This was too easy. But I feel it's important to acknowledge the ending of one calendar and the beginning of another. So with a heavy heart, an overload of celebration and a wee bit of trepidation mixed in with the glamor of the temporal unknown, I would like to reflect on the month of December as everyone prepares for the midnight festivities, when we can finally end this month that dragged on and flew by. Bring on January!
Politically speaking, the country was ferociously divided at the very beginning of the month but after 31 long days...we are still ferociously divided--and criminally under-use the word "ferocious." But we are all unified by the strike of a clock...unless you consider different time zones ("Central Time shout out!"). I think it is safe to say politicians will continue to say crazy stuff, and be crazier for not saying other stuff, over the next month.
Regardless of political sides and insane displays of morality, people can still find common ground around all the balls dropping in America tonight. All the non-controversy surrounding January's Eve is really what America, nay the world, needed. There is no "war on January" (except for the wars during January), there are no disadvantage people left out of the process (unless the work or don't have watches) and this holiday doesn't require apologies to pagans whose own celebrations were deliberately trampled on by Romans/Puritans/capitalists. No. January's Eve is pure.
I wish we celebrated this much of the turning of every month. After all, new work is required with every new month. I have to flip up my monthly calender. Also, it usually takes me 2 or 3 weeks to stop writing the numerals for the previous month on all my assignments, applications and legal documents.
Now I would like to propose a strange--and therefore efficient--amendment to the month-ending celebrations. I would like our countdown to continue for an extra thirty minutes (hear me out!). If we make every month thirty minutes longer, every four years we can eliminate a single day from the calendar. We can 'leap' over this day, if you will. I suggest the day we eliminate is April 23--as that is my brother's birthday and I'm tired of buying him birthday presents every year.
But while reflecting on the previous month is fun, I am glad to be entering a new month. January. It almost sounds futuristic. I think BLADE RUNNER took place in January. Maybe not. As a side note, I'd like to wish a Happy January 1st birthday to J.D. Salinger, Sen. Bob Menendez, and Frank Langella.
And Happy New Month to everyone out there!
p.s. Hey, I just noticed today is not only the last day of the year but also of the whole decade--that's pretty cool too, huh?
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
You Are Here
There is a world not unlike our own. And in this world I am always confused and usually scared. I have no map and don't understand the terrain. The places I visit are nothing like how I was told. The places I've been change by the next time I go back. The people talk about strange things--or at least I think they do, as they also speak different languages. I don't have a compass and even if I did, it would not work. I keep moving but never see where I am going.
But somehow, when I am with you, I am never lost.
But somehow, when I am with you, I am never lost.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
The December Skyscraper
I have too many novel ideas, so some creativity will have to be tossed aside, altered or forgotten.
The motif of my life was broken up when a professor shoved a book in my hands. I was in a university classroom but should have been in a big city alley. The professor was grungy but not grungy enough. Give me all your money, he said. How is this legal, I replied. This is a monopoly. No, he said, it isn’t, now give me all your money. Fine. Take it. This is a textbook robbery.
A politician was told the medical school had a cadaver shortage. He told them to just train new ones. (Zing!)
While touring a bear-trap factory deep down Louisiana close to New Orleans, a musician fell off a catwalk. He couldn’t read or write the word “well” or, more relevant, the word “careful.” And boy, he tried to play a guitar just like ringing a bell; that is, by shaking it. Oh no, no Johnny. No, no. no. Now the country boy is named Johnny B. Goo.
The sign on the front of the store says the business is open “11 am to Close.” What the hell does that mean?
I returned to my home town after a year’s absence to discover the entire city had been flooded. The entire place was flooded up to one foot of water. Just one foot. It was so little water that life, for the most part, seemed to continue as always. Businesses were open and kids went to school. When I was there my shoes and pants kept getting wet and everybody laughed at me because I wasn’t wearing knee-high rubber boots.
We give 20 "hyper-active" children medication to calm them down but we should just give one teacher the same medication. That's efficiency.
The Situation: If the only way to stop a bomb from killing people, including yourself, was to solve a remedial math equation, would you want the one-time opportunity to solve it or would you want a random other person to be chosen? Does your answer change if you could chose any one in the whole world to answer the problem? Think about it. Read on. My answer doesn’t. I would try it myself no matter what. So too bad readers, your life is in my hands.
Scientists have conclude that the scariest animal in the world, or at least underwater, is the octopus.
There was a writer who went through a six-word phase. My favorite stories of hers were “A computer nerd finished the Internet,” “She hates her favorite song now” and “Dinosaurs are dangerously alive. Fuck doorknobs.” To try and best her, I wrote my own, it was—and is called—“No story is too short.”
This story is a skyscraper because it is made up of dozens of stories.
The motif of my life was broken up when a professor shoved a book in my hands. I was in a university classroom but should have been in a big city alley. The professor was grungy but not grungy enough. Give me all your money, he said. How is this legal, I replied. This is a monopoly. No, he said, it isn’t, now give me all your money. Fine. Take it. This is a textbook robbery.
A politician was told the medical school had a cadaver shortage. He told them to just train new ones. (Zing!)
While touring a bear-trap factory deep down Louisiana close to New Orleans, a musician fell off a catwalk. He couldn’t read or write the word “well” or, more relevant, the word “careful.” And boy, he tried to play a guitar just like ringing a bell; that is, by shaking it. Oh no, no Johnny. No, no. no. Now the country boy is named Johnny B. Goo.
The sign on the front of the store says the business is open “11 am to Close.” What the hell does that mean?
I returned to my home town after a year’s absence to discover the entire city had been flooded. The entire place was flooded up to one foot of water. Just one foot. It was so little water that life, for the most part, seemed to continue as always. Businesses were open and kids went to school. When I was there my shoes and pants kept getting wet and everybody laughed at me because I wasn’t wearing knee-high rubber boots.
We give 20 "hyper-active" children medication to calm them down but we should just give one teacher the same medication. That's efficiency.
The Situation: If the only way to stop a bomb from killing people, including yourself, was to solve a remedial math equation, would you want the one-time opportunity to solve it or would you want a random other person to be chosen? Does your answer change if you could chose any one in the whole world to answer the problem? Think about it. Read on. My answer doesn’t. I would try it myself no matter what. So too bad readers, your life is in my hands.
Scientists have conclude that the scariest animal in the world, or at least underwater, is the octopus.
There was a writer who went through a six-word phase. My favorite stories of hers were “A computer nerd finished the Internet,” “She hates her favorite song now” and “Dinosaurs are dangerously alive. Fuck doorknobs.” To try and best her, I wrote my own, it was—and is called—“No story is too short.”
This story is a skyscraper because it is made up of dozens of stories.
Monday, December 28, 2009
"Funny People" are Where You Find Them
FUNNY PEOPLE, Judd Apatow's third and least successful film (in nearly every way a film can be unsuccessful), was under-appreciated this last summer and solidifies Apatow's directorial/writing instincts above his slew of imitators. Films such as SUPERBAD, ROLE MODELS, PINEAPPLE EXPRESS, FORGETTING SARAH MARSHALL, etc. almost certainly contain more jokes per minute but never reached the startling realism and thematic value of FUNNY PEOPLE.
The characters in FUNNY PEOPLE would be more appreciated in real life than most movies--wherein the audience expects a certain level of hyper-reality; that is, everyone is funny, side characters are dumb, good girls are good, people know how they feel, etc. I believe the bare-bones reality of the film unsettled people. There was no emotional arch in a traditional sense, as life doesn't have an arch while you are living. Imagine how depressing that would be, if you new which "act" you were living out in your entire life right now. There was no real story arch either, as at now point were the characters building up to a single event or preparing for some third-act payoff.
Despite being about a bunch of comedians, the traditional jokes are lacking in number but the overall joke is the movie itself. Some people might read this as just a series of inside jokes for those involved in the production, but the audience is welcomed into their world. The whole film is working an a much more subtle brain wave length than "McLovin." And once one understand the non-story premise and attitude of the film, the jokes will start rolling. But just as important, so will the drama.
My opinion on Seth Rogen after seeing this movie changed almost as much as my opinion on girls after seeing Princess Leia in RETURN OF THE JEDI ("wow, I feel something all of a sudden"). Even Seth Rogen fans have a hard time saying the man hasn't been over-exposed in the last pair of years. He averages 4 films per year in the last 3 years--I don't know if I wash my car that often. Regardless he nails the "protege"/"struggling artist"/"sissy friend" character. You root for him but feel frustrated by him almost as much as Sandler does. A character that is flawed, not just in their world, but in the audiences' eyes is an incredibly hard act to pull off in any kind of like-able fashion, but Rogen--defying my knee-high expectations--molds an original and enjoyable performance.
FUNNY PEOPLE should set an example to other comedies trying to be more than the lowest common joke--I'm looking at you, HOT TUB TIME MACHINE. That's not to say I wish more films deal with death, be ultra-realistic, cast Seth Rogen or avoid traditional story arcs, but rather, I wish movies would be made with the heart and painful self-examination required of filmmakers in such cases. This movie could be read as a friend-family tribute (or even home video), but it is still meaningful to outsiders when it touches upon largely untouched, yet universal, situations. More times than not, and in more ways than not, life is funny--so it's all too appropriate that it should be filled with FUNNY PEOPLE.
The characters in FUNNY PEOPLE would be more appreciated in real life than most movies--wherein the audience expects a certain level of hyper-reality; that is, everyone is funny, side characters are dumb, good girls are good, people know how they feel, etc. I believe the bare-bones reality of the film unsettled people. There was no emotional arch in a traditional sense, as life doesn't have an arch while you are living. Imagine how depressing that would be, if you new which "act" you were living out in your entire life right now. There was no real story arch either, as at now point were the characters building up to a single event or preparing for some third-act payoff.
Despite being about a bunch of comedians, the traditional jokes are lacking in number but the overall joke is the movie itself. Some people might read this as just a series of inside jokes for those involved in the production, but the audience is welcomed into their world. The whole film is working an a much more subtle brain wave length than "McLovin." And once one understand the non-story premise and attitude of the film, the jokes will start rolling. But just as important, so will the drama.
My opinion on Seth Rogen after seeing this movie changed almost as much as my opinion on girls after seeing Princess Leia in RETURN OF THE JEDI ("wow, I feel something all of a sudden"). Even Seth Rogen fans have a hard time saying the man hasn't been over-exposed in the last pair of years. He averages 4 films per year in the last 3 years--I don't know if I wash my car that often. Regardless he nails the "protege"/"struggling artist"/"sissy friend" character. You root for him but feel frustrated by him almost as much as Sandler does. A character that is flawed, not just in their world, but in the audiences' eyes is an incredibly hard act to pull off in any kind of like-able fashion, but Rogen--defying my knee-high expectations--molds an original and enjoyable performance.
FUNNY PEOPLE should set an example to other comedies trying to be more than the lowest common joke--I'm looking at you, HOT TUB TIME MACHINE. That's not to say I wish more films deal with death, be ultra-realistic, cast Seth Rogen or avoid traditional story arcs, but rather, I wish movies would be made with the heart and painful self-examination required of filmmakers in such cases. This movie could be read as a friend-family tribute (or even home video), but it is still meaningful to outsiders when it touches upon largely untouched, yet universal, situations. More times than not, and in more ways than not, life is funny--so it's all too appropriate that it should be filled with FUNNY PEOPLE.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Sum of Human Knowledge
I sit at my computer, fingers hovering over the keys. I keep my breath silent to hide the excitement, anxiety and fear. I hope that Dean--my friend, competitor and enemy--is tightening his back muscles, too; sitting on the edge of his chair, eyes being burned by his bright computer monitor. At any second Jonesy will fire the proverbial starter's pistol. From there Dean and myself will divert paths from the website homepage in breakneck efforts to reach the cyber-destination. This is Wikispeedia, and I absolutely have to win.
"Get to the....Animal Farm page. Go!"
Wikipedia front page. I make the obvious first click. English. Where to go? Nothing in the news. Art portal. Reading, reading. Literature. What do I know about Animal Farm? Click on genre? No. Authors. Wait, that's not a list, go back. Literature by country. America. Wait, no. Animal Farm...England? Why is there no England? Oh, United Kingdom. 20th century. James Joyce? No. Orwell. Reading. Biography. Burma. Elephant. Spanish Civil War. There. Animal Farm. Click.
"Done!" I jump back from the computer. Dean's head sinks and I feel a tinge of remorse. I decide to not do a celebration dance.
The five-star general, Jonesy, nods.
"Congratulations," he says, "You have secured the last seat on the last spaceship escaping Earth."
"Get to the....Animal Farm page. Go!"
Wikipedia front page. I make the obvious first click. English. Where to go? Nothing in the news. Art portal. Reading, reading. Literature. What do I know about Animal Farm? Click on genre? No. Authors. Wait, that's not a list, go back. Literature by country. America. Wait, no. Animal Farm...England? Why is there no England? Oh, United Kingdom. 20th century. James Joyce? No. Orwell. Reading. Biography. Burma. Elephant. Spanish Civil War. There. Animal Farm. Click.
"Done!" I jump back from the computer. Dean's head sinks and I feel a tinge of remorse. I decide to not do a celebration dance.
The five-star general, Jonesy, nods.
"Congratulations," he says, "You have secured the last seat on the last spaceship escaping Earth."
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Latenight Breakfast
I am trying to write a story so big that posting it on this blog would be a crime against readers and Blogspot formatting. Technically I'm not writing the actual story yet, but I feel writing can help writing--all evidence to the contrary.
Driving a certain distance--for the sake of flexibility I'll clarify no more than a distance beyond my normal land-based traveling--has a mild, yet undeniable appeal to me. I feel a sense of accomplishment during and after such travels, even if my destination's purpose has yet to be fulfilled or has any personal (and therefore worldly) importance. After some time I can say, "Behold! I have transversed 200 miles!" (As a side note, I intend on exclaiming "behold" more often.) And aside from butchering traditional English, in what I find to be a beautiful habit, my hypothetical statement is tangible, understandable and incontrovertible.
Perhaps it is for a similar reason that I physical write down, or type down, my brainstorming, free-flowing, stream of thought bubbles. I can look back and see what I was thinking moments, hours or days ago. I can read my thoughts as an older version of myself and analyze their validity, righteousness, other righteousness and entertainment.
So even if I am without structure, characters, concept, setting or narrative, I am still writing and not victim to the over-diagnosed, self-gratify, disease known as "writer's block." The unglamorous aspects of writing--that is, writing near-incomprehensible scribbles, ideas, fears, etc--are a part of the writing process. I'd like to back track and laugh at the phrase "unglamorous aspects of writing," implying the existence of "glamorous" aspects of writing. While there is, they do not include traditional connotations of "glamor" (sex, cars, drugs, clubs, fashion, etc.)
But my brainstorming as of late has taken on new difficulties, primarily that I am completely unrestricted. Unlike the films I half-concocted, this hypothetical book is not limited by budget--as writing "the helicopter explodes" is surprisingly cheap. Similarly, I am not restricted by length. However this means I have infinitely more possibilities, directions and questions to self-impose. Someone once told me that I was better at arguing in favor of poor ideas than creating good ones. If true, it would explain my seeming lack of creative motion. I cannot convince myself without knowing that I am convincing myself. Internal debates likely kill several good ideas, while taking out weaker ideas ten-fold.
Not until this point have I begun to see my creative insight as ridiculously circuitous. Therefore I hope something was learned in the journey as I have little hope, or intention, of shoehorning a powerful meaning into my last sentence.
Driving a certain distance--for the sake of flexibility I'll clarify no more than a distance beyond my normal land-based traveling--has a mild, yet undeniable appeal to me. I feel a sense of accomplishment during and after such travels, even if my destination's purpose has yet to be fulfilled or has any personal (and therefore worldly) importance. After some time I can say, "Behold! I have transversed 200 miles!" (As a side note, I intend on exclaiming "behold" more often.) And aside from butchering traditional English, in what I find to be a beautiful habit, my hypothetical statement is tangible, understandable and incontrovertible.
