Friday, October 14, 2011
Monday, October 10, 2011
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Bobby Sherman is a man I respect. Somebody who didn't let the Hollywood tiger-beat machine wreck his life. The all-American boy next door who was not ashamed to be decent.
Odd little bite and all, a fine fellow. Sixty-eight years of age and still as vital and fetching as ever. Working a profession that nobody can poke fun at. He delivered a baby in the street one day. When you need 'um you need 'um -- these bearers of Caduceus. You break a leg. You slice an artery. Who do you call?
Wikipedia doesn't want you to remember Bobby Sherman. But they can't deny his celebrity. So they do what they can to bury him by writing a short, lackluster piece with no photography. They better not post a picture of him. Good looks are dangerous in so many ways.
When good looks belong to River Phoenix, Corey's Haim or Feldman, it's all good. But when a clean-living fellow hits the spot light, their sinister agenda is foiled. Because now impressionable youth will seek to emulate a good boy instead of the cocaine-snorting hedonist.
By advancing wholesome role models, America would take centuries to defile. Think of how hard a time the porn kings in Hollywood would have trammeling teenage girls to "star" in their next action movie.
Those creepy goth rockers, the Sisters of Mercy, had a contagious hook where they hinted at John F. Kennedy in a motorcade. They called him a motherf**ker. Flash-in-the-pan bitches.
The last thing the Jews want is to advance a beautiful face behind whose sky blue eyes teem the virtues of Western Culture. Bobby Sherman gave pubescent girls something wholesome to adore. Something to stay wholesome for.
Unlike Marilyn Manson, Trent Reznor and KISS, Bobby Sherman did not require heavy make-up, lurid gimmicks, platform shoes nor Goth getup to find his way onto the bedroom walls of America. His lyrics didn't suggest kinky-freaky nor lavish hedonism. Sherman just asked if Julie would still love him after summer break.
I didn't learn till recently how good a man he is. And how respectable a boy he was. Nice to know that the fast lane never seduced him. What a squeaky clean image. No wonder the Wikipedia doesn't want young people to know about him. He might set an example for them. Imagine that.
Young people imitate those whom they admire. Therefore, Bobby Sherman and Jeffrey Hunter must be buried. Because they can't be smeared. Sherman, like Hunter, could serve as a modern bolshevik nightmare. No wonder Wikipedia keeps them on the down-low. If they studded Bobby Sherman's little write-up with photographs, girls would go gaa-gaa. Both Sherman and Hunter would enjoy a tidal wave of resurgent celebrity.
Since Bobby Sherman is far from dead yet and not on drugs, the bitches in Hollywood know better than to fabricate a "biography" for the big screen. If they told it like it is, it would strike fear into every black heart on their team. The last thing they want to propagate is decency.
So hip-hip for Bobby. Here's the link to a pivotal radio interview. http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=829619
The reason I didn't know about him until recently is because during Sherman's hey day, I was too mesmerized by David Cassidy to notice anyone else. Teen idols are like bubblegum. Everybody has a favourite brand.
Some girls were in love with Leif Garrett. Heroin got the best of him, tight pants and all. David Cassidy turned to alcohol. I'm sure the list of ship-wrecks is a long one.
Come I today to sing the praises of Bobby Sherman. I wish I had sung them decades ago. Julie Julie Julie, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JsMONykezJM
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Monday, July 25, 2011
Sunday, June 26, 2011
For example, fake-named Leon Trotsky (Lev Bronstein, not Bronshtein as the Wik'ster has it) got on Stalin's bad side. I read in an article that Josef Stalin had an assassin slip Lev "Leon Trotsky" Bronstein some poison. Remember what they did to Mr. Litvinenko at the sushi bar. Poisoning seems popular among commies. On page 43 of July/August's edition of The Barnes Review, however, is an article that said an assassin killed Bronstein with an ax.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
What sadism possesses you to shoot their ponies and kick their chickens? You kill their sheep? You disrespect their women and elders? Cut down their trees and burn their homes? Rocket their villages from unmanned aircraft? Bomb babies in their sleep. Force children and old men to walk at gun-point before you as mine-sweepers. Have you no moral compass? Have you no mind of your own? What man gives orders like these? And what man follows them? Ask yourself that while posing with your trophy kills.
Who can blame the Mujahideen and Afghan Taliban for defending their land, homes and families from such as you? If you were in their shoes, invader, what would you do? Whatever happened to the Golden Rule? "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you." The words of the Lord still hold true.
There are some military orders that should not be taken. You got a gun in your hand? Then no man is in a position to tell you to do a damn thing. Keep that in mind as you carry on in Afghanistan building the clanking chain of Jacob Marley. The longer it gets, the heavier it gets. And you will drag it to your grave.
Unlike past wars, today journalists can publish your deeds faster than your speeding bullets. "The evil that men do lives after them. The good is oft' interred with their bones." So let it be with you.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Friday, June 3, 2011
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
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Friday, February 4, 2011
Renfro was a field-day for the yellow press. His long line of arrests were well-publicized as he tore along. We can hardly call his acting career a canter. It was an impetuous gallop and always through some farmer’s cornfield. Kicking up the sod, tearing up the rows. He was going to have his fun.
