THE ANSWER TO LIFE, THE UNIVERSE, AND EVERYTHING: 42

 NOTE: This was originally posted in 2007, on my 42nd birthday.

Yours truly, approximately seven months old, 1966, before I was ruined by potables, pussy, and pot. 

It's June 27th, 2007, and today I am forty-two years old. Forty-Two, the number that is the answer to Life, the Universe, and Everything, according to the late Douglas Adams, author of THE HITCHHIKER'S GUIDE TO THE GALAXY and its subsequent volumes. Yet despite its status as a supposedly universal catch-all for any question posed, I still find myself with many, many unanswered queries at this stage of my existence. But then again, that may be the whole point of Forty-Two. 

You see, in THE HITCHHIKER'S GUIDE TO THE GALAXY there was this computer named Deep Thought that was created by a hyper-intelligent race of pan-dimensional beings to suss out the ultimate answer to Life, the Universe, and Everything, a task that took it some seven-and-a-half-million years to complete.

Production illustration of Deep Thought from the feature film adaptation. 

When all was said and done, the answer turned out to be 42. That may all have been well and good, but such an answer is useless without a question, something that the programmers failed to take into account, so Deep Thought's creators were pretty much right back where they started: with bubkes. Since even Deep Thought had no clue as to what the Question might be, it offered to design an even more awesome computer, one comprised of biological components, called the Earth. So Deep Thought creates the Earth and thus begins a ten-million year calculation in quest of the Question, but five minutes before the calculation is completed the Earth is wiped out by an alien constructor fleet to make way for an interstellar traffic bypass. So, again, bubkes. 

In my own case I, too, have come up with the existential equivalent of bubkes in so much as that I've yet to figure out exactly what the fuck I'm doing with my life.But I am taking the steps to forge a new standard of living and endeavor, by getting off my ass and letting the creativity flow unfettered, allowing myself to rediscover what a social life is, and actively chasing women again in earnest (I have my eye on one in particular...). It's all good, and other than the occasional lapse regarding the usual day-to-day bullshit that we all have no control over I've been doing pretty well. 

And on that note, folks, since it's that time of year again, come on down to BUNCHE'S DIVE BAR BIRTHDAY BASH!!! It's gonna be held at Park Slope's legendary O'Connor's, an absolute dive if ever there was one, complete with dirt-cheap drinks, a decent jukebox, and easy train access for eight different subway lines, so whaddaya waiting for? Presents are not required — you being there is present enough — so come on down and help me celebrate another year of my excellence! The place is dank and dark, so keep an eye out for me in this shirt: 

So here's the info: WHERE: O'CONNOR’S 39 5TH Avenue in Brooklyn (between DEAN STREET and BERGEN STREET) (718) 783-9721 WHEN: Saturday, June 30th 8:00 PM - ??? TRAIN DIRECTIONS: Take the 2, 3, 4, 5, D, N, R, or Q trains to ATLANTIC AVENUE/PACIFIC STREET. When you are above ground you should be on 4th Avenue, so look around until you see a clock tower with the clock obscured by construction netting; if you see that tower, face in the opposite direction and walk up 4th Avenue until you reach DEAN STREET and hang a left. Walk over by one avenue and you’ll be on 5TH AVENUE. O’Connor’s is right there, across the street from a restaurant called EL VIEJO YAYO. The place looks like a no-frills bunker, and it pretty much is.

Yours truly during the Great Tequila Drought of 2006.

 

I hope to see you there, and Happy Birthday to me! I just wish JWP was here...

ON THE GODDESS MARILYN, BLONDE BOMBSHELLS OF THE 1950'S, AND THE SALE OF MONROE'S INFAMOUS BEEJAY MOVIE

NOTE: This was originally posted in 2008.

Marilyn Monroe, in a refreshingly human portrait.

I have to confess that I just never got the whole Marilyn Monroe thing. Sure, she was pretty, turned in some memorable film performances, and posed for that iconic PLAYBOY spread on the red velvet — you have to see the bit in the documentary HEAVY PETTING that features the late Spaulding Gray discussing first seeing that shot during his adolescence; the sheer ecstasy on his face and the way he tells the story is like witnessing a religious experience — but what exactly was the big deal that elevated her to her status as a Hollywood goddess whose image is as ubiquitous as Santa Claus during the Christmas season? We've all seen the famous portraits of Marilyn with that dress being blown about in THE SEVEN YEAR ITCH (1955), and the myriad of sleepy-eyed, come hither-faced shots of her peroxided kisser, but what is it about this demigoddess of 1950's celluloid sexuality that continues to fascinate and excite film fans, both male and female, some five decades after her heyday, while other contemporary blonde bombshells have faded into cult obscurity? I was always a Jayne Mansfield man and enjoyed her very much self-aware sense of humor about her zaftig, cartoonish looks and her in-your-face lampooning of that image, especially when one takes into account the fact that she possessed an IQ of 160, was a five-language polyglot, and held membership in MENSA.