Perhaps it is for a similar reason that I physical write down, or type down, my brainstorming, free-flowing, stream of thought bubbles. I can look back and see what I was thinking moments, hours or days ago. I can read my thoughts as an older version of myself and analyze their validity, righteousness, other righteousness and entertainment.
So even if I am without structure, characters, concept, setting or narrative, I am still writing and not victim to the over-diagnosed, self-gratify, disease known as "writer's block." The unglamorous aspects of writing--that is, writing near-incomprehensible scribbles, ideas, fears, etc--are a part of the writing process. I'd like to back track and laugh at the phrase "unglamorous aspects of writing," implying the existence of "glamorous" aspects of writing. While there is, they do not include traditional connotations of "glamor" (sex, cars, drugs, clubs, fashion, etc.)
But my brainstorming as of late has taken on new difficulties, primarily that I am completely unrestricted. Unlike the films I half-concocted, this hypothetical book is not limited by budget--as writing "the helicopter explodes" is surprisingly cheap. Similarly, I am not restricted by length. However this means I have infinitely more possibilities, directions and questions to self-impose. Someone once told me that I was better at arguing in favor of poor ideas than creating good ones. If true, it would explain my seeming lack of creative motion. I cannot convince myself without knowing that I am convincing myself. Internal debates likely kill several good ideas, while taking out weaker ideas ten-fold.
Not until this point have I begun to see my creative insight as ridiculously circuitous. Therefore I hope something was learned in the journey as I have little hope, or intention, of shoehorning a powerful meaning into my last sentence.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Is He Real?
Dear Virginia,
Your Republican friends are wrong. They have been affected by cynicism from a cynical age. Their minds, like all minds bound by ideology rather than ideas, are not capable of grasping and embracing truth and knowledge. So yes, Virginia, there is a Barack Obama.
He exists as surely as love, devotion and generosity exists. How dreary the world would be with no Obama! It would as dreary as a world with no Virginia's. If neither existed, how could there be poetry, romance and faith?
You might be able to get your friends and Papa to watch television for years on end and they may never see the repeal of the Patriot Act or end of Middle Eastern wars. But that doesn't mean Obama doesn't exists. Sure the government never created oversight on banking creditors that created a financial mess; but there will be other chances. And even if you can't see a difference in your health care after Congress passes a mangled reform bill, the issue will be back in one election cycle. This is not the '93 health care mess. The Baby Boomer Generation is reaching retirement age so there will continue to be more political pressure than ever before.
For years now people have looked for an angle to mock Obama, and I believe they might have found one in his promise of "change"--for it may be he, and not the country that will "change." But don't let this waiver your belief little girl. There are wonders unimaginable throughout the world and life. What makes the noise inside a baby's rattle? Perhaps it doesn't matter because the sweet sound of a laughing baby is more wonderful than any technical achievement made by man. Furthermore, nobody can investigate the beauty, goodness and power hope can inspire. No sub-committee of politicians, no redneck protesters or maniacal pundits can strip away faith in something more, in something better.
No Obama indeed! Thank God Obama lives and will live a thousand years! He exist, and will always exist in your heart and the hearts of millions like you.
Merry Christmas and A Happy New Year!
-Editorial Page, The New York What-What!, 2009
Your Republican friends are wrong. They have been affected by cynicism from a cynical age. Their minds, like all minds bound by ideology rather than ideas, are not capable of grasping and embracing truth and knowledge. So yes, Virginia, there is a Barack Obama.
He exists as surely as love, devotion and generosity exists. How dreary the world would be with no Obama! It would as dreary as a world with no Virginia's. If neither existed, how could there be poetry, romance and faith?
You might be able to get your friends and Papa to watch television for years on end and they may never see the repeal of the Patriot Act or end of Middle Eastern wars. But that doesn't mean Obama doesn't exists. Sure the government never created oversight on banking creditors that created a financial mess; but there will be other chances. And even if you can't see a difference in your health care after Congress passes a mangled reform bill, the issue will be back in one election cycle. This is not the '93 health care mess. The Baby Boomer Generation is reaching retirement age so there will continue to be more political pressure than ever before.
For years now people have looked for an angle to mock Obama, and I believe they might have found one in his promise of "change"--for it may be he, and not the country that will "change." But don't let this waiver your belief little girl. There are wonders unimaginable throughout the world and life. What makes the noise inside a baby's rattle? Perhaps it doesn't matter because the sweet sound of a laughing baby is more wonderful than any technical achievement made by man. Furthermore, nobody can investigate the beauty, goodness and power hope can inspire. No sub-committee of politicians, no redneck protesters or maniacal pundits can strip away faith in something more, in something better.
No Obama indeed! Thank God Obama lives and will live a thousand years! He exist, and will always exist in your heart and the hearts of millions like you.
Merry Christmas and A Happy New Year!
-Editorial Page, The New York What-What!, 2009
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Curing Jackson Blair: bp6
Sterling walked to his car with the weight of a previous life off his shoulders. He didn’t need to be a clown. He never made a promise to anybody. He wanted to just have fun in life, like everybody else; and clowning around wasn’t fun anymore. Sterling didn’t know what he wasn’t going to do with his life, but that was the point. He didn’t want to know. From now on, Sterling was going to stop bending life to his will and would instead just let life happen.
Sterling put his key into the car door when he realized that the air was not as cold as it was earlier that day. Somehow Sterling felt the night air was warmer, not that it was warm, though. Sterling stood by his car and looked around the parking lot. Nobody was in sight yet he could hear distant traffic and a helicopter over the downtown area. Sterling took out his key and walked to the back of his car and jumped up to sit on the truck of his car. By now the sun had gone down, but Sterling was still facing west, as if hoping the sun would briefly come back and do an encore sunset.
The make up on Sterling’s face was beginning to harden. And while the tightened skin didn’t feel particularly good, Sterling favorite part about wearing make up had always been washing it off. Especially after a lengthy performance or back-to-back shows, Sterling’s face would feel dirty, oily, flaky and aged. But every time, as soon as he splashed water on himself, Sterling felt cleaner than he had before putting the paint on his face in the first place. The make up wasn’t suffocating, but Sterling breathed best immediately after washing it off.
A northern wind reminded Sterling that it was October, he was outside and that the night was only going to get colder. Sterling wondered about what he should eat for dinner, his first meal as a free man. Not as a single man, or unemployed man—though Sterling was most certainly both—but as a man free from a destiny Sterling could see and no longer wanted.
If Sterling went back to his apartment, back to his school, he would graduate with good grades and get a part-time gig with Classy Clowns. However Classy Clowns would not have enough jobs to support Sterling, so he would have to take up a part time job as a barista at the Coffee Bean. Over the years Sterling would, somewhat unintentional, prove himself a good employee and be promoted to a shift manager position. Sometime in his thirties, Sterling would panic, ask for a month off and go around the country visiting old friends and family. Someone somewhere would teach him a lesson about life and he would go back to his old life a new man who cared about improving the coffee shop. As a clown, if Classy Clowns hadn’t gone under by then after an inevitable dip in the economy, Sterling would begin to rehash old birthday routines and start to suspect he was entertaining the children of children he once entertained.
No, I’m not going to let that happen, Sterling thought as he slid off his truck and into the driver’s seat. Sterling put the key into the ignition but froze once again. He didn’t know where to go. Sterling took his hands off the keys and the steering wheel and placed them in his lap. Sterling could feel a new coldness seeping into his car. His stomach growled.
It was at this point that Sterling started to cry.
Sterling put his key into the car door when he realized that the air was not as cold as it was earlier that day. Somehow Sterling felt the night air was warmer, not that it was warm, though. Sterling stood by his car and looked around the parking lot. Nobody was in sight yet he could hear distant traffic and a helicopter over the downtown area. Sterling took out his key and walked to the back of his car and jumped up to sit on the truck of his car. By now the sun had gone down, but Sterling was still facing west, as if hoping the sun would briefly come back and do an encore sunset.
The make up on Sterling’s face was beginning to harden. And while the tightened skin didn’t feel particularly good, Sterling favorite part about wearing make up had always been washing it off. Especially after a lengthy performance or back-to-back shows, Sterling’s face would feel dirty, oily, flaky and aged. But every time, as soon as he splashed water on himself, Sterling felt cleaner than he had before putting the paint on his face in the first place. The make up wasn’t suffocating, but Sterling breathed best immediately after washing it off.
A northern wind reminded Sterling that it was October, he was outside and that the night was only going to get colder. Sterling wondered about what he should eat for dinner, his first meal as a free man. Not as a single man, or unemployed man—though Sterling was most certainly both—but as a man free from a destiny Sterling could see and no longer wanted.
If Sterling went back to his apartment, back to his school, he would graduate with good grades and get a part-time gig with Classy Clowns. However Classy Clowns would not have enough jobs to support Sterling, so he would have to take up a part time job as a barista at the Coffee Bean. Over the years Sterling would, somewhat unintentional, prove himself a good employee and be promoted to a shift manager position. Sometime in his thirties, Sterling would panic, ask for a month off and go around the country visiting old friends and family. Someone somewhere would teach him a lesson about life and he would go back to his old life a new man who cared about improving the coffee shop. As a clown, if Classy Clowns hadn’t gone under by then after an inevitable dip in the economy, Sterling would begin to rehash old birthday routines and start to suspect he was entertaining the children of children he once entertained.
No, I’m not going to let that happen, Sterling thought as he slid off his truck and into the driver’s seat. Sterling put the key into the ignition but froze once again. He didn’t know where to go. Sterling took his hands off the keys and the steering wheel and placed them in his lap. Sterling could feel a new coldness seeping into his car. His stomach growled.
It was at this point that Sterling started to cry.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Curing Jackson Blair: bp5
“Turn off all cell phones, take off all funny hats, no giant gloves—that means you too, Giggles,” said Mrs. Field while handing out the midterm in Sterling’s Make Up and Face Painting Class.
“Uh, Mrs. Field,” asked Jingles after reading the first question, “What if, for example, I don’t know what hypothetical means?”
“No more jokes. If you really don’t know what the word means, figure it out through context. Use your imagination.”
“But I haven’t passed Imagination Class yet.”
“Jingles! No more funny business!”
“But I’m a Funny Business Major!”
The class laughed while Mrs. Field squinted, her face was tighter than a pickle jar--and kind of looked like one too. She then told Jingles to shut up, fail the test, and get out of her classroom.
About three hours later, William found Sterling sitting on a bench outside of Bonzo Hall. Sterling was in full costume and makeup—a rare sight for William, or anybody at the school, for the last two months. For years Sterling had openly dreamed about being a clown, enough to even bring him to this over-priced, under-staffed private university.
Sterling had always been a class clown growing up but as he got into his late teens he started to see an art to the pranks, high jinks and monkey business. He started to see wacky entertainment as a science. He began to see the process of clowning and thus found subtle, new reservoirs of comedy. This also allowed him to be baffled by his more “random” peers who had neither foresight in their practice nor understanding in their habits. And while there were always other clowns to associate with, Sterling perpetually felt an intangible and indescribable distance toward them—even the ones he personally liked.
William approached Sterling, only able to understand a fraction of what bothered Sterling. Despite not knowing what was in Sterling’s head, William did have the ability to identity Sterling despite the costume, wig and face paint. This was exceptionally impressive as the sun had set and the air had turned quite dark.
“Just when I think I’m getting used to clowns,” William said, “You guys find new ways to be horrifying. There should be a law against clowns being out at night.”
“I think I failed my test.”
“I’m sorry, man. What, did you make up most of the answers?”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe there’ll be a makeup test.”
“It was a Make Up test.”
“Well, maybe there’ll be a makeup Make Up test. And so what if there isn’t? You didn’t like that class. And tests don’t matter. And why do I have to cheer up a clown?”
Sterling stood up after having a realization brought on by William’s complaining. Sterling had a moment of clarity that was so obvious he was privately embarrassed he hadn’t thought of it earlier. After digging into his pocket and pulling out fifty handkerchiefs, Sterling gave William his apartment keys and walked away. He continued walking as he took off and dropped his bright-green wig on the ground. William, stunned, managed to pick up the wig but didn’t follow Sterling. William, did however, ask where Sterling was going.
“It doesn’t matter where I’m going. It matters where I’m leaving.”
“Where are leaving?”
“Ashton University. I’m leaving Clown College.”
“Uh, Mrs. Field,” asked Jingles after reading the first question, “What if, for example, I don’t know what hypothetical means?”
“No more jokes. If you really don’t know what the word means, figure it out through context. Use your imagination.”
“But I haven’t passed Imagination Class yet.”
“Jingles! No more funny business!”
“But I’m a Funny Business Major!”
The class laughed while Mrs. Field squinted, her face was tighter than a pickle jar--and kind of looked like one too. She then told Jingles to shut up, fail the test, and get out of her classroom.
About three hours later, William found Sterling sitting on a bench outside of Bonzo Hall. Sterling was in full costume and makeup—a rare sight for William, or anybody at the school, for the last two months. For years Sterling had openly dreamed about being a clown, enough to even bring him to this over-priced, under-staffed private university.
Sterling had always been a class clown growing up but as he got into his late teens he started to see an art to the pranks, high jinks and monkey business. He started to see wacky entertainment as a science. He began to see the process of clowning and thus found subtle, new reservoirs of comedy. This also allowed him to be baffled by his more “random” peers who had neither foresight in their practice nor understanding in their habits. And while there were always other clowns to associate with, Sterling perpetually felt an intangible and indescribable distance toward them—even the ones he personally liked.
William approached Sterling, only able to understand a fraction of what bothered Sterling. Despite not knowing what was in Sterling’s head, William did have the ability to identity Sterling despite the costume, wig and face paint. This was exceptionally impressive as the sun had set and the air had turned quite dark.
“Just when I think I’m getting used to clowns,” William said, “You guys find new ways to be horrifying. There should be a law against clowns being out at night.”
“I think I failed my test.”
“I’m sorry, man. What, did you make up most of the answers?”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe there’ll be a makeup test.”
“It was a Make Up test.”
“Well, maybe there’ll be a makeup Make Up test. And so what if there isn’t? You didn’t like that class. And tests don’t matter. And why do I have to cheer up a clown?”
Sterling stood up after having a realization brought on by William’s complaining. Sterling had a moment of clarity that was so obvious he was privately embarrassed he hadn’t thought of it earlier. After digging into his pocket and pulling out fifty handkerchiefs, Sterling gave William his apartment keys and walked away. He continued walking as he took off and dropped his bright-green wig on the ground. William, stunned, managed to pick up the wig but didn’t follow Sterling. William, did however, ask where Sterling was going.
“It doesn’t matter where I’m going. It matters where I’m leaving.”
“Where are leaving?”
“Ashton University. I’m leaving Clown College.”
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Curing Jackson Blair: bp4
Clowning is a form of drama with no fourth wall, meaning audience and performer interact freely and directly affect the semi-improvisational show, Sterling learned in his history class at Ashton University. The history of clowning, as we know it, started with jesters during the feudal ages. Overtime, clowning took on different variations but usually stayed steady as a sub-culture in western entertainment--clown-centric photography could even be found in 1920s Berlin. Inarguably, the low point of professional clowning was the racist routine commonly known as “black face.”
But like all occupations, the clowning profession must change with the times and learn to incorporate technology or become obsolete. The Japanese are developing Robo-Clowns--due out in the market by the year 2015. Sterling thought about a robot getting hit in the face with a cream pie; is that funny? There seems to be some sort of social commentary in such a jester gesture.
Sterling left his dreary class and saw William and Preston waiting for him outside. William had been filming other clowns during the day as he was beginning to think Sterling’s despondent nature would spur nothing but emotional indifference from any future film audience. William did not believe Sterling was in a rut or bad mood, but was rather just growing old and tired.
