Movies, Music, Marketing: Brilliant or Perverse
(MMMBop)
Epicenter of Casein-Based Logical Paradoxes
Beth Henley’s play Crimes of the Heart premiered in Louisville in ‘79 and survived more than 500 performances. Its run ended on Broadway in 1983. The work mutated to a novel, theatrical release, VHS home movie, then to the lyrics of an 1988 song. Praised by critics, the play won a Pulitzer for drama, and the movie a Golden Globe (while also receiving multiple Academy Award nominations).
“Excuse me, sir, this is a cheese emporium. What does my Doolittle t-shirt have to do with this?”
Cheesy comestibles can wait a tick, young woman.
“Man.”
Man, sorry.
My brain’s already on the cheese board of racing thoughts. That shirt of yours jogged a memory of mine… Crimes of the Heart tells the story of three sisters, Meg (played by Jessica Lange in the movie), Lenny (Diane Keaton), and Babe (Sissy Spacek), who reunite in their hometown of Hazelhurst, Mississippi. The central plot revolves around Babe, who shot her husband Zackery while he assaulted the 15-year-old boy Willie Jay (wink wink, nudge nudge: Babe was having an affair with Willie Jay, know what I mean?). Babe and Zackery are both white, and Willie Jay was a bla…
“Can I instead interest you in some samples? Today, we have Crottin de Chavignol from France’s Loire Valley; a traditional Norwegian Gjetost; and a fine Spanish Zamorano. I recommend…”
No, no, no, a moment please… well, on second thought. I will try the Zamorano, hand it over with all haste.
“Oooohhh, no… the parrot’s gotten it. Again.”
Has it, now? Never-you-mind then. Zamorano can wait for my thoughts on Zackery: a wealthy and influential politician who feared public exposure of the incident and affair more than bleeding out on the floor. The work’s theme focuses on power dynamics in the 70s deep south: institutional racism, economic disparity, and ingrained moral hypocrisy. Henley’s plot leveraged the extramarital and interracial affair—an explosive social transgression of that era. The stench of the commodification of justice she portrayed rivaled Cabrales.
“I believe we do have some sealed away if you li…”
No need, my lad. No need. I’ve had my fill of burnt-barn distilled into a paste… Henley’s extra-sharp commentary for the 1980s, where racial and political divides were Simmental-neously obsessed over and Agour-essively ignored. Now, I want to tell you a story of who did pay attention to this Swiss-cheese of justice you could fit a bouzouki through.
“Another telling of Ethel the Aardvark goes Quantity Surveying ?”
No, the local bookshop was plain-out, and they sent me to WH Smith where I picked up Grape Expectations: The Great Bureaucratic Red Tape of the Antarctic’s Destined Wine Industry, by Chaos Chickens.
“Charles Dickens?”
Dick-ins? Excellent foreshadowing, my boy! This is a story about angst-free disaffection, music illiteracy, cultural Rorschach tests. And a penis.
“Just one?”
…Travel with me back to when Blockbuster was a tiddler in Dallas. Among the Back to the Futures, the Ghostbusters, and The Goonies, another VHS was released in 1986: Crimes of the Heart.
“1986? The Doolittle LP came out in 1989.”
Shoosh—your interruption is like triple cream brie topped with pickled black walnuts: a few bites are fine, but if too many, you chunder into the wastebasket in the corner! Now, where was I…
Ah, yes: one year before 1989’s Doolittle was Surfer Rosa , and among its tracks: Mrs. John Murphy’s song!
…
…
…
Why, that’s Kim Deal of course! She penned the lyrics to the song Gigantic. Some say it was based on the relationship in Crimes of the Heart (I say that, too). But, you may ask, ‘Mr. Strokestoomuch, how do you know Gigantic was inspired by the movie?’
“I didn’t ask that. And you’d better cut down a little then.”
Come, come. Sit with me now. And there you are: please refer to the lyrics as we progress. Integral to the story, I say. Either look down at my brochure,1 or put it up on your fancy-cheese-shop TV menu over there.
