There are several different lists of the greatest films ever made (the American Film Institute's is the best known), and most of these lists consistently rank films like Citizen Kane, The Godfather, or Casablanca as the best film of all time. While I have absolutely no problem with any of these films, their selection is just a bit too predictable and safe for my liking. If I was asked to pick the great work of celluloid, I would have to go with something a bit more eclectic and interesting. For many years my own list included such questionable films as They Shoot Horses, Don't They?, Lovers and Other Strangers, and The Apartment. Now I found a film that I think rightly deserves to be called THE GREATEST FILM OF ALL TIME.

What is this cinematic masterpiece, you may be wondering? It's actually a film that didn't do very well when it first came out in 1998. In fact, many critics at the time panned it and most movie goers didn't even notice it. The film turned out to be a money loser for a pair of brothers whose previous films were often hailed as cinematic masterpieces. The general consensus was that the film was lightweight - fun, but lacking any sort of real depth.

Turns out that everyone at the time was completely wrong about this film. In fact, the first time I saw this movie, I didn't think very much of it at all. Sure I laughed at a few of the more obvious jokes, but the film left virtually no discernible impression on me. I barely thought about it at all until just recently when I was looking for something mindlessly diverting to watch and decided to rent it on Netflix. I was probably in a more expansive state of mind at the time, because the second time I watched this film I was absolutely enraptured by it. Every line was poetry to me, every performance in the film flawless, the cinematography breath-taking, the direction sublime.

So what is this film, you are probably itching to know by now? It's The Big Lebowski, written and directed by Joel and Ethan Cohen, the creators of such outstanding films as Fargo, O Brother Where Art Thou?, and Raising Arizona. Fargo, released in 1996, was such a quirky, original film that it is hardly surprising that The Big Lebowski, which was made only two years later, would seem almost trivial in comparison. That is indeed unfortunate, because, while Fargo was brilliant in its portrayal of the banality of evil, The Big Lebowski is actually the ultimate existential film.

The premise of the movie is actually quite simple: Jeffrey Lebowski (aka "The Dude") is a total slacker, concerned only with bowling and getting stoned. His life is turned upside down when he is mistaken for another wealthy Lebowski (the "Big Lebowski" of the title), whose wife owes money to a local pornographer, Jackie Treehorn. Treehorn's thugs commit the ultimate act of desecration when they urinate on the Dude's favorite rug - a rug which "really tied the whole room together." Egged on by his moronic friend, Walter Sobchak, the Dude attempts to get the Big Lebowski to make restitution for his soiled rug. The rest of the film involves the Dude getting increasingly intertwined in the mystery concerning the possible kidnapping of Lebowski's trophy wife, Bunny, and the delivery of ransom money to the kidnappers.

The plot in this film is almost irrelevant, because the Cohen brothers' whole point is to capture the fundamental absurdity of the human condition. The Dude just wants to get through life as comfortably as possible, but life keeps throwing stumbling stones in his path. I believe that he represents the ultimate ideal of Buddhist enlightenment: the man who refuses to get caught up in vain, worldly desires and therefore is impervious to the effects of karma. The Dude is the Bodhisattva of ultimate wisdom and compassion.

The Dude can be contrasted with Donny, who is "out of his fucking element" (i.e., unconcerned with the Dharma) and, even more so with Walter, whose experiences in Vietnam cause him to mistakenly believe that he can control reality. The Dude is willing to follow Walter's advice, but every time he does so, he winds up making his own life much more difficult. At the end of the movie, we come to realize that there was no kidnapping of Lebowski's wife (i.e., life is fundamentally absurd), Donny is dead, the carpet is still soiled (the reality of human suffering), but "the Dude abides" anyway (he returns to his normal state of samadhi). 

Alright, maybe I'm pushing it just a bit with my labored Buddhist interpretation of the film, but if nothing else, The Big Lebowski is a damn funny film, as the following bits of dialogue clearly demonstrate:
 
The Dude: Look, let me explain something to you. I'm not Mr. Lebowski. You're Mr. Lebowski. I'm the Dude. So that's what you call me. That or His Dudeness... Duder... or El Duderino, if, you know, you're not into the whole brevity thing.
Maude Lebowski: What do you do for recreation? The Dude: Oh, the usual. I bowl. Drive around. The occasional acid flashback.

The Big Lebowski: What makes a man, Mr. Lebowski? The Dude: Dude. The Big Lebowski: Huh? The Dude: Uhh... I don't know sir. The Big Lebowski: Is it being prepared to do the right thing, whatever the cost? Isn't that what makes a man?
The Dude: Hmmm... Sure, that and a pair of testicles.

