To Thine Own Self Be True. Unless, Of Course, You're an Enormous Douche

Yale: I'm not a saint, OK?

Isaac: You're too easy on yourself. Don't you see? You're... You rationalise everything. You're not honest with yourself. You talk about you wanna write a book, but in the end you'd rather buy a Porsche. You cheat a little bit on Emily and you play around the truth with me. The next thing you know you're in front of a Senate committee naming names.

Yale: You are so self-righteous. I mean, we're just people. We're just human beings. You think you're God!

Isaac: I gotta model myself after someone.

--Manhattan (1979)

Growing up, I greatly enjoyed looking through my parents' high school yearbooks. Mainly because it confirmed that those 1950s kids looked like a bunch of illiterate hicks, with their greased up hair, plaid shirts, and rolled up jeans. I smugly felt victorious, knowing that we 1970s kids were superior in every way, what with our polyester fake silk shirts, long hair, male necklaces and fake suede, rubber soled shoes. But more than that I enjoyed getting a glimpse of Mom and Dad as teenagers, before they became the dictatorial menaces who forced me to eat broccoli and wouldn't let me order cokes at Monterrey House. I remember delighting at their friends' extensive signature/salutations (seemingly everyone in school signed Mom's, while only girls and teammates signed Dad's. One extremely questionable-looking young lady who was not my beloved Mother, but who at least thought herself my Dad's girlfriend, tossed off an extensive signature filled with references to their future married life, their future kids, and their future home. Basically, a total whore.). Anyway, all the seniors included a favorite quote, which appeared under their photos. My Dad selected "to thine own self be true." I knew that phrase well. This was his stock explanation why he never grew his hair longer during the 1970s. Short hair during the 70s condemned him, at least in my eyes, to remain hopelessly out of style, therefore making it even more imperative that I quarantine him from my friends. So I've always associated this quote with his making me get my hair cut short when all my own friends got to have long hair (over their collars). I wondered why I had to be true to HIS self instead of mine. Or thine.

Little did I know at the time he'd inadvertently stumbled onto the most important rule of living a happy life. Or at least, living a life that doesn't suck as bad as it might otherwise. "To thine own self be true" is the Cardinal Rule. Despite the fact that it sounds like something written on an Ed Hardy shirt or tattooed on Angelina Jolie's foot.

It comes from Hamlet. Polonius, a weaselly adviser to King Claudius (think of a cross between Frank Burns from MASH and Bob Haldeman), advises his son Laertes before Laertes travels to Paris. Polonius reels off a string of Ben Franklin-esque maxims he wants his son to follow. He continues after the main phrase, "and it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man." You can envision Laertes rolling his eyes and checking his watch during this speech, thinking "ok, let's wind it up old man, I don't want to miss the boat." In context, the phrase essentially means "don't lie to yourself." But "true" has another connotation in this context--putting your own interests first. If you can't be honest to or protect yourself, you can't deal with or care for others.

But it goes well beyond that. What's the worst thing you can say about someone? They're a loser, a thief, a beggar, abusive, dull, stupid? No. Its that they're a phony. I mean, other than that they're a concentration camp guard. Or a politician. Or a terrorist. Or that you gave yourself your own nickname.

Without being honest with yourself, you live a fundamentally unreal existence. You miss opportunities to truly improve your life. You ignore chronic problems that eventually will grow to the point where, when too great to ignore, they're too late to resolve. Though hysterically funny, Michael Scott is essentially pathetic, convinced of his brilliance, of his leadership abilities, and of the love his employees have for him. He has many strengths, which otherwise might propel him to great success and happiness. But his inability to recognize and acknowledge his flaws consigns him to his lofty status as the Regional Manager-Scranton Branch. All because he utterly lacks any self-analytical capability. That's what she said.

Likewise, by not looking first to yourself and doing what's right for you, you can't truly take care of others and you sacrifice your own happiness. Living a life someone else charts for you imprisons you in your own Phantom Zone with General Zod, incapable of realizing your own goals and eventually resentful of having to satisfy only others. Without at least a little bit of "selfishness," people can grow to resent the ones on whom they ostensibly spend their lives serving. Your so-called life of service becomes not a choice that fulfills and satisfies your soul, but instead turns into a drudgery performed as some sort of duty, and one that weighs more and more heavily as it wears on. Equally intolerable, living a life not your own or that suppresses your true self deceives others in how they relate to you. Think of the disappointment and anger you've felt in life upon discovering that someone you thought you knew really well turned out to be totally different than their appearance. Its a form of deception, like Satan in the Garden of Eden, coming to Eve not as Beelzebub, replete with horns and a trident, but as a serpent. A friendly nice serpent that could walk, wear an ascot, and tell hilarious stories about weekends spent with Bill Murray playing golf and going to Cubs games. It combines some of the worst sins--lying, stealing, fraud.

My worst decisions have generally resulted from not making the right choice for me but to satisfy what I think others want or in deluding myself about what's right. These were never comfortable decisions, and they quickly proved wrong. My best decisions have come from doing what strikes me as right and natural. Even if difficult.

You've seen this all the time. The bull-necked, ruddy complexion construction worker-looking guy wearing an ill-fitting Armani suit his wife obviously picked out for him. The Glee fan club member trying to become an undercover DEA agent. The CPA at the Victoria Secret after-party. Tom Cruise anywhere. None of these people are making choices based on what suits them. Instead, they're fulfilling others' expectations, or trying to be someone they're not (please don't sue me Tom).

None of this is to say you should roll over or alienate people or fail to help someone when they're down. Other people aren't speed bumps to roll over in life on your way to the sports bar on Sundays. Nor does it mean you can't love someone else and be devoted and true to them as well. To the contrary, only by living a life true to your ideals and desires can you become a fully realized person capable of dealing with others as equals, helping them as a choice, or loving them as a partner rather than as some abstract obligatory burden or as a subservient dependent.

