The Room

In addition to violating most of the rules of competent film making, The Room (2003) also violates Aristotle’s law of noncontradiction. It is both really bad and really good at the same time. In fact, the reason why it is so good is because of how really bad it is. Here is a film whose success rests precisely on its failure and whose failure is its success. By ignoring most of the advice for good story telling delineated by Aristotle thousands of years ago in Poetics, writer/director Tommy Wiseau has created an inadvertent masterpiece whose grand achievement is made clear by the effects it produces in audiences. The proof of the film’s worth is in the pudding. Each month hundreds of people repeatedly attend midnight screenings of The Room in order to participate in a ritual of group catharsis that Aristotle would, I think, be forced to admit is a symptom of some sort of aesthetic achievement.

I, my wife and some friends tried to get in to see The Room one Saturday night last month, but were turned away because the show was sold out. This surprised and intrigued me, so I made sure to buy advanced tickets for the next midnight screening the following month.

This time, arriving at the Clay Theatre in San Francisco about 30 minutes early, we encountered a huge mob of people, engulfed in a billowing cloud of marijuana smoke, milling around on the sidewalk socializing. The atmosphere was boisterous but good natured and friendly. Many of the attendees, in addition to being stoned, were obviously also very drunk. When we took our seats in the fully-filled movie theater, a group of young women seated behind us yelled in uninhibited inebriation, their shrieks nearly piercing our eardrums. “I want nachos,” one of them moaned. “This is a Landmark Theater, not Cinemark!” her friend chastised. “They don’t serve nachos.” Yes, this was obviously a classy place. No nachos here.

Before the film, a black-clad, rocker host gave a short introduction, asking that attendees refrain from throwing objects at the screen during the show and warning that there would be no refunds for any reasons whatsoever. He then chose 5 young men from the audience to participate in a contest in which they did their best impressions of Johnny, the main character in The Room. “You’re tearing me apart, Lisa!” each of them exclaimed in turn, clenching their fists and staring skywards in emulation of Johnny’s wooden acting. Prizes were distributed (a rubber duck, a poster, a small statue) and then the movie began.

In Poetics, Aristotle outlined the necessary elements for successful dramas. According to his account, all dramas are forms of artistic mimicry, with comedies mimicking ridiculous people while tragedy mimics the actions of noble people.  The goal, in both cases, is to produce catharsis in the audience; a purging of emotion that occurs when audiences either laugh or cry. A good comedy causes laughter and a good tragedy provokes tears.

The way that catharsis is produced is through the skillfulness with which the author of a drama balances a number of structural elements. A drama must be well organized, having a beginning, middle and end. Without this, events will be chaotic, the audience will become confused, and thus they will not be emotionally absorbed in the story. The plot should also be of the correct magnitude, not too long or too short, but lengthly enough to be interesting and not so lengthly that it cannot be “taken in by memory” [Poetics 1451a5]. An audience member should be able to hold the entire trajectory of the plot in his or her mind so that it can be appreciated as an entirety. Furthermore, the events in the drama should unfold according to the rules of probability, otherwise things will appear logically implausible and thus fail to evoke an emotional reaction in the audience.

A quick, cursory description of the plot of The Room gives no obvious indication of its incompetence. The movie tells the story of Johnny (Tommy Wiseau), a banker who is engaged to marry Lisa (Juliette Danielle). Lisa, however, does not love Johnny, and so she seduces Johnny’s best friend, Mark (Greg Sestero). Johnny discovers the affair and ends up killing himself. The film appears to be intended as a tragedy, and insofar as it has a clear beginning, middle and end with a magnitude that can easily be encompassed in thought, Aristotle would, on the face of it, have no objections as far as this goes. It is only when trying to describe the film’s chain of events in more specific detail, however, that its sloppiness really starts to become apparent.

