The Rise and Fall of Arnold Schwarzenegger

It’s fascinating and a bit sad to watch a new Arnold Schwarzenegger movie in a post-Arnold era. What will go through the heads of the future’s children when they come across this film “The Last Stand”, wondering who exactly this shriveled up Austrian man is, and what he’s doing in a movie when he clearly has no grasp of acting? They’ll look him up. The 38th Governor of California, you kidding me?

When Schwarzenegger first shows his face in “The Last Sand” it’s jolting- the fleshy mask of a seventy years old, the dyed thinning hair standing bent at attention over a face covered in stretched leather. His lips appear thin and gray and when he speaks from them he reveals that his acting hasn’t improved much since “Conan the Barbarian” thirty years before.

Everything was working and moving forward in 1981 when Conan was shot in the tranquil regions of Spain. Arnold was riding the wave of a bodybuilding career into Hollywood’s embrace, starring in a perfect follow up to “The Jayne Mansfield Story”. Assistants waited on him hand and foot and women threw themselves at him. He loved to bring the women back to his trailer to bed them and then work on his muscles with weights. Acting was easy, all he needed was the body and the confidence. No one questioned a person like Arnold existing in the fantasy world of Conan, all accents could be used and swirled together to praise Crom. No one questioned the presence of the giant Austrian in the room. He stood five feet ten inches but told people he was 6’ 2, and they believed it.

What made Arnold a star was the audience’s enjoyment of watching him be violent. In fact, there was period of about fifteen years where audiences loved to watch this big Austrian kill people. As he took on roles in the modern world the accent became comical but still we loved to watch him kill. He put down the sword of Conan and picked up the guns of cops, commandos- cybernetic hitmen. He picked up every type of gun. He killed hundreds. In “Terminator” all he did was kill people and we loved it. He killed even more in “Commando” and we cheered.

His drive and ego pushed him far beyond what people expected of him. The same year he starred in “Raw Deal” he married Maria Shriver, a member of the once powerful Kennedy family. Arnold spoke in interviews of interest in politics and people laughed. Who would vote for this gap toothed immigrant “actor”? It was a joke. Arnold kept the goal in mind, steadily pushing his career along with bigger budgets and larger roles. He spent his days on film sets, washing off the flings with make up girls and co-stars in his trailer before returning home to his family. It was in his mansion back in Brentwood that he truly played a role.

In “The Last Stand”, Arnold lets age humble him into playing the part of a small town sheriff. He has has a few interactions with the the town’s residents in the early part of the film. These supporting actors depict salt of the earth, real deal Americans who say they have high cholesterol and don’t care, so why should they be worried about the blood thirsty cartel boss and his gang converging on the town? The scenes are played for laughs but it brought me back to Arnold’s action epics from the ‘80’s, when the actors around Schwarzenegger were always asked to play it straight.

Arnold as an actor seemed to work best in science fiction, when things were already so preposterous the main character’s accent and acting was an afterthought. Twenty five years before “The Hunger Games” Arnold killed before a live television audience in the homicidal world of “The Running Man”. His perfect role, the role of a robot with no personality, was a huge hit and led to the blockbusting sequel “Terminator 2 Judgement Day”. His best film, “Predator”, had him lose the guns and simply use his brawn and brains to battle a physically superior alien in the lush jungle of Columbia. In “Total Recall” he teamed up with Dutch weirdo Paul Verhoven and made the bloodiest adaptation of Phllip K Dick story ever.

Things began to slow down in the mid-90’s. People weren’t coming out to watch Arnold kill people in big crowds anymore. His occasional roles in non-action films like “Jingle All The Way” were disturbingly bizarre. The world seemed to be moving passed Arnold. Audiences were starting to view him as a throwback to the 80’s and his body was not as swelled and taught as it once was.

