Dennis Perrin's Blog, page 6

Live From My Mind

Here's an impressionistic primer on, yes, you guessed it, Fridays. Hoping to school some of Splitsider's youth about the show's brief impact. Even better is the love I've received from several Fridays veterans, including producer John Moffitt. Making them happy makes me ecstatic. Sometimes writing can be a good thing.

Do The CREEP

Watched All The President's Men last night with someone who hadn't seen it. It'd been ages for me, so the film felt fresh as well. Not only is ATPM a time capsule in style and subject matter (remember investigative journalism?), it reinforces how imperial corruption has sharpened.

"Jeez, that Nixon was a piece of work."

"He was a brutal, paranoid fuck," I replied. "Sad thing is, Obama's worse."

Oh man is he ever. Difference is, Obama's smoother. No self-pitying rants from him. Obama makes you feel good about awful things. If you're predisposed to it, that is.

The past four years will do little to dampen liberal spirits. They're already revved up, intent to keep fascist Republicans out of the White House. That no Repub running can match Obama's authoritarian record is beside the point. If anything, it deepens liberal love for Their President. As the year slogs on, this mindset will intensify. By election day, the only way decent Americans can forestall a Nazi putsch is to give Obama another term.

Again, it's a great system for those who own it.

Liberal propaganda is already piling up. On Facebook, claims about the Democrats' progressive nature appear hourly, the most brazen (so far) insisting that Liberals Are Cool. To support this theory, a checklist of liberal social achievements appears. Victories for workers' compensation. Protection for seniors. Civil and voting rights. Reproductive freedom.

Impressive. Thing is, that Great Leap Forward hit the wall with George McGovern's defeat in 1972. Since then, it's been a rightward retreat.

Under Carter, Clinton, and now Obama, the clock has been steadily set back. Policies that would make Nixon blush with excitement have been championed and enshrined by liberal heroes. Small wonder why Obama supporters reach through time to justify their present acquiescence.

Obama's expansion of Bush/Cheney police state measures isn't as sexy as Medicare, though there are those who'll defend surveillance and endless war as well. Recall liberal orgasms over the Bin Laden hit, or defenses for the Just War in Libya. Whatever it takes to elect Democrats. Our sole hope for survival.

Didn't catch the State of the Union speech (or SOTU, which to my weary, dyslexic eyes resembles STFU). What's the attraction? Arrogance and pretense are rubbed in our faces. Adults who buy into this bullshit, or worse, believe it has something to do with them, are tragic souls.

If you're paid to watch and regurgitate SOTU talking points, that's one thing. But to feel that it's your "democratic duty" to watch a president boast and lie as the corporate-owned Congress claps along, all I can say is "Netflix."

Noam Chomsky said that Watergate demonstrated how the system polices itself. Woodward and Bernstein weren't all that interested in COINTELPRO, the FBI's program of surveillance and disruption of dissident groups and figures. They probed Nixon's spying on the Democratic National Committee, an action that stepped on numerous elite toes. Nixon and his henchmen overreached with that operation and paid the political price.

Lesson: Don't fuck with those with serious political power. It's a reason why the Reagan gang got away with Iran/contra. Or Bush/Cheney with the Iraq war. Or Obama with the NDAA. I doubt that Romney or Gingrich will be elected; but if one of them is, he has a lot of ground to cover.

Still, I enjoyed watching the pre-Internet research dramatized in All The President's Men. Imagine, actually poring through books! Lots of them! With hundreds of pages! Jotting down notes and quotes with pen and paper! Countless hours of intensive mental labor!

Who among the eager young devotes that kind of effort to expose today's political criminals? I know of a few with the desire. And of course there's WikiLeaks, or what's left of it. In this age of streamlined corruption, digging deep while keeping pace is the current struggle -- if you'll excuse the retro-jargon.

Get Sprung

Many liberals I've known hate that DC's National Airport is named after Ronald Reagan. He was a warmonger! A reactionary! He traded arms for hostages! Shame on National for honoring his name!

I usually counter with, What about Dulles? I've never heard a liberal denounce that airport's name.

John Foster Dulles was a Republican Secretary of State who helped plan anti-democratic coups in Iran and Guatemala. He and brother Allen had business ties with Nazi companies. The best you can say about Dulles is that he opposed nuking Japan. But since most liberals defend Truman's atomic assault, Dulles' opposition should count against him.

Nary a peep. Same goes for Kennedy Airport and the Kennedy Center. Reciting JFK's crimes is pointless since millions do not view him as a criminal. But the point remains. So why the fuss about Reagan and not Kennedy? Of course we know the answer. But every so often obvious questions should be asked, just to retain what sanity is left.

