What’s more astounding, is that in order for the Jarhead to be wearing this, he actually packed it in his luggage. At some point, he had a suitcase on the bed, and said to himself, “Going off to Mexico….. socks, swimsuit, underwear – okay, where’s my “Die Like the Rest” shirt? Oh, I’m wearing it!”

This scenario strikes me on many levels. First of all, Marines are just plain crazy. They are by far the most brainwashed of all the armed forces. I know this first-hand, because my father was a Marine for about five minutes at the end of World War II, and as the stories elongate over time, I have come to realize he was single-handedly responsible for D-Day, Guadacanal, and the career of Douglas MacArthur.

It also illustrates how Americans are proudly oblivious to our reputation in the rest of the world. We have no clue about how others perceive us, from you and me, on up to the White House. While traveling overseas on assignment, I have heard plenty of feedback. A Dutch man once told me that the only time Americans learn about another country is when we start a war. A guy in France accused me and my girlfriend of being obsessed with professional wrestling. A girl in Kiev once asked me if it’s true that in the United States, only poor people eat at McDonald’s.

Wherever I go, it’s always the same: We’re the big American bullies, bombing and torturing and filling up nations with junk food and junk culture. Hey, I’m from snotty San Francisco, don’t you think I know this? Every time I think of it, I feel helpless and pissed-off. The closest emotion I can compare it to, is the feeling l get whenever my dog eats his own feces.

At some point of every day, my dog Max returns from the backyard, smacking his lips and wiggling with pride, like he just toppled Baghdad. I know the look, I know exactly what has happened. If I need further evidence, it’s all over his breath.

As with spreading democracy, there are a handful of methods my dog employs to eat his own feces. Sometimes he nibbles daintily at the turd, like an old-money socialite with a new set of dentures. Occasionally he gulps down the whole thing, like the Japanese guy in the hot dog-eating contest. And most often, he stands over the supine loaf, chewing thoughtfully and contemplating its savory goodness. It is the most disturbing thing I have ever witnessed.

I have tried all the known remedies. I have picked up all his turds in the yard. Each morning — another fresh snack. I have caught him red-handed in the act, and scolded him. He’ll stop and smile, flattered at the attention, and then sneak back later for the surreptitious junkie fix. I have tried the pills they sell in pet stores, which contain pepper extract, but to him, it’s like adding salsa to an enchilada.

Our neighbors have even said to us, “Hey, did you know your dog eats his own shit?” Obviously they think their dog is superior to ours, and it’s all I can do, to not reply, “Oh yeah, well did you know your dog barks non-stop, like a fucking idiot?”

My girlfriend tells me, “Why do you let it get to you? Why does you take it so personally?”

Because like America’s foreign policy, the shit-fest taking place in my backyard is obviously not right. Anyone can see it’s not right. There are many more civilized directions to take, more unexplored avenues, better solutions. But it just keeps happening over and over again. I’m trapped on both counts. It’s either CNN describing what we did this time overseas, or the daily scat-munch.

To learn more, I googled the term ‘shit-eating.’ The medical term is Coprophagia. Which sounds like the name of a hip new San Francisco restaurant. “Have you been to Coprophagia yet? The food is so-so — it’s like you’ve had it all before, but their wine list is fan-TAS-tic.”

Apparently Coprophagia is not uncommon in the animal kingdom. Elephants, rabbits, insects, hamsters, gorillas all eat their own feces. And most dogs, if given the opportunity, will eat the feces of other animals. It’s no coincidence that among dog owners, a cat turd, covered in litter, is referred to as “almond roca.”

My girlfriend and I try to laugh it off, and call our beagle “Shit Monkey” and “Turd Burglar,” just to add some levity to this foul habit. And I know in some ways, he can’t help it. For the first five years of his life, he was a laboratory test animal. Beagles are popular for testing because of their high threshold for pain.

In this environment, coprophagia is pretty common. When you’re being burned with blowtorches, and cosmetics and pesticides are dropped into your eyes and injected into your veins, there is some comfort in going back into your cage and eating a warm turd the precise moment it comes out of your ass. It’s like a nice cup of tea at the end of the night.

The day we got him, he was doped up, freshly castrated, and wrapped in a blanket. An accompanying sheet of paper contained a phrase straight from Mengele’s diary: “This animal is no longer of any educational use, and is therefore declared surplus.” He didn’t do anything for hours, just sat in a chair readjusting to a totally foreign situation, staring at nothing in a narcotic haze. A part of me thought, uh oh, we got a lemon here. But then I remembered — except for the castration, I felt the same way at an Aerosmith concert in 1979.

That night we happened to be watching the blaxploitation film Foxy Brown on cable. To our amazement, the beagle sat up and started watching it along with us. The movie is intensely violent – a lesbian bar brawl, shotguns and throat-slashing, Pam Grier getting raped by white supremacists, sweaty villains calling her a “big-jugged jigaboo.”

This was our dog’s first introduction to life outside of a cage. He had zero interest in us, his rescuers and caregivers. Instead, he locked into the TV screen, focusing intently on the action. We speculated on the appeal. Maybe it was the pimp-fashion plaids and stripes that caught his eye. The piercing screams, or the funky soundtrack. My girlfriend suggested he was a Soul Beagle, sympathetic to the plight of oppressed black women in 1970s urban America. He finally dozed off and didn’t wake up for two days.

We knew that in adopting a lab dog, he would be damaged. He wasn’t house-trained, he had a USDA number tattooed in his ear. He turned in circles constantly, like a con man pacing a jail cell. He had endured unimaginable horrors, just so some teenage girl could have the hot new mascara.

The next morning we went for his first walk in the park, and  being that beagles are scent hounds, this exposure to nature amounted to nothing less than a kaleidoscopic sensory overload. No more Auschwitz, every single moment another taste of freedom. This plant, that rock, the tree over there, this patch of grass, all unfamiliar smells which needed to be located, verified, and then peed upon.

I soon realized I had joined an alternative Dog World of doggy-lovers, all wearing pajamas covered in pet hair, stumbling along the dewey path for that first poop stroll of the day. Dog World is very different than conventional reality. Unlike most urban dwellers, a Dog World person is quite chatty, a relentless lawn sprinkler of over-shared information, shooting out details about their pet – the age, the breed, its favorite toys and games and treats and clothes. It’s so much, sometimes I want to ask, gee, does he lick peanut butter off your balls, too?