Arnold looked for solace in unexpected places. One day in early 1997, when his wife and kids were out of the house, he bedded the maid, Patty Baena. On October 2nd she gave birth to a boy, a month after Arnold’s wife, Maria Shriver, gave birth to their fourth child. Arnold was the father of both children but only claimed the legitimate one as his own, falsifying the documents on baby Joseph’s birth certificate.

In 2003 Arnold ran for Governor of California and won. After the recall election, informed citizens of California sat around scratching their heads, wondering what the hell happened. Our new Governor appeared on television and at political events making reference to his film career and calling Democratic lawmakers “economic girlymen”. It was all so preposterous, like one of his science fiction films.

While in office, Arnold found there to be much more to politics than just confidence and an imposing body. After eight years of battling critics and unions he stepped down, his accomplishments limited. Leaving Sacramento freed Maria Shriver to act on the suspicion she had held for fourteen years, that Arnold was the father of the maid’s son Joseph. When finally confronted the ex-governor fessed up to it and Maria took the kids and left.

Arnold was left alone in the Brentwood mansion, pacing the high ceilinged rooms and talking aloud to the bust of Ronald Reagan that sat on his desk. Where had things gone so wrong? What was left except grave disappointment for a man who had accomplished all of his life’s goals? When was the last time he had felt true happiness? Arnold thought back to his years in the state house and came up empty. He thought back to the times he spent on movie sets and a smile came to his graying lips.

“The Last Stand” is a film that allows Arnold to do what he does best, kill people on camera. He blasts them with revolvers and mows them down with an antique machine gun, all in the name of his ageing ego. As I said in the opening, it is indeed fascinating, but even more so, it is undignified and profoundly sad.

09-03-13

Discovering Your Dream Job

Every now and then you come across someone who is disturbingly balanced. You run into each other and you say the arbitrary “How are you,” and they reply “I’m really good,” and they mean it, I mean really truly mean it. 

What is the secret? 

After a series of questions and intense prying I usually find the most common factor being a true satisfaction with one’s career, or at least a credible pursuit towards the stated goal of a career.

For me, and many people like me, work is simply a means to earn money to then pay for distractions like drugs and alcohol to, help us forget about work. The idea of a meaningful career is foreign, nothing but the pursuit of yuppies and wannabe yuppie scum. The “balanced” types, the folks who say they are doing “really good” and mean it, have found careers where they not only work for money but also find the experience of work rewarding. Many times these careers involve helping other people by working in medicine, or community activism. Others get involved in education, working with youth, or the disabled and seniors. They put other people first while earning a paycheck, it’s odd.

While I’m not one to jump up and suddenly start helping perfect strangers who probably don’t deserve help, it does get me thinking: what kind of career would I want to pursue if I really gave a shit? The answer hit me a few weeks back when I was reading the paper.

Baseball star Ryan Braun was popped last month (along with a good number of other major league baseball players) for using performance enhancing drugs. He had his season with the Milwaukee Brewers cut short. I was reading the paper when I came across a “statement” he released regarding his suspension which reads as follows:

“As I have acknowledged in the past, I am not perfect. I realize now that I have made some mistakes. I am willing to accept the consequences of those actions. This situation has taken a toll on me and my entire family, and it is has been a distraction to my teammates and the Brewers organization. I am very grateful for the support I have received from players, ownership and the fans in Milwaukee and around the country. Finally, I wish to apologize to anyone I may have disappointed—all of the baseball fans especially those in Milwaukee, the great Brewers organization, and my teammates. I am glad to have this matter behind me once and for all, and I cannot wait to get back to the game I love.”

I enjoyed every sentence of this “statement”, a lesson in bold horse shit if ever there was one. We are to believe that Mr. Braun himself sat down and composed this “apology”? The same guy who rode the high horse and smirked after some jerk mishandled his urine last time Major League Baseball was looking to take him down? C’mon. Someone in an office somewhere was paid to sit at a desk and put this together, then distribute it to the masses while keeping a straight face. I realized while reading it that I would very much enjoy being that guy, the guy up in the office writing these statements. I wouldn't mind pursuing a career as a Celebrity Apologist (I guess that's what you call it).