When first asked, Kim deflected and claimed to be ‘fresh and clean,’ and that her ‘personality came out’ with the song.2 Not several months later on the Dutch TV Show VPRO, to loosely quote: ‘Um, anyway oh about watching a young kid and an older woman get… an older married woman get together… have sex. Sex between a black man and a white woman. In the 50s. Where it was like taboo to do that.’3 A half-truth. And a half-truth, philosophically, must, ipso facto , be truth half-not.
Therefore, we must—with phallic fortitude and penile persistence—penetrate Kim’s lyrics using the perverted perception of our perkiest pair of peepers for the prose’s provenience…
“So… are we just looking for dick jokes?”
Yes.
Set aside the satirical irony of her Mrs. John Murphy pseudonym, its spot-on observations of ‘respectable’ marriage standards in the 80s, and catch up to Kim’s cerebral cacophony of noise nirvana. Of the indie intransigent, a relatively-unknown bloke once said, ‘I wish Kim was allowed to write more songs for the Pixies… because Gigantic is the best Pixies’ song and Kim wrote it.’ He ‘connected with [her and] that band so heavily that [he] should have been in that band.’4 Unfortunately, he never joined the band. Un-unfortunately, he and a few buddies, Krist and Dave, followed Kim and friends around the world to jam with her later project: The Breeders.
That was in the early 90s, but very important for 1988!
You see, Gigantic and a song off The Breeders’ second album Last Splash share a particular piece of figurative language: ‘Walk her everyday into a shady place ’ (Gigantic) and ‘In the shade , in the shade ’ (Cannonball). Now, if you look at Cannonball’s lyrics for about five seconds, you’ll see no voyeur there. No, no, no. Whoever our protagonist in this song is, is mocking a ‘libertine.’
What is a ‘libertine,’ you ask?
“I don’t.”
Libertine: such a wondrous word! A perfect example of semantic degradation. My, my, the history of the word… a legal definition that got drunk, kidnapped an heiress, read pornography to the king, found a god, killed that god, and then woke up in a French dungeon… and still had the time to write a novel so vile it was essentially an Excel spreadsheet of torture.5
Predictably, some meanings ended much like 17th century poet rock stars dead of syphilis and alcoholism at age 33. But such travels! It would make the red lights of a fire engine made out of tomatoes blush! Nowadays, the word’s meaning is closer to ‘narcissist’ than sexual immorality (of course, depending on context). It is amidst these meanings where we place our bets: ‘in the shade’ is Kim’s euphemism for a bit of how’s your father. Now, for Cannonball:
I know you, little libertine
I know you’re a real cuckoo
Want you cuckoo cannonball
Want you cuckoo cannonball
In the shade, in the shade
In the shade, in the shade
And Gigantic:
Walk her everyday into a shady place
With her lips she said
She said, “Hey Paul, hey Paul, hey Paul
Let’s have a ball
Context is informative, because as you know… the male reproductive appendage is not under the sun when…
“Paul, penis; lips, vagina. Dick jokes. Got it.”
Surely. And her lips did have a ball… well, let’s say the phallus descended into the dark, moist fissure, whereupon her cervical region began a rambunctious ballroom dance with a scrotal companion.
…
…
…
Your face. That scowl. You look as if I just handed you a gift-wrapped box with ‘World’s Okayest Golfer’ etched on it. First, you’re not one for the links; and second, let us turn to the remainder of the lyrics! I must continue applying my instinctual immaturity, give you my argument for a giant black penis! Gigantic you might say.
And this I know his teeth as white as snow
An unfortunate stereotype, but we must remind ourselves of the underground uproar of that era! I find no other way to interpret than purposeful shock and irony, à la Beth Henley, in telling the listener gigantic-penis-man’s skin color. The first line of the song, and a taste of societal mockery to come!
“Heh, heh. You said cu..”
What did I say about interrupting? Only a few more moments, and we’ll get to the story’s climax! Let’s put a few more lines together:
What a gas it was to see him
With her lips she said
The word ‘gas’ is intriguing. Internal combustion vagina? No. I argue Kim is sneaky with the definition here, as ‘gas’ is also a way to say ‘talks too much.’ And if you continue the person…
“Well, she’d better cut down a little then.”
