Election 2012 Fake News

 

“The Million Dollar Man” Ted diBiase and “The Genius” Lanny Poffo Engage in Spirited Final Debate in the Race to be President of Pro Wrestling

 

PARTS UNKNOWN, UT ‒ The race to be the next president of pro wrestling came to its final stop last night, as “The Million Dollar Man” Ted diBiase faced “The Genius” Lanny Poffo in their last debate.  Held in the Ultimate Warrior Fine Arts Center at Parts Unknown University, the candidates faced a night of tough questioning from moderator George “The Animal” Steele.

Each candidate restated his platform and agenda for the wrestling universe with little deviation from their established stances.  The Genius once again expressed dismay at the state of pro wrestling’s education systems and poetic abilities, whereas the Million Dollar Man, flanked by his running mate and manservant Virgil, fell back on promoting tax cuts for pro wrestling corporations and outsourcing national security to Andre the Giant.

While the details broke little new ground, the drama between the candidates hit a fever pitch, during a particularly testy exchange on the subject of marriage equality between tag team partners.  Within his statement, Poffo read a particularly nasty limerick concerning the size of diBiase’s liquid assets, provoking The Million Dollar Man’s rebuttal with a steel chair.  The candidates were quickly separated by the referees at ringside, though each was clearly dazed from the melee.

The crowd, whipped into a frenzy, chanted “USA!” at both candidates.

 

 

 

 

Scott Walker has Bad Dream, Mistakenly Campaigns for Self

 

COLORADO SPRINGS, CO ‒ When Wisconsin governor Scott Walker ran into a room of Republican businessmen in the conference hall of the Sheraton Hotel in Colorado Springs, he launched into a stump speech which would have been appropriate but for one detail ‒ he was campaigning for himself.

Governor Walker, who survived recall in June, launched into a presentation in which he promised “his fellow Wisconsinites” that they would “beat back this pointless recall effort and get Wisconsin on the path to big business.”

Though the audience initially received Walker’s speech with loud enthusiasm, confusion soon set in.  Eventually members of the audience spoke up, letting the governor know that the recall was long over and that they were, in fact, in Colorado.

Sheepishly, Governor Walker rubbed his eyes and yawned loudly before looking down and realizing that he was dressed in feetie pajamas covered in teddy bears and the words “UNIONS SUCK!”  Muttering a brief apology, he shuffled off the stage and went back to bed.

When later asked about this strange display, a more rested governor Walker responded: “You ever have that dream where you’re back in middle school?”

Y Spy: Josh Olsen – Quick Walks Outside the Lines

If there’s one word that kept coming up in my interview with newly published author and fellow La Crosse expatriate Josh Olsen, it was nontraditional.  In describing himself, his writing career, his road to becoming a teacher, and his family life, Olsen often defaulted to using this term.  The shoe seems to fit; most of the roads he described in his life were painted as accidental journeys, not so much paved by choice but by unexpected opportunity.  It was through these slips of fortune ‒ finding himself a father at age 19, taking an inconsistent educational path through graduate school, developing a writing style he expected no one to see, and being offered various teaching positions in which he could teach that growingly public craft ‒ from which Olsen was able to gain the chance to enact a more conscious change, recently publishing Six Months, his own book of one page stories, over a decade after he began writing.

Even his choice of writing these one page stories doesn’t come off as conventional.  “Initially, I definitely did consider what I did poetry.  That’s what I called it; that’s what I submitted it as.  It’s probably because I wasn’t really familiar with other possibilities outside the genre.  I knew that what I was writing wasn’t traditional short story or a novel, but at the time I wasn’t familiar with the smaller subgenres like flash fiction.  I always had that short narrative style, but once I started gathering it into a collection, thinking what it would look like on the printed page, I intended to contain each piece in one page or less.”

Despite literature traditionally being a more time-consuming investment, Olsen enjoys this short, easy, and concise style of writing.  “60 minutes, 90 minutes, there are a lot of good things you can do in that amount of time: listen to a fantastic album, watch your favorite movie.  I like that condensed space and time.  I think that a lot of people are moving in that direction of condensed style, saying as much as you can in as few words as possible.”

