Wayne's World

Recently I revisited the pair of movies by Mike Myers and Dana Carvey, based on their Saturday Night Live sketches.  I recall we really enjoyed the first one when it came out, and were “eh, not so much” impressed by the second one.  After some time, and spate of similar films by Myers over the years, I decided to reanalyze them.

 First off, I did like the original SNL sketches, which established the characters, their catch phrases: 1) negating a sentence by simply adding “NOT” at the end, after a dramatic pause; 2) contradicting a “no way” with a “way”; 3) indicating immediate and embarrassing arousal to a female by “scwhing”; 4) humiliating less cool guests (usually older adults, teachers, etc.) by asking them “a [unpleasant word] says what?”; and 5) indicating an improbable outcome is as likely as “monkeys might fly out of my butt.”  I also liked the cameos, like Aerosmith.  Wayne: “No way!” Joe Perry: “Way!”  Or their “top 10 reasons” they were bummed about the fall of communism, which included “Katarina Witt no longer ‘forbidden fruit’”.  Overall, fairly consistent quality, but to translate an SNL sketch to a full movie was not an obvious idea.  

 But they pulled it off.

 Wayne’s World (1992).  Wayne Campbell (Mike Myers) lives in Aurora, Illinois, a suburb of Chicago – he lives with his parents.  His best friend is Garth Algar (Dana Carvey), a shy, nerdy guy who is basically Ed McMahon to his Johnny Carson.  His show comes to the attention of Benjamin (Rob Lowe) who angles to take it over, in cahoots with a sponsor, Noah (Brian Doyle Murray, Bill Murray’s brother).  Myers also befriends Cassandra (Tia Carrere), a babacious bassist with local band Crucial Taunt. 

            Eventually Myers chafes at the requirements of honoring sponsor commitments (similar to Burt Reynolds’ bristling at fast food promotion in “Stroker Ace”) and is even more disturbed by Benjamin’s obvious designs on Cassandra, under the auspices of assisting her musical career.  Along the way Wayne and Garth meet Alice Cooper backstage at a concert in Milwaukee (thank you for the history lesson, Alice). 

            The movie is wrapped up whimsically and arbitrarily (but not completely implausibly) to the heroes’ benefit.  And there was much rejoicing.

            High points?

            A.         “Bohemian Rhapsody” in Garth’s Pacer.

            B.         Ed O’Neill as the grumpy Stan Mikita chef.

            C.         “Stairway” & other guitar in-jokes.

            D.         Alice Cooper cameo

            E.         “Laverne & Shirley” montage in Milwaukee

As I said, now having seen “Love Guru” and three “Austin Powers” films, Myers’ “aren’t I funny?” style has long worn thin.  Here’s it’s certainly in abundance, but back then we hadn’t yet maxxed out on it.  Bottom line: the charm has worn off, but it’s still a classic.

Wayne’s World 2 (1993).  Wayne now has his own place (some sort of loft in a building).  Garth pursues a new “mystery woman” (Kim Basinger).  In a very hokily conjured plot, Wayne has mystic dreams of Jim Morrison telling him to stage a music festival, “Waynestock”, including Aerosmith and many others.  Needless to say, even with the help of a Tommy Chong-like English roadie, Del, this whole project is far beyond Wayne’s non-existent skills as a promoter.  To make matters worse, he has a new competitor for Cassandra’s affections: Bobby (Christopher Walken), a slick record mogul who is wise to Wayne’s petty “a sphincter says what?” jokes. 

Yet again, however, the day is saved by mere plot contrivance (“you didn’t think we’d end the movie like that, did you?”) but here the outcome is far more implausible than the first movie’s.  Is it as good as the first one?  Not a chance.  Does it blow chunks?  Not really.  Worth watching if you have any positive inclination towards the first one.

Beat Classics

Before the hippies of the 60s, there was the Beat Generation, of the 50s, an extremely avante-garde, anti-establishment clique of writers, of whom the most famous were Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, and William S. Burroughs.  They refer to each other in their writings and certainly ran together in the same circles.  Neal Cassady was one of their buddies, but I haven’t read The First Third, his only known novel; Cassady also became one of Ken Kesey’s Merry Pranksters, as the driver of Furthur, the psychedelically painted school bus (as described in Tom Wolfe’s The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test). 

