Drowning in the cultural sea

By Lars Trodson

OK, I get it -- enough with the ‘Brokeback Mountain’ jokes already. Anybody who can fire off a joke about this gay cowboy-themed movie I’ll give you credit: you can hit the side of a barn door. Good for you. But now, please, I beg you, find another obvious culture target and move on.

Listen, I’m not above the fray: The other day I said to my friend, in a faux Southern accent: “I just wish I could quit you.” So freakin’ hilarious. It was right then I knew I was in trouble.

I am gently trying to ease my way out of this super-saturated TV/broadcast/podcast/phonecast world we live in (sometimes successfully, sometimes not) precisely because of its oppressive nature. I’m begging my wife to cancel the cable, in part because everything seems so bizarrely similar in that digital world. I don’t expose myself to a lot of any of that, but if I’m sick of hearing “Brokeback Mountain” jokes, imagine how anyone who listens and watches a fair amount of these entertainment or talk shows must feel.

Everything sounds and looks like it’s in a continuous loop: If I start watching the news, I can flip the channels and it seems as though every network is talking about the exact same thing. Why do they each send their own reporter? If I turn on CNN, there is Wolf Blitzer. Every time.

I caught a snippet of an entertainment magazine the other day and they were interviewing one of the “Desperate Housewives” and the host says “Is she desperate to win a Golden Globe?” Ugh. How many times do you think some writer or host has slipped in that word when talking to one of the stars of that show? How do you think the stars of that show must feel when they hear it? For the millionth time?

SPLIT!!! Pitts call it quits

I mentioned the other day that I have spent years oblivious to the charms of Jennifer Aniston, but now she annoys me -- and it isn’t even her fault. Everywhere I turn there she is -- with some oblique mention of him. "Is Jen over Brad?," "What didn’t Brad tell Jen?," "Jen moves on," "Why hasn’t Jen moved on?," "Jen talks about life, love and friendship," (ugh), "What will Jen do next?" and the always enticing, "Jen and Vince; The real story behind their friendship." Ugh. She’s in the supermarket tabloids and glossy magazines and in the newspapers and in every other movie released this year. And the odd thing is, every time I see her on the television I witness a young woman so coiled up, so closed up by all this megawatt attention, that she isn’t really terribly interesting any more. I don’t blame her -- so, for the sake of her sanity and mine, leave her alone and let her become a human being again.

Angelina Jolie romantically linked to Kim Jong Il

It seems as though no phrase -- no matter how well-turned, no matter how trite -- will now get buried under an avalanche of undue attention. The other day I saw a photo of Angelina Jolie -- a woman who, for whatever reason (because I don’t know her, obviously) -- strikes me as charming and intelligent and reasonably grounded. But in this photo she was referred to as "Brangelina." Oh, boy -- here we have the nexus of him again, that man, and her, and a new version of an already tired contraction that was used all those years for Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez. Brangelina. It doesn’t work. You can’t say it. Stop using it.

Same thing with the "Brokeback Mountain" stuff.

From what I hear -- because I haven’t seen the movie, although I will -- is that it is a lovely, touching, heartfelt movie that’s managing to survive upstream in the deep sewage of our well-worn sexual insecurities.

Because, you know that -- heh heh -- every time we regular folk -- ha -- talk -- ahem -- about gay male sex -- ha ha -- in this country -- heh -- we try to make -- ha -- light of it -- cough -- because, you know -- hee hee -- we’re not gay and -- heh cough -- and -- heh -- well, you know -- cough -- we’re not gay -- cough.

So what we get from the mainstream yukmeisters out there is a stream of Humpback or Bareback Mountain jokes, over and over and over again and I’m already sick of the poor movie even before I’ve had a chance to reasonably make up my own mind about it.

And just like all those "Bareback Mountain" jokes, I’ve run out of steam. I was thinking of trying to end this column on some witty note, but then I realized the whole enterprise was most assuredly not very funny to begin with.

Lars Trodson can be reached at larstrodson@comcast.net.

