Being Wrong Sucks By Maynard James Keenan

Maynard James Keenan: Being Wrong Sucks
By Maynard James Keenan
Published Wed., Jan. 2 2013 at 3:00 AM

Editor’s Note: With a tip of the cap to the man, we bid Maynard James Keenan adieu. This is MJK’s final column for Up on the Sun, as he’s devoting 2013 to more music and more wine. You won’t have to wait too long to hear some of the fruits of his labor: On Tuesday, February 19, Puscifer will release Donkey Punch The Night, featuring two new songs, Queen and Accept Covers, and exclusive remixes. I spent some time on the horn with MJK about the record, so stand by for that feature in our January 10th issue.
Check out Maynard’s New Times archive, and follow him on Twitter, @Puscifer. Adios, Maynard!

This is dangerous. I’m pre-writing this column so I can submit it pre-holiday for publication in January. This is assuming January will arrive. So far so good. There’s nothing obviously hurtling towards us from space, such as a comet, meteor, or very large impenetrable minimalist sculpture.

Not that we’re aware of, anyway. No unusual spike in geological activity. No increased sun spot shenanigans. Snooky’s spawn has no anti-Christ markings or disturbingly evil powers. Yet. Maybe we’ll be OK. Maybe you’ll actually read this and we’ll all giggle with some modicum of humility over our collective paranoia. On some unconscious level I’ll be more than a little disappointed if nothing semi-tragic happens. All that buildup and no money shot. Bummer.

20th Century Fox
Beneath the Planet of the Apes (1970)
Think of all that wasted end-of-the-world disaster footage: Tommy Lee Jones ass whooping some Beverly Hills lava (Volcano); John Cusack fleeing from the whatnots in a bunker submarine ship thing (2012); Charlton Heston battling plastic surgery disasters (Beneath the Planet of the Apes); Liv Tyler actually dating Ben Affleck. As if. (Armageddon). Bill Murray apologizing for breaking the seventh seal of the apocalypse by agreeing to do Garfield and then DYING (Zombieland); Jake Gyllenhaal surviving Brokeback Mountain (Day After Tomorrow). The list goes on.
I had a thought. What if our understanding of the airwaves borders on knuckle-dragger? I mean, what if our flippant transmission of invisible signals isn’t bound by our understanding of time? What if satellite transmissions go up into space and slip through black holes and fissures of the space-time continuum? We’ve only been broadcasting these various forms of sounds and images for less than a century. We’ve had no real time under our belt to measure the damage or far-reaching effect of these actions. What if these images reach back in time?

Universal Pictures
Somewhere in Time (1980)
Let’s say that by some divine intervention or even random chance, a handful of individuals from way back when received some crude dental work. Bear with me. Let’s say that this crude dental work chanced upon a perfect combo of precious metals that actually received signals such as those transmitted. And now add the ability of said individual to “see” these transmissions and write them down as if they have been divined unto them.
The concentration of Doomsday films in the latter half of the 20th century would surely scare the shit of these poor saps. So of course they wrote it all down and of course they would be persecuted for being a few shovels short of a load. Yes? Maybe Nostradamus, the Maya, Bill Miller and the Millerite Band, John of Patmos, etc., were accidentally turned into makeshift ham radios by a clumsy quack of a dentist and were all victims of the interdimensional hypothesis.

It reminds me of that Superman film, Somewhere in Time. (I wasn’t crying at the end. I had something in my eye.) Familiarize yourself with the film before proceeding. Q: Where did the watch originate? It’s like the chicken and the egg head-scratcher. A: It has no origin. It’s cyclical. It’s a self-contained paradox. “We” wrote these scripts and screenplays in response to the above-mentioned dental disasters. They wrote their ticket to the funny farm in response to our time-traveling blockbuster disaster images. Pop on over to Colorado and indulge in the locally legal tender and ponder that shizzle for a mo’. You may find yourself in temporary total agreement.

I realize all of this is a stretch, but I’m scrambling here. The world didn’t end. I was wrong. How embarrassing. Not even a globally recognized elevation in irritable bowel syndrome or naked-first-day-of-school nightmares. Being wrong sucks. All of this hoarded food, ammo, and duct tape was for naught. (Had the end of the world occurred, you would be thanking me for the duct tape tip.)

