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Ken



Last Updated: 9/12/2009

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Gender: Male
City: Los Angeles
State: California
Country: US

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October 5, 2009 - Monday 

Category: Life
I was in a medical facilty for a routine treatment. Next to me, an old man was lying swaddled in blankets that looked like a series of layered diapers; it was as if his body diminished into nothing, like an inverted soft-serve cone, his legs nothing more than a swirl. His face was fixed in a permanent scowl, and his eyes bulged with fire, as he saw me sitting down next to him. He began screaming and moaning, and I thought, "This is going to be pleasant." I asked the nurse if he was truly in pain, and she said he wasn't, but that his mind was mostly gone and he didn't know the difference. He held his arms at 45 degree angles and seemed to be clutching something. His cries of pain died down over time and before I was about to leave, he said to the nurse in a little boy voice, "I want another chance at love."
1:00 AM 
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October 1, 2009 - Thursday 
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Debra Winger, who was a jury member at the Zurich Film Festival, where Polanski was to be honored, criticized Swiss officials for the "philistine collusion" that resulted in Polanski's arrest there on Sunday. "This fledgling festival has been unfairly exploited, and whenever this happens, the whole art world suffers. We hope today this latest (arrest) order will be dropped. It is based on a three-decades-old case that is dead but for minor technicalities. We stand by him and await his release and his next masterpiece."              


I love "Chinatown." It's a near-perfect melding of Roman Polanski's dark, European sensibility and the sweet, caramel nougat of fake Hollywood glamour. Polanski isn't the sole reason for its quality, but in the end his vision holds it all together. I shall always love the man for making something that has given me such pleasure through the years.

Sadly, he never made another film in Hollywood, fleeing the country after drugging and raping an underaged girl. His film career has continued unabated, but movie buffs like me will always wonder what he would've accomplished if he'd been able to continue working in the U.S.

I can acknowledge that he's had a rough life. His experiences during the Holocaust, and the death of his pregnant wife at the hands of the Manson family are legendary and tragic. However, that does not excuse what he did, nor does his artistry exempt him from the society at large.

He should come back to this country and accept his punishment. The jails are full of people who feel they did nothing wrong. I'm sure some of them are quite talented, too.


1:00 AM 
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August 30, 2009 - Sunday 

Category: News and Politics
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Rich people. All of my life I've had a love/hate relationship with them. One of my favorite movies, "My Man Godfrey," presents the wealthy as eccentric, but well-meaning; their materialism and greed like a scratch-off lottery ticket, under which lied beating hearts waiting to be resurrected. The lead, Godfrey (William Powell), was a resourceful yet fallen member of their ranks, and his humility gave him a grace and humanity that can only come from knowing the underside of life. From failing. From knowing the net we all assume is there may not be, and we'll only know for certain when we stop falling.

Ted Kennedy was a modern variation on Godfrey. A man possessed by demons, stuck in a history and myth he neither invented nor could escape. He was
involved in a notorious accident where a young woman died, and he had a sustained, public period of alcoholism and womanizing. He was a member of American royalty, and the levers of power were never far from his reach.

Fortunately, Teddy was highly intelligent and imbued with a soul. I wouldn't presume to tally his good works vs. his bad moments. I think it's fair to say few of us know what it would've been like to be in his position. How many of us would've pulled it together and still maintained an honest, abiding concern for the poor and disenfranchised? To me, the thing that matters most about Ted Kennedy is that he could be an asshole, but he clearly knew it was a failing and that his conscience mattered. Or perhaps, it was the fact that he had a conscience.

Think of George W. Bush, another rich kid from an American dynasty. He's the other side of the coin. A man who clearly felt entitled to his unearned place, and who was thin-skinned to the point of ridiculousness. Creating a war he'd never have had the courage to enlist in, laughing at the thought of executing someone on death row. People tended to project intelligence and concern onto him, because the bald truth before their eyes was so terrifyingly evident.