In all my visits to DC, I'd never been to the Kennedy Center. When a friend offered a ticket for an evening of music celebrating the Tunisian Revolution, I said sure. It's been a long time since I've dressed up and gone out; plus, I'd finally see the hallowed place. As a new resident of the District, it seemed almost mandatory.

I was curious to see how the Arab Spring would be depicted. US elites were caught off guard by the uprisings, backing their friends and clients until that proved untenable. Then poof! They were for democracy. Expressed lavish support for political freedom. The standard bait and switch.

In reality our owners oppose popular Arab rule, as there is tremendous hostility to their imperial interests. Libya was a test case with an already demonized foe, using the Arab Spring as cover for NATO intervention. The Western concept of Spring is more explosive than dissent from below, a season the Iraqis continue to endure.

Overall, the Kennedy Center was underwhelming, a frozen reminder of "modern" architectural tastes from the late-60s/early-70s. I was taken with the giant JFK head in the lobby. For all the cracks about North Korean Leader worship, we do a fine job of canonizing our plaster saints, or in this case, bronze martyr.

People milled around the head, admiring its scope and inspirational likeness. But I thought, if you're going to deify JFK, do you really want to emphasize his head?

Near the head was a bar, a more fitting tribute to the Kennedys. The concert was about to begin. I slammed a Stella Artois and entered the theater with my friend. The audience bristled with excitement. There had been rumors that the Obamas would appear, maybe the Bidens. We were mercifully spared that. Still, the crowd felt psyched. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all.

Then came the speeches. The Arab Spring was rightfully hailed, followed by imperial ass-licking. I knew this was probable. We're in DC, after all. But it went on and on. How the US has traditionally encouraged democracy in the Arab world. How our shining example of unfettered freedom inspired those in the streets. A State Department flunky, whose name I didn't catch, spoke on Hillary Clinton's behalf, praising Madam Secretary's love of liberty.

People nodded affirmatively. Applauded here and there. It all made sense to them. To me, it seemed a perfect moment for a personal tour of the building.

As I left the theater, I saw the bartender putting away his bottles. If I was going to sit through two more hours of what I'd just seen, a stiff drink was needed.

"Absolut on the rocks, please."

"I'm sorry sir. The bar is closed."

"Okay. How about a beer instead?"

"Sorry sir."

"There's a bottle right here! Come on, man. Charge what you want."

"Sir, please step away from the bar, or I'll have to call security."

Now I was truly glad that Obama and Biden didn't show. Imagine having this exchange with Secret Service agents around.

Rebuffed, I walked throughout the Center. I liked it better without people, a large stark space from lost time. As with so much else in DC, the Center's size and symbolism convey imperial confidence.

This especially made sense with Kennedy, whose presidency marked the high point of US power and wealth. Those days are long gone, the Center an anachronism. To have it crumbling and covered in vines would at least give it some character.

When I re-entered the theater, the speeches were winding down. I took my seat as a video promoting Tunisia's tourist industry came on. It reminded me of the Mount Airy Lodge commercials from the 80s, promoting a Poconos resort for stressed out New Yorkers. Swimming pools. Saunas. Golf courses. Fine dining. Five star hotels. Yep, it looks like the average Tunisian finally has it made. Thanks to us, naturally.

At long last, the concert began. Composed by Jaloul Ayed, Minister of Finance in Tunisia's interim government, the symphony celebrated Hannibal Barca's military campaigns. Playbill described Hannibal as having "a great capacity for ruthless endurance in battle, as well as an equally charming personality."

That's a tough combo to pull off when using elephants to crush enemies. Someone of that stature deserves a stirring symphony. Unfortunately, Ayed fell centuries short.

Not that it was a bad symphony. Hell, I would've preferred a bad symphony, introduced by Leonard Pinth-Garnell whom I would never walk out on. Hannibal was simply a boring symphony. Obvious. Thumping (the elephants?). Brash. More John Williams than Mozart.

The audience didn't appear crazy about it either. People checked watches. Stole quick glances at their iPhones. Like Joseph Cotten in Citizen Kane, I twirled my program, killing time. As Hannibal dragged on, people began to leave. But we stayed to the cymbal crashing end.

In the cab line outside, commentary was tepid and brief, if polite. Hannibal didn't conquer this crowd. A portly white guy ahead of us got into a cab and was immediately kicked out by the driver. Apparently, he didn't want to go to the white guy's address. So the white guy accused him of bias against Black people.

The driver erupted. Loudly demanded respect. Screamed for someone else to get into his cab. He looked at me. I begged off. This made him angrier. Finally an older couple appeased him. They settled in as he kept yelling, his cab racing out of the lot.