The mighty Jayne Mansfield: smokin' hot, smarter than you, and, sadly, dead by the age of thirty-four.

 

Her status in my head as a live-action cartoon character was cemented by her role as sweet-as-could-be Jerri Jordan in THE GIRL CAN'T HELP IT (1956), directed by former Looney Tunes animation director Frank Tashlin, one of the creators whose work helped the personality of Daffy Duck to emerge and solidify. Painfully charming, Jerri was a mobster's girlfriend who wanted nothing more than to settle down and raise a family, but her boyfriend hires a talent agent to groom her for a singing career. Jerri, of course, falls for the agent, and hijinx ensue, but that's all kind of beside the real point of the film, which is to allow an easy-on-the-eyes and very funny exaggeration along the lines of a refugee from Al Capp's Dogpatch to wiggle about the screen and cause men's higher brain functions to come to a complete halt. 

 In short, Mansfield had fun with her goofball-with-huge-cans image, and I found that tremendously appealing. 

 

But, as was the case with many of Hollywood's leading ladies back in the days, Jayne found herself saddled with debilitating substance addiction, largely brought on by being rendered obsolete when the era of the the blonde bombshell ended on that day in 1962 when Marilyn Monroe was found dead of an apparent suicide (yeah, right). Mansfield's career took a major nosedive, and she resorted to appearing in some fairly tame semi-nudie flicks in which she displayed pretty much every part of her luscious anatomy before famously dying in an horrific car accident in 1967. Contrary to popular belief, she was not beheaded, and her equally brilliant daughter, Mariska Hargitay of LAW & ORDER: SVU fame, was in the back seat, and today bears a facial scar from that tragic misadventure. 

 

Mariska Hargitay, the most high-profile of Jayne Mansfield's kids, as Detective Olivia Benson on LAW & ORDER: SVU; smart, good-lookin', and talented, just like her mom.

 

The other fifties bleach-goddess who struck a responsive chord in Yer Bunche was Mamie Van Doren, by far the "bad girl" archetype of the trio, largely relegated to B-movie roles that showcased her impressive dairies in impossibly tight sweaters. 

 

Mamie Van Doren, apparently having forgotten to button her blouse.

 

Whereas Monroe was the Olympian of the lot, a mid-twentieth century Aphrodite if you will, and Mansfield the more "obtainable" bosomy girl next door type with an infectious sense of humor, Van Doren projected an image of the sleazy, pulp fiction-style "broad" whose persona would have been equally at home in a Mike Hammer story, engaging in sweaty and borderline pornographic sex with the hard-boiled gumshoe, or steaming things up in some sleazy Tennessee Williamsesque potboiler. A classic Hollywood starlet with an appetite for man-flesh, the Mamester got it on with various notables including Elvis, Jack Palance, Tony Curtis, Tom Jones, Steve McQueen — while on LSD, no less —  Rock Hudson (who, according to her, was an occasional bisexual who splattered her studio-loaned dress with his DNA), and Burt Reynolds among many others, and also, disturbingly, claims to have been drugged and raped by Jack (DRAGNET) Webb. You can read about all of this, in Van Doren's own words, on her incredibly candid blog in the section labeled "Bedtime Stories." Go to www.mamievandoren.com (for some reason I'm having difficulty establishing a direct link to it); trust Yer Bunche, it's one hell of a read! 

 

Mamie, looking like she's on the cover of a paperback one might find in a bus station.

 

The majority of the films on Van Doren's resume could accurately be called "crap," but they're fun and frivolous, and she worked her slutty magic to great effect. HIGH SCHOOL CONFIDENTIAL! (1958), GIRL'S TOWN (1959), THE PRIVATE LIVES OF ADAM & EVE (1960),

 

Mamie as Eve, ogled by Mickey Rooney (!!!) portraying a low rent devil.

 

and one of the very first movies I remember seeing, THE NAVY VS. THE NIGHT MONSTERS (1966) all featured Mamie's sneering, breathy sensuality, and she clearly enjoyed chewing the scenery. In fact, these days Van Doren revels in her "Queen of the B's" notoriety, still going strong at the age of seventy-seven, unexpectedly turning out to be the last of the old school bombshells. 

 

Mamie receives her star on the Walk of Fame, 1994.

 

But, again, I ask what's the deal with Marilyn? I find both Jayne and Mamie considerably hotter, but why does the majority of the rest of film geekdom enshrine Monroe? It's not like I hate her or anything, but she just doesn't register with me. If any of you can explain her appeal and mystique to me I will be eternally grateful. I'd especially like to have this explained by a woman who's into the Monroe thing. As a guy I can get why another hetero male could be into her, but many of us find ourselves totally C-struck by just about anything even remotely female, so ladies, please weigh in. As for my fondness for the other two, maybe my fascination with boobage factors in heavily? I honestly don't have an answer.  