Negative reality

By Lars Trodson

When I was maybe 13 or 14 years old I stood in line at a boat show in Providence, R.I., and, when it was my turn, received an autographed picture of a Playboy Playmate. Oddly, one of the things I remember most about the encounter was that she spelled my name right. When I was growing up, no one ever spelled my name right.

I have long forgotten who the Playmate was, but I remember it was a black and white picture, and she was a pretty blonde. I put it in the top drawer of my desk with a lot of other junk and it has long since vanished; lost to the garbage bin of history.

It served a useful purpose, though, because I could say to friends who came over to the house that I knew a Playboy Centerfold. This was usually followed by a negative frathouse reply, but when I produced the picture the encounter was proved. I would still be good-naturedly called a jerk for embellishing the relationship, but a moment or two was nonetheless taken to look over the picture and debate the physical aspects of our mutual acquaintance. Give me a break on this; we were teenage boys.

What's important about this story, in so much as it is important, is that a photograph was used, and acknowledged, as proof that something happened. I had met a Playboy Playmate and no one disputed that because you could see it with your own two eyes. She had signed it, written my name, and so there it was.

No more. A photograph -- one of the great tools of journalism, one of the great methods of recording history as it has happened -- would no longer be taken as proof-positive that anything had happened. There isn't a kid at the age of 13 or 14 who wouldn't come back after looking at what I once used as evidence, and say: "What'd you use, Photoshop?"

This all came to mind when I read a recent story in the New York Times about how networks use computer generated images to insert some product placement into TV shows. There, in the photo, was a depiction of a couple of actors from "Yes, Dear" and a coffee table in front of them. Here's how the New York Times described it on Jan. 2:

"Viewers of last April 25's episode of the CBS show "Yes, Dear" may have noticed a box of Club Crackers sitting on a living room coffee table, next to a plate of cheese. What they did not know was that the box did not really exist, at least not on the set.

"The Club Crackers box was inserted into the scene through virtual product placement, a process that uses computer graphics and digital editing to put products like potato chips, soda and shopping bags into television programs after the shows are filmed or taped. As with traditional product placement, producers can sell screen time on their programs to advertisers eager to reach consumers who now have the ability to skip traditional commercials using digital recorders like TiVo.

"According to PQ Media, a media research firm, spending on product placement totaled $3.45 billion in 2004. Of that amount, $1.88 billion was spent on television, $1.25 billion on movies and $326 million on other media. While digital product placement has been around at least since the 1990s, when it was introduced largely for greater flexibility in featuring various brands, it has gained traction on network television recently as advertisers increasingly look beyond the traditional 30-second spot to reach consumers."

It's fast becoming very easy to simply not trust our eyes: I see the box of Club Crackers, but I also know it isn't really there. How does my brain learn to process and accept this conundrum? Should it even bother, or simply relax and get used to the idea that everything might be fake?

Last year the movie version of the beloved Christmas tale "The Polar Express" came out. The movie, which was poorly reviewed -- largely because the computer-generated people in the movie looked creepy (an assessment with which I agree) -- and because it had padded out what was essentially a very succinctly written fable.

It was strange, though, when the actors tried to explain the process of the filming, which was something called "captured performance." This meant their bodies were wired up, the movements recorded on a computer, and then those detailed records of the bodily movements were used to create the computerized "performances" on the screen.

I remember thinking: Why didn't they just film the actors? What is this business of recording the movements, then recreating them through a computer? It was as though the performances wouldn't be considered real unless they had been replicated digitally. And from what I saw of the film, neither the actors' movements nor their faces looked real at all. (But it does beg another question: When a movie created entirely inside a computer finally gets put out on DVD, in what dimension does that movie actually exist?)

I think it is a very tricky thing to start altering the reality around us. We need to trust what we see, of course, but we've already started to question that. I can understand and even appreciate the cleverness of using this new technology to send a message to consumers, but it reminds me of that line in "Jurassic Park" -- a movie reference that is appropriate enough -- when Jeff Goldblum asks if even though something can be done, should it be done?