 I won’t comment on Howl, Ginsberg’s most famous work (or his poetry), but I will address the ones I have read:

 The Naked Lunch, by William S. Burroughs (not to be confused with Edgar Rice Burroughs, the author of Tarzan and John Carter).  This was a remarkably tortured and nonsensical collage of word salad and psychedelic imagery, so strange and twisted – and completely and deliberately devoid of any discernable plot – that the entire effect is that of a bad acid trip or a nightmare.  Oh, and the author’s homosexuality was rampant, front-center, incapable of being surgically removed from the story as it accounts for 60% of the action.  WSB, although married (he killed his wife by misadventure, a William Tell “shoot the apple off her head with a gun” mishap) was clearly, 100% flaming.  Women come off as alien beings not even the same species as men, as misogynistically portrayed as the cartoon animated vagina in “Pink Floyd the Wall”.  The only concept which competes with gay sex in this story is heroin addiction and the spectacular lows to which a junkie will descend to get his fix – including gay sex.  To the extent any moral can be discerned in this whole wacked out story, it is: if you get hooked on heroin, you WILL blow someone.

            David Cronenburg, a horror movie guy, managed to make this into a movie – no mean feat given the afore-mentioned absence of a plot – and didn’t do too badly.  The gay element was still there, but toned down considerably (though still recognizable).  Peter Weller plays the WSB character, Ian Holm and Roy Scheider are in here too, plus an array of talking typewriters who turn into loathsome, talking insects.  Very weird, but hardly any weirder than the book. 

 On the Road, by Jack Kerouac.  Sal Paradiso (this novel’s obvious alter-ego of Kerouac) starts off in Paterson, NJ, and works his way cross-country several times; his West Coast destination is usually San Francisco, by way of Denver.  Written and taking place before the highway system was installed (or the NJ Turnpike), the story necessarily involves an array of rarely-named routes which complicates the task of any modern-day intrepid souls daring to repeat SP’s feat.  Sometimes he hitchhikes, sometimes he takes the bus, and sometimes he drives; his driving buddy is Dean Moriarty (a fictionalized but accurate version of Neal Cassady).  Allen Ginsberg also appears (as Carlo Marx) as does William S. Burroughs (Old Bull Lee).  Dean is close to the focal character:  he dallies with a pair of women, Camille and Marylou, never quite sure which one he’ll settle down with – if either.    I have to admit it must be the ultimate road trip book, though I’m not that impressed with it – like The Great Gatsby, it’s one of these highly overrated “classics” which guys like to refer to in order to pump up their own cred and mystique.  That, and a favorite of high school English teachers, many of whom struck me as enthralled with Kerouac in a vicarious manner, the same way rock journalists worship Keith Richards.  Unlike Naked Lunch, OTR does NOT go into any of the alleged homosexual relationship between Kerouac and Cassady.  Although I consider it overrated, it was certainly enjoyable to read – particularly on the bus to or from New York City.

            They’ve FINALLY made this into a movie, VERY recently – it was panned at Cannes.  Walter Salles, the Brazilian film maker (“Central Station”, “Motorcycle Diaries”, and “Paris, Je T’aime” are his more famous works), directed: The cast includes Sam Riley as Sal, Garrett Hedlund (from “Tron Legacy”) as Dean, Kristen Stewart (aka “Bella”) as Marylou, Kirsten Dunst (Maryjane no more, it seems) as Camille, and Viggo ‘Aragorn” Mortensen as Old Bull Lee.  I can’t seem to find a US release date, “but I’ll see it when it comes out,” even if it winds up being one of those limited artsy release theaters.  

Dreams & Nightmares

Like everyone else, I have dreams – by which I mean, the weird movies in my mind when I sleep.  Some are more interesting and fun than others (though far too few wet dreams for my liking – no more than 3 in my whole life), but very few are truly terrifying: nightmares.  As an adult, I rarely have nightmares, even when under stress or difficult times.  Most of my dreams are dull and forgettable, with a few truly memorable ones which I sometimes write down if they are really good. [It’s too bad we’ve yet to figure out how to RECORD dreams.]

 When I was a kid, however, the nightmares were more frequent and terrifying.  I suppose our imaginations are 10x more powerful, and our reason and intellect are a fraction of what they are now, so our fears take a more prominent role in our daily and nightly lives.

 My particular “concern” was ghosts and the supernatural.  A TV that continues broadcasting even when the plug is pulled; mysterious footsteps upstairs in the house when everyone is downstairs.   Faceless strangers, robots, etc. – and the paranoia that EVERYONE is secretly a robot assassin.  Ruthless but mortal killers with axes and chainsaws were never scary to me.  To this date I find Jason or Freddy Krueger more annoying than fearsome.