Which brings me to this morning.  

I awoke and turned on NY1 news and was greeted by a segment announcing that some dude had just shelled out a cool $1.5 million bucks for a film that shows, clear as day, Marilyn Monroe administering oral kindness to some guy whose face does not enter into the frame. This purchase thrust MM back into the news again, and I was both shocked and kind of impressed with the buyer because he claims to have bought the footage to keep it out of the hands of the unscrupulous so it wouldn't be used to tarnish Monroe's iconic image. Hey, if it was me I probably would have marketed the shit out of that film and reaped untold gazillions from its DVD sales, but who knows how this film was obtained, or if she was coerced? Yeah, yeah, I can hear many of you saying that it was probably a "casting couch" scenario and that everybody who ever got anywhere in Hollywood probably engaged in such stuff — even a certain Teutonic bodybuilder who now holds political office —  but wouldn't it be a total mindfuck if it turned out to be one of the Kennedy's home movies? Oy vey iz mier... From this morning's New York Post:

HARDCORE MARILYN

FBI'S MONROE SEX FLICK SOLD FOR $1.5M

By HASANI GITTENS

April 14, 2008 --

Some really like it hot.

In the sordid tradition of peddling raunchy video footage of celebrities a la Paris Holton, a long-buried sex movie of Marilyn Monroe recently hit the market, a top collector told The Post.

An illicit copy of the steamy, still-FBI-classified reel - 15 minutes of 16mm film footage in which the original blond bombshell performs oral sex on an unidentified man - was just sold to a New York businessman for $1.5 million, said Keya Morgan, the well-known memorabilia collector who discovered the film and brokered its purchase.

The footage appears to have been shot in the 1950s. When it came to light in the mid-'60s, then-FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover had his agents spend two weeks futilely trying to prove that Monroe's sex partner was either John F. Kennedy or Robert F. Kennedy, according to declassified agency documents and interviews, Morgan said.

The silent black-and-white flick shows Monroe on her knees in front of a man whose face is just out of the shot. He never moves into the shot, indicating that he knew the camera was there, but Monroe never looks at the lens, said Morgan, who saw the footage.

Morgan said he discovered the film while doing research for a documentary on Monroe, after talking with a former FBI agent who told him about a confidential informant who tipped G-men to the existence of the film in the mid-'60s. The feds eventually confiscated the original footage - but not before the informant made a copy of it, which is what was just sold by his son, Morgan said.

There are heavily redacted, declassified FBI documents talking about a "French-type" film. They state the informant "exhibited [to agents] a motion picture which depicted deceased actress Marilyn Monroe committing a perverted act upon a unknown male," Morgan said.

The informant was with at least one mobster at the time, the documents state.

According to the documents, "Former baseball star Joseph DiMaggio in the past had offered [the informant] $25,000 for this film, it being the only one in existence, but he refused the offer.

"Source advised that [redacted name of the mole] informed them that he had obtained this film prior to the time Marilyn Monroe had achieved stardom."

Morgan said he got the deceased informant's name from the former FBI agent who tipped him off to the flick - and was floored after he found the mole's son in Washington, DC, and the man retrieved a film canister from a safe-deposit box and spooled it up. "You see instantly that it's Marilyn Monroe - she has the famous mole," Morgan said. "She's smiling, she's very charming, she's very radiant, but she's known for being radiant," he said. "She moves away, and then it [the footage] stops."

Last month, he brokered its sale, leading the informant's son to a wealthy New York businessman who wants to keep this unseemly part of Monroe's past buried. "He said he's just going to lock it up," Morgan said. "He said, 'I'm not going to make a Paris Hilton out of her. I'm not going to sell it, out of respect.' "

ASS WEDNESDAY

 NOTE: This was originally posted in 2009.

As I see so many of my co-workers adorned with an ash cross on their foreheads today, I wonder if Catholicism had instead instituted "Turd Wednesday" and required the smearing of shit on their heads, would they do so? And just once I'd like to see some wiseass go up to get his facial ash and instead demand full-on blackface instead of a tiny cross smear. Then I'd love to see the Jolson-looking dude burst out onto the street and scream the most Amos 'n' Andy-style "HALLELUJAH!!!" possible.

"HALLELUJAH!!!"

But that's just me being a heathen.

IT'S ART! IT'S PORN! EVERYBODY'S HAPPY! — THE BEAVER SHOT AS ART

NOTE: This was originally posted in December of 2006.