“Remember what Jackson said about Camilla?” asked Preston, “That she was addicted to her clown persona and make up? I think he might have possibly been right. We finally—finally!—went out on a real date and she showed up completely in clown character.” Sterling was slightly surprised but didn’t show it. Regardless, Preston continued, “I mean, we still had fun but I think the people at Olive Garden were kind of freaked out.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Whoa. Whoa,” started William, lowering his camera. “Did you…”
“What? Kiss? Yeah.”
“Ah man. You kissed a clown? I can’t even imagine the…ah man…ah shit,” William struggled to collect his thoughts for some time while Sterling remained silent. “I am…ah...freak out. That is…shit.”
“It wasn’t that weird. She’s incredible, in or out of character.”
“Wait. Wait. Wait! Did you two have sex? Yes or no.”
Preston tightened his lips and looked down and to his right—essentially conveying his thoughts through a megaphone.
“Oh. My. God.”
“Look guys-“
“Oh. My. God.”
“Look guys. She’s beautiful, I’m a guy. These things happen. Sometimes.”
“I’m sorry, Preston,” Sterling finally started, “It’s just a little weird.”
“Well it wouldn’t have been that weird,” Preston defended, “Except it was also my first time.”
“No. That’s still pretty weird.”
“On the plus side,” William chirped, “There is nothing left on this Earth that could possibly horrify me.”
Preston and Sterling explained some of the clown cliques and clown elitism to William as they walked to their cars. Once standing by their cars, Sterling as his best friend and brother what they were up to later that day. William explained he would be editing his documentary footage all day and all night so that he’d be ready for the upcoming Clowns vs. Globetrotters basketball game. Preston said he was actually getting together with Camilla, er, Cookie.
“Maybe I’ll call Tish,” Sterling suggested to himself. “I haven’t seen her for a while.”
“Forget about Tish. She’s in Washington, D.C.”
“D.C.?”
“Yeah. Surprises me,” continued Preston, “I figured that had enough clowns there as it is.”
“You didn’t think that was too easy?”
“I don’t think anything I do is too easy,” Preston defended.
“Does that include Cookie?”
“Shut up, William.”
So Preston and William got into their cars and drove off down the street and around the corner before Sterling even unlocked his own car. Sterling thought out loud to himself.
“Yeah, I guess I’ll just take it easy and hang out by myself tonight.”
But like all occupations, the clowning profession must change with the times and learn to incorporate technology or become obsolete. The Japanese are developing Robo-Clowns--due out in the market by the year 2015. Sterling thought about a robot getting hit in the face with a cream pie; is that funny? There seems to be some sort of social commentary in such a jester gesture.
Sterling left his dreary class and saw William and Preston waiting for him outside. William had been filming other clowns during the day as he was beginning to think Sterling’s despondent nature would spur nothing but emotional indifference from any future film audience. William did not believe Sterling was in a rut or bad mood, but was rather just growing old and tired.
“Remember what Jackson said about Camilla?” asked Preston, “That she was addicted to her clown persona and make up? I think he might have possibly been right. We finally—finally!—went out on a real date and she showed up completely in clown character.” Sterling was slightly surprised but didn’t show it. Regardless, Preston continued, “I mean, we still had fun but I think the people at Olive Garden were kind of freaked out.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Whoa. Whoa,” started William, lowering his camera. “Did you…”
“What? Kiss? Yeah.”
“Ah man. You kissed a clown? I can’t even imagine the…ah man…ah shit,” William struggled to collect his thoughts for some time while Sterling remained silent. “I am…ah...freak out. That is…shit.”
“It wasn’t that weird. She’s incredible, in or out of character.”
“Wait. Wait. Wait! Did you two have sex? Yes or no.”
Preston tightened his lips and looked down and to his right—essentially conveying his thoughts through a megaphone.
“Oh. My. God.”
“Look guys-“
“Oh. My. God.”
“Look guys. She’s beautiful, I’m a guy. These things happen. Sometimes.”
“I’m sorry, Preston,” Sterling finally started, “It’s just a little weird.”
“Well it wouldn’t have been that weird,” Preston defended, “Except it was also my first time.”
“No. That’s still pretty weird.”
“On the plus side,” William chirped, “There is nothing left on this Earth that could possibly horrify me.”
Preston and Sterling explained some of the clown cliques and clown elitism to William as they walked to their cars. Once standing by their cars, Sterling as his best friend and brother what they were up to later that day. William explained he would be editing his documentary footage all day and all night so that he’d be ready for the upcoming Clowns vs. Globetrotters basketball game. Preston said he was actually getting together with Camilla, er, Cookie.
“Maybe I’ll call Tish,” Sterling suggested to himself. “I haven’t seen her for a while.”
“Forget about Tish. She’s in Washington, D.C.”
“D.C.?”
“Yeah. Surprises me,” continued Preston, “I figured that had enough clowns there as it is.”
“You didn’t think that was too easy?”
“I don’t think anything I do is too easy,” Preston defended.
“Does that include Cookie?”
“Shut up, William.”
So Preston and William got into their cars and drove off down the street and around the corner before Sterling even unlocked his own car. Sterling thought out loud to himself.
“Yeah, I guess I’ll just take it easy and hang out by myself tonight.”
Monday, December 21, 2009
Dignity Gone the Way of the Dodo
Facebook-->View News Feed-->
Zack and Brandi are in a relationship - Sunday
Zach: is king of the goddamn world!! -Sunday
Brandi: I just can't stop smiling :)))) - Monday
Zach uploaded photo album "There's so much Brandi, I should be drunk" - Monday
Zach wrote on Brandi's wall: Hey, what happened yesterday? - Wednesday
Brandi is now single - Wednesday
Zach: is stunned. - Thursday
Zach: is in physical pain - Thursday
Zach: should stop wasting time on Facebook and do his Algebra homework. - Thursday
Zach uploaded photo album "Glad you weren't here" - Friday
Brandi wrote note "Life is Confusing" - Friday
Zach: is Sisyphus. - Yesterday
Brandi is now in a relationship - Yesterday
Zach: is dying - Yesterday
Brandi is now single - Today at 12:32 PM
Zach: is laughing - Today at 1:56 PM
Zach wrote on Brandi's wall: hey, you want to get coffee sometime? -Today at 2:01 PM
Zach is playing FarmVille -Today at 9:15 PM
Zack and Brandi are in a relationship - Sunday
Zach: is king of the goddamn world!! -Sunday
Sarah: congrads
Jon: Boo. Titanic reference.
Brandi: I just can't stop smiling :)))) - Monday
Zach uploaded photo album "There's so much Brandi, I should be drunk" - Monday
Zach wrote on Brandi's wall: Hey, what happened yesterday? - Wednesday
Brandi is now single - Wednesday
Zach: is stunned. - Thursday
Zach: is in physical pain - Thursday
Zach: should stop wasting time on Facebook and do his Algebra homework. - Thursday
Jon: Stop whining. Lets go bowling tonight.
Zach uploaded photo album "Glad you weren't here" - Friday
Brandi wrote note "Life is Confusing" - Friday
Sarah: truer words were never spoken
Zach: is Sisyphus. - Yesterday
Three friends like this!
Brandi is now in a relationship - Yesterday
Zach: is dying - Yesterday
Brandi is now single - Today at 12:32 PM
Zach: is laughing - Today at 1:56 PM
Zach wrote on Brandi's wall: hey, you want to get coffee sometime? -Today at 2:01 PM
Brandi: I don't really like coffee, sorry. - Today at 6:46 PM
Zach is playing FarmVille -Today at 9:15 PM
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Curing Jackson Blair: bp3
Morning show radio DJs are clowns of the airwaves, thought Sterling as he drove to campus. William wasn’t with him today, as William preferred to stay passed out on the sofa. A drunk clown is a sight few people have had the fortunate or misfortune to see in a lifetime, so perhaps it was something William really did need to sleep off. The radio DJs weren’t talking about Jackson Blair telling off all his friends and fleeing the college, but that’s what kept circling around in Sterling’s mind.
In fact the radio DJs weren’t even making cracks about that one actor getting pulled over for drunk driving. No, DJ Josey Wails was actually talking about Daniel Day Lewis spending time at the nearby clown college, Ashton University, researching his role in an upcoming movie. Sterling wondered if he’d tell William about this resoundingly uninteresting tidbit. Sterling decided he wouldn’t. Daniel Day Lewis in baggy pants, a rubber nose and floppy shoes isn’t much to get excited about.
With no memory of getting to the parking lot and sitting in his seat, Sterling found himself in his Clowning Theory class. This was actually the third level of essentially the same class and Sterling really had little reason to be there. Sterling had done between moderate and exceptional in the first two variations of the classes thanks to hard work and sound comedic instincts. And though Sterling could feel himself burning out, he still went to every class and scribbled unintelligible notes for weeks on end on a single piece of notebook paper.
Sterling briefly believed he was suffering from “senioritis,” not unlike when he was in high school. However back then he didn’t “suffer” from it—he enjoyed it quite a bit. He also had lots of other things to do back then, but now when he didn’t care about classes he still had nothing better to do than go to them.
“Sterling. What is the first rule of improvisation?” demanded Professor Claterbos. Claterbos wasn’t a mean teacher, as Sterling detected a trace of empathy in the teacher’s eyes. Claterbos earnestly wanted Sterling to be paying attention, but could only drive home the point by openly challenging Sterling’s lack of attention.
“Don’t deny the preposition,” Sterling stated.
“And why is that?”
“It kills the comedic momentum.” Claterbos paused before continuing on. Sterling was no more engaged in the lecture than he had been, but Claterbos had no other way of making a point to Sterling or the rest of the class.
Sterling supported his face with one hand and looked at his desk. The desk was an off yellow, worn down color that could only be achieved from years on this world. The desk was chipped on the edge and smooth on top. In the corner a message was scratched into the desk from years ago that simply read: You Suck.
The acrobatics teacher also brought attention to Sterling’s lack of attention later that week. Thinking Sterling looked a little down, she tried to lighten his, and the class’s, mood by suggesting he “turn that clown upside down.” The not-so-funny thing about puns, Sterling had known since childhood, was that they are a joke that makes the audience briefly, and inevitably, violent.
Sterling’s attitude must have become quite obvious to everyone as even his little brother William noticed one night that Sterling hadn’t seemed like himself, or like anybody, in a long time. Upon making his observation, William asked Sterling straight up, what’s wrong. Sterling, despite thinking a lot for a long time, had not thought about this answer at all. After a moment he responded.
“I just don’t feel funny anymore.”
In fact the radio DJs weren’t even making cracks about that one actor getting pulled over for drunk driving. No, DJ Josey Wails was actually talking about Daniel Day Lewis spending time at the nearby clown college, Ashton University, researching his role in an upcoming movie. Sterling wondered if he’d tell William about this resoundingly uninteresting tidbit. Sterling decided he wouldn’t. Daniel Day Lewis in baggy pants, a rubber nose and floppy shoes isn’t much to get excited about.
With no memory of getting to the parking lot and sitting in his seat, Sterling found himself in his Clowning Theory class. This was actually the third level of essentially the same class and Sterling really had little reason to be there. Sterling had done between moderate and exceptional in the first two variations of the classes thanks to hard work and sound comedic instincts. And though Sterling could feel himself burning out, he still went to every class and scribbled unintelligible notes for weeks on end on a single piece of notebook paper.
Sterling briefly believed he was suffering from “senioritis,” not unlike when he was in high school. However back then he didn’t “suffer” from it—he enjoyed it quite a bit. He also had lots of other things to do back then, but now when he didn’t care about classes he still had nothing better to do than go to them.
“Sterling. What is the first rule of improvisation?” demanded Professor Claterbos. Claterbos wasn’t a mean teacher, as Sterling detected a trace of empathy in the teacher’s eyes. Claterbos earnestly wanted Sterling to be paying attention, but could only drive home the point by openly challenging Sterling’s lack of attention.
“Don’t deny the preposition,” Sterling stated.
“And why is that?”
“It kills the comedic momentum.” Claterbos paused before continuing on. Sterling was no more engaged in the lecture than he had been, but Claterbos had no other way of making a point to Sterling or the rest of the class.
Sterling supported his face with one hand and looked at his desk. The desk was an off yellow, worn down color that could only be achieved from years on this world. The desk was chipped on the edge and smooth on top. In the corner a message was scratched into the desk from years ago that simply read: You Suck.
The acrobatics teacher also brought attention to Sterling’s lack of attention later that week. Thinking Sterling looked a little down, she tried to lighten his, and the class’s, mood by suggesting he “turn that clown upside down.” The not-so-funny thing about puns, Sterling had known since childhood, was that they are a joke that makes the audience briefly, and inevitably, violent.
Sterling’s attitude must have become quite obvious to everyone as even his little brother William noticed one night that Sterling hadn’t seemed like himself, or like anybody, in a long time. Upon making his observation, William asked Sterling straight up, what’s wrong. Sterling, despite thinking a lot for a long time, had not thought about this answer at all. After a moment he responded.
“I just don’t feel funny anymore.”
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Curing Jackson Blair: bp2
Ashton University was what most people would call a clown college. This is partially because the classes offered seem to have little relevance in the real world and the graduates seemed no more educated on graduation day than on day one. It was also known as a clown college because it was an institute that trained and employed clowns of all varieties. It was on this campus that Sterling and Preston walked to their first class of senior year, with William alongside them, filming once again.
“Why are you guys here?” William asked from behind the lens.
“So that you have somebody to film,” quipped Preston.
“Fine, be a funny guy. What class are you guys going to?”
“Look. Told you we’d see her,” Sterling said while pointing the attention to Cookie and some of her friends from across the field. Preston straightened his posture and walked to the girl clowns with only a slight hesitation while Sterling turned to the old classroom building. William went with Sterling.
Preston would be late to his first class of the year but it was just small enough of a price to pay. William had earlier asked Preston which clown was Cookie, but Preston’s answer—“the pretty one”—only confused William more. Once in the classroom, William temporarily turned off his camera and admitted his disbelief that clowning education required such, well, normal structure. After all, clowning can’t be learned from a book.
“You will need three books for this class!” exclaimed Dr. Garbo—who had a striking resemblance to Madeline Albright. Sterling sank in his seat. He could feel his wallet getting lighter as the professor assured the class they would need the books “Clowning Around the Clock,” “The Clown and the Fury,” and “Understanding Mathematics: A Quantitative Reasoning Approach.” The last book sounded strange to William, but the first thing taught in Quantitative Clowning is the rule of three—which is the comedic principle that two things establish a pattern and the third is used as the twist element. Essentially it is the bare minimum necessary to set up a joke. After 50 minutes in the class, William would begin to find jokes far less funny than ever before.
But before William’s sense of humor suffered a terrible blow, Chester raised his hand and before being called on, asked Dr. Garbo if the “Understanding Mathematics” book was just a joke, or more specifically, a punch line. When the chuckles died down, Garbo snidely shot back, “What are you, the class clown?”
“Well…yeah,” responded Chester. “But so is he.” Chester pointed to Spanky--a boy in full make-up and striped baggy pants. The class muffled laughter again. And before Garbo could make a first-day example of Chester, Preston walked into the classroom.
“I will not allow this laziness,” Garbo exploded, “I will not stand shenanigans and will not abide any more tomfoolery!”
“So I’ll just leave this outside,” Preston offered, holding up a water balloon, which then exploded in his hand, soaking only himself. “Please don’t mark me absent.”
While filming all this, William then turned to Sterling and admitted he found these clowns and their antics as disturbing as they were confusing as they were funny. Sterling turned to William.
“No kidding.”
“Why are you guys here?” William asked from behind the lens.
“So that you have somebody to film,” quipped Preston.
“Fine, be a funny guy. What class are you guys going to?”
“Look. Told you we’d see her,” Sterling said while pointing the attention to Cookie and some of her friends from across the field. Preston straightened his posture and walked to the girl clowns with only a slight hesitation while Sterling turned to the old classroom building. William went with Sterling.
Preston would be late to his first class of the year but it was just small enough of a price to pay. William had earlier asked Preston which clown was Cookie, but Preston’s answer—“the pretty one”—only confused William more. Once in the classroom, William temporarily turned off his camera and admitted his disbelief that clowning education required such, well, normal structure. After all, clowning can’t be learned from a book.