This "rule" has too many applications to list. But here's just a few. Don't listen to or read or watch crap just because others do. Don't let your spouse dress you. Don't vote for someone just because everyone else is. Don't follow crowds. Follow true friends instead. The party crowd will be the first ones to jump ship. Don't follow every little trend. Don't praise the Emperor's new clothes. If you're a square peg, don't spend your life looking for round holes. Don't rationalize. See yourself like others do, not like you hope you are.

There's no shortage of people who will use you for their purposes. They'll drain you of everything you have. Maybe unintentionally, maybe not. But that will wear you down and poison you. Treat yourself at least as well as you do your best friend. Protect yourself. Do what's best for you. In reality, you're your own best friend. You're the one who best knows what's best for you. Or, in the immortal words of the Fifth Dimension, "you gotta go where you want to go, do what you want to do." (Feel free to congratulate me for timely cultural references in the comments section).

I know. This is coming off like Yoda. "Fear is the path to the dark side. Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering." This may have been a big mistake.

Next--either "Act Your Age" or "Jazz Festival Preview." Depends on whether this reads any better in the light of day.

How To Live Your Life and Answers to Other Trivial Questions

Jerry: OUR LIVES!! What kind of lives are these? We're like children. We're not men.
George: No, we're not. We're not men.
Jerry: We come up with all these stupid reasons to break up with these women.
George: I know. I know. That's what I do. That's what I do.
Jerry: Are we going to be sitting here when we're sixty like two idiots?
George: We should be having dinner with our sons when we're sixty.
Jerry: We're pathetic… you know that?
George: Yeah, Like I don't know that I'm pathetic.
Jerry: Why can't I be normal?
George: Yes. Me, too. I wanna be normal. Normal.
Seinfeld, "The Engagement"

Warning! Although most of this doesn’t apply to this blog’s three regular readers, it’s kind of dark. Dark indeed. Dark like a Doors song or a Robert Mitchum movie. Or one of those dreadful “America isn’t powerful or prosperous anymore so you rednecks better get used to it and ride in the back of the bus (and pay higher taxes)” Obama speeches. I never get tired of those. Like a Ronald Reagan speech, only exactly the opposite. Apologies in advance.

Its such a shame too, because it’s a beautiful day today in the People’s Republic of Austin. We’re enjoying San Diego weather which seems to have come from out of nowhere. The Austin Reggae Festival (official symbol—a magic mushroom. Any hidden meanings there?) seems to have caught 78704 in a deadly gridlock, thus causing me to flee for greener and less baked pastures. Soon, six months of Hell will descend upon us. Global warming, or climate change, or the greenhouse effect (whatever msnbc.com is calling it these days) will have to step back though. I’m staying inside and turning the AC down. Way on down. I’m sorry if the asphalt turns into liquid tar and orange groves start sprouting in Boston, I’m not going to spend the summer roasting like a Cornish game hen. You self-righteous climate fanatacists will just have to deal with it. Go pick on some SUV drivers. After all, I do recycle.

If you’re still reading, it means you’re probably a devoted Affirmer. Yeah, that’s right, you’ve got a name. The Big Lebowski fans are “achievers.” Glee followers are called “Gleeks.” You are “Affirmers.” Congratulations. Enjoy your new positive class-identifying moniker. I’m having some t-shirts made with a cool fist symbol, or a tiger…something cool. Isn’t it awesome being part of a group? Even a pathetic group like this one. Its like being in the Jets or the Sharks, but without any singing or dancing or Natalie Wood.

OK, we’ve gotten on a tangent here people. Let’s get back to the point.

So as a devoted Affirmer, I worry about you. I worry about you succumbing to the moral and cultural funk that has engulfed the American Public. An Affirmer needs to live a life that stands for something. Its part of our official Affirmer Pledge (summarized in a future posting). A life that at least stands for something other than eating pudding or obsessing over which anorexic blonde schoolteacher or cheerleader wins The Bachelor, that is. Not only is an unexamined life not worth living, a life spent eating Cinnabons and playing Wii is pretty undeserving as well. It doesn’t mean you’re fun, it just means you’re a stoner, probably sponging off someone who actually works.

Last fall I attended a continuing legal education course in Lafayette. Louisiana requires that these courses include a professionalism component. Not ethics exactly, but more like obeying the unwritten rules of lawyering. This particular course described numerous instances of downright appalling behavior that lawyers throughout the country had committed. Really bad stuff. Lying, stealing, cheating stuff. Keep in mind, this is from people who have advanced university degrees, have to maintain a (largely) clean criminal record, devoted their lives to upholding laws, and had to pass a relatively difficult test to enter their profession. If they can’t act like members of a decent society, what about all the rest of the unwashed, grimy, Dancing With the Stars-watching slugs out there? It opened my eyes.

If you watch the news, read the newspaper (I guess that’s archaic, right? Ok, if you read the news on line), or if you, I don’t know, live your life around other people, you should have at least begun to suspect that a very unpleasant reality has been unfolding in our midst. Americans are pretty much going down the tubes. Its just shocking how many of us have become so…well…tacky. And annoying. I don’t exclude myself from that category. You’re going to have to face some harsh truth. As my old high school friend Betsy Clark once said liltingly during Shadow Box rehearsals, “You All Suck!” No, really, I’m sorry, but except for the three documented Affirmers whom I’m trying to help here, its true. In so many ways, you, typical American, suck.

You look like slobs. You men wear Tommy Bahama to work (Don Draper is the look you want, people), like you’re some character out of a Hemingway novel (only a lot less interesting). You women wear belly shirts, despite that extra-wide whitewall tire you call your gut. Men and women alike, you wear cheap, cheap jewelry. You go everywhere looking like you just got out of bed. You wear white after Labor Day. Your hair looks like a sparrow nest or a grease trap. Your gut looks big enough to have its own gravitational field, and you probably haven’t seen your toes since 1985. You have no idea how to tie a tie. You wear jeans to church. On Easter Sunday. Not long ago, I saw a teenage girl wearing Daisy Dukes to church and it was awesome. I mean, it was appalling.