Johnny and Lisa live together in a San Francisco apartment, and they are frequently visited by Denny (Phillip Haldiman), a young man who Johnny apparently takes care of. Denny pops in and out of their apartment unexpectedly throughout the film for no apparent reason or purpose. In a sense he seems like the goofy neighbor in a silly TV sit-com; the one who suddenly materializes in order to utter some familiar catch-phrase that the audience chuckles at in knowing recognition. However in this movie, there is no indication that his presence is intended to be humorous. In fact, he doesn’t appear to serve any purpose in the plot at all. His character is superfluous; like a third nipple.  Nevertheless, he is also the central protagonist in another brief subplot involving a drug dealer who threatens to shoot him. This encounter, like Denny himself, appears and then suddenly disappears for no apparent reason. Thankfully – unlike Denny’s character – this story strand never reappears after it is introduced.

Then there is Lisa’s mother, Claudette (Carolyn Minnott). Claudette repeatedly appears and then suddenly disappears from the apartment giving Lisa the opportunity to complain to her again and again and again (and again and again) about how she does not love Johnny. Claudette advises her daughter to go ahead with the marriage anyway, since Johnny is rich. At one point Claudette reveals that she has breast cancer, but no one seems all that concerned. This crisis (like the one involving Denny and the drug dealer) is ignored by the characters and goes nowhere at all.

While these sorts of superfluous elements in The Room violate Aristotle’s demand that a drama be plausible and economical, with no loose ends or unresolved conflicts, it is these same glaring incongruities in the film’s plot that appeal to fans of the movie. When Denny makes his numerous unannounced appearances, veterans of The Room stand up from their seats, yelling “Where the Hell did you come from?” at the screen. When Claudette abruptly leaves after speaking only briefly with her daughter, these same folks scream, “Where are you going?” After announcing her cancer diagnosis, the audience chants, “Cancer, cancer, cancer!” during Claudette’s subsequent appearances. When Lisa confesses, yet again, to her mother that she doesn’t love Johnny, the audience screams, “You already said that!”

In addition to superfluous subplots, The Room contains a string of equally superfluous, and incongruous, scenes that follow one after the other with no logic. At one point some of the male characters appear in tuxedoes while tossing a football in a city alleyway. Why they are there is never explained. During a party scene, a character who has not previously been introduced suddenly appears to catch Lisa and Mark kissing. The audience, at this point, yells, “Who the fuck are you!” in mock confusion. Throughout the movie, various characters mysteriously rendezvous on the apartment’s rooftop patio, apparently by coincidence. Johnny, after being addressed by name in a floral shop, is then told by the florist that she didn’t recognize him. The flowers he buys from that florist, incidentally, transform in the next scene into a different bouquet.

Then there is the repetition: of over long, unappealing, unerotic sex scenes; of tracking shots of the Golden Gate Bridge; of bodies of water; of footballs being tossed between characters. The audience knows when these will occur, and they are ready. During the sex scenes, they make loud munching noises – Myowwww, myowww, myowww – mocking the sound of French kissing. During the tracking shots, they yell, “Go, go, go, go!” anticipating the camera’s arrival at the end of the bridge. In scenes where the movement from one end of the bridge to the other is not completed, they moan in disappointment, “Awwwwwww!” When the camera does victoriously reach the end of the bridge they cheer in delight, “Yahhhhhhhhh!” Whenever water appears, they chant, “Water! Water! Water! Water!” When a football appears on screen, groups of movie goers gather in the aisles and throw their own footballs back and forth. At each appearance of an odd, framed picture of a spoon that sits on a table in Johnny and Lisa’s living room, the audience yells, “Spoon!” and then lets loose with hundreds of tossed plastic spoons that fly through the air like a cloud of swarming locusts.