The Dude: Walter, what is the point? Look, we all know who is at fault here, what the fuck are you talking about?
Walter Sobchak: Huh? No, what the fuck are you... I'm not... We're talking about unchecked aggression here, dude.
Donny: What the fuck is he talking about?
The Dude: My rug.
Walter Sobchak: Forget it, Donny, you're out of your element!
The Dude: Walter, the chinaman who peed on my rug, I can't go give him a bill, so what the fuck are you talking about?
Walter Sobchak: What the fuck are you talking about? The chinaman is not the issue here, Dude. I'm talking about drawing a line in the sand, Dude. Across this line, you DO NOT... Also, Dude, chinaman is not the preferred nomenclature. Asian-American, please.
The Dude: Walter, this isn't a guy who built the railroads here. This is a guy...
Walter Sobchak: What the fuck are you...?
The Dude: Walter, he peed on my rug!
Donny: He peed on the Dude's rug.
Walter Sobchak: Donny you're out of your element! Dude, the Chinaman is not the issue here!

Who but the Cohen Brothers could possibly come up with dialogue as nutty and absurd as this? Every minute of the film is punctuated by incredible dialogue like this, delivered perfectly by phenomenal actors like Jeff Bridges, John Goodman, Steve Buscemi, and especially, John Turturro, who I believe deserved an Academy Award for his portrayal of The Jesus. Three or four minutes of screen time in total and Turturro creates one of the most memorable characters in film since Scarlett O'Hara. If that kind of performance doesn't merit an Academy Award, then I can't imagine what does!

You can keep all those trite, predictable films that typically are considered "masterpieces of cinema." When I want to watch a damn flawless piece of movie magic, it is going to be The Big Lebowski or nothing. The Dude abides, man.

Last night order was reestablished in the cosmos and the celestial choir was singing in praise of the genius of the human species. Last night the fifth magical season of Jersey Shore premiered on MTV.

It was a very long time coming—over six months, in fact. Far too long for me to go without what has become the ultimate guilty pleasure in my life.

Fortunately, our heroes and heroines of the Garden State managed to endure the trauma of having to spend an entire season in an utterly horrible place like Florence, Italy. How they were able to survive all those months without the benefits of proper American-style gyms, tanning salons, and guido hair stylists is anyone’s guess. But survive they did, and now Snooki and the gang are back where they belong—in the great utopia of southern New Jersey.

There was certainly quite a lot of drama in the fourth season of the show: Snooki hooked up with Mike (and Vinny?) and was witnessed in flagrante delicto by Mike’s best bro “The Unit” (How do they come up with theses names, anyway?). Naturally, Snooki wanted to keep all this dirt from her dim-witted Jersey boyfriend back home, Jionni, and the rest of her housemates. But Mike—drawn as ever to conflict—made it a point to share the gory details of their “smooching” to anyone who would listen (immense conflict ensued). Meanwhile, Mike got into a brawl with muscle-bound Ronnie, who himself continued to abuse his long-suffering former girlfriend, Samantha. Not wanting to be left out of the limelight, Deena embraced the “love that dare not mention its name” in an attempt to show that she was at least as much fun as her pal Snooki. While all this went on, Vinny and Paulie continued their long-standing “bromance,” but had much more difficulty hooking up with non-“grenades” than they did back at home.

The fifth season of the show certainly didn’t disappoint this Jersey Shore fanatic. Vinny cried, Jwoww philosophized, Ronnie showed off his muscles, and Mike—aka “The Situation”—continued to plot, scheme, and generally make himself despised by the rest of the cast. The guys meanwhile settled right back into their usual ritual of GTL (gyms, tanning, and laundry), had their hair cut in proper guido style, and immediately went cruising for willing Jersey girls in GTF (grenade free America).

The plot-twist in the season premiere had to do with Mike egging on The Unit to inform Jionni about Snooki’s infidelities overseas, while at the same time trying to convince Snooki that he was over his addiction to drama. Vinny meanwhile is feeling blue because he misses his chubby Italian momma, but fortunately has his best bro, Pauly, to look out for him. The depth of the relationship that these two have is indicated by the fact that Pauly is willing to forget about hooking up for an entire evening to minister emotionally to his friend. As he so aptly puts it, “Bros before hoes.” Of course, this doesn’t stop Pauly from acquiescing to Ryder’s carnal invitation, although, once again he views this in a moral framework: “Ryder's looking good tonight, but she already had sex with Vinny. And I'm not really cool with Vinny's sloppy seconds, so I don't really know what to do with her. But, I don't want to be rude.” Let’s just say that he quickly gets over his reticence about going where so many other men have gone before.