You act like children. 50 year old men are getting tattoos, going to tanning salons, wearing baseball caps backwards, getting facials, riding motorcycles (without helmets), going to fantasy baseball camps and playing fantasy football, hanging out at Hooter’s, and amassing enough electronic equipment to launch the Space Shuttle or spy on the Jordanian Defense Ministry Headquarters. You can’t bother to help your kids with their homework, or, you do their homework for them. You eat Cocoa Puffs for dinner and cold pizza for breakfast. You credit rating is worse than Central America’s.

You run off and play instead of shopping for insurance or fixing the hot water heater. You divorce your wife of 20 years because she isn’t hot anymore or she hassles you about being a complete loser. You put springs on both your legs and wear a helmet with bunny ears and bounce down South Lamar to get around. No, really, I just saw that not ten minutes ago. Austin is still the weirdest town.

You stand for absolutely nothing. You vote for the candidate you’d most rather play golf or have a beer with. You constantly lie, cheat, spread rumors, and plot at work, despite being at the top of major corporations, governments or professional firms. You cheat on your spouse. You have no opinions about anything, except that whatever most benefits you personally is the “right” thing to do.

You are criminally ignorant. You can’t name the Vice President. You have no idea who’s running for any office, much less the differences between them. You don’t know that we’re at war, or the difference between Iraq or Afghanistan or Vietnam. You think Shakespeare is a pub or a martini. You haven’t read a book without pictures in 20 years, but you know the name of every character on Jersey Shore and Three’s Company. Basically, if it doesn’t happen within a 50 foot radius of your sluggard body, you don’t know or care about it.

You behave repulsively. You treat the movie theatre as your living room or the ball park, carrying on high-volume conversations and smacking on your Milk Duds like they were your last meal. You dart in and out of traffic at your own personal speed, like you’re the only car on the road or you’re qualifying for the Daytona 500. You stick your filthy hands in the buffet, oblivious to the vile and loathsome diseases your fingernails are spreading to everyone. You have the manners of a farmhand. A prison farmhand.

You raise your kids as savages. After naming them something completely bizarre to suit your own sense of creativity, of course. I can hardly imagine the burden these kids will carry through their lives, having to answer to names like “Grandma Apple,” “Aunt Suri,” or “Uncle Kal-El.” You take them places they clearly don’t belong, like Tiffany’s, and chuckle as they rampage through the place like rutting wildebeests stalking their prey. You let them turn their brains into mush watching TV and playing video games. You let them engorge on pop tarts and pizza rolls to the point where they make Augustus Gloop look like Lance Armstrong. I look for kids to be putting pig heads on sticks soon.

In short, you stand for nothing, your life contributes nothing, and your “belief system” is the moral equivalent of wearing whatever’s at the top of your dirty clothes pile. You can’t hold a job, even though you’ve had 16 years of school. You watch Dancing With the Stars. You eat McDonald’s French fries and double-stuffed oreos every day, substitute Fruit Loops for your Cocoa Pebbles when you want to diet, exercise by playing video games, and walk around with an untucked shirt everywhere. You ignore your kids and wonder why they won’t mind you. You ignore your wife and wonder why she’s divorcing you. Everyone hates you, but won’t say it. You’re convinced all your problems are because your boss/teacher/government clerk/minister are jealous and screwed you over.

You are Charmin soft. If squeezed, you will bruise and break. You are an irritating, entitled, whining, pretentious douche. In other words, you, my friend, are an American.

Still, by reading this far you show signs of hope and redemption. Or you’re a true Affirmer, and want to know how to avoid falling into this trap. Like a frat boy working on his resume, you’re still capable of making wise choices. But you need guidance. You need a value system.

What you need, quite frankly, are some rules. Without rules, we are bereft, left solely to our horrifically misguided sense of right and wrong. Welcome to the “Daily Affirmations How to Live Your Life” series. Think of this as the nosy, meddling Italian mother you never had. Like Joe Pesci’s mother in Goodfellas (who was in reality Martin Scorsese’s mother). Through the next few posts, I’ll lay out the simple rules you should follow to live a better, more productive, satisfying, and meaningful life. You won’t get rich or qualify for the Olympics or get a street named for you. But you might just wake up one morning without that queasy feeling gnawing at the pit of your stomach that your life amounts to nothing.

So look out for the next in our series. First up-the cardinal rule!

The Daily Affirmations Dance Party

There may be trouble ahead
But while there's moonlight and music and love and romance
Let's face the music and dance
Irving Berlin, “Let’s Face the Music and Dance”

You know the Woodstock generation of the 1960s that were
so full of themselves and conceited? None of those people could dance.
Charlotte Pingress, “The Last Days of Disco”

Seems like lately its just been one sort of tumult after another. Christchurch, NZ earthquake, Japanese tsunami and resulting nuclear crisis, Liz Taylor’s passing, Libyan civil war, drastic public service cuts, ongoing recession, Wisconsin labor union agitation, NFL lockout, Charlie Sheen world tour…. Just a real bummer.

What can we do about that? Well, excitement awaits! As I’ll explain in future posts, I have a multi-part series lined up on how you should live your life. It’s going to be lots of fun. By “fun,” of course, I mean something to replace your Ambien. Ok, so maybe excitement doesn't really await. That’s not going to add sorely needed mirth and merriment to anyone’s life. Well, not to anyone who’s not an intolerant, life-hating, buzzkill. You know. Sean Penn.

So, let’s shake it off before we plunge in to the abyss. In the “Animal House” spirit (“you know what we’re gonna do? Toga party!"), let’s have a dance party.

At least, let’s pretend like we’re having a dance party.