No, the rich aren't like you and me. They are often monsters. But if we're lucky, they are benevolent ones, capable of remembering that while they are separate from us due to birth and circumstance, they are ultimately part of the same species. In the movies, Godfrey reclaimed his immortal soul by becoming a butler. Ted Kennedy did so by becoming a servant of the people.
11:00 PM 
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August 17, 2009 - Monday 

Category: Life
It amazes me. People for whom an illegal war based on lies meant nothing. Couldn't get them outraged over tapping their phones or torturing people. Not a peep. But try to provide healthcare for those less fortunate and out of the woodwork they come, furious as hell and out for blood.

I think the Bush-Cheney years have primed us for this moment, softening up the national press corps even more they already were, until all they seem capable of doing is finessing access to public officials through softball questions and analysis. Those years also gave the republicans a nice window on what they could get away with, to the point where an idiot like Sarah Palin can make a completely false assertion about "death panels" and alter the national debate.

This health care reform battle is a watershed moment. Are we a nation who cares about the suffering of those less fortunate, or are we a country of emotionally stunted infants who don't see the sense (financial and otherwise) of instituting a generous public policy that might help someone other than ourselves?

I was one of those without medical insurance last November, and I nearly died because of it. I am thankful for government-run Medicare. It has saved my life. All of the forces arrayed against health care reform now opposed Medicare at its inception, and if they had their way, it never would've existed. They are the enemy. Their tactics are fear and deception. If we can pour trillions of dollars and precious lives into an unnecessary war, we can afford to cover the health care costs of our citizens.

Anyone who says otherwise is a liar.
1:00 AM 
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August 9, 2009 - Sunday 

Category: Movies, TV, Celebrities
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Tupelo skiffle artist Sonny Simperton, who had a hit song in the early 1950's with "Feckless Birds" ("They fly, they skip, they poop, they pop/Feckless birds ain't never gonna stop"), has died from a heart attack at age 78. For a brief time in 1954, he had his own program, "Laugh Rodeo," in which he was miscast as bumbling British Calvary yeoman Bixby Fishenchips. He spent the late 50's through the 1970's trying to recapture his early glory, writing the failed pyschedelic opera "Electric Tang" and charting a minor 1977 disco hit, "Love Dove Love" ("Booties sweatin' in the heat/Love Dove Love can't be beat").

In 1989, he married a pelican named Doris on "The Pat Sajak Show." Doris filed for divorce shortly thereafter, taking the remainder of his savings with her. She later made appearances with her new husband, Phillipine acting sensation Tony Mario, who boasted on "The Arsenio Hall Show" that Doris claimed Simperton was sterile. Simperton screamed various profanities in his defense, but unfortunately he was working as a greeter at a Modesto Denny's, and was fired.

From there, he wound up homeless and destitute until joining the Orlando Republicans Against Filthy Immigrant Scum (O.R.A.F.I.S.) in 2002. Becoming a fixture on Fox News, he espoused various radical rightwing views, such as creating a manmade hurricane at the U.S./Mexico border, and shooting cannonballs at everyone named Manny.

When asked in an interview last spring how he'd like to be remembered, Simperton said, "As a guy what had most of his teeth." A memorial service will be held Friday at the Orlando Resort Casino and Crematorium.
11:00 PM 
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August 3, 2009 - Monday 

Category: Writing and Poetry
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(The setting is the U.S. Presidential podium with a royal blue backdrop. Barack Obama appears with an alien named Sambore.)

Sambore: Greetings, people of earth. I am Sambore, an alien from a planet outside of your solar system. I have spent many earth years learning your languages, so that I might one day communicate with you.

Barack Obama: Welcome, Sambore. I speak for the whole world when I say welcome to earth.

Sambore: Thank you, "President" Obama. You may've noticed that I put air quotes around the word "president." For you see, your missing birth certificate is news even on my home planet.

Barack Obama: I assure you it is a false controversy, my new alien friend.

Sambore: Perhaps, but there is one way to definitively find out. We can use my culture's Time Orb to travel backward in time and witness your birth in Hawaii. Sadly, the exertion of time travel may melt the limbs from your body and leave you lobotomized, but what is that versus the peace of mind we will all have by knowing the truth about your birth?

Barack Obama: I'm afraid I can't take that risk.

