they sorta sit there unexplored. There’s no urgency on these projects, since neither is awaited by anyone at all. Also, time has demonstrated that anyone with an interest in prior work will reject the new work. This leaves a possible handful of new arrivals who’ll drizzle faint praise upon the shit, and this is cold comfort. The only reason to work, then, is to keep myself occupied with something resembling what used to be a driving passion. This is not exactly irresistible. In fact, it fucking sucks. There is no answer… either I’ll make something or I won’t. It makes no difference either way.

It’s likely any album completed will still be released by KRS, unless it is deemed truly rotten. I can’t say for sure what KRS thinks, since there’s no longer any kind of contact with them. The entire relationship was based upon Slim’s affection for WILLOUGHBY. Nobody else there really cared for my work, and certainly nothing has happened to change anyone’s mind. Likewise, any comic will be a self-published venture to amuse a few friends. There is no place in the wider world for any comics I make.
So defeatist!
Well, you are what you eat.

So that’s the deal. I am not saying any of this to elicit sympathy; this is merely the state of affairs around here. Wish something I do could eventually bring in money for the sake of Lily and Miles, but that seems impossible. In view of that, the only reason to consider working is to fend off depression and generate positive energy to spend on the kids. This is, in fact, a better rationale for working than all the selfish ambitions (self-expression, fun, applause) that used to fuel the work. So far it hasn’t inspired any white-hot explosions of creativity, though. There’s today’s lecture on a subject about which you already knew everything.

I would like to make mention of my friend Brad’s nomination for an Emmy award for his role on HBO’s DEADWOOD. Well-deserved, that, although this superb show and its additional cast was largely overlooked in favor of bores like the WEST WING and the once-great, now-good SOPRANOS. Brad was nice enough to submit my music to the producer of Deadwood in the hope of snagging a place in the score. Of course, my music merely scored another snag instead. Still, my kudos to Brad, and here’s hopin’ he nails the statue.

I might also point out that regan grice-Vega, who succeeded in breaking what was left of my late Father’s heart by remaining steadfast in her rejection of my entire family, refusing him even one more moment with his great-granddaughter before his death, is officially a multi-millionairess. The cunt has already received 3 million from the fund that all you nice people sent to the fire department after the muslim holocaust of September, 2001. She summers in the Hamptons, spending this blood money and the further millions to come, complaining that my sister and other loved ones – in interviews with a writer – said things that were “too revealing” of Pete’s difficulties in life. Things like the dyslexia he overcame, youthful brushes with the law and such. Things that were then published in an obscure book on 9-11 victims and which thereby brought untold embarrassment to regan grice-Vega. SHE IS HUMILIATED BECAUSE IT’S NOW KNOWN THAT HER DEAD HUSBAND HAD DYSLEXIA!

My sister still lives in the small apartment where she raised Pete and David. The large home that the cunt and Pete bought– down payment provided by my parents – was sold promptly after his death. My parents were never refunded a fucking dime. Waiter: another sea breeze for the grieving widow!

We see now that all bromides about “karma” and “what goes around comes around” are utter bullshit. My nephew’s widow is set for life, and she continues to cluelessly whine about trivia like this to a cousin of ours who insists on remaining in touch with her. My nephew’s daughter Ruby, no doubt fed venomous lies about us by her mother and brood, is a lost soul already, consigned by fate to the same pit of scorpions that produced her unbelievably awful mother. My family continues to struggle on through the dimming world, with several of them (my Mom, my brother) sending Ruby gifts and money they can ill-afford. Ruby couldn’t possibly even remember them, and they get nothing back. Nothing.

People get murdered over far less than this, and wouldn’t that be nice?
But “what goes around” just keeps going around, and I’m living proof that “follow your bliss” leads to the void.

I’d still rather be me than her. Because Lily and Miles love me, and so does their Mom. The smiles on those two little faces are my fortune.

But oh how I hate regan grice-Vega, and oh how I hate all those who impeded, betrayed and ultimately killed my dreams. Oh how I hate ever having had those dreams.