The more self-righteous members of Dog World will hand you a flyer about some dog injustice, or boast about their rare Uzbekistanian wolfhound, and how he was bred to not drool, and is used primarily for herding camels in the high desert, and sweats only through his tail.

Although my dog is a committed coprophage and turns in circles, in Dog World he is a trump card. A freak show survivor, the living embodiment of hateful animal testing. As soon as other dog owners learn he’s a lab dog, the conversation always turns to Max. My girlfriend and I have developed the standard response: “He was a laboratory animal for five years he lived in a cage we rescued him a year ago we think it was a lab in Palo Alto their policy is not to reveal where he’s from he walks in a circle he has a tattoo in his ear see?” It makes me sick to hear my voice repeat it over and over again. Except it always puts the wolfhound owner in his place.

I don’t mention to people that my dog eats his own shit. And I don’t talk about America when I’m in another country. Yes, they both bother me. But don’t judge me by my flag, or my dog. Sometimes I wonder, it might be a better world if my dog was President, and the government ate its own shit.

#  #  #

F-F-Fore Play

Four of us stand at the tee box, bundled up like members of Sir Edmund Hillary’s expedition. No balmy 18 holes in Pebble Beach—this is the practice day of the Drambuie World Ice Golf Championships. Here on the west coast of Greenland, 600 kilometers north of the Arctic Circle, it’s a brisk minus 50 Centigrade, including wind chill. A golfer tees off, and mutters, “It’s like hitting a bowling ball.” I trudge behind the trio and watch them spend the next 20 minutes hunting in the snow for their balls. Yesterday started in Copenhagen, and after a long journey via passenger jet, propeller plane, helicopter, and four-wheel drive truck, here’s pretty much all that I know: There are 24 of us, from eight countries, here to play ice golf atop a frozen harbor. The currency is Kroners. And there’s three ways we could die.

Underneath our golf course are breathing holes built by seals. When dusted with a layer of fine snow, such holes make perfect invisible golf hazards. A human falling into the icy water can easily get hypothermia and drown, or at least suffer permanent neurologic damage. We are to stay clear of the seal holes. The ones that are invisible. We are also to avoid the sled dogs. These huskies are nasty animals, bred with wolves to strengthen the gene pool. We are told don’t pet them, don’t even approach them. They will attack children. And if we fall down on the ice, they will attack us. Okay, so—seal holes and huskies. Check. Oh, wait, we could also get mangled by a polar bear. One week ago a hunter shot a bear just outside the village. Every vehicle I see carries a rack of high-powered rifles.

I watch the golfers worrying over their little balls, colored orange to stand out against the snow, and wonder, it would actually be kind of cool if a golfer fell into a seal hole, was attacked by huskies, and then viciously torn apart by a bear. If there’s one sport that could use some actual bloodlust, some brutal violence to counteract the pink-fingered Mama’s boy pussiness, it’s got to be golf. But Mother of God, it’s Ice Station Zebra out here. It’s so cold my pen doesn’t even work. I trot after the tournament’s reigning champion, Denmark’s Annika Ostberg, and ask how it’s going so far. “It’s just survival at this point,” she exhales.

We hop in trucks and drive back to the only hotel in Uummannaq, a town of 2,700 people and 6,000 sled dogs. Greenland’s fjord settlements have been invaded for centuries by rogue sailors and Vikings, so an incursion of golf geeks is just another curiosity among the local Inuit population. After a vigorous dinner of caribou steaks and raw whale blubber, we end up at the town’s only bar, a dive called the Parabolen. Entertainment for the night is a Bulgarian musician named Don Dimo, who sports a fantastic mane of long black hair, and strolls through the crowd playing guitar solos with great fury. It occurs to me that I’m north of the Arctic Circle, talking to a golfer from South Africa, in an Inuit Eskimo bar in Denmark-owned Greenland, watching a Bulgarian speed-metal guitarist play Spanish flamenco. The dance floor fills up for “Hotel California.” A big teenager approaches me and literally shouts into my face: “My name is Hans! You come all this way to my town! I’m so happy you are here!” So am I!

The first day of the tournament opens with services at a beautiful stone church. The golfers seem to listen reverently to the prayers, even though it’s all in Greenlandic. Maybe because after such a rough practice day, they could use the help. We ride out to the course over a kidney-jarring “road,” and the first golfers tee off to start the competition. Despite struggling with 40 pounds of extra seal fur, everyone’s scores slowly improve around the course, surrounded by a dramatic quiet of mountains and glaciers. I climb onto one of the icebergs, where the view is incredible, beautifully barren, a nuclear winter at the edge of the world. Apart from an occasional “Good shot,” the only sounds are wolf-like yowls from the huskies, which give the game a creepy Hound of the Baskervilles soundtrack.

After golfing wraps for the day, several sign up for a dogsled ice fishing tour, 12 kilometers out into the snowy mist. A typical dog team numbers 10 to 15 huskies, all producing a perpetual flatulence. We come upon a fisherman at his hole, and watch him pull up the line with his bare hands. As each fish comes up, he steps on its head, removes the hook, and tosses it onto a pile. He casually pulls out a knife, carves himself a piece of cheek from a halibut, and offers us a bloody chunk. The tail is still flopping. A few golfers turn away and gag, unable to even watch. The flesh tastes cold and very strong, and a water bottle is quickly passed around.

Next morning I wake up early and check out the village. Walking around the brightly colored houses draped with dried fish and polar bear hides, it’s very easy to forget about stupid pop culture like Britney Spears. Life here is extremely uncomplicated. People still hunt and fish for their food. Homes have no flushing toilets. Clothing is made from the fur of sled dogs. The local grocery store sells basic goods like socks, porn videos, and rifle ammunition.

We suit up in sealskins and hit the course for the final rounds. The weather is slightly warmer, which means not only is it easier to drive and putt, the ice is growing softer. Two players step into seal holes up to the knees, and a local Inuit Eskimo woman falls in up to her waist. All are quickly yanked out and rushed back to the hotel. Frostbite, but no deaths. At least this year.

