The Perfect Imperfection

This week's honorary Pred must go to a group-- one that has successfully failed in the face of great opportunity, that has refused to refuse to yield against all odds, that has steadfastly heard the call to arms and has each time conscientiously objected. That group, of course, is the Detroit Lions.

Though my many devoted readers might object to this seemingly contradictory definition of predation, I can only say that to deny the Lions their rightful place as one of the most remarkable factions of humankind is to spit at the very foundation of what it means to pred. Though sport offers teams the unique opportunities to wipe the slate clean after each game, to regroup and improve through practice, watching film, scouting, and effort, the Lions have shown that these opportunities are mere possibilities, not mandates. They bring with them to every contest a dedication to the mediocre, a contract with the laughable. They have entered into sexual congress with Lady Loss, and they will be damned if they leave their partner unsatisfied.


John Kitna proudly eschewed pride until his body failed to predate further.

And it is not easy: thrice against division rivals, the Lions have almost fallen prey to that fair-haired seductress, Pride. They led the Green Bay Packers in the second half in week two, and twice held leads over the Minnesota Vikings deep into the second halves; but each time, the brave hunters from The Peninsular State regained their composure and poured it on toward the finish line of infamy. In week two, after taking the lead, John Kitna quickly threw two consecutive pick-sixes. In week six, they took it down to the wire before lying down to a Ryan Longwell FG as time expired in the game. This past week, they held a fourth-quarter lead before finding the fortitude to capitulate at last.
ABOVE: Visiting Predators deftly hide their mandibles with elaborate disguises. The writing on the head-dresses belies the admiration of these Preds for Detroit.


Truly, this assortment of history's finest worst has found so many ways to fail that they honor us all. They will not be a bland footnote-- they will make such a splat from such a height that we will crane our necks for generations to catch but even a glimpse of this spectacle. And if we learned anything from Predator, it is that sometimes great warriors must fall for the benefit of humanity. Yet they will make such a mushroom cloud and laugh with such ferocity as they fall... oh what a sight it will be to behold as the chopper motors away from that cloud. And how bittersweet our victory we be over them, for we will know that a greater group of pred the world will not soon again see.

The Beast at Tanagra

ABOVE: Venerable actor Paul Winfield

First, I know that once again, I have been remiss in my posting duties; however, to be fair, I am out there predating every single day, and think that setting an example in the battlefields is equally as important as the rhetoric of such a site as this. Yes, every cause needs its Zola, but even Zola must have his Dreyfus, the persecuted hero who rails against all odds. And perhaps none railed as vigilantly or as boldly as our Pred of the Week, Paul Winfield. True, this brave warrior has gone from this realm, but his influence and presence are felt by all who knew and loved his work.

Getting his start on an episode of Perry Mason, Winfield spent four decades beguiling audiences on the big and small screen. Winfield became a known commodity with his performance as Dr. Horace Huguley in the television epic Roots: The Next Generations. This celebrated mini-series showed that predation is often best expressed by the oppressed -- that the most effective form of predation often comes from those who appear to be the prey. That movie just shouts, "Come get me- I'm here!"

Winfield's next break-out role came in 1982's The Wrath of Khan, the second installment of the popular Star Trek movie series. There, Winfield is victim to evil super-genius Khan's revenge, and takes an earwig to the brain for the team. Ultimately, however, even carnivorous ear monsters cannot keep Winfield down, as he fights through the pain to help deliver Khan to his fate.

Winfield's next note-worthy role was as Julian C. Barlow on the ground-breaking TV series 227. Playing a madcap man of privilege, Winfield offered a contrapuntal version of Jackee Harry's Sandra, and acted as a comment on the state of the African American community of the late 1980s. Though Mary, Rose, Pearl and the gang held no airs, Sandra and Barlow represented the figures in any community, but perhaps even more so in marginalized ones, who seek to place themselves above their own conditions of living. But the fact remains that Barlow lived with his 'inferiors' and relied on their friendships and counsel. Strong cultural work from a dedicated predator.

But all of the work I have surveyed so far only leads up to Winfield's most powerful and lasting role: as Captain Dathon in a 1991 episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation entitled "Darmok." There, Winfield gives the performance of a lifetime as an alien captain who wishes only to be able to communicate with humanity. His race, the Tamarians, communicate famously, as Starfleet Captain Jean-Luc Picard ultimately disovers, "by citing example - through MET-a-PHOR!" Before this important breakthrough, no one can figure out how to communicate with the Tamarians, because the Starfleet officers do not know the stories behind the examples the alien race cites. It would be like me saying to some foreign race, "Billy in the Jungle" or "Anna in her Chopper." While we would all understand the first to be an image of solitary and honorable predation, and the second to elicit a feeling of safety and completion of task, the aliens would hear only the words and not know the substance behind them.