At the age of ten he was discovered by one of those Hollywood casting scouts, plucked out of his native Tennessee like a flower on a hillside. They slapped him into the lead role of John Grisham’s The Client surrounded by big-name actors like Susan Sarandon, Tommy Lee Jones and Mary-Louise Parker. This was Renfro’s baptism into the roiling kettle of Hollywood hedonism. There went his childhood.
The difference, however, was that Gloria Stavers was shooting a man for her teeny-bopper magazine, not a child. Morrison in those pictures had not only been around the block, his elk-baritone rattled jaws. He was a thing to be protected from, Stavers should have caveat’ed, and not corrupted. After that shoot Ms. Stavers may not have recovered her gait for weeks. Nobody has a problem with that. The Editor-in-Chief of SIXTEEN Magazine got what she deserved (and probably wanted), but some of the pictures taken of Brad Renfro for that genre of periodical are another story.
After The Client, Renfro was sucked into the Hollywood machine. They got their money’s worth out of him every year. He worked steadily from his first movie in 1994 until 2006 even despite his horrendous drug addictions. In 2001, for example, he turned out five movies. Usually he would work in one or two films per year.
There was no childhood for Renfro after he left Tennessee. Soon the Hollywood vampire would suck blood from one vein while he injected coke into another. This became his life – moving in a world that vacillated between the brightly-lit camera eye and orgasmic underground of the L.A. Baiae. Like many who bit the dust before him of the same disease, they would concede that the glittering smog-pit was a pleasure dome until you fell out of her favor.
The money was good, the lanes were fast and the drugs were hard. Once a thrill-seeking rebel without a cause gets a taste of that, often it is like a reef shark at a feeding frenzy. The eyes are sheathed in white and nobody comes up till the drugs are gone. The director of Bully, Larry Clark, said that Brad Renfro was the worst case he had seen.
In order to get the cameras rolling on Bully, Clark had to kidnap his star from Knoxville, Tennessee, personally. He lured Renfro into his car and took off for Florida while the young actor went through cocaine withdrawals. Renfro had been injecting cocaine into both arms when Larry Clark came to collect him. By this point Renfro was riding high on a wave of status that his previous film roles had given him. As long as he had what they call “the magic” in Hollywood, he could get in trouble, get arrested, go to rehab and still enjoy the ride. At 18, however, he had reached his zenith. Larry Clark would see the last of Brad Renfro’s heyday.
It is a sad thing to see how rapidly and rabidly the Hollywood machine exploited young Mr. Renfro. He was marketed as a child sex symbol by teen magazines and then as a porn star on the set of Bully by an industry knowing that nothing sells like sex. It was as if they could not wait until he turned 18 so they could cast him in a movie riddled with soft-core pornography. To some folks this might appear unwholesome. The word “wrong” might even rear its head.
Naturally the selling point of Bully was naked teenagers having sex. This took off like a rocket in Japan where eager-to-please, smitten young women were lined up outside of Renfro’s hotel. One of these girls would become the mother of his son, Yamato. Daddy was a rolling stone.
In 2002 Renfro’s acting career had crested and was on its sad descent. The fire had gone out of his deliveries. The Hollywood party syndrome had aged him. He looked older than his years at 19 and 20. The magic that had catapulted him to stardom was gone. His performances had mellowed like the oratory of an aging politician. He no longer spat fire, but rather mumbled his lines in a kind of lackluster insecurity. He had resigned himself to the downward spiral of his addictions.
This resignation is supported by the lyrics of the songs he wrote. He suffered the characteristic highs and crippling lows of all addicts. “I don’t want to feel this way” was a salient anthem. Renfro, a consummate musician since childhood, pleasured himself with strings and vocals. He spent a lot of time singing and playing the guitar, banjo and mandolin. Unlike with Elvis, this musical turn was kept separate from his Hollywood life. But like Elvis, it would be the same machine that laid him low.
Music was a comforting nurse to him in a childhood devoid of guardians and it became his therapy as he grew older. It was a way for him to lick his wounds. Sometimes it was his “hard jazz and needles.” Music became a private world into which he would retreat from the circus outside. Between takes on a movie set, in his trailer, he would pick up his guitar and disappear into strains and riffs. Music came streaming from his guitar with the vigor of a mountain river. He was a natural musician in all facets unlike Elvis who was mostly a vocalist. Who says you have to know how to play guitar or write lyrics to get crowned the King of Rock and Roll? Life is unfair like that.
From the looks of Renfro after 2002, his drugs of choice were no longer the speeders, but the downers. He was consuming a lot of booze which gave him a bloated appearance. That heroin was wreaking havoc with his digestion was obvious. To the trained eye the ravages of his addictions told a tale. The racing white lady of his teens had given way to a comforting warm gun. He was now in the firm clutches of heroin – a smothering embrace that would carry him to a lethal injection at the age of 25.
