Books Wormed: "Sick Puppy" by Carl Hiaasen

The death of the comic novel in America ought to be grieved to a greater degree than it currently is. Thanks to Carl Hiaasen, though, the comic novel as once churned out by Tom Robbins, Philip Roth, or Kurt Vonnegut is merely on life support. If anyone can breathe life back into its moribund canon it's him.

Normally I'm not fond of genre fiction, regardless of type. Even the most skilled purveyors of it seem to run out of ideas after the first couple, and all of a sudden the excitement you get from picking up a new title by an author you thought you liked is ruined by the discovery, a couple of chapters in, that it's the same as the last one.

Hiaasen pretty neatly sidesteps that trap, even though his subject matter varies little from book to book: they all take place in Florida, they all feature pretty skeezy good guys and monstrous villains. They are also damn funny, or at least the ones I've read, which by now is more than half. Maybe it's his wicked wit or because I agree with his politics, where Hiaasen is concerned, I almost wouldn't mind reading the same book over and over again.

Not that I ever have to.

In "Sick Puppy" specifically his targets are lobbyists and the shady dealings for which they are responsible. As with all of his tales of greed and corruption, Hiaasen offers no concrete plan for cleaning up the cesspool which is politics.

Then again, that's hardly his job. As a journalist AND as a novelist, Hiaasen's tactics seem to favour the shedding of light onto the situations that need light shone on them, namely the loathing that politicians, real estate developers, and their ilk seem to have for Nature.

To write a comedy crime thriller with an ecological bent cannot be an easy task, and yet Carl Hiaasen has written nearly a dozen of them now. Whether his efforts will ever do more than amuse his devoted readers remains to be seen.

Either way, they're the best chance Florida has at surviving the condo block and mini-mall juggernaut currently destroying the once-pristine beauty of the Sunshine State.
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Will Wonders Ever Cease?

As previously reported on the Pop Culture Institute, the Seven Wonders of the modern world have been announced.

They are, in no particular order:

• The Great Wall of China


• Rome's Colosseum


• India's Taj Mahal


• Peru's Machu Picchu


• Brazil's Statue of Christ Redeemer


• Mexico's Chichen Itza pyramid


• Jordan's Petra

Oh well, I got three.

I did better than Mr. Davey, though. Laughlin, Nevada indeed.
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A Google Milestone!

I just discovered that, for the first time ever, if you Google my name (michael sean morris) this blog appears. Not only has it never appeared before when I've Googled myself (oh yeah, you know I do it), now it's the 5th link from the top!

Clearly I owe that to you, my readers. I have not become a hopeless recluse for naught.
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Hey Paula!

Oh my god, Paula's so fucked up. Would you look at the size of her pupils?

Oh wait... Those are sunglasses. Yeah.

It's been a long day. I think I need to go lie down.
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C'mon! C'MON!!

It's okay. (breathe) I'll be fine. (breathe) That's better.

The Pop Culture Institute is eagerly following events in Chicago, where a jury has spent the last couple of months hearing a litany of crimes against humanity and decency committed by Conrad Black. And that was mostly the defense. Yeah, I think it'd be easier to defend Darth Vader than this morally bankrupt tyrant.

Incredibly, having heard everything in the courtroom that we've read in the papers, the jury is now into its seventh day of deliberations. That hotel they're in must have really good catering. Either that or the jurors needed the extra time to "go over any briefs they may not have gotten to", if one catches my inference.

All I can say is, this better be good...
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Introducing... Self-Loathario

It has become increasingly clear to me that, as valuable as they are to do, my posts on self-loathing do not belong here.

I've often wondered what I should do about this, as I consider self-loathing to be at crisis levels, not least of all in myself. I mean, I'm even seeing it in really hot, successful people. Oh yeah, it's that bad.

To that end, and to spare the gay nerves of Mr. Barr, Mr. Gagne, and especially Mr. Davey, I've decided to move all such posts permanently off this page and onto an entirely new page entitled Self-Loathario, where I hope to help people to learn to love their yuck. After all, it's our entire lives that make us interesting, and not just our good stuff.

