A Strange Man

Remember the part in "Crimes and Misdemeanors" when Woody Allen shuffles, dazed, into his bedroom, and Joanna Gleason is in bed, and Woody sits on the bed, a bit slumped, sort of staring off vacantly and says,

"A strange man... defecated on my sister."

If you don't remember that part, of (worse) if you've never seen "Crimes and Misdemeanors", then don't come back here until you have.

I think every creatively-inclined Jewish guy in this life and time experiences a very complicated relationship with Woody Allen. It's not something we decide to experience, like pot or upside-down sex-- or cake-- it's just something that... I don't know... is.

We can't help it, and I wonder if he can't either. I wonder if he knows the power he wields over us. I wonder if he cares.

See? ARRGH! Look at me-- wondering if Woody Allen cares about something. This is exactly what I'm talking about!

Annoying.

There's a piece of us, and by us I mean "Jewish American boy-and-then-manhood" that fervently wants to separate ourselves from him, to distinguish ourselves from his typification of THE NEBBISH-- the schnuffling, neurotic, befuddled, myopic, pseudo-intellectual in the big glasses obscuring the mawkish punim. There's that piece of us that can't wait to say, "Well, at least I'm not like HIM," and this is juxtaposed, of course, with our insidious, troubled, and very real desire to be not just like him, but him precisely.

And I don't mean necessarily that we want to adopt an Asian girl and then fall in love with her and then fuck her and then marry her, or whatever order in which he did those steps, I don't really know, but we want to taste the life he's led up to this point. Woody Allen's life, and his characters' lives. We want to struggle with philosophical and ethical dilemmas, and we always want a clever, annihilating quip to slide effortlessly out of our back pockets like a wallet. And, truth be told, we wouldn't mind hooking up with 1996 Julia Roberts along the Italian riviera while wearing baggy corduroys.

Woody Allen is the ultimate Hollywood paradox. The anti-Semites of the world will happily gnaw your ear off (especially if your ear is Jewish) telling you all about how Jews control the media and the entertainment industry but, when they talk about those Jews, they're not talking about Woody Allen, they're talking about Jeff Zucker and Michael Eisner but, really, I don't think there is a Jew alive today who has more influence over mass media than Woody Allen. If you mention his name in Europe, especially Italy or France, the country swoons. Here, a wide cross-section of the country can remember laughing its ass off at "Bananas" and "Sleeper" and I remember, even as a young child, finding that bespectacled ginger trying to play cello in his high school marching band in "Take the Money and Run" pretty priceless.

The importance and relevance of influence of his wit and his style on cinema today may be disputed, but it cannot be denied. And, yet, how did this little stereotype do it?

I can remember being critiqued in Acting I in college by the professor.

"I love your face," she said to me, "it'll never be the face of a leading man, but, if you want it, you'll find a profitable and stable career getting character roles-- Woody Allen type stuff."

And while I could have been stung by that comment, I was buoyed by it-- for a time anyway. The paradox, though, about Woody Allen is that, except for when he's doing cameos in other people's films, like in the one-scene scene-stealer in "The Impostors", he is the leading man. The unlikeliest leading man ever. The leading man whose sister gets shat on. The leading man who chases after lobsters in the kitchen. The leading man whose attempts at intercourse are comic and painful. The leading man we can't stand, but would have over for coffee above any other.

Sometimes I wonder if Christian kids have complicated relationships with Ryan Gosling or Ralph Fiennes. Maybe, but I kind of doubt it.

I never gave myself the chance to see if my Acting I professor's prediction about me was right-- I never put myself out there to see if I could score that steady stream of character work, the awkward co-star, the unfortunate best friend, the bewildered accountant or the wry uncle, and maybe that's just as well.

Maybe.

In the Key of Porn

Leave a thirty-year-old guy at home for any period of time greater than one hour, and he's going to look at porn. At least, I hope he is because, if he isn't, than I'm abnormal-- and we all know how much people dislike being abnormal.

I hope that what I do is normal. And, when I'm alone for more than one hour, T.W.B.P.

Yes, that means, "There Will Be Porn."

There will also be blogging, of course which, for me, is like porn. A little bit. I am wearing trousers right now. I swear to God.

Some people say that married men who look at porn are essentially cheating on their wives. I do not subscribe to this rather narrow and puritanical school of thought. If I did, I would be even more overcome with guilt than I already am-- about lots of things. About nothing in particular. I even feel guilty about feeling guilty.

I do not, however, feel guilty about looking at porn.

My wife knows. I am transparent. When the internet history has been cleared, she knows. She jokes with me about it. Thank God we have this kind of relationship, or I would have to be all secretive about it, and I hate secrets. When people tell me secrets, I keep them, but I'm not very enthusiastic about it. In fact, I'm kind of hoping I slip up and say something to someone about the secret, but I never do. Because then I'd feel guilty about it.

And then I'd have to punish myself for that guilt by, you know, looking at some porn.