Now, what makes for a good dance party? Well, lots of people looking to have a good time, a big dance floor, and a wide variety of great songs, with a good mix of fast and slow dances. Good refreshments, though no finger food. You don’t want to eat out of a bowl where everyone’s been sticking their dirty hands. Think about your high school dances, except without the awkwardness, or with guys trying to sneak cheap liquor at every turn. I missed most of my school dances because, frankly, they were soooo common. I preferred staying at home to watch Love Boat and eat cheeseburgers. Actually, that still sounds like a sweet night.

The format here is basically a playlist. Take the list, play the tunes, then get down with your bad self. I realize making a list isn’t really the same as writing. Santa makes a list every year, but that doesn’t make it “The Sound and the Fury.” But hopefully seeing some of these titles will jog an old memory or inspire a new one. Or, hopefully, get you out of that seat and up on to your feet. “Get up off a that thing!” As it were.

The songs span the 1960s to the 1980s. There’s about three times as many songs as could actually play at a real dance, so feel free to program your own dance.

There’s no music from the 1990s. Mainly because the 90s had no dance songs. Unless you were into wearing flannel, cheap buzzes on cough syrup, and hating your parents, the 90s weren’t a dance decade. You may say, “what about rap?” Yeah, rap is barely music. At the risk of sounding like 1955 Southern Baptist preacher warning about Elvis, rap essentially consists of a mind-numbing electronic bass beat, a snippet of an actual, real song, and “kill my landlord” style criminal poetry about smacking bitches upside the head or backing that thing up over here to hit that. Rap lyrics are a lot like “and in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make,” only, exactly the opposite. Nor is anything included from the 21st Century. Here’s a thought: if no one is playing an actual musical instrument, its probably not music. Or if you’re only “singing” through a computer, you're not actually singing. Turn on your Guitar Hero if that’s what you want.

So get your date a corsage, get a haircut, wash your car, put on a tie, and head on over to the Daily Affirmations Dance Party. Let’s all get down and get funky.

The 1960s Dance Party

We start off early, right after the old folks have finished their 4 p.m. dinners, so they can stand and sway, complain that the music is too loud, try to outdo each others' knee replacement and acid reflux stories, and get home soon enough to go to bed by 8. Without breaking their hips. Oh, and there’s more of these songs because they’re shorter.

Twist and Shout- The Beatles
Louie, Louie- The Kingsmen
Locomotion- Little Eva
Be My Baby- The Ronettes
Where Did Our Love Go- The Supremes
Shout- The Isley Brothers
I Only Have Eyes For You- The Flamingos
Baby I Love You- The Ronettes
Beechwood 4-5789- The Marvelettes
My Girl- The Temptations
Our Day Will Come- Ruby and the Romantics
My Guy- Mary Wells
RESPECT- Aretha Franklin
Natural Woman- Aretha Franklin
Hold On, I’m Coming- Sam and Dave
Chapel of Love- The Dixie Cups
Twistin’ the Night Away- Sam Cooke
Wonderful World- Sam Cooke
When A Man Loves A Woman- Percy Sledge
Nowhere to Run- Martha and the Vandellas
Keep on Dancing- The Gentrys
He’s A Rebel- Darlene Love
Cool Jerk- The Capitols
Think- Aretha Franklin
Chain of Fools- Aretha Franklin
Wedding Bell Blues- The Fifth Dimension
Ooh Baby Baby- Smokey Robinson and the Miracles
My Cherie Amour- Stevie Wonder
Tighten Up- Archie Bell and the Drells
Tequila- The Champs
Do You Love Me?- The Contours
Rescue Me- Fontella Bass
People Get Ready- The Impressions
You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin- The Righteous Brothers
Son of a Preacher Man- Dusty Springfield
The Twist- Chubby Checker
Shotgun- Junior Walker and the All Stars
Green Onions- Booker T. and the MGs
Soul Finger- The Bar Kays
Tell It Like It Is- Aaron Neville
Baby I Need Your Loving- Johnny Rivers
Ain’t That Peculiar- Marvin Gaye
Ain’t Nothing Like the Real Thing- Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell
Dance to the Music- Sly and the Family Stone
Uptight, Everything Is Alright- Stevie Wonder
Keep Your Hands Off My Baby- Little Eva
Its Gonna Work Out Fine- Ike and Tina Turner
Stay- Maurice Williams
This Boy- The Beatles
Drive My Car- The Beatles
When I Get Home- The Beatles
Can’t Do That- The Beatles
All Summer Long- The Beach Boys
Fun, Fun, Fun- The Beach Boys
Don’t Worry Baby- The Beach Boys
Yes, I’m Ready- Barbara Mason
Everybody Needs Somebody to Love- Solomon Burke
Its Not Unusual- Tom Jones
Shake- Otis Redding
Try A Little Tenderness- Otis Redding

The 1970s Dance Party

OK, now that the 1960s dance marathon has finished, lets move on to the 1970s. Pull out your corduroy suit, grow out your sideburns, lay down carpeting and install quadrophonic speakers and an 8-track tape player in your van, and walk around spouting a bunch of nonsense about things like EST or the equal rights amendment to get in the spirit of the thing.

Part 1 is pre-disco, early 1970s stuff.