Annika Ostberg wins again, with a 157 total score, and is celebrated in traditional Greenland fashion—hoisted aloft on a dog sled. Awards are presented at a dinner, and it’s back to the Parabolen bar again. The bar’s owner, a jolly man named Fritz, graciously invites us to his home for more beers after closing, and as 20 golfers settle into his living room, who pulls out a guitar? The Bulgarian, of course. Camaraderie is in the air. We didn’t freeze to death, and we weren’t eaten by animals. A Scottish golfer stands up and sings the traditional “Loch Lomond” song. A British guy starts a singalong of “Mustang Sally.” I’m feeling restless. America is not being represented here musically. After a quick conference with a golfer from Colorado, the two of us are soon leading the room in a rousing rendition of “Sweet Home Alabama.” Amazingly, everyone knows the words.

(Versions of this appeared in Travelocity and Drill magazines)

Packing Heat
A wine both guzzlers and geeks can agree on

Anyone who lives in Northern California is automatically a wine person, because of geography. And as we all know, there’s a lot of vino culture to navigate. Which wine is best with swordfish? What’s an appropriate bottle for a gift that won’t appear cheap, but is? What’s the hot new wine bar? Which wine festival? What vintage? Where? Whose wine charm is this?

Living in Wine Land can often be similar to the experience of standing in line at Starbucks, listening to some needy person waste 10 minutes of everyone’s time, ordering a coffee that looks like a milkshake. The options are endless. In all the excitement, we forget the primary purpose of both wine and coffee: Get it down your gullet. That’s why, on my deck right now, sits the Wine of Mass Destruction.

Technically it’s a 2002 Zinfandel, blended with Cabernet. But it’s best known as WMD (and unlike Iraq’s alleged WMD, it exists). No label, no numerical rating, no suggestions for food pairings. There’s not even a bottle. The WMD dispenses from a silver 5-gallon cylinder once used for soft drinks. And it tastes great. I mean, it’s a broad-shouldered red, muscular yet crafty, prevailing new wood, with forward loganberry and hopeful pear, scant juniper and top notes of cocoa. The pear is especially hopeful.

WMD does not originate from a faux-rustic winery in Sonoma, with a cutesy gift shop and tour buses in the parking lot. Nor is it the gentleman’s hobby of a retired physician eager to become famous. And, restaurants don’t offer it at a 300 percent markup. WMD comes from a far less glamorous source: an industrial park in Concord.

Beer, Beer and More Beer’s warehouse resembles an auto parts store, except instead of oil filters and fan belts, they sell fermenting tanks and pH meters. BBMB is the world’s largest such company, and ships its equipment around the globe. The work environment is happy, especially with five beers always on tap, and the company even sponsors a Tiki-Bar-on-wheels in the annual Bay to Breakers race. Four years ago, employees started making their own in-house wines.

Vice chief engineer Regan Dillon leads me up a flight of stairs and opens a cooler door. Inside are about 50 of the soft-drink tanks, filled with red wines, all resting comfortably at 61 degrees. Each container holds the equivalent of two bottled cases from a specific grape. These Cornelius or “corny” tanks are the blending sources for the Wine of Mass Destruction.

Each season, BBMB makes its wine from several varieties of grapes, and then throughout the year, employees experiment with different blends. The WMD is always big and earthy Zinfandels, Syrahs and Cabernets and is customized for the tastebuds of only two people, Regan Dillon and his girlfriend, Cindy Rae. The rest of the employees are beer guys and don’t really drink wine. The Wine of Mass Destruction got its name during the hunt for WMD in Iraq. When Dillon arrived at a Christmas party carrying one of the cylinders over his shoulder, someone pointed at it and exclaimed, “It’s the Wine of Mass Destruction!”

Pouring directly from a Cornelius tank is sacrilegious to wine snobs, of course. Finicky home winemakers insist on bottling and designing their own labels. Impatience is another hallmark. “The wine people always show up in the fall,” Regan adds. “They want all the equipment, and they want it now.”

We make our way through the stainless-steel grape crushers and destemmer machines, all of which look insanely complex. I wonder what kind of person would choose the hassle of making wine, instead of just buying a bottle at a store. “They’re mostly guys 35 to 50,” Regan says with a shrug. “Maybe they have a 5-acre lot. ‘Should we get some horses? Let’s put some grapes in.’ ”

BBMB has tried grapes from the valley regions, and discovered the hillside yield is usually better than the valley. If you’re growing your own, I learn, don’t bother the first few years, because the grapes will be bad. The fifth year is when they start to get really good. And several decades later, long after you’re dead, your descendants can boast about the 100-year-old vines.

Back in the main warehouse, I sip a Scottish ale and stare at the shelves of yeasts and sulfites and chronometers and malolactic bacteria. Wine making is as geeky as anything else. Bins are filled with corks and tubing and little bolts, including the all-important quarter-inch swivel nut flare fitting. BBMB sells three types of oak chips: French for mild, Hungarian for a middle range and American oak for a harsher edge, usually Cabernets. You can always mix the oaks together, for that not-so-mild, Franco-Hungarian feel. A basic winemaking kit, including grape concentrate and chemicals, costs about $200 to $300, and someone could start bottling after 40 days.

It’s finally time to taste the WMD. Dillon brings out a glass gallon jug of 2002 Merlot, blended with American and French oak, and pours it into paper cups. Sounds crude, but really, is it any less vulgar than a Parisian restaurant filling carafes from a wooden keg? To me, it seems exotic and rarefied. That is, until it hits the tongue. This is bold and present, like a Chateauneuf-du-Pape, but way too much oak for my taste. Like licking the trunk of a tree. But that’s OK. Every batch is different. And I still have most of a container of WMD Zinfandel sitting on the deck of my house. Regan Dillon smiles and lights a cigar. “This is just grape juice with chemicals.”

(This first appeared in the San Francisco Chronicle, and is also archived here.)

The Sumo Wrestler has the Flu

I’m clutching a Cuban mojito inside a former sewage treatment plant, listening to an avant-garde classical music quartet from Paris. It’s dank and cold and smells of grease. An adjoining static installation features thousands of inflated blue plastic garbage bags. The French Institute of Prague has drawn a full crowd for tonight’s art show. Dissonant squawks and blue bags all point to the one obvious theme: Caribbean slavery. The musicians shriek, skronk, and trill with great intensity. Suddenly the pianist steps away from his instrument, rushes to the front of the stage, and begins furiously splashing his hands in a large bowl of water. In rhythm. And then, sitting in the front row, as droplets hit my pantleg, I suddenly remember that I’m here in Prague because of Czech sumo wrestling.

