Mr. Pryor

My obsession with Richard Pryor’s comedy started about five or six years ago, when I broke up with my girlfriend, and I was all fucked up. She was my first true love, and I didn’t stand a chance – immediately after the break-up, my doorbell rang. When I opened the door, depression was just standing there, smiling at me, flanked by two huge suitcases. The two of us spent the next two or three months in my house, in the middle of winter, listening to music, staring, and talking shop.

There are only two things that got me through, and slowly but surely kicked that motherfucker out of my house. The first was my cat. The other was Richard Pryor.

One night, I was downloading scores of depressing music from Napster, and, by chance, I happened to see a Pryor album in my search results. I hadn’t laughed in months, but I guess I was feeling open-minded (i.e., I was drunk), and I checked out the album (I think it was ‘Live on the Sunset Strip’). It was unreal. I spent an hour absolutely cracking up out loud (which I almost never do even when I’m in a good mood). Over the next few days, I either purchased or downloaded every one of Pryor’s albums.

I’m not going to try and explain the unqualified admiration, appreciation, and gratitude I have for Richard Pryor’s comedy. It would take too long, and having read a few of today’s articles reviewing his career and characteristics of his humor, it would probably be pretty boring.

Therefore, although I’m just one fan among millions, for whatever its worth, I am paying my respects to Richard Pryor.

A galaxy far, far to the left

That which passes for the “far left” these days, particularly among our more conservative commentators, is totally out of control. I’ve heard this phrase applied to dozens of people and entities, such as Michael Moore, John Kerry, Cindy Sheehan, and several major newspapers, most notably the New York Times and Washington Post. Bill O’Reilly (probably the funniest man on television) throws the label “far left” around constantly. I realize the obvious (and quite pathetic) strategy and rationale behind this tactic, but can’t these guys just stick with referring to the opposition as “liberal,” instead of mixing everyone who doesn’t say merry fucking Christmas in retail stores into one gigantic mob? If I look over in my proverbial political foxhole and see Bill Clinton standing next to me, I’m going to freak. Please leave actual progressive thinkers out of this shit. Please.

I guess John Kerry resides on the “far left” of the political spectrum because he advocated for future negotiations in Iraq, smaller tax cuts, and abortion rights. Similarly, Michael Moore is clearly a pseudo-socialist due to his speaking out for revolutionary ideas such as labor unions, the lies behind the Iraq War, and gun control.

Wow – these are impressive left-wing credentials. Labor unions? Gun control? This is communism. Starve 180 pounds out of Michael Moore and slap a fake beard on him, and that motherfucker’s Ho Chi Minh. Give me a break. John Kerry is about as “far left” as Spiro Agnew.

If Michael Moore, John Kerry, and the New York Times represent the “far left” in the U.S. today, then where do I stand? Where do all my friends stand? Have we been pushed off the spectrum and relegated to the political “carport,” like small children at a family holiday dinner? Are we hanging off the edge of the U.S. political continuum, or have we simply fallen into political oblivion? Actually, my theory is that Karl Rove’s fat ass takes up so much space on the far right side of the spectrum that he pushed everyone over and knocked the far left contingent off the cliff.

Say something sexy

Today, I got an e-mail message from an ex-girlfriend who moved far away months ago; we still talk and flirt all the time, and often engage in conversations of a sexual nature. Her message requested that I say something sexy – just something brief and sexy.

My mind went to work immediately and voraciously to tackle this remarkably complicated request. Here are some of the ideas I came up with:

• I want you so badly that I’m considering getting out of bed.
• C-Span is airing a discussion on sexual freedom and its making me think of you.
• I recently had a role-playing fantasy in which I was Henry Kissinger
• My double chin is starting to look like your ass
• I still find your hairs all over my house – and I’ve been collecting them.
• The constant rubbing together of my thighs makes me think of you
• I’m dedicating my Ph.D. dissertation to your body.
• I was thinking about you in the men’s room the other day…
• I rarely wear underwear, and when I do, it’s usually something exotic.
• I’m watching Star Trek right now and Riker is about to fuck some member of an alien androgynous species.
• I not only changed my sheets two days ago, but even washed my duvet cover.
• Since you left, I haven’t had any sex – by choice, mind you.