Sambore: I'm sorry, but that seems strange to me. Since you are not going to prove that you are the legitimate leader of the free world, I have no choice but to order my militia to fire the Heat Cannons we have disguised with cloaking devices, and which orbit your planet this very minute.

Barack Obama: Short of traveling back in time and perhaps destroying myself in the process, is there anything I can do to change your mind?

Sambore: Absolutely not! Man, the way you overthink things really fries my nebulonic capacitors! If only the great George W. Bush was still your leader. Then your planet wouldn't have to suffer death by intense, relentless heat. My people would've taught you how to convert pollution into food, and how to use a Bedazzler to enhance fabrics without making them look gaudy and cheap.

Barack Obama: I wish I cared more about this planet to help.

Sambore: Spoken like a true Kenyan. (Raises wrist commuicator to his mouth.) Zeegar Bellnix, fire the Heat Cannons!!!

Barack Obama: But...I'm the chosen one!

Sambore: Chosen by whom? Heaven--or hell?!

(There is a bright flash of light and then darkness. Screams are heard.)
1:00 AM 
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July 27, 2009 - Monday 

Category: Life
I can't stand these feelings within me. They burn like acid. How I would love to chug some kind of antidote, to wash it all away. To restore my heart's beat. To feel the bracing wind of clarity.

At the wound care hospital, where I'm getting my foot treated for a cut, there's a man in a wheelchair who talks incessantly. He's older and arrives with me every Wednesday, like clockwork. Usually, he brings donuts, which strikes me as an odd thing to offer people involved in healthcare, but they love it. Anyway, he is harmless and even nice, in his way, but I can't stand his chatter. Something in me resists his friendly impulse, his doleful glance. I keep myself separate. I don't want to smile and small talk.

This stubbornness is a rude strain I have never been able to fully eradicate. I value manners and kindness above almost everything else, yet I go out of my way to never fully belong. Maybe it's because when I do, I lose all sense of anything, and I am far too vulnerable. More likely, it's because I'm something of a bastard.
1:00 AM 
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July 19, 2009 - Sunday 

Category: Writing and Poetry
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Covered in stripes, your hide is coveted by the greedy,
     hunters, housewives and the kitsch-loving needy!
Zebra, mighty zebra, when you're around it's a gala,
     wish I could ride you like an equine Chevy Impala!
11:00 PM 
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July 15, 2009 - Wednesday 

Category: Blogging
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Dear Kendell,
I think you are a riot! Seriously, you are one funny man. What is the secret to your humor?

Flo
Boogerton, Vermont

Dear Flo,
When I create my humor pieces, I think of Joe Average, sitting in his easy chair after a long day at his tiny job in his small city. I imagine how life has beaten him like a Finnish prostitute with a frozen Perch, leaving no marks, only cold shame. He sits down at his computing machine and logs onto my blog at MySpace, looking for a reason not to cry. I imagine him saying to himself, "Entertain me, monkey!" What happens next cannot be explained, only experienced. Like mescaline or Sarah Palin.


Dear Kennuck,
Deep down I know we are all scared. That's why I love Karen. You see, she's afraid of everything. Cats, knives, Garth Brooks--and those are just the usual things! Last night, in the midst of a passionate embrace, she suddenly confessed that she was scared of having sex! Rumor on the net is you're the Love Doctor. Tell me, how do I get into her scaredy-pants?

Chip
Flurg, South Carolina

Dear Chip,
I think fear is the greatest aphrodisiac. I've often used it to score with the ladies. For example, I once dated a woman who feared spiders. Instead of showing sensitivity to her arachnophobia, I donned a crotchless Spider-man costume and aimed my web shooter! Fun is the enemy of fear. So do like Fleetwood Mac and make lovin' fun (trust me, that band interbred like rabbits)!