Some self-governance is needed here. There are all kinds of things that can be done, but should we, for the sake of how we relate to our world, and how we fix our own place in it? A thousand years ago a sailor could get across the ocean by looking at the stars and trusting what he saw. There was no questioning the reality of the stars, or the information they provided. The same stars are there, but these fixed points almost seem antiquated now, obsolete -- certainly not terribly sophisticated or fancy -- and we certainly don't use them to find our way in the world any more. We have a GPS for that.

Well, I wish I still had that Playboy Playmate picture. Not that I have any affection for the photo, or the woman in it, but so many years have passed since I first got it, and I've been faked out a million times by what I thought I've seen since then, that I'd like to see the picture again just to make sure that that brief adolescent encounter I thought I had actually happened.

Lars Trodson can be reached at larstrodson@comcast.net.

Lars Trodson archives

What one man can accomplish

An appreciation of Arthur Miller          By Lars Trodson

Arthur Miller came out of that great American era of steam and muscle and steel, the 1930s, when the direction of the world could seemingly be changed through conversation or a nightstick.

Both the world and Arthur Miller outgrew that notion. Miller, who died Feb. 10 at the age of 89, wrote new plays with great consistency right up until the end of his life, but they had stopped having any critical or artistic import.

The school of agitprop, the headmaster of which is Clifford Odets -- agitating and propagandizing -- was moralistic and straight and the world has become wobbly and inconsistent. Arthur Miller, sadly, seemed antiquated even before he had gotten old.

But, but ...

As the world has become more erratic, Willie Loman and Miller's "Death of a Salesman" seem more fixed in it than ever. Its moral center remains both permanent and eternally accessible. "A man is not a piece of fruit," said Willy Loman.

You should not just throw him - or a great work of art - away. Willie Loman (low-man) is still with us, the sadsack who tries to make good, the schnook who gets stampeded by an uncaring and voracious society. It's just that we don't see him on stage so much any more; he's now usually the first contender booted off the latest reality show.

Any character, however, that can be inhabited by the small and seemingly frail (Dustin Hoffman) and bearlike and bellowy (Brian Dennehy), or a combination of the two (Lee J. Cobb) is obviously one that will easily find new listeners as each generation passes.

It is a character that invades the two halves that are in most of us. The obnoxious, the unmoving, the irrational; and also the insecure and frightened and lost. He is one of the most human and American creatures ever produced on the modern stage.

Miller has always been included in the same company as Tennessee Williams and Eugene O'Neill - all of whom neatly covered a specific aspect of American life. The dreamers and strivers of O'Neill, the southern Gothic of Williams and the East Coast intellectual liberalism of Miller, most often associated with the upcoming Jewish middle class of New York City.

Whether this pigeonholing is fair or not almost doesn't matter: All three were, quite heroically, playwrights, a breed that has practically left the planet. That's how they made their living, and they knew it was precarious.

You simply don't hear of that any more. Our most prominent American playwrights still working in the theater, say, as an example, they are Neil Simon, Sam Shepard, Tony Kushner and David Mamet, have all morphed into hybrids: movie/book/theatrical/acting monsters that are as associated as much by their work outside the stage as they are by their latest play. Although it has to be said that Kushner comes as close as any as being an inhabitant of Broadway; a man of letters.

Miller often disparaged the movies and movie actors (even though he wrote a few screenplays, and none very successfully), because he felt insulted that he sometimes had to wait for an actor's schedule to clear before a play of his could get off the ground. But now writers, and most certainly playwrights and poets, must also supplement their earnings with jobs not associated with their primary craft.

Perhaps, in that way, any of us who write, or who wants to write, were hanging on to the past through Arthur Miller. He was the last of the truly major American playwrights who created the American scene of the late 1930s and early 1940s and, as such, he represented an era where art represented both struggle and hope. It was just a few generations ago that artists such as Arthur Miller thought they could change the world through art. And it was also characteristic of a time when you could make a living off your playwrighting, if you were any good at it.

