Kimopolis

My kind of town.

Archive for the ‘I Can't Know That’ Category

“I can’t know that” is a direct quote from yours truly. It simply means “I don’t understand,” or “you lost me there,” or “you’re not making any sense.” Posts under this category usually highlight my ignorance of a particular subject. As you may have noted, there aren’t many mainly because I know everything (see: Because I Said So).

Kill Bill: Vol. 3?

Posted by kimlno on June 6, 2009

NOTE: The following is not intended to disrespect the dead. My heart goes out to those who lost someone they loved and with that my deepest sympathies. However, humor is the way I deal with unpleasant things, and that’s probably part of the reason you’re reading this now. Is it not? So, no offense intended and if you don’t have a sense of humor, perhaps you should read something else. And with that, on with the show.

72974589MM005_styleIs nothing sacred? Is it impossible in this day and age to die with dignity?[1]

As I am sure you’ve all heard by now, the legendary actor, David Carradine, was found dead in his hotel room on Thursday morning. Originally, the investigators claimed David had taken his own life, as he was found hanging from the curtain cord in the closet. But then, his manager and others insisted that he would never commit suicide, and that he was exceedingly happy and genuinely looking forward to shooting his next film. And, that’s when things started to get a little squirrely.

Police investigators said that he had not only wrapped the cord around his neck, but also around his wrist(s?) and his, um, genitals[2]. Leading us to believe he had not been attempting suicide as much as he was attempting to have a good time. And that’s all fine and dandy. Whatever works, I always say. But, there is just one thing, don’t you think if you had a less-than-wholesome means by which you derive pleasure, couldn’t you just hold off for a little while? Take a breather while you’re out of the country, filming a movie? Now, I appreciate that Grasshopper was in Bangkok which is technically the sexual deviant capital of the universe, and instead of paying some indiscriminate lady-boy[3] to get his rocks off, David wisely practiced safe sex by not exposing himself to the potentially billions of STDs one could catch in Thailand. However, using the hotel’s drapery as a sex prop is not okay. If for nothing else, than for the fact that if you wind up[4] accidentally killing yourself, the whole world will know about your little secret. Is that how you want fans to remember you? I think not.

So, now something that was shockingly tragic has become somewhat perverse and kind of disturbing. In the end, dead is dead, and I don’t believe it matters how you get there. You’re still dead. But because things weren’t what they seemed to be, the facts are becoming more and more obscured by the fiction. For future reference, if at all possible, do not die in a foreign country. Our investigators can screw up a perfectly good crime scene very well, thank you very much (e.g., the whole O.J. Simpson debacle). Foreign investigations, as it is their nature, impede the crime solving process by taking place in a foreign country with foreign customs and foreign modus operandi.

Let’s take a look at the facts, shall we?

Fact: David Carradine died in his hotel room.

Fact: Videotape surveillance of the hotel shows David entering his hotel room unaccompanied, and no one either entered or left his room between the time he went in on Wednesday night and the time the maid found him on Thursday morning.

Fact: The curtain cord was used in some fashion as to restrict regular breathing.

Some people have put forth the proposition[5] that foul play was afoot. And by afoot, I mean a hand, a hand tied behind his back. Or not. Some say both hands were tied, some say they were bound in front and not in back, and others say that the cord encircled his neck, his hands and his, um, genitals.[6] I am sure that someone photographed the scene in which Mr. Carradine was found, and TMZ will probably be “leaking” those onto the internet any minute now, so we can all see for ourselves. Although I really don’t want to see those potentially scarring images, there is always someone who does. But, here’s my question: does it really matter? Is anyone going to like David Carradine’s films less because he was kinky? Or, will people admire his acting prowess more if it turns out he really was murdered? It doesn’t make any difference to me, but I am certainly not the norm.

I think everyone should remember that this man was 72 years old, married and had four children. Aside from being famous, he was just a regular guy trying to earn a living and be happy. Just like you and me.[7] So let’s just hope that wherever he is now, that he is at peace. I leave you with the words of his Kung Fu teacher, Master Kan, “All life is precious, nor can any be replaced.”