All in a day’s work!

What accounts for the popularity of Jersey Shore? It can’t just be the tackiness and vulgarity of the stars, because there are an infinate number of reality shows featuring even more perverse individuals (ever watch any of the Real Housewives shows?). I also don’t think that Americans are hooked on the show because, as some have suggested, it is a kind of morality play, where we all look forward to seeing vicious behavior ultimately punished. As anyone who has ever seen the show knows, bad behavior on Jersey Shore is never really punished. If it were, then Snooki would be dying of cirrhosis of the liver and The Situation would have been murdered by one of his housemates long ago.

No, I think that we watch the show because it actually reflects American values and ideals in a way that no other show ever has. As Bill Maher once put it, there are only three main problems with Americans: we’re lazy, selfish, and stupid. And nowhere else on television are these three qualities better exemplified than on Jersey Shore.

Here’s a little test to prove my point: imagine that you could have a life that involved working only a few hours per week in a job for which you could never be fired. The rest of your time would be spent tanning, working out, eating, drinking, and hooking up with (mostly) attractive people. You could behave anyway you want, break any cultural taboos you feel like, act on all your most base impulses if you desire, and no one would hold it against you (not for very long anyway). Best of all, you would be paid a ridiculous amount of money for all of this, so you could continue to live this way for the rest of your life, if you wanted to.

What American wouldn’t jump at an offer like this?

All this talk we keep hearing about family values and Christian ideals from right-wing politicians and pundits is just that—talk. When we look at the way Americans actually live, the values are virtually the same as you’d find on Jersey Shore. A little less extreme, perhaps, but basically the same. In those “red” states, where people keep talking about wanting to return to traditional morality, there is just as much promiscuity, whoring, drug use, alcoholism, adultery, abortion, and the like, as there is in the “blue” states. Actually, data shows that inhabitants of the red states in the Bible Belt partake of these immoral pleasures to an even greater degree than their so-called decadent counterparts on the coasts.

So much for decent Christian values!

So, I think that we watch Jersey Shore primarily because it offers a confirmation of our own American ethos: pursue pleasure as often as you can, get rich quickly, think only about yourself, and don’t ever worry about the consequences of your actions. We watch the show and we feel better about how vacuous and immoral our own lives are. As bad as we may be in terms of our own lives, at least we’re not a Snooki, Deena, or Mike (aka The Situation).

And that’s gotta count for something, doesn’t it?

Sometimes madness comes upon a man and he is caught completely unaware; other times, cruel fortune allows a man to witness his own descent into lunacy.

I find myself currently in the latter predicament. I can see the last shreds of my sanity slipping away as I fight the ugly, obsessive refrain that keeps popping into my head at all hours of the day and night.

What is this horrific refrain, you might be wondering? Is it some kind of Santeria jingle that makes me want to engage in ritual animal sacrifices? Is it the haunting lyrics of a Siren’s song threatening to crash the tender ship of my soul upon rocky shores (nice metaphor, huh?)?

If you really must know, the refrain that is driving me to the brink of insanity is the music to one of the most vapid, insipid, maudlin songs of my early adolescence. And it’s taking over my mind.

In case you weren’t around, 1977, when I had the misfortune to be entering my teenage years, was the single ugliest year in the entire history of the human race. “What?” you are probably thinking, “uglier than 1968, when both Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy were killed, when the Vietman War was entering it’s most violent period with the Tet Offensive, and when race riots were breaking out all over the country? Worse than 1348, when the Bubonic Plague broke out killing over one-third of the population of Europe?”

Yes, 1977 was infinitely worse.

In 1977 Jimmy Carter was President, everyone was listening to disco and wearing polyester and bell-bottoms, there was a heroin epidemic in the United States, and Star Wars had completely destroyed the thought-provoking movie industry of the early ‘70s. 1977 was, without a doubt, the low-point of a decade that itself was probably the ultimate low-point in human history.

1977, in case you are interested, was also the year that Dan Hill released the song, “Sometimes When We Touch.” And, not surprisingly, given just how horrific the state of music was at the time, the song eventually reached #3 on the Billboard Charts.

In 1977 I was a naïve Catholic schoolboy about to enter Cathedral Prep Seminary in Queens. I had hopes, dreams, and the prospects for a decent life. In my state of perfect innocence, I was able to suppress “Sometimes When We Touch,” focusing instead on the infinitely less decadent music of The Who. My soul, in short, remained unscathed by that vile song…until now that is.

Early last week—I don’t remember exactly when—I awoke in the middle of the night with that damnable song in my head. I tried, as best I could, to go back to sleep, but I couldn’t get the sounds of Dan Hill’s saccharin voice out of my head.