The feline mystique

I don’t mean to turn this into a feline forum (though there is certainly enough material to do so), but I just adopted a new cat a couple of weeks ago, a female adult that I have named Bella. I’m a modern guy, and a feminist, but I have never in my life had a female pet before, and I didn’t realize that it takes some adjustments:

* I feel strange changing clothes in front of her. Asking her to leave (with a polite, ‘Could you please excuse me, dear?’) doesn’t work very well. I find myself wanting to leave the room to change. When she watches, I can almost hear her thinking, “Oh, yeah – that’s attractive.”

* My ‘pet names’ require a total retooling. Although ‘cutie’ is still appropriate, ‘handsome’ has lost its resonance, ‘big beast’ seems insulting, and I cannot quite bring myself to call my cat ‘beautiful’ – it seems a bit overdone, no? Maybe I will import ‘sweetheart’ into my repertoire, but I am really starting to fear my girlfriends noticing that I address them and my cat in the exact same terms. Moreover, I think Bella has been thinking the same thing, and it is an even more offensive thought to her.

* The bathroom is off-limits – period.

* For some reason, even when my cats aren’t fat, I call them fat, and doing that with a female may be risky, especially since Bella (aka Bella Reese) is, in fact, a whole lot of woman. I almost feel like she looks at me funny when I call her ‘chunky’ or ‘big mama.’ As if she is saying, “Excuse me, motherfucker?”

* When my male cats whined for whatever reason, I would ignore them and certainly never reinforce their whining by giving them what they were looking for. However, when Bella whines, I feel compelled to be an understanding man, hear her out, and show respect for her feelings and wishes, even though I’m well aware of the fact that she, just like my previous male cats, is pretty much saying, “Food, dickhead,” or “Pet me, hairless ape.”

* When I brush her, I feel like I have to be more careful and get things just right. She's sitting there and saying, "Look, big boy, I'm not one of these disheveled bitches you're always hanging around with." When I meekly say, "I'll try harder. I'm sorry," she replies, "I'm sorry too."

Nine lives at once

A couple of months ago, my cat Iliad, whom I adored, was killed by a car in front of my house.

Its strange to lose a cat. When my previous cat, Custer, died, it was a different experience – I adopted him with kidney disease, and he was very old, surviving only three years in my care (three happy years, mind you). I still cry sometimes when I think about that cat, and I still miss him, even though he died 2-3 years ago. I cry because I think of how horribly defensive and timid he was when I got him, how he very slowly came to trust me (and even others), how sweet and unintrusive he was, and how I hope with every ounce of my being that he was as happy as possible during his tenure here, despite the gradual onset of kidney failure.

But Ili was different. Ili was young and vibrant, trusting of and affectionate towards all bipedal individuals, and I never had a single doubt that he was happy at all times. My house is pretty much a feline resort: unlimited food, the ability to go outside and return inside at any time, an owner who is almost always at home and willing to play/pet at any time, etc. And Ili took full advantage of all those features and amenities with a remarkable sense of non-presumptuous entitlement. He spent his whole life here either outside hunting and sensing or inside, on his back, getting pet by a man (i.e., me) who took great pains to try different strokes and tempos and remember what seemed particularly pleasurable. He was as happy and well-adjusted a cat as I’ve ever come across, he had no boundaries or defenses (I used to floss his teeth sometimes; I actually think he liked it), and I absolutely, unconditionally adored him.

And then, one day, I picked him up off the side of the road, totally mauled by a car, which caused injuries that I don’t care to describe. In front of 4-5 onlookers, who had stopped their cars and come out to help, I could not speak, and I was crouched over Iliad, all 6’5” 260 pounds of me, sobbing. He was lifeless. I had never seen him lifeless; even when he slept, he seemed active to me. There is something fundamentally wrong with seeing something so sweet and happy die. It is difficult to process; I still don’t quite understand what happened, even though I know perfectly well. Shit – it would be really nice to believe in heaven right now.