Maybe I’ll eventually blog enough of the poison out of me to allow for one last windmill-tilt before accepting complete defeat, or maybe it’s way too late. The meaninglessness of all my efforts is assured, as is any delusion that this kind of confession will provide much cathartic relief. That’s why it’s hard to write. Mind you I do have days when I’m in great spirits. Days of laughing with Shelley, goofing around with David, and kissing these blessed babies. But why waste any of that time writing here on this shit-house wall?

Maybe soon I’ll be in a good mood AND a mood to write here. Wheee! Won’t THAT be swell?

Posted 11:29 PM by sport

Miles enjoying a game show. 'Atsa m'boy!

Posted 11:28 PM by sport

A pensive Lily awaits her jar of goop.

Posted 11:23 PM by sport

Rather surprised at all the responses to the last entry; I truly didn't expect to find anyone still checking this. Well, thanks for the email. Until I have time/clarity to write again, here are pics of Miles and Lily, taken today.

Posted 12:23 AM by sport

OKAY...
 
I'm back. Is anyone reading? Does anyone give a shit? Tell me, tell me now or I'll skip it.
Send comments to mcvouty@optonline.net ...by this time, I get so much of the same spam I'd welcome even DIFFERENT spam, so there's the address.
 
Please, write.   

Posted 3:32 AM by sport

Not the latest pic, but just look at 'em.

Posted 1:40 AM by sport

Me and Shelley, newly wed 

Posted 1:34 AM by sport

here I am recording MAGIC BEANS! "Don't worry that it's not good enough for anyone else to heeeeeeaaaaar... just siiiiiing! Sing a sooooonng!"  

Posted 12:44 AM by sport

Voici le coupable ! 

Posted 12:34 AM by sport

Bear with me, just testing this new photo capability. L to R: Sport Murphy, Miles Hunt 

Posted 12:29 AM by sport

...would you let me? 

Posted 12:26 AM by sport

Braaaaapppp!!!!screeeeeeeech!!! 

Posted 11:54 PM by sport

VELVET REVOLVER?!? Hahahahahahahahahaha!
Yeah, why not? Hope they move ‘zilla units.

PBS just wasted an hour of my life, an hour which would have been better spent emeryboarding my corns. A friend recommended this “Frontline” show, THE WAY THE MUSIC DIED, on the recommendation of some other lying sack o’ shit who’d evidently seen it. The press-release claim:

…What happened to music? Where were the stores? Who were the new artists? What was hot and what was hype? This winter, starting at the 2004 Grammys, my FRONTLINE production team
and I set out to answer those questions. And this week, in "The Way the Music Died," we offer some of our answers. We'll also introduce you to some artists we met and followed along the way - America's hottest new rock band, "Velvet Revolver," and an appealing young woman named Sarah Hudson. She's attempting the nearly impossible - to find success as a singer/songwriter in a business almost everyone agrees is on the verge of collapse."

HOO BOY!!!
What did we glean from this show?
Sarah Hudson is the cousin of that actress whose mother is Goldie Hawn. A “struggling” singer-songwriter - to the industry born – hoping that the fortunes being spent on her career launch will pay off in bigger fortunes made. Her talent is, to put it kindly, suspect.

“America’s Hottest Rock Band” - the aforemocked “Iron Aftermath” …uh… I mean “Vanilla Foreverchanges” … no wait… “Petsounds Underground” …er… “Velvet Revolver” – turns out to be a supergroup of famous 90s heroin addicts. They suck astonishing ass. Can you believe that the castoffs of Guns-N-Roses and Stone Temple Pilots would suck astonishing ass? IT’S TRUE! Sob!!!

The program is essentially a commercial for these two acts, masquerading as hard-hitting journalism. What else awaits us in this breezy hour of blatant nothingness?

We see rock critics with strangely-shaped faces commenting on the state of the industry. Ooh, it’s baaaad! Downloads! Baaad! Chain stores stock but few of the releases and censor them! Baaaad!
We’re told that of the 4 trillion album releases per annum, only 2 become hits. Oooooh! Tough odds!
Brrrr!
Hommina, Hommina! We learn exactly DICK, which is exactly what rock critics have to teach us about anything.

