For the first edition of Frankenstein Jones Presents at Fiasco Towers, we kick it back to the early ’70s, an era when road movies had evolved from Buz-n-Tod innocence and wonder tied inextricably to America’s newfound love of the automobile (“What’s out there? Let’s find out!”) to a wary, existential horror at the prospect of The Road actually answering that very question; posed (Vietnam flagrante, post-JFK, -RFK, -MLK and -Manson) with only a slight tweak in verbal emphasis, the Emptiness of the American Canvas becomes a nagging worry (“What’s out there?”) instead of a carefree lark, a symbol of the profound pessimism that weighed down the post-Hippy hangover.
You never know what’s around the next bend in the road, these two films seem to be saying. But you probably won’t be happy about it.
First up, Steven Spielburg’s made-for-TV classic, Duel. “A business commuter is pursued and terrorized by a malevolent driver of a massive tractor-trailer.”
Yes, thank you RottenTomatoes.com, but Duel (1971) is so much more than that, and probably less, too. See Dennis Wagner battle impotence via metallic proxy! See one man wage helpless war against an implacable foe! See “man vs. machine” metaphors fly like cat fur! See Dennis Weaver cry! See Dennis Weaver scream at his car! See Dennis Weaver hoot like a baboon! See gorgeous vistas of the sun-baked high desert immediately north of Los Angeles! See red cars from the 1970s!
I seem to have forgotten to post to this blog the entire month of November.
Please ignore that the above alibi only covers 14 days. Or 13. Something. Maybe 14. I had a toothache the other days. Also my dog ate it.
When you wake up Wednesday morning, the first thing you might note is that the Republicans control congress and the San Francisco Giants are the world champions of baseball.
Which outcome would be worse, exactly?
Rather than answer that, do what I plan on doing: getting on an airplane and flying to London.
I made this because I could. And I also needed something to distract myself from looking at People of Walmart.
Oh! The humanity.
There are eight miniature cans of Coke Zero in my refrigerator. Eight tiny cans. Seven ounces in each can. Eight of them.
I don’t even like Coke Zero. It’s alright. I usually drink diet root beer if I drink any soft drink at all. Coke Zero tastes like its big brother enough, but it also tastes like what got me 50 pounds overweight and in trouble with my health. Enough. Although something about cold bubbles on a hot day.
But I didn’t even want Coke Zero. How I ended up with eight cans of it in my fridge is a lesson in how you can end up need something you didn’t even know you wanted. And also: apparently I will buy it if you make it smaller and cuter. I bet it wasn’t even my brain they were trying to reach, but reach they did: eight miniature cans of diet soda in my refrigerator.
(Apropos of nothing: I woke up in the middle of the night last night straight out of a nightmare and one very clear thought issued from my brain meats: “Fractal Vampire!” Whence upon immediately fell back to sleep.)
Insert rant about “ad wizards” here-like. EXCEPT IT DIDN’T EVEN REQUIRE AN AD TO OBTAIN ME AS A CUSTOMER.
Tiny cans, man: tiny fucking cans.
Look what my friends Zoe and Assaf got me.
There are two things you need to know about this. 1) Zoe and Assaf rock. And 2) That is not me in the photo up there. I would never wear a bowtie like that.
It’s just a hand when it’s all zipped up. You don’t want to wear it all zipped up: you’d just be a guy with a big white hand on his hoodie. That’s so dumb!
No. You want to wear it when it’s 65 degrees and you feel like you could be getting chilly but also you don’t wanna melt. You zip it down to a point just above the sternum, yo. At that point you begin to throw off Spock gang signs like crazy mad.
Just automatic-like. Representing the Spock.