They say that porn objectifies women. I think it celebrates them. When I see a really good streaming vid online, I sometimes nod my head and make that, "Wow, I'm impressed" face at the monitor which, to me, is akin to pinning a medal on a soldier's wool coat. I mean, these individuals are providing an excellent service. They're going all out. They're taking those money shots and donning their pearl necklaces with pride. And the ones who are really good at what they do (you know who I'm talking about and, if you don't, well, you should) are skilled artisans. And not just the performers, either. The camerapeople, too, are to be credited. I'll never forget the first porno I watched. I was probably twelve or so, and I was at a sleepover at my friend Michael's house, and one of the first shots of the film was taken from behind some hairy dude's ass, at crotch level, while a pair of furry balls slapped mercilessly into this chick's thighs as she was drilled from behind, and the camera couldn't have been more than two inches away from this guy's bouncies. Everyone in the room, ensconsed inside their polyester sleeping bags, was dead silent. I, of course, broke the silence.

"Wow-- can you imagine being that camera guy? What a job!"

I mean, seriously-- people get paid for that. And, even at twelve, that pretty much blew my mind.

Some people dream about sex. I dream about porn. Last night, I had a dream that I was sitting at my computer, watching porn. That's kind of fucked up, don't you think? I dreamt that I was watching this dude lying face-up on a table and this tattooed chick was riding the squirt out of him. I mean, this chick was doing the reverse-cowgirl thing, just absolutely going to town and she was gritting her teeth as she was saying, I guess to the "camera":

"The trick is to pretend like you're enjoying it!"

And, in my dream, hearing this was like some sort of stunning revelation, and the dream-self of me was thinking, "Oh my God-- you mean it's all an act? She's not really enjoying getting drilled like some sort of highway works project? Jeez!"

Who fucking knew.

See You In My Dreams

"Can you do me a favor, Bobber?" I called to my wife before daybreak yesterday morning.

"Sure," she said. She was in our home office/crafting room, blearily checking her email, Facebook, Ucomics, getting in a quick game of Bejeweled, mayhaps before heading downstairs to breakfast.

"Can you Google the name 'Hans Muir' for me please?"

"Uh, sure," she said.

"I had a dream last night that you and I were watching some documentary about the history of law enforcement, and the credits rolled and there was one in big font that listed the director as Hans Muir."

There followed a brief period of silence, punctuated by some keyboard clicks.

"He's just some asshole," my wife officiously reported. "He's on Facebook."

"Well, of course he is. Who isn't?"

There is, apparently, only one Hans Muir on Facebook. He lives in Seattle and he seems like a pretty cool guy, from his open profile on Facebook that I probably shouldn't be reading or sharing with you. Yes, he's definitely cool-- even though he likes "The Colbert Report" and "The Daily Show." He's an artist, and I've been to his website, and his stuff is thought-provoking, bold, and energetic. He's three years younger than I.

And, one day, maybe in the not too distant future, he's going to Google himself, as we all do while eating cold pizza at 2:00am in our underwear and he'll find this blog post and he'll track me down and kill me.

Actually, he'll probably just send me a what-the-fuck email. And I will answer it, because I am crazy.

Hans Muir strikes me as kind of a granola-crunchy sort of guy, and I wonder if he is any relation to John Muir, who, according to Google Image, looks like this:



John Muir lived from 1838-1914, and he was pretty crunchy in his own right. An environmentalist and an early believer in the preservation of wildlife, Muir founded the Sierra Club, and he was a constant thorn in the balls of Congress, twisting and turning said thorn until Congress passed the National Park Bill in 1899, preserving Yosemite and Sequoia National Parks.

John Muir's mission in life, it seems, was to, "Save the American soul from total surrender to materialism."

That's only 58 characters (with spaces!) so you can tweet that from your Droid.

I'm pretty sure that this is the first dream I've ever had where I've dreamt about a specific name of a person that I've never met before and actually remembered it precisely enough to look it up. I don't think it especially means anything, but it's still kind of cool, because, today, I got to learn about two people, Hans Muir and John Muir, when, yesterday, I didn't know fuckall about either of them.

Being generally a narcissitic wreck, I am inevitably left to wonder if there are people out there dreaming and seeing my name. That would be kind of cool. They would Google me and see some fucking weird shit. And it would serve them right.

My father-in-law, a psychiatrist, recently told me of a dream he'd had where he was trying to get back home and was having some difficulty (he is obsessed with thinking he has dementia, and has always been absent-minded and generally lost) and one of his cars from his long-forgotten past was present in the dream.

"Which car was it?"

"Oh, I don't remember," he told me.

"Well, if you ever have the dream again, pay attention. I want to know which car it was," I said, in my charming, proto-Aspergian way.

Well, wouldn't you know that he had the dream again, and he remembered. Here is an email he sent to my wife two weeks ago:

Last night a '51 Ford convertible , my first car. This reminds me of "American Beauty" when the main character buys the first car he owned. I'm probably looking for what once made me happy, a simpler time when I was smart and fit and anything was possible. What next :a '67 Mustang or '73 Datsun 240Z? Should I call Car Talk for interpretations? I recall explaining the importance of cars to my analyst. Perhaps a paper on the dream car as self-object.

Let me know about the kitchen. You might need the sabre saw with a metal cutting blade for the sill plates. Dad.

Happy motoring, my dears. Sweet dreams. The next time you enjoy a walk in the park, thank John Muir. And, Hans-- no hard feelings. You're an amazing artist.