Except my sumo wrestler is bedridden with the flu. I knew this before boarding the flight. The magazine that sent me here knew it. So now the entire trip is an enormous gamble that Mr. Sumo pulls through his viral affliction and can meet me sometime in the next eight days, before I return home with no story and look like a big asshole.

The next few days are wide open. I’ve never been to Prague, and look forward to exploring the city with the help of my friend Frank, an American expat who works at the Prague Post English-language newspaper. Frank was a great hardboiled crime journalist back in the States, so it’s funny to see his reinvention as an effete opera critic, talking passionately about Recitatives and Mezzo-Sopranos. He has no car, so we take trains everywhere. There’s something comfortably Soviet about public transportation here. Trains and trams run every nine minutes during the day. And it’s literally every nine minutes. Win the hearts and minds with a reliable train schedule.

“Don’t worry if you don’t have a transfer,” Frank says, hopping onto a tram. “It’s the honor system here. It’s called ‘riding black.’”

The fine for “riding black” is 400 crowns, about 15 bucks. I ask Frank if the locals have a word or phrase for “riding black,” and he says, “No, that’s what they call it too.” It’s a great phrase, conjures up a dangerous black-market sense of international intrigue. I feel like the character in “The Bourne Identity,” a mysterious American tracked by INTERPOL across Europe, stealing 50-cent rides without guile. There are no tourists on the trains. Mostly older men in slacks and plastic briefcases, women out for the day’s shopping. The occasional scruffy young couple in tattered jeans and pullover shirts – more or less the same clothing I’m wearing, except I’m 43 and old enough to be their father.

The trams barrel around corners as if they’re smuggling assault rifles to Uganda. After each stop we lurch into motion, the locals accepting the sudden shift in momentum, their bodies naturally retaining balance. It takes me a few days to prepare for these unexpected launches. This gleeful disregard for safety runs city-wide. There are no warning signs, no wheelchair ramps, no hand railings, no fire extinguishers, no caution tape. Every day is fraught with peril. How refreshing to live in a world without personal-injury attorneys.

One morning, Frank and I are riding across the Danube, when 20 or 30 children pile into the car, laughing and squealing and talking a foreign language at piercing volume. All of them are wearing yellow T-shirts. One of their adult chaperones explains to me in English that the group is a singing choir from the Netherlands, and they just finished performing in a church. The woman asks if I’m from America, and I inquire if the group takes requests. She barks a few sentences in Dutch, and the kids start singing “The Lion Sleeps Tonight,” in three-part harmony. A song I hadn’t considered to be a quintessential American ditty, but in a way it is, and it’s a pleasant ride for several stops.

Czechs are required to study English in school, but you wouldn’t know it from attempting to navigate the city of Prague. Czechs are like the French. They may speak English perfectly, but they’re going to make you work for it. I perfect a single phrase, “dobre den,” which means basically “good day,” and try it out in stores and cafes. The problem is that people respond immediately with a Kalashnikov burst of Czech, which leaves me shrugging and grinning like an idiot. Most languages are at least decipherable on a few levels. You can pick out roots of words in German, French, Italian, Japanese. The Czech language is impenetrable, loaded up with odd accents and marks. It cannot be pronounced phonetically. A word ending with “ice” is pronounced “eetza,” for instance. Any attempt to sound out a word is almost always wrong, and the Czech person will chuckle at your effort.

On the plane from London, a man from Prague told me the most outstanding characteristic of Czech people is the “grumpiness.” He’s right. Everyone scowls, everywhere. Restaurants, bars, shops, cafés are filled with the big grimace. Part of this comes from the Soviets, a legendary scowling people. And yet, you meet many former Soviet cultures like Ukrainians or Slovakians, and they’re not afraid to smile and laugh. But to a Czech, life is hard and then we all die – hungry and cold, preferably on an overcast day. In contrast, Americans seem optimistic and phony. One local who works on film shoots in Prague, asked Frank why Americans are always surprised, because they say “Really?” And “No kidding!” all the time.

Walking around Prague, it’s hard not to marvel at the sheer immensity of cement. Buildings meet the ground in a single drab color. Some of the architecture sprouts amazingly detailed curlicues and cornices, all done with stone and plaster and concrete. Frank describes it as doing the best you can using only the most basic raw materials. And because Hitler spared Prague during World War II, most of the architecture is hundreds of years old. Sidewalks and streets are paved with cobblestones, each set by hand in specific patterns. It’s quite amazing, really. Other European cities even send for Czech stoneworkers to repair the cobblestones. The work is perpetual and self-generating, like painting a bridge. Very Communist. Work slowly, and there will always be more work for you. It’s not uncommon to see piles of dirt and gravel in the middle of a street, or a cement truck parked overnight on a sidewalk. Cement dust blows into the faces of tourists on Weneceles Square. A city park features a children’s slide made of cement. I remember reading somewhere that the ancient Romans and Greeks became so intellectually evolved they actually forgot how to make cement. They should have come to Prague. The Czechs could have patched up the Colisseum no problem.

Occasionally I wonder about the sumo story I’m supposed to be working on. Outside of Japan, the highest concentration of sumo wrestlers is right here in Czech Republic. Czech wrestlers routinely place in the top five in amateur world tournaments. A sumo tournament center and hotel is 100 kilometers away, in the town of Jilemnice. I ask a few locals if they’ve heard of this sport sweeping their nation. Some laugh out loud at the idea. Others are astonished something would even exist. But not one person has heard of sumo wrestling in the Czech Republic. “It sounds interesting,” one girl tells me, “but it’s not something I’d be interested in.” As the days tick by, my own interest in sumo is wavering.