The song has now impregnated itself in my mind, and every time I think I am free of it, like a “hesitant prize fighter” I keep having to do battle with it, simply to preserve what little is left at this point of my sanity. I long for the “fear in me to subside” but I know that until I exorcise the demons that animate Hill’s song, they’ll be no peace possible for me.

I suppose I could simply try to “close my eyes and hide,” but I’ve come to the realization that the only way to achieve lasting peace for me is to attempt to deconstruct, stanza by stanza, what has to be the worst song ever written.

So, here it goes:

SOMETIMES WHEN WE TOUCH

You ask me if I love you
And I choke on my reply
I'd rather hurt you honestly
Than mislead you with a lie

The guy’s crying already and the song hasn’t even begun. What a wimp! What’s going to happen when he has to face a real crisis—death, divorce, a tax audit, a receding hair line, Jennifer Lopez’s next movie?

And does he really think that she’d prefer to be “hurt honestly” than to be misled with a lie? Everyone prefers a pleasant lie to painful honesty. He’s really suffering from some serious delusions here!

And who am I to judge you
On what you say or do?
I'm only just beginning to see the real you

He’s been judging her right from the beginning of the song. He’s already inferred that she is the kind of weak-willed, mamby-pamby, shallow sort of creature that can’t possibly handle the truth. I don’t know about you, but if people thought that of me, I’d be pretty pissed! Maybe she really is completely vacuous. Why else would she stay with such a complete and total loser?

And sometimes when we touch
The honesty's too much
And I have to close my eyes and hide

This is the refrain that keeps popping into my head, like some kind of virulent pestilence. I have so many questions about these lines that there isn’t enough space on all the Blogger sites ever created to do justice to my queries.

Why, for example, is this guy concerned about honesty when he’s engaged in frottage (look it up) with his girlfriend? It could be that he’s a philosopher, but even philosophers put aside their quest for the truth every now and then when other more interesting possibilities present themselves (wink! wink!). This would be one of those rare occasions when I would encourage just about everyone to forget the truth for a little while and focus on the task at hand (so to speak).

And, if he really is concerned about honesty, then why is he closing his eyes and hiding? Shouldn’t his eyes be wide open if he really wants to perceive the truth? So many contradictions!

I wanna hold you til I die
Til we both break down and cry
I wanna hold you till the fear in me subsides

“I wanna hold you till I die”??? Isn’t this a bit extreme? Wouldn’t it be better for him to hold her until she dies. Then he can get on with his life and find another woman who doesn’t make him cry so much.

“Til we both break down and cry”??? Again with the crying! And now they’re both crying (Maybe it would be better if these two just called it a day and tried to find other partners who were more upbeat). Of course, this could just be his fantasy: what guy, after all, doesn’t dream about holding onto his girlfriend and crying with her. Sounds like a hoot to me!

“Till the fear in me subsides”??? What the hell is he so damned afraid of anyway? Never in the entire history of recorded music has a nervous nellie like this been a protagonist in a love song. Did people really make-out to music like this in the 1970s? If they did, it’s no wonder that the birth rate dropped so precipitously at the time. Perhaps the Catholic Church should have been more concerned about the music of Dan Hill in 1977 than it was about the use of birth control. The effects of the two on procreation were probably just about the same.

I could go on like this forever, but then you’d miss the unique pleasure involved in listening to “Sometimes When We Touch” for yourself. Just be warned, however, that, once you hear this song, you will never—and I really mean never—be able to get it out of you head again.

Don’t say that I didn’t warn you!

I came across an interesting editorial in the August 14th New York Times  Sunday Review, entitled, "The  Elusive Big Idea." The gist is that there are no more big theories, big  ideas, or big visions, because we are living in a "post idea" world. In the age  of Twitter and Facebook -- the so-called  "Information Age" -- people are looking for small bits of titillating  information, not nasty, messy, complex, abstract ideas. In short, the  enlightenment is dead and buried, and with it the appreciation for man's ability  to use reason to make sense of his world. 

This may not mean very much to  some people -- no-nothing Presidential candidates, for example -- but it should  trouble those of us who care about the future of the planet. Rarely before in  human history has our species been confronted by so many interconnected global  problems that threaten our continued existence on Mother Earth: climate change,  peak oil, a global economic meltdown, species extinction, political and  religious extremism, and the prospect of Michelle Bachman as a presidential  candidate, to name but a few. These issues are difficult to solve precisely because they are the result  of our human and planetary interconnectedness--something that is a  relatively new phenomenon in human history. The global nature of these problems  also means that we either solve them together or we go down in  flames together.

