Random Thoughts

Originally published April 19, 1996, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1170

Assorted ramblings:

In last year’s Pulp Fiction, there is a scene in a diner between hired guns Vincent (John Travolta) and Jules (Samuel L. Jackson) in which Jules states that he won’t eat pigs because pigs are filthy animals. When Vincent points out that dogs share some of the same unsanitary habits that pigs have, Jules says he doesn’t eat dog either.

“But do you consider a dog to be a filthy animal?” asks Vincent.

“I wouldn’t go so far as to call a dog filthy, but they’re definitely dirty. But a dog’s got personality. And personality goes a long way.”

“So by that rationale,” opines Vincent, “if a pig had a better personality, he’d cease to be a filthy animal.”

“We’d have to be talking about one charmin’ mother(lovin’) pig,” replies Jules. “I mean, he’d have to be ten times more charming than that Arnold on Green Acres, y’know what I’m sayin’?”

Why do I bring this up? Because I was watching the most recent Academy Awards, and I suddenly wondered:

Would Jules have a problem with eating Babe?

Also pondering along movie lines, movie observers referred to Elizabeth Shue of Leaving Las Vegas as either an overnight sensation or not likely to win (which she didn’t) because she “hadn’t paid her dues.” Paid her dues? What do you call Karate Kid, Back to the Future II & III, Adventures in Babysitting, Cocktail (God help her), Soapdish, etc.

And James Cromwell of Babe was referred to as a “little known” or “obscure” character actor. Geez. I’m been keeping an eye on Cromwell since the TV series Hot L Baltimore which he starred in with the brilliant Richard Masur.

Get with the program, people.

* * *

So now I’ve learned that the Star Trek lady in Arkansas really does wear that uniform all the time in order to “spread the philosophy of Star Trek.” Apparently that philosophy of brotherhood and respect has been expanded to include the concept of ignoring the direct instructions of a judge.

I still think she was just looking to get sprung.

* * *

If I were a t-shirt maker in England looking to get rich… and was undaunted by matters of taste and/or copyright law… I’d be producing t-shirts featuring a dying Bart Simpson gasping out, “Don’t have a cow, man…”

* * *

You know those posters all over the country where you’re supposed to relax your eyes and see a picture hidden inside of them? Well, I think it’s one of the single biggest hoaxes ever. I think it’s “Emperor’s New Clothes” stuff. People say, “Oh, I see it, I see it!” and convince themselves that some illustration is there. But in point of fact, it’s complete and utter bull, and I refuse to fall for it.

As a matter of fact, I bet I know who came up with it. I know who developed the whole scheme and has made a ton of money off it, snickering behind our backs the entire time.

That’s right: Andy Kaufman.

I refuse to be suckered either by those posters or by Andy’s faked death. Just wait. Just wait. I figure, turn of the century, he’ll come clean about it all. And I’ll be there saying, “I knew it. Didn’t fool me. Uh uh. Nope.”

* * *

I think that voicemail in office places was the first step in the depersonalization of our society.

Many, many years ago, I used to earn a living as a secretary. And when it got to be lunchtime, the other secretaries and I went at staggered times so we could cover each other’s desks. If one of the bosses wasn’t around, there would still be someone there to answer the phone at all times.

People tend to forget in the modern electronic climate of automated answering that it used to be possible to phone an office when the boss wasn’t around and still accomplish something. The phone would ring, someone would pick up and say in a pleasant voice, “Mr. (or Miss or Ms or Mrs) So and So’s office, how may I help you?” The personal touch. And you could find out:

Is the boss actually in?

Is the boss in a meeting?

How long will the meeting be, approximately?

If the boss is out, when is the boss expected back?

You’re about to write a letter. How do you spell the boss’ name? What’s the address?

You may need to reschedule a meeting. How’s the rest of the week shaping up?

Quick, what’s the name of the boss’s spouse?

Quick, did you forget that today is the boss’ birthday?

Did the boss get the earlier message?

Dozens, hundreds of questions could be asked and answered by an efficient, helpful secretary. Instead, in the brave new world of office voicemail, there’s no question too simple, no situation too potentially embarrassing, no problem too complex, that it can’t take hour upon hour to attend to instead of the mere minutes it used to occupy.

Sometimes you get put into switchboard Hëll. You call up, get an automated operator, and find that you not only can’t get the person you want, you can’t get any human being at all.

And there’s my personal favorite: You call up the boss. Not there. Instead you get voicemail. The voicemail says, “I’m not here (d-uh). You can either leave a message or, if you need immediate attention, you can call my assistant.” So you call the assistant… and you get the assistant’s voicemail.

* * *

Am I the only person who, upon hearing the title Mr. Holland’s Opus, pictures Swamp Thing cradling a plush Opus the Penguin doll?

Yeah, I was afraid of that…

* * *

Purveyors of entertainment, threatened with government intervention that could very likely be challenged in the courts on a constitutional basis, crumble instead in order to satisfy the howls of censorship.

Comics in the 1950s.

TV executives in the 1990s.

In the meantime, as parents caterwaul about being unable to protect their children from unwanted TV programs in their own home, I find myself coming back to the same dámņëd question: If they feel that strongly about it, who is putting a knife to these peoples’ throats and making them own a television? Where was that inscribed on the tablets that Moses brought down from the Mount? “Thou Shalt Buy a TV.” If an on/off switch is too much to master, don’t own a set. Build a library. Build a fireplace. Buy a fish tank and stock it.

I mean, I don’t understand this. Lawmakers insist on putting in a V-chip on the off chance that small children might be exposed to violent images that mess up their minds. Thus we get a ratings system where producers are forced to comply so that people can voluntarily have TVs in their homes with impunity.

Now… if those same people voluntarily have, say, loaded guns sitting around in their homes, chances are superb that if small children get their hands on the guns, they’ll mess up their minds by smearing them all over the wallpaper. So what are lawmakers trying to do? Repeal the ban on assault weapons. I’ll say that again. Repeal the ban on assault weapons.

Are they nuts?! Is everyone else so busy staring at those moronic magic eye posters that I’m the only person to see that there is something seriously out of kilter here? That our priorities are just a touch out of whack? Lawmakers are cracking down on the pictures of violence and trying to ease up on the actual tools of violence? I know that the endeavors to repeal the assault weapon ban will likely come to nothing, but that it’s being tried at all is appalling. That it’s an open question in anyone’s mind is shocking. We’ve got loonies out there who will run roughshod over the First Amendment for the alleged purpose of protecting their children, but cling to the broadest and most self-serving interpretation of the Second Amendment like ravenous infants to a mother’s breast, and if children’s lives are genuinely being exposed to violence (as a gun’s presence in the house does) well… too bad.

The gall. The mealy mouthed hypocrisy.

The mental image of gun nuts sitting there cleaning their machine guns while their children are electronically protected from violence on television is too ludicrous to contemplate… if it weren’t really going to be the state of affairs in this country.

* * *

I’ve spent the past few days with a nasty bout of bronchitis. I did, however, discover something interesting. When I laugh while I have bronchitis, I sound just like Muttley from the Hanna-Barbera cartoons.

* * *

Have you noticed that when fans complained about Marvel vs. DC, the objections generally fell into two categories: (1) the series was only about big fights; (2) the fights should have been much longer than three to five pages.

It’s the comic book equivalent of the very old joke about two elderly Jewish women, Edna and Rose, at a resort in the Catskills. They run into each other in the lobby, and Edna says, “So what do you think of the resort?”

“I hate it,” says Rose. “The food here is terrible.”

“Yes, I know,” sighs Edna, “and such small portions!”

(Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., PO Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705.)