I found myself doubled over in laughter while watching this movie; not so much because of what was transpiring on screen, but because of how passionately members of the audience were interacting with the movie and with one another. The absurdities of The Room are endless, and the creative ways that viewers find to highlight those absurdities are absolutely hysterical. Johnny, who is supposed to be a rich and successful American banker, appears to be nothing of the sort; what with his long greasy hair, ill-fitting suit and unidentifiable Eastern European accent. When Lisa’s mother asks her daughter why she doesn’t discuss her problems with Johnny, one audience member yelled out, “Because he doesn’t speak English!” When Charlotte asks Lisa why she doesn’t listen to her mother’s advice, someone yells, “Because you’re a whore!” At any point that two characters interacted with one another in any way, someone (sometimes more than one person) inevitably yelled out, “Why don’t you just fuck already?!” Yes it was all very juvenile. Yes it was all very crude. But it was also outrageously sidesplitting.

Aristotle was an empiricist, and so he demanded that conclusions about the merits of dramatic art be supported by observable evidence. Since he claimed that the final goal of any drama is to produce a cathartic release of emotion in audiences, to determine whether any particular drama is successful or not he would want us to observe the effects produced before judging it a success or as a failure. In the case of The Room, there is nothing in its objective, formal structure alone that would indicate that it is anything but an atrocious, incompetent, ill-conceived failure. In fact, I would say that there would be very little point to watching The Room at home alone on your DVD player. What makes the film a success is the addition of a stoned, drunken crowd that is familiar with its numerous incongruities, absurdities and lack of logic. It is then that what was intended as a tragedy is transformed by the powers of the audience into a comedy. They are the true authors of this event, and it is their enthusiasm, creativity and passion that makes a midnight screening of The Room so cathartic.

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A New Semester

The Fall 2017 semester has begun at College of Marin. After a summer of relative leisure, I’m finding myself falling into some recognizable mental patterns of reflection now that I’m back in the classroom.

This semester, in addition to three sections of Introduction to Philosophy, I’m teaching Ethics, Logic, and World Religions; 18 units altogether. This is a normal load for a community college instructor, though for university instructors it seems excessively heavy. I recall, many years ago, when I was hired at my first teaching job at a community college back east, my graduate school mentor was incredulous when I told her how many units I would be carrying. She was convinced that teaching so many classes was an impossibility. Of course the difference between her position and mine is that she’s required to produce a consistent body of research while there are no such pressures on me. At the community college, the emphasis is on teaching, not research, and so most of my time is spent in the classroom or in my office preparing lectures and assignments, grading, or (more often than I like) sitting in committee meetings that go on for way too long and that accomplish way too little.

I think I would be doomed if I had to go back to working a regular 9-5 job at this point in life. I’ve become so used to the rhythm of the academic semester system that I just could not imagine working without the anticipation of midterms and finals, or the end of the semester and graduation ceremonies. These markers help to put a frame around the march of time, giving me something to look forward to and making it feel as if there is a predictable and finite span until significant goals are achieved. I like the beginning/middle/end structure of the semester. It suits my Aristotelian tastes.  Each term begins as I meet a new group of interesting (and interested) students while reconnecting with familiar ones. There is a sense of excitement about the material that we will study and the conversations that we will have. I enjoy the challenge of trying to maintain this excitement as the weeks draw on into months and the initial novelty of taking a philosophy class starts to wane for some students. It is usually around midterms that parking becomes easier to find on campus; an indication of diminished motivations and recalculated priorities. But nevertheless, as the semester races toward final exams, there is a crescendo of anticipation that seems inevitably to reinvigorate even the most lax students. They all want to finish strong, and so do I.

The fact that I’m the only full-time philosophy instructor on the College of Marin campus means that I get to schedule the times of my own classes. This is yet another aspect of my work situation that I can’t imagine giving up. While there are certain time slots that are in high demand with students, happily those are usually the very periods that I myself prefer in any case. Online classes are particularly popular, and the late morning and early afternoon on-campus classes allow a leisurely and refreshed start to the day, with time to study books that, even if I wasn’t a teacher, I would read during my free-time in any case. What other job pays you to read Plato, Nietzsche, Heidegger or Stirner? Most jobs probably discourage it!