I didn't catch the driver's nationality, but he's clearly adapting to American patterns. Maybe the speech makers inside were right. Sometimes it hurts to be so envied.

Remember Blogs?

If you haven't noticed, I'm on a bit of a site hiatus. Working on other things. Moving about with more travel in the near future. Plus, I haven't felt like writing extensively about the present scene. Hard to believe, I know. But surprise is the spice of any fulfilling life.

Fresh posts will appear soon (and there's always my Twitter feed). One involves an evening at the Kennedy Center honoring the Arab Spring. Well, that's what the program said. What I endured was something entirely other.

Porter Wagoner best sums up my current mood. Remember, it was he who introduced Dolly Parton to the world. So he had some knowledge of life's darker secrets.

One Of Us

It begins yet again. Actually, it never ends. We are throttled by elections, primaries, fund raising, attack ads, appeals to cheap nationalism and tribal hatred. A conga line of energetic mediocrities, to lift Gore Vidal's timeless description, deign to manage us for their employers.

We're told how lucky we are. How blessed. Envied by countries with freer elections. Americans gorge on envy. Our national lifeblood. Advertising relies on envy to sell shit. So why not inject it into our politics, such as it is?

I know -- this is obvious. We've been down this tangled path too many times to count. True. But at least this time around, there's ferment from below. Occupy is off the front burners, but remains lit.

This election is the perfect space to occupy. How it's done, to what end, is still developing. My sole hope (that battered, abused word) is that Occupy isn't swallowed by Obama and the Dems. There's a risk of that happening. Obama still casts a seductive spell on many liberals. A sexy savage mule.

I wonder if Obama's staff are amazed by how much they've gotten away with. Success usually breeds arrogance, especially at the presidential level. Obama's signing of the National Defense Authorization Act closed 2011 with a perfect Fuck You to his supporters -- to the extent that his supporters oppose police state legislation. Or bother to notice.

No, most liberals are busy portraying the Repubs as a unique menace to all that is Good and Pure about our nation. The GOP certainly makes it easy for them.

But as primary season drags on, money, not ideology, will decide the matter. And that looks more and more like Mitt Romney. For all the booga-booga about Gingrich, Perry and Santorum, liberals truly fear a Romney nomination.

Like Obama, Romney is a reliable corporatist, pledged to endless war, indefinite detention, expanding surveillance. Romney's advisers helped Obama frame his healthcare "reform." How do you demonize an Obama collaborator? We'll soon see.

Liberals can be creative in tight spots. Romney's Mormonism must be tempting, but it's a limited target. I suspect liberals will play the Patriot Card. Obama the Osama slayer. The quiet storm that topples dictators. That sort of thing.

I don't envy those employed to follow and report on this twisted charade. Which probably makes me a bad American. Well, they certainly know where to find me.

Past Of Completion

They all got heavier. Heavy with fear. Heavy with sadness. Bloated by bad food and drink.

Each had reasons. Solid reasons. Genetics. Fate. Age.

His was more complicated. Or compromised. Or whatever he chose to tell himself in early morning dark.

Awake the voices clashed. An awful din. Asleep the vistas burst aflame, crashing like cheap props.

Asleep he embraced all scenarios. These were limited tales, bent into fractured shapes.

He couldn't fly. Couldn't float. Possessed no special powers. Death was constant, laughing.

Nothing cruel. Simply fact. How every story ends.

Deserted buildings. Broken glass. Soiled fabric. Torn scattered limbs. Dust of neglect clouding dying suns.

Run along beaches of blood. Rock towers rise, block escape. Music falls, fades.

It's familiar. Warm. Loved ones smile in the distance. The closest furthest away.

He knows better than to run beyond his reach. At times he'll make a break. Climb the rocks. Drag the sand. Create false openings.

Slammed against rubble. Breath sucked from lungs. Clothes stripped and burned.

Faceless women appear. Offer wet promises. Part of his punishment. Ignore them, the ache is profound. Devour them, his regret is complete.

Four AM sirens under his window. Guzzle what's left of the wine. Light up, inhale, cough out blue smoke.

The day is over before dawn. The rest is just killing time. Murder by the hour.

Sexy Yule Log

Spending Christmas in NYC this year. First time since my kids were little. Now they're grown and wise to the cynical manipulations of the holiday market. But I still believe. In Santa? No. In Dusty Towne.

Letter To A Lost Friend

Christopher --

I hoped it wouldn't come to this. Writing to you after you've died. As you know, I've reached out to you since a mutual friend told me of your illness. Ceased my attacks and critiques. Not that I changed my mind about your pro-war position, but my feelings ran deeper than partisan rifts.