Brown Sugar- The Rolling Stones
Tumbling Dice-The Rolling Stones
Give It To Me -J. Geils Band
Theme From Shaft- Isaac Hayes
I’ll Take You There- Staples Singers
Move On Up- Curtis Mayfield
Summer Breeze- Seals and Crofts
Nights In White Satin- The Moody Blues
Higher Ground- Stevie Wonder
ABC- Jackson 5
Never Can Say Goodbye- Jackson 5
I’ll Be There- Jackson 5
Funky Chicken- Rufus Thomas
Mr. Big Stuff- Jean Knight
Cissy Strut- The Meters
Got to Give It Up (Part 1)- Marvin Gaye
Rock Steady- Aretha Franklin
I Say A Little Prayer for You- Aretha Franklin
Me and Mrs. Jones- Billy Paul
Hey There Lonely Girl- The Delphonics
Respect Yourself- Staples Singers
Superfly- Curtis Mayfield
The Tears of a Clown- Smokey Robinson
Let’s Get It On- Marvin Gaye
Just My Imagination- The Temptations
What’s Going On- Marvin Gaye
Let’s Stay Together- Al Green
L-O-V-E- Al Green
Pick Up the Pieces- Average White Band
Knock on Wood- Eddie Floyd
Ooh Boy- Rose Royce
Flash Light- Parliament

Part 2, after intermission, is straight up Saturday Night Fever. Go back out to your van, do whatever you degenerates did in the 1970s out in the parking lot, put on your mood ring and gold chains, don your leisure suit and platform shoes, and dance the night away.

Rock With You- Michael Jackson
Don’t Stop Til You Get Enough- Michael Jackson
Love Machine- The Miracles
Brick House- The Commodores
Car Wash- Rose Royce
Get Down Tonight- K.C. and the Sunshine Band
That’s the Way- K.C. and the Sunshine Band
Stayin’ Alive- The Bee Gees
More Than A Woman- The Bee Gees
K-JEE- TSOP
Pina Colada Song- Rupert Holmes
Love’s Theme- Love Unlimited Orchestra
Lady Marmalade- Labelle
Dancing Queen- ABBA
Dazz- Brick
Play That Funky Music White Boy- Wild Cherry
Boogie Wonderland- Earth Wind & Fire
Sing a Song- Earth Wind & Fire
After the Love Has Gone- Earth Wind & Fire
Hollywood Swinging- Kool and the Gang
Right Back to Where We Started From- Maxine Nightingale
Love Rollercoaster- Ohio Players
You Sexy Thing- Hot Chocolate
Boogie Fever- The Sylvers
Boogie, Oogie, Oogie- A Taste of Honey
Disco Inferno- The Trammps
YMCA- The Village People
You’ll Never Find- Lou Rawls
We Are Family- Sister Sledge
Turn The Beat Around- Vicki Sue Robinson
Love Train- The O’Jays
Good Times- Chic
More, More, More- Andrea True Connection
Oh What A Night- The Four Seasons
I Will Survive- Gloria Gaynor
Last Dance- Donna Summer


1980s Dance Party

After Donna fades out, after a career-killing diatribe against gays (Rule number one of show business-know and do not attack your audience), swap your van for a Fiero (or a DeLorean with the flux capacitor option, stocked with enough plutonium to generate the 1.21 gigawatts necessary for time travel), trade that leisure suit for a ripped t-shirt or popped color pastel Izod shirt, cut your hair in a blender and color it in neon, strap on a dog collar and green eye shadow, and head back on to the dance floor.

Walkin’ On Sunshine- Katrina and the Waves
Vacation- The Go Go’s
Love Shack- The B-52’s
Rio- Duran Duran
True- Spandau Ballet
Crazy for You- Madonna
Relax- Frankie Goes to Hollywood
876-5309- Tommy Tutone
Jungle Love- Morris Day and the Time
Our Lips Are Sealed- The Go Go’s
Super Freak- Rick James
Don’t You Want Me- Gary Numan
Allison- Elvis Costello
Sweet Love- Anita Baker
1999- Prince
Let’s Go Crazy- Prince
Purple Rain- Prince
Man in the Mirror- Michael Jackson
Beat It- Michael Jackson
Billie Jean- Michael Jackson
Footloose- Kenny Loggins
Girls Just Want to Have Fun- Cyndi Lauper
Time After Time- Cyndi Lauper
Rebel Yell- Billy Idol
Its Raining Men- Weather Girls
Celebrate Good Times- Earth Wind & Fire
Jump- Pointer Sisters
I Want to Dance with Somebody- Whitney Houston
Sledgehammer- Peter Gabriel
Wicked Game- Chris Isaak
Come On Eileen- Dexy’s Midnight Runners
Rock the Casbah- The Clash
Tainted Love- Soft Cell
Hold Me Now- The Thompson Twins
What I Like About You- The Romantics
I’m Coming Out- Diana Ross
Let’s Groove- Earth Wind & Fire
She Works Hard for the Money- Donna Summer
Hungry Eyes- Eric Carmen
What Have You Done for Me Lately- Janet Jackson
I Want Candy- Bow Wow Wow
Hey Micky- Toni Basil
Carribean Queen- Billy Ocean
99 Luftballoons- Nena
Looking For A New Love- Jody Whatley
One Thing Leads to Another- The Fixx
Black Velvet- Allanah Myles
Tempted By the Fruit of Another- Squeeze
Party All the Time- Eddie Murphy
Let’s Dance- David Bowie
China Girl- David Bowie
Every Breath You Take- The Police

Now head out back into the night. Katz’s finally did close after all those years, so we can’t go there. Maybe Magnolia Café, then back home.

Next-12 easy rules on how to live your life, which is 10 more than God gave Moses. Call the extra two “lagniappe.”

The Last Movie Star

This was the headline on the Drudge Report today, and its pretty much true. Today's MTV-made "movie stars" would be ball boys at best in a league with players like Elizabeth Taylor.

Millions of words have already been written about her, and many more will be written today and in coming weeks. I have nothing to add.

Except, Liz showed us its possible to wear the hell out of a slip. THAT is talent, friends.

We Do Have Charlie Sheen to Kick Around Still

Good ol’ Charlie Sheen. What is there left to say about this guy? Except maybe, thanks a lot Charlie. I sure enjoy looking like the reigning celebrity drug crazy. Even though I, like Jon Cryer, am a troll. By the way, I strongly encourage you to click on that last link.