It's true that none of Arthur Miller's plays ever came close to the success of "Death of a Salesman," which made its debut in 1949. By the time the 1960s came along his plays were dismissed out of hand, but Miller was creeping back into some prominence lately. This may have not been for the level of his craft but perhaps more for his persistence. It is hard to disparage a writer, especially one who touched greatness, when they continue to produce with such vigor as their 90th year approaches.

It doesn't really matter whether Miller produced anything else as great as Willy Loman and the world he inhabited. How much can we expect out of man, anyway? Isn't that one creation enough? Is "Death of a Salesman" diminished in any way by what came after? Of course not.

Arthur Miller seemed, at least in his youth, so unlike Willy Loman. But as the years passed we all could more easily see where the emotions of that character came from. Arthur Miller had become, oddly, somewhat like his most famous creation: Willy railed against and was frustrated by a world that did not seemingly understand or appreciate him. Arthur Miller did almost the same, almost right up until the end.

We shouldn't mourn Arthur Miller because he died. After all, he lived a long and productive life. But there is more than a little poignancy in the fact that Miller, a famous, literate, accomplished man, seemingly felt little better treated by the world than did Willy Loman. Willy was, after all, only a little man, looking for a little peace, a little respect, and a little patch of precious sunshine so his garden plants could grow.

THE END

Lars Trodson has been writing and editing for newspapers for almost 20 years,
has had several plays produced, and writes for regional and national magazines.
He can be reached at larsdoodle@aol.com.

Hilary Duff redefines 'creative artist'

By Lars Trodson

The revolution began subtly.

In announcing an upcoming concert at the Verizon Wireless Arena in Manchester, NH, a press release contained a quote from Miss Duff that has sent seismic rumblings through the artist community.

The Duff quote has artists such as Joni Mitchell, Carly Simon, Aretha Franklin and, yes, even Barbara Streisand, shamefaced at their antiquity and many have reportedly gone into seclusion to think about their future in the creative arts.

"I give up," Ms. Mitchell is reported to have said.

The press release states, and we quote verbatim here: "If you thought you knew film, TV and pop music star Hilary Duff before, think again. Her new, self-titled Hollywood Records album ... shows the remarkable growth spurt she has undergone." The press release was issued Dec. 7, 2004.

It is the following quote, attributed directly to Miss Duff in the Verizon Wireless Arena press release, that has caused this outpouring of grief in the worldwide artistic community.

"Compared to the first album, when I wasn't confident enough to make suggestions, this time around I was very involved," said Duff about the recording process of Hilary Duff. "I worked with the songwriters, telling them what was happening in my life, and what I wanted to sing about. If I thought it needed to be more heavy, more rock, I said so. I feel that this record is so much more me. I can't wait for people to hear it."

Poets and writers across the world found themselves staring at blank pages of paper wondering why, for years, for decades, for a lifetime, they had done all the heavy lifting themselves. Why hadn't the lightning bolt of inspiration hit them, as it has, once again, the incredibly beautiful, rich and talented Miss Duff?

"I used to tell people my inner thoughts, what I was feeling," said Joni Mitchell when reached one afternoon in Montana. "We would be talking, reading, singing, playing guitar all night long. Sometimes I'd take what I said, or what Bobby said, or Joanie, and I'd craft a little poem. Sweat blood for it. Write out ... each ... little ... fucking ... word."
The anger was palpable and Miss Mitchell's cigarette was vibrating between her fingers.

"And then I could either get the tune right away, as though I had dug it up out of the ... out of the earth. There I go again trying to find just the right word, the right phrase. But sometimes it would take weeks to find the right riff, the tone, the..."

But the words, no longer angry but simply defeated, trailed off, as wispy and ephemeral as the shadow of her cigarette smoke.

On the fax machine at Aretha Franklin's office was a message containing the titles of some of the new tunes from the Hilary Duff album. Franklin, her hands quaking, read the words: "Weird", "Haters", "Do You Want Me", "Rock This World" and "Fly."