We never met again. Friends said it was because you were in treatment. Weak. Unable to talk. I know that's true. But maybe you simply didn't want to see me. I understand. All I desired was to look you in the eyes one last time and say thanks. So this will have to suffice.

I have more memories of you than you did of me, the proper balance, given our relationship. When you read my initial attempts to write political criticism, you were honest but encouraging. Made minor corrections while highlighting lines you liked. I can't tell you what that meant to me. When young writers seek my advice or input, I remember your generosity and offer them my own. I still hew to your belief that first thoughts are not best thoughts. That the best stuff must be dug out. You were right.

My favorite memories stem from those long nights and weekends in your and Carol's apartment. If I seemed star struck, I was. I couldn't believe you took me as seriously as you did. The two of us sitting at that long dining room table next to the kitchen. Me trying to match you drink for drink. Rookie hubris. You made it seem effortless, wreathed in Rothman smoke, longish hair tousled. We'd talk through the early hours, you more than me. I was happy to listen and learn.

There were the C-SPAN gigs. Twice you took me along, early morning, when neither of us had any sleep. In a DC cab as the sun came up. You'd click on your debate switch and your eyes became electric. Your energy was boundless. When I appeared on C-SPAN, I tried following your example. Disaster. Massive hangover on national TV. It still hurts to watch that tape. I think you kept me up that night to test my endurance. To see if I could hang. I made it. Barely.

You opened doors for me. Recommended me to Jonathan Larsen at the Village Voice when the Press Clips column was vacant. I felt I wasn't ready for that stage, but you did. Larsen went with Doug Ireland instead. No matter. There were other jobs.

You got me into Mother Jones. Your endorsement put me in the New York Perspectives editor's chair. That was vital to my education. It's where I really learned to write. It was through you that Tariq Ali and Colin Robinson read my work. Tariq later published Savage Mules. Belated thanks for that.

So many moments swim through my mind. Our physical feats competition on your building's rooftop. You teaching me how to properly cook salmon in your kitchen. The day we spent together at the 1992 Democratic Convention in New York. You introduced me to Norman Mailer and Norris Church, saying "And of course you know Dennis Perrin." We hung out with Dick Cavett and Ron Reagan, Jr. Made fun of Charles Krauthammer who sat in front of us in Madison Square Garden. We hit the reporters' bar and talked about how awful Bill Clinton was going to be.

We then went to HBO Studios where you were to debate John Podhoretz on Comedy Central. It was a live show. You said "fuck" several times. Moderator Al Franken told you to stop. You replied, "I thought I was allowed to say whatever the fuck I wanted!" The segment ended early. The night was just beginning.

When I pissed off Noam Chomsky, sharing with you something he wrote to me privately, you spoke to Noam and straightened it out. I was thoughtless. You were selfless. You helped me many times like that. When I asked for a blurb for Mr. Mike, you didn't hesitate. When we saw each other at readings or signings, you always hugged and kissed me, cigarette ash falling on my shoulder. "So good to see you, dear boy! Care for a drink?" I never refused.

I'm sorry we fell out. That was never my intention. I simply didn't understand your reasoning. It felt false to me. When I reminded you of forgotten statements that undermined your pro-invasion arguments, you didn't deny them. You just got shitty with me. Pulled rank.

When I wrote Obit for a Former Contrarian in 2003, you reacted as if I stuck a shiv in your gut. You emailed me from Kuwait, demanding that I confess to planting the story in New York Post's Page Six. I told you the truth. I didn't. But you wouldn't believe me. From there it grew worse.

You later feigned little knowledge of me. The same tactic that Sidney Blumenthal used on you. Why not? It works. But mutual friends told me different stories. One wanted to set up a debate between us. Carol thought it was a good idea. You were horrified by the suggestion. Spoke of my betrayal. You never got over that Obit piece. Thing is, that piece is filled with love and respect for you. Severe criticism, too, but couched in whatever affection I had left.

You were wrong, old friend. You endorsed and pushed for all manner of imperial violence. Your glee over Fallujah blew my mind. After all you had written, roasting imperial toads with scathing wit, you were in the end no different than them.

Yes, I wrote harshly about this. To you personally, on my blog and at Huffington Post. For a moment I considered taking it all down, out of respect for your passing. But the old Christopher would blanch at that. And he would be right.

In your collection For The Sake of Argument, you wrote this to me: "For Dennis -- close reader, meticulous viewer, who answers back to the consensus. With warm fraternal greetings, Christopher." In No One Left to Lie To, you penned, "Dennis is a good man. C.H."