By the way, part 2, I'm sorry for posting about something so ridiculous in the face of nuclear meltdown and mass death in Japan. Thoughts and prayers for all, particularly for my old friend Chris Wood and his family, who reside there.

Back to Charlie. Real name Carlos Irwin Estevez, by the way. So much for complaining about Haim Levine not being honest about himself.

Have you had enough of this guy yet? Is it possible for him to get more coverage? Obama didn’t get this much attention during the election. I think there’s still some shows he hasn’t done yet. Sesame Street (Charlie could sing “One of These Things Is Not Like the Others,” comparing three types of drugs that you smoke vs. one that you snort). Meet the Press (as a “Vatican Assassin,” Charlie could speak to church-state relations, birth control, and priestly celibacy). Iron Chef (Charlie could use his machete to cook a three course meal for his next “dinner party”). The NBA on TNT (Charles Barkley could say “I love you man, but you’re just turrible”). The Kardashians think Charlie Sheen is overexposed.

There’s no reason to pile on. Everyone knows Charlie’s exploits of the last few months. Luckily, Warner Brothers has pretty much said it all. I highly recommend reading its response to Charlie’s demand letter. Leave it to the lawyers to make even Charlie Sheen’s life seem boring. Suffice to say, this guy’s bat-shit crazy. He’s #2 on the crazy charts, with a bullet, with only a matter of time before he passes Lindsay Lohan.

The Hollywood $1.8 million per episode payday he was snorting up his nose and using as hooker payroll must seem pretty far gone right about now. Charlie’s about as castable right now as OJ Simpson. Its been quite a long road from Platoon and Wall Street. Hell, even a reprisal of Rick “Wild Thing” Vaughan would seem like a gig as Hamlet at the Old Vic right about now.

I give Charlie credit for two things though. One is his exquisite descent. If you’re going to go down, go down hard. Its like Neil Young said, its better to burn out than to fade away. In Charlie’s case, its more like flaming out. The other is for inventing so many hit catch phrases. “Winning, duh!” “Fists of fire.” “Adonis DNA.” “Tiger blood.” By the way, Auburn, LSU, and Detroit are suing to get that one back. (And while we’re at it, just how many mascots does Auburn have anyway?). These have become the “where’s the beef” and the “talk to the hand” of 2011. Anyone can come up with one popular catch phrase. In a three week span no less. Only an evil genius could come up with several. Only a Warlock.

The good news for all of us, and Charlie, is that for the most part, stars in America who crash and burn so spectacularly can and often do rally and come back for a Phase II of their careers. Its the American Way. Someone becomes a huge star, tanks magnificently and thereby earns near universal derision, hits rock bottom and disappears from view for awhile, has a breakthrough comeback role, then reemerges with fame and stardom. Think Aerosmith. Or Bill Clinton.

Yes, Americans love a redemption story. But only for someone we liked in the first place. That is, someone who was likable and relatively normal in the first place. Gwyneth Paltrow, for example, would be well advised never to bottom out. People liked Charlie Sheen. Even though we all knew he had an affinity for extremely controlled substances and was borderline manic. His show became popular in the first place because we basically thought he was playing himself, a relatively likable character. A charismatic party boy who never grew up, with a rough exterior but a heart of gold. No one thought he was this whacked out though.

Because I care about people, by which I mean, I’m tired of being identified with the leading Hollywood crazy, I’d like to give Charlie some free career advice. He could use some, what with his publicist bailing, no doubt to be followed by everyone else on his payroll that doesn’t carry around a coke spoon.

You my friend need a strategy. A coherent game plan for letting the furor die down, then coming back from the ashes (of your crack pipe). Here’s my four-stage master plan for you to matriculate the ball down field. Call it Operation Charlie Rescue 2014.

Stage I: Dry out. Check out of Sober Valley Lodge and go to a real rehab place. Not something where you’re going to run into Paris Hilton or some chick from the Hills trying to beat jail time. After first going to detox, of course. Immerse yourself in said rehab facility for as long as it takes to, you know, rehab. During this time, there can’t be any women, save the mother of your demon spawn, escorting them during your supervised visits. Ideally it would be run by Mormons. Or Jesuits. Or Trappist monks. No nuns…he’d hit on them too. This should take a long time, long enough for popular attention to move on to the next Really Important Thing. Like the next Disney tween girl turned total skank.

Stage II: Go on Oprah. Eh, actually, she’s retiring. Go on Jay Leno or someone equally vapid. Confess your sins in a very Catholic way. Admit everything, but blame it on the booze and drugs. Don’t blame your dad, or Kelly Preston. After all, your other women knowingly signed up for the Sheen treatment. Poor Kelly had no idea you were going to shoot her. While on the show, leave out any mention of being a warlock, or such. Actually, say as little as possible beyond apologizing and agreeing you were one crazy mofo.

Stage III: We find you a vehicle show. He’s done movies, of course, but TV is more immediate and he’s got more TV experience. And frankly, he’s a horrific actor so TV would be best for him. I’ve already got some projects I’m looking to pitch. Cause I know people.

"Survivor: Strait Jacket Edition.” Take the top 10 list of Hollywood crazies, like Mel Gibson, Lindsay Lohan, Gary Busey, Britney Spears, and set them loose in Las Vegas. See who can survive the longest without getting busted. The idea here would be to actually win.

Because he's a “Warlock," remake “Bewitched.” Only this time, Charlie would be the witch, and his wife would be the mortal and work for Larry Tate. Charlie of course would be forbidden to use his powers, only he’d use them all the time to protect his wife from his crazy family. This would let Martin Sheen show up, maybe to play Uncle Arthur (the Paul Lynde role), along with Emilio Estevez. Hell, he could bring in his ex-wives and girlfriends while he’s at it.