There's a new show running at Manhattan's Gagosian Gallery through December 22 featuring the work of painter John Currin, and it's garnering a bit attention thanks to some of its subject matter. Nudity in the arts is certainly nothing new, nor is sexually explicit imagery, but it's bound to cause a stir in these hypocritically puritanical times when someone walks into a gallery and finds what can be construed as beaver shots hung on the wall in all their gynecological glory. Currin's "Rotterdam" (2006) is such a work, and when first encountered it exudes the ambience common to the photography in such periodicals as HUSTLER, PINK PARADE, and OPEN WIDE, but upon closer observation the piece is far less off-putting for the casual viewer than the you-can-see-her-lunch nudie mag aesthetic. 

"Rotterdam" (2006) 

The composition is common to erotic art. Two lovers entwined, engaged in intimate contact on a large, comfy bed, both appearing to be enjoying each other. What is uncommon about the piece is the — excuse the term — in your face focus given to the figures' genitalia, and while good, old-fashioned osh-osh has been depicted in art a gazillion times since the day a horny caveman first fashioned one of those goddesses with the huge tits and Cro-Magnon badunkadunk, it's unusual to witness such frank presentation for general consumption.

The "window dressing" present is straight out of the ABC's of porno: sexy stockings and garter belt, lace gloves, ankle jewelry, "fuck me" pumps, a necklace with a dangling bauble that accentuates the female's naked flesh, sleepy/ecstatic facial expression that passes for what was once known as "swooning." It's all there, but the imagery does not strike me as pornographic for a number of reasons. The painterly medium lends the graphic tableau a level of "class" and legitimacy that few allegedly-pornographic works can muster, and the setting brings to mind (for me, at least) some old world boudoir that I could picture Marie Antoinette getting Rodgered in, and I have to admit that I find that appealing. Also, considering the obvious X-rated influence, it's interesting to note that the figures are those of ordinary people, and not the beefed-up-by-silicone and fire-hose-bedicked replicants that populate the majority of adult entertainment, and their simple commonness makes them quite charming. So, let's move on to the real issue at hand, namely the Johnson and the 'Giney.

Human genitalia depicted in the act that it was intended for is seldom seen from this angle in highbrow paintings, and while the anatomical details leave nothing to the imagination, there is no display of the effluvium that accompanies the deployment of one's naughty bits (although the guy's nuts do look a bit greasy), or the cooking oil that porn ingénues liberally apply to their havens in order to simulate the visible signs of female arousal. And while the guy's squashing of his stuff (an action that inflates his unit via a technique familiar to anyone who's seen a Ron Jeremy vehicle in the past ten years) draws your attention to its turgid veininess, that's merely a component to the connection about to be made. If you are a guy who has ever been fortunate enough to have a woman share her body with you, especially with absolute certainty that there is no chance of either unwanted pregnancy or STD's, nothing feels better than your man root happily ensconced within the lady's Good Place, and with that knowledge in mind you can relate to the dude in the painting. The guy is straining to get inside his obviously willing companion and feel her moist, enveloping heat, and she's applying just enough pull to herself to open up and accommodate that friendly member, a subtle gesture made plain by our gaze being directed with the visual aid of her lace-covered digits. The glimpse that we are afforded of her pink taste treat only gives us enough to register it as the welcome and familiar source of all things wondrous, not the sometimes painfully splayed luncheon meat vista found in most one-handed amusement mags/videos, a sight that turns the divine vulgar.

And speaking of divine, the contours of the woman's body have just the right gravity and roundness, without the cartoonish exaggeration of the rank-and-file stroke-mag diva. Of particular interest is her pubic mound, delineated in such a way as to simultaneously register the solid structure of her pelvic bone and the softness of the tantalizing flesh surrounding it. When people are fucking — and I mean FUCKING, that animal communication between two physical beings that completely erodes rational thought — there's an immediate urgency that cancels out everything else around you, and that feeling is conveyed here with a subtlety that belies its flash of pink 'n' pecker. These two are caught up in the primal heat of the moment, and, frankly, I like seeing that in a contemporary painting rather than some hoary old example from a coffee table compendium of erotic art. Currin's "Rotterdam" very much places me in the "now" of its visual tale and moves me with its sensuousness. It certainly beats the hell out of much of the art that I saw during my school days. If only I could have walked into a gallery and seen the excellence of Gustave Courbet's "Origine du Monde."   

"Origine du Monde" ("The Origin of the World", 1866)

NOTE: this is the whole painting, not just a detail. Not only can I totally get with the subject, but I also love the technique. Painting realistic-looking hair is a bitch and a half, and I'll be dipped in dog shit if that bush doesn't look just like the real thing. Hooray for art!!!

THE WEARYING OF THE GREEN

Originally posted in 2008.

So it's Saint Patrick's Day again and I'm going to stay off the streets of New York tonight while the populace at large gets Viking-level destroyed on their fermented beverages of choice. During the bygone days of my misspent youth I gladly joined in the revelry, happy that this one day of the year was more or less given over to everybody getting completely fucked up and shedding the burden of being human, but Saint Patrick's Day has long since lost its allure for me thanks to growing up (sort of) and having worked two St. Patrick's Days at the barbecue joint during those now-infamous years. The joint — now defunct — opened on this day in 2005 and St. Paddy's is as good a day as any for the anniversary of that fine dining establishment, but it became a bit overwhelming and the altered behavior of most of the crowd in attendance got rather David Lynchian in its crawly strangeness.