But my greatest source of enjoyment teaching at College of Marin comes from having regular conversations about philosophy. Socrates, in his Apology, said that daily discourse about virtue is a necessary component of a life worth living, and while I have my own struggles with despair and meaninglessness, it would be much more difficult to endure these struggles without my daily conversations with students. There are mornings when I wake up gripped with fears about death and the pointlessness of doing anything at all, but then when I walk into the classroom and conversation takes off, I feel swept away by a flow of ideas and thoughts that make me forget about anything else. Often, I’m surprised (and disappointed) when the period comes to an end and I have to retreat back to my office to work in solitude on other projects. I often tell students that we are uniquely lucky to have the opportunity to discuss and entertain the most important questions of all time in our philosophy classes. Outside, in the everyday world, we are discouraged from asking these very same questions, as they are considered by many people to be troubling or useless. To me this always seemed odd and ironic. Why are the most important questions – Who am I? Why am I here? Does life have any meaning? – disparaged and dismissed by those we spend most of our waking lives talking to? Why, instead, do we spend most of our time engaged in activities that, in the grand scheme of things, really are meaningless; activities like watching stupid TV shows, shopping, surfing the internet, working at boring jobs, or making small talk? Is it because we are scared to confront the big issues? Or is it because we have allowed ourselves to be manipulated by others who want us to remain placid and complacent with the way things are?

In annoyance, I once told an advertising specialist who was designing an ad campaign for the College of Marin, “I do not teach students anything. I learn along with them.” To my surprise, I later found these words emblazoned along with my own photograph on ads that appeared in local newspapers, on the sides of local buses and on a larger-than-life-sized banner that now hangs in the College of Marin Student Center. It’s rather funny how an off-the-cuff, irritated remark could be construed as a slogan that might attract students to the school. Now that I have some distance from that remark, however, I’ve come to realize that it does honestly sum up my own attitude toward teaching philosophy. While the Truth forever slips through our grasp, it is the process of  jointly (and vainly) searching for that Truth that is important. Nothing else.

 

Cinematic Nihilism Discount Code

Cinematic Nihilism: Encounters, Confrontations, Overcomings, is scheduled for release in September. The hardcover edition is available now for preorder from Edinburgh University Press, or in the US from Oxford University Press. You can use the code from the coupon below to get a $33 discount. The softcover edition will come out next year.

Porno

I have gained a great deal of mischievous glee from telling people that lately I have spent a lot of time reading Porno. Responses to my confession have ranged from amused laugher to uncomfortable embarrassment. Upon telling this to my sister-in-law, she awkwardly wondered if I meant that I had been studying scholarly commentary on pornography. “No,” I answered. “I’ve just been looking at page after page of Porno.”

Everyone seems relieved when I go on to explain that Porno is the title of Irvine Welsh’s nearly 500 page sequel to his book Trainspotting. This, apparently, makes things more respectable, though if they were familiar with the book’s content, they might still be prone to blush. Porno is filled with explicit scenes of drug use, violence and descriptions of just about every kind of sex act that you could imagine. If books required ratings, it would earn an NC-17.

Porno is the source material for the recently released movie T2: Trainspotting, although the actual similarities between book and film are very slim. Both pick up the story of Renton, Sick-Boy, Spud and Begbie after the events of Trainspotting, but whereas the film rejoins the characters about 20 years later, the book takes place about 10 years after Renton has ripped off his buddies. The film highlights Renton, the most likable of the characters, while the book focuses more attention on Sick-Boy, perhaps the least likeable of the crew, who now prefers to be called by his given name, Simon. And while in the book the plot is driven by Simon’s plan to make and market a porno movie, in the film it is his plan to open a brothel that is central. Overall, the film and book are more different than they are similar, with the film, I think, being the superior piece of work.