“Goddesses.” This would be a porn Olympics (soft-core, of course). This would let the live-in girlfriends earn their keep a little. Charlie and various weekly guests could compete in various sex games, to be judged by a celebrity panel on creativity, technique, and execution. Beware the Bulgarian judge. And the “dismount.”

“Fists of Fire.” Charlie would star as a ninja, using his fists and wits to outsmart various villains around the globe. Stephen Segall would co-star as an older, wiser, Racer-X/Mister Miyagi style mentor, counseling Charlie to beat back his inner demons and stay on the right side of the law. Joanna Garcia would star as his wholesome yet Librarian Hot assistant, not-so-secretly pining for him to give up his jet set crime fighting and settle down with her to raise three kids and start a Mary Kay dealership.

“Winning, Duh!” This could pretty much be any kind of game show. I envision it as a knock off of “Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grader,” in which Charlie and various contestants try to interpret what a panel of 12 year olds are saying. A Bond villain-style trap door suspended over a nest of crocodiles would open under losers. Unless Charlie lost.

“Adonis DNA on the Road” This would essentially be the same concept as Rock of Love Bus, except this would be the “Sober Valley Bus.” Twelve women would go on the bus, accompanying Charlie on another “Torpedo of Truth” tour. Except in this version, no one gets eliminated until the end.

“Bitchin’ Rock Star from Mars.” Co-starring David Lee Roth and Tommy Lee, (note to self, do not name child "Lee") this would be a fun-filled romp across the country, in which the fellas compete to see who can rack up the most diseases in 60 days. The Center for Disease Control in Atlanta would certify the winner. And then promptly sterilize everything within a three-quarter mile radius of the contestants.

Stage IV: Present an award. Presenters at awards show have that odd combination of smugness and dullness, an “above the fray” aloofness that makes them seem better than you and me. Well, you at any rate. Take Alex Trebek, for example, who has the answers to Jeopardy (well, the questions really) written in front of him, yet he always seems smarter than those geek contestants as he smugly reads them out when no one gets the right answer. He's pretty full of himself for someone from Canada. Maple Syrupville. Charlie should present a Golden Globe, like, for something no one cares about. Best cinematography.

This simple four stage program would probably take three to four years. All to wipe out the four week self-immolation Charlie’s done to his career. Oh, well. Everyone has to pay the piper.

I’m pulling for you, Warlock!

Top 5 People Who Run Outside in Austin, Texas When Its 25 Degrees Out

Geez, look at that guy. What's his problem? And what's up with the racing stripes down the side?

The advent of 25 degree weather in Austin, Texas has not been expected, or warmly received. Ah, I slay me. Get it? "Warmly received"? The cold? Is this microphone on?

Anyway, those of you living in more frigid climates undoubtedly scoff at us Texans shivering when the thermostat hits 50. You're able to get on with your business when it hits 10 degrees and stays there. Of course, you generally do so with help from your four-pack-a-day habit and about 50 extra pounds of subcutaneous insulation. But hey, its a little hard for us to get used to cold when its 80 degrees one day, 40 the next, and 72 the next. Plus, we don't get six months to build up our winter fat layer like Yankees do. Though some of us carry around a layer of enchilada perma-fat, and those people do relatively ok in winter around here. They'll be ready just in case some menacing snow drift goes on the attack in South Austin.

Warm weather always lures throngs of walkers, bikers, hikers, doggies, and other random folk to the Town Lake Trail for the sunshine, breezes, and lovely scenery. But when cold weather hits, most of us pack it in for the great indoors, content to exercise on the elliptical machine, or the stationary bike, or the x-box (there's supposed to be some sort of x-box or playstation interactive workout now, which basically sounds like an old Jane Fonda workout video that you can control--pink spandex anyone?), or by doing repeated 12 ounce curls. Bar olympics is a form of exercise, right? After all, it'll be 75 again soon and we can get back out there.

These past couple of weeks, climate change (recently known as "global warming" before its rebranding) has managed to turn Austin into a deep freeze. And by deep freeze, I mean Matthew McConaughey had to put on a shirt. One inevitable result has been the near abandonment of the Town Lake Trail. When it gets really cold, that place turns into a Bossier City casino on Christmas morning (or a theatre showing a Nicolas Cage movie)--completely empty. Even the birds and squirrels head for cover.

But not all Austinites forsake their outdoor runs when it gets a little chilly. My own scientific study has revealed at least five different personality types who continue running outdoors, even in crushing 25 degree cold.

1. Fatties. That's not nice. Sorry. I mean "jolly people." The five percent of people who are still clinging desperately to their New Year's weight loss resolution. They're out there. Plodding along. Making tracks and blowing smoke. Helping the rest of us because we have to run around them to get by.

2. The Hard Core. This is the five percent body fat crowd. Ectomorphs. These are the people you curse with every fiber of your being at "fun runs" whom you see on the second half of the course, running back the other way after they finish because they didn't get enough of a workout just running the run itself. They sell shoes part-time at Run-Tex or some such store and help out with various running groups around town. They get lots of free running gear. They spend about half of their free time running and the other half talking with other freaks about bizarre topics like "fartleks" or "negative splits." And they usually run in packs of four or five, like gazelles or cheetahs.

3. Low Self-Esteem Emaciated Early 20s Girl. You rarely see early 20s guy running in anything other than optimal conditions, if then. Unless he's part of group #2 or his wife or girlfriend made him go. Early 20s low self-esteem guy gets together with other geeks at some coffee shop and talks about computer code, or skateboarding, or organic produce, or fantasy role-playing games. Or his blog. But low self-esteem, under-nourished early 20s girl, particularly if she's attractive, hits the trail. Come rain, sleet, snow, gale force winds, or lightning strikes. She's just got to do something about what she perceives to be her walrus-like body. You look at her and think "who's the toothpick?" She looks in the mirror and thinks "I can't see all my bones...I really need to lose another 50 pounds." Important safety tip: keep your heads up, because strong winds may blow these girls crashing into you.