This sort of work is fiction writing really, which I’m interested in, but it’s also skirting and ducking the real issues and covering those issues with dirt by “moving on”, which I find liberating. Even better, I think it's good to point the finger in another direction, throw up a "smoke screen" over the celebrity's wrong doing. I feel like these sort of things can be written for any infamous person, and with the right touch, can be effective. Here are a few samples of the public statements I would like to pen:

Anthony Weiner AKA Carlos Danger - Disgraced Politician

As I’m sure you can imagine, the day to day stresses of American politics can be taxing to the human psyche. It is only natural that a person be allowed to blow off steam. Without the cathartic release of negative energy and built up frustrations, a  man can go mad. When you have a powerful person, a person with real responsibilities, like myself, madness can cause damage to the people I represent and the very fabric of society itself. It is not safe.

I release my stresses by texting women pictures of my genitals. Others blow off steam by taking part in dog fighting or in doing drugs. Dog fighting is a terrible past time and meth is destroying entire rungs of our populations, I am against those. Sexting does not harm innocent animals. Stand with me now and stand up against dogfighting and meth. Thank you.

Alex Rodriguez - Another Disgraced Baseball Player

Before I am a baseball player or a multimillionaire, I am simply a man. A man like any other man, who ages over time and becomes only a husk of what he once was. With this ageing body I am asked to do the impossible: hit major league pitching. Could you hit a pitch thrown by a major leaguer? I doubt it. I can barely do it and I’m pumped up on Performance Enhancing Drugs.

Speaking of drugs that enhance your performance: what about Viagra? If I can’t take a drug to help me hit a ball then all you men out there who boo me from the stands can’t take a drug to hit your wife. You want to take my name off the record books, erase my accomplishments from history? Fine, go ahead. But check this out: if my home run doesn’t count -your wife’s orgasam doesn’t count.

Either way, I would like to apologize to all the baseball fans and everyone I have let down. Thank you.

Ariel Castro - Cleveland Kidnapper:

We all make mistakes. I made one when I kidnapped those young women and held them against their will. But let me ask you: what kind of a world do we live in? I see a world where every waking moment is filled with pornography, even in advertising, and I see myself simply as a product of that world, not the monster that the media makes me out to be. If I am only a reflection of our world than could my actions not be the world’s fault instead of my own personal mistakes? Something to think about.

Either way, I would like to apologize to everyone everywhere. Thank you.

08-12-13

Hipsters Are Not Cute

They are wrapped in the clothes of another era, somewhere in the mid to late 1980's, but it’s not the era that has me staring creepily from across the street, it goes beyond that. These colors and the fits of the clothes are deservedly forgotten, buried for years in the clearance racks of countless Goodwills. The clothes are worn, ill fitting, and awe-strikingly ugly.

I look at the women and wonder, are they mentally unstable, foreign perhaps? With all three dressed so similar, the look must be intentional. Everything about the clothes and the way they are draped lifelessly over the bodies of these women is off putting. The high waist-ed shorts, loose fitting t-shirts, the stubby cowboy boots, beaten and folded from years in an unhappy bin. One of the women is wearing glasses, with huge brown frames that appear to have no lenses in them.

In some ways their style is refreshing, a look that says "I'm not trying and I don't give a shit." What makes me pause is that they obviously do care. The intent is clearly to project the look of mothballs, thrift store ghosts, late 80's junkie librarians- they are three young women out on the town dressed in garbage. I process what I have seen and I pack it away, in a shelf reserved for the odd and inane.

Years pass, possibly two, maybe three, and the look I witnessed that fateful night in the Mission has spread through urban landscapes like a zombie apocalypse. Every train I take, every bar I enter, I find young women dressed in ugly, ill fitting garbage. The look has spread to all the usual crevices of our culture as the casts of sitcoms and overly praised HBO shows about young people in New York City wander the screen in loose blouses with folded shorts and faded tights.