…
…
…
And if you continue the personification, we have a vagina that too often says ‘let’s have a ball, Paul.’ What a gas this analysis is! Now for the remainder of Kim’s prose: patently obvious, even to the most intellectually myopic saboteurs of linguistic fortification. Let’s thrust some previous lines in here for our happy ending:
Gigantic, gigantic, gigantic
A big, big love
What a big black mass, what a hunk of love
Walk her everyday into a shady place
Lovely legs there are
Our friend, Paul here, not only has a large penis! But it doubles as a—no, no—it triples as a third leg!
“I think this is enough penis for today.”
Very well, Jimmy. That’s a wrap. Our journey here has exploded in joy! From a small floppy plot, it grew into a pleasurable story! Now don’t look deflated. Get behind me on this one, as I have a dongle of deception neatly stored away… the organ of opportunity is quietly waiting its cue!
…
…
…
The member of mischief must be pulled out! Say, do you like the Beatles?
“Oh, no. Well, yes. But, what do John, Paul, George, and Ringo have to do with this?”
Nothing really, it’s more that you and I share a passion with Steve Jobs.6 Yes, of course. That one. Let’s get to the meat of it. He loved music, especially the Beatles, and Bob Dylan, and… well, you get the point. What I’m getting to is, like you and I, he appreciated the art, the meaning. It’s not just noise. Not just a soundtrack to fill space. And most of all, not something to be taken at face value… and then used to sell crap to consumers.
Corporate ass-kissing aside and acknowledgement of the societal cancer billions-of-dollars-mega-corps are, Apple is a marketing company that just happens to make widgets. And in the early digital-music era, ‘tunes were the bait, and it worked. Apple became a culture curator by streamlining the digital-art-to-ears pipeline.
Let me see your phone. Ah, yes. The iPhone: the evolved iPod. The Shuffle is still my favorite. But I dickgress once again, come with me. And bring your phone.
…
There we are, yes, step through the door, which conveniently just appeared. The door of imagination, where nothing is a surprise.
“I expected Steve would be here, but who is that?”
I asked Douglas Adams to be our stenographer for this moment. Don’t worry, he knows if he uses the word ‘petunia’ or the phrase ‘existential dread,’ he’s right back to Highgate! Ah, there we are, Jimmy. We’re all ready, just hit play on your phone. Give him a moment to watch it, and we’ll see what dear Douglas cocked—err… cooked-up.
Mr. Adams?
They stepped through the portal with the confidence of two people who had misplaced their keys in a bag of marbles rejected from the factory for being too large. The shimmer of the doorway looked like a malfunctioning lightbulb that had gone rogue, flickering between a sunny afternoon in the 80s and a bleak future where everyone wore hats made of recycled VHS tapes. Steve sat cross‑legged on a chair that had the exact same number of legs as a six‑letter word for “courage,” which meant it had five. Much as myself, Jimmy interrogitatedly inquired of my identity. In an unfortunately-common twist of fate, the probe was a perfect translation of “tea, earl gray, lukewarm, bergamot oil, not artificial flavor.”
My fingers (who am I again?) steepled over the manuscript, which glowed faintly as though it were writing itself: now was then; but soon, soon would be then. As for now, I traced the scene as then it was now soon then. But first, a footnote in future’s history of now back then: time‑travelers always forget to bring snacks.
Steeped-citrus aromas wafted into our collective nine nostrils. Conversation began with a debate about whether apples were a better than potatoes, and moved into the two trying to explain the concept of time travel with the precision of four people trying to fold a fitted sheet. A thunderclap of infinitely-limited probability then produced a bag of Pomme-Spud-a-Licious crisps: may subsequent grease stains come out in the bath.
“What an amazing invention,” apple’d Steve. “iTravel is surely making someone rich.”
“ZuneTravel,” they microsoft’d back.
“Oh, shit.”
If Steve wasn’t a giant rubber duck, he was about to become one: Jimmy turned the phone towards him, and we all heard the familiar baseline. Steve’s expression vanished, as if it packed its bags and Japanese Peace Lily, then left for a trip to a state of existential dread Wyoming. What followed was a curse so inventive, it bent the very rules of grammar.