"When I read this song title 'Weird'," said the Godmother of Soul, "I think that Hilary must have been feeling kind of weird that day. I don't think it, I know it. I feel it. It just comes right through and hits you between the eyes. 'Haters.' A word like that, you know, that kind of word just doesn't trip off the average person's tongue. You need a special, what is it, a special... Oh! How I wish Hilary was here so I could tell her what I was feeling! She'd know!"

There was even a vicious argument zipping back and forth on every possible mode of communication between the members of such diverse bands as Green Day, Good Charlotte, Velvet Revolver, the White Stripes, Tenacious D, Metallica -- even such old stalwarts as Bon Jovi, Van Halen and Aerosmith -- all of whom had a member claiming to have helped Hilary shape the words "Rock This World."

"For years, man, we were fuckin' tryin' to put how we felt and what we were doin' into fuckin' words, man, and I was talkin' to Hilary, man, saying I just wanted to fuckin' shake it up," said rocker Fred Durst. "And she fuckin' lays down the hammer and fuckin' says, Freddie, I know it, man, it's like rockin' this world, man. When I get on stage, she says, I just want to rock this world. And, of course, whew! Man! There is was! It was like every single moment in rock history rolled into fuckin' one, man! Wow! Now three, four fuckin' generations of rock bands, man, now have a fuckin' voice. We're fuckin' free! I can look around and say to these other guys, you know what we're doin'? We're rockin' this world! Rockin' it! Only somebody like Hilary could put it together."

"I've never seen anybody convey their feelings to the actual creative team the way Hilary Duff does," said legendary producer Clive Davis. "I used to listen to Miles Davis, or a Lou Reed, and they would try to tell a reporter what they were trying to accomplish -- and it was laughable, really. They stumbled and stammered. But not Hilary. She'll say, 'I'm sad.' Or: 'I'm hungry.' Or, 'Where's my iPod.' And then we have a brand new shiny song."

Lohan

But just as the genealogy of this monster revolution seemed clear, it was not. Movie star and budding pop idol Lindsay Lohan said to Access Hollywood, "I was the one who pioneered this %&*#."

But in true artistic fashion, Lohan didn't let her emotion go to waste. She immediately huddled with a team of writers and producers in Los Angeles. She told them her feelings, and they pounded out a crushing dance groove for the new single.

Lohan's "That Bitch" should be in stores soon.

Dec. 13, 2004

Media bloviators suck wind on Election Night

By Lars Trodson

The results are in and it's true: The old, white media bloviators on the networks have served more time on TV than the oldest member of the ancient Soviet Politburo, where it was patriotic to die in office just after passing one's 90th birthday.

As the election night dragged on, the white, white-haired pundits wheezed and huffed through their arid analyses, all of them puffing out of their suits like so many blow-dried penguins.

Larry King looked so tired as he tried to figure out what Wolf Blitzer was saying he had to prop his head up by resting his chin on his hand.

MSNBC's Chris Matthews set a record for describing each new non-event as "interesting." "This is so interesting," Matthews told his audience 1,042 times, one time for each viewer, apparently.

CNN's Jeff Greenfield, who had obviously been listening to Joe Scarborough on MSNBC, sleepwalked through his analysis and looked a bit ashen. Blitzer, in a moment of confusion, gave electoral college votes to "President Kerry." As cadaverous as Fox's Brit Hume looked, he still looked better than the Gollum-like Carl Cameron.

The only fun of the night: the dagger-like stares emitting from Andrea Mitchell's eyes every time Scarborough interrupted her to offer another pearl of wisdom on MSNBC. The only problem for Mitchell was that Scarborough, as annoying as he is, was right most of the time.

And where was the ubiquitous Howard Fineman? Obviously blowdrying his beautiful copper-colored hair and rethinking his plans to join a Kerry admin. Maybe he can call the White House and convince the Bushies he wasn't THAT much of a Kerry sycophant.