[1] Can’t we all just GET ALONG?
[2] If anyone can think of another less icky sounding name, please let me know.
[3] Thank you, HBO and “Hookers at the Point.”
[4] No pun intended.
[5] …that you can petition the Lord with prayer. Oops! Sorry. Sometimes Jim Morrison uses my body to channel his lesser known lyrics. (No, not really.)
[6] Still hating that word.
[7] Well, that is, if I had a job.

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Posted in I Can't Know That, Scarred For Life, Sharing Is Caring | Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a Comment »

Jew Knew?

Posted by kimlno on May 9, 2009

As some of you may already know, one of my favorite movie musicals of all time is Tim Rice and Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Jesus Christ Superstar. Being that my family didn’t actively participate in any form of organized religion, most of my knowledge about Jesus and the Crucifixion was gleaned from the JCS album[1] and the 1973 film. For the majority of my life, the unconventional manner in which I learned about the Lord has served me well. I know just enough to get by without looking like an absolute heathen.

Then, in 2004, Mel Gibson released The Passion of the Christ, which, let’s be honest, was no Jesus Christ Superstar. First of all, there wasn’t any singing. Nor was there any dancing. And throughout the entire film the actors spoke in Aramaic, a dead language that nobody has used, well, since the time of Christ. When questioned about making such a bold choice, Mel said he felt it gave the film authenticity. Sure, fine, but they could’ve been speaking in Pig Latin for all anyone knew because NOBODY SPEAKS ARAMAIC and they haven’t for over 2,000 YEARS. But, I digress.

Pilate SO wants to plant one on Jesus.

No sexual tension?

As if ALL OF THAT wasn’t enough to put me off this Passion flick, the violence and bloodshed were so frighteningly realistic that certain scenes in the film were almost unwatchable. In contrast[2], the “39 Lashes” scene in JCS exudes an undeniable sexual undercurrent as Pilate counts each lash. So much so, that by the time he reaches the magic number, Pilate is covered in sweat and visibly shaking. Perhaps I’m WAY off the mark here, but that scene seems to intimate a rather homoerotic tone. Whereas Passion took a completely different approach to the same scenario by replacing all that sexual tension with buckets of blood. And not just blood, but bits of Jesus’ skin and sinew, as well. I think it’s safe to say that Mel Gibson single-handedly redefined the term “bloodbath.” It was glaringly apparent that the chances of this movie knocking JCS out of the top slot as my favorite film about Christ[3] were slim to none.

I ask you, do these guys look like Jews?

I ask you, do these guys look like Jews?

So, there I was, in a packed theater, watching a film that makes A Clockwork Orange look like The Sound of Music. As Caiaphas and the other High Priests are discussing “a more permanent solution to our problem,” I suddenly realize something so shocking, so utterly unbelievable, that I cannot possibly contain myself as I exclaim, “Those dudes are JEWS?!?” At which point everyone seated within earshot turned to look directly at me as they all gave a collective, “SHUSH!”[4] And much like Jerry Seinfeld must’ve felt after making out with his girlfriend for the entire 3 ½ hours of Schindler’s List, I was completely mortified. But more than being embarrassed,[5] I wondered how could I have possibly missed the fact that they were Jews?

After the movie, I rushed home and popped in the JCS DVD.[6] I needed answers, but more importantly I needed proof that I wasn’t just deluding myself all this time. As I watched the film, I made note of any and all references to religion.

Exhibit A: In “Poor Jerusalem,” Jesus complains about everybody (he’s very moody).

Neither you, Simon, nor the fifty thousand,
Nor the Romans, nor the Jews,
Nor Judas, nor the twelve
Nor the priests, nor the scribes,
Nor doomed Jerusalem itself
Understand what power is,
Understand what glory is,
Understand at all,
Understand at all.