The main failing of Welsh’s novel lies in how scattered and disjointed its episodes are. It is not that the book is uninteresting or boring, but rather that there are too many threads that never get tied together or fully resolved. While in the film all of the various stories have a purpose and place in the overall plot, in the book many of these same story lines are initiated, but then go nowhere, getting dropped as if they were unimportant. And this is disappointing; particularly in the case of Spud, whose failed effort to write and publish a history of Leith is transformed in the film into a really fascinating subplot that reveals important aspects of Spud’s personality, Begbie’s personality, and even, perhaps, the personality of Irvine Welsh himself. In the film, Spud’s writing project is not a history of Leith at all, but appears to be the beginning of what will eventually become the book Trainspotting. In this it is suggested that it is Spud (and not Renton) who is Welsh’s real alter ego. In Porno, nothing comes of Spud’s writing, and this intriguing subplot just fizzles, as does the subplot having to do with Renton’s troubled relationship with his Dutch girlfriend, Begbie’s inner struggles with his masculinity, and Dianne’s struggle to complete her dissertation. The film does a better job of tying up the various story threads by eliminating the superfluous ones and more deeply developing and tying together the really interesting ones.

I do love the fact that Porno begins with a quote from Nietzsche: “Without cruelty there is no festival…” This gives us an initial philosophical articulation of Welsh’s literary strategy, which is to explore and celebrate his characters by following them through the gutter, taking cruel joy in describing their participation in acts of debased sex, substance abuse and senseless violence. It is all of these things that I want in a novel about my favorite Scottish hooligans. But now that they are in their 30’s, there is a danger that they might start to grow out of their old ways. Awareness of growing old is one of the major themes in Porno, but we soon find that despite the characters’ recognition that they are no longer kids, their general patterns of behavior have not really changed. Sick Boy is still a schemer, a drug addict and an exploiter of women. The only difference is that now he fancies himself an artist, who uses his charms to make “erotic” adult entertainment. Begbie, who has just been released from prison for manslaughter, is still a thug who thinks himself superior to heroin junkies, even though his addiction to violence is perhaps even more destructive than his friends’ substance abuse. Spud now has a son, but he still cannot break his drug habit, even though it is ruining everything. All of these characters have, in a sense, started to experience the challenges of adulthood (career, prison, fatherhood), but they seem not to have learned anything, and so they endlessly repeat their past mistakes in ways that are at once revolting and hilarious. And this is precisely why I feel personally drawn to their stories. I take perverse pleasure in laughing at them, while also sympathizing with their struggles and rooting for them to overcome their defects, even though I know that they won’t.

Renton is the most sympathetic of the group, and in both the book and the film he seems to be the only one who has matured to any degree at all. He has moved away from the UK, starting a career overseas, kicking heroin, embarking on a program of physical exercise and developing a concern for his health. It soon becomes clear, however, that even in his case, he can’t resist the temptation of being drawn back into the seedy world that he fled from. He once again becomes entangled in the schemes of Sick Boy, he can’t turn his back on the self-destructive Spud, and ultimately he can’t resist the urge once again to scam his pals out of money. All the while, he anxiously tries to avoid running into Begbie, who wants to murder him.

It is the absurdity of it all that is both so funny and disturbing. I, for one, sympathize with many of the anti-establishment sentiments of the central protagonists, and in reading Welsh’s book, I find a bit of myself reflected in the histrionics, the dramas, as well as in the proclamations and smug decrees made by the book’s characters. At the same time that I see hypocrisy in each of them, I’m reminded of the same hypocrisy in myself as well. For instance, Sick-Boy’s closing monologue, as he sits next to Begbie’s hospital bed, sent a shiver of self-recognition through me:

I believe in the class war. I believe in the battle of the sexes. I believe in my tribe. I believe in the righteous, intelligent clued-up section of the working classes against the brain-dead moronic masses as well as the mediocre, soulless bourgeoisie. I believe in punk rock. In Northern Soul. In acid house. In mod. In rock n roll. I also believe in pre-commercial righteous, rap and hip hop. That’s been my manifesto. (p. 483)

In reading this I tremble in self-serious accord; and then I am reminded that not only are the characters laughable, but so am I.