At first he wrote solely for himself.  “It was definitely used as an emotional release, helping me cope with various things I was going through at the time.  I didn’t begin with any expectations of anybody reading my stuff.”  It wasn’t until he attended creative writing classes at Viterbo College in La Crosse that he decided to grow his writing beyond journal-keeping.  “I was exposed to the idea of other people seeing my stuff.  I’ve gotta workshop it, I’ve gotta tweak it, make it presentable.”

One thing that came up in our conversation was the idea of a journaler’s conflict, of writing solely for one’s self in a medium built for communication.  No matter how secret a piece is kept, writing is designed to be read, either by being found by others or read and remembered by the author in the future.  The question always arises: who is a writer, even a solipsist one, really writing for?

“I think there’s definitely a conflict.  I would be hard pressed to think of a time when I’ve written something and not thought afterwards about whether it was something I could use, revise, build upon, extract to another piece.  It’s still for myself to this day, but there’s still that thought in the back of my head.”

Though he submitted a few pieces to college publications at Viterbo and later at Mankato University in Minnesota where he undertook graduate work, Olsen didn’t submit work for publication until he was out of school.  By then he had decided to not only write but teach about writing.  For seven years he has led the life of a nomadic instructor, working primarily at the University of Michigan-Ann Arbor and at Wayne State University in Detroit as well as picking up college level writing courses around the area, sometimes hitting multiple schools in one day.

Teaching wasn’t something he planned to do.  “I knew that I wanted to work on my writing and improve it.  I knew that I eventually wanted to publish, but I had no intention to teach.  An opportunity came up to intern in a screenwriting class.  I enjoyed the time I had there with the professor I was working with.  I had the opportunity to teach my own section of Composition.  Definitely a rough start, but it was the one job that I enjoyed, more so than my experiences waiting tables or working at gas stations or factories.  I came to it rather late, at least with my intentions.”

Olsen noted that a lot of writing instructors are past life writers themselves, something which he is determined to avoid becoming.  “It was a goal of my own, seeing so many former writers become teachers and then forget about the writing.  For me, part of being a writing teacher is to teach what I’m actually doing.”

What he ended up doing was releasing Six Months in 2011, finishing off a year and a half long process of creation.  The stories within this book were taken from a five year period in Olsen’s writing, roughly spanning the years 2005 to 2010.  After writing for 10 years and attempting to develop various projects to fruition, he received a book offer from Brian Fugett, publisher of the online-print publication Zygote in My Coffee, a frequent supporter of Olsen’s work.

That support was vital for Six Months.  “At least for that first book, I wanted somebody else to put their name and trust behind it, that traditional model where somebody embraced what I have written.  Since then I’ve definitely put my feet to the pavement as far as promoting it.  It’s definitely another part time job, more time consuming than I’d assumed initially.”

Going the traditional publishing route, however, isn’t something that Olsen sees as necessary to his work.  “I’ve definitely had my hangups about, in certain forms, how the ideas of self-publication and self-promotion are accepted.  You expect a band to put out their own demo; if you sell albums out of the trunk of your car, it lends credibility in the music work.  You expect an independent filmmaker to fund, direct, produce, and put out their own movie. But for some reason there’s a stigma of why a writer can or can’t do that.  It just seems kind of unfortunate to me that there is that idea of ‘vanity publishing’ is lesser than getting somebody else to publish your work.  You need somebody else to lift you up, and I have my own hangups on that which I’m trying to move away from.”

The stories in Six Months tend to be intense recollections of Olsen’s past and analysis of how those moments affect the person he is today.  “The theme wasn’t intentional as the individual pieces were being written, and I don’t think that that idea really came to me until I moved to Michigan, until I was living 10 hours away from La Crosse, which was for the most part my hometown.  It wasn’t until I left when that theme came through in my writing, and I really didn’t notice it until I started putting the book together.”