Nov. 4, 2004

Fan writes moving letter to embattled media icon

I'm sorry to hear about your recent troubles, but I think they will only serve to deepen your already profound understanding of the human condition and to continue your unparalleled commitment to guys like me, "Joe Six-Pack."

Anyway, as to why I'm writing. I know you've been looking out for me, Bill. And I've been sticking with you, too. I've been helping the cause for the little guy like me by buying all your Factor gear, all the stuff you sell online, and it certainly gives me comfort to look at all my Factor mugs and tee shirts and other stuff that I have in my little room here. I buy your books, too, although I have to admit I haven't read them.

At any rate, Bill, I did something at work a little while back. You see, I followed your advice about not making excuses for myself, about admitting when I'm wrong, about taking it like a man. When I admitted to my faults, Bill, I did it because you gave me such good advice, over and over again, and because I knew that you, too, would admit to anything if you were also ever caught in a jam.

Well, I liked this girl at work, see, and you can relate to that, Bill, and she liked me, or so I thought. I'd call her up at home and tell her some things I thought would make her feel good, things like taking her on vacation, or how to make love like a porn star (I bought Ms. Jameson's book because it seemed you liked Jenna, too, Bill), or what we could do together in the shower.

Well, get this, Bill. She was no friend. She actually TAPED our conversations and she went to management and guess what? They asked me about it, and I thought to myself, well, what would Bill do? I said he wouldn't spin it. He'd take responsibility for it, if he ever did such a thing - which he would never do, but anyway. Besides, I'm no idiot Democrat. I don't find fault or blame for my actions. I'm no VICTIM. I admitted to it, and guess what, Bill?

They fired me.

I don't really have any money for high-priced lawyers, or even a low-priced lawyer for that matter, Bill. So now I'm out after 17 years at the plant.

And worse.

I don't need to tell you that things aren't going so well right now, Bill. While I sure am happy I can still watch you every night - luckily we have TV time at 8 o'clock - and know you're still looking out for me. Because when I look at you, Bill, I feel comfort and happiness knowing the system works exactly as it always has, and you, with your tireless efforts of late, are continuing to make sure of that.

Yes, sir. I sure am proud of you. And I know that you are proud of me for owning up to my mistakes and admitting my flaws, no matter what the cost. I may be out of a job and in jail, but I have my integrity intact.

I just want to let you know that when I get back on my feet I'll buy a whole new bunch of Factor stuff, because I know if I do that they'll keep you on the air, and it'll give you the energy and support you'll need to keep looking out for the little guy - me. I'll do that, just as soon as I finish up my sentence and get back into the workplace.

And, rest assured, Bill, even though I'm in prison here I'll keep taking it like a man. Just as you would, I'm sure.

Thanks for the great advice over the years, Bill.
You're the best,

Tad Toesucker
Poughkeepsie Correctional Facility

Nov. 4, 2004

Two soldiers write about the depravity of war

One of the burning questions of this political season is whether John Kerry participated in or was witness to acts of depravity while a navy officer during Vietnam. The question has opened up old wounds -- wounds not quite yet healed -- from 30 years ago. Kerry testified before Congress in the early 1970s and repeated what some of his fellow soldiers had told him about atrocities committed during battle.

But the very nature of the debate underscores, as it should, the insanity of war. War creates an atmosphere where decent people are thrown into a cauldron of madness, where the rules of engagement change overnight, and where opportunities for inhuman behavior present themselves when they otherwise, in a less violent world, would not.

It is easy for us, on the sidelines, to condemn what happened at Abu Ghraib prison, or at Buchenwald, for that matter -- because we were not there. Would all of us have acted just as inhumanly, as we would like to believe we never would? That's the scary thing. Or would we have risen above the actions of the mob to be the voice of sanity? We don't know.