We see Outkast’s manager bemoaning the fact that the labels don’t put out great MUSIC anymore. Like Outkast, I guess, who are everyone’s dearly beloved because they sorta remind everyone of actual, decent music once heard by everyone. Just what I need: a wan reminder of the thin crap of older days (so I can “get it” on terms I already know), but with a nice contemporary spin (so I can feel sorta hip and relevant). Best thing Since Lauryn Hill, I say! She also reminded everyone of stuff that used to be similar to something that was once good, and with hiphop cred, too! Yeah, why don’t the labels put out more of THAT?

We see David Crosby personifying integrity, wisdom and the lost art of great songwriting. Yeah, he’d be the first person I’d go to… if I wanted tips on how to survive decades of pharmaceutical gluttony with enough cut left in my strut to provide a beaker of viable cum to wannabe mommas who’d rather not upload junior the old fashioned way. But integrity, wisdom and the lost art of great songwriting? Bob Gaudio would be my "go-to" guy. (See? I used a snappy contemporary cliche there. That's what I'M talking about)

Best of all, we witness the dead-eyed putzes who work in the music biz. Spouting tired malarkey about how “people were skeptical of Strawberry Kontroversy, but after their 6-song debut gig, jaws were hanging open… jism and slish befouled the pants of everyone present… jaded executives drew dueling swords for the honor of signing them…” …ad hilarium. These overpaid pismires are a laugh a minute, talking about how Scott Weiland will “probably” be able to deal with the new career in spite of his continuing love of chinee oblivium. How many thousands of worthy artists don’t rate a bird-flip from these jackals, yet they prop up a biohazardous cadaver like this with claims of “he LIVES for music… it’s all he is!”
Holy mutherfucking MOLEY! 2 million spent on fucking PROMOTION. (Kill Rock Stars spends about one two-millionth of that on my shit. And they’ll get it back if I ever sell copy ONE of my albums. Let me tell you folks about “the way the music dies.” Mind you, I ain’t complaining… I know my stuff sucks… to most ignorant cuntwipes, anyhow. At least KRS puts it out)

In terms of actual insight into why the music business is a catastrophe, the only thing I can suggest is to take a bird’s-eye view of this whole program:
Empty shuck and jive all ‘round.
Parrotshit critics.
Talentless talent.
Execrable executives.
All the obvious targets and obvious et ceteras… plus the cultural cretinism, journalistic fraudulence and programming cluelessness that allows a program such as this to pass muster as ANY sort of “report” on ANYTHING relating to ANYTHING at all.
HOW DARE THEY ENTICE ME TO WATCH THIS FUCKING INANITY!!!!
FUCK PBS… the only time they show ANY music you’d want to see, bet your ass it’ll be interrupted every 2 minutes by some ingratiating employee trying to persuade you to send money so you can OWN THE FUCKING PROGRAM YOU’RE OSTENSIBLY WATCHING! “On dvd with 2 extra numbers, and no interruptions from ME!!” Is this not the stupidest form of blackmail yet devised in order to keep that blowhard Charlie Rose employed? All the rest of the time it’s the “seven spiritual laws for increased bourgeois accumulation" and please-make-it-stop documentaries about uninteresting Hispanic peasants caught in the crossfire of grave conflicts that you’d have to be Noam Chomsky’s retarded brother to give two shits about. Oh yeah, and Ken Burns’ 69-hour series on the history of American Stamp Enthusiasts (and the brave African-American pioneers who gave all to pave the way for multicultural philately in the land of the …hmmm… not-so-free), to be savored by Nilla-wafer caucasoids with more dollars than brain cells who think they are intellectually and morally superior to their snarling, slackjawed counterparts who sit shouting “FUCKING A!!” At Bill O’Reilly’s latest declaration of outrage.

What was I saying? Oh yeah, the music industry…

Let the industry collapse. Tonight, please! And let us understand why it is collapsing: Music sucks, consumers are jerkwads, everything costs too much, everyone in the entertainment racket is a bottom-feeding waste of flesh that ought to be piled high along with with all the others in some Abu Gharib of Just Infinity and power-fucked by thorny pneumatic dildos until the whole steaming heap yells “I’m SORRY!” in 12-part harmony, and then immolated.