“You will need three books for this class!” exclaimed Dr. Garbo—who had a striking resemblance to Madeline Albright. Sterling sank in his seat. He could feel his wallet getting lighter as the professor assured the class they would need the books “Clowning Around the Clock,” “The Clown and the Fury,” and “Understanding Mathematics: A Quantitative Reasoning Approach.” The last book sounded strange to William, but the first thing taught in Quantitative Clowning is the rule of three—which is the comedic principle that two things establish a pattern and the third is used as the twist element. Essentially it is the bare minimum necessary to set up a joke. After 50 minutes in the class, William would begin to find jokes far less funny than ever before.
But before William’s sense of humor suffered a terrible blow, Chester raised his hand and before being called on, asked Dr. Garbo if the “Understanding Mathematics” book was just a joke, or more specifically, a punch line. When the chuckles died down, Garbo snidely shot back, “What are you, the class clown?”
“Well…yeah,” responded Chester. “But so is he.” Chester pointed to Spanky--a boy in full make-up and striped baggy pants. The class muffled laughter again. And before Garbo could make a first-day example of Chester, Preston walked into the classroom.
“I will not allow this laziness,” Garbo exploded, “I will not stand shenanigans and will not abide any more tomfoolery!”
“So I’ll just leave this outside,” Preston offered, holding up a water balloon, which then exploded in his hand, soaking only himself. “Please don’t mark me absent.”
While filming all this, William then turned to Sterling and admitted he found these clowns and their antics as disturbing as they were confusing as they were funny. Sterling turned to William.
“No kidding.”
Friday, December 18, 2009
Curing Jackson Blair: bp1
William, a seventeen-year-old high school drop out, turned on his video camera. Looking through the lens, William had to take a couple of steps back to see everybody at once. Fortunately the university dinner was plenty spacious and in fact even looked empty with nearly all of the student customers gathered around one mid-sized table. The seven friends, or so, casually talked over one another as William focused his camera from one to the next until finally landing on a young woman known as Cookie, dressed in full-fledge clown makeup and costume.
“That’s it,” a man said while loudly dropping his fist on the table. This young man who hadn’t said anything for some time instantly received attention, if not for his harsh declaration, than certainly for standing up at the table. “I’m dropping out of this school and never talking to any of you ever again; but first, because I’ve had to suffer through performances, inane conversations and various cooking experiments, I feel I’ve earned my say.”
“Bonkers. Are you okay?” asked Cookie.
“First off: the name’s Jackson Blair. Bonkers is dead and has been dead for some time now. I can separate who I am and who I pretend to be, which is something you should learn, Cookie. You act like you’re always on stage, but life isn’t a stage. You’re just afraid to fail as who you really are--Camilla--so you never leave the twisted variation of yourself known as Cookie. And that’s nothing less than cowardice.”
A skinny guy, with a carefully chosen fashion sense, sitting across from Cookie pointed an accusing finger at Jackson, “Hold it Jackson, Bonkers, or whatever--”
But Jackson verbally plowed over his interrupter with, “And speaking of cowardice. Convenient you spoke up, Preston, after I shined a light on your non-girlfriend. Just ask Cookie out and stop self-torturing yourself about your failed relationships. Also! Get away from the textbook. If you don’t get a letter grade after leaving school, I don’t know how you are ever going to know how well you are doing in life. I am nothing short of terrified to consider the lengths you would go to in order to please your teachers, parents, bosses and peers. You will never earn the recognition you want until you win ‘Man of the Year’ every year until your death.”
Jackson, not getting the interruption he expected, turned his crosshairs on Sterling. Sterling sat at the head of the table and kept one hand to the side of his face. Sterling looked in Jackson’s general direction but not at Jackson, or anybody.
“Sterling. Sterling. Sterling. I wouldn’t expect anybody to know about real hardship when their name is Sterling and you do so much to prove that true. You are going through a quarter-life crisis and will be for the next ten or twenty years. And after that, it’ll be a mid-life crisis. Maybe, somehow, your life is just an existential, under-appreciated, intellectual cross-bearing joke. Which actually fits incredibly well because are you easily the least funny clown I have every goddamn seen.”
Jackson looked at the other end of the table to see William, still filming. “William, I hope your footage is worth one cent, because if it is, it’s worth more than the time I’ve wasted with all these people. And you others: Alan, Tish, Quigley, Chester. You guys aren’t worth my time when you’re performing and you’re not worth the time it’d take to belittle you all with blunt honesty. I’m gone.” Jackson knocked over his chair and walked out of the dinner. “Morons.”
Chester, a small guy with a green wig on, looked across the table at Jackson’s former seat. “Hey. He didn’t pay for his hamburger!”
“William,” Sterling suggested, “turn off the camera.”
“That’s it,” a man said while loudly dropping his fist on the table. This young man who hadn’t said anything for some time instantly received attention, if not for his harsh declaration, than certainly for standing up at the table. “I’m dropping out of this school and never talking to any of you ever again; but first, because I’ve had to suffer through performances, inane conversations and various cooking experiments, I feel I’ve earned my say.”
“Bonkers. Are you okay?” asked Cookie.
“First off: the name’s Jackson Blair. Bonkers is dead and has been dead for some time now. I can separate who I am and who I pretend to be, which is something you should learn, Cookie. You act like you’re always on stage, but life isn’t a stage. You’re just afraid to fail as who you really are--Camilla--so you never leave the twisted variation of yourself known as Cookie. And that’s nothing less than cowardice.”
A skinny guy, with a carefully chosen fashion sense, sitting across from Cookie pointed an accusing finger at Jackson, “Hold it Jackson, Bonkers, or whatever--”
But Jackson verbally plowed over his interrupter with, “And speaking of cowardice. Convenient you spoke up, Preston, after I shined a light on your non-girlfriend. Just ask Cookie out and stop self-torturing yourself about your failed relationships. Also! Get away from the textbook. If you don’t get a letter grade after leaving school, I don’t know how you are ever going to know how well you are doing in life. I am nothing short of terrified to consider the lengths you would go to in order to please your teachers, parents, bosses and peers. You will never earn the recognition you want until you win ‘Man of the Year’ every year until your death.”
Jackson, not getting the interruption he expected, turned his crosshairs on Sterling. Sterling sat at the head of the table and kept one hand to the side of his face. Sterling looked in Jackson’s general direction but not at Jackson, or anybody.
“Sterling. Sterling. Sterling. I wouldn’t expect anybody to know about real hardship when their name is Sterling and you do so much to prove that true. You are going through a quarter-life crisis and will be for the next ten or twenty years. And after that, it’ll be a mid-life crisis. Maybe, somehow, your life is just an existential, under-appreciated, intellectual cross-bearing joke. Which actually fits incredibly well because are you easily the least funny clown I have every goddamn seen.”
Jackson looked at the other end of the table to see William, still filming. “William, I hope your footage is worth one cent, because if it is, it’s worth more than the time I’ve wasted with all these people. And you others: Alan, Tish, Quigley, Chester. You guys aren’t worth my time when you’re performing and you’re not worth the time it’d take to belittle you all with blunt honesty. I’m gone.” Jackson knocked over his chair and walked out of the dinner. “Morons.”
Chester, a small guy with a green wig on, looked across the table at Jackson’s former seat. “Hey. He didn’t pay for his hamburger!”
“William,” Sterling suggested, “turn off the camera.”
Thursday, December 17, 2009
I'm Thinking About Everything and You
Franklin Pierce, a man of nearly fifty years sat on a sofa in his office. He wasn’t afraid of wrinkling his well-fitting suit. He looked to the window, wishing he could see more than he could actually see. The three large windows all faced south but Pierce did not know this. He wished he could look outside and see Kansas and the criminals that ran rampant throughout its cities. Pierce had just learned that over two hundred people had been killed this year alone. While depressing, that wasn’t the issue that depressed Pierce.
Pierce looked down into his glass. Where did the whiskey go, he wondered. He hadn’t spilled it, but sure enough, what was there thirty minutes ago was now gone. The thin man looked at his liquor cabinet. The liquor cabinet wasn’t too far away. Pierce stood up, wobbled and collapsed back into the sofa. The liquor cabinet was too far away. While depressing, that wasn’t the issue that depressed Pierce.
There were two solid knocks at the door.
Come in, Pierce suggested--sometimes Pierce would order, but he wasn’t in the mood today. A powerful man practically born in a military uniform walked up to Pierce. This was the Secretary of War, General Jefferson Davis.
Mister President, Davis started but was interrupted.
Frank. I’m just Frank today.
Unabated, Davis sat down across from Pierce. He studied Pierce in the same manner he would study a battlefield map. Unlike a battlefield map, though, Davis had no idea what he was looking at. Pierce kept his strong head low and opaque eyes lower. Pierce knew Davis was one of his best and most loyal friends. Davis was a true American hero.
There was an incident in Kansas, Frank.
I already know.
No, there was another one. Six southern gents killed.
Pierce had grown tired of sulking. He had been sulking since taking office. And he had been drunk just as long. Speaking of which, where did his whiskey go?
Am I supposed to bury them, Pierce rhetorically sneered.
No sir.
Then leave me the fuck out of it.
Pierce smiled. He truly wished that were the answer to all of his troubles. Pierce felt limited by his powers. The American people elected him to be president, not God. And now the country had gone to shit and it was all completely out of his control. Pierce envied the Founding Fathers; they never had to deal with these issues. Davis and Pierce were sitting in an oval-shaped prison of responsibilities. While depressing, that wasn’t the issue that depressed Pierce.
General Davis stood up to leave.
Davis, Pierce whimpered.
Yes?
It’s Jane.
What about her?
She said she doesn’t love me anymore.
The general sat back down. Pierce finally looked him in the eyes. Pierce’s usually strong features sunk into the sofa. He didn’t understand how his wife could just stop loving him when he hadn’t done anything wrong. But life has its tragedies.
I knew she was going through some things, but I thought I could be there for her.
It’s not your fault, Frank.
I know, but I feel sick. Like a different kind of sick.
I know.
I thought we’d both get better over time. I thought we had a future.
You still have a future.
It’s not a future I know and I don’t think it’s a future I want.
What do you want?
I want her back or to not want her back.
That’s too bad, friend.
Love isn't worth it, sometimes.
Feeling the conversation was dead, Davis stood up again. He had an unimportant meeting with General Lee soon but if Pierce asked, Davis would say he had an important meeting with General Lee soon. Both Davis and Pierce felt uncomfortable with problems requiring solutions far beyond their limited capabilities.
As Davis left, he suggested that Pierce act like most men and drink himself happy. This would give Pierce enough motivation to finally walk over to his liquor cabinet.
Franklin Pierce would die of liver disease in 1869.
Pierce looked down into his glass. Where did the whiskey go, he wondered. He hadn’t spilled it, but sure enough, what was there thirty minutes ago was now gone. The thin man looked at his liquor cabinet. The liquor cabinet wasn’t too far away. Pierce stood up, wobbled and collapsed back into the sofa. The liquor cabinet was too far away. While depressing, that wasn’t the issue that depressed Pierce.
There were two solid knocks at the door.
Come in, Pierce suggested--sometimes Pierce would order, but he wasn’t in the mood today. A powerful man practically born in a military uniform walked up to Pierce. This was the Secretary of War, General Jefferson Davis.
Mister President, Davis started but was interrupted.
Frank. I’m just Frank today.
Unabated, Davis sat down across from Pierce. He studied Pierce in the same manner he would study a battlefield map. Unlike a battlefield map, though, Davis had no idea what he was looking at. Pierce kept his strong head low and opaque eyes lower. Pierce knew Davis was one of his best and most loyal friends. Davis was a true American hero.
There was an incident in Kansas, Frank.
I already know.
No, there was another one. Six southern gents killed.
Pierce had grown tired of sulking. He had been sulking since taking office. And he had been drunk just as long. Speaking of which, where did his whiskey go?
Am I supposed to bury them, Pierce rhetorically sneered.
No sir.
Then leave me the fuck out of it.
Pierce smiled. He truly wished that were the answer to all of his troubles. Pierce felt limited by his powers. The American people elected him to be president, not God. And now the country had gone to shit and it was all completely out of his control. Pierce envied the Founding Fathers; they never had to deal with these issues. Davis and Pierce were sitting in an oval-shaped prison of responsibilities. While depressing, that wasn’t the issue that depressed Pierce.
General Davis stood up to leave.
Davis, Pierce whimpered.
Yes?
It’s Jane.
What about her?
She said she doesn’t love me anymore.
The general sat back down. Pierce finally looked him in the eyes. Pierce’s usually strong features sunk into the sofa. He didn’t understand how his wife could just stop loving him when he hadn’t done anything wrong. But life has its tragedies.
I knew she was going through some things, but I thought I could be there for her.
It’s not your fault, Frank.
I know, but I feel sick. Like a different kind of sick.
I know.
I thought we’d both get better over time. I thought we had a future.
You still have a future.
It’s not a future I know and I don’t think it’s a future I want.
What do you want?
I want her back or to not want her back.
That’s too bad, friend.
Love isn't worth it, sometimes.
Feeling the conversation was dead, Davis stood up again. He had an unimportant meeting with General Lee soon but if Pierce asked, Davis would say he had an important meeting with General Lee soon. Both Davis and Pierce felt uncomfortable with problems requiring solutions far beyond their limited capabilities.
As Davis left, he suggested that Pierce act like most men and drink himself happy. This would give Pierce enough motivation to finally walk over to his liquor cabinet.
Franklin Pierce would die of liver disease in 1869.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
End the War
Dear Fellow Liberal Elitists,
Recently I was informed that there was still a war going on. A war that had nearly drifted out of my consciousness. Acknowledging my own apathy, I must say it is time to end this prolonged war on ideological differences that has done nothing but distract the American public from real issues and divided us all as a nation. I hate to say it, but I feel I must, it is time we end the War on Christmas.
Like all liberals, I was totally gung-ho for the war when the issue resurfaced some time ago. Now most people believe the war started in 1998, shortly after the world was startled to discover President Bill Clinton had been a morally imperfect politician. With an unprecedented moral vacuum, this seemed like the perfect time to strike back at God-fearing Christians. But actually the origins of the War on Christmas can date back to the 1970s, when minority movements weakened the conformity strength of normal America.
Regardless, we went to war with Christmas based on wrong intelligence, as it has since been proven there is no link between Santa, Jesus and freedom suppression. And even though things can never go back to normal--as we live in a post-Christmas world--and we had a number of "victories," we need to cut our losses.
This is a holy war for our enemies while our side as never had less enthusiasm. And yes, the Hallmark "happy holidays" surge made a difference, but to what end? There is no "Christmas" nation--except for maybe the Vatican. We are wasting resources over this ill-conceived endeavor that has not proven itself to actually make us any safer.
And while many proponents of this War on Christmas say it is better to fight the enemy over there than on our turf, I believe that we have in fact unified, and dare I say "radicalized," the opposition against us. Those same supporters for the war believe that my proposed time-table withdrawal is a surrender to the enemy. But what if "losing" this war (that cannot be won) makes us stronger? You don't need to win every hand to win a game of poker.
Similarly, going to war with clear objectives and time frames is no different than going out to the bars with a predetermined drink maximum. Otherwise you risk drinking more and more and end up fighting a guy over a game of pool, get sent to the pokey and spend the rest of the night explaining to some guy named "Ranch" why you don't want to be his bunk buddy. Moreover, we shouldn't have gone to war while still emotional about the morality voters actions in the late 90s. We were terrified, panicked and avoided looking for reasoning other than blaming outside enemies--who we assumed were trying to crush our freedoms.
I'm not anti-war, but I am anti-this war. No more War on Christmas. Peace and love.