The story’s main piece, a tale of periodic homecoming featuring La Crosse as its center, is a perfect example of this battle between past and future.  “[It's about] going back and forth every six months, taking that trip from Michigan to La Crosse every Christmas and summer break and having that distance, that sense of clarity in seeing things I hadn’t seeing before, being more of an outside presence within my family, within my circle of friends, people I worked with.  There’s that conflict of nostalgia and clarity when that homesickness, when that nostalgia wears off.  It’s nice for a couple days, but you can only go downtown so much.”

As well as analyzing his past surroundings Olsen gets quite blunt in his opinions of his family, freely disclosing his parents’ shortcomings with varying levels of amusement and bitterness.  Yet according to him these stories aren’t displays of bridge burning.

“Once I grew accustomed to writing with the intention of publication and getting things out for other people to read, I made a point to not censor myself.  I don’t write with the thought of somebody possibly reading it and being offended or passing judgment on me.  I’d have to say that despite the other people, family members, and friends that come up in these stories, I don’t think that I’m casting any negative light on them.  I think that myself, as the speaker, the narrator of the story, is the punchline.  For my friends and family members who have read the book, that’s what they take away from it as well.”

Even more important within the overall theme of Six Months, however, are Olsen’s relationships with his own children, now 13 and 7 years old.  Having started his path toward professional writing at around the same time as the birth of his first child, Olsen’s works often draw stark, occasionally fearful comparisons between the bizarre events of his own childhood and the strangeness which surrounds the new members of his family ‒ again, a nontraditional setup ‒ today.

Olsen himself credited fatherhood as the primary fuel which operates his writing.  “As my children grow up, as they experience things that I may have experienced at their age, I may not have thought about the things I experienced as much if it were not for the fact that I have two children.  I’m very conscious about what they experience now, and I draw that comparison or parallel to what I experienced.”

The sum total lesson that Josh Olsen took away from the long process involved in making his quick book which incorporates all these parallels, fears, and misadventures, is that though its results may be gratifying, creativity doesn’t just manifest by itself.

“It takes a lot more time and work than I ever could have imagined.  I know that I had the ideas that many prospective writers have, that all they need to do is put together a manuscript, send it out and get published.  Maybe that does happen for a lucky few.  I’ve never done things the traditional or easy way, in my education, my work, or my family, so I think it’s only natural that I took that roundabout path to publication.”

“Being able to read the book with some distance and time between me and it, it’s interesting for me to look at it as an artifact of my thought process, the things I was observing and doing at that time, and to compare and contrast with what I’m doing and working on today.”

That today includes plans to put together a second book, another collection of stories featuring some which will break from the one page format and run longer.  Describing the forming whole as both more autobiographical and more fictional, Olsen hopes to finish and release the book in a year or so.

Six Months is available for purchase at zygoteinmycoffee.com.

Y Marks the Spot: The Worst Nation In the World…

…is hibernation.

I’m not sure when the exact moment the rage which recently smashed around inside me like an uneven spin cycle dropped out.  I do know that it was replaced by one of the most complete bouts of apathy I’ve ever felt.  Perhaps this extreme polar switch makes sense.  During the fall I was on a hair trigger: working a job in which every second was a brand new source of inept hatred, hallucinating through my grandmother’s death in a hometown that was no longer home, punching out a comrade while blacked out, getting ready to brawl with liquor store employees who gave me shit over my peeling ID, trembling with rage at any real or perceived judgments, growing terrified that the budding pain in my chest was going to bloom into a heart attack.  And then, perhaps with the onset of the always rainy, gloomy Washington winter, I shorted out.

This isn’t to say that I stopped getting pissed and became an android.  I was just as paranoid about being judged by other people as before, but the urge toward violence vanished.  The problem was that all my urges toward greatness had been swept alongside.  I stopped doing anything, and furthermore, I stopped caring.