Let it collapse!
Every major and minor and indie… every club and coliseum… every chain store, mom and pop shop and website… every radio station, tv outlet and website… every magazine and website… every sensitive loose-sphinctered singer/songwriter, jowly jaded pro, menacingly gesticulating Crow Jim rapper in full bounce-squat, silicon-titted tweetytwat, downtown two-bit hipster with an amp and a power drill, terminally melismatic American Idolater, sunglassed tinnitus-bound club dj, Asian Mozart specialist du jour, snotnose Jazz purist with a college degree in “so what”, subsonically growling deathmetal clown, melodically-gifted chucklehead superfluon, crackerass Country fraud yodeling belligerent odes to the “working man,” shitsoup soundtrack hack, head-tilting all-the-right-influences idea-free Rockist, drip-dry New Age soporificant, Ironic dork-pop-revivalist douchebag, fearless politically-aware lone wolf, closeted goth self-dramatizer, McSweeney’s-approved high-concept wunderkind, hustling has-been, anxious dreamer and self-plugger with a website…
…every blog.


Naaaaah, just kidding. Rock ON!

Posted 12:53 AM by sport

Mmmmm -

Tonight I'll break with tradition and write while I feel good. Been sipping from 3 bottles of absinthe, two French and one Spanish.
Naturally, life hasn't suddenly become idyllic, but I've lately adopted a strict provisional approach to it all, and today was notable for nothing especially bad descending on our heads. Something to celebrate, that. Shelley, Maureen and I hung out with the babies, and without getting too descriptive about this perfectly bland (always a good thing) afternoon, accept my assurance that it was so, and I knew it, and savored all.

In view of such rare, appreciated bucoleriffic voutation, I elected to "strike whilst the iron is luke" and enhance already pleasant circumstances with a touch of yon good green elixir. Gladly, the first tendrils of thujone reached my brain right on time for a wild thunderstorm, which roared over our environs just as they began to sink brow-deep into the mystic Purkinje effect. Swell coincidence. We stood on the porch as the world chirped, cheeped and Ka-boomed about, and all nature shrugged off its businesswear to gambol for a while in loose, iridescent pajamas.

Such green! Criminy! Green as a raw recruit chomping a mouthful of baby spinach, pondering the flag of Holy Ireland. I was blissed beyond all ken, and remain so these hours later, after many foolin'-no-one cries of "just one more." I am at this moment an insolent poison lizard, lolling on a fat broadleaf vine in compleat zen fuckyallitude. Content to remain but a mossy lump befuzzing my tiny parcel of crazed nature as I dimly audit sweet all-unknown with these omnidirectional, spheroid eyes of mine, I belch forth definitive celebratory fanfarations over today's sublime nonevents. Tomorrow will likely suck powerfully, as is its wont, but who cares? Not Sport Murphy.
I swat a skeeter with my new tail and hum a merry air.

I won't try to claim that nights like this are "worth" all the other shit, but I will shout confidently that yer regan grice-vegas of the world - knowing no green but that of envy, money and that spiritual dysentery peculiar to corpse-feeders - CANNOT know this feeling, and that is something to gloat over.

I'm clean, you fucking vermin, and I still smile despite your best efforts. I'd also like to see any of you hammer out something this coherent while this drunk. Or while sober. I'd like to watch you try to understand it in either state.

The high motherfucking price of me-ness, as detailed throughout this blog, is a bargain for what it buys:
to BE me. And to know mine.

My love to all who truly love me and mine, and a special benediction to little Sawyer Kalbaugh.

PS - had a fun hang with (among other chums) one Michael Kupperman the other night. The best cartoonist working today, and a funny cuss in person as well. Cheers, fellow sot!