Sincerely,
Radley Q. Freewater
Recently I was informed that there was still a war going on. A war that had nearly drifted out of my consciousness. Acknowledging my own apathy, I must say it is time to end this prolonged war on ideological differences that has done nothing but distract the American public from real issues and divided us all as a nation. I hate to say it, but I feel I must, it is time we end the War on Christmas.
Like all liberals, I was totally gung-ho for the war when the issue resurfaced some time ago. Now most people believe the war started in 1998, shortly after the world was startled to discover President Bill Clinton had been a morally imperfect politician. With an unprecedented moral vacuum, this seemed like the perfect time to strike back at God-fearing Christians. But actually the origins of the War on Christmas can date back to the 1970s, when minority movements weakened the conformity strength of normal America.
Regardless, we went to war with Christmas based on wrong intelligence, as it has since been proven there is no link between Santa, Jesus and freedom suppression. And even though things can never go back to normal--as we live in a post-Christmas world--and we had a number of "victories," we need to cut our losses.
This is a holy war for our enemies while our side as never had less enthusiasm. And yes, the Hallmark "happy holidays" surge made a difference, but to what end? There is no "Christmas" nation--except for maybe the Vatican. We are wasting resources over this ill-conceived endeavor that has not proven itself to actually make us any safer.
And while many proponents of this War on Christmas say it is better to fight the enemy over there than on our turf, I believe that we have in fact unified, and dare I say "radicalized," the opposition against us. Those same supporters for the war believe that my proposed time-table withdrawal is a surrender to the enemy. But what if "losing" this war (that cannot be won) makes us stronger? You don't need to win every hand to win a game of poker.
Similarly, going to war with clear objectives and time frames is no different than going out to the bars with a predetermined drink maximum. Otherwise you risk drinking more and more and end up fighting a guy over a game of pool, get sent to the pokey and spend the rest of the night explaining to some guy named "Ranch" why you don't want to be his bunk buddy. Moreover, we shouldn't have gone to war while still emotional about the morality voters actions in the late 90s. We were terrified, panicked and avoided looking for reasoning other than blaming outside enemies--who we assumed were trying to crush our freedoms.
I'm not anti-war, but I am anti-this war. No more War on Christmas. Peace and love.
Sincerely,
Radley Q. Freewater
Monday, December 14, 2009
The Darker Image
Hollywood is a volatile industry and one sentiment that has been in vogue since 2002, is that "darker" is better. The term "dark" in the case is meant to be fairly ambiguous but usually revolves around anger, realistic explosions and gray skies. However the ambiguous definition has lent itself to false advertising, unfulfilled promises and another contributor to hackneyed laziness, even within a minority of the film-making community.
The human psyche is geared to be light-centric. As a species, we thrive during the day and have for millions of years. Similarly, sun is (or was) recognized globally as the bringer of life. Nighttime is when human lose the advantage. It becomes cold and dangerous. Animals and monsters come out at night. Other creatures and trouble lay waiting in poorly lit caves. It is this discomfort with darkness that is being tapped into by "dark" stories, or at least the descriptor "dark" strikes a certain unsettling connotation.
But "dark" is just a style. "Dark" does not improve the directing, writing or acting. "Dark" does not make a more enjoyable movie and, to more contention, it does not make a smarter movie. A smarter movie, for my purpose, could be synonymous with a more artistic movie. Artistic, to clarify, broadly meaning a movie that has more beneath the surface. An artistic/smart movie has a unique perspective on life and begs audiences to develop a new perspective on reality--indifferent to whether or not it is in line with the movie's overt narrative.
Obviously the idea of an artistic movie, like most categorization, is best served on a hypothetical spectrum. Similarly, judging the realism and entertainment of a film is best thought of on a spectrum, not just "yes" or "no." Also, none of these categories are mutually exclusive. Some movies are smart and entertaining, some are neither. But a movie does not become smarter or more enjoyable if its color is desaturated. Similarly, I don't agree that a movie becomes more financially profitable for having quasi-dark qualities.
Was CASINO ROYALE darker than DIE ANOTHER DAY? Yes. And it revitalized the James Bond franchise by most accounts. Was QUANTUM OF SOLACE darker than CASINO ROYALE? Yes. And it was a travesty, critically and financially. QUANTUM OF SOLACE failed because it was an immobile story acted out by Neutrals of the Neutral Planet who were directed by a paint can shaker. And to beat a dead horse (as seen in a dark movie), THE DARK KNIGHT didn't owe it's unbelievable success to a high body count, scarred cheeks and a new Bat Suit.
So no, I don't care if they promise the next IRON MAN movie will be "darker." Anybody can furrow their eyebrows. What I want is a promise that the movie, and any other movies boasting a "dark" vision, will offer me something new visually, intellectually or emotionally. Until then, well, they can take their movies and shove them where the sun don't shine.
The human psyche is geared to be light-centric. As a species, we thrive during the day and have for millions of years. Similarly, sun is (or was) recognized globally as the bringer of life. Nighttime is when human lose the advantage. It becomes cold and dangerous. Animals and monsters come out at night. Other creatures and trouble lay waiting in poorly lit caves. It is this discomfort with darkness that is being tapped into by "dark" stories, or at least the descriptor "dark" strikes a certain unsettling connotation.
But "dark" is just a style. "Dark" does not improve the directing, writing or acting. "Dark" does not make a more enjoyable movie and, to more contention, it does not make a smarter movie. A smarter movie, for my purpose, could be synonymous with a more artistic movie. Artistic, to clarify, broadly meaning a movie that has more beneath the surface. An artistic/smart movie has a unique perspective on life and begs audiences to develop a new perspective on reality--indifferent to whether or not it is in line with the movie's overt narrative.
Obviously the idea of an artistic movie, like most categorization, is best served on a hypothetical spectrum. Similarly, judging the realism and entertainment of a film is best thought of on a spectrum, not just "yes" or "no." Also, none of these categories are mutually exclusive. Some movies are smart and entertaining, some are neither. But a movie does not become smarter or more enjoyable if its color is desaturated. Similarly, I don't agree that a movie becomes more financially profitable for having quasi-dark qualities.
Was CASINO ROYALE darker than DIE ANOTHER DAY? Yes. And it revitalized the James Bond franchise by most accounts. Was QUANTUM OF SOLACE darker than CASINO ROYALE? Yes. And it was a travesty, critically and financially. QUANTUM OF SOLACE failed because it was an immobile story acted out by Neutrals of the Neutral Planet who were directed by a paint can shaker. And to beat a dead horse (as seen in a dark movie), THE DARK KNIGHT didn't owe it's unbelievable success to a high body count, scarred cheeks and a new Bat Suit.
So no, I don't care if they promise the next IRON MAN movie will be "darker." Anybody can furrow their eyebrows. What I want is a promise that the movie, and any other movies boasting a "dark" vision, will offer me something new visually, intellectually or emotionally. Until then, well, they can take their movies and shove them where the sun don't shine.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
I Didn't Squeak
Sarafina -"What's wrong with you? You seem unusually awake today."
Neil - "Yeah, well, this morning I walked into my living room and saw a mouse in the middle of the room. Startled me pretty good."
Sarafina - "You were scared of a little mouse?"
Neil - "I wasn't scared, I was startled. If a bear had been in the room I would've been startled by that too but that doesn't mean I'm scared of bears."
Sarafina - "You wouldn't be scared if there was a bear in your living room?"
Neil - "Fine. Bad example. If there had been a trucker hat in the middle of the room-"
Sarafina - "Did you trap him?"
Neil - "Yeah, but only after tucking my pants into my socks so that the mouse couldn't climb up my leg."
Sarafina - "What is wrong with you?!"
Neil - "But yeah, I threw a shoebox on him."
Sarafina - "ON him or OVER him?"
Neil - "Over him. I mean, I kept him alive. I then, you know, slid some cardboard underneath and carried him outside. Then tossed him off the front porch."
Sarafina - "You tossed that poor mouse?"
Neil - "I thought he'd land on all fours, you know, like a cat."
Sarafina - "What?"
Neil - "But anyway, that didn't kill him. He just kind of stumbled around. Kind of like Marty last Saturday. But then I watched him scurry into the road and get run over by a car."
Sarafina - "That's awful! Jeez. Wow. Did you like, get the body out of the road?"
Neil - "What's wrong with you? It's, er, was a mouse. Besides, there wasn't much of a body. It'd be like trying to collect a piñata after a birthday party."
Sarafina - "What is wrong with you?!"
Neil - "Yeah, well, this morning I walked into my living room and saw a mouse in the middle of the room. Startled me pretty good."
Sarafina - "You were scared of a little mouse?"
Neil - "I wasn't scared, I was startled. If a bear had been in the room I would've been startled by that too but that doesn't mean I'm scared of bears."
Sarafina - "You wouldn't be scared if there was a bear in your living room?"
Neil - "Fine. Bad example. If there had been a trucker hat in the middle of the room-"
Sarafina - "Did you trap him?"
Neil - "Yeah, but only after tucking my pants into my socks so that the mouse couldn't climb up my leg."
Sarafina - "What is wrong with you?!"
Neil - "But yeah, I threw a shoebox on him."
Sarafina - "ON him or OVER him?"
Neil - "Over him. I mean, I kept him alive. I then, you know, slid some cardboard underneath and carried him outside. Then tossed him off the front porch."
Sarafina - "You tossed that poor mouse?"
Neil - "I thought he'd land on all fours, you know, like a cat."
Sarafina - "What?"
Neil - "But anyway, that didn't kill him. He just kind of stumbled around. Kind of like Marty last Saturday. But then I watched him scurry into the road and get run over by a car."
Sarafina - "That's awful! Jeez. Wow. Did you like, get the body out of the road?"
Neil - "What's wrong with you? It's, er, was a mouse. Besides, there wasn't much of a body. It'd be like trying to collect a piñata after a birthday party."
Sarafina - "What is wrong with you?!"
Saturday, December 12, 2009
NFL Predictions: Week Fourteen
I'm 86ing the traditional, long-winded predictions this week and instead focusing on one long-winded prediction. And that prediction is that Drew Brees will take his place among top NFL quarterbacks in the public eye several months after he should have...which is now. You may be asking why should I care about Drew Brees, as Brees seems to be asking that himself here:
Brees has shown himself to be a phenomenal leader to his team and in complete control of his offense when ahead by 20 or losing by 45--though that doesn't happen much anymore. Brees paid his dues in San Diego years ago and was at one point considered another draft pick bust--though not a common criminal. And even after his unexpected breakout year, he went and got his elbow dislocated in what is basically a two-hand touch football game--otherwise known as the NFL Pro Bowl. Bam. Chargers pick up Phil Rivers from the Giants, and Brees got shipped off to the Saints--who were at one point more likely to collectively catch syphilis than a football.
I'm not going to go so far as to say Brees built up the team by himself, but I'd say his influence is comparable to Peyton Manning joining the Colts in the late 90s. Like Manning, and every other great quarterback, Brees just needed a running back behind him. Go figure the Saints got one (or three); and go figure again, they're 12-0.
On a personal level, Brees had the professional gumption to reject his mother's demands to be his agent--at the cost of becoming somewhat estranged from her. Brees relationship with his mother remained appropriately ambiguous to outsiders even up to her suicide earlier this season. And, if unexpected but still admirable, Brees has done more than his fair share trying to rebuild his adopted city after Katrina.
And even though Brees has put up numbers consistently rivaling the top tier QBs, he is never on magazine covers, clothes commercials, SNL or Entourage. Perhaps this is because he isn't dating C-celebrities, getting in motorcycle accidents, making large donations to Fred Thompson or perpetually retiring. Whatever the reasoning, he'll be MVP some day; and if there was a way to put money on that, I would.
Also, in case people need reasons to bet on games this week...
Cincinnati at Minnesota (-7.5)
The Bengals are as good as they were earlier this season. Incidentally gamblers didn't, and apparently still don't, think that was impressive. Cincinnati beats the spread.
San Diego at Dallas (-3.5)
San Diego winning 7 games in a row is the best kept secret in the NFL right now. Also, Dallas goes cold in December. San Diego beats the spread (and the Cowboys).
Philadelphia at New York (Giants) (-1.5)
The coin landed on heads. Eagles.
Brees has shown himself to be a phenomenal leader to his team and in complete control of his offense when ahead by 20 or losing by 45--though that doesn't happen much anymore. Brees paid his dues in San Diego years ago and was at one point considered another draft pick bust--though not a common criminal. And even after his unexpected breakout year, he went and got his elbow dislocated in what is basically a two-hand touch football game--otherwise known as the NFL Pro Bowl. Bam. Chargers pick up Phil Rivers from the Giants, and Brees got shipped off to the Saints--who were at one point more likely to collectively catch syphilis than a football.
I'm not going to go so far as to say Brees built up the team by himself, but I'd say his influence is comparable to Peyton Manning joining the Colts in the late 90s. Like Manning, and every other great quarterback, Brees just needed a running back behind him. Go figure the Saints got one (or three); and go figure again, they're 12-0.
On a personal level, Brees had the professional gumption to reject his mother's demands to be his agent--at the cost of becoming somewhat estranged from her. Brees relationship with his mother remained appropriately ambiguous to outsiders even up to her suicide earlier this season. And, if unexpected but still admirable, Brees has done more than his fair share trying to rebuild his adopted city after Katrina.
And even though Brees has put up numbers consistently rivaling the top tier QBs, he is never on magazine covers, clothes commercials, SNL or Entourage. Perhaps this is because he isn't dating C-celebrities, getting in motorcycle accidents, making large donations to Fred Thompson or perpetually retiring. Whatever the reasoning, he'll be MVP some day; and if there was a way to put money on that, I would.
Cincinnati at Minnesota (-7.5)
The Bengals are as good as they were earlier this season. Incidentally gamblers didn't, and apparently still don't, think that was impressive. Cincinnati beats the spread.
San Diego at Dallas (-3.5)
San Diego winning 7 games in a row is the best kept secret in the NFL right now. Also, Dallas goes cold in December. San Diego beats the spread (and the Cowboys).
Philadelphia at New York (Giants) (-1.5)
The coin landed on heads. Eagles.
Friday, December 11, 2009
When Fire Burns White
What is hatred? It’s blindness to the world. It is a disease with ceaseless symptoms. When eating dinner or reading the newspaper it is always there. Even when it is below the surface, random occurrences in life create unstoppable connotations flinging the hatred back in full force. Hatred is when your insides become razor wire and your skin becomes a million exposed nerves, allowing the slightest disturbance to spur excruciating agony. But even knowing this or any number of other revelations is irrelevant to a person and their hatred. No damnation or fire from Hell burns strong enough to describe pure hatred. Despite all of this, John Tyler could most assuredly admit to himself that he hated Henry Clay.
For months now, Tyler had been the tenth president of the United States. He had been the tenth vice-president but with the death of General Harrison, Tyler assumed the presidency. Tyler knew what he had done was right. He was not stealing the presidency; he was filling a void in a young nation’s power vacuum. He was granted all the powers of the president, including the title.
For a president, Tyler was a young man but he was not one to be bullied by pompous congressmen and senators. Who was Clay or even John Q. Adams to lecture John Tyler? His presidency was not just “an accident”. It was a series of events, only occasionally within Tyler control. But that doesn’t make it an accident, that makes it life.
What about the other congressional letters, sir?
The ones addressed to the “Acting President”?
Yes, sir.
Send them back unopened.
This was petty bullshit and Tyler knew it could cost him his political life. So be it. America couldn’t afford a presidential office caretaker for the next three years. And America definitely couldn’t afford the likes of power-hungry orators who practically slept on their soapboxes.
Tyler looked out the window toward the Capital Building. More than anything at that moment, Tyler prayed to whatever higher power would grant him the ability to burn down Congress with his eyes. Tyler shoved a nearby cabinet. He imagined Clay standing a mile away, looking at the president’s office with the same furious passion—further infuriating Tyler. The two men were not equals. They both were elected for jobs to do but Clay, Adams and their minions were holding the whole country back with asinine accusations, assumptions and irreverence.