“4bRICK THE TO OF OU:CH I ?NAY SUBM_ITTED FOOT WILL PARSNIP2!”
Our cross-legged-three-nostrilled-Beatles-fan fell to the floor much like an opaque self-referential simile.
Jimmy, the prophecy is fulfilled. Mr. Adams: that needs work. The prose is just… well, it’s like someone tried imitating your style of figurative language and failed so bad that… that they failed badly. Jimmy, let’s go. Grab the appotatoe crisps, leave the tea. It’s a much longer walk past then through now to the present before the future, and I’ll likely get hungry.
“And what was the point of all that?”
Just some thoughts. Many years ago my mentor, Dr. Professor von Overthink, said to me: ‘Can I get a combo three with a medium fizzy?’ Once I up-sold him on a large and went to class the next day, he said ‘Remember, overthinking is just thinking… but better!’ So, Jimmy, for consideration:
- Contemplate the cryptic calculus concluding a creative cover could complete a commercial considering the certifiable corker.
“Emm..?”
- Why the cover song? Was it a licensing snag, or simply the latest milestone in Tim Cook’s ambitious renewable energy project? Between the mouse that charges like an overturned turtle and the $100 million non-consensual U2 album, was his plan to generate enough torque from Steve Jobs spinning in his grave to power the entire Cupertino campus for a decade?
“Oh.”
- Ponder the perpetual ping‑pong of corpo-puppets perceiving whether Pixies perused penises with pGigantic.”
“Enn…?”
- You think anyone at Apple knew what the song was about? I do. And even better: I believe more than one decision-maker knew exactly what it was about, and said nothing. A gift of corporate-connivance. An alternative: maybe the Assistant to the Senior Director of the Assistants to the Manager of the Director of Global Brand Architecture & Narrative Alignment, a Ms. Cassandra Complex, warned Apple executives?
“Eee…?”
- Might they have meant to manipulate morals by manufacturing malicious mayhem? Could they have sought to startle sensibilities with shocking, sacrilegious sketches? Maybe they wanted to weaponize vulgarity, wounding worn‑out moralities with wicked wit. Or perhaps they endeavored to eclipse etiquette with an avalanche of abrasive absurdities.
“Why?”
Precisely! The ‘why’ is a distractor, Jimmy! A rhetorical decoy! You’ve cut straight to the foreskin. It is irrelevant whether Apple was attempting high-concept corporate chaoticism, or just setting their own genitals on fire (then trying to expense the extinguisher). The intent is secondary. The revenue is primary. Like I was saying…”
“RICHARD PETER JOHNSON STROKESTOOMUCH! Are you still in the shower? What are you doing in there?”
“Yes, mum. Just thinking about stuff.”
“It’s time to get out. We’re all out of hot water!”
“Yes, mum…”
“And stop doing that British accent. It’s dreadful. You’re an immature boy from Dayton, Ohio.”
Mittepistles
And this I know his teeth as white as snow
What a gas it was to see him
Walk her everyday into a shady place
With her lips she said
She said, “Hey Paul, hey Paul, hey Paul
Let’s have a ball
. . .
Gigantic, gigantic, gigantic
A big, big love
. . .
Lovely legs there are
What a big black mass, what a hunk of love
He’ll walk her every day into a shady place
Like the dark, but I’d want him
“Hey Paul, hey Paul, hey Paul
Let’s have a ball
. . .
Gigantic, gigantic, gigantic
A big, big love
. . . ↩︎Sounds Magazine, May 1988 (unable to find this primary source) ↩︎
Kurt Cobain on Gigantic, Far Out Magazine, 2022 (unable to find a primary source, but know that of Kurt’s top 50 albums (handwritten and in no particular order), Surfer Rosa was the second one he listed ↩︎
“My model for business is the Beatles. They were four guys who kept each other’s kind of negative tendencies in check. They balanced each other, and the total was greater than the sum of the parts. That’s how I see business: great things in business are never done by one person. They’re done by a team of people.” Steve Jobs 60 Minutes Interview, 2003. ↩︎