Not doing anything isn’t that much of a stretch for me, but this was different.  Usually when I’m not living up to my potential, potential which usually involves translating all my big thoughts into writing, there’s a scathing voice in my head which points out my shortcomings.  In the last few months, that voice has been silent.  I’d get through an increasingly judgmental day of work, come home, and be a bland, mediocre receptor for entertainment for the rest of the day without a shred of guilt.  In a tribute to my mind’s keen ability to subvert and sabotage anything, my psyche became a hall of mirrors in which I felt guilty for not feeling guilty.

The mantra I ended up hanging onto during this dead winter was a piece of advice given to me in my preceding anger, something which has haunted me ever since.  I was in the midst of a series of improv classes when my grandma died and I went back to Wisconsin to have my brainbreak.  When I returned to class, I was pretty much done as a person.  My improv work was shit, not simply from a lack of experience and refinement but because I had run out of joy.

After one particularly wooden and defensive scene, my instructor addressed me as I fidgeted about on stage.  You don’t play characters who allow themselves to be affected, he said.  You don’t play characters who can change, he said.

And he was absolutely right.

The problem is that, had this bit of criticism merely been limited to my ability to carry a scene, it wouldn’t have been so damning.  But to me improv is therapy, an evolution of all the guidance counselors and psychiatry of my youth.  As such, it’s almost always true that my flaws in improv are my flaws everywhere else.  So I took this advice and kind of broke myself applying it to the rest of my life.  I didn’t feel guilty about doing nothing, but I sure as hell put myself into a coma wondering where my ability to change and to grow and to care and to be affected went.  Seems pretty self-fulfilling.

I’ve continued with improv, but during this winter it began to feel like an obligation I analyzed to death.  My big stupid energy had been replaced by methodical paranoia which I used to dissect my work into meaninglessness.  I coldly resolved to coldly improve my technique, attempting to impress my fellow chaos seekers with my logical, sensible stagework.  I doubt I impressed anyone.  While logical and sensible aren’t bad tools to have as a performer, they mean nothing if a person doesn’t give a shit ‒ and I was all out of shit.

I became envious of people who cared about anything.

March was perhaps the worst and best month of my hibernation.  It began with me attempting to dredge up some semblance of joy to unleash for my improv theatre’s auditions to join its mainstage group.  It didn’t really work.  I don’t think I was horrible, but my audition was a rambling mess surrounded by people who were clearly more invested than I was.  I can’t say I wasn’t very bummed out when I found out that I hadn’t made the cut, but what was worse was that I knew, without a shred of forced humility or self-abasement, that I hadn’t done my best.  I certainly wouldn’t have voted for me, and that’s much worse than whether everyone else thought I was terrible.

I wallowed in that failure for a bit, but thankfully March is always my best time of the year, and this time around it didn’t disappoint.  The easy reasons were all there: I spent my birthday getting ridiculous among friends, my parents loaded me up with birthday cash, and my tax returns rolled in.  More importantly, spring finally came, and few things in life make me feel as calm as the warming of winter.

On the day after April Fool’s, I started a new round of improv classes with the same teacher who sent me down my ruthless path of self-examination.  This time around, I feel brilliant.  And, as this serves as evidence of, I’m starting to write again.

I’m starting to care again.  Feels like I’m waking up.

Bizarro Masterpiece Theatre: Kung Pow! Enter the Fist

 

Film: Kung Pow! Enter the Fist (2002)

Written by, Starring, and Directed by: Steve Oedekerk

 

The great (and frustrating) thing about this sendup of martial arts cinema is that it’s actually two movies in one.  The first style drowns in CG, offering ham-fisted renditions of a murderous cow, a kung fu baby, and a tongue which has its own tongue.  Oh, and there’s a lady ninja with one boob right in the center of her chest, which is kind of unsettling.

The second aspect of Kung Pow! is much more interesting, involving the restoration and appropriation of an old Hong Kong martial arts flick known as Tiger and Crane Fist.  Director and star Steve Oedekerk warped and cut this classic into all that modern footage, making a new tale of a Chosen One (that’s his name) out of the old video.