Posted 2:00 AM by sport

my sister got a call from the city medical examiner. seems they identified a leg as having belonged to my nephew pete.
his fucking LEG. does this agony ever end?
anyway, the reason they called her instead of the merry widow is that the phone number on file for regan grice-vega was no longer correct. since only the widow can decide what to do with pete's remains, they asked if maureen could contact regan for them. after all, they must be in touch, right?
regan grice-vega has continued to refuse any contact between my sister and her granddaughter.
she has had occasional (postal-only) contact with my mother and my brother, who apparently send money for ruby, the child. so my mother gets the occasional photo of ruby to weep over, provided she keeps those checks coming.
my sister, already enduring a permanent grief unimaginable to anyone who hasn't shared her experience (and there are others... more than you think... parents of victims, shunned by the spouses of their lost beloved), is newly traumatized. she contacted pete's firehouse to relay the information to regan grice-vega.

there will be no press attention or oprah winfrey appearances for this, so regan will gain no opportunity to bask in limelight. there is no financial gain for her in seeing that this body part is properly buried. her apathy towards pete's memory was evident in an obscene ny daily news article last september, wherein she remarked that she's "moved on" and that she no longer has pete's daughter wear the gold pendant with his picture on it (a gift from my sister). so what do you suppose will happen to pete's leg? the garbage heap, most likely.

while nearly every day i recall muslims worldwide dancing with glee after the towers fell, the image doesn't inspire in me half the murderous rage as the mere thought of regan grice-vega; this ugly little cunt from brooklyn has earned my special loathing. i blame her for the despair that accelerated my father's death and which has decimated the spirits of my entire family. my sister, who has been an incredible help to us with the babies, is literally sick over the whole thing, wondering what will happen to this part of her slain child. i'll bet regan grice-vega's cousin colin quinn could think up some swell jokes about all this.

in other news, for those of you who retain a mild curiosity about my continuing disintegration but who'd never think to call or write, i have finally agreed to take an antidepressant. o frabjous day!

this will probably preclude drinking, which is the one activity i still enjoy. but never fear, it will not stop me from tinkering late at night with these dire little songs you'll probably never hear. i'm attempting to write enough of them for the one-man, home-recorded album that is my only option (since i am now virtually friendless, and a stranger to the kind community of musicians - even the suburban-weekend-jerk-off contingent) for delivering the big number 4 album to krs ... i'm sure they anxiously await my newest work of genius and will do everything in their power to see that it gets noticed.

as far as the babies go, i have decided to reserve mention of them for only those people to whom i actually see or speak... those precious few who've proven they still give a fuck, and you know who you ain't. miles and lily are the only sweetness in my world.

discussing them in this blog would be, like my entire creative career, a case of casting pearls before swine.

Posted 11:58 PM by sport

Posted 4:32 AM by sport

So here we are at the end of it all... at the shining reward at the end of it all.
And the shining reward at the end of it all
Is the end of it all.
So raise up a toast to the end of it all,
And guzzle it straight to the end of it all,
And then, should we pause to remember it all,
We must pour a new toast to the end of it all,
And again, 'til our poor souls can hardly recall why we're drinking at all.
Bless us all.
Bless us all.

Posted 1:22 AM by sport

Here's the lyric for an original song I made up for my son.
Still working on one for Lily.
Sport Murphy wrote a new song!

MILES IS A BABY
(jig tempo)

Rrump-dee-diddley dump-dee-dee,
Miles is a baby!
Rrump-dee-diddley dump-dee-dee,
Miles is a baby!
Miles, Miles, Miles, Miles,
Miles, Miles, Miles, Miles!
Rrump-dee-diddley dump-dee-dee,
Miles is a baby!

(copyright 2004, Mike "Sport" Murphy - all rights reserved)

Posted 10:13 PM by sport

(To feed the content-starved blog, an old bit of idiocy I sent to my email list some time ago. Want more “old favorites?” Write and tell us! Or, blow me!)


Andrew V. McLaglen!

In this brief essay I will examine several films by an often-overlooked director whose versatility is, maybe, considerable. According to some webpage I looked at, the first picture he made is a 1956 Western (starring James Arness and Angie Dickinson) entitled “Arizona Mission.” The most recent film listed is “Dirty Dozen: The Next Mission,” and one cannot fail to be struck by the powerful irony in the titles of these two works: one might say: “here is a director with a mission.” But why would one stoop to such desperate jackanapes? Here’s why: sadly, I’ve never seen either work, so my discussion of these movies will have to rely on supposition based on the titles alone, along with whatever cast and plot information I can glean from that webpage I mentioned earlier. Assuming I intend to “discuss” these (or any) movies of Andrew V. McLaglen.