In light of this extreme level of embarrassment, this will be my last column. Of course I’ll continue ranting over at Puscifer.com and Caduceus.org, but not here. I’m too so ashamed.

Chicken Little Present but Over and Out.

Rochambeau Myself By Maynard James Keenan

Maynard James Keenan: Rochambeau Myself
By Maynard James Keenan
Published Mon., Sep. 24 2012 at 4:00 AM

I love a good comedy. Browsing through mental notes of quotable material, apropos for tedious moments brought on by the petty, the narrow minded, and the desperate, keeps me questionably sane.
See also: Maynard James Keenan: These Are The “End of Days”
See also: Maynard James Keenan: Up on the Sun’s New Columnist
See also: Maynard James Keenan (Puscifer, Tool, A Perfect Circle) on The Importance of Keeping It Local
Snippets from films like Talladega Nights, Super Troopers, and The Jerk can have an almost Fountain Of Youth effect on me when applied to said moments. Other films supply the occasionally necessary yet unintentional gut laugh, such as Battlefield Earth, Godfather III, and the entire Twilight series. (Side Note and Fun Fact on the Twilight Series: The scripts WERE NOT randomly generated by an iPhone app or by a team of Emo Eunuchs on LSD. They were, in fact, intentionally written that way. This was not an experiment as I had originally assumed upon viewing.)

Twilight: Not, in fact, “randomly generated by an iPhone app or by a team of Emo Eunuchs on LSD.”
The reason I bring all this up is that I’ve been buried under grapes for seven solid weeks now. It’s been a month and a hefty half of fantastically productive 14-hour days with some very promising juice for the 2012.
I miss my trips down to the 602 to dine and complain poetically with Mr. Wexler at NoCa or to dine and plot some twisted yet simple dinners with Mark Tarbell. I needed a break and I needed to get out of the house/bunker, but there’s no way I can be two hours away from the winery this time of the year.

So I checked in with my local theaters to see if there were any just-above-marginal films to which I could set my brain on cruise control. Doesn’t have to be a zinger. Just has to have fresh-popped corn and sugar stuff. I am fully capable of manufacturing and rationalizing any excuse to watch a crap film as long as I can go face-deep in a popcorn container large enough to require a child safety warning. Double-fisted side of red licorice, please. (Children, be warned. If you kick my chair, interrupt my two-hour vacation, or attempt to stick your grubby booger paws anywhere near my popcorn or licorice, you will become the poster child for that bucket’s safety warning. Please refer to the Robert Downey Jr./Juliette Lewis scene in Due Date. Copy?)

“Painfully Comedic”
So I looked at the local movie listings. Very promising. Four of them involved Sweaty Gladiator types with guns and explosions and lots of running towards or away from situations/things/persons that were either supposedly spooky and/or somewhat dangerous. And although I didn’t bother with the trailers, I was certain they would include some yawningly awesome one-liners. This may call for a civil round of Rochambeau.
Wait! What’s this? An Obama film! Say it isn’t so! Could it possibly be as Painfully Comedic as Fahrenheit 9-11, Fox News, or Al Gore’s film? I can’t remember the name of that one but I believe it was something like WE’RE ALL GONNA DIE, unless you scrap your perfectly good vehicle & ONLY drive your sister’s emasculating hybrid. I may be a little off on that one, but I’m on a roll and too lazy to Google it.

That said, I did watch his film, and because I am the paranoid type, I now have more hoarded SPF 200, ham radio batteries, and MREs (formerly referred to as C-Rations. Don’t make the mistake of picking up a gross of those. Not so tasty anymore. Saltpeter has no shelf life) than I’ll ever know what to do with. I’d love nothing more than to introduce Mr. Gore to Rochambeau the hard way. Note to Secret Service: I’m kidding, so you can remove your twitchy hands from your pistols, please. And don’t worry. I have no intention of turning this column into a bi-partisan mixed vomit bag of political agendas. But I will say this. Politicians are the new Andy Kaufmann. If only he were around to enjoy it all.

Now I must be off to my two-hour vacation. It’s a toss-up between The Bourne Legacy and Expendables 2. Tough call as both are running pell-mell towards Feel Good Comedy of the Year. Suppose I’ll need to Rochambeau myself to decide.

Chicken Little out.

Follow Maynard James Keenan on Twitter: @caduceuscellars, @mjkeenan, @puscifer. Read his column every other week on Up on the Sun.