But as Tyler was informed moments later, Clay was not standing on the steps on the Capital Building, but rather standing thirty feet away in the lobby outside of the president’s office. Tyler told his aid to tell another aid to tell Clay to enter immediately. And Clay did.
Tyler turned around to see Clay standing on the other side of the large oak desk. Clay wrinkled his nose just long enough for Tyler to know Clay wanted him to see. Clay didn’t smell anything; he just wanted to “say” something, or someone, stinks.
Have you been in the office of the president before, Henry?
No. And I suppose I still haven’t.
Tyler could see himself so clearly being able to lung across the desk at Clay’s sagging throat. Or walk around the desk and simply punch that Kentucky skeleton in the jaw. Either way, it would be for the good of the country.
Tyler, you’re against the tariff bill based on policy.
I’ve threatened to veto it. Yes.
That’s illegal. You can only veto a bill you feel is unconstitutional.
The bill is wrong and I can veto whatever I see unfit.
If you veto this bill, it’s a breach of the Constitution and you will be impeached.
And threatening the President, or any man, is a breach of human decency.
Clay, very consciously, loosened his own fists and struggled to keep his fingers separate. He had no new arguments to make, but that hadn’t stopped him before.
You are not the president, Mister John Tyler.
Leave now, Mister Clay, and go to your end of the avenue to perform your job in whatever way you so see fit. Because, so God help me, that is how I will perform mine!
With that, Henry Clay left the president’s office but to the misfortune of everyone, John Tyler’s hatred did not leave with him.
For months now, Tyler had been the tenth president of the United States. He had been the tenth vice-president but with the death of General Harrison, Tyler assumed the presidency. Tyler knew what he had done was right. He was not stealing the presidency; he was filling a void in a young nation’s power vacuum. He was granted all the powers of the president, including the title.
For a president, Tyler was a young man but he was not one to be bullied by pompous congressmen and senators. Who was Clay or even John Q. Adams to lecture John Tyler? His presidency was not just “an accident”. It was a series of events, only occasionally within Tyler control. But that doesn’t make it an accident, that makes it life.
What about the other congressional letters, sir?
The ones addressed to the “Acting President”?
Yes, sir.
Send them back unopened.
This was petty bullshit and Tyler knew it could cost him his political life. So be it. America couldn’t afford a presidential office caretaker for the next three years. And America definitely couldn’t afford the likes of power-hungry orators who practically slept on their soapboxes.
Tyler looked out the window toward the Capital Building. More than anything at that moment, Tyler prayed to whatever higher power would grant him the ability to burn down Congress with his eyes. Tyler shoved a nearby cabinet. He imagined Clay standing a mile away, looking at the president’s office with the same furious passion—further infuriating Tyler. The two men were not equals. They both were elected for jobs to do but Clay, Adams and their minions were holding the whole country back with asinine accusations, assumptions and irreverence.
But as Tyler was informed moments later, Clay was not standing on the steps on the Capital Building, but rather standing thirty feet away in the lobby outside of the president’s office. Tyler told his aid to tell another aid to tell Clay to enter immediately. And Clay did.
Tyler turned around to see Clay standing on the other side of the large oak desk. Clay wrinkled his nose just long enough for Tyler to know Clay wanted him to see. Clay didn’t smell anything; he just wanted to “say” something, or someone, stinks.
Have you been in the office of the president before, Henry?
No. And I suppose I still haven’t.
Tyler could see himself so clearly being able to lung across the desk at Clay’s sagging throat. Or walk around the desk and simply punch that Kentucky skeleton in the jaw. Either way, it would be for the good of the country.
Tyler, you’re against the tariff bill based on policy.
I’ve threatened to veto it. Yes.
That’s illegal. You can only veto a bill you feel is unconstitutional.
The bill is wrong and I can veto whatever I see unfit.
If you veto this bill, it’s a breach of the Constitution and you will be impeached.
And threatening the President, or any man, is a breach of human decency.
Clay, very consciously, loosened his own fists and struggled to keep his fingers separate. He had no new arguments to make, but that hadn’t stopped him before.
You are not the president, Mister John Tyler.
Leave now, Mister Clay, and go to your end of the avenue to perform your job in whatever way you so see fit. Because, so God help me, that is how I will perform mine!
With that, Henry Clay left the president’s office but to the misfortune of everyone, John Tyler’s hatred did not leave with him.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Too Much Water in the Desert
I was in the desert, completely lost. After some time my throat hurt from dryness. My insides felt cracked and coarse. I couldn’t rub the sand off of my skin it was so ingrained. I was alone and dying in this great desert of no end. It was all the more painful that I had water with me, too.
I had several containers of water, in fact. I carried some at all times and buried others at the few landmarks I could find. I had as much water as anybody reasonably needs. But it was worthless to drink. It did nothing to quench my thirst, water my mouth or even clean my rags.
After an unbeknownst amount of time, I dropped face-down into a high rise dune. I turned my weak face to the side and saw somebody walking along but not approaching. They saw me, waved, and kept walking. I got up and ran to the person. They would not stop moving so I had to walk alongside them.
“Where are you going?” they asked.
“I’m walking where you’re walking,” I feebly responded.
“You’ll never get anywhere that way.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is C.”
C kept on walking, unaware or unconcerned that my mind was exploding with questions. I saw C was carrying a pack of some sort, undoubtedly containing water. At that point, everything clicked. C had water. I had water.
“I’ll trade some of my water for some of yours,” I offered.
“Sorry, but my water pack is half empty.”
“But I just need a little.”
“I’m sorry, but I need more first.”
“My water can help you!”
“Maybe. But you should focus on yourself, not trying to save me.”
I fell to my knees with hands to the sides of my head and screamed. I couldn’t understand C. It seemed so obvious but C’s complete apathy was killing me. I looked up to see C still walking away when I realized C wasn’t walking anywhere. C would be lost in the desert for years, like me, but would not admit being lost, unlike me.
C’s water, or anybody’s water, could save me, as I could save them. And there were many people in the desert. But since most never stopped to listen, I am still wandering in the desert, lost and dying from thirst. I am carrying water but it can’t save me, I need someone else’s.
I had several containers of water, in fact. I carried some at all times and buried others at the few landmarks I could find. I had as much water as anybody reasonably needs. But it was worthless to drink. It did nothing to quench my thirst, water my mouth or even clean my rags.
After an unbeknownst amount of time, I dropped face-down into a high rise dune. I turned my weak face to the side and saw somebody walking along but not approaching. They saw me, waved, and kept walking. I got up and ran to the person. They would not stop moving so I had to walk alongside them.
“Where are you going?” they asked.
“I’m walking where you’re walking,” I feebly responded.
“You’ll never get anywhere that way.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is C.”
C kept on walking, unaware or unconcerned that my mind was exploding with questions. I saw C was carrying a pack of some sort, undoubtedly containing water. At that point, everything clicked. C had water. I had water.
“I’ll trade some of my water for some of yours,” I offered.
“Sorry, but my water pack is half empty.”
“But I just need a little.”
“I’m sorry, but I need more first.”
“My water can help you!”
“Maybe. But you should focus on yourself, not trying to save me.”
I fell to my knees with hands to the sides of my head and screamed. I couldn’t understand C. It seemed so obvious but C’s complete apathy was killing me. I looked up to see C still walking away when I realized C wasn’t walking anywhere. C would be lost in the desert for years, like me, but would not admit being lost, unlike me.
C’s water, or anybody’s water, could save me, as I could save them. And there were many people in the desert. But since most never stopped to listen, I am still wandering in the desert, lost and dying from thirst. I am carrying water but it can’t save me, I need someone else’s.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
The Great Equalizer
There are many reasons people like gambling. Put down some money and anyone can win anytime. Anyone can win anytime. This, I feel, is an oft over-looked virtue of gambling. At the table, you are worth as much as your cards. The dice are colorblind. Your history and family are meaningless to everyone else, all that matters is if your money is real.
ReGeneration is a funny concept I'm still trying to mold. I find it solidifying and gaining popularity when I can use abstractions for tangible situations. The name ReGeneration is meant, among other things, to explicitly state that there must be a growth. Simply being after-the-fact (post-hoc/post-modern) isn't good enough anymore. We must be able to create, not destroy, ideas and institutions. This is why I will defend and build upon capitalism.
Often accused for having unrealistically high expectations, I can not advocate a complete re-haul of American ideology (future blog post: definition of "ideology"). Capitalism brings unprecedented cultural equality to our society that sees money as the great equalizer. Boycotts work because in the end, bus companies want money. Is the manager of Chipotle white, black, Latino or Asian? It doesn't matter when the food is worth the cost. Money allows anyone anywhere to be successful. To businesses, money means you are wanted. In a completely capitalist society, someone's sexual orientation doesn't matter. Someone's age, politics and language don't matter. Money can end all cultural controversy.
However, there still is discrimination. People do not love money enough to be blind to all other issues. More over, money creates its own forms of discrimination. People with no money become different than people with money. Each group becomes the other groups' other. So maybe there will always be a culture war, but that doesn't mean people have to be sick, cold or dead.
America is not completely capitalistic, nor will we ever be completely anything--we're not even completely democratic. So why is there a fear we will become communist if we adopt socialist ideas? I'm talking about equal access to resources. The founding fathers promised three things to all citizens--one of which was "life," another one was "pursuit of happiness." These don't need to contradict each other. Any if they do contradict each other, lets change them, because that's the third thing promised: liberty.
We can build upon societal foundations. If capitalism is the foundation we are given, lets build upon it. Lets find avenues of equality, freedom and prosperity with this societal road map, because they do exist. More healthy people mean more consumers. More free citizens mean more new business opportunities. More access to government resources mean more competition. And even though there are other ways to fuel advancement, this is the sandbox we are in; so we need to use the tools we have to progress onwards, upwards and outwards.
ReGeneration is a funny concept I'm still trying to mold. I find it solidifying and gaining popularity when I can use abstractions for tangible situations. The name ReGeneration is meant, among other things, to explicitly state that there must be a growth. Simply being after-the-fact (post-hoc/post-modern) isn't good enough anymore. We must be able to create, not destroy, ideas and institutions. This is why I will defend and build upon capitalism.
Often accused for having unrealistically high expectations, I can not advocate a complete re-haul of American ideology (future blog post: definition of "ideology"). Capitalism brings unprecedented cultural equality to our society that sees money as the great equalizer. Boycotts work because in the end, bus companies want money. Is the manager of Chipotle white, black, Latino or Asian? It doesn't matter when the food is worth the cost. Money allows anyone anywhere to be successful. To businesses, money means you are wanted. In a completely capitalist society, someone's sexual orientation doesn't matter. Someone's age, politics and language don't matter. Money can end all cultural controversy.
However, there still is discrimination. People do not love money enough to be blind to all other issues. More over, money creates its own forms of discrimination. People with no money become different than people with money. Each group becomes the other groups' other. So maybe there will always be a culture war, but that doesn't mean people have to be sick, cold or dead.
America is not completely capitalistic, nor will we ever be completely anything--we're not even completely democratic. So why is there a fear we will become communist if we adopt socialist ideas? I'm talking about equal access to resources. The founding fathers promised three things to all citizens--one of which was "life," another one was "pursuit of happiness." These don't need to contradict each other. Any if they do contradict each other, lets change them, because that's the third thing promised: liberty.
We can build upon societal foundations. If capitalism is the foundation we are given, lets build upon it. Lets find avenues of equality, freedom and prosperity with this societal road map, because they do exist. More healthy people mean more consumers. More free citizens mean more new business opportunities. More access to government resources mean more competition. And even though there are other ways to fuel advancement, this is the sandbox we are in; so we need to use the tools we have to progress onwards, upwards and outwards.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Gregory Riggs
Gregory Riggs looked around the dark, smoky, woodsy bar. There was no tobacco smell, only beer, pretensions and metaphors. The visible smoke came from a hidden fog machine. Good decision by the management, thought Gregory, the smoke makes the place feel authentic.
This new place was a different new place for Gregory. There wasn’t a band onstage, but rather one of a rotating slew of poets. The audience kept intrigued eyes to the front, anxious to hear the validations of like-minded bohemians. In this perpetually cynical bar, culture was key. That is, if culture is the denouncement of pop culture.
A new poet took the microphone as Gregory took a seat--both had a pitcher of beer. Here, words were currency. Those with the most to boast or confessed the best, were the winners. Making this poet a string-hair, vintage-wearing Rockefeller. The word slinger’s spit shot searing holes through various unnecessary pillars of society. With a vocabulary strength not seen this side of the Daniel Webster era, the proudly polarizing performer tried to start a start a suburban fight on this suburban night. Gregory was impressed and had another beer, non-light.
The next poet knew he was lost in the shoes he had to fill. The void left on stage was the size of the city inside the bar. The new truth-sayer joked about needing liquid courage. At this point, Gregory noticed that nobody had actually said the words “beer” or “alcohol” since he entered some time ago. Gregory focused his ears toward the bartender and the drink requests. Amazing. A pint of liquor courage. A pitcher of liquor courage. A shot of liquor courage--I’m performing next, so actually make it a double.
With a roll of his eyes, Gregory drank a little more and woke up on his couch the next morning.
Gregory Riggs entered the dance club after waiting in line outside for like ever. He was like, so amazed at like how many people were there. The music was so loud but he loved the song that was playing. Gregory noticed a basketball player standing by one of the tables. Man, that guy is really tall, thought Gregory.
People weren’t trying to be rude, but there were a lot of people. In fact, there was almost as much bumping and grinding on the dance floor as there was by the bar. That’s kind of funny. Gregory pushed his way to the bar in the bar. Man, that’s really confusing he thought—“the bar in the bar”. Gregory ordered a cup of Tonight’s Special (PBR) and looked around for anybody he knew. He recognized a girl from his stats class. She was hot.
Hey, Gregory said, as friendly yet unenthusiastically as he could. Hey, she offered back perfectly. It’s Greg from your stats class. Oh yeah? I thought I recognized you. Yeah. This place is pretty cool. Yeah. A lot of people. Yeah. Yeah.
The silent pause in conversation reminded Greg how loud the place was. Want to dance? He asked. Don’t you have a drink there? No, I finished it. So do you want to dance? No, no thank you. I’m don’t really feel like dancing. I’m waiting for a friend. Oh, that’s cool. Hey, I’ll see you in class next week. Yeah, definitely.
With a roll of his eyes, Gregory drank a little more and woke up on his couch the next morning.
Gregory Riggs entered his kitchen, opened the fridge and pulled out the bottle of rum that he bought earlier that week—as the liquor store sells rum 5% off every Tuesday.
Not having enough money to do anything new tonight, Gregory put in an old movie and opened his bottle of rum. Twenty minutes later, the movie froze and a new message read: “Unable to read disc.”
With a roll of his eyes, Gregory drank a little more and woke up on his couch the next morning.
This new place was a different new place for Gregory. There wasn’t a band onstage, but rather one of a rotating slew of poets. The audience kept intrigued eyes to the front, anxious to hear the validations of like-minded bohemians. In this perpetually cynical bar, culture was key. That is, if culture is the denouncement of pop culture.
A new poet took the microphone as Gregory took a seat--both had a pitcher of beer. Here, words were currency. Those with the most to boast or confessed the best, were the winners. Making this poet a string-hair, vintage-wearing Rockefeller. The word slinger’s spit shot searing holes through various unnecessary pillars of society. With a vocabulary strength not seen this side of the Daniel Webster era, the proudly polarizing performer tried to start a start a suburban fight on this suburban night. Gregory was impressed and had another beer, non-light.
The next poet knew he was lost in the shoes he had to fill. The void left on stage was the size of the city inside the bar. The new truth-sayer joked about needing liquid courage. At this point, Gregory noticed that nobody had actually said the words “beer” or “alcohol” since he entered some time ago. Gregory focused his ears toward the bartender and the drink requests. Amazing. A pint of liquor courage. A pitcher of liquor courage. A shot of liquor courage--I’m performing next, so actually make it a double.
With a roll of his eyes, Gregory drank a little more and woke up on his couch the next morning.
