The 158th step on the last road home.


Greetings little humans,

I am back and ready to answer your e-letters! Let us "get to it" and enjoy the pleasure in groups.

Oh, but first: Merkins! Happy "Thank our God the natives didn't kill us on sight" Day! I shall be guest-posting here all day, presumably, since I understand that my web-log host is cooking and watching video recordings of the Mystery Science Theater 3000 human and robots denigrating some of my efforts and other films. Having deliberated on the matter, I have decided to not take offense if you meat twigs view one of my poorer films [a "turkey," if you will] to accept amusement at my expense on this, your annual "turkey day."

Dear Gojira,

I am curious to know your feelings about the recent symposium on your career held in Lawrence, Kansas. Was your absence from the guest list due to financial considerations or do you take issue with the premise of the event. Also, will you be attending the U.S.premiere of your new film and the unveiling of your star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame in November? I live in the area and I would like to attend the premiere if you will be there.

Thank You,
Will Stegemann

Dear Will,

Thank you for such a thoughtful note. Permit me to not answer it tersely: I understand not why so many express concern about my "financial considerations"; As I have stated prior, I am "doing OK" for money. There is no cause for alarm!

No, I did not attend the "symposium" because I hate all pop-culture academics, the nerds who utlize our world's knowledge to justify their infantile love of disposable crap. Better that they concoct some dialectic reading of how the changes in my mighty roar reflected Japan's emergence on the stage of the world than to embrace their intellignce to a munitions firm perfecting a weapon the so-called "National Guard" may use to actually harm me, this much goes without saying. But to think harder about the body of my work than we who made made them is a fool's game for idiots. Also, the symp's would not pay to have me "air lifted" to Asscrackin', Nebraska or wherever the hell it was.

My apologies for such a tardy response, but no I will/did not attend the United States' premiere nor the unveiling of my "star"; one of my children, who resembles me closely despite being so puny in size, will be at both. I haven't made an "industry" appearence since the unfortunate incident at the Gojira Tai Hedora/Straw Dogs "sneak permiere," on your yankee's New Year's Eve 1971, where I soundly thrashed a beligerent Sam Peckinpah and accidently stepped on Susan George. She was really shocked and appalled at first, but then really started liking it. Regardless, sending one of your boys to "be you" at bullshit "social functions" is a trick I learned from my dear friends, Santa Claus and George Foreman. Thank you again for the nice letter, Will.

warmest regards,
gojira kijou


Can you settle a bet for me? My friend reckons that the source of your lifelong feud with the late great John Ford was based on his backing down on giving you the Hank Fonda part in "Fort Apache" after the studio complained you were eating too many of the horses, and one or two extras. I say that it was because Ford copped one of your fins to the eye at the 1953 Oscars, and that Ford blamed you for losing it later. Which is true? I've read both in reputable biographies.

Lieutenant Crazypaws

Dear Lieutenant,

I would be happy to assist you and your friend. While it is correct to say I fueded with John Ford, the source of ire in this case is personal and national in nature. That is to say, I hate Ford because he was an "Irish-American" pig to whom Pearl Harbor, Nagasaki and Hiroshima were little more than something to "throw in my face" every chance he had. Late in life, I would think when the alchohol started to destroy his brain, Ford loved to tell our mutual pals that I poked his eye out at the Oscars, but these are lies, since I was still doing summer stock in '53, after all.

No, I've been told that Ford got a poke in his eyeball when Audrey Hepburn and Donna Reed catfought over whose Oscar had been inserted in Fred Zinnemann's anus at the post-show party at the Brown Derby. Of course, it was Donna's, that filthy girl. Audrey had thrown Donna down a flight of stairs into the basement, then ran over and pulled the Oscar out of Zinnemann's ass. She and her first husband Mel Ferrer were anxiously waiting for a valet to pull their car around outside as Ford was on his way into the party, when Donna tackled Audrey at full speed. The feces-covered award rocketed out of Audrey's grip and carreened straight to Ford's eye. Some people say he went blind out of embarrasemnt, like a martyred character from a folk legend of yore, but I believe that the blow to the eye plus Ford's refusal to wash the shit off it -- young prankster Frank Sinatra, who saw the whole thing, fooled Ford into thinking it was Donna's poop, and who wouldn't want to have Donna Reed's shit on their face? -- was what led to the blindness.