What’s weird is the contrast in restraint between the film’s two styles.  While Oedekerks’ original footage looks rather lame and brash in its technophilia, the subtle way he inserts his face onto the hero of Tiger and Crane Fist is very well executed.  On first look, one might miss some of the Easter eggs planted into the old footage, such as a Hooters storefront and a crap music aficionado who gyrates to the anachronistic tunes coming from the ghetto blaster on his shoulder.

The thing that really sells Kung Pow!, however, is Oedekerk’s use of dialogue.  With the exception of Titty-Cyclops, every character in the film was voiced by the director.  The film becomes something of a Mystery Science Theatre episode, with Oedekerk’s brilliantly silly lines encompassing almost all of the film’s hilarity.  A conversation between Chosen One and his sexually demented sensei, which was probably a routine bit of scenework in Tiger and Crane Fist, becomes wholly absurd in the best way.  Likewise, any scene featuring the dastardly Master Betty (the villain formerly known as Master Pain), is rendered brilliant due to Oedekerk’s revoicing the brutal gang leader as an adorably creepy dweeb.  Master Betty is the best.

If Kung Pow! has one point to make, it is that dialogue and context in film are at least as important as the visuals.  If you can get past all those crappy 21st Century visuals in this film, it can be quite a joyous little parody, on par with the Fistful of Yen chapter of Kentucky Fried Movie.

 

The Designer’s Drugs: Josh Olsen – Six Months

Medium: Literature

Stimulus: Josh Olsen ‒ Six Months

 

 

I half expected this book’s back cover declaration of returning to the womb every six months to refer to some transgressive trans-vaginal exploitation film scene.  The funny thing about my Rorschach reaction to the noirish packaging of Six Months is that the true meaning behind that line became the thing in this excellent book of one page stories which resonated with me most.  Instead of being a tale of sexy sadist slapstick, the title story tells of the author’s biannual returns to his hometown, which is also my hometown.

My fellow expatriate describes the sadness found in returning to La Crosse only to discover that nobody there has improved in any significant way.  The only changes to the author’s friends and family are those of age.  This saddens him in part because he can’t join in with their lack of success, that he can’t find the old camaraderie and fellowship within shared disappointments, that he can no longer be a lifer.  He’s become a visitor, and every six months he leaves the old world behind.

If I hadn’t felt exactly those things about exactly this place, “Six Months” may have simply been one more very good story.  But as I’m also filled with that same sort of self-nullified nostalgia for our hopeless hometown in western Wisconsin, the story picked up a really powerful, fascinating sense of despair.

Beyond this, Olsen fills the rest of this quick book with the sort of warped yarns that will appeal to a certain sort of man approaching middle age.  Most of these tales are presented as stories from the author’s life, anecdotes about his messed up life and his attempts to square being a respectable father and neighbor with the deviant malcontent (and husband) within.  The perv is certainly on display in the showroom, though these tales steer far from becoming grotesque and trans-vaginal, and this warped Ward Cleaver is most interesting when he’s not being a little hard on the beaver.

Two of my favorite stories are clever little bits of weird, the first involving the author attempting to meet the great Captain Lou Albano and the second being a musing over the creator of the classic Holocaust comic book memoir Maus and my beloved, forbidden Garbage Pail Kids.  Until here, I didn’t know that the creator of these vastly different cultural artifacts was the same person.

I’m also a fan of Olsen’s hateful reminiscences of his own father figures, as well as his adventure in shitting in a sandbox.

Much of what makes this mishmash of bizarre stories function is that there’s a humor and humanity to them that doesn’t wallow in the sordid details.  I suppose that the fact that each story is but one page long helps this.  I definitely want to read something longer from Josh Olsen, but this quick, fascinating burst of screwball tales is captivating enough on its own.