In fact, I’ve never actually seen a single film by Andrew V. McLaglen. My interest in the man and his art is, therefore, minimal; I can recall catching a short snippet of “Shenadoah” before realizing that, though I deeply love the American folk song of the same name, this fact alone could not stir my interest in a film I found insufficiently absorbing. Of course, I was young when I saw the little bit I saw, and might find it more appealing now that I’m older. Frankly, I remember little about the thing other than a few television commercials for a Broadway musical presumably based upon it. The show starred John Cullum, and somehow I wound up in possession of its original cast album, which featured two songs (one called “Freedom” and the other not) I did listen to occasionally when I was a teenager. This, of course, has little to do with the actual work of Mr. McLaglen, so I will not dwell on it.

The main reason I decided to write this essay was an accidental discovery made while perusing old TV Guide magazines. I often peruse old TV Guides, to be honest, and whether or not you can fathom such a hobby, there it is. I bet you do things I would not understand either, so let’s just drop the whole issue. I‘m not trying to convince anyone that my idiosyncrasies merit in-depth analysis; I brought the subject up for a specific reason. It’s certainly pertinent to this essay, and I’m about to explain why, so keep your shirt on.

Oddly, Andrew V. McLaglen directed, between 1963 and 1968, a trio of films sharing one compelling trait. “McLintock!” “Monkeys Go Home!” and “Bandolero!” all, obviously, feature emphatic exclamation points in their titles! Why? Why did Andrew V. McLaglen insist upon including this particular punctuation mark in the titles of these films? We must remember that this was the 1960s… a period of great change in our nation’s history. A generation of youths was asking “why?” and perhaps Andrew V. McLaglen took it upon himself to reply decisively. It’s a theory!

A theory which holds little water when one considers that the titles “McLintock!” and “Bandolero!” serve to “answer” very little in and of themselves, unless the question posed happens to be something along the lines of: “Quick! Could you please name two films by Andrew V. McLaglen?” It is, to say the least, doubtful that this question ever crossed the collective mind of the Love Generation, who in 1963 weren’t even the Love Generation yet. Shortly, as we know, all that would change. Hoo boy, would it ever! Four young men from Liverpool were about to set the world ablaze with their innovative music and trend-setting style of dress. Yes, The Beatles: John Paul, George, and Ringo. The “Fab Four” who went from hitmaking cut-ups to socio-cultural movers and shakers in the space of a few short years. Especially 1964 through 1967, a time period framed, if you will, by the releases of “McLintock!” and “Bandolero!” respectively. So… can we infer that Andrew V. McLaglen was something of a seer, anticipating the upheavals soon to come and then sagely commenting on those upheavals once they had just passed, as well as predicting yet more still to heave up later?

Perhaps it is “Monkeys Go Home!” that provides the clue to our triune conundrum. According to the webpage I keep mentioning, this feature starred the redoubtable Dean Jones, along with a whole cast of French actors. Redoubtable? That means “formidable… not to be lightly dismissed.” Dean Jones? If ever a film actor could be characterized as “lightly dismissable” it was Dean Jones, Disney favorite and frequent guest on Christian television programs. For example, nobody’s ever likely to shout “Dean Jones!” Unless the actor suddenly appeared unbidden in one’s home, and that seems unlikely to say the least. So I take back “redoubtable” and leave you to supply your own adjective. Come to think of it, if Dean Jones suddenly showed up in your house, you might in fact shout “Dean Jones Go Home!” You’d be within your rights, by my way of looking at it. Whether or not Mr. Jones himself could see the irony in the situation is hard to say, and would depend entirely on why the hell he found it necessary to prowl around uninvited in the home of a perfect stranger, which, I assure you, I am… at least where Dean Jones is concerned. And where the films of Andrew V. McLaglen are concerned, for that matter.