I check email at the Prague Post offices, and Mr. Sumo has sent a note, explaining he will be incapacitated at least through the weekend. Four more days to kill. Frank slips me a couple of maps and I wander the streets. Like many former Russian cities, Prague exemplifies the absurd collision of old Soviet ways and modern Western culture. Czech teenagers wear T-shirts saying, “Harvard Athletics 1965,” and text-message each other relentlessly. A medieval weapons shop in Old Town blares phonetic-English versions of pop songs by the Eagles and Fleetwood Mac. It’s odd to see Dick Francis novels so prominently displayed in bookstores. Next door to a Kentucky Fried Chicken, another restaurant advertises “Typical Czech Food.” The Museum of Communism sells postcard reproductions of vintage Commie posters. The Soviet leaders are always depicted as strong and generous, and Uncle Sam is always portrayed as an evil-looking banker in a top hat, clutching a sack of money in one hand, bomb in the other. This strikes me as utterly hilarious, especially with the current U.S. foreign policy, and I buy several of them.

Through Frank I meet a few more American expatriates. Will moved to Prague not long after the Velvet Revolution in 1993. At that time, nothing worked in the city. The power went out, water was intermittent, it was difficult to even find a place to eat. Will edits the Time Out guide to Prague, and knows the city’s nooks and crannies. He asks if I’m concerned about not being able to meet Mr. Sumo. I say, “Oh sure, it will happen,” but inside I’m wondering if this will be my last magazine assignment in my life. Can I be blackballed from American publishing for this? Will I teach at a community college and turn into an alcoholic? Wear a beat-up corduroy sportcoat, listen to the students snicker at my toupee?

The three of us settle into a brewpub for a quick bite. Beer was invented in this region, and there’s no danger of letting the natural resource go to waste. Czechs claim the highest per-capita beer consumption in the world. There’s always a news article about someone falling asleep drunk on a railroad track, and a train roars overheard, but they’re never injured. One rowdy table orders a four-liter glass cylinder filled with beer, with spigots at the bottom – sort of a pilsner hookah. I try some local cuisine, a small portion of gristly meat covered in sauce, crowded by fatty dumplings. Clearly not the house special. Two surly looking local guys come in for dinner, and order big hunks of pork, each served with a dagger stuck in the top. They devour the plates, wash it down with beer, and finish with cigarettes, neither of them saying a word the entire time. I notice that one is sporting a fresh black eye.

Frank and Will suggest we stop at U Maleho Glena (Little Glen’s), a subterranean blues club, where an American guitarist named Rene Trossman holds down Wednesday nights. A former real estate guy from Chicago, Trossman leads his Czech musicians through blues and jazz standards from the late 50s and early 60s, with nervous precision. The band definitely has the technical chops, and rips through plenty of solos, but the cumulative effect is all the right notes without a hint of finess, blues as done by Bach. I’m definitely in the minority on this, for the rest of the crowd screams and whistles after every song. This is Prague, it doesn’t matter – it’s American blues! But when a young Russian girl, who can’t be more than 22, comes out to sing an astonishingly soul-less version of Aretha Franklin’s “Respect,” it’s definitely time to leave.

Will and I walk back through the cobblestone streets, and he stops and points to an old brick tower. “This was the site of the first defenestration. It’s a replica, but that’s the location.” One of the coolest things about Prague is its history of defenestration, the form of political protest where someone gets tossed out a window. Defenestration was invented right here, in 1419, when anti-Catholic Hussites heaved some town councilors out the third-story windows. Two centuries later, in 1618, Protestants broke into Prague Castle, seized two pro-Habsburg Catholics and their secretary, and threw them all out the window. Both incidents ended up in wars lasting several years. It’s a perfect form of protest. It’s dramatic. There’s no messy weapons. And when you think about it – who hasn’t wanted to toss a Catholic out a window at some point?

The next day, I tell Frank about this, and he exclaims, “Oh, you have to see the Infant of Prague.” The city is filled with beautiful old churches, yet despite this feature, Czechs are notoriously atheist, an estimated 50 to 70 percent of the population. So each year, hordes of people make a pilgrimage to see the Infant of Prague, surrounded by a nation of godless heathens. The first sculpture of a baby Jesus dates back to around 1340, and copies soon circulated throughout Spain and Europe. Eventually one ended up in Prague, and in 1628, the Czech version, carved out of wax, went on display. Frank and I walk into the church, and kneel at an altar. Attached to the rail is a three-ring binder of prayers in 12 languages. Halfway up the wall, in a glass case, is the little fellow, clothed in a garishly colored nighty, wearing a bulbous crown. I immediately start snickering. It looks like one of those children’s dolls that talks and wets itself. “Would you fucking cool it?” whispers Frank. “People come from all over the world to worship this thing.” Frank is Catholic, and has heard about the Infant his entire life, so he’s a little sensitive. But to my failed Episcopalian eyes, it just looks like a doll.

We hit the church’s gift shop and admire the endless selection of Infant photos and trinkets. In every image, the baby is wearing a different little gown thingie. Frank explains, “The nuns make all its clothes. They change it every three weeks or so.” I buy a few key chains and wonder if anyone has ever tried to throw the Infant of Prague out a window.

I stop by the Prague Post to check email again. Nothing from Mr. Sumo. But the news websites are bulging with horrific scandal – the first images of U.S. prisoner torture at Guantanamo Bay. Frank and I stare at the creepy image of the prisoner wearing a hood and electrodes. America seems a million miles away, a cruel and powerful force that also happens to be our birthplace.

The next day marks the date when Czech Republic and nine other countries join the EU. Newspapers splash big color photos of smiling Czech people, maps of the newly united European states, and the irrepressible western message to “Go Shopping.” The city is humming, gearing up for the big celebration, so I head down to Weneceles Square to see the festivities. A six-story advertisement for Adidas features a photo of Muhammad Ali, overlooking a dance troupe in traditional Czech clothing, dancing to a klezmer-type band playing the “Battle Hymn of the Republic.” There’s an image for a semiotics class. Czech PR babes in blue dresses and bright yellow scarves hand out balloons and frisbees to the crowds. Rows of booths, each representing a different member of the EU, dole out the schwag. Estonia’s brochure is by far the most impressive, and poor Portugal offers nothing but an empty table. Come on. Even Malta came prepared.