 Walk-through.  Naturally when you’re a kid, you’re scared of the dark.  Your overactive imagination sees the darkness as a tabla rasa, a blank slate upon which to project all sorts of imaginary terrors which evaporate in any meaningful amount of light, even a nightlight.  For some reason parents consistently seem to forget this.  Also, I had this belief – I don’t know why – that if I ran through the house I would have nightmares, so if I was to walk to my parents’ bedroom for solace, I’d have to do so VERY slowly.  And this meant walking past the stairway leading down to the ground floor, a huge void of darkness: yet another blank slate for fertile imagination to fill with all sorts of weird and terrifying images. 

            To make matters worse, our stairway to the basement creaked.  Not such an issue when you’re walking down, but when you’re walking up, and the lights are off beneath and behind you, it really gives you the strong impression that the newly restored darkness has instantly summoned forth its legion of demons who are now walking up the stairs immediately behind you.  RUN UP! NOW! 

 Exams.  In college, I would frequently wake up in my room in Paris, after a dream that I was back in College Park oversleeping through, or failing, exams.  That was a frequent “nightmare”, though more accurately described as stressful than terrifying.  Plus as soon as I realized I was in Paris, I also knew I had successfully navigated the end of semester exams and had not flown overseas completely forgetting an entire exam.

 People who know me well will laugh at this: I’ve had a few “nightmares” about my car (1992 Pontiac Firebird Formula, black on black): either it catches fire and is completely ruined (without me inside), a massive accident which totals it (again, I’m unharmed), or Tim the body shop guy has “painted” it dull black primer and pronounces it “done”.  WHAT??  Yeah, nowadays that’s what generally passes for a nightmare for me.

 A few more recent, legitimate “nightmares”:  I caused my brother to fall off scaffolding, landing on his head, which disintegrated, killing him instantly.  THAT one caused me to wake up immediately.  Or I was magically deformed into a misshapen monkey in an old-fashioned suit (“YOU HAVE CHOSEN YOUR FORM!”), emerging onto a busy street circa 1910, in grainy black & white – as if REAL LIFE back then was in fact the same black & white as we see in the movies of that era; that in itself was disturbing enough.

 Delirium.  This is even worse than nightmares, as nightmares end when you wake up.  But a high fever combined with delirium is the worst.  Nightmares which don’t turn off when you wake up or open your eyes!  Plus you’re sick and hot and sweaty, and you don’t know what’s going on.  I saw entire cities of faceless robots or ghosts.  Truly horrifying, and there is NO escape until the fever breaks and finally passes.  It would be disturbing enough for an adult, but for a child it’s indescribable. 

 My Dad.  We like to believe that the dearly departed communicate with us through dreams, but I’ve yet to see any evidence of that.  Since my father died in December 2004, I’ve had two dreams about him. 

            In July 2010, I dreamed that he told me I would joining him in a month – which kind of freaked me out, even though he was referring to a cloudy place with harps and pearly gates.  That month passed by with no summons.  I’m still here, so that must have been a false alarm. 

            Another dream illustrates the idea that these posthumous appearances are more likely due to our imagination and not true messages from the afterlife: someone was horribly injured (arm or leg cut off), and my father took him in a car to find a hospital.  After about 30 minutes of fruitless searching around town (looked like South Central L.A. to me) my dad simply GAVE UP and dumped the poor guy by the side of the road and told him, “you’re on your own.  Good luck.”  1000% out of character for my dad.  He either would have found the local E.R. immediately or called 911 and got the ambulance to come.  He would NOT have simply dumped the guy off like that.  I’m not the hero my dad was, but even I can dial 911.

 Ex’s.  I have to admit I have had a few dreams including former GFs.  Not very often (not often enough?) and they are remarkably tame considering the nature of the relationships.  Even odds for the woman to act in character in the dream or an outcome which bears any resemblance – better or worse – than the actual situation.  What’s even weirder, is in the rare occasion that a dream does involve intimacy, probably 80% of the time the partner is a woman I don’t recognize: not personally and not Angelina Jolie or Scarlett Johannson. 

 Prophecy.  None of my dreams have come true: but they have been so odd and inconsistent that I don’t think that’s likely anyway.  We talk about “Dreams” as if we go to bed and dream of the things we really want in life, in a coherent fashion, and then wake up thinking, “I really wish my elementary school would turn into an aquarium stocked with fish looking like Ewan McGregor speaking Yiddish backwards.  Why don’t my dreams come true??”  Our real dreams are too weird and fantastic to become reality.  The easiest way to make your “dreams come true” is simply to be continually dosed on LSD.  Somehow I don’t think that’s practical, or even desirable.  Get real.