I don't know about the rest of the nation but New York City in the throes of intoxicated Irish pride is an untamable green-clad beast that yowls and screeches random Pogues hits in tones even more unintelligible than those found in a live performance by the band's toothless wreck of a front man, Shane McGowan. Seriously, it took me years to decipher McGowan's wasted warbling during his infamous Saint Patrick's Day performance of "Body of An American" on SATURDAY NIGHT LIVE back in 1990.

The might and Majesty that is Shane McGowan.

There's a strange blend of good feelings and ready-to-erupt primal savagery that permeates the air on this day, a palpable buzz of expectation and yearning that mutates into the full gamut of human emotion once strong drink is introduced into the mix. Fucking and fighting are practically guaranteed, occasionally at the same time, and every bar in the city is sure to be packed to the rafters with folks decked out in cheap plastic Leprechaun hats and "Kiss Me I'm Irish" t-shirts, merrily gobbling up free and fatty corned beef and cabbage while swilling down foul-tasting beer tinted with green food coloring, a libation barely a step up from McDonald's odious seasonal horror, the Shamrock Shake.

The Shamrock Shake: minty taste treat, or mass-marketed bio-hazard sludge?

But the worst thing to come from all of this is the day-after remains of hardcore partying, namely broken bottles everywhere, carelessly discarded party cups, rivers of reeking piss provided by both men and women and, worst of all, sidewalks copiously adorned with spewed beer and partially-digested food, making the streets look like they've been carpeted with day-old corned beef hash. I shit you not, in some years the pavement was so puked-out that one could easily have skated on the vomit, this phenomenon being especially bad near the Park Avenue offices of Marvel Comics during the early-1990's.

The morning after also sees the subways smelling of fetid beer and drunks who have voided themselves in all possible ways without the benefit of having a restroom close at hand. The floors are glazed with spilled drinks and your feet stick to the linoleum like flypaper. Just plain revolting.

Please don't get me wrong. I totally understand the need to let off steam and get buck-wild but St. Patrick's Day is rightfully termed "amateur night" by those of us who know how to properly get our drink on and not inflict out-of-control, sloppy assholism on the innocent citizenry, so we tend to sit this day out. Have you ever been out on St. Patrick's Day and had some boozed-up Staten Island chick with big tits and green hair chat you up, only to get close to you and bark up her dinner and last six shots of Jameson all over your chest? Well I have, and I can assure you that it completely harshed my evening and forced me to shell out ten bucks for one of those "I Heart NY" t-shirts to replace the vomit-sponge that the shirt I'd worn had become. Sorry, but stark white with a touristy slogan simply is not my aesthetic.

And why is it that a day that supposedly celebrates all things Irish invariably degenerates into a reinforcement of the drunken Mick stereotype? The Irish have contributed so much worthwhile literature, music, and who knows what else to the world, but other than being thrown a bone in any one of a gazillion St. Patrick's Day parades little, if any, mention is made of that. As far as the public at large seems to be concerned, on St. Patrick's Day the greatest contribution made by the Irish is whiskey. That's a damned shame when one takes into account what a genuinely wonderful people the Irish are, a group overflowing with a no-bullshit humanity and honesty of expression that's just plain endearing. My buddies Cat, Hughes, Amanda, Declan, Garth, and Tracey are prime examples of this and many of my other friends and acquaintances whose ancestry hails from Ireland are equally as awesome.

Garth and Hughes, two of my favorite people.

So maybe that's what should be concentrated upon on Saint Patrick's Day, namely the oft-ignored excellence of our society's Irish component. And while we're at it, how about a marathon of flicks like THE QUIET MAN, DARBY O'GILL AND THE LITTLE PEOPLE, and THE LUCK OF THE IRISH? So even though the drunken idiots of all ethnicities out there may unintentionally be a rampaging annoyance, show some love to any of the Irish who may be in your life. And be careful when walking on those barf-splattered sidewalks 'cause falling down and breaking your ass on concrete is bad enough, but having that happen with the added accent of having your body coated with slimy, half-digested bar food is simply horrendous.

"Sliante, ye cunt ye! BLEEEEAAAAARGGGH!!!

YASSUH!

Originally published in 2007.

As anyone who has ever worked in a restaurant situation can tell you, sometimes you have to deal with asshole customers. Most restaurant staffers have the fortitude to simply suck it up and endure all manner of abuse in hope of a decent tip — which asshole patrons seldom leave — but during the times when I have had to interact with the obnoxious I weigh the situation, and since I am of the kitchen and do not receive tips I have to choose my battles. I can usually walk away without chewing some douchebag a new one, but sometimes the temptation is simply too much to resist (the now infamous "hot sauce cokehead" incident immediately springs to mind).