ABOVE: Winfield as Dathon. Note the strong predatory head ridges of a true warrior.

It is with the understanding that only shared predatory experience would break through the veritable silence that Captain Dathon transports himself and Captain Picard to an alien planet where a powerful force roams free. He knows from his mytho-history that two men of disparate pasts were brought together by a similarly isolated common struggle against a monster, and he wants to replicate this event with Picard. The episode is built upon the foundation of hunting a vicious beast, to be sure, but the true appeal of the plot is in the unraveling of the Tamarian language by Picard. Through the tireless efforts of Winfield's Dathon, Picard is able to capture and interpret small snippets of the Tamarian language. For example, "Temba, his arms open" means roughly to give something; "Darmok and Jalad at Tanagra" indicates that shared battle often brings people together in friendship; and "Shaka, when the walls fell "indicates failure. The episode ends with Dathon falling to the beast on the planet's surface, but with Picard learning how to communicate with, and more importantly, to empathize with, this new race of people. Dathon's dedication to his task was full, and his price great; but if we could all reflect such effort, oh, what predation we could effect!

Unfortunately for the world, Paul Winfield has died, and we are left to ponder his example. As for me, I prefer not to imagine that Winfield died in some hospital bed, melting into the stiff sheets of cruel fate. No, I see him lying by a campfire, nursing the wounds of a brave fight with an alien beast, listening to a Starfleet captain regale him with the tale of Gilgamesh and Enkidu. There he will rest for eternity, knowing that he has broken through to the strange man beside him and that his life has not been spent in vain. One of his more famous lines was "Shaka, when the walls fell." Ironic, in that his life was an unparalleled success and has inspired generations of men. perhaps the walls once fell, but through the efforts of men like Winfield, we will soon reforge this wall and will all find ways to communicate with each other.

Young Weezy in the Heezy

First, to the remarkably few devotees of this important blog, let me apologize for neglecting my duties this past week. Work sidetracked me from my true calling: to shout from the tallest mountain the praises of those who predate. But enough of this self-indulgence; it is my honor to bestow the Predator of the Week award to a man who has gone unheralded for much too long: Lil Wayne. With a quiet grace and understated demeanor, Lil Wayne has wormed his way into the hearts of millions. His messages are those of the every-pred; his style, the humility of one who works only to serve.

Cutting his teeth as a student of mentor and CEO of Cash Money Records, Bryan “Birdman” Williams, Lil Wayne has turned his pensive brand of vocal artistry into the vox populi. Few souls have gone untouched by the masterful lyricism of Lil’s words. Who among us can forget where we were when we first heard the strains of “Act A Ass”? Few of the world’s poets could have better characterized the postmodern fragmentation of the subject.

“Act a ass wit it,” the bard begins. “Back ya ass wit it,” he continues. This entreaty expresses the desperate longing of a man splintered by the pressures of late capitalism and what scholar David Harvey terms ‘time-space compression.’ When he croons, “I ain't got no loves for broads / I ducks and dodge / I grab 'em, on they butts and all,” Wayne captures the lure of empty sexual gratification in a barren psychic landscape.

Wayne also critiques the primacy that money has taken in this bleak world. In an early collaboration with Fat Joe, Lil shows that he is no slave to commodity. He freely gives of his wealth to others: “Yeah: I’m in this bitch with the terror
/ Got a handful of stacks / Better grab an umbrella / I make it rain.” Later in his career, Wayne again reiterates these themes in “A Milli.” He spits,

A million here, a million there
Sicilian bitch with long hair, with coke in her derriere
Like smoke in the thinnest air
I open the Lamborghini
Hopin’ them crackers see me like, “Look at that bastard Weezy.”

Here, he flaunts the fact that even millions are of no importance to him. He’d just as easily spend such riches on wining and dining women of questionable integrity as do anything fun with it. Indeed, he flies in the face of the white aristocracy, driving expensive cars so as to indicate to them that their plan to turn the world into one global capitalist village shall not go unquestioned. “That bastard Weezy” is out there fighting for all of us.

ABOVE: Wayne's comment on fetishism: Man juxtaposed with commodity.

Perhaps Wayne’s goals are best summarized by his anthem, “I Cant Feel My Face.” In this offering, Wayne interrogates the role of facades, those masks we are forced to put on in order to feel socially acceptable. When commodity fetishism and hyperreality are all there is, who among us, if we are to be honest, can really feel his face? ABOVE: Lil Wayne makes sure his face is still there.

