A New Bibb in the Leo File Files

Where's the photo, you ask? Well, unlike most of America, I do not think that posting photos of my family members online for all to see is the wisest e-choice. Call me an overprotective father if you must, but you'll just have to settle for Weird Al's newest (and most amazingly animated) video about that notorious badass, Charles Nelson Reilly, after whom our little adopted kitty was named. Isn't that right, Forky?

Ladies and Bloglemen, I have a son. His name is Oren Aardvark File (only slightly changed to protect the incontinent), and he was born at 7:40 p. m. on August 13 after his mother endured unspeakable physical duress in bringing him into this world.

This got me to thinking.

Why did women come off so poorly in the whole Eden curse situation? I mean, Adam had to go work for his food, which really only amounts to fresh air and varied experiences, while Eve was saddled with horrible pain just for propagating the species. And the snake? The one crafty SOB who truly caused all the trouble? His legs were taken away, true, but then he was given monster fangs, around 150 hearts, the ability to prolong his life through skin regeneration, neurotoxic venom, camoflauge capabilities, and a knack for slithering at...get this...up to 13 mph! What the frick, God?!

Anyway, I feel your pain, ladies. And I've seen it all happen firsthand. Jeez, guys, did we ever luck out on that deal.

An Even Badder Seed?

Holy sleeper, blogfans! Have any of you seen the latest offering from the erstwhile lackluster Dark Castle Pictures division of Warner Bros.? No? Well, you're not alone. It hasn't done particularly well at that fickle spinster known as the American box office, and I must say that, while it totally does NOT deserve such widespread panning, I can guess why it hasn't blown the average movie-goer out of his sweaty socks. For one thing, everyone at Rotten Tomatoes seems to have missed the joke. This isn't supposed to be some probing commentary on the dangers that lurk within our oh-so-secure suburban lives, and it isn't an investigation of the deep psychological scars {tacit plot spoiler alert} associated with certain physical conditions. This little gem is pure, unadulterated camp. And it's not even contemporary camp. It's 50s camp!

OK, so maybe there's a bit too much skin in Orphan for the 50s label, but aside from that, this wonderful movie is a delightfully self-conscious remake/update of the 1956 Warner Bros. "shocker" The Bad Seed, a truly disturbing little film about a precocious psycho named Rhoda who "didn't mean" to brutally murder several people who pissed her off. The ubiquitous nods to Bad Seed are practically palpable in Orphan, but I guess most audience members are too ignorant of the classics to note the allusions. This Bibb, however, was enthralled and tickled black as Esther's evil hair (which was often tied up in pigtails as an homage to her blonde predecessor in tot terror). The scene with the white roses had me cringing in my stadium seat, and the film's wrap scene tag-line had me rolling in the sticky aisles! {Dialogue spoiler alert}

Esther (bloodied and clutching feverishly at her adopted mother/victim in the middle of a frozen lake): "Don't let me die, Mommie."

Kate (suffering from several stab wounds and a gunshot to the shoulder): "I'm NOT your Fu(&!NG MOMMIE!"

Oh, bloggies, I loved this movie. I could not believe the evil that Esther unleashed on her unsuspecting (though admittedly screwed-up and self-involved) adopted family. Seriously, go out and rent / Netflix / Hulu / iPhone / Limewire The Bad Seed if you have not seen it, and then go and visit Esther. I promise you that she's the one you'll want to take home.

"There's something wrong with Esther."

Palin Passes

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Sarah Palin Will Be Missed
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Sure, I know the pundits are whispering in their online polls about Palin '12, but I think we've finally seen the last of this insufferably buffoonish clown and her childish attempt to be taken seriously in the political world. Did that sound too harsh? I'm sorry. Let me paraphrase in a euphemistic paragraph that won't upset her oblivious fans:

Regrettably, I sense that Governor Sarah Palin's participation in the vicious media cat-fight that is American politics has come to a premature end. All those long words and bothersome facts became too much of a burden for a woman of the future. How can she be expected to read up on the issues when there are so many Alaskan animals to slaughter? And those hideous newshounds simply would not stop reporting on her pregnant daughter, who she tried to keep safely out of the public eye by hiding her in plain sight at every single one of her political rallies, speeches, debates, and televised events. Plus, who wants to be a "lame duck" for 140 days? Not this straight-shooter. (*Wink*) She's a maverick who tears down bridges to nowhere in our post-9/11 world . . . only now she'll do it at home while writing her multimillion-dollar memoir. Take it easy, Sarah, and don't forget to spell-check!

There. Does that satisfy the Palinites? How anyone could legitimately respect that woman will forever be beyond my belief.

Le Merde de Taureau

These jerks sound exactly like my lit class students. "Yeah, I remember that part, the part when that guy told the other guy about how he was made and stuff. That was interesting" (this was during a discussion over Shelley's Frankenstein).

Genius of Juvenalia

For those of you who may not know, I am a card-carrying nerd and have been for years. Actually, I think my nerd card dates from that fateful afternoon in August of 1989 when my friend Brent loaned me a copy of the "UHF" soundtrack. I listened to that cassette so many times in such rapid succession that I wore out the magnetic tape and had to buy Brent a new copy. To this day, I have the entirety of "The Biggest Ball of Twine in Minnesota" memorized down to the interjections and the background vocals.