The other night at the barbecue joint was relatively busy, and Tracey the waitress goddess was inundated with people to look after. When she's being showered with questions about what's good on the menu that night and I happen to be within earshot I will step in and field the queries, armed with a pitch that would have done P.T. Barnum proud, more often than not amusing the guests. Face it, there's nothing more entertaining than a chubby Black guy who cooks and can tell you in minute detail, especially in a barbecue joint.

Anyway, I noticed Tracey being grilled by a four person group redolent of privilege and condescention, so I sauntered over and insinuated myself into the palaver, going through the dishes and punctuating each with a description of mouth-watering delights for the palate that bordered on the pornographic. Three of the group oohed and aahed at the sound of yummy goodness, while the lone woman among them asked detailed questions meant to put down the cuisine and demean me for having the temerity to leave my "place" and dare to speak with demi-gods such as herself and her companions, sneering the whole while.

After enduring her mini-inquisition, I concluded my spiel with a promise that they would not be disappointed by whatever they may order, only for the sneering harridan to attempt getting in the last word with a rude "Well, why don't you stop your yacking, get yourself back into that kitchen, and serve us our food?', that last bit being accented by a superior nod to her friends as if to say, "Like how I showed Kunta?"

Suddenly, time came to a complete halt, and a voice within me exclaimed, "Oh, HELL NO." Several strategies for retaliation vied for first place in a nanosecond, but then my internal monologue was replaced by the strains of what can only be described as the most minstreled-out version of "Dixie" imaginable, banjos-a-plinkin' and chickens-a-cluckin', and I knew I had my perfect avenue for revenge.

I reentered the space/time continuum, and as "Dixie" filled my ears I adjusted my posture into an exaggerated slouch, let a subhumanly stupid look wash over my face, slowly scratched my head and began to speak in a drawl that I guarantee you must have sent my grandmother's corpse break dancing in the grave, in other words channeling my inner Stepin Fetchit (look him up online if you don't know who he was). "Yass, ma'am," I said, rolling my eyes like Dr. King's worst nightmare. "I'se jes' gon' git mah black ass back to dat dere kitchum an' dish y'all up some scrumptious vittles! Yowzah!" After personally setting race relations in this country back by approximately one-hundred and fifty years, I lazily turned and shuffled out of the table's visual range, catching the stunned looks on the group's faces, and noting Tracey's mouth hanging open in disbelief like basketball hoop. I ducked into the men's room to snicker to myself, and when Tracey walked by the open door she flashed me a shit-eating grin that struggled to hold in a gale of laughter. I then hit the kitchen and trayed up dinner for Missy Anne and her men-folk. When I brought out their meal, the group did their level best to look at anything and everything but my smiling face. When I returned to the kitchen, Tracey came in and said, "That was hilarious, but I had to pee, and I came close to wetting myself!" And the best part of all this was that two of the guys from the table actually stuck their heads into the kitchen and apologized for their friend's behavior.

Not much of a contribution to Black History Month, but as that icon of Black tricksterism, Daffy Duck, once said, "What the hey? I gotta have SOME fun!"

I SING THE BODY ELECTRIC: YER BUNCHE'S ALL-TIME FAVORITE SCI-FI ROBOTS

 Originally published in 2010.

Wouldn't this shot make for an ideal hip-hop album cover? I can just hear the beat from EPMD's "It's My Thing" accompanying it.

Among lovers of sci-fi and its myriad permutations, sooner or later the discussion is going to roll around to the robots we have known and loved, so now it's this blog's turn to engage in that inevitable forum of discourse. Having been an active fan for as long as I can remember, I've seen innumerable movies and TV shows that brought us automatons who ranged from the humorous to the downright diabolical and after over four decades of weighing their merits against each other, I've come up with a short list of my favorite manufactured folks. For the sake of this piece I'm sticking strictly to robots as opposed to the other common form of artificial intelligence, namely the android, a creature usually defined by it being virtually indistinguishable from the average human being save for the fact that it's manufactured and may possess abilities that humans don't. Hence no Data, Gigolo Joe, Cherry 2000, Ash, Bishop, Galaxina or Roy Batty on this here list. Anyway, here's what I came up with.