Gregory Riggs entered the dance club after waiting in line outside for like ever. He was like, so amazed at like how many people were there. The music was so loud but he loved the song that was playing. Gregory noticed a basketball player standing by one of the tables. Man, that guy is really tall, thought Gregory.
People weren’t trying to be rude, but there were a lot of people. In fact, there was almost as much bumping and grinding on the dance floor as there was by the bar. That’s kind of funny. Gregory pushed his way to the bar in the bar. Man, that’s really confusing he thought—“the bar in the bar”. Gregory ordered a cup of Tonight’s Special (PBR) and looked around for anybody he knew. He recognized a girl from his stats class. She was hot.
Hey, Gregory said, as friendly yet unenthusiastically as he could. Hey, she offered back perfectly. It’s Greg from your stats class. Oh yeah? I thought I recognized you. Yeah. This place is pretty cool. Yeah. A lot of people. Yeah. Yeah.
The silent pause in conversation reminded Greg how loud the place was. Want to dance? He asked. Don’t you have a drink there? No, I finished it. So do you want to dance? No, no thank you. I’m don’t really feel like dancing. I’m waiting for a friend. Oh, that’s cool. Hey, I’ll see you in class next week. Yeah, definitely.
With a roll of his eyes, Gregory drank a little more and woke up on his couch the next morning.
Gregory Riggs entered his kitchen, opened the fridge and pulled out the bottle of rum that he bought earlier that week—as the liquor store sells rum 5% off every Tuesday.
Not having enough money to do anything new tonight, Gregory put in an old movie and opened his bottle of rum. Twenty minutes later, the movie froze and a new message read: “Unable to read disc.”
With a roll of his eyes, Gregory drank a little more and woke up on his couch the next morning.
Monday, December 7, 2009
What Year is It?
What year is it? That's easy. 2009. Duh. Conversation, over...right? Hold the bell.
Say "2009" out loud. Two-thousand and nine. Nobody calls it twenty-oh-nine. Yet at the same time, when referring to hundred years ago, people generally say "nineteen-oh-nine." We have a problem here. In ten years are we still going to be saying "two-thousand and nineteen"? Like hell we are. We need to say "twenty nineteen." I can't be wasting two syllables every time I say the year, I've got things to do, places to be.
Who started this failure trend anyway? My first accusation goes out to Stanley Kubrick and Arthur C. Clarke. Their film/book "2001: A Space Odyssey" was the first widespread cultural recognition of new year terminology, as people called the premiere of the 21st century "two-thousand" and not "twenty-hundred."
However, there is the possibility that this has something to do with living the moment. Perhaps the numerical connotations of the year "1909" are a subtle reflection of its past-tense status and total completion. Whereas, 2009 is spoken as if one is counting out loud--thereby reflecting that the time period is not over and will continue to grow higher. So perhaps people 100 years ago referred to their present year as "nineteen hundred and nine."
However, that theory is weak as people ten years ago did not say "nineteen hundred and ninety-nine." We said "nineteen ninety-nine." At some point there had to be a jump. Similarly, I pray people don't have to say "two thousand and ninety-nine" in ninety years. Therefore, we need terminology jump at some New Year's Eve.
Go figure a New Year's Eve is around the corner. Like changing to the metric system, it may be weird and confusing at first, but trust me, it makes more sense and after the initial "weirdness" wears off, we will be better off. Now lets all make a collective effort to right ourselves for the sake of future simplicity and ring in the year "twenty-ten"!
Say "2009" out loud. Two-thousand and nine. Nobody calls it twenty-oh-nine. Yet at the same time, when referring to hundred years ago, people generally say "nineteen-oh-nine." We have a problem here. In ten years are we still going to be saying "two-thousand and nineteen"? Like hell we are. We need to say "twenty nineteen." I can't be wasting two syllables every time I say the year, I've got things to do, places to be.
Who started this failure trend anyway? My first accusation goes out to Stanley Kubrick and Arthur C. Clarke. Their film/book "2001: A Space Odyssey" was the first widespread cultural recognition of new year terminology, as people called the premiere of the 21st century "two-thousand" and not "twenty-hundred."
However, there is the possibility that this has something to do with living the moment. Perhaps the numerical connotations of the year "1909" are a subtle reflection of its past-tense status and total completion. Whereas, 2009 is spoken as if one is counting out loud--thereby reflecting that the time period is not over and will continue to grow higher. So perhaps people 100 years ago referred to their present year as "nineteen hundred and nine."
However, that theory is weak as people ten years ago did not say "nineteen hundred and ninety-nine." We said "nineteen ninety-nine." At some point there had to be a jump. Similarly, I pray people don't have to say "two thousand and ninety-nine" in ninety years. Therefore, we need terminology jump at some New Year's Eve.
Go figure a New Year's Eve is around the corner. Like changing to the metric system, it may be weird and confusing at first, but trust me, it makes more sense and after the initial "weirdness" wears off, we will be better off. Now lets all make a collective effort to right ourselves for the sake of future simplicity and ring in the year "twenty-ten"!
Sunday, December 6, 2009
The Devil Lives on 8th Street: Part Three of Three
Sasha, Joe Barcelona and Mitch drove to the Devil’s house, but not until the game had ended. To Mitch’s relief, or complete dismay, the Barracudas had lost the game. Sasha’s feelings were reverse. And she was considerably more hesitant to go the Devil’s place as she wasn’t quite ready to lose her soul--even after the incredible season her Gorillas had played, fulfilling her wildest dreams.
The Devil was again polishing his Guitar Hero skills when the trio came into the empty bottle-occupying, poster-lined living room. In fact, the Devil kept playing when inquired about his contradicting deals. The Devil calmly explained that he received far too many “soul offers” on the game, like all big sports games, to bother taking a side. It simply wasn’t worth changing fate--and he wasn’t alone in that thought process.
Like the eternal, infernal bookie that he is, the Devil just lets people make their bets and collects his debts. If the Devil “fails” to deliver on his end of any bargain, the deal is void and people keep their souls. But the Devil doesn’t forget when he wins, so he’d like Sasha Madison to stick around a little longer.
“If you don’t change fate, how about another bet?” Mitch challenged.
Mitch laid it on the line. One game of Rock Band. Double or nothing on Sasha’s debt. Joe Barcelona offered his own soul, too. Three souls. One song. Played twice.
The Devil accepted the group’s gauntlet drop. And with that he called up his band from Hell, named “Holy Carmelsauce.” The Devil himself would play lead guitar. At bass there was Sid Vicious. Keith Moon was behind the drums and Ron Jericho at vocals.
“Ron Jericho?” Sasha questioned.
“A 1940s singer who hunted only cute animals in his spare time.”
“Bastard.”
But Mitch’s band needed a singer, so they requested, and instantly received, Paul McCartney. Paul wasn’t too confused by the Devil’s tomfoolery, as they had met in 1966 when the Devil saved Paul from a deadly car crash.
Holy Carmelsauce went first, as decided by a coin flip, and rocked pretty hard. Really hard. In fact, they got a 97% on the Expert rating. Meanwhile, Mitch and Paul tried to teach Sasha and Joe Barcelona how to play. When it came to their turn, Mitch held his breath and started the song.
For reasons defying any Earthly logic, Mitch, Sasha, Joe and Paul executed the entire song perfectly. Everybody, including the first-timers, freaked out and rocked out just enough to randomly hit every single note. When the final tune had been strummed, the Devil knew he had been beat and everybody was free to go and spend the rest of their lives failing to explain how they had achieved such unexpected greatness and to an audience so small.
The Devil was again polishing his Guitar Hero skills when the trio came into the empty bottle-occupying, poster-lined living room. In fact, the Devil kept playing when inquired about his contradicting deals. The Devil calmly explained that he received far too many “soul offers” on the game, like all big sports games, to bother taking a side. It simply wasn’t worth changing fate--and he wasn’t alone in that thought process.
Like the eternal, infernal bookie that he is, the Devil just lets people make their bets and collects his debts. If the Devil “fails” to deliver on his end of any bargain, the deal is void and people keep their souls. But the Devil doesn’t forget when he wins, so he’d like Sasha Madison to stick around a little longer.
“If you don’t change fate, how about another bet?” Mitch challenged.
Mitch laid it on the line. One game of Rock Band. Double or nothing on Sasha’s debt. Joe Barcelona offered his own soul, too. Three souls. One song. Played twice.
The Devil accepted the group’s gauntlet drop. And with that he called up his band from Hell, named “Holy Carmelsauce.” The Devil himself would play lead guitar. At bass there was Sid Vicious. Keith Moon was behind the drums and Ron Jericho at vocals.
“Ron Jericho?” Sasha questioned.
“A 1940s singer who hunted only cute animals in his spare time.”
“Bastard.”
But Mitch’s band needed a singer, so they requested, and instantly received, Paul McCartney. Paul wasn’t too confused by the Devil’s tomfoolery, as they had met in 1966 when the Devil saved Paul from a deadly car crash.
Holy Carmelsauce went first, as decided by a coin flip, and rocked pretty hard. Really hard. In fact, they got a 97% on the Expert rating. Meanwhile, Mitch and Paul tried to teach Sasha and Joe Barcelona how to play. When it came to their turn, Mitch held his breath and started the song.
For reasons defying any Earthly logic, Mitch, Sasha, Joe and Paul executed the entire song perfectly. Everybody, including the first-timers, freaked out and rocked out just enough to randomly hit every single note. When the final tune had been strummed, the Devil knew he had been beat and everybody was free to go and spend the rest of their lives failing to explain how they had achieved such unexpected greatness and to an audience so small.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
NFL Predictions: Week Thirteen
Lessons learned from last week: the Saints are blessed, I should be using real money and it's time to stop being a horse's ass and admit Brett Favre is playing especially well. Perhaps MVP well.
Tennessee at Indianapolis (-7.5)
The Colts baffle spectators week after week as probably the weakest team to ever go 11-0, whatever that means. Meanwhile the Titans have won 5 in a row after losing their first 6 games. Now with Dwight Freeney out, Peyton Manning has gone and hurt his hand just to seemingly fit in with the cool kids. Manning will play, no doubt, but the Colts haven't had an impressive win since playing the Titans in October; and that was when Tennessee was one loss away from putting "Nashville Icon" contestants in the starting lineup. Winning by 8 points is asking a lot considering this Titans team is flirting the the notion of having an idea of possibly forming an upset strategy. Tennessee beats the spread.
New England at Miami (+4)
Unlike in their loss to Indianapolis, the entire Patriots team got embarrassed by the Saints last week. Now the Patriots have "overlooked" the Cheetos-munching, perpetually worthless Dolphins several times. However they won't overlook the stupid "Wildcat formation" that gives every Miami fan a boner. That formation has wasted dozens of drives and even lost games, but never mind that, it beat the Patriots years ago! The Patriots lost by 1 to the Colts then slapped the Jets by 17; the Patriots then lost by 21 to the Saints so should beat the Dolphins by...37? This isn't the Patriots of 2007 but it is the Patriots, so yeah, they cover.
Dallas at New York (Giants) (+1.5)
The Cowboys have won 6 of their last 7. The Giants have lost 5 of their last 6. Tony Romo has a 93.9 quarterback rating. The Giants couldn't protect Eli Manning if Dallas replaced their D-line with Jerry Jones and Jason Alexander. Only an idiot would pick against the Cowboys in this game. Giants.
Minnesota at Phoenix (even)
Even odds? Are you joking with me? This probably won't stick through Sunday but I'm writing this Friday and at least three sources have this game as 50-50...which it isn't. The Cardinals are only marginally better than they were last year, when they were 8-8 until making an unexplainable playoff run. It's become increasingly difficult (read: impossible) to deny Favre's positive influence on the Vikings--a quarterback rating of 112.1 this late in the season is phenomenal for anyone, no matter how awful their retirement speeches are. Vikings win and don't expect it to be a squeaker.
Baltimore at Green Bay (-2.5)
This is Ravens' quarterback Joe Flacco pointing to where he plans on throwing his next interceptions.
Packers cover.
Tennessee at Indianapolis (-7.5)
The Colts baffle spectators week after week as probably the weakest team to ever go 11-0, whatever that means. Meanwhile the Titans have won 5 in a row after losing their first 6 games. Now with Dwight Freeney out, Peyton Manning has gone and hurt his hand just to seemingly fit in with the cool kids. Manning will play, no doubt, but the Colts haven't had an impressive win since playing the Titans in October; and that was when Tennessee was one loss away from putting "Nashville Icon" contestants in the starting lineup. Winning by 8 points is asking a lot considering this Titans team is flirting the the notion of having an idea of possibly forming an upset strategy. Tennessee beats the spread.
New England at Miami (+4)
Unlike in their loss to Indianapolis, the entire Patriots team got embarrassed by the Saints last week. Now the Patriots have "overlooked" the Cheetos-munching, perpetually worthless Dolphins several times. However they won't overlook the stupid "Wildcat formation" that gives every Miami fan a boner. That formation has wasted dozens of drives and even lost games, but never mind that, it beat the Patriots years ago! The Patriots lost by 1 to the Colts then slapped the Jets by 17; the Patriots then lost by 21 to the Saints so should beat the Dolphins by...37? This isn't the Patriots of 2007 but it is the Patriots, so yeah, they cover.
Dallas at New York (Giants) (+1.5)
The Cowboys have won 6 of their last 7. The Giants have lost 5 of their last 6. Tony Romo has a 93.9 quarterback rating. The Giants couldn't protect Eli Manning if Dallas replaced their D-line with Jerry Jones and Jason Alexander. Only an idiot would pick against the Cowboys in this game. Giants.
Minnesota at Phoenix (even)
Even odds? Are you joking with me? This probably won't stick through Sunday but I'm writing this Friday and at least three sources have this game as 50-50...which it isn't. The Cardinals are only marginally better than they were last year, when they were 8-8 until making an unexplainable playoff run. It's become increasingly difficult (read: impossible) to deny Favre's positive influence on the Vikings--a quarterback rating of 112.1 this late in the season is phenomenal for anyone, no matter how awful their retirement speeches are. Vikings win and don't expect it to be a squeaker.
Baltimore at Green Bay (-2.5)
This is Ravens' quarterback Joe Flacco pointing to where he plans on throwing his next interceptions.
Packers cover.
Friday, December 4, 2009
The Devil Lives on 8th Street: Part Two of Three
“Bummer about that last game, huh?”
“Yeah, but I think it was good for the team,” defended Mitch. “I think we'll be stronger than ever and ready to just dominate the rest of the season.”
“Plus being perfect is boring.”
And while the Barracudas weren’t undefeated anymore, in a month they were 15-5 and the talk about a championship grew louder. Unarguably, the loudest talk came from Mitch, who had worn all black after the team’s first lost as a joke but later turned it into a gloomy tradition. But it wasn’t just the losses that started getting to Mitch; it was the close wins. Mitch knew that the Barracudas had no shot at the championship if they couldn’t even beat the North Grove Spider Monkeys by more than four points. And if Vince Bergman went on another steak of 20 plus points per game, he could go back to being the leading league scorer.
“That’s unhealthy, my man,” offered Joe Barcelona.
“What’s unhealthy? This donut pizza? Because I have a friend who was thinking about being a doctor-”
“You got to play for the game, not the statistics. It’s a battle, not a math equation.”
Math equation or not, the Barracudas needed more help than anybody--aside from the cholesterol-packed Mitch--was willing to admit. The team needed perfection and a guarantee of greatness or they were not worth following at all. So, with noticeably less energy than usual, Mitch went to see the Devil. Mitch didn’t need pot; he needed a promise. And it wouldn't cost any samolians.
“Shit. I figured you’d never offer me your soul after I didn’t give you a loan some years back.”
“Yeah well,” Mitch hesitated. “Reggie had what I needed and wanted my old TV. But for this, I just got you.”
“That’s gravy for the both of us.”
“So it’s a deal?”
“Sure.”
“Do I need to, like, sign anything?”
“No. Legal issues never really seem to come up.”