Few among us, I think, could so eloquently express what we all feel:

I aint gotta lie I'm just tryin to be with me
bitches up in heaven waitin on me to die to be with me
I'm crazy for being wayne, no is wayne just crazy,
I've been around, I'm still around like the geicko cavemen
hairpin trigga know I won't shave it
I spot hip hop in the ocean I'm gon save it

We are that hip hop, afloat on a sea of broken promises. DeWayne Carter has jumped bravely into the brink to rescue us from the foamy brine. Ralph Waldo Emerson once wrote that “To be great is to be misunderstood.” This must be the only reason that Lil Wayne has not before now been sufficiently honored. Kudos, Lil. Would that we all could exhibit the powerful predatory skills of a seasoned hunter like yourself. Welcome to the House of Pred.

Should Have Gone Easy into that Good Knight…

The new Knight Rider series, if it can be called that, is a travesty. So far as I can tell, the only similarities between the two shows is that they have a man who was once Michael Long and that the episode titles are puns on “night” and “knight.” Otherwise, the new show is an embarrassment and a complete loss of the vision of the first series.

LEFT: Michael and KITT prepare for a picnic in the park. Even predators need to refuel.

To build my case, let me first outline how tremendously predatory the original Knight Rider was. First, it starred David Hasselhoff—and we’re talking pre-Baywatch Hasselhoff and pre-drunken-embarrassment-to-America “Hoff.” Not only was it thrilling to tune in every week to see Hasselhoff’s mane of chest hair pouring out from a button-up shirt and leather jacket, it was also gratifying that his character was a true agent for good: a maverick for the Foundation for Law and Government who carried no gun and needed only his wits, his fists, and his old pal KITT to defeat the various forces of evil.

Number two: KITT, a wicked cool Pontiac T-Top. In the original, the supercar was voiced by William Daniels (that’s Mr. Feeney for all you Boy Meets World fans), and that snarky timbre was just right to characterize KITT. He was dedicated to logic and justice, but he got in his shots at Michael whenever possible. In addition, each episode had a devoted KITT-saves-the-day storyline. Yes, Knight was the pilot, but surely, he would have been little without his machine. The requisite chase scene and turbo-boost climax were staples of the original series. The show was about a supercar and its influence on justice.

Three: The supporting cast. Devon Miles and Bonnie Barstow were essential characters. Devon gave credibility and an ambiguous accent to the show. Bonnie, played by Patricia McPherson, was the foxy lady mechanic who knew how to push all of KITT’s (and Michael’s) buttons. She was the what-if romantic liaison for Knight, and she spiced up the secondary scenes. There was even the last season addition of Reg, or RC3, as he was affectionately called, to give a bit of flavor to the show. He showed that African-Americans on dirt bikes care about predation, too.

RIGHT: The original crew, with playful model of KITT. Devon gives us a predatory thumbs-up. Michael has the glare of a hunter zeroing in on prey.

Finally, there are a number of other contributing elements. The show’s theme was pulsing and commanded your attention. Busta Rhymes would later make a hit song from the theme, showing its influence and staying power. Richard Basehart’s narration over the theme of Michael Knight’s crusade for the “innocent, the helpless, the powerless, in a world of criminals who operate above the law” was a constant reminder of the show’s motif and was just plain bad-ass. And let’s not forget the moving headquarters in the back of the black Knight 16-wheeler. Nothing cooler than seeing KITT back out and peel around from the back of that bad-boy. And what of KARR, the first supercar model that could not handle his AI and turned evil? And Goliath, an evil 16-wheeler? I could go on an on…

But let’s now turn to the new series. First, Knight and the cast. Knight is played by an A-one douchebag. Technically, because of a ridiculous storyline, actually, the guy is Michael Traceur. Quel douch-ay. Though his acting is hammy and just horrible, I am not sure anyone could save the lines he is made to utter. KITT, too, is horrible in this version. The bloated once-star Val Kilmer delivers his lines with no passion, over-emphasizing the robotic nature of the voice. The rest of the cast is a bunch of Disney-looking tweeners who seem to be around only to either prance about in bikinis or rip their shirts off as need-be. A greater collection of douches and retards has not appeared since, well, MTV produced its last 100 shows. Not even Bruce Davison, a venerable TV character actor can save this janky cast.

ABOVE: New super-douche Michael Traceur and product placement KITT.

