the lost man chronicles
the daily chronicle
So, I ‘ad a bit of erbal remedy, and I’m a lil’ bit ratted, so me peeps is wrecked—a’ight?!
“Ali asks stupid questions,
they attempt to provide intelligent answers.”
~ Amazon Editorial Review
Last night I stayed up late to watch the entire first season of the infamous Ali G Show. Six raucous, ribald ‘n racy, gut-wrenching, mind-bending, crazeee! conscientious conscience-twisting episodes in all.
I indulged with the help of my little friend, monsieur petard, señor pitillo, and a generous glass of tall buffalo grass flavored polish vodka that I special ordered and picked up on my way home from the local liquor barn.
I would not say that I was exactly wasted, but the soothing combination of sensimilla and Zubrowka opened up my senses wide enough so that I could relish Ali G and all his sadistic complexity, one which beguiles naïve complicity and makes asses of the wise. His wayward and impudent comedy cuts through our smug presumptions of what is and what ain’t, slicing mercilessly into comfort zones with a serrated edge and a saucy swath of spray paint over the Assumption of what we thought was an inviolable inner sanctum.
So this morning, walking about on three hours of half-high, half-inebriated sleep, my eye sockets feel a little like someone scratched them out with sandpaper. However, this innocuous reeling, this harmless gritty feeling, was well worth it.
The flava’ of Ali’s pranks are quite akin to Howard Stern’s own controversial antics, poking fun of anyone, especially those who philosophize, proselytize or practice a quiet faith zealously: priests, kind old ladies from down south, homophobes, fashion sycophants, money moguls, and all sorts of pretentious other wanna-bes—along with a slew of unsuspecting ordinaries which wee city folk are often compelled to belittle because of their simple honesty and lack of cynicism—all these and more were indiscriminately discriminated against in one bawdy manner or another by good ol’ Ali G.
However, what is most impressive was-is his ability to gain access and to be granted an audience with ultra-conservative and utterly earnest emissaries. The unfettered entree is as mind-blowingly amazing as David Blaine’s illusions are magical.
I watched in awe while he boldly pulled the wool over the eyes of Apollo 11 astronaut Buzz Aldrin; U.S. Senator Newt Gingrich, Speaker of the House of Representatives; former UN Secretary General Boutros-Boutros “Boutros” Ghali; National Security Advisor and retired General Brent Scowcroft; business magnate and host of the hit show The Apprentice, Donald Trump; the former Surgeon General, Dr. Everet Koop; former presidential candidate for the Green Party and all-around super consumer advocate, Ralph Nader; as well as James Lipton, the thespian’s best friend and the lisping host of Bravo’s Inside the Actors Studio. By the end of each discussion he succeeds in digging in to these luminaries in ways that no man has ever tried before: He calls Buzz “Buzz Lightyear,” makes a mockery of Newt by having him slowly spell his name, and gets both Lipton and Nader to rap.
Moreover, it was an amusing challenge to watch him as he jerks well-known people around, irking them with utterly inane questions that raucously undermine the serious reputation of the status quo. Unaware of the ruse, almost all of those who are victim to his wily interviews fall into a pit of irony that poses their circumstantial ignorance and gullibility against the belligerent and brilliantly feigned naïveté of Sir Ali G, inquisitor for the lil’ people. With great big balls he bangs bravely at the gravitas of others who with grave prejudice seem quite unaware that he is only misbehaving.
Dressed in wolves clothing as a hip-hop wanna-be, sporting a heavy load of bling-bling and the sort of sporting thing that gets one on the cover of a rap album, Ali G comes off as a spokesman for the masses of disenchanted youth. Apparently this effigy of ghetto truth is so convincing that his subjects buy his intentions in good faith and play into his act magnificently.
After only a few episodes though, his brash brand of humor begins to grate a bit and weighs as heavy as dyschezia (sittin’ shit) upon the soul. His insolent trampling of others’ stern sensibilities can easily make most woozy, and a few others giddy with envy because he is so wickedly out-of-control.
So, I suppose there is some TV worth watching after all. Especially if it makes you think and wonder while chuckling your ass off in awe of artful artifice. If it vies to penetrate the sanctity of our stagnant thoughts, as well as pushes against the walls of immunity that we erect to protect the pundits of popular morality—then I’ll concede that indeed its worth sacrificing a lil’ shut eye over.
Lenny: "The "what should be" never did exist, but people keep trying to live up to it. There is no "what should be," there is only what is."
Bill:"It depends on what the meaning of the word 'is' is. If the--if he--if 'is' means is and never has been, that is not--that is one thing. If it means there is none, that was a completely true statement."
Lenny: "If you can take the hot lead enema, then you can cast the first stone.'
Bob: "But I would not feel so all alone, everybody must get stoned."
Bill: "I experimented with marijuana a time or two. And I didn't like it, and I didn't inhale and never tried it again."
Lenny: I said "cast a stone, can" not "let’s get stoned, man."
Bill: "I did not have sex with that woman, Ms. Lewinsky."
in the beginning .00 daily archives