4. Addicts. This is the guy who started running or walking to take his mind off scoring coke every half hour, or what have you. He doesn't necessarily look athletic and has terrible form and totally inadequate gear. But he does twitch an awful lot, and through sheer nervous energy manages to burn hundreds of calories without actually going very far. If he missed a day running, he'd really be hurting for something to take his mind off those voices...calling voices...beckoning...all day...all night....

5. Bloggers. Like...you know who. That's right. I hit the trail. Mainly to avoid having to run inside on the hard surface track. And to enjoy the chance to wear my sweet cold weather running gear. Is that weird?

So by abandoning the trail, you're missing a really entertaining freak show. Sort of a daytime Rocky Horror Picture Show. With expensive shoes.

Hope you enjoyed this latest pompous diatribe, helping me build my own self-esteem at the expense of others. First it was poor Gwyneth Paltrow, then it was the Girl Scouts (the GIRL SCOUTS!!!), and now this. Appalling.

Oh well, once you've started something, see it through. I guess.

Next--bad things about the disabled, the poor, children, single mothers, and the homeless.

Its Girl Scout Cookie Time. Run For Your Life!

Now back to the vital issues of the day. Like why is Dolly Parton abducting those poor little girl scouts? I just know I'm going to get hammered for this post. But here goes.

Childhood obesity has more than tripled in the past 30 years. The prevalence of obesity among children aged 6 to 11 years increased from 6.5% in 1980 to 19.6% in 2008. The prevalence of obesity among adolescents aged 12 to 19 years increased from 5.0% to 18.1%. The Surgeon General estimates that 12.5 million children are overweight. Childhood obesity statistics show that obese children and especially those in the teenage years have a 70% chance of being obese as adults. What is worse is that percentage increases to 80% if either one or both of the parents are obese as well. Governments and other social service organizations spend millions on policies to reduce childhood obesity and its causes. The First Lady has made this issue one of her priorities.

So why does one of the world’s premier children’s organizations, the Girl Scouts of America, sell cookies as its primary fundraising initiative?

Now, stop right there, angry helicopter parent. Put down your macaroni and glitter macrame kit and listen closely. I love the Girl Scouts. Absolutely thrilled with the Girl Scouts. They’re tremendous at teaching girls self-esteem, giving them the opportunity to develop social and other skills and make friends, to spend time in a supportive environment with other girls. Yeah. I’ve got nothing against the Girl Scouts. I buy lots of their cookies every year.

But in these times of rampant childhood obesity, where we as a society are trying to teach children not to overindulge, should we be encouraging girls to hawk cookies? Training them about the wonderful happy times that eating cookies inspires? Teaching them to promote cookie consumption? "Eat a cookie=Happiness"

Isn’t that a contradiction? Not at all. Signed, Mixed Messages.

We try to teach kids not to do drugs, and somehow don’t get them to sell crack for fundraisers. We teach them abstinence. Should we have the swim team sell condoms for its summer fundraiser?

Have you ever read the nutritional information for these cookies? Four dulce de leche cookies has 160 calories and eight grams of fat. Two “thanks-a-lot” cookies have 150 calories and six grams of fat. One extra large egg, by comparison, has 85 calories. A cup (one serving) of the ever-popular Boo Berry cereal has 118 calories. One regular Krispy Kreme donut has 200 calories. Cookie Monster thinks those cookies are a little on the filling side. Why not just call it “Death in a Box”?

To add insult to injury, the cookie drive kicks off right after the holidays. Right after people have spent the last month or so shoveling chow down their face morning, noon and night. Just when people are trying vainly to get their weight under some modicum of control, or at least to a point where their guts don’t muffin top their way over their waistbands, along comes these cute little girls, with their cute little cheeks and yearning faces, imploring you to buy…cookies…so they can go to camp with all their friends. Weakened by going days and weeks of cold turkey, you’re completely unable to resist. Right away, your diet is toast, and you’re back into addiction hell. Its like bringing the Jim Beam to the AA meeting.

The Girl Scouts say the cookie drives are rewarding in teaching girls things like “Goal setting,” and “money management” and “business ethics.” So would an investing class. No doubt that’s true, and its admirable. But Gordon Gekko has nothing on these girls and their “coffee is for closers” sales tactics. They tell everyone the cool kids buy Girl Scout cookies, they’ll help you with your problems, and all your friends are buying Girl Scout cookies. They stand on street corners, or outside stores. “Hey man, want some cookies?” Their parents become fixers at work, setting up all their co-workers with cookies. Everyone knows who at the office can hook them up. You see cars coming and going from Girl Scout houses all day and night. You know which part of town you can go to for the good stuff. Its like we’re training a bunch of little drug dealers. Little girl drug dealers. They’ve everywhere. They’ve got every neighborhood, every street, every house, covered. They’re like the Red Army. Or Mormons.

I know they have to sell something to raise funds, and no one’s going to buy celery and tomatoes. But there’s some other things that might work out. What about investment counseling? They couldn’t do any worse than those monkeys that pick stocks and get more of them right than certified investment advisors. Or what about following in Lucy’s footsteps and providing personal counseling. Five cents please. The doctor is “Real In.” Or how about something more girl-like…flowers? After all, it worked for Eliza Doolittle. She learned how to speak and met that nice young man Freddy. Even though in the end she decided to stay with that fossil Henry Higgins. He and Col. Pickering were a load of laughs, sneaking sherry, dressing up their Audrey Hepburn doll, and laughing uproariously at their hilarious linguistics jokes. Those two should have just gotten married. Or lived like Randolph and Mortimer Duke.

Anyway, there’s probably lots of things that girls could sell that would teach business ethics and goal setting. But which wouldn’t have them dealing obesity.

Oh, I forgot to mention. Girl Scout cookies may be a lot of bad things, but they ARE kosher. Shalom, y’all.

OK, let the bashing begin!