I worked with Ford once, but not on Fort Apache. After some mediating and carousing with our mutal pal/admirer Orson Welles, Ford and I agreed to make "Sgt. Rutledge" together, with me in the title role. It's didn't go very well since most of Ford's acting solutions and motivations involved liquer and spirits, which don't work very well when you weigh several hundred tons. Also, it was hard to look Ford in the good eye, knowing he lost the other one to his fetish for female ass-vomit. I bowed out after a week or so and Woody Strode stepped in and did a marvelous job.

By the way, during the golden days of studio contracts, you were allowed to eat the extra extras and any animals the wranglers left unattended. The front office would dock your pay accordingly, but live meat was cheap in those days. During a break shooting "Arabesque," (all my scenes were cut, by the way) Gregory Peck, Stanley Donen and I laughed and laughed about what a cheap tightass Cary Grant was about that; like, he'd kill the occasional extra to kill time between set-ups, but then he'd take the corpse home and use every part of it to make sure he "got his money's worth." I remember on our first day of shooting on "That Touch of Mink," (again, all my scenes were cut, but you can see my shadow in some wide shots) Cary bludgeoned an extra to death and took it home. You would think that someone as rich and famous as Grant would have scores of nice shoes, but Cary would come to the set in these frayed, battered loafers that were held together with string and tape he had clearly gotten from the studio office. We teased him mercilessly until the last day of reshoots, when he walked on set wearing a pair of human-skin mocassins. Yes, ol' Achie had skinned and tanned that extra and made shoes out of him. Very stylish shoes, I hear. Anyway, extras used to be good eatin' until you Americans got so fat and lazy. You should all know that.

warmest regards,

The 153rd step on the last road home.


But, I am still experiencing technical difficulties. Please stand by.I got a regular net connection now, but I've forgotten most of my passwords -- I kept them in my password manager so I wouldn't have to remember them damn it. I shall answer yourt letters soon I swear.

Warmest Regars,

The 149th step on the last road home.

Shooting Fish, Part the Whatever

What does it all mean, Alfie? Fun With Screencaps I:

This sequence of headlines made me laugh.

What does it all mean, Alfie? Fun With Screencaps II:

Of the thousands of pictures of my Condi in the Associated Press's files, chooses this one with that headline for their front page today.

Your amusing WWJD?/comics link juxtaposition for the day: First, read this review and then go read what passes as a response from the artist. I think Jesus would have either left the four-letter stories out of the collection altogether and purge them from his official bibliography, or collect them as-is, Joe. Of course, I think he'd leave in the references to Eastern religions for the trade as well -- which were also deleted, I guess because Zhuang Tse was such a pottymouth.

Notes From Route 96B

Or, "More Things I Have Recently Learned":

-- In The Land Of Virgins, The Cockblocker Is King.

-- Pumpkins make a really good foundation paste for chili, possibly better than tomatoes.

-- Lesbian bars have really nice light fixtures in their toilets.

-- Women evidently would give any and everything for a leg massage ... if only men knew how to give them properly. I swear I didn't learn this at the lesbo bar.

-- Just as all good Americans should go to Paris, France to die, they should all spend at least one year of their 20s in Ithaca, NY.

-- A senryu/haiku composed on a refrigerator door:
To planet Hump Roast
I forgot the middle line
let us rub Dad snarf

-- Even with a few thousand dollars in your pocket, the tools at Ithaca Guitar Works still won't wait on you in favor of kissing up to some Cornell-student douchebag. The guys at Rumble Seat Music, however, are unflagingly cool and helpful, regardless of the size of the wad in your wallet. If I had money to blow on vintage guitars and equipment, these guys would get all of my business; if you're in that market, you should try this place first.

-- While comic shops are ideal places to comfortably loiter in the guise of browsing when you have 45 minutes to kill before meeting someone at the Mexican restaurant a block away, never ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ask the owner how business is doing. You will quickly want to open a vein -- his or yours, what's the difference -- but oh, how the silent laffs will come when topics like how NAME OF ALT-COMICS FAVORITE HERE and its book collections would sell so much better if the pamphlet came out on a regular basis. Don't bother waiting for the owner to give you an upbeat, "That all said, more and more little kids are coming in with their parents for the Archie comics and kiddie manga every month, so there's hope for the future"-type out so that his monologue can end [and you can leave the store] on a cheerful note. No optimist can stand behind a comic-shop cash register.

The 147th step on the last road home.

The 142nd step on the last road home.