Surely Andrew V. McLaglen’s temporary penchant for exclamation points is what prompted this essay, but as it turns out, there is very little I have to say about the subject, and the significance (or lack of any) of this curious (or merely dull) stylistic device would be better examined (or ignored) by someone more familiar (which wouldn’t be saying much) with the films themselves. Maybe somebody French. Irony upon irony there, considering Dean Jones’ costars (many of them French) in “Monkey’s Go Home!” I don’t know… I throw my hands up.

All that aside, several other films by Andrew V. McLaglen might be worth mentioning. “The Last Hard Man” (1976) and “Something Big” (1970) share little I can reckon regarding cast members or plot particulars, but do boast titles curiously useful in terms of their potential to inspire preadolescent gutter humor. Taken in tandem, the penis-joke associations are undeniable, and it’s a fair shame (for the purposes of this essay) that there are no more I can mention. Even ONE more might justify a tangent comparable to the “exclamation point” conceit I abandoned earlier (and may return to if I get really stuck), but the closest I can offer is 1970’s “Chisum” …which sounds like “jism,” albeit not enough to justify stretching the point. Given the probability that you are as unfamiliar with Andrew V. McLintock as I am, I could claim that he directed a movie entitled “Cold Cock” or “Stiff Competition” and who’d care? But I won’t take the low road, and I resent anyone who expected me to try.

It is when we ponder several of Andrew V. McLaglen’s earlier works (1960’s “Freckles” and 1961’s “The Little Shepherd of Kingdom Come”) that we reach what I can only describe as an absolute dead end. Not only am I entirely unfamiliar with these movies, I can honestly report that until I consulted that webpage, I’d never even heard of the titles. Neither title inspires even mildly humorous associations, nor am I tempted to contrive any. I sit here, feeling like a complete and utter douchebag, deep into an essay on Andrew V. McLaglen with nothing to say about him. Having confused and bored you, my reader, I am no closer to a justification for this drivel than I was when I started. And that hurts.

Should I try to mine some gags from the peculiar lower-case double-f title of 1980’s “ffolkes?” Nah, ffuck that. Sure, I deserve to endure this self-created purgatory of tedium, but how can I forgive myself for dragging you along with me? You… my hapless companion in this pointless meander… the crestfallen victim of my ill-conceived treatise on a veteran Hollywood professional whose oeuvre escaped my attention through no fault of his own… YOU are “picking up the tab” for my arrogant caprice. I swear I’ll make it up to you somehow. And I’ll make it up to Andrew V. McLaglen if it’s the last thing I do.

But then again, why? Do I “owe” you or Andrew V. McLaglen any more than I’ve already given? Where, in the name of Great Bleedin’ Jesus, is it written? You really get my goat sometimes, making me feel bad because I tried to offer my little contribution to the vast literature on The Cinema, even though all the good shit’s been taken. Yeah, I could’ve chosen a subject more hospitable to my own sensibilities and experiences… then this would’ve been a cakewalk… a concise and persuasive text full of confident assertions, based on sound information and observation. I could’ve wowed you with shrewd insights and fascinating minutiae concerning a director with whom I’d developed the kind of long, rewarding “relationship” upon which great “appreciations” are based. But I took a risk… a big risk… and, yeah, I booted it. So hang me.

In summation:
Andrew V. McLaglen, a director whose canon has escaped my lifelong notice, did several films whose titles feature conspicuous and inexplicable exclamation points. The sole exception to said inexplicableness is “Monkeys Go Home!” in which this most dramatic of punctuation marks finally – satisfyingly - seems wholly appropriate. If you or I found our domiciles or workplaces overrun with monkeys, we may not say “monkeys go home” in so many words, but we sure would want them to! And we would undoubtedly emphasize our complaint/demand with, yes, an exclamation point. You bet we would! And it is this, after all is said and done, that I personally consider Andrew V. McLaglen’s finest contribution to my understanding of life. For who among us can honestly claim that we’d welcome an onslaught of monkeys? It is only through the efforts of artists like Andrew V. McLaglen that we can find a context in which our own dormant (but palpably real) monkey-plague anxieties can be faced and discussed.

Mike “Sport!” Murphy