What one might find as curious is how Heath Ledger, a foreign contemporary of Renfro’s, was canonized as a Hollywood saint by the media and movie industry after his drug-related death in the same month. It begs the question: is it because Ledger was better at not getting caught or is it because Hollywood is a kind of fickle fraternity that not everybody can join?
A popularity contest is always in progress in Hollywood. You can’t put your finger on what it is exactly but one determining factor seems to be that they have an unspoken code that must never be broken: “Don’t get caught.” If you get caught it reflects back on the industry. If you get caught journalism students like this one will write feature stories about it. Implications will be made that Hollywood is a festering cesspool of iniquity that fosters vices and rapes youngsters of their childhood. Don’t get caught Golden Boy – if you do we’ll drop you like a sack of rocks and pretend we never knew you.
Brad Renfro was shunned on Oscar night. Every year the Academy commemorates its dead. Not a peep about his departure. Renfro died a silent, unacknowledged death in the arms of his L.A. Woman. To the industry that sucked his life-force he may as well have been road-kill.
The expired wreckage of his remains was quietly spirited back to Blaine, Tennessee, for burial. Instead of an Oscar for his pains he got a toe-tag. The scarlet seductress that is Hollywood, California, has gotten her last bang out of Brad Renfro.
Like a disgusted paramour, the L.A. Woman was finished with him. “Back you go now boy, no longer golden, to your redneck kinsmen. I got all out of you that I can get. Let’s just pretend we never met.”
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Vietnam all over again, yes? You should read the freak postings of that faceless, nick-named nurse on one of the medical forums. He/she goes on about the field medicine practice opportunities in the blood-bath of Afghanistan. Oh how sweet it is to get the chance to saw somebody's leg off, right? Their stuff reads like a scene from Fangoria. Screw the Hippocratic Oath, let's just compare horror stories. The giddy, o'-so-delightful listings of goodies from the war zone include tales of battle wounds, exotic infections and other "fascinating accounts" of blood and guts.
I don't think these people are Angels in Green. They won't list their real names. I file them in the genre of the emergency medical technician who couldn't wait for his next ambulance ride so he could take Polaroids of the dead people from high-speed car crashes. Then trade them like baseball cards with his paramedic pals later in the snack room.
This long war, like Vietnam, is attracting vultures, ghouls, morgue freaks, opportunists and "dee-fence" contractors who are making a killing off of killing. In the mean time, Stateside, you have suicidal recruiters who are tired of telling lies and blowing hot smoke up high school boys.
There are legions of "professions" skimming more than their share off the war machine. The medical mania looks like a swarm of cat-eyed reef sharks tearing into fresh meat. They can't get there fast enough to rip off their piece of the action -- so they can brag about it. I just wanna slap them down. They shall never stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the Navy corpsmen I have known. Never.
I have felt the jagged fingers of Lewis Puller, Jr., as he shook my hand from a wheelchair. He was an advising lawyer on the General's Staff back then. When he wheeled out from behind his desk, I was shocked. He was missing both legs from the hip. The Marines in his Platoon told me that Puller stepped on a booby-trapped Howitzer shell. It was from these Marines that I learned the value of a corpsman. And the value of a man who is thrust into war on a half-asst whim. Sent back a fragment. And is expected to get on with his life. Puller gave it a shot. Gave it all he had. Then he shot himself. (photo from the handsome Webmaster @, http://1stmarines.org/)
It is heartbreaking to see how many psychologists, behavioural scientists, grief counselors and psychiatrists are cashing-in on analyzing the suffering of America's fighting man. They matter-of-factly lecture their crafts and regurgitate what they have been taught in their fancy schools about aggression and fear hormones. They have teased apart the brains of lab rats with tantamount clinical detachment to be sure.
Taking the cake is one Ph.D. of Psychology and Research. Luxuriating in her pearlescent eye-shadow, she calmly describes the horror of combat for today's sacrificial lambs who are taught to think of themselves as wolves. What qualifies her to talk about such things?The Red Badge of Courage? As she smiles, basking in the focus of her videographer, they cut to scenes of a wounded Marine writhing on a helicopter litter as he is being med-evac'ed. With another lipstick smile she says, "You can't control what your body does during a traumatic or stressful event." Duh. No kidding. And what of those might she have known?
Then another brilliant comment from yet another cosmetically-assisted Dr. of Psychology, "It's okay if you're not okay." The Sgt. Major of the Marine Corps had this to say, "Get them help -- so we can get them back in the fight."
They wrap up this pep-talk with a corny song (Calling All Angels) and a quote from Rudyard Kipling, "The strength of the wolf is in the pack. And the strength of the pack is in the wolf." After watching the "film" you can send your comments to Director/Producer Norman Lloyd.
Clearly they are worried about another case of "maxed-out and pist-off." Traumatic stress is hard on the body and the spirit who is jailed for a term within. Pop some corn and gather 'round for this sure-fire Oscar pick. http://www.semperfifund.org/resources.html