I meet up with another American expat named Bill, who works as a business consultant and is married to a Czech woman. Our destination is a music concert outdoors on the city’s Kampa peninsula along the Danube. The line snakes with hundreds of people, and Bill says, “This is ridiculous, follow me, I’m from New York.” We squeeze through the crowd, armed with press passes from the Prague Post, and even this many years after the Velvet Revolution, there’s something intimidating about a badge of authority. We’re whisked inside without being searched, and just in time for the final band, the Leningrad Cowboys, a cult rock band which has nothing to do with either Russia or cowboys. They’re from Finland, and all the members wear exaggerated Elvis wigs and sunglasses and outrageous costumes best described as Nudie the Rodeo Tailor meets George Segal from the film What’s New Pussycat. The music is loud and fun, lots of American songs from ZZ Top, Guns N Roses. Czech kids sing along with all the lyrics. People are cheering from rooftops. The band invites a 10-year-old boy from the audience up onstage to join them for “Rockin’ in the Free World,” and it sends the hair up on my arms. How often does this happen to a country? The screaming mob, laughing and singing, partying simultaneously with all of Europe. For America to get this excited, it would have to be something really insane, like restructuring the tax code.

The day before my flight leaves, I finally connect with Jaroslav Poriz, president of the Czech Sumo Union, and spend 14 hours with him and the sumo wrestlers. We drive across the country to see the Sumo Hotel and tournament center, and during the conversation discover that both of us were at the Leningrad Cowboys show. “Oh, I love that band, weren’t they fantastic?” he says. He was supposed to have the flu, but I’m not going to argue with a six-foot-nine Sumo wrestler. I can’t blame him for wanting to see all the excitement. I wouldn’t have wanted to miss it either.

Too Close to the Bone: Bill Hicks’ biting routines kept him a cult comedian

Love All the People
Letters, Lyrics, Routines
By Bill Hicks
Soft Skull; 312 pages; $16.95, paperback

Bill Hicks Live
Satirist, Social Critic, Stand-Up Comedian
Rykodisc DVD; 3.5 hours; $19.95

It’s always funny until someone gets hurt. Then it’s just hilarious.—Bill Hicks.

The list of Bill Hicks fans is long and varied: Richard Pryor, John Cleese, Tom Waits, Dave Chappelle, Dave Attell, Eddie Izzard, Janeane Garofalo, David Cross, Henry Rollins, Rage Against the Machine. This year marks the 10th anniversary of his death, and there are live tributes in the United States, Canada and Europe, a new book collection and a new DVD of all his major videos. Another biography and an anthology homage hit shelves next spring. All the more surprising because when Hicks died of pancreatic cancer in 1994, most of America had never heard of him.

Although he had been writing and performing for 18 years, his television exposure was minimal, and he made only two albums during his lifetime (five others were released posthumously). He had pockets of loyal fans around the United States, but much of his support came from outside the country. Such anonymity had its benefits. He could say exactly how he felt, and be completely serious, as long as it was funny:

“You know we armed Iraq. I wondered about that too. During the Persian Gulf War, those intelligence reports would come out: ‘Oh, Iraq? Incredible weapons. Incredible weapons.’ ”

“How do you know that?”

” ‘Well. Ha ha. Ah, we looked at the receipt. But as soon as that check clears, we’re going in.’ ”

America hasn’t changed that much in 10 years. A Bush is still in the White House, we’re still involved in a war in Iraq and our pop culture still permeates the planet, just substitute Paris Hilton for Madonna. But that Hicks’ popularity has only grown speaks both to timelessness and to necessity. What would he think of today’s news? There’s even a Web site, www.WhatWouldBillHicksSay.com , collecting contributions for a book anthology (to be published by Soft Skull Press next year). People around the world seem to be begging for his scalding view of politics and the international chaos that came after the Sept. 11,
2001, terror attacks.

Bill Hicks started writing jokes as a young teenager, sitting in his suburban bedroom in Houston, taping Johnny Carson and other comedians on television. Forbidden by his parents to perform in clubs, he sneaked out the window, climbed down a drainpipe and met his friends to drive to Houston’s comedy mecca, the Comedy Workshop. By the time he finished high school, he was already a headliner, attracting a line down the block.

In the 1980s, comedy became rock ‘n’ roll. Every shopping mall and sports bar in America featured some form of comedy entertainment. Most of these performers are now long forgotten, immortalized in yellowed head shots with wacky-funny poses and skinny neckties, which you can still see tacked to the walls of some clubs. The phenomenon made room for some brilliant comic minds, and a lot of dreck. Hicks survived the comedy boom, and he even gave up a reckless drugs-and-booze lifestyle.

Newly sober, his performances grew exhilarating and scary, wrapping poetically absurd concepts in vivid language, with razor timing. He made you either fall out of your chair laughing or walk out of the room. You had to be willing to meet him halfway because he drove the rest of the journey. Audiences expecting jokes about airline food were shocked to hear informed rants on politics, drugs, sex, war and fundamentalism.

His caustic riffs on religion in particular resonated with crowds. Growing up in a strict Baptist household, Hicks had firsthand experience with Christian beliefs, and his delivery and passion echoed the energy of a Southern preacher. He realized that in puritanical America, religion is the ultimate taboo, and therefore an obvious target:

“I’ve always found religion to be fascinating. Ideas such as how people act on their beliefs. Pro-lifers murdering doctors. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Pro- lifers murdering people. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! You know, it’s irony on a base level, but I like it. It’s real basic irony, but still you can get a hoot. … You’re so pro-life, do me a f—favor. Don’t block med clinics, OK? Lock arms, and block cemeteries. Let’s see how f—committed you are to this premise. …

“We had to bust the [Branch Davidian] compound down ‘cause we heard child molestation was goin’ on.

“Yeah, if that’s true, how come we don’t see Bradley tanks knocking down Catholic churches? I’m talking if child molestation is actually your concern.”

Hicks liked nothing more than to make audiences uncomfortable. Let me rephrase that: He went out of his way to make people fidget in their seats. He appeared not to care one bit about the crowd reaction, but in a deeper sense, that was all he cared about. His comedy came from a completely unique source, revolving around the hope of who we as human beings could become, versus the frustration of who we are. To Hicks, we were “the facilitators of our own creative evolution.” He was evolving toward enlightenment, and he wanted everyone to evolve with him:

“The world is like a ride in an amusement park. And when you choose to go on it, you think it’s real because that’s how powerful our minds are. And the ride goes up and down and round and round. It has thrills and chills and it’s very brightly colored and it’s very loud and it’s fun, for a while. Some people have been on the ride for a long time and they begin to question—‘Is this real, or is this just a ride?’ And other people have remembered, and they come back to us, they say, ‘Hey, don’t worry, don’t be afraid, ever, because this is just a ride.’ And we … kill those people.”