There are some of us who criticize the pointlessness of capitalism and of consumer culture while still participating in patterns of behavior that reinforce empty and meaningless excess, indulgence and consumption. “Cigarettes, alcohol, heroin, cocaine, speed, poverty and media mind-fucking: capitalism’s weapons of destruction are more subtle and effective than Nazism’s and he’s powerless against them,” (p. 384) Renton says of Spud at one point. But he is really talking about himself and all of the rest of us who express antiestablishment sentiments while still participating in ways of life that are no less absurd than anyone else’s.

People are trapped, as Renton says, “consuming shite that does them no good at all, often just because they can.” (p. 408) The “shite” he is referring to could be drugs, porn, consumer products, poetry, literature, violence, movies, fame, power, a career, or a family. The absurd tragedy of it all is that even though nothing is all that important, you have to do something to fill up the time that you are alive. Heroin or fine wine? Porn or fine art? Punk rock or symphony orchestras? Anarchy or totalitarianism? Communism or Capitalism? The freedom to choose is endless.

Choose Life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television, choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol, and dental insurance. Choose fixed interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisurewear and matching luggage. Choose a three-piece suit on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the fuck you are on Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pissing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked up brats you spawned to replace yourselves. Choose your future. Choose life… But why would I want to do a thing like that? I chose not to choose life. I chose somethin’ else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you’ve got heroin? (Trainspotting, 1996)

George A. Romero 1940-2017

George A. Romero died on July 16th, 2017 of lung cancer. He was 77 years old.

In a world where the term “icon” is often thrown around too loosely, Romero is an artist to whom the designation truly fits. Best known for his cycle of “Dead” films – Night of the Living Dead, Dawn of the Dead, Day of the Dead, Land of the Dead, Diary of the Dead, and Survival of the Dead – Romero established a new, modern zombie mythos that has had an enormous effect on contemporary pop culture.

Romero’s work extended beyond the zombie genre, however, including such films as There’s Always Vanilla, Knight Riders, Martin, and Monkey Shines. Whatever subject matter he worked with, Romero’s standpoint was always subversive. He had a contentious relationship with mainstream Hollywood, preferring to make most of his films independently. Regardless of whether he was working within or outside of the system, Romero always brought an outsider’s perspective to his movies; a perspective that was sympathetic to the oppressed and the marginalized. His films championed minorities, women and the disabled, placing them in central, heroic roles that allowed for the demonstration of their strength and potency, even if ultimately their stories ended in tragedy.

Although his films were always critical of racism and consumer culture, increasingly, toward the end of his career, Romero’s perspective became more and more cynical concerning humankind and the fate of the world. In films like Land of the Dead, he imagined a world in which the rich cruelly exploit and dominate the poor. Diary of the Dead ends with the narrator posing the question of whether or not humanity is worth saving at all, while in his final film, Survival of the Dead, Romero depicts an assortment of entirely despicable humans, stubbornly feuding and fighting with one another over nonsense. As he neared the end of his life, Romero’s outlook became progressively bleaker and more dark, with humankind, rather than undead zombies, playing the part of villains.

Night of the Living Dead played regularly on a local late-night program called Creature Features when I was a kid. It took me a few tries to work up the courage to watch the movie all the way through, but once I did, I was hooked. The world that Romero created in this film was intriguingly bleak and strange in comparison to most mainstream horror films. The African-American hero was strongly sympathetic, but ultimately flawed and misguided in many of the decisions that he made throughout the movie. The ending was depressing, offering no hope or redemption. There was no real explanation for the terrifying course of events depicted, and everyone that we were led to care about died in horrible ways. This was not Hollywood film making.

About 10 years later, in 1979, Romero made Dawn of the Dead, the follow up to Night of the Living Dead. I was a freshman in high school at the time, and I recall being so excited about the release of this film that by sheer force of will I overcame a fairly severe cold so that I would not be kept from going to the opening night screening, which took place at some sketchy movie theater in South San Francisco. Dawn of the Dead was released without an MPAA rating, a rebellious move on Romero’s part, motivated by his displeasure at initially being awarded an X rating for violence. His decision to release DOTD unrated meant that most mainstream theaters would not exhibit the film, almost assuring financial suicide. Nevertheless, against the odds, DOTD became both a financial and critical success. Romero’s mix of extreme gore and social commentary set an example that has been copied and developed (in both the movies and on TV) ever since. His success at releasing his film unrated also encouraged others to resist the taken for granted authority of the MPAA.