 Childhood.  Looking back, despite having had nightmares so often as a kid, the happy truth is that those nightmares were the sole source of fear and anxiety in my childhood.  So many kids around the world have real lives which we would think of as nightmares: child soldiers in Africa; child prostitutes in Bangkok; blind beggars in India; Jerry Springer offspring in the US (e.g. poor kid in “Breaking Bad” – Jesse went to get his money back from “Spoog” and his wife, she ended up killing Spoog with an ATM machine because he called her a skank); and so on.  I survived my nightmares, but these children can scarcely escape the horrible realities of their lives, except by the most heroic of efforts or interventions.  I’m glad my nightmares were no more than that.

America's Got....Too Many of These Shows

Lately I’ve been catching a bit more of “America’s Got Talent”, mainly because Howard Stern is now a judge, along with Howie Mandel and Sharon Osbourne.  A few months ago I was a captive audience for “X Factor”, and under similar conditions watched “Q’Viva” (Jennifer Lopez & Marc Anthony’s Latin-themed talent show) and to a lesser extent, the current season of “American Idol”.  Here’s my impressions of these.

 By now we know the format:  various contestants vie for a super prize of fame and stardom (maybe even a clever Pepsi Super Bowl commercial), chosen by a combination of celebrity judges and audience text-in voting.  The judges offer “advice”, “praise”, and in Simon Cowell’s case, deliciously malicious criticism. 

 “Idol” and “X Factor” attempt to select America’s next pop idol.  All the contestants are stuffed into a narrow range of musical styles, with the women almost invariably attempting to mimic Whitney Houston.  There are no rock bands or rock vocalists: no one attempting to become the next Ian Gillan, Bruce Dickinson, Rob Halford, or even Freddie Mercury, although I noticed there was a “Queen” night on “Dancing With the Stars”.  I was never in danger of seeking the CDs of Scott McCreary, Clay Aiken (now on “Celebrity Apprentice” or some similar show), or Taylor Hicks – at least, not on my own behalf. 

 One of Idol’s current judges, Steven Tyler, is better known as the singer for the rock band Aerosmith.  He signed onto Idol when the band was on “hiatus”, though that break seemed to be as much caused by his eccentric personality as anything to do with the other members of the band; Axl Rose, however, still remains the most dysfunctional rock singer to date, as Tyler hasn’t insisted that Aerosmith is his and his alone and will be rejoining the band’s standard, classic lineup (Joe Perry, Brad Whitford, etc.).  Although I doubt this was his express intention, his publicity from Idol has probably made an impressive impact on Aerosmith’s ability to sell its new album and back catalog and sell tickets for an upcoming tour.  Maybe not.

 “America’s Got Talent” is actually a bit more interesting, as it seeks talent of all kinds, not merely pop singers.  This leads me to recall that old 70s show...The Gong Show.  Remember that one?  Maybe some of the AGT contestants are a bit “out there”, but that’s definitely the entertainment value.  And now we have a Simon Cowell for the show, although Stern has his own style of attempting the same type of role:  “someone has to tell you, ‘you suck’, but do it well enough that you can enjoy the contempt, even take it home and frame it.”   The tanning woman in NJ has shown us, as if we had any doubt (“Let’s Make a Deal”?) how people will allow themselves to be completely humiliated in front of the entire country simply for their “15 minutes” of fame.

 Probably the TOP “oddball talent” has to be “Le Petomane”, an eccentric Frenchman, Joseph Pujols, who performed from 1892 to just before WWI.  This man had remarkable control over his anal sphincter – he was able to “fart” (with air, though, not intestinal gases) into various wind instruments, or simply by himself, to the tune of music.  

 Q’Viva focuses, of course, on “Latin” talent – from Mexico, Brazil, all over Latin America.  I suppose “Dancing With the Stars” also falls into this “live reality” contest business, even if the contestants are actual celebrities. 

 What I really didn’t like about X Factor was the “gimmick” deal.   “Dexter” was homeless.  Leroy Bell claimed to be 59 but looked 39.  Stacy “lost her father” (so did I...where’s my $5 million recording contract?).  Tiger needed to win to avoid foreclosure (can you imagine his banker glued to the TV every night rooting for him?).  Please.  And I knew, as soon as Simon flew down to Florida to apologize to Melanie Amaro in her own home, in front of her family, on camera, and return her to the fold, that SHE would be the winner.  No way they pull that stunt and let her lose at any point.   So this business of audience choosing is actually quite bogus:  how hard is it to imagine smug and arrogant Simon, asked in confidence if the show is rigged, to smirk and laugh, “did you really think I’d leave $5 million up to the whim of an audience of idiots texting in their choices? Get real.” 