He kept up a grueling schedule, often doing as many as 300 gigs a year. He turned down offers to do commercials, refusing to do anything except on his own terms. This meant he would fill 3,000-seat theaters in England and then return to the United States to perform in front of a hundred drunks in a nightclub.

As with any writer, travel abroad affected his material by making it easier to observe America’s shortcomings. From growing up in such a self- absorbed, confident country, it must have been refreshing for him to perform in Britain, where wit and sarcasm are a natural outgrowth of personal loathing. How must it feel, hearing Brits roar with laughter at the same material that wasn’t appreciated in the land of his birth:

“There ain’t no f—deficit, it’s a f—lie and it’s a f—illusion in the first place. But you wanna end it, you wanna end it, legalize pot: biggest cash crop in America. Deficit’s gone. But I am so sick of hearing about, ‘Well, your leaders misspent your hard-earned tax dollars, so you the people, now have to tighten your belts … because we, your leaders, misspent your money.’ You know what would make tightening my belt a little easier? If I could tighten it around Jesse Helms’s scrawny little chicken-neck. … I’d tighten my belt if that were the case. I’d eat bologna for a week. … I’d sacrifice.”

One of Hicks’ recurring targets was the continual disappointment of American show business, where mediocrity rose to the top and permeated our brains like a virus. Musicians like Billy Ray Cyrus and New Kids on the Block, personalities like Arsenio Hall, Rush Limbaugh and Jay Leno. To Hicks, these weren’t famous and talented people, they were “fevered egos tainting our collective unconscious.”

Leno was a surprise choice. No comedian would dare make fun of the “Tonight” host, if there was a chance they could be a guest on the show. Hicks simply didn’t care. To him, it was more important to point out that Leno was once a great comedian—who had actually helped Bill get his first booking on the “Late Show With David Letterman”—and had sold his soul to the devil in order to chat up celebrities and be a pitchman for Doritos, “selling snacks to bovine America.”

Hicks and his friends created a betting pool to guess which lame showbiz guest would be on the program on the night Jay finally snapped and committed suicide: Joey Lawrence or Patrick Duffy. He delivered the bit in an uncanny dead-on Leno impression:

“Jay: Oh, hi everyone, welcome to the show. Tonight we have Joey Lawrence. Hi, Joey, how are you? It’s good to see you again. Boy, it was always my comedic dream to be forty-four years old and be interviewing a little Tony Danza wannabe every three months. Boy, I’m fulfilled as a human spiritually. So anyway, Joey, you’re sixteen now, you’re sixteen years old?

“Joey: Yeah.

“Jay: That’s great, you’re 16. You got a license? You drivin’? You drivin’?

“Joey: Yeah.

“Jay: That’s great. You’re 16, you got a license. You got a car? You got a car?

“Joey: Yeah.

“Jay: You got a girlfriend, hmm? You dating somebody? Anybody special?

“Joey: Yeah. No. Well, she thinks so, I don’t. Hee hee hee hee.

“Jay: Good God, what have I done with my life?”

[Hicks mimes putting a gun in his mouth and pulling the trigger with a loud explosion]

“Hicks: His brains blew out, forming an NBC peacock on the wall behind him. Because he’s a company man to the bitter f—end.”

Well, maybe you have to hear the recording. I’m not even going to go into detail about Satan having sex with Leno while he’s doing a Doritos commercial. This is a family newspaper, after all.

“Love All the People: Letters, Lyrics, Routines” collects a trove of material for fans: transcripts of live shows, essays and interviews, song lyrics and articles written for magazines, with a forward by John Lahr of the New Yorker. The compilation is scattershot and
jumps around in time, but it does flesh out what has become a watershed moment in the Hicks legend.

On Oct. 1, 1993, his 12th appearance on Letterman’s show was edited out of the show before broadcast. One of the bits was a new television program Hicks would host, called “Let’s Hunt and Kill Billy Ray Cyrus”:

“I think it’s fairly self-explanatory each week we let the Hounds of Hell loose and chase that jar-head, no talent, cracker-idiot all over the globe till I finally catch that fruity little ponytail of his, pull him to his Chippendales knees, put a shotgun in his mouth, ‘POW!’ ”

After discovering he’d been censored after the show had initially OK’d all of his material, Hicks wrote a 31-page handwritten letter to Lahr, which is reproduced here. It’s a heartfelt document describing his struggle with the American entertainment machine, all the more wrenching because he was already dying of cancer.

As his health deteriorated, we see the comedian wanting to make peace with the world. A few months before his death, he sends handwritten Christmas letters to both Letterman and Leno:

“Jay … These things are not said in ‘hate,’ nor said by ‘enemies.’ It’s more or less like how we all will ‘run down’ our own best friend (or even ourselves at times). ‘You know what Mark needs to do is…’ etc., etc. These statements are done from a concerned and interested party. Not an ‘enemy.’ It is in fact a sign of how much an influence you’ve played in my life, this interest and intriguing kind of questions. I hope you don’t take it personally, or seriously. Your friend, Bill Hicks”

The DVD “Bill Hicks Live: Satirist, Social Critic, Stand-Up Comedian” includes three filmed performances, from the Old Vic Theatre in Chicago, London’s Dominion Theatre and the Montreal Comedy Festival. This is vintage Hicks material, captured in full scream, with the harshest moments followed by the perfectly timed: “I am available for children’s parties, by the way.” A bonus documentary, “Just a Ride,” includes thoughts and memories from Brett Butler, Eric Bogosian, Richard Belzer, Leno and Letterman, among others.

In 1991, I interviewed Hicks, and asked what he thought was funny. “I just have this weird theory,” he said. “The best kind of comedy to me is when you make people laugh at things they’ve never laughed at, and also take a light into the darkened corners of people’s minds and expose them to the light. I always felt that’s what the point of it all was, to make you feel un-alone. Many thoughts I do have are not my own thoughts. You know what I mean? They’re not secret thoughts.”