Clearly, the lyrics refer to the Jews and the priests as two separate and unrelated entities. He didn’t say “nor the Jewish priests” or “nor the rabbis.” I mean, it’s really no wonder I believed them to be different groups entirely.

Exhibit B: In the aptly-named, or so I thought, “The Temple,” Jesus throws a hissy fit (I told you he was moody).

My temple should be a house of prayer,
But you have made it a den of thieves.
Get out! Get out!

Now, THAT, my friends, was a temple. A temple in ruins, but a temple nonetheless. Not some silly scaffolding in the middle of the freakin’ desert.

Exhibit C: “The Arrest” lyrics plainly state:

Come with us to see Caiaphas
You’ll just love the High Priest’s house

Not the “Rabbi’s Digs.” Not the “Temple of the Jews.” Not the “Synagogue.” The High Priest’s House. Now I ask you, when somebody says “priest’s house,” what’s the first image that pops into your head? I’d be willing to bet dollars to donuts it’s not a Jewish temple.

The High Priests on the scaffolding.

Scaffolding or temple?

Looking back on what could be considered one of the biggest misconceptions of my entire existence, I don’t feel like a total idiot because, as you can see, JCS never referred to Caiaphas, Annas or any of the other men in the big funny black hats as anything other than “priests.” A priest, in my book, is a Catholic. If he were Jewish, he would be called a rabbi. I mean, really. Where were their yarmulkes? The prayer shawls? The Torah? And the scaffolding, which I now understand is meant to symbolize the High Priests’ temple, wasn’t exactly helpful in clueing me in as to their religious belief system.[7] Who I thought Caiaphas and his funky bunch were, I don’t know. I just knew they were in cahoots with the Romans, and they didn’t particularly care for Jesus.

Well, what can I say? You live, and you learn.

[1] Did you know that on the original recording of JCS, Judas was played by Murray Head, he of the “One Night in Bangkok” hit single? AND that his brother is Anthony Stewart Head, better known as “Giles” in the Buffy the Vampire Slayer series?
[2] WHOA! Big Momma/Little Momma flashback!
[3] Second Place goes to Monty Python’s The Life of Brian
[4] Honestly, the audience couldn’t have been more synchronized had they rehearsed it.
[5] That’s something I’ve become quite used to.
[6] What? It’s my FAVORITE musical of all time. Of course I have a copy at the ready.
[7] I mean, would it have killed them to sneak the Star of David in somewhere?

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The Great Golf Cart Incident

Posted by kimlno on April 28, 2009

In April of 1986, my best friend, Pam, and her family invited me to go with them to Palm Springs for spring break. I don’t think I’d ever been to Palm Springs before, but spending a whole week away with my best friend sounded way better then hangin’ out in the ’sades solo. In addition to inviting me, Pam’s younger sister, Cheryl, brought along a friend, too. Now, bear in mind, this was a LONG time ago, and I am a little sketchy on the finer points of the trip, but I think Cheryl brought her friend Michelle. Regardless, aside from the parents, our group consisted of four girls between the ages of 14 and 15. Like most teenage girls, our excitement could not possibly be contained, much to the displeasure of Pam’s mom who drove us there (Pam’s dad, on the other hand, was smart and rode his motorcycle). We may have even made signs to put on the car that said “Palm Springs or Bust!” Although it’s entirely possible that I may be confusing this trip with another trip Pam and I took to Palm Springs when we were in college, which as you can imagine, was not parentally supervised and a whole different experience entirely.

ANYgirlsgonewild:springbreakcollegeco-edsexposed, I have absolutely no other recollection of this trip aside from (a.) discovering the intoxicating scent of Arizona Sun body lotion, and (b.) the now infamous Golf Cart Incident. Pam’s parent’s Palm Springs home was on a beautiful, sprawling golf course (aren’t they all?) which was the center of a mini-metropolis that consisted of the golf course, homes scattered along the edge of the course, and a labyrinth of roads that connected them to each other. It was huge, but at the same time, it was an insular, private community so we were allowed to go exploring on our own without the ‘rents having to worry.