I'd like to think that somewhere inside of you, these sentiments remained. I'll never know. But many positive sentiments about you remain in me. Some friends have mocked me for this, but they didn't know you as I did.

So long, Christopher. I'll never forget you.

Bert Schneider

Anyone who shoved Vietnam up Bob Hope's ass on an international stage is okay by me.

When Hearts and Minds won the Academy Award for Best Documentary in 1975, co-producer Bert Schneider dispensed with standard showbiz thanks. Instead, he read a telegram from the head of Vietnam's Provisional Revolutionary Government delegation to the Paris peace talks.

Dinh Ba Thi conveyed "greetings of friendship to all American people," eliciting applause, boos and hisses. Francis Ford Coppola thought this was a beautiful gesture, especially in the wake of massive US violence in Vietnam. But Bob Hope was incensed and had Frank Sinatra read a statement deploring Schneider's behavior.

Hope had been Hollywood's biggest war booster. His annual Christmas specials from Southeast Asia tried to paint Vietnam in 1940s colors. But each year, Hope's message grew dimmer. His early upbeat commentary became sullen, resigned. To have some hippie producer celebrate American defeat while waving an Oscar was too much for Hope. He shot back, but history muffled its effect.

That was perhaps Bert Schneider's final victory. Up to Hearts and Minds, Schneider was New Hollywood's main engine. He, Bob Rafelson and Steve Blauner (BBS) produced Easy Rider, Five Easy Pieces, The Last Picture Show, Drive, He Said, and The King of Marvin Gardens. After producing Terrence Malick's Days of Heaven in 1978, Schneider faded from view.

The revolution in American film that he helped foster succumbed to mall movies directed by Spielberg and Lucas. But for such a brief window, Schneider got a lot through.

Schneider not only saw potential in underground narratives, he created the space for their development. He found an audience hungry for relevant films, open to experimentation in mood and structure. Business was conducted in weed-scented air. But when Schneider pulled rank, he did so decisively and without apology.

He gave Dennis Hopper tremendous freedom to direct Easy Rider. As Hopper flirted with a four-hour bike film, violently resisting any changes, Schneider stepped in and cut Easy Rider down to a releasable length. Hopper protested, yet there was nothing he could do. Hopper's then-wife Brooke Hayward observed, "Bert was the heroic savior of that movie. Without him, there would never have been an Easy Rider."

Heroics aside, Schneider could be loathsome. According to Peter Biskind's Easy Riders, Raging Bulls (and its accompanying documentary), Schneider was a drug-fueled egomaniac, given to rants and emotional abuse. There was nothing revolutionary about his success.

Alhough he mocked his capitalist status, gave money to the Black Panthers, helped hide Huey Newton and Abbie Hoffman from the FBI, Schneider remained in his prime a Hollywood power broker. Since his father, Abraham, ran Columbia Pictures, Schneider was familiar with the role.

For me, it was Schneider and Rafelson's creation of The Monkees that still resonates. (Paul Mazursky claimed authorship of The Monkees, saying that Schneider and Rafelson stole credit for the idea from him and partner Larry Tucker. But, aren't ideas like butterflies free?)

Yes, The Monkees were Beatles knock-offs. True, some of their music stretched bubble gum to the snapping point. Yet Raybert, Schneider and Rafelson's production company, assaulted mid-60s television with jump cuts, social satire, long hair, and loud music. They fused French New Wave with documentary pacing, live action cartoon energy with media self-awareness. It may look tame now, but The Monkees rattled TV conventions. It wasn't like any other show.

In their second and final season, The Monkees dropped the laugh track, pushed their sound into new areas, setting in motion their destruction. This literally came to a Head in 1968, as Schneider and Rafelson, with help from Jack Nicholson, deconstructed The Monkees as a money-making distraction. Shallow, corporate, lacking in weight.

"You say we're manufactured/To that we all agree/So make your choice and we'll rejoice/In never being free" sang Davy Jones, just before the infamous footage of Nguyễn Ngọc Loan shooting a Vietcong suspect in the head. A girl's scream is heard, but it's in reaction to The Monkees taking the stage, not to the barbarism just shown.

You'd be hard pressed to find any manufactured teen brand since that juxtaposed war crimes with pop diversion. But then, none of them were produced by Bert Schneider. Imagine the film he'd make for Justin Bieber.

Sugar Pop

Been traveling a lot of late. Nothing exotic. Post-divorce responsibilities and settling into a new city. Have some heavier posts in mind as I slip into the holidays. Until then, there's always my Twitter feed and Nancy Sinatra.