Going through some of my notes (take good notes, kids. You never know when there’ll be a quiz.) Making observations. Pondering things. Coming to realizations and conclusions. Here, then, are two of them.
The modern music video was invented by the late-60’s early-70’s classic “Scooby-Doo, Where Are You?” Seriously. Remember that cartoon? The original. Not that Scrappy-Doo blasphemy. Anyway, in the second or third season, they started adding these chase scenes near the end with Scoob, Shaggy, etc. running back and forth, avoiding the “monster” by hiding in cupboards, in and out of rooms in a long hallway, running SMACK DAB INTO THE SPOOK and then turning, running in place for an agonizing second before shooting off again…and all the while, this insipid Davey Jones-style pop music played in the background. For example, fast-forward to about the :45 mark of this classic…
There wasn’t any need for this sort of montage, really, except to fill time. But the effect was solid, and the producers/directors continued using this device even into the more modern incarnations and movies, such as “Scooby Doo and the Ghoul School.” The only difference was the use of more modern pop-punk Save-Ferris rip-offs, but they’re still there. But take a moment to consider cartoons and television in general before, say, 1972. Can you imagine an episode of “Dragnet” with a long musical montage of Joe Friday kicking open doors and rousting hop-heads? (Actually, that sounds pretty awesome.) Or if that famous candy-conveyor-belt bit from “I Love Lucy” had a cool Perry Como ditty playing behind it? It just never occurred to anyone to do that. Then, about ten years later, bands started making their own Scooby-Doo chase scenes to promote their tunes; they just forgot to add Scooby-Doo. However, note that Matthew Sweet’s ‘Girlfriend’ video was almost completely re-purposed anime footage. A few years later, Mr. Sweet would cover the Scooby-Doo theme song. THAT’S what you call full circle, ladies and gents.
Another observation: I have been showing my dick to fewer and fewer people. True story. People that know me are aware that I have a penchant for showing my junk off in the most inappropriate places and at the least beneficial times. I do this primarily to shock people and to sow chaos, naturally. But recently, I just…well, haven’t had the desire. I wondered if perhaps I was growing out of my adolescence (since, you know, I’m forty-fucking-TWO now) and being responsible. But let’s be honest: it’s still me. Me and my penis. So I have two hypotheses:
ONE: Everyone in Ft. Wayne has been privy to my casual “Hey, is this gum?” trick (wherein you open your fly and pull part of your scrotum through it. Looks like pink, chewed gum at first. Watching the realization of what they’re actually seeing creep onto your victim’s faces is priceless. Hysterical.) All manner of men and women have seen my casual dangle, and so there are none left to shock. “Yeah, Turner, we know. It’s your piece. Great. Can we get back to work now?” It’s to the point that when I wear my kilt people just roll their eyes instead of fleeing in terror. In other words, the flashing of twig and berries has lost its shock value. Dammit.
TWO: I haven’t played much hockey lately. See, hockey players LOVE showing their units to anyone and everyone. I think there’s some latent homosexuality to some of it, sure. But it’s also because hockey guys LOVE chaos and pranks, and there’s no more surefire way to enjoy both than with a simple “Hey! Look what I found! ZZZZZZIIIIIPPPP” at a buddy’s wedding reception. Pure comedy. Remember Johnny Upton in ‘Slap Shot’ when forced to do the fashion show? (If you haven’t seen ‘Slap Shot’ then kindly remove yourself from my presence until you correct this. Thank you.) That movie got so much right, and the hockey/sexuality/brazen penis talk is spot-on. I think there’s also the male-domination factor. Literally, it’s dominating the other males by showing the ultimate in confidence. Letting everyone see for themselves how grand or miniscule your babymaker is. That’s a risk most won’t take, and the guy who DOES whip it out is afraid of nothing. Not your judgement, your sense of decorum, your thoughts on his girth, the authorities, the wrath of his girlfriend…nothing. It’s a big testosterone-fueled chest-thump of sorts. And since I’ve been away from hockey a bit, my instincts have waned. I’m out of shape. I’m a fat, slovenly shell of who I once was. Time to whip my dick out.