ASTRO BOY

Known as "Tetsuwan Atomu" —translation: "Mighty Atom" — or "Atomu" for short in his native Japan, us Westerners were introduced to him as Astro Boy when his black & white cartoons were syndicated here in the 1960's and he's been held in very high and warm esteem by many ever since. I absolutely loathe "cute" characters in general and "cute" robot characters in particular, but Astro Boy defies the stereotypes established by such nausea-inducers as Twiki, V.I.N.C.E.N.T. and the unspeakable 7-Zark-7 by having a sweet and well-rounded personality meant to serve as a bridge between humans and the ever-growing robot populace in his future era of the 21st Century. Astro Boy's considerable adorable appeal also provides a great counterpoint to the fact that he's one of the most badassed superheroes out there, kind of a thinking, flying, heavily-equipped arsenal. When in combat mode, there are few characters who can match Astro Boy for sheer bravery, moxie and indefatigable tenacity in the face overwhelming odds. Often losing limbs in battle, Astro Boy will fight on and on, even unto being reduced to naught but a hope-filled and defiant head on a torso, and that's something I cannot help but admire and be inspired by. Plus he's got telescoping rifles that extrude from his ass-cheeks, making him a very literal badass. Seriously! (That aspect of his arsenal was trimmed from the American version.) No lie, in my estimation of what it means to be a first-rate superhero, Astro Boy ranks among the all-time greats.

GIANT ROBOT

Aka "Giant Robo" in its country of origin, this manga-derived and later impressively animated hunk of hardware is my human-controlled war-machine of choice, beating out the more familiar Gigantor thanks to it being a guy in a rubber suit instead of being a cartoon, as well as for its loony design trumping Gigantor's armored knight look. Who but a Japanese madman like cartoonist Mitsuteru Yokoyama could have come up with a 10-storey humanoid robot that shot seemingly endless rounds of missiles from its fingers while looking like a crazed Egyptian pharaoh?

Giant Robot in action.

Syndicated in the States as JOHNNY SOKKO AND HIS FLYING ROBOT beginning in 1969, I never saw the show, but I did see the movie edited together from some of its episodes, the insane and out-of-control VOYAGE INTO SPACE, which played for years on the Tri-State area's 4:30 MOVIE as a "Monster Week" staple, and it's a flick I cannot possibly recommend enough. A perfect way to amuse kids and drunks/stoners, the movie is overflowing with goofy aliens, giant monsters and all kinds of mayhem, all of it looking to get its collective ass kicked by a square-footed giant that looks like a sci-fi hieroglyph rendered by an acid-head.

ROBBY

One of the many indelible elements that made FORBIDDEN PLANET (1956) a classic, Robby is perhaps the acme of the sci-fi automaton. Designed as an all-purpose thinking machine, Robby is a walking computer who acts as a protector to his creator, Doctor Morbius, and the doctor's hot blonde 19-year-old daughter, as well as being a mechanical manservant. He also has the capability to synthesize items that he's sampled, a talent put to use by the visiting Earth cruiser's alcoholic cook who has him whip up sixty gallons of primo whisky. Prior to the release of STAR WARS (1977), Robby was by far the most iconic robot in all of science-fiction, and if you ask me he might still be considered as such.

R2-D2

Paired with the incredibly annoying robo-queen that is C-3P0 (god damn, did his schtick grow old fast!), it's easy to see this little astromech droid as nothing more than a kooky comic foil to its gilded, prissy counterpart, but R2 merits a re-examination in its own individual right. Essentially a rolling toolbox, R2's strengths lie in its interesting design — "What if a fire hydrant suddenly sprouted in a hospital's germ-free ward?" — and plucky attitude that includes a willingness to mix it up with the bad guys right in the thick of things. It's tough, brave, and has the decency to speak in binary chirps and whistles, thus sparing us what would have been an inevitably irritating cutesy voice. Think I'm wrong about that bit of inevitability? Take a look at the entire STAR WARS saga and ask yourself when George Lucas ever overlooked even the slightest opportunity to fill the screen with vomitously cute and merchandisable characters, with the notable exceptions of R2, Chewbacca and Yoda?

BENDER RODRIGUEZ

A complete and total disgrace to all that is good in robots (and Mexicans) everywhere, FUTURAMA's Bender is a triumph of anthropomorphized bad taste and overall offensiveness, so how could I not adore him? Rude, crass and literally fueled by alcohol, Bender steals virtually every story he's in and considering some of his co-stars, that's no mean feat. Extra points for his stint as cross-dressing professional wrassler "the Gender Bender" and for using time travel to steal hundreds of priceless items from throughout human history, including Eddie Van Halen's guitar and Christ's cross.

TOM SERVO

When it comes to MYSTERY SCIENCE THEATER 3000's 'bots, some people have a tough time choosing between Crow or Servo, but not me. Equipped with vestigial arms, a transparent sphere for a head and a hover-skirt to facilitate locomotion, Servo won my favor from the moment he opened the gumball machine spigot that passes for his mouth, and he cracks me up like few other comedic creations. A sensitive intellectual of highly suspect sexual orientation, Servo's referential lexicon is vast, as is his capacity for comfortable cross-dressing, the playing of genuinely disturbing games (the creepy "Dog & Bear" immediately comes to mind), attraction to senior citizens ("Estelle!") and unabashed defense of "tearing down all the barriers" and allowing strange, androgynous man/women to hang out in the bedrooms of underage adolescent males. (His stirring defense of Mr. B Natural, anyone?) Blessed with a deep baritone voice and hilariously performed by Kevin Murphy (after originator Josh Weinstein left the show), Tom Servo would be my all-time favorite robot if not for the existence of the original "bubble-headed booby," namely...