The Designer’s Drugs: Foxy Shazam/Conspirator

Image

Medium: Album

Stimulus: Foxy Shazam ‒ Church of Rock & Roll

The way I’ve described this album in my head is that Church of Rock & Roll is what would happen if Mindless Self Indulgence decided to become the Darkness.  Sometimes Foxy Shazam throws out the Darkness milk jug and goes straight for the Queen cow’s tit, but as a whole this album isn’t grandiose or conceptual so much as it is a no bullshit, straight up amazing rock and roll album.

The only drawback to be found in this wailing tribute to the spirit of rock and roll is that Foxy seems to have chucked out most of its delightful weird in making a beeline for rock legitimacy.  In contrast with its previous works of high quirk, the strangest thing to be found here comes in Foxy’s merger of ten pound ball rock swagger and Sir Mix-a-lot’s love of big butts in “I Like It,” a track which is far and away the album’s best.  Yet for as much as Eric Sean Nally continues to wail like rock’s gospel diva (the track “Last Chance At Love” reads like triumphant Joan Jett Top 40), the words which accompany his frenetic tones and the music to surround it all is pretty straightforward even while it tears up the walls.  No complaints from Nally about hipsters calling him gay here.  Oh well.  It’s a more than fair tradeoff.

Image

Medium: Album

Stimulus: Conspirator ‒ Unlocked – Live from the Georgia Theatre

“Park Ave,” the track which kicks off this collection of electronic instrumentals filtered through rock instrumentation, is kind of a false start.  As opposed to the rest of the album, which reads like a very workmanlike DJ set, this first song meanders and sways around, giving the impression that Conspirator is something of a jam band.  Nothing that follows sounds anything like that first track, but for some reason I couldn’t shake that jammy first impression.

To call Unlocked a serviceable performance is no insult, especially since Conspirator proves here that it’s a hell of a band.  There is a well-executed musical theme which runs throughout the set which makes a lot of its chapters sound quite similar both in sound and tempo.  Even Conspirator’s appropriation of Pink Floyd’s “Another Brick in the Wall” fits the style, chugging away with so much of the usual march that the end result is much less cover than sample contorted to fit the overlying musical agenda.  In such a world, the final song, “Retrograde,” could have been notable for little more than bucking the formula and being a rock song with its own time signature.  Luckily, it’s also a really good track in its own right, a concise conclusion that answers the album’s spaced out opening by being both unique and connected with everything prior.

It’s probably true that had the music of Unlocked been released as a studio album with the same structures, it wouldn’t have worked out as well.  The fact that Conspirator released this as a live performance gives all its familiar themes and beats a legitimacy and excitement that would have had us music critics bitching about everything sounding the same had it come in the studio pill.  In any event, the band sounds fantastic, rendering such distinctions pointless.  Here, excitement trumps architecture.

Krangbang

Shredder!  You lured me from Dimension X

With the promise of conquest and hot Foot Clan sex

Now my Technodrome’s home is in Earth’s molten magma,

And those turtles stay triumphant while I still haven’t shagged a

Single purple robo-ninja, shit, I’m still just a brain!

I wanna get mindfucked, but all you do is complain

Cause you can’t get your turtle soup, and the fights you always lose,

While I sit around here waiting for the secret of your ooze.

 

Shredder!  Build me a body so you can bone it!

I wanna unzip your fly like it was Baxter Stockman

And then I’ll make you crumble like you were one of my rock men

I’ll keep your cock Rocksteady while I Bebop your balls

And gnaw like Rat King on your fat thing in the Technodrome halls

I’ll give you schizophrenia like it was VD

Then we can teabag the Neutrinos and drop deuce on Usagi

So go ninja go ninja go!  Respect what I’m sayin’

Cause you ain’t Tatsu, bitch, and I ain’t goin’ or playin’.

 

Shredder!  Build me a body so you can bone it!

Now is the Splinter of my discontent!

Yeah, I wanted a body, but this is where you went?

Great, you can finally can open my can

But it’s attached to a tubby rubber bald eunuch man!

I’m a galactic fucking warlord, no one’s running because

You dressed me like a go-go dancing punker from Zardoz!

So stop the stomach skullfucking and give me some dread

Or I will toss your fucking salad with the fork on my head

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