A Farewell to Arse: Charlton Heston’s Buttocks 1924-2008
Those of you who missed the theatrical release may not know this, but the original Planet of the Apes starred Charlton Heston’s ass. Oh, there were other characters in it — the rest of Mr Heston, for example — but the 44-year-old Heston bottom stole the show. It left round, bi-lobal smoochies all over that movie.
I was eight years old in 1968 when Planet of the Apes was released. I had never seen male ass before, not counting the brief flash of white as my father dove behind the dresser the morning I walked into the parents’ room unannounced. I imprinted on the Heston brand instantly.
“Yes,” I thought, “that is correct. That is what one of those looks like.”
Women are, as a rule, not moved by visuals the way men are. Men will react to a mere silhouette, which is why so many of them drive right off the road chasing the Mudflap Girl, Silent Killer of America’s Highways.
Women are turned on by the backstory. Will he wrestle a bear? Does he like kittens? Is he the unacknowledged illigitimate son of the Earl of Wessex? There’s a bit of hairy chest and heaving bosom in there, sure, but it’s mostly about personal history. Women can get the vapors from A&E’s Biography.
It’s a true but seldom-acknowledged fact that Harlequin romance novels are hard-core porn for women.
So I’m not being cute when I tell you you my fascination with the Heston ‘tocks is not an especially sexual thing. It’s more like…recognizing an archetype. Like finding the Golden Mean of bottoms. Oh, sure, there are plenty more muscular asses out there, but I hate gym bodies. Heston had a splendid ordinary guy physique. I went to art school a decade later and paid large money to stare intently for hours at various specimens of naked humanity: no ass ever truly measured up. Not one.
Charlton Heston died on Saturday at the age of 84. Of Alzheimer’s, which is a shit disease because it kills you years before it kills you.
He was by all accounts that matter a good and genuine man: a real outdoorsman, a great father, happily married to the same woman for sixty something years.
Lefties snark that the causes he supported in his lifetime show a philosophical change for the worse, if not plain old intellectual confusion: from his strong pro-civil rights and anti-McCarthy stands in the 1960s to his later prominent support for Reagan and the NRA. But it’s all of a piece: it’s about people minding their own damn business, getting out of the way and leaving each other the hell alone.
Good man. Great movies. But, oh dear, what an exceptionally fine ass.
April 7, 2008 — 5:43 am
Comments: 66
Peace at last
Alec Wildenstein died last month. He was the husband of famous side-show freak Jocelyn Wildenstein AKA the Bride of Wildenstein AKA the Tiger Lady.
The Wildenstein family is worth about $10 billion, give or take a billion, acquired through several generations of shady art trading. The bulk of their collection is hidden in a former nuclear bunker in upstate New York. A French art critic was once allowed in and reported that it contained “a Fra Angelico, two Botticellis, eight Rembrandts, as many Rubens, three rare Velázquezes, nine El Grecos, five Tintorettos . . . four Titians, 12 Poussins and 79 Fragonards”. Shoot, I didn’t know there were 79 Fragonards.
Alec and Jocelyn were married in 1978, within a year of their first meeting, at a lion hunt. (That thing I just did there? That’s called ‘foreshadowing’). They had a reasonably successful marriage for a reasonably long time…for insanely rich people. Most of their time was spent at their 66,000-acre estate in Kenya. After about twenty years, however, Alec got de restless leg syndrome.
Jocelyn had a few facial tuneups, which staved off the inevitable for a while. Until the day she came home unexpectedly to find him in bed with a 19-year-old Russian model. He pulled a gun and everyone got arrested. Alec closed Jocelyn’s bank accounts next day and instructed the staff not to feed her — which was a problem, she said later, as she did not know how to make toast. The judge awarded her millions, and recommended she use some of it to buy a microwave. I don’t think a microwave makes very good toast.
Back she goes to the cosmetic surgeon. If looking good won’t do it, how about if he transformed her into one of Alec’s beloved big cats?
Ow. No.
Shock, horror…bitter divorce…more surgery…blah blah blah. They did eventually get back together in 2000, at least for a while. Despite her face and everything. There must’ve been something to their marriage beyond joint custody of the monkey.
Anyhow, prostate cancer got him in February. Rest in peace.
I hope she’s learned to make toast. I hope she stops doing that to herself. You, get yourself over to AwfulPlasticSurgery.com and spend an afternoon contemplating the face your mama gave you.
March 13, 2008 — 2:12 pm
Comments: 22
Norwegian Burqa Fashion Show
Shitting you? Nay.
I think #3 is a little unclear on the concept.
March 11, 2008 — 4:46 pm
Comments: 32
Superman is a Freak Out — We Hate Money
Was ever hippie philosophy more succinctly expressed than in this pithy couplet?
Pithy couplet. Heh heh.
In support of my thesis that mainstream comic artists couldn’t draw a hippie for beans, I present Issue 118 of Superman’s Pal Jimmy Olsen (1974). Note that Jimmy is dressed as…I’m going to say Walt Whitman. His lacy zoot suit is purple.