Thus, one could say that "Weird Al" Yankovic is not only a symptom of my nerdishness, but he is also at least partially to blame for its inception. After listening to that gloriously clever album on my Fisher stereo system in the halcyon Oklahoma summer of '89, I realized that I no longer cared if people would make fun of me for liking such things; they were simply too pleasurable to pass up for something as paltry as social acceptance.

Anyway, I believe the above video demonstrates the essence of his genius in a way that few others in his impressive body of work ever have. Those of you who like the Doors (and Jim Morrison's in-your-face, drug-augmented smuggery) will hardly miss the canny allusions involving random stock film footage looped behind psychedelic acid filters and shots of the desert. One thing must be said about Al the Parodiest: the man knows his material.

Like the childhoods of countless others, my adolescence was unpleasant and occasionally emotionally draining due to my parents' alcoholism, pathological dishonesty, and bankruptcy, but "Weird Al" was always there to make me laugh until I needed to pee. If you've longed to try him out but were afraid to be labeled a nerd, now is the time to cross over, because it has never been cooler to be uncool.

Click the T!

Old Glory On An Asherah Pole

So, the Israelites had this annoying tendency to idolize the wrong things. They made that infamous calf at the base of the holiest mountain on Earth and danced around it while God spoke to Moses. They married into the indigenous Canaanite religions and bowed down to Ashtoreths and Baals before Joshua was even cold in his grave. Then they elected an unfortunate series of corrupt kings who continued to read books on Wicca and erect...well...inappropriate erections.

A good but somewhat recalcitrant judge named Gideon began the process of pointing out these sacrilegious inconsistencies amongst the Lord's people when he chopped down his father's Asherah pole (a totem-pole-esque edifice honoring the Hebrew goddess of fertility, Asherah) and demolished the adjacent altar to everyone's favorite euphemism for the Semitic rain god Hadad, Ba'al. Ever since, party-poopers like Gideon and myself (with the incredibly unpopular spiritual gift of discernment) have been doomed to deconstruct the myriad surrogate deities we alleged followers of the Lord set up in place of the real Jehovah. And here I go again...

Folks, this past Sunday morning in "church" I bore witness to an orgy of patriotic gyration the likes of which Sodom and Gomorrah never even dreamed about. Proud, shrieking eagles swooped across the altar; monstrous flags obscured the stained glass portrait of Jesus; Uncle Sam stomped in with Old Glory hoisted higher than the cross. We sang every trite, maudlin bunting song in the red, white, and blue book. We waved little plastic replica flags (that were, I giggled to note, made in China) in time to "Grand Ol' Flag," a tune I'm quite sure none of the salivating patriots realized originated in a toe-tapping Broadway show and NOT as the follow-up track to Lee Greenwood's "Proud to Be an American."

Now I don't mind celebrating the Grand Ol' Fourth any more than the next guy. But in the house of the Lord, I would like to reserve my adulation for Him, AND ONLY HIM. I will NOT condone an entire Sunday devoted to tired, over-simplified praise songs exalting our perfect, morally pure and supreme nation of almighty glory and power...but with "never a boast or brag." My gall caught in my throat.

Am I just a jumpy jeremiad? Have any of you experienced this disappointing trend? What is to be done? I cannot follow Gideon's example and simply cut down the flag to use as fuel for burning the bunting-and-balloon altar to the great god Freedominus Americammon. Maybe Jefferson was right: the separation of Church and State doesn't seem like such a bad idea after all.

Judges 6:25-32; 1 Kings 18:21-39

Gradalis Scholasticus

Holy...Grail, blogademes! Your intrepid Sir Bibs was at long last deemed worthy of a glimpse of the holy of holies this afternoon at around 4:00. After questing for many years (nine, but who's counting?), this weary knight of knowledge has finally neared his journey's end.

I passed my Ph.D. qualifying exams today. That's right, blogstudents, I'm one dissertation away from being...wait for it...a bona fide doctor! Not the kind that makes lots of money for splicing a couple of arteries together and then going off to play golf all week, but a doctor nonetheless! The official term for my current status is ABD (Almost Brain Dead), and many schools will actually consider hiring me now! No kidding! I already got a call from the local community college about setting up an interview (and before you scoff, consider that, in these turbid economic times, community colleges are paying much more than their university counterparts).

O Lord, thanks be to Thee for Thy mercy and guidance! Bless this travel-sore wanderer and lead him to the sacred grove of academe!

Gehenna or Bust

To take a break from the List of Doom, I wanted to refer all you blogophytes to an imminent movie event not to be missed. Coming out on May 29, Sam Raimi's return to "Real Horror," piquantly entitled Drag Me to Hell, will at long last restore my faith in scream cinema. Think The Evil Dead with (only slightly) better effects.

The plot: in brief, a creepy old gypsy woman (what could be more deliciously melodramatic?) is denied an extension on her mortgage payment (what could be more culturally topical?), and the unfortunate bank bureaucrat responsible spends the remainder of the film hysterically fleeing a legion of sardonic (and surprisingly articulate) demons, while her skeptical boyfriend refuses to entertain even the possibility of a diabolical curse and continuously assures her that she's overreacting and that . . . you guessed it . . . it's probably nothing!

Can you believe it? It's a tract for our troubled times, complete with the evil eye and cackling bugaboos around every corner! What could be better for a nation in dire need of catharsis? Wouldn't we all like to see one of those damned bankers suffer the conflagratory pangs of compulsory damnation? I only hope the bank our "heroine" works for goes by the name "Atlantic Investments Group" or something like that. Kick some ass, Raimi!