We talked about sacred cows, and he read me a letter from an upset audience member who had complained to a club owner. I asked him about going too far with an audience. “Yeah, there’s been a lot of those, but it’s never been because of the material. It’s been more because of my attitude doing it. That’s my biggest problem—my attitude. I don’t think material-wise you can go too far. You can pretty much tiptoe through a minefield if you just make sure you step real lightly.”

He looked forward to making a lot of money and getting out of the business forever. “I’d like to be more like the J.D. Salinger of comedy. I’d like to produce one book that every year 30 million people buy again.”

Ten years after his death, Hicks finally has a book, a catalog of audio and video recordings, and a place on the Satirist Shelf alongside Lenny Bruce. It won’t sell 30 million copies, but that’s OK. It was always more about quality than quantity.

(This version first appeared in the San Francisco Chronicle)

and also:
Bill Hicks, the black-humored articulator of doubt
(First published in Salon)

Over the Rainbow

Honolulu, two a.m. Music producer Jon de Mello is sleeping when the phone rings. It’s Israel, one of the artists he represents for his Mountain Apple record label. And Israel is wide awake. He often has problems at night because his weight upwards of 700 pounds forces him to sleep while hooked up to an oxygen tank. He tells de Mello he wants to record, right now. “You got transportation?” asks de Mello. It’s difficult for Israel to move around, he needs a few people to help him get dressed, get in and out of places. The studio is about 15 minutes away.

“Yeah,” says Israel. “My guys are here.” “Get in the car,” says de Mello. “I’ll meet you over there.” In the car, de Mello wonders what he wants to record. They’ve been discussing a bunch of possibles from a songbook. But it’s Israel, you never really know for sure what he’s going to do. A traditional Hawai’ian hula. A John Denver song. A theme from a TV show. Could be anything.

A young engineer named Milan Bertosa sits in his recording studio, waiting. He was planning to go home, until some Hawai’ian guy with a lot of letters in his name called up and wanted to record something right away. It’s late, Bertosa is tired, but the voice was insistent, saying he only needed half an hour. A knock at the door, and there stands an unimaginable sight. De Mello, whom Bertosa recognizes, stands about five foot two and 100 pounds. Next to him, the largest man he’s ever seen, a gargantuan six-foot-six Hawai’ian carrying a ukulele. De Mello introduces the two, they get Israel situated in a chair, and Bertosa starts rolling tape.

Israel leans into the microphone, says: “Kay, this one’s for Gabby,” and begins gently strumming the uke. His beautiful voice comes in, a lilting “Oooooo,” then slips into the opening words of “Over the Rainbow,” from “The Wizard of Oz.” Bertosa listens behind the glass, and within the first few bars knows it’s something very special. He spends most of his time recording lousy dance music. This is otherworldly. An incredibly fat man, elegantly caressing a Hollywood show tune, breaking it down to its roots, so sad and poignant, yet full of hope and possibility. Halfway through the tune, Israel spirals off into “What a Wonderful World,” the George David Weiss/Bob Thiele hit made famous by Louis Armstrong, then melts back into “Over the Rainbow.” He flubs a lyric, and tosses in a new chord change, but it doesn’t matter. It feels seamless, chilling. Israel plays five songs in a row, then turns to de Mello and says, “I’m tired and I’m going home.” “Gets up and walks out,” says de Mello. “Ukulele and a vocal, one take. Over.” Israel never played the song again.

When Israel and de Mello began piecing together his 1993 album Facing Future, they added the demo tape of “Over the Rainbow.” Upon release the song took on a life of its own. The familiar melody played in hotels and on rental car radios, in restaurants and bars. Many were moved to tears. If it didn’t give you “chicken skin,” you were legally dead. The song resonated even more for locals. Some heard its kaona, or hidden subtext, to reflect the sadness Hawai’i felt about having its lands illegally annexed by the United States in 1898. Those who had seen him in concert knew he ended each show with the words, “My name is Israel Kamakawiwo’ole, I am Hawai’ian.” Israel was one of only 1, 500 full-blooded Hawai’ians left in the world. He was pure, and so was the recording. It bounced around the islands for the next three years.

And then one afternoon, Santa Monica KCRW radio host Chris Douridas cued up “Over the Rainbow” as part of his program “Morning Becomes Eclectic,” to cheer up listeners on a rainy day. After it faded out, Douridas announced the 800 phone number on the back of the Facing Future CD. In two days, Mountain Apple received over 2,000 calls from southern California, people crying and asking about the music, many of them stuck on the freeway when they heard it.

Movie producer Martin Brest bought the rights for use in his film, “Meet Joe Black.” As the end credits rolled, movie audiences stayed in their seats to listen to “Over the Rainbow.” One of America’s most recognizable melodies, first made popular by Judy Garland, the tune had always embodied optimism, depicting a world where dreams really do come true. Israel’s version was something else entirely: haunting and delicate, stripped down to a lone voice and a ukulele, an unexpected minor chord contrasting, almost unconsciously, against the happy lyrics of wishing upon a star. After the film’s premiere in Hawai’i, people were sobbing in the theater.

Producers bought the very same song for “Finding Forrester,” “Made,” “The Big Bounce,” and “50 First Dates,” for episodes of “ER,” “Providence,” “Charmed,” and “Party of Five.” It aired in an eToys ad during the Super Bowl, and then commercials throughout Japan, Europe, Australia, New Zealand. Although most listeners couldn’t remember the name of the artist, it didn’t matter. The music was most important, that raw, perfect-pitch voice that hit people right in the heart, touched their emotional core, reminded them how fragile life can be. You heard it once, you never forgot it.

“Rainbow” came to personify Hawai’i to the outside world. Celebrities publicly announced their love of Israel’s music: novelists, actors, directors, baseball players, sumo wrestlers. Bruddah IZ was the state’s first artist in history to have an album certified gold. Posters and calendars of his face decorated record stores around the world. “Over the Rainbow” became the No. 1 bestselling song downloaded from the World Music section of iTunes. Israel had produced the most recognizable and beloved Hawai’ian song in 50 years. And he didn’t live to see any of it.

Original link to this story…