 By all means, enjoy these shows.  From time to time, I do myself - if only to laugh.  

Frederick vs. Fredericksburg

[Revised on 10/26/21]

I’ve actually had a fair amount of experience in both cities, which are not too far away from each other in distance as well as spelling (I can’t comment on Harrisburg, PA vs. Harrisonburg, VA).  They both have Civil War angles.

 Frederick, Maryland.  By modern, contemporary internal combustion engine motor car traveling northwest from DC by 270, this town is approximately 1 hour, with Gaithersburg as an approximate halfway point.  It is the second largest city in Maryland, after Baltimore, which tells you how small Annapolis is.  270 comes up from the southeast, then splits to 70 west to Hagerstown (and eventually to California) and east to Baltimore, 15 north to Gettysburg, PA, and south to Leesburg, VA, and 340, which goes down to Harper’s Ferry, West Virginia – so it’s very much a centerpoint.

            I recall when we were children, still living in Montgomery County, MD, before our big move to France in January 1979, our parents would take us to Frederick occasionally, mainly Frederick Mall, which had a “Time Out” (video arcade).  I’ve been back to that mall, which is pretty small, not particularly upscale (they have a NASCAR store and a beauty supply store) and set up on a cross format.  As of 2021 the mall seems to be closed, but Francis Scott Key Mall is still there. 

            The Civil War angle is two battlefields: Monocacy and Antietam, of which the latter is a crucial battle in 1862:  McClellan’s rare victory against Lee’s early incursion into Maryland persuaded Britain & France not to recognize the Confederacy, sealing its eventual doom.  In Turtledove’s timeline, Lee manages to smash McClellan at Camp Hill, PA, and the Confederacy wins the Civil War.  Monocacy is a battle dating from 1864, in which Lee attempted to draw off Union forces from their attack on Richmond by a CSA excursion up into Maryland which could threaten either Baltimore or Washington.  But Union commander Lew "Ben Hur" Wallace managed to delay the Confederate advance by a day, giving the Union enough time to reinforce Washington, which made the excursion pointless - and thus Monocacy was a Union victory.  What passes for what remains of the battlefield straddles 355 as it runs up to Frederick, a series of markers and a Second Empire House.  My brother and I visited the battlefield recently with our high school comrade John, another excellent meeting with him.  

            Frederick has a large supply of old houses and buildings dating from the Civil War and earlier, but not nearly as run down as Winchester.  The downtown district is very nice, including Evil Tower Park, a pedestrian river zone, and even Cafe 611, a club where I've seen a few stoner rock shows including, but not limited to, Corrosion of Conformity.  back in 2007 I saw Blue Cheer at Krug's Place, getting my picture taken with Dickie Peterson (Facebook profile picture of me and him, RIP).  

            In 2003 or so, my parents sold the three-level single-family house we grew up in, in Montgomery Village, and moved to a similar sized apartment in Frederick.  This forced us to drive another half hour northwest to visit them and more to the point, instead of being in Montgomery Village, where we grew up, we’d be in Frederick, of which we had the merest memories (as noted above).  However, Frederick is not a bad place, and we’ve yet to exhaust its potential.

 Fredericksburg, Virginia.  Many confuse the Maryland town I just mentioned with this city, more or less due south of Washington and half way between Washington and Richmond, right off 95.  Unlike Frederick, which has no river (judging by all the water towers, it must be sitting on an impressive network of natural springs) Fredericksburg sits on the Rappahannock.  The rivers in Virginia all seem to run from the mountains in the northwest (West Virginia) southeast to the Atlantic Ocean, and the Rappahannock is no exception. 

            The Civil War angle:  various battles at the city itself and around it, as Union forces attempted to batter their way down to Richmond. 

            Ages ago, probably the early 90s, my best friend’s sister Kathy briefly went to Mary Washington College (now University), which is located in Fredericksburg.  However, our treks here were solely to either move her in, or move her out, and we didn’t venture forth into the old town itself.

            Later on, back in 1997-98, my car was being repainted – color change from blue-green to black – at a body shop in Falmouth, which is south Stafford, on the north bank of the Rappahannock across from Fredericksburg.  Tim, the painter dude, and I would sometimes go into Fredericksburg and have a beer at some of the taverns in the old town.  However, as with Frederick, this is a town whose antique charm and sights have yet to be fully explored by yours truly, another task to accomplish when surplus time allows.

             I had my 76 Firebird in an outdoor lot at Falmouth for some time before bringing it back up here.  

 Finally, I have driven from Frederick to Fredericksburg (or rather, Richmond); the trip from Frederick to Richmond is 3 hours.