Shooting Fish: The Links

Tim O'Neil is now a/the man.* He clearly stands against Endemic Treponematosis; when will you take a stand????

I can't decide if it would better for carnies to visit the dentist bus before or after their nightly face-punching contest.

Best GIL THORPE strip, ever. To be fair, the not-young-looking, sorta-negroid Caucasian evidently did turn to the flatheaded jock when he yelled "HEY! HEY, CROOK!" which is probably enough to earn you a hot squat for stealing from a department store in Gil Thorpe's universe.

At long last -- all nerds' bullshit stories about their girlfriends in Canada can almost come true. Actually, as scared-stupid liberal pathology goes, this is probably best viewed as the flipside of the dementia exhibited in so many folks who claim to be liberals yet continue to give the Bush administration a blank check so long as the administration keeps them feeling "safe" from The Enemy. [It's a pity that the election's exit polls didn't include "I'm tired of pissing my pants in fear whenever I see/hear a low-flying jet overhead" as a reason for voting Bush/Kerry. That would have been far more educational than assessing perception of the candidates' "Moral Values."]

* Since the odds are you don't read funnybooks, here's the deal with the comics Tim's busting on in that link: See, the big thing in comic books these days is fan fiction written by junior-varsity-level celebrities -- like guys who pump out books like those supermarket paperbacks you buy to read during your vacation at the beach and those kind of TV shows you see in reruns forever on the Sci-Fi channel. They're doing these "darkfic" versions of the superdupers, where the villains are killing/raping the heroes and/or their loved ones instead of putting them in some inescapable trap and then explaining their whole plot to take over the world and crap like that. Meanwhile, over at THE AVENGERS: Captain America and the rest of the team have been standing around and talking in front of their destroyed headquarters while being killed off one by one. For the last three-four months of issues, with no end in clear sight. Doesn't that sound like a thrilling, stimulating read? The nerds have been eating this new shit with a spoon for quite a while, but some seem to have had a recent moment of clarity, when the BABYLON 5 guy wrote a Spider-Man comic where we learn that the Green Goblin totally cockblocked Spidey with his first serious girlfriend, Gwen Stacy. [She was the blonde one, with the hairbands, miniskirts and go-go boots -- not the redhead.] Oh, and it was Gwen's idea to fuck the Green Goblin, since she was so attracted to his strength, magnetism, power and mystery. Charming concept all the way around, isn't it? Goes a long ways to explain why comic-book boosters talk an awful lot like drug dealers.

Bush Crush 2004, the morning after

Some positive things that occurred to me while watching CNN at five in the morning, the day after Election Day. Bush was at a projected 254 Electoral votes and Kerry at 252, with Ohio, Iowa and New Mexico left to count:

Granted, when a dirty bomb/biological agent/whatever is unleashed on U.S. soil, the shit will undoubtedly go down in a Blue state. But when the Draft is reinstated to get the troops needed to address the bastards who did it [hopefully, the ones who actually did it, knock on wood], most of the poor dumb bastards who'll be conscripted to serve will be from Red states.

Better that a popular Republican president, with a quagmire of a military action on his hands and unexamined skeletons in his and his cabinet's closets, deliver a sledgehammer re-election win against an ineffectual Democrat candidate [who replaced a wildly popular anti-war Dem from New England, who mysteriously imploded during the primaries], than to see a Catholic, War-Hero, Massachusetts Senator [with a southerner VP and a debutant First Lady] win an absurdly close election.

Just as Jimmy Carter unwittingly did to liberalism, Bush has a real shot at making Neo-Conservatism a four-letter word. That would be a tremendous gift to everyone except the far-right.

Apparently, the youth seriously failed to "Rock the Vote," which means that Puff Daddy has a lotta killin' to do. Let us all pray that, when the carnage ends, there'll be enough 18-25 year olds left to cast the next seasons of THE REAL WORLD and ROAD RULES.

Barack Obama is in, but more importantly, that Colorado Coors tool is not. I saw him and Salazar on MEET THE PRESS a few weeks ago, and Coors' lumbering, mimetic idiocy offended me on a cellular level. At least Bush doesn't sound like a parrot who's been left alone with the Fox News Channel on for a few weeks. [Speaking of tools losing, I'll shed no tears about Tom Daschle's loss.]

And Bush getting elected yesterday keeps the door to the culture war open for artists who've been fucking off the last four years. See, boys and girls? It's not all bad!

The 136th step on the last road home.