But to solve problems like these, you need people trained to think  critically, rationally, and conceptually. We need people, in other words, who  know how to do THE BIG IDEA thing. And that's something we  don't have any  longer. Sure, we all know everything about Lady Gaga's latest fashion  escapades, but that sort of information is not going to prevent sea levels from  rising and swamping countries like Bangladesh.

Now higher education has  failed completely to help train a future generation of big thinkers. During the   past thirty years, we've abandoned the liberal arts in favor of vocational and technical educational models that do little more than reinforce student's  fixation on information over ideas. The marginalization -- or wholesale elimination -- of  philosophy from most many college's requirements, in particular, means that the  next generation of movers and shakers won't be provided with the intellectual  tools they need to engage in the sort of rational thinking that can help solve  some of our most pressing global problems.

Do I have hopes that this  situation will change any time soon? Probably not. The Information Age is here  to stay and with it social networking programs that are rewiring our brains for  the worse. And, given the  sort of people who are in charge of our education  system in this country, it seems unlikely that solutions will be coming out of  higher education. The only solution that I can conceive -- if, indeed, there  even is a solution at this point -- is for individual human beings, alone  or in small groups with other like-minded individuals, to commit themselves to  lives of intellectual engagement. Here are my recommendations for those who are  interested in  maintaining their capacity for rational thought at a time when  most human  beings seem to be losing theirs:

1) Delete your Facebook and  Twitter accounts and limit your cellphone use. 

2) Learn how to be lazy.  Spend a minimum of 1 hour a day engaged in idle day-dreaming. It sure worked  like a charm for Einstein and Edison!

3) Read great works all the time  (start with Homer and work your way to a Confederacy of Dunces) .

3) Write  something every day. Keep a journal, maintain a blog like this one, or write  your own book. It doesn't matter about the quality of what you write or who  appreciates it or not. Just keep writing.

4) Major in philosophy, or at  least dual major in it, or at least take some classes in the subject.

If  you do  all this, when the Long  Emergency that James Howard Kunstler prophesizes about happens, you  will be in a position to offer the kind of visionary leadership that the world  will sorely need. And, even if we don't have a kind of nasty planetary  cataclysm, you will certainly be much better off than those  sorry individuals who think  that the quality of a person's life is measured by the number of their tweets.

From the Writing of Alcibiades J. Grunthaler:

There are those who believe that there is an unlimited amount of mojo in the universe and  therefore mojo depletion is of no concern. They could not be further from the  truth.

When the Fontalis Plentitudo of Universal Mojo (FPUM) created the  current reality in which we are so blessed to inhibit, he shed his own mojo  reserves so that all who are able may partake of it. But the great Fontalis is  by no means infinite in mojosity, and therefore the sum total of all mojo in the  universe is of limited quantity.

Mojo can be measured in human beings  according to the Mojo Indicator Scale (MIS), created by the illustrious  philosopher, Rocco Capamezzo, who himself was bursting at the seams with  mojosity. The scale ranks mojo levels from 1 (total mojo depletion) to 10 (an  incarnation of the FPUM). The average male has a mojo level of approximately  3.2. Here's how certain luminaries throughout history rank on the Mojo Indicator  Scale:

George Patton (warrior) - 9.9
Pablo Picasso (artist) -  9.4
Jim Morrison (aka, Mr. Mojo Risin) - 9.3
Don Hazlitt (artist) -  9.2
Theodore Roosevelt - 8.7
Bernie Sanders (politician) - 8.6
Snookie  (personality) - 8.4
Hillary Clinton (politician) - 8.2
Sara Silverman  (commedian) -7.4
Barak Obama (politician) - 2.1
Rush Limbaugh  (entertainer) - 1.3

Now, although mojo is limited in human beings, this  in no way means that mojo is static. It can be increased or diminished based on several factors, the most important of which is the other people with who we  choose to interact. There are those individuals who can be called mojo enhancers  (ME*), since interaction with such individuals almost always lead to an increase  in mojo levels. Mojo enhancers are rare, and, when you find one, make him or her  your dearest friend immediately. Such individuals can often be found in divey  bars, drinking cheep beer during happy hour and chatting with an assortment of  colorful low-lifes.

Mojo depleters (MD*), on the other hand, are fairly  common. They sap your vital energy, leaving you in such a constant state of  enervation and psychic enervation that true creativity becomes impossible. The  petty bureaucrat, the sterile administrator, the shriveled up has-been, and the  shrill know-it-all are all almost always mojo depleters. Stay far away from  them, shun them like the plague...for they will be your destruction!

Alcibides J.  Gruntaler. On the Philosophy of Mojo. 2 Vols.