B-9, aka "ROBOT"

As 'benign" as his designation would suggest (unless re-programmed to murderous intent by that shitheel Dr. Smith), the Class M-3 General Utility Non-Theorizing Environmental Control Robot was the small screen's answer to FORBIDDEN PLANET's Robby and the similarities between the two were several (including being designed by Robert Kinoshita). But while Robby was a glorified (though nonetheless charming) tool, B-9 was ever so much more. Initially intended as a probe that would survey a colony world before his human crew-mates set foot outside their spaceship, B-9 had no personality to speak of and was re-programmed by the aforementioned Zachary Smith to murder the Robinson Family while they slumbered in their suspension tubes on the way to Alpha Centauri.

B-9 in the evil thrall of Dr. Smith.

That scheme failed and for the early part of LOST IN SPACE's first year, B-9 remained under Smith's nefarious command. That state of affairs was thankfully thwarted when nine-year-old electronics prodigy Will Robinson set about on a second re-programming that not only rendered the machine once more on its intended crew's side, but also unexpectedly unleashed the most unique of all fictional robotic personalities. From that moment on, B-9 was "Robot," an actual part of the Robinson family, and while always addressed as "robot," it was less an acknowledgement of his manufactured status than it was for all intents and purposes his name; he had been addressed as "robot" from Day One, but his newfound personality soon imbued him with the worthiness of being recognized as an individual. Though composed of metal, wires and sophisticated circuitry, the Robot was easily the most distinctive and fun character on LOST IN SPACE, second only to Dr. Smith and rounding out a trio consisting of the fey doctor and young Will, a dynamic that came to dominate the show at the expense of the other characters. The Robot was the most perfect foil imaginable for Dr, Smith, and their insulting exchanges became the stuff of legend, as did the Robot's arms-a-flailin' cry of DANGER, WILL ROBINSON!!!"

Behind the scenes: the Robot gets busted by security on the 20th Century Fox lot.

But more than anything else, it was the Robot's sense of humor and outlook on life that endeared him to me and damned near everyone who watched LOST IN SPACE during our youth. (His ability to play the acoustic guitar was also a plus.) The Robot's deeply mocking and borderline-asthmatic guffaw was infectious and his observations on humanity were often priceless, but undoubtedly the crowning gem of his comments had to be from the second season episode "The Colonists," wherein black-clad and bitchy space-Amazon the Mighty Neolani spouts ludicrous pre-Women's Lib "feminist platitudes," foments an insurrection among the Robinson females and subjugates the Robinson males, relegating them to slave labor. Always looking out for Number One, Dr. Smith affects the personality of a sensitive artist and successfully woos the estrogenic oppressor, thus avoiding work. When questioning Neolani's relationship with Dr. Smith, Will openly states his confusion, which leads to this incredible exchange with the Robot:

The Robot (attempting to make things clear to Will): The female of the species always has a soft spots for artists.

Will (very skeptical): How do you know so much about "the female of the species?"

(The camera zooms in for a closeup of the Robot's featureless bubble)

The Robot: I have been around, Will Robinson. I have been around.

When I saw that bit again as an adult, I nearly laughed myself to death. Did his second re-programming give the Robot memories in which he was once a playa? (I don't know about what you think, but the image of the Robot humping his way from space station to space station is rather disturbing and it leads me to wonder about the uses to which the Robinson women put him on lonely nights when the men-folk were off setting up weather stations on some god-forsaken world's inhospitable polar ice caps... That said, I bet he'd be a considerate and giving lover.) The only moment that even comes close for sheer insanity involving the Robot is the sequence in "Castles in Space" in which Chavo the space-Mexican — no, I am not bullshitting you — gets him shitfaced-wasted on tequila. (This was third season episode and by that time the writers had pretty much adopted a "fuck logic" attitude, with many scripts crafted by the hilariously-named Peter Packer.) Returning to the Robinson's camp with his arms characteristically a-flailin' and bellowing a hideously out-of-tune rendition of "Cielito Lindo," the Robot giggles like a madman before falling over unconscious, eventually waking up and sitting with an icepack perched atop his bubble as he vows never to drink again. Think about how miserable he must have been. The poor bastard couldn't even puke! But whatever the case, I love the Robot with a respect equaled only by that which I hold for Spock. Now there's a MY DINNER WITH ANDRE scenario I would have loved to see acted out: Spock and the Robot, hanging out and jamming, kicking back some brews and grousing about chicks. That's entertainment!