One of my prized possessions is a hand written letter I received from George Romero in response to a fan letter I sent him after I saw Dawn of the Dead for the first time. In it he answered my questions about the film, expressing a nihilistic sentiment that has stayed with me and influenced my own perspective over the years. In response to my curiosity about the cause of the zombie epidemic he replied, “…the cause doesn’t matter, since it is beyond the realm of human understanding anyway.” Quite right. We constantly try to master our world through the explanations offered by religion and science, but we often forget that the world as a whole far exceeds the power of human understanding. Our hubris always comes back to bite us, like the zombies in Romero’s movies.

I learned about Romero’s death when my wife and I were chatting with a friendly rockabilly clerk at the local supermarket. When he mentioned Romero’s passing, I was stunned, and I told our clerk that he had instantly ruined my day. After confirming that the report was true, I was overwhelmed with a mood of quiet melancholy that lasted the rest of the evening. My entire life has been lived during a time when Romero was also alive and actively making art. Now that he is gone it just reinforces the reality that a whole generation of cultural innovators is aging and moving toward death. In fact, my wife later informed me that Martin Landau also died on the same day as Romero.

Soon, they will all be gone.

Playing at being a zombie on the escalator at the Monroeville Mall.

The Pukes

The Pukes were one of the great Marin punk bands from the early 1980’s. There is very little online information about them, but someone on Youtube has just posted their demo tape:

Headed by lead singer Ricky Paul – who would vomit on demand while performing – The Pukes regularly played at the original Sleeping Lady Cafe in Fairfax, CA, as well as at the Mabuhay Gardens in San Francisco, and at many underground warehouse shows and parties in and around Marin County.

Ricky committed suicide in 1984 while attending the San Francisco Art Institute. His death affected all of us young Marin punks very deeply. It was, in fact, the first time that I myself had ever experienced the loss of a friend, and it was to have a permanent effect on me. I still often think about – and miss – Ricky to this very day. He was a sensitive, friendly and very smart guy.

I have a lot of warm, hilarious memories about Ricky. There was one time when I gave him a ride home from the College of Marin and, upon dropping him off, he attacked my car with a dead tree branch that he had found lying somewhere nearby. As I tried to speed away, he jumped in front of my car, bounced off the hood and rolled off into the street, coming to rest immobile on his back. I thought I had killed him, but when I ran to his aid, Ricky jumped up, laughing. He threw his arms around me and thanked me for the ride.

My wife remembers the first time she met Ricky. She was waiting at the bus stop when he came walking by. Upon seeing a fellow punk, Ricky greeted her, shouting “Hey! Punk rock!” He then sat down and offered to share his lunch with her: a tuna fish sandwich that he had carried to school.

A friend who knew Ricky, but had never seen him perform, attended a show at the Sleeping Lady Cafe one night. This friend was unprepared for the vomit launch that occurred about halfway through the set. He turned white and fled the club, later telling me that he would never be able to look at Ricky the same way again.

The Pukes continued on after the loss of Ricky, with Walter taking over as lead singer. Walter was a unique character, hilarious in a way different from Ricky. He fronted the “New” Pukes for quite some time, playing lots of shows with Sacripolitical in Marin and in San Francisco.

A memorial gathering took place in honor of Ricky at the Sleeping Lady Cafe after his death. Sacripolitical played, and just about every punk in Marin attended. People shared memories, tears and grief. For some of us who had personal grudges against one another, this was an opportunity to come together, forget old feuds, and affirm our solidarity in Ricky’s memory. We all loved him.

The Pukes @ College of Marin. 1983? Ricky Paul on the microphone.