Next, let’s talk plots. As I have already alluded to, the show is more a flesh parade and youth advertisement than a real show. Its mediation is more like that of CSI: Miami than its own show. In addition, KITT may as well not exist. Michael and cast all have guns, and the show seems often to intentionally withhold any KITT-involved chase scenes or turbo boosts. As an example, in episode two, the show is about taking down a street racing league involved in other illegal activities. Just as KITT is set to race, he turns to go save the main slut of the show, disallowing my telephilic jouissance. Later, KITT arbitrarily morphs from Mustang to SUV, a shameless way for Ford Motor company to show its new lines. The morphing was completely superfluous and stood in as that episode’s “cool KITT” thing. Weak. Also, did I mention that KITT, earlier in the episode, had produced a key out of thin air? Yes, KITT now has Star Trek style matter replicators. Of course… why not? At episode’s end, KITT plays no part in the capture of the bad guys, and there is no turbo boost or whatever outlandish equivalent this group of hack writers would insert. The whole show is just a travesty.

To sum up, the show is one of the worst pieces of tripe on TV today, even outstripping MTV's, Nickelodeon's and Lifetime's regrettable offerings. It is a blatant attempt by NBC and Ford to attract the 18-34s, and it is practically unwatchable. This is one of those occasions where there is a subtraction by addition. There is the loss of once-proud predation here, people. Fight it.

Matlock Honored as First Pred of Week

I know, I know: many of you are surprised, shocked even, that the first Predator of the Week award goes to Benjamin L. Matlock. However, I think your surprise comes from the fact that you do not know Matlock like I know Matlock. I have assiduously studied the case history of Atlanta's most famous and revered criminal attorney, and let me tell you: this man is a predator for the truth. If predation is an unwavering dedication to task, the hunting of dangerous prey against all odds, well, then, Citizen Matlock is a pred among preds.

If you have ever seen Benjamin Leyton Matlock in action, you know what I am talking about. He won't even take a case if he thinks his client is guilty. He has an eerie ability to see into the soul of even the most seemingly guilty individual and see the innocence therein. Most famously, he was able to successfully defend and redeem mob boss Nicholas Baron in a much ballyhooed 1986 murder trial.ABOVE: Matlock, his daughter Charlene, and mob kingpin Nicholas Baron.

But Matlock is not primarily known for such high-profile cases; no, his most common client is the common client: everyday citizens who find themselves on the strong side of justice. Framed by ne'er-do-wells, coincidence or circumstance, these people turn desperately to the man who they know can see through the ostensible to find their deep-seated goodness. And he always does. This man can not only sense the truth like an animal senses danger, but he can sniff it out and pursue it with the tenacity and vigor of a true predator. Never, in all my research of Matlock case law, have I found an instance where the truth has not surfaced. Even in the three instances where Matlock was initially fooled into believing and defending crafty, guilty clients, Matlock was deftly able to submarine his own cases so that justice was served. Were such acts legal misconduct? Perhaps. Could he have faced dis-barment for each case? Yes, of course. But that's just the kind of dedication he has to the truth. Sometimes you have to break a few eggs to make an omelet, he might say.

And Matlock's pursuit of truth has not always been easy. The Southern lawyer has been drugged, beaten, and kidnapped throughout of the years, and he looked a serial killer, Jeffrey Spidell, straight in the eye twice without blinking. He simply does not care what happens to himself. He will pursue the truth with the ferocity of a mother protecting her young, and he will put his own body in harm's way if necessary. As his Daddy always told him, and as he is wont to repeat, "Ain't nothin' easy."

Indeed, those words proved prophetic for the attorney, when, after only one year in practice together, Matlock's daughter, Charlene, disappeared completely. Matlock never let it show on the outside, but he was devastated. As a way to compensate, he began to surround himself with other women. First, he hired Michelle Thomas, an attractive up-and-coming attorney who people close to Matlock say reminds him of Charlene. He also struck up an on-again, off-again relationship with prosecutor Julie March and hired a young assistant, Cassy Phillips.


LEFT: Matlock and his bevy of truth-lovin' ladies.


These women kept the intrepid lawyer grounded while he dealt with his loss, and eventually, his perseverance paid off. Five years after the disappearance of Charlene, Matlock's daughter returned to him. The reunion was not easy, though, as the two had clearly grown apart. For one, Matlock had grown attached to his new team of investigators and partners, and for another, Charlene had changed her name to Leanne and altered her appearance entirely. It was as if she was a totally different person.

But, I think you can all guess how the story ended-- father and daughter teamed up to become an even more formidable agent for truth, and the nation is better for it. Indeed, we need such men as Ben Matlock out there, toiling in the trenches for good men and women like you and me. Without the tireless predation of men like him, this world would be a bleak place to live, and America would not be the land of the free, but rather, the land of the unjustly prosecuted. Let's all raise a cheer for this week's Pred of the Week, Benjamin Matlock.