Of course, in order to maintain brand synergy, I will be referring here to material on Self-Loathario often, so watch for that as I with my trade school marketing know-how attempts to create some kind of cross-platform appeal. At least I think that's what it's called.

I'll try to keep it light, of course, since when I am not wracked with self-loathing I'm actually a fairly funny and positive person. Also, the site will deal with some heavy things, so the right tone will be everything. The last thing I want to do with such a site is to add to anyone's problems.

One thing is for sure, though; I can't help anyone who doesn't want to help themselves.

I guess that's why I didn't start sooner.
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OMG: I Just Told Off A Hottie

It was such a liberating experience, I may change my name to Simon Bolivar.

What a rush!

I won't reveal who he is; unless, that is, he really starts to piss me off, at which point I might spin it into a series.

Next on Fox: In the tradition of Hannity & Colmes, it's Hottie & Troll.

I mean really... Anyone who puts "fat jokes" in their profile under Interests has it coming to him in a big way.
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My Current Wallpaper: Vancouver Skyline with cranes

As per usual, if you would like this wallpaper, just email me.
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The Gay Bomb?

British television scientists are feverishly working on creating the gayest episode ever.

No longer content with Little Britain and Graham Norton, they've written a part for Kylie Minogue into Doctor Who.

Once the episode airs, they predict random widespread DNA mutation, following which the eight straight guys who like Kylie and the seven straight guys who watch Doctor Who will all fleshpile.
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Now Showing: Loudon Wainwright III

What would a Pop Culture Institute salute to the United States be without a dissenting opinion?

Here, then, is Rufus Wainwright's father with a few thoughts on the Bicentennial. From 1976.
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Twitching the House Finch

I've been trying for a year to get a clear picture of one of these sweet little birds, but they've always eluded me. Until today.
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One Of The Perks Of My Job Is Flexible Breaks

Because I work alone, I pretty much set my own timetable. Obviously, random events will occur in a universe composed of almost pure chaos, but for the most part my time is my own.

On Canada Day, for instance, I decided to take my lunch break during the fireworks, where I snapped this shot.

Hope you had a good one, and good luck dragging your asses into work tomorrow. Me? I've got the day off...
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The Writing on the Wall: Dancing Alien

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Funniest Moments in Television

Many many of the funniest moments in the history of television came from The Carol Burnett Show, but for my money this is the funniest of them all.
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Wessexes Expecting

Prince Edward, Earl of Wessex, youngest son of the Queen, shown here with his countess Sophie and their daughter Lady Louise in 2003, will be adding to their family, Buckingham Palace has just announced.

The newest royal is expected in December.

There is a cloud over the good news, however, as the countess' previous pregnancy and delivery were fraught with complications.

Pop Culture Institute would like to offer the royal couple its best wishes at this time. The new arrival will be the Queen's eighth grandchild.
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The Legendary Mr. Jim Bailey

Here is his uncanny portrayal of one Phyllis Diller...
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Books Wormed: "Like A Lampshade in a Whorehouse: My Life in Comedy" by Phyllis Diller with Richard Buskin

There are books over one which labours, and there are books that, no matter how slowly one reads, are over far too soon.

Phyllis Diller's memoir is clearly in the latter category. I think she should have teamed up with the author of The Neverending Story on this one instead; I wanted it to go on and on.

In 1986 I had the privilege of attending one of her shows. I'd always been a fan, since the time she was on The Muppet Show in the late Seventies, I guess, although it seems like there was never a time in my life when she wasn't present. Seeing her genius (and hearing that laugh!) in person was the ultimate thrill. I've always wanted to be a standup comedian (and I may yet do it, if I can get over the stage fright) but she did it at a time when women simply didn't do such things. Yet she bears no obvious bitterness; unlike Joan Rivers' Enter Talking, which is better written, but also much more bitter.