The ugliness of it all should be interesting but it's not, it just sort of wears on you and makes you dread what will be next. Must we be so post modern? Must we recycle over and over again until we become a parody of a parody? Just because something is from the past does not mean it is good. *

I sit on my uncomfortable couch near the closet filled with my own collection of vintage shirts and jackets and realize I have no right to protest, no leg to stand on. I am getting older and the bitterness and lack of understanding of what is 'hip' is slowly settling in, without the wisdom that would allow me to transcend it.

And the hipsters dress in garbage outside on the street.

07-13-13

* The Black Plague, Spanish Inquisition, etc.

Gangsters Still Have the Best Names

This week, the trial for infamous Boston gangster Jim “Whitey” Bulger got started. While reading about it in the paper the “Whitey” in his name kept catching my eye and ultimately got me thinking: why is it only gangsters still have nick names?

I remember my grandfather once describing his childhood during the depression and mentioning that all the kids in the neighborhood had their own little name. There was “Shorty”, and “Tiny”, and of course “Specs” (one of the few kids from a family who could afford glasses). My grandfather’s associates weren’t criminals of course, just regular boys, but out of affection and camaraderie, they were given a tag.

These days you come across so few kids that have nicknames that stick. I have a dear friend who was given the name “Fuck’n Idiot” by an older brother, but over time, much like the entire tradition of nicknames, that tag died out. It is only in the shadier corner of our society that the rich history of nicknames can still thrive.

Jim Bulger, who is being charged for 19 charges of murder committed in the 1970’s and 80’s, got the name “Whitey” in his childhood, when he had a thick mane of white blonde hair that people in the Southie projects referred to him by. Today he’s over eighty years old and people are still referring to him by it. In the depression, when my grandpa was hanging around Shorty and Specs, there was a whole world of killers and thieves that carried nicknames. There was Charles Arthur “Pretty Boy” Floyd and George “Machine Gun Kelly” Barnes, and one my personal favorites, John “Pudgy” Dunn.

The American Mafia has entire generations of men with wonderful nicknames. There’s about ten hundred thousand that just have a generic “Big” at the front like Big Joe, Big Paul, and the mildly more interesting Big Tuna. There’s also names that give hints to what a man does like Pete “The Barber” or Willie “The Builder”, or Don “The Jeweler”, or Sam “The Plumber”.  Personally, I like the one’s where a guy is just named after a random object like Johnny Sausage, or Tony Tea Bags, or simply The Spoon (all real names by the way).

Mafia names can even get a little cute sometimes, for instance “Bugsy” Siegel, who get his name from a bad temper that would push him to freak or ‘bug’ out, and even cuter like Boo Boo and Boobie, names people usually save for their significant others or grandmothers. Then there’s just awkwardly bad names, like the one for Giuseppe Siragusa, who people called “Yeast Baron”.

While many of the “Boo Boo’s” and “Momo’s” are long gone there is a younger generation of mobsters picking up the slack. A little over a week ago Santa Clara Grand Jury indicted 48 members of the Nuestra Familia, and the indictment list reads like a who’s who of great nicknames. There’s the comedic one’s like “Gordo” and “Turtle”, along with a few that are heavy on the menace like “Creeper”, “Lunatic”, and “Nightmare’. My favorite is the name of a  gang member that I imagine is either a beatiful woman, or the hardest man in the gang: “Baby Angel”.

I’ve decided that if I ever joined a gang like the NF I would go by “Sunburn” which is both light hearted and menacing, while making reference to my lack of resistance to the sun. If I lived in the depression era then I would be Davey “Tickled Pink” Schwirtz, making reference to my  sunburn again and my propensity for a good laugh. And if I was in the Mafia I would simply be Big Ears, which is right to the point.

6/17/13