For reasons that can only be fully appreciated by teenagers who don’t have a driver’s license, one of the main attractions was the family golf cart. Since none of us were even old enough to drive, although I think Pam may have had her learner’s permit by then, we were giddy with excitement when we were allowed to take the golf cart out for a spin. We had to have been breaking at least five rules of golf cart operation as we pulled out of the garage. Four unlicensed, underage girls all crammed into one golf cart, designed to seat only two, screaming and laughing their heads off while traveling at very high rates of speed. I distinctly remember whizzing past an older gentleman hosing off his truck, as he yelled at us to slow down. Silly man, like that’s going to stop us!

Of course we all wanted a turn at the wheel, so we did slow down and stop EVENTUALLY, but only long enough for the person next to the driver to scoot over a spot and off we’d go again. Now, I don’t remember whose turn it was to drive, nor do I remember how many times we had executed a flawless Chinese fire drill, but when the next person tried the gas pedal, nothing happened. “Uh oh,” was the general consensus. The fact that we knew little about driving in general put us at a huge disadvantage. All we knew was pressing the gas made the cart go, and applying the brakes made the cart stop. Oh, and turning the wheel would change the cart’s trajectory. So, when the cart just stopped working, the four of us, as brilliant as we may have been, couldn’t figure out (a.) why the cart no longer worked, or (b.) how to fix the cart. We only had one option, to get out and push.

The approximate area where Jesus lost his left sandal.

The approximate area where Jesus lost his last sandal.

Now, if you’ve ever been to Palm Springs in April, you are undoubtedly aware that the average temperature is comparable to the temperature on the surface of the sun. And there we were, blacktop as far as the eye could see and in every direction, somewhere between really far away from Pam’s house and where Jesus lost his last sandal. To add to the desperation of our situation, we had no water, no hats or sun block, and I am pretty sure we were all wearing flip flops. To say we were ill-equipped to push a thousand-pound hunk of metal would be the understatement of the 80s. The last person we had seen was the old man and the hose, and that was a while back, so there wasn’t anyone around for us to ask for assistance, either. Surrounded by houses on every side, we were still all alone. I can’t speak for the other girls but, I know I wanted to cry.

Holding back tears, and resisting the urge to assign any blame, we pushed. We pushed and pushed for a very long time. Had cell phones been invented, having one at that very moment would’ve been exceedingly helpful. Mere seconds before we all passed out due to heat stroke, we either made it back to the homestead or someone came along and finally helped us. I was too delirious to notice or really even care about the exact details of our rescue. I just knew that I had never wanted an iced tea more in my entire life than I did immediately after help arrived. And I don’t even LIKE iced tea!

But, wait. Here’s the real kicker: whoever it was that saved us from dying a slow, painful death on the asphalt road to Hell, (it could’ve been Prince AND the Revolution for all I can remember, but I’m thinking it was probably Pam’s dad) immediately pointed out the obvious cause of all our troubles. How were we supposed to know that golf carts had KEYS?!? And, if they’re going to all the fuss to put in an ignition, they why not place it on or near the steering column? What kind of IDIOT puts the key slot UNDER THE SEAT?!? Who is even going to look for it there? And do you know WHY it’s a poor location? Because someone might accidentally bump the key into the “off” position while scooting over to let the passenger drive! My God, people who design golf carts, how could you’ve NOT thought of that?!? You thought of cup holders and a mini-clipboard to secure a golf score card, for crying out loud! Oh, and, here’s an idea: what about a SIGN somewhere, anywhere in the line of sight of the driver or the passenger, that indicates where the ignition is LOCATED?!? You people obviously had the forethought to place a sign that reads, “Avoid sudden, sharp turns!” on the dashboard, why not there? WHY?!?

So, basically, we pushed a perfectly drivable golf cart through the scorching heat of the high desert because none of us knew about the key. And THAT, my friends, is hilarious.

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