Miss Diller's message is overwhelmiingly, almost overbearingly, positive. Having triumphed over a difficult childhood, less-than-perfect looks, and criminal taste in men, with persistence and humour she turned all her lemons into lemonade. By being able to make others laugh at the mess of her life, she has also been able to laugh at it as well. The book flits from high to high, stopping occasionally to ponder a darker moment, but never staying long.

Like A Lampshade in a Whorehouse doesn't belong on the shelf with the memoirs; it belongs with the self-help books, except that it succeeds where many of those well-meaning works fail. Miss Diller's brand of help is effective mainly because she's already tried it on herself, and her life is proof enough that it works.

The next time I find I'm taking my own "problems" so seriously, all I have to do is crack this one open again and make myself read until I've lightened up.

Gawd, I hope there's a sequel...
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Books Wormed: "Michael Tolliver Lives" by Armistead Maupin

Back in the day - this was right after I came out, so I'm going to say the late Cretaceous - Armistead Maupin showed me the way.

I don't mean he gave me directions, per se, like to the nearest supermarket. But he did show me that the easiest way to be the best gay man I could be was to be the best person I could be. This was sort of a revolutionary ideology, especially in an era fraught with identity politics and the kind of militancy that tends to erode manners.

I could have very easily fallen into that trap myself back then, and become an activist with a vengeance. Hell, I already had the vengeance, and there are days even now when I find myself idly contemplating what Queer Nation and al-Qaeda could offer each other. Fortunately I got good counsel early on and instead emerged from the outrage of youth as more or less a humanist, if a cynical and misanthropic one.

In the Tales of the City series of books generally, and in the character of Michael Tolliver specifically, Maupin's own humanism is key in helping his characters to overcome whatever rage or frustration needs to be overcome. Not knowing the man, I can only conclude from his writing that he must be a very warm, caring person indeed, since every page he's ever written seems to radiate compassion and kindness.

When I found out about this book being published, the bulk of my elation at the news was that it would be about Mouse (as he was known); maybe it was because we had the same name, but Mouse was always my favourite character. Over the course of six books, which I first read one after the other in 1989 and have reread in the same way half a dozen times since then, Mouse goes through a lot, yet doesn't ever let himself get down for long. This in itself is a feat that I have until recently felt was possible only in a work of fiction.

In Michael Tolliver Lives Maupin is still showing me the way. Now, though, instead of how to be young, the lessons to be gleaned from him are more related to being old. Youth, as difficult as it was, seems easy when compared to ageing, especially in a gay context.

I don't yet have the vocabulary to talk about growing older without sounding negative, and it'll take more than a single novel (no matter how great) to change that. In this book Michael's new boyfriend Ben is depicted as something akin to Apollo carved out of cream cheese. Maupin's real-life husband is of a similar vintage, so I'm willing to give him the benefit of the doubt that he knows what he's talking about.

But I am now and have always been skeptical about chubby chasers and Daddy's boys and bears of all kinds. While I've seen plenty of evidence that they exist, they've been darned reticent towards me, especially lately. They may exist, but nevertheless I won't believe in them until they make themselves more obvious.

While the world in which I live has given me a share of kindness and loving friendships, the gay community within it seems content - pleased, even - to see me die of unrequited love.

Then again, if Michael Tolliver can survive, maybe I can too. All I need to do is find a way to write myself a middle age with the same generosity of spirit as one Armistead Maupin.
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The Sound of Silence

Hear that? No? Ain't it grand?

The rhino upstairs - you know, the one who likes to tapdance in roller skates and never did learn to juggle those bowling balls despite all the practice - just moved out. As I am writing this I can see all her noisy stuff being loaded into a noisy van by her noisy relatives.

Maybe now I can get back to the sensation of not having any neighbours at all, just like it was in the old days.

Sweet...

Previously, on the Pop Culture Institute...

A Spot of Gratitude - Good Neighbours
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On This Day in Pop Culture (2005)

Spain legalized same-sex marriage.
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