All the crazies, none of the calories
From this past weekend’s Saturday Night Live comes the solution we’ve been looking for, put into a very nice protest song (as written and sung by House’s Hugh Laurie).
Edit: Well, YouTube removed the clip. Hope you caught it while you had the chance. It was pure brilliance!
Borat: Cultural Learnings Of America For Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan is nearly a week a way from release, and the reviews, so far, are glowing.
Da ALI-G Show is, of course, one of Britain’s most brilliant exports. And if Borat is successful, then Bruno (the only remaining Sacha Baron Cohen character to not have his own movie), is a guarantee! And why would I want to see more of Bruno and his schwanzenstück? Observe the heroism!
Childhood memories, while not necessarily precious, are far too volatile. Case in point: At my “Escaping Calgary” party back in July, guests were allowed to identify which plastic cup was theirs only by drawing a picture on the side. I drew a happy waving guy—and then sensed something in my brain—an old memory. Yes, I was quite certain. There was something on TV… A show that featured people drawn onto the side of cups, just like I had done. It was stop-motion animated, too, I thought.
After consulting with Premee, who is wise in these matters, we had determined that this animation definitely existed. It was called Teeny Little Super Guy, a segment on Sesame Street. We even remembered the theme song:
And now it’s on YouTube.
But today, while working on some immensely boring stuff that I shan’t explain, a different song popped into my head. Well, not really an entire song—just a segment, out of nowhere. It went: “Digby’s in the Dog House! Do do do dooo…”
Now, I’m hoping someone else here remembers more than I do, because a YouTube search turns up nothing. Here’s all I remember: it was a TV Show, possibly on ABC’s TGIF, or maybe YTV. And I’m pretty sure it starred a talking dog—who I think embodied the personality of the family’s dead father. I remember very little else.
So, anyone? If we don’t remember, after all, who will? This obscure talking dog show may be lost forever!
Scrabble with Al on a Wednesday night: a drama in one act.
Me: OK, I’m going to have to stop you there. ‘Frogurt’ isn’t a word.
Al: Yes it is.
Me: Seriously. No it isn’t. It’s like how you can’t use ‘lite’ because it’s nonexistent ad-speak and is not, and never has been, a real word.
Al: … Well you let me use ‘magnetasm.’
Me: That’s because I felt sorry for you because you didn’t have an ‘i’ and it was on the triple word score and you were like a hundred points behind.
Al: Actually, I think I still might be like a hundred points behind.
Me: Oh Lord. Want to just call it a draw and watch the new Venture Brothers episode?
William Gibson writes expertly and intuitively about subcultures, as an author must when all his books involve the muddling up of these secret layers in the Great North American Culture. But the mixing of subcultures doesn’t happen very often in real life – at least, it doesn’t happen often to me. I don’t spend time with interesting criminals or artists or goths because, well, their way of living makes me uncomfortable and it’s hard to push me out of my comfort zone. But I read Gibson’s books and I enjoy the tentative awkwardness of those first meetings – the first time a homeless girl gets mixed up with an international conspiracy; the first time a Japanese orphan ends up in the robot killing fields; and of course that priceless moment in the Hyatt where Case first meets Armitage and you can almost hear the hard edges of suicidal poverty poking up against that soft, fragrant bubble of money and security. (I love that scene. I’ve read ‘Neuromancer’ a hundred times and I still squirm at that scene.)
Why all the talk about subcultures? I don’t know. It must be that effing anthropology class the department forced me to take. But mainly, I think, it’s because sometimes the internet lets you brush up softly against these people and instead of fear or disdain, you feel an uncontrollable thrill of envy. That happened to me when I came across this site. I can’t join these people; I can barely admire their work in silence, from across the globe. I can wish I was as bold and creative and frankly underground as they are. And I can certainly start thinking harder about the way I live my life, innocent and dumb, in the mainstream.
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