And check out ol’ Ben Franklin in the background there. The Money Hate guy. He’s wearing the remains of a three-piece suit with trouser legs hemmed castaway-style. I bet that’s the artist’s deadbeat friend.
“Dude, I totally drew you as a hippie on the cover of this month’s Jimmy Olsen!”
“Nowai!”
This is pretty much a step up for Jimmy. In this series, he’s usually cross-dressing or trying to kill Superman, or both. Why he’s actually Superman’s pal doesn’t bear thinking of.
Today’s episode is brought to you by the airport lurgy that is still kicking my ass.
January 15, 2008 — 5:56 pm
Comments: 8
Cool it, man! You had your chance!
It occurs to me that, while I’ve been absorbed in the presidential race, I haven’t posted anything about it. So meet Prez Rickard, first teenage President of the United States (well, sure they amended the Constitution first — do you think DC don’t know their civics?) Superpowers: Executive authority, veto, unarmed hand-to-hand combat.
His mom named him Prez hoping he’d be president some day. In gratitude, he made her vice president. Okay, I realize that last bit is pretty implausible. Hey, it’s a comic.
Prez made it to four issues, from 1973 to 1974, and made cameo appearances in several later comics. According to Wikipedia, he ultimately dies of a brain tumor “aggravated by the dishonesty of Presidents Ronald Reagan, George H.W. Bush, and Bill Clinton.” You’d have to have a heart of stone not to laugh at that one.
The comics never really figured out how to draw hippies, did they? They were always like Beatniks, but with kicky Florence Henderson style wigs. Way too much daddy-o and not enough groovy.
As I remember it, there was a bit of anxiety that stupid shit like this might happen after the 26th Amendment passed in 1971. The following election — and every election afterward — was going to be swung at the last minute by the “youth vote.” Heh. A “youth vote” that never materializes. The 18 to 24 demographic is consistently a no-show.
Stupid hippies.
January 14, 2008 — 2:43 pm
Comments: 20
But I don’t wanna marry Kevin!
So I had this dream. I dreamed there was this ratfaced dude with long, limp brown hair and they were like, “right. This is Kevin. You’re going to marry him.”
And I’m like, “wait…what?!”
And they go, “you promised you’d move to England and get married, didn’t you?”
And I’m like, “uhhh…yes. I guess.”
And they go, “well, the regular guy can’t make it, so you’ll have to marry Kevin.”
And I wail, “but I don’t wanna marry Kevin!”
That’s going to be my personal catchphrase for a while. You’d appreciate the power of this dream more fully if you had any idea how many suicidally stupid things I’ve done in my life because I felt like I’d promised somebody something.
And don’t get me going on the irresistible power of the dare!
Okay, so this here is what I laughingly call my studio. Actually, it was a proper artist’s studio for years, but then I raised three baby squirrels to robust adulthood in it. Squirrels are a genetically-engineered cross between rats and psychotic trapeze artists.
It was my task this weekend to pull out everything I want from this great tottery pile of squirrel-tainted weasel poo so the Garbage Fairies can come over the holidays and whisk the rest away to Santa’s Landfill. This was what it looked like on Friday. I took one look and wailed, “but I don’t wanna marry Kevin!”
But I learned something, going through my old drawings and other artwork. I learned that, if I work hard and put my mind to it, I sure can suck. I also learned that ammonia dissolves india ink — good to know when you find a big crusty pool of dried ink with squirrel tracks radiating outwards in all directions on a hardwood floor. This happens to everyone some day, and now you’ll be prepared. You’re welcome. Also, I found many hidden caches of inky peanuts and dessicated broccoli, so you’ll be relieved to know I’ll be okay in the lean times, thanks to my beloved psychotic trapeze rats. Fare thee well, boys — wherever thou mightst be!
Wait! How long do gray squirrels live in the wild? Never mind…
December 18, 2007 — 7:09 pm
Comments: 12
Knitting up the ravell’d sleeve of broccoli
In case you’re not sure what you’re looking at there, it’s knitted potatoes and tomatoes and other garden vegetables. They represent a small part of an entire knitted garden dreamed up by some British biddies. That’s 300 people, fifty miles of yarn and four million stitches.
I’m not much into knitting, mind you (that would be my big brother), but Pupster sent me a link to the excellent Stitchy McYarnpants Museum of Kitschy Stitches a few days ago, so the topic just seemed… knitted in the stars or something.
I’m going to need all the cheap and easy blogfodder I can get for a while. A real estate agent had a look at Weasel Manor over the weekend and left me a To Do list that included items such as “douse livingroom in gasoline and light match” and “write ‘I Will Never Buy Another Knick-Knack In My Whole Stupid Miserable Life’ one hundred times — in own blood.”
If you haven’t figured it out on your own, I’m not a very good grownup. The process of hiring and directing workmen is not one I’m likely to do well. I was on the phone all day asking the important interview questions like, “would you like to see me hang a spoon on my nose?” and “recite three recent booger haiku you have written.”
I’m doomed.
November 12, 2007 — 6:40 pm
Comments: 26
Who can turn the world on with her smile?
