Snoot Cause

... in which a pint-sized prima donna discovers who to blame.

The discontent began in my childhood. But this is not to say that the childhood caused my discontent. I had a traditional, suburban upbringing, full of sprinkler dances and glue huffings, an American boyhood of Rockwellian* romance. No corporal punishments or diddlings from the parish priests. No L. Ron or Amway training up a child or similar traumas.

And mine was not the Fauntleroy pretension of a pampered affluent – let’s not blame my cash-strapped parents. I was not smothered in high-culture finery, and you can be sure my ‘bacca-chawing ma and pa never exposed me to museums, classic literature, symphonies, or mint juleps at the steeplechase. I enjoyed the lowbrow normality of Seventies abundance, all Icees and squirt guns on a summer’s day, a perfectly fine boyhood.

Yet I kvetched nonetheless. Despite climate-controlled conditions, I was, from the time of my earliest cognition, an insufferable snob. This included the usual kiddie temperament of being “picky” about sandwich crusts and sock colors, but was especially foul concerning matters of children’s entertainment: the kids’ books, puppet shows, and children’s records inflicted on us unsuspecting thumbsuckers. About these magic-lantern diversions, I was at best dissatisfied, at worst deeply insulted.

Comics fan though I was, I condemned the spinner rack selections as unworthy of my pocket change: Spidey art not up to Romita standards, shoddy printing on Ghostly Tales, Baby Huey and Uncle Scrooge featuring talking ducks in clear defiance of God’s law. And you could damn well forget about any Green Gables or Velveteen Rabbits in my book collection, seeing as I had not been lobotomized.

But my purest fury was reserved for the TV product: the grindhouse Scooby Doo cartoons, the Romper Room pabulum, the Pufnstuf shenanigans, the unsettling Slim Goodbody edu-cabaret. I was incensed that I was the target audience for this sewage. And it didn’t take long to realize that the Morks and Starskys of adult TV fare were equally idiotic.

This surprises no one who knows me, as I have carried this queeny bitchfest into adulthood and beyond, complaining about everything from sandwich crusts to sock colors. But it concerns me that I got such an early start on my misanthropic view of modern cultural upchuck. It usually takes a dozen Star Trek spinoffs for viewers to get this disillusioned.

And then, fate delivered unto me a grandson (as part of the contractual agreement of my second marriage), and through him, a possible key to my early embitterment. One day, to entertain the tyke with minimal effort, I dialed up a television series from my infancy on YouTube: Ultraman. This was the original 1966 series from Japan, made by the same A/V industrialist who brought us Godzilla, Mothra, and other low-tech giant monsters. There it was: the cheaply-built miniatures, the dorky rubber costumes, the stumbling fight scenes, the poor film stock, the bad dubbing. This, I concluded, was the launchpad for my lifelong malcontentment. This is why I hate everything.

Because Ultraman was the greatest goddamned TV show ever created. Ultraman was a fever dream of full-scale destruction, a barrage of flames, bombs, crumbling skyscrapers, screeching jets, exploding tanks, volcanoes, lightning, and hurricanes. Ultraman delivered cosmic surrealism with enough Dada absurdity to frighten Timothy Leary: intra-dimensional soul transfers, Mabusian mind control, astral projection, dreams made real, skies that literally crack open, all with the reverbed sound effects of a Merzbow record. Ultraman was, to say the least, intense.

Above all, Ultraman was gloriously violent. Kicks, punches, headlocks, fire-breathing, and laser blasts, while our giant hero and his gruesome adversary pulverized schools and hospitals with their rambunctious grappling. There were no corny dad jokes or lessons about proper dental care. No stiffly animated cartoon bears singing songs about eating one’s vegetables. There was instead the boiling sea, birthing a giant demon, who was instilled with undefinable rage that could not be contained. Fuck this boat! Fuck this bridge! Fuck this electrical grid! Your useless weapons are only pissing him off more.

This psychedelia assaulted my senses when I was barely housebroken. Ultraman, to my tender sensibilities, was the kiddie show equivalent of hitting the crack pipe. I was enthralled, and I was ruined. Was I supposed to just watch Yogi Bear after this? As if nothing happened?

Nothing measured up after that. I chased that first high of Ultraman through Planet of the Apes, Logan’s Run, and Rollerball, enduring endless letdowns until fantasy entertainment constituted mere maintenance doses. Nice try, Star Wars. Eventually, even the memory of those transformative monster smackdowns faded. All that lingered was the discontent, tainting my evaluation of every superdude blockbuster, every CG alien invasion, every personal relationship.

With the exception of my relationship with the grandkid. This little guy I adore so much, I am compelled to ruin his life forever so that he may better bond with his broken Opa. Hence, my sharing of the Ultraman infection, which thrills him intensely.

I asked him if he prefers Ultraman to Harry Potter or Attack of the Clones. “I like them all the same,” he says, just as he claims to like ABBA, Kraftwerk, and Bariş Manço with equal intensity. A healthy attitude. If he grows up angry and bitter, maybe he’ll blame me instead of the Japanese.

I’m just glad I can have a little influence.

- A.H.

*Norman, to be clear. Not George Lincoln. Although I’ll bet the latter tested the Testors himself on occasion.

(And let’s not forget Ashley’s website, jam-packed with portraits and other drawings, his highly-affordable prints and books currently available, his eagerness for your portrait commission, and his contact email, thrdgll@gmail.com, where he longs to hear from you.)