Means of obstruction

From today’s NY Times:
“President Bush spent Tuesday replenishing his party's coffers and, in the face of resistance to his Social Security plan and much of the rest of his second-term agenda, struck an aggressive new tone by accusing Democrats of standing for nothing but obstructionism”

I don’t mean to be crude (sure I do), but kiss my ass Bush. Is crying ‘obstruction’ supposed to be some kind of pointed and considered political insult? Did Rove eat the latest focus group and polling results again? This is serious national politics, not a fucking rear windshield.

Yeah, uh, Bush, I don’t mean to be patronizing (sure I do), but this is indicative of what we Americans like to call a two-party system, and one party typically has different goals than the other. Moreover, the essence of your political agenda consists of tax cuts that disproportionately benefit upper-income families, privatizing the largest and most successful social program in the history of the world, appointing rather extreme right-wing individuals to federal positions, and launching pre-emptive attacks against weaker nations that refuse to concede to our wishes.

If ‘obstruction’ of this type of agenda represents some kind of politically risky move, then deal my fat ass in. According to Bush, the Democratic Leadership embodies "the philosophy of the stop sign, the agenda of the roadblock." That’s a sweet little sound byte, don’t you think? You know what? You’re right, Bush – we should stop hindering your efforts, and leave our fates in the capable hands of your palacial, imitation intellect.

Insight into me

The other day I was talking to a friend who was excited about something, and I told her, "That enthusiasm in your voice is very unbecoming."

I love it when my social aptitude and graces shine through.

Impressive

Apparently, even the Austrailians are starting to hate America. A poll conducted by the Lowy Institute for International Policy Research found that only 58 percent of Austrailians, long considered stalwart supporters of America, had a positive view of the United States.

Maybe its time for another invasion.

Swings

Please let the baseball season begin now. Please don’t make me wait four weeks.

Life is better during the baseball season.

Is there anything more beautiful in sports than a batter, using that odd mixture of relaxed grace and frantic, opportunistic urgency, absolutely destroying a pitch? There is something about baseball that makes those moments truly fulfilling to everyone who sees them and appreciates them. I haven’t hit a true home run (i.e., hardball, organized game/league, against live pitching) since high school, but I remember every one I hit vividly and completely. And I can tell you that there is nothing I have done that has given me such concentrated satisfaction, pride, and exhilaration. It is as if everything I am worth, everything I am capable of, and everything I have in my heart and mind was on display in each of those swings I took, all of which took less than a second to execute. And when I see other people do the same, although it is not me doing it, the effect is so powerful that I feel it too. And sure – I’m living vicariously through other grown men playing a game while wearing sanitary socks, and yes I’m pathetically hanging on to high school sports memories, but shit – it is still sweet.

Baseball is one of those few things that represents a genuine American contribution to humanity. The history, the idiosyncratic rituals, the fat coaches, the spitting, the grass, the inactivity. Ah, the inactivity. It is truly lovely. From my experience, most people hate watching baseball, and the beauty of this is that anyone who loves watching baseball knows exactly why people hate it so much. It is a slow game that consists of extremely brief periods of action separated by long spells of total inactivity. And as such, it reminds me of my exercise regimen, as well as of my work habits and sex life.

A Matter of Factor

I just saw something disturbing. Apparently, Bill O’Reilly, host of the Fox News program “The O’Reilly Factor,” has released a childrens’ book – “The O’Reilly Factor for Kids.” I cannot express how odd and troubling this book is to those of us who still cling to archaic ideas such as civility, intelligence, and the free exchange of ideas, but here are few sections of the book that I hear are particularly good:

• Making sure your teacher isn’t homosexual; how to get homosexual teachers fired
• How to start a movement to privatize your school lunch program
• Increasing your allowance with tax cuts
• Showing them who’s boss: dominating female classmates in gym class
• Effective teasing of Arab-American classmates: a primer
• The evidence suggesting that Santa Claus is actually President Bush
• My two mommies: how to undermine your gay parents’ marriage
• How to make a President Bush statue using popsicle sticks, glue, and glitter
• Preparing for your military career during elementary school
• Using recess time to fight terrorism: five simple steps
• How to spot a liberal classmate in a playground environment
• Investing your lunch money in a private Social Security account
• Why you’re NOT – and never will be – left behind