But while we consider the question of whether John Kerry is telling the truth or not, we can listen to two different accounts from two different wars, both of which unveil the sense of anger and chaos that war can cause. One, from the Civil War, is told by an unnamed Connecticut soldier who recounts a disgusting episode of casual bigotry. And the other is from World War II veteran Lenny Bruce, who unleashes a torrent of lingering resentment during a drug-besotted concert in 1962.

Did John Kerry witness acts of depravity during Vietnam? Maybe, maybe not. But he had many brothers in arms who, unfortunately, had.

This is from an issue of the Connecticut War Record, published in 1864:

The 21st (Conn. Volunteers) were ordered on board the Transport "John Farren," but were subsequently disembarked and returned to their position in the 'Rifle Pits.' We were again ordered to embark, and returned to the boat for that purpose. Arriving at the wharf we found that through some misunderstanding of the Quartermaster, the 'John Farren,' which was laden with all our baggage, had been completely loaded down with negroes and their baggage. The way those darkies and effects were transferred from the boat to the shore 'was a caution' to the 'poor emancipated Africans.' After the negroes were all disembarked our men were ordered on board to unload the baggage, and mounting the hurricane deck, where it had been packed away, they charged upon the confused mass of African possessions and commenced transferring them in a very unceremonious manner to the wharf. The scene which followed baffles description - and I doubt if the history of the whole war can present a like scene, or the Emancipation Proclamation of Father Abraham ever called forth another such sight. Feather beds fell like snow flakes, only rather more forcibly, upon the heads of frantic searchers for 'their own' household goods. Bedding, clothing, all manner of domestic goods, filled the air and fell like rain in one confused and inextricable mass. Wenches displaying the pluck and muscle of a Hercules in giving punishment to some luckless darkey, who in her fruitless search for her undiscovered property had invaded the rights of another.

Hooped skirts were hurled gracefully from the deck to come down enveloping some corpulent wench, and adding to her wrath, already rampant. Some were crying, some laughing, some fighting, and all wrangled amid the shower of 'bag and baggage,' which 'mingling fell.' And thus we left them, to be subsequently conveyed to Newbern, but if they ever live to sort that baggage they will exceed the average length of African longevity.

Yes, well. And this is a report from the liberators.

On Dec. 4, 1964, Lenny Bruce performed at the Gate of Horn nightclub. "Let the buyer beware," the emcee intones, probably for two reasons. Bruce was known not just for his comedy, but for his well-known use of obscenities. At this concert, he also seems to be quite stoned.

Nonetheless, even under the influence, Bruce could be funny and devastating. Here, he is slashing, as he asks the question "Why are Americans hated everywhere?" He answers it by recounting what he says happened between American soldiers and the Europeans who were needing some of the things the Americans carried. It isn't a happy tale, nor was it meant to be.

"I think I did a little more traveling than anyone in this audience. I think I've been on more invasions than anyone in this audience. I was on six. I made some real daddies. I was on a cruiser called the USS Brooklyn. I was a 2nd class gunners mate. I was [unintelligible] from '42 to '45 July -- that's when Germany fell, in July. Doing it's dirty. They hate Americans everywhere, do you know why? Because they fucked all their mothers for chocolate bars and don't you forget that, jim. You don't think those kids have heard that since 1942? 'You know what those Americans did to your poor mother?' They lined her up those bastards -- your father had to throw up his poor guts in the kitchen while he waited out there and that master sergeant schtupped your poor mother for their stinkin' coffee and their eggs and their friggin' cigarettes. Those Americans. That's it, jim. That's all they've heard, those kids. Those kids are now 23, 25 years old. The Americans. There's the guy that did it to my mother. Would you assume that they would say 'There's the guy who fucked my mother. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Thank you for that and for giving us candy?"

Lenny Bruce was arrested later in that performance and today it's easy to ask: Was Bruce arrested for swearing, or for saying things like the above which you could imagine were the things no one, ever, wanted to hear?

War makes people do things and say things they'd rather never have done in the first place and it certainly makes them do things they'd just as soon forget.

One way, of course, to avoid this heartache is to not put people in this terrible and unfair situation in the first place.

Sept. 27, 2004