Dearest Kinney,
I think trees are taking over! I know you will call me "crazy," just like my next door neighbor, whose oak tree I had to hack to bits, lest it control her and her three bastard children. Thanks to stupid environmentalists, trees have a great reputation. Believe you me, they aren't shade-producing innocents giving birds homes and kids climbing experiences! They are living, breathing soldiers in a leafy army with one angry agenda, and that's to rule the earth! Do you think drunk drivers ram into them by accident? Wake the frick up! I, myself, was one of those so-called drunk drivers, and I saw the tree uproot and jump into my path with my own eyes! Ever since then--well, truthfully, six months later, as I was hospitalized and in rehab--I made it my life's work to eliminate this terrible enemy. My next door neighbor should've held a party to pin me with medals instead of a block meeting to alert everyone that I was an "axe-wielding menace." And to think, I once thought I might be a father to her children. Forget that! I'm not parenting Tree Children! In fact, at this rate, they will grow up to become my future foes! If I were smart, I'd take my axe to them now! But no, there are laws, which are written on paper. And where does paper come from? That's r-r-right! Now who's the "homicidal maniac"?

Cutty
Scarbucks, Maryland

Dear Cutty,
You have opened my eyes. Your logic was like some unceasing beast gnawing through the ropes and tarp of my sanity tent. Thank you, good sir! I shall never look at trees the same, and the next time I see or hear a bird, I will shout, "Live someplace else, you feathered traitors!"
11:00 PM 
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July 8, 2009 - Wednesday 

Category: Life
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In 1980, I attended my final year of high school, but I barely remember it. At the time, I was working my first job as a fry cook for Crispy Chick'n Fish in order to pay for the 1969 brown Chevy Impala my father had chosen for me. I had a crush on the front counter girl, Terri, but she was a year older and smitten with a pothead who loved Molly Hatchet. If I'd been less immature, and more bold, I might've stolen her away, but instead of starring in my own John Hughes movie, I pined and got fat over fried chicken. The fact that I had to wear a work uniform consisting of a gatsby hat, striped yellow shirt, and white pants didn't help, but the central truth was that I was a coward.

The girls at my high school were of little interest to me. I had some crushes, to be sure, but I had transferred there from a different school system in tenth grade, and I just never felt like I was part of things. The cliques and clubs and teams all seemed like planets that I orbited but would never visit. I lived across the street from school, so when the final bell rang, I'd walk home and not give the place another thought.

As the year wound down, I found myself making an unexpected friend in my history class. A prankster named Larry Dean. He was funny and quick, and I remembered him from my Spanish class two years earlier. Back then, when the teacher, Mrs. Israel, said "me llamo Shirley," expecting the student to reply with "me llamo" (my name is) and their first name, Larry would invariably say, "me llamo Shirley." It may not seem funny now, but back then, in the face of the humorless Shirley Israel, it killed. 

Toward the end of the year, he asked me if I wanted to see Woody Allen's "Manhattan" at the East Village Cinema (which was run by the infamous Michael Moore). I said, "sure." But later I started to wonder. Larry had long hair and a definite flair, and that Saturday was also prom night. In my own unsophisticated way, I had initially thought Larry was a drug addict--why else would he be so wacky?--and now I was wondering if he wasn't also a homosexual. Was I to be his date?

He picked me up in his blue Oldsmobile Cutlass (the first of many "Deanmobiles"), and we were off. He wasn't high, nor was he gay. In fact, he said we were picking up a couple of women. I was petrified. "Larry, I don't want to go on some kind of date, especially not on prom night." He laughed, and assured me it wasn't like that. We soon picked up Heather Maxwell, who was the younger sister of one of his best friends, and a fellow classmate named Cathy Christenson.

We saw the movie, and retreated to Ruggero's Pizza on Chevrolet Avenue. Larry and the two gals were part of the same social group, but they didn't exclude me. I can't recall too many specifics, but I do remember laughing a lot. In fact, that evening would become one of my fondest memories from high school.
 
Over the next couple of years, I saw Cathy Christenson occasionally in the halls of the local college. Once, at a friend's house, she regaled us with tales about her cousin, whom I'd known since elementary school.  She was always unfailingly kind and good-humored. She eventually moved away, and I'd periodically ask that  cousin about her. The last time I did so--about a year ago--he said she was back at home. He didn't know much more than that, but it didn't sound good.

This week, on Facebook, I learned that Cathy had died this past Sunday at age 47. Her funeral listing gives a good overview. You can feel the affection the writer had for her: "She was smart, funny, and beautiful." Yes, she most certainly was.
11:00 PM 
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