Hazel Frederick, that’s who. She’s the lady in the picture with the scarf and the scowl. When they filmed this shot for the title sequence of the Mary Tyler Moore Show, the crew kept the camera as concealed as possible so that bystanders would behave naturally. So there’s Hazel doing what comes natural when a grinning nutcase stands in the middle of a busy downtown intersection and flings her hat in the air. Probably hopped up on goofballs.
I must say, I’ve had a few happy moments in my life, but I’ve never experienced such a general feeling of well-being that I was overcome with the overwhelming compulsion to fling my stuff in the air while crossing a city street. I can’t help feeling I’ve missed out. Note to self: buy more goofballs.
In an ironic juxtaposition, TV Land paid to erect this large bronze statue near the spot. It’s a chilling interpretation of the Mouth of Hell from Dante’s Inferno. Abandon hope…I know I did!
I’ve just bought the first two seasons of MTM on DVD. I still think of it as “the new thing that lady from the Dick van Dyke Show is doing.” It holds up very well, actually.
I cribbed most of this from Wikipedia, natch. According to the article, the people who owned the house used in the exterior shots of Mary’s apartment got so irritated with the attention, they hung an “impeach Nixon” sign outside to discourage picture takers. This was the reason she moves to a high-rise in the fifth season: they couldn’t take any more exterior shots of the house. Which sort of implies they never had a contractual arrangement with the owners and just banged around Minneapolis taking pictures of cozy houses.
In conclusion: happy Columbus Day!
October 8, 2007 — 2:33 pm
Comments: 40
The Museum of Swingline
“Why do I have so many staplers?” I asked no-one in particular when they just kept turning up in every drawer and cabinet today.
“Because the last time we moved, you wouldn’t let anybody throw one away,” said a voice from the opposite cube, “don’t you remember?”
No. But I believe it. My boss usually waited until I took a day off to throw things out; it was so much less painful than prying my fists open and listening to my ululating wails.
Look at these beauties! Big and heavy and streamlined, like some mighty diesel engine of stapling. They streamlined everything back then, as if the efficacy of simple office supplies was determined by their coefficient of drag. Is your desk holding you back? Get the sleek, modern, aerodynamic model, new for 1952! Now with wind-tunnelocity!
This company is both old and parsimonious; stuff hangs around until it flat out disintegrates. Do you know how long it takes furniture of the mid-twentieth century to fall apart? And since we were the art department and got shit on everything we touched, we got the leftover’s leftovers.
My old desk was a heavy, grossly overengineered slab of a barge of a piece of furniture, something like the QEII on legs. Blaaaaart ding ding! Out of the way, you little fishing vessels! Weasel doing paperwork!
We shed most of that stuff when we moved here, across the street from our old offices. But I managed to rescue these few small time travelers. And some rather nice scissors. And a magnifying glass. And all the X-Acto knives and pica rulers. A french curve set. Two excellent multi-hole paper punches. A six foot tall motorized photographic enlarger. And a Bernoulli box.
Ambassadors from another era.
Come, my pets. Would you like to visit England?
October 3, 2007 — 5:52 pm
Comments: 42
A Wiper for Every Need
You know, I started this blog to talk about news and politics. I wasn’t prepared for rude poetry and potty humor. Still, I’m on a roll!
Badump-tsssssss.
Yeah, look what I found in the back of a drawer today. Kimwipes! We used to buy these by the crate; now this sad, mustly little guy is probably the last of his kind in captivity.
I’ll bet you didn’t know there were different wiping needs, let alone that someone prided himself on being the standard for his particular wiping duty.
Kimwipes were a designer’s essential; they’re hard, lint-free wipes primarily used for mopping excess wax off galley using powerful, braincell-eating film cleaning solvents. If you don’t know what the hell activity I just described, don’t bother learning — the old way of preparing publications for print is never, ever coming back.
Not even after the apocalypse, when we’re running around with mullets and shoulder pads popping caps in each other’s asses.
See, the old photographic processes were extraodinarily complex, sophisticated and expensive. Assembling a magazine required several gigantic specialty cameras, many different kinds of film and papers, all sorts of amusingly lethal chemicals and a thousand little specialty items of no use to anyone else ever again under any circumstances. We had burnishers, waxers, rollers, wipers, technical pens, non-repro pens, markers, swatches, specialty knives of all sorts, registration marks, tracing overlay, illustration board, foamcore in an assortment of colors, lead holders, lead pointers and leads. We had rubylith and amberlith (which we called rubylips and amberlips), the Leroy lettering system, and something we called a Blue Thing, which was a burnishing tool that came inside tubes of 3M photo mounting adhesive but was the best darned all-around essential paste-up burnisher ever.
I can remember six different kinds of tape I couldn’t get through the day without.
Man, sitting here thinking about it, more and more stuff is coming back to me. The specialty furniture, the lighting, the drafting tools, the calculators, the stencils, the Letraset thingies and the Pantone dinguses. And we haven’t even touched on the darkroom stuff yet.
Huh. Not all earth’s vanishing languages are in Siberia or New Guinea.
October 2, 2007 — 6:26 pm
Comments: 29