Michael Flatley IS Gourd in the Pants! (a revisionist biography)
By David Orr
America has a new folk hero, and he is hot. Not a horrid genetic
aberration like Paul Bunyan or a homely wanderer à la Johnny Appleseed,
this man is able to "captivate audiences" and "thrill children and women"
around the world and on the gold-paved stages of our very own North
American continent.
He is Michael Flatley, a plucky Irish fellow with a flare for old
school dance traditions and beautiful, full-chested women. Like a richly
coppertoned Andrew Lloyd Webber, Flatley exudes glamourous excess and
extravagant, glossy emotion. In his headbanded virility, we see all of the
men we want to be. Or want to love. And we know this man from his
belly-bursting performances as leader of "Riverdance" and "Lord of the
Dance", capital DANCE.
Atop his mountain villa, overlooking his sprawling global empire,
it is easy for Michael Flatley to lose touch with the people and become
just one more lonely despot. When he does lose this grip on the essence of
his being, he finds solace in looking back at his robust life and learning,
once again, from the tears and the laughter. Michael Flatley digs daily
through the fertile soil of his mind and grasps his own lusty roots.
It is said that to gaze upon Michael Flatley's handsome face, into
those playful leprechaun eyes, is to see the image of Greek hero and Celtic
imp combined. Chiseled of granite, for sure, but radiating a soft, inner
light which brings the masculine and feminine together, creates a sensitive
modern renaissance man. One can imagine Michael Flatley splitting wood just
as easily as, say, quilting.
And that would be an accurate image! His home is in the scenic
Catskills range of New England, deep in the womb of a majestic hemlock
forest. Here, he can enjoy both of the aforementioned activities as well as
the multitude of other interests he harbors. A glance at the estate leads
you to think one thing: MAN. The massive logs which make up his cabin are
like the forelimbs of Hercules. Yet they are offset, subtly, by a lovely
flower bed. Inside, everything is velvet tranquility, from the sofa, which
is like a fresh loaf of bread, to the soft pastel motif. He has a keen
interest in erotic art; nearly every knick-knack, conversation piece, or
miscellaneous decoration is unmistakably phallic. On the east side, like a
benign tumor, is the puppet room. In here, Michael Flatley is counseled by
extensions of his own personality. Gringo is the angry Michael Flatley.
Chimparoo is the sad Michael Flatley. Pyewackett is the mean Michael
Flatley. These puppets allow Michael Flatley to confront the ugly sides of
himself. They keep him sane.
His love of Greco-Roman wrestling is apparent in his brawny
upstairs bathroom. The intimate Silk Room is a private hideaway for the
sexcapades Michael Flatley embarks on with neighbors or other locals. Also,
robot lovers will delight in Tommy Bartlett's Emporium of Fantasy, located
in Michael Flatley's attic. Bring the kids, half off admission on Thursdays
or with ticket stubs from any other Tommy Bartlett family fun center. Out
back, take a dip in Gooseneck Lake, or try out one of Michael Flatley's
amphibious trucks! He has an armada, and they're waiting for you!.
He's friends with Seal. He has a Tapir ranch. His dad invented
broasted chicken.
On The Significance of Devo
by David Orr
It isn't a rare occasion that I'm asked about my musical preferences, and part of my answer invariably is "DEVO". It generally doesn't get much attention. Not even a delighted "My enlightened soul-brother! Ascend with me to the upper reaches of heaven, bask in the starlight, watch the ant colony we like to call 'Earth' while sipping from bottomless cups of flavored tea!" Go figure. Perhaps such an exuberant answer would be out of line, but why can't I find anyone who appreciates the legend that is DEVO? Well, it mainly has to do with capitalism and society and other such issues which, fittingly, were well covered by the above-mentioned band. Sadly, DEVO will probably always be seen as "that wacky flower-pot hat band". It's an easy, natural write-off, which fits human nature quite well. I can't expect much more. Yet I do. I search for someone who respects DEVO as I do, who agrees with their logic, who understands what the concept was about. Because after all, it comes down to the concept. They delved deeper than the technological themes we all see on the surface, into basic human compulsions and stimuli. Through their absurd image, they reflected the folly we don't notice we're falling into. It's mankind's ignorance and conceit that they capitalized on, and if the majority of people didn't understand, it only emphasizes the DEVO point. Devolution was to lose our egotistical facades and return to our primal, truthful roots, which aren't missing under the Earth's strata, but remain within each of us. It's the dropping of pretense and assumption of our humanity. It's an apple for breakfast instead of a Pop Tart. Actually, I saw on MTV that Hank Rollins is a DEVO believer, having been a creator of the Infinite Zero archives, which has released DEVO albums heinously deleted by Warner Bros. Maybe I could drive out to Cali and have brunch with Hank, bemoaning humanity's lack of common sense. We'd work out together, urging each other to grow stronger until we were impervious to the painful blows dealt us by the opposite sex. We'd be a team, Hank and I, standing atop our rock citadel, surrounded by metal and leather and boots and meat. None would see through our emotional barriers, none but ourselves. People would wonder and muse and throw us to the rumor mill, but it would make us even stronger. We'd have complete control of our fates and we wouldn't take any guff from back-talking wormy guys in suits. Yuppies would recoil when darkened by our inescapable shadows. The world would take notice, and we would let no one in to our fortress. We'd sit atop the turrets, counting stars we couldn't see behind the steel clouds, never letting anyone in, isolated, strong, safe. But that would defeat the whole purpose. **The David Orr Monkey Explosion appears in each issue of Ductape