And so, as Mitch expected, the Barracudas eventually entered the championship. What Mitch didn’t expect, though, was winning two free tickets to the game thanks to a radio show call-in contest (Mitch knew which Barracuda player suffered from taphophobia). At the game, before tip-off, Mitch decided to treat Joe Barcelona and himself to some hot dogs.
At the concession stand, Mitch saw a sign reading: “Ask about our ‘dog sauce’”. Mitch turned behind him and asked the stranger if the sign was an order, because he really didn’t want to ask about their ‘dog sauce’. It was after making this flip-remark that Mitch noticed the collateral listener was a beautiful girl wearing a hideous Gorilla jersey. She smiled at Mitch’s joke but frowned at Mitch’s apparel.
“Fuck the Gorillas, Barracudas all the way,” Mitch challenged with a wink and smile.
“I wouldn’t get your hopes up,” the girl, later revealed to be named Sasha Madison, replied. “I’ve taken out an unworldly loan to insure a Gorilla championship.”
The hot dog placed in Mitch’s hand went ice cold.
“Yeah, but I think it was good for the team,” defended Mitch. “I think we'll be stronger than ever and ready to just dominate the rest of the season.”
“Plus being perfect is boring.”
And while the Barracudas weren’t undefeated anymore, in a month they were 15-5 and the talk about a championship grew louder. Unarguably, the loudest talk came from Mitch, who had worn all black after the team’s first lost as a joke but later turned it into a gloomy tradition. But it wasn’t just the losses that started getting to Mitch; it was the close wins. Mitch knew that the Barracudas had no shot at the championship if they couldn’t even beat the North Grove Spider Monkeys by more than four points. And if Vince Bergman went on another steak of 20 plus points per game, he could go back to being the leading league scorer.
“That’s unhealthy, my man,” offered Joe Barcelona.
“What’s unhealthy? This donut pizza? Because I have a friend who was thinking about being a doctor-”
“You got to play for the game, not the statistics. It’s a battle, not a math equation.”
Math equation or not, the Barracudas needed more help than anybody--aside from the cholesterol-packed Mitch--was willing to admit. The team needed perfection and a guarantee of greatness or they were not worth following at all. So, with noticeably less energy than usual, Mitch went to see the Devil. Mitch didn’t need pot; he needed a promise. And it wouldn't cost any samolians.
“Shit. I figured you’d never offer me your soul after I didn’t give you a loan some years back.”
“Yeah well,” Mitch hesitated. “Reggie had what I needed and wanted my old TV. But for this, I just got you.”
“That’s gravy for the both of us.”
“So it’s a deal?”
“Sure.”
“Do I need to, like, sign anything?”
“No. Legal issues never really seem to come up.”
And so, as Mitch expected, the Barracudas eventually entered the championship. What Mitch didn’t expect, though, was winning two free tickets to the game thanks to a radio show call-in contest (Mitch knew which Barracuda player suffered from taphophobia). At the game, before tip-off, Mitch decided to treat Joe Barcelona and himself to some hot dogs.
At the concession stand, Mitch saw a sign reading: “Ask about our ‘dog sauce’”. Mitch turned behind him and asked the stranger if the sign was an order, because he really didn’t want to ask about their ‘dog sauce’. It was after making this flip-remark that Mitch noticed the collateral listener was a beautiful girl wearing a hideous Gorilla jersey. She smiled at Mitch’s joke but frowned at Mitch’s apparel.
“Fuck the Gorillas, Barracudas all the way,” Mitch challenged with a wink and smile.
“I wouldn’t get your hopes up,” the girl, later revealed to be named Sasha Madison, replied. “I’ve taken out an unworldly loan to insure a Gorilla championship.”
The hot dog placed in Mitch’s hand went ice cold.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
The Devil Lives on 8th Street: Part One of Three
Mitch was modestly excited for the upcoming Barracuda basketball season. And even though he had never spent a dime on any of their merchandise, he did steal a cap with a fish logo on it—Mitch later lost the cap himself. And even if Mitch didn’t go to many games, he did like watching the team every once in a while at some sports bars as most places give better discounts on buffalo wings when the team wins. So it wasn’t the most unusual thing in the world when Mitch went to Gary’s Bar ‘n Grill to watch the season opener with his good friend, Joe Barcelona.
Joe Barcelona was as smooth as silk and just as cheap. He’d buy drinks and food to liven a place up or to liven a place up even more. He was a philosophizing, romanticizing, friend-prizing Doc Holiday of the 21st Century. So it wasn’t the most unusual thing in the world when Mitch and Joe Barcelona were greeted with flailing open arms and slurred warm charms.
“You still want to be an officer, Joe?” asked one patron.
“You’re going to be a police man?!” followed-up Mitch, who was about to slide his weed into the pocket of a distracted game-watcher. “A copper? The Po-Lease? Johnny Law? The po-po? The 5-0? Bacon? The heat? The black and white? A boy in blue? The fuzz? A G-man? A narc? The man? A...uh…gun…guy”
Joe Barcelona laughed a hearty laugh and felt Mitch deserved a free drink. Joe Barcelona went on to explain that he was the unofficial treasurer of the Barracuda fan club, the Gary’s Bar ‘n Grill chapter. Upon this social discovery, Mitch joined the club right away and was doubly thrilled to get another drink from another club member. Mitch was doubly excited again, when the Barracudas won their first game.
By the next game, Mitch had a Barracuda t-shirt and had even paid for it. By the end of the half, Mitch was right alongside all the others criticizing Coach Schumacher’s decision to bench Keaton. Within two more games, no one could tell Mitch hadn’t been following the team his whole life.
When the team was 6-0, but not yet playing for 7-0, Mitch made a quick run to the Devil’s house to pick up some weed. It wasn’t a far drive and the Devil wasn’t the only place to score, but he usually had the best. Mitch bounded up the dilapidated front porch and knocked on the wooden door. Instantly hearing permission, Mitch walked in and plopped down on the 1980s style couch while the Devil finished playing a song on Guitar Hero. After the final note click, the Devil’s score popped up. “94% on Expert.”
“Is expert hard?” Mitch asked.
“It’s hard for those who aren’t experts. Whatcha up to Mitch?”
“Chillin' out. Maxin', relaxin'. All cool.”
“You following the Barracudas?”
“Hell yeah. Undefeated. And with the exception of two games, we’ve won by at least ten every time. And even with the other two games, it’s only had to come down to a last second shot once. We haven’t played any division games, but if we win the next one, we’ll be up two and half games-”
“Whoa, Mitch. You need to chill out. The games end with the final whistle.”
Mitch didn’t know what the Devil meant by that but he didn’t know what the Devil meant by a lot of things. The Devil went into his room and emerged a second later to toss Mitch a sack of what he wanted. The Devil then explained he didn’t have any change for Mitch, but Mitch could just pay him double next time.
“You don’t need the money?” Mitch asked.
“I always need the security money provides, but I also make a habit out borrowing from pessimists.”
“Why?”
“They never expect to get their money back.”
Mitch left with a forced smile and acknowledging head nod. Two days later, Mitch was roaring for Barracuda victory in vain. Mitch’s team lost 87-65.
Joe Barcelona was as smooth as silk and just as cheap. He’d buy drinks and food to liven a place up or to liven a place up even more. He was a philosophizing, romanticizing, friend-prizing Doc Holiday of the 21st Century. So it wasn’t the most unusual thing in the world when Mitch and Joe Barcelona were greeted with flailing open arms and slurred warm charms.
“You still want to be an officer, Joe?” asked one patron.
“You’re going to be a police man?!” followed-up Mitch, who was about to slide his weed into the pocket of a distracted game-watcher. “A copper? The Po-Lease? Johnny Law? The po-po? The 5-0? Bacon? The heat? The black and white? A boy in blue? The fuzz? A G-man? A narc? The man? A...uh…gun…guy”
Joe Barcelona laughed a hearty laugh and felt Mitch deserved a free drink. Joe Barcelona went on to explain that he was the unofficial treasurer of the Barracuda fan club, the Gary’s Bar ‘n Grill chapter. Upon this social discovery, Mitch joined the club right away and was doubly thrilled to get another drink from another club member. Mitch was doubly excited again, when the Barracudas won their first game.
By the next game, Mitch had a Barracuda t-shirt and had even paid for it. By the end of the half, Mitch was right alongside all the others criticizing Coach Schumacher’s decision to bench Keaton. Within two more games, no one could tell Mitch hadn’t been following the team his whole life.
When the team was 6-0, but not yet playing for 7-0, Mitch made a quick run to the Devil’s house to pick up some weed. It wasn’t a far drive and the Devil wasn’t the only place to score, but he usually had the best. Mitch bounded up the dilapidated front porch and knocked on the wooden door. Instantly hearing permission, Mitch walked in and plopped down on the 1980s style couch while the Devil finished playing a song on Guitar Hero. After the final note click, the Devil’s score popped up. “94% on Expert.”
“Is expert hard?” Mitch asked.
“It’s hard for those who aren’t experts. Whatcha up to Mitch?”
“Chillin' out. Maxin', relaxin'. All cool.”
“You following the Barracudas?”
“Hell yeah. Undefeated. And with the exception of two games, we’ve won by at least ten every time. And even with the other two games, it’s only had to come down to a last second shot once. We haven’t played any division games, but if we win the next one, we’ll be up two and half games-”
“Whoa, Mitch. You need to chill out. The games end with the final whistle.”
Mitch didn’t know what the Devil meant by that but he didn’t know what the Devil meant by a lot of things. The Devil went into his room and emerged a second later to toss Mitch a sack of what he wanted. The Devil then explained he didn’t have any change for Mitch, but Mitch could just pay him double next time.
“You don’t need the money?” Mitch asked.
“I always need the security money provides, but I also make a habit out borrowing from pessimists.”
“Why?”
“They never expect to get their money back.”
Mitch left with a forced smile and acknowledging head nod. Two days later, Mitch was roaring for Barracuda victory in vain. Mitch’s team lost 87-65.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Sometimes Life
All I did was make change with a certain tip jar.
Now I'm no longer welcome at a certain hip bar.
Now I'm no longer welcome at a certain hip bar.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
The Time Has Come
What does the recent blockbuster disaster film "2012" say about universal health care?
To no great surprise this movie about finality, futility and impeding doom includes a ludicrous, fantastical and contrived glimmer of hope. I suppose audiences only care about survivors. And these survivors earn their salvation by getting aboard a giant boat when the world is flooding. If some are unsure of the Biblical imagery, it is made more clear with the saving of two giraffes, elephants, rhinos, etc. and a boy named Noah. While this is no Shaggy God story, it does throw the (astute) viewer through a loop as the Arcs do not seat 6.7 billion people. This means that saving animals destined to die is more important than any number of human lives. I find this a pretty hard argument to make, especially when the animals were clearly chosen (by director Roland Emmerich) for their exotic nature rather than any practical motive--ex. saving cattle, pigs, or chickens for a new farming society.
Around this unexamined point, the city-sinking movie runs with its--criminally overlooked--commentary on modern society. Should the species-saving vessels allow more passengers at the cost of endangering everyone, including the ones already "saved"? The universal health care debate asks variations of this same question. If the government lets everyone fight for their own benefit, there will be losers. But is that more fair than artificially leveling the playing field? Millions in America are essentially saved (read: insured) but would be required to pay taxes for those millions who are not insured.
This comes up more specifically in the movie when Chiwetel Ejiofor has his high-minded moralizing thrown back in his face. Ejiofor demands the government save more citizens yet does not give up his own life-saving boat ticket to any blue-collar Chinese worker. Ejiofor is one of the lucky saved and wants to save others but not at the risk of making a personal sacrifice. The same can be said for the highest salary earners in America. They are the ones already insured, yet they'd be the ones footing the majority of any universal system. Personally I'm a believer that it's still beneficial for the richest Americans to help the poorest in any fashion, as I'd pay taxes for a fire department I never need because it doesn't help me to have my neighbor's house burn down.
The movie seems to take a similar stance. Toward the end, John Cusack--and Cusack alone--takes responsibility for his selfish actions that inadvertently endangered the lives of thousands (allegory continued: funding a capitalist health care system). However his persistent nobility is undercut by the realization that he only risks his life to help others when his own life is in danger likewise. Cusack was not safe when he risked all he had. In fact, he is doomed to die with everyone else whether or not he tries to help the situation--it's no real spoiler to say that he does.
Unlike Ejiofor, Cusack was in a position wherein he had nothing to gain by doing nothing and so acted "heroically." Undoubtedly, this is what Emmerich had in mind during the Vatican-crushing, hotel-crumbling, Yellowstone-erupting motion picture; that is, universal health care will only come when, and if, those who have the power feel like they have something personally at stake in the well being of others. In that vein, perhaps the prophecies of "2012" will ring true; whether that means universal health care will save humanity, sun-launched neutrinos will doom humanity, or some unholy combination of both, I can not say, but it is fun to ponder.
To no great surprise this movie about finality, futility and impeding doom includes a ludicrous, fantastical and contrived glimmer of hope. I suppose audiences only care about survivors. And these survivors earn their salvation by getting aboard a giant boat when the world is flooding. If some are unsure of the Biblical imagery, it is made more clear with the saving of two giraffes, elephants, rhinos, etc. and a boy named Noah. While this is no Shaggy God story, it does throw the (astute) viewer through a loop as the Arcs do not seat 6.7 billion people. This means that saving animals destined to die is more important than any number of human lives. I find this a pretty hard argument to make, especially when the animals were clearly chosen (by director Roland Emmerich) for their exotic nature rather than any practical motive--ex. saving cattle, pigs, or chickens for a new farming society.
Around this unexamined point, the city-sinking movie runs with its--criminally overlooked--commentary on modern society. Should the species-saving vessels allow more passengers at the cost of endangering everyone, including the ones already "saved"? The universal health care debate asks variations of this same question. If the government lets everyone fight for their own benefit, there will be losers. But is that more fair than artificially leveling the playing field? Millions in America are essentially saved (read: insured) but would be required to pay taxes for those millions who are not insured.
This comes up more specifically in the movie when Chiwetel Ejiofor has his high-minded moralizing thrown back in his face. Ejiofor demands the government save more citizens yet does not give up his own life-saving boat ticket to any blue-collar Chinese worker. Ejiofor is one of the lucky saved and wants to save others but not at the risk of making a personal sacrifice. The same can be said for the highest salary earners in America. They are the ones already insured, yet they'd be the ones footing the majority of any universal system. Personally I'm a believer that it's still beneficial for the richest Americans to help the poorest in any fashion, as I'd pay taxes for a fire department I never need because it doesn't help me to have my neighbor's house burn down.
The movie seems to take a similar stance. Toward the end, John Cusack--and Cusack alone--takes responsibility for his selfish actions that inadvertently endangered the lives of thousands (allegory continued: funding a capitalist health care system). However his persistent nobility is undercut by the realization that he only risks his life to help others when his own life is in danger likewise. Cusack was not safe when he risked all he had. In fact, he is doomed to die with everyone else whether or not he tries to help the situation--it's no real spoiler to say that he does.
Unlike Ejiofor, Cusack was in a position wherein he had nothing to gain by doing nothing and so acted "heroically." Undoubtedly, this is what Emmerich had in mind during the Vatican-crushing, hotel-crumbling, Yellowstone-erupting motion picture; that is, universal health care will only come when, and if, those who have the power feel like they have something personally at stake in the well being of others. In that vein, perhaps the prophecies of "2012" will ring true; whether that means universal health care will save humanity, sun-launched neutrinos will doom humanity, or some unholy combination of both, I can not say, but it is fun to ponder.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Hyenas
Twenty minutes of silent driving past since Eddie picked Bobby C up from the airport. To Eddie's ten o'clock, the sun was getting ready for its daily plunge into the cold, distant horizon. The sun was about 3 fingers above the ground: 45 minutes of daylight. The city of Somewhere, Kansas was about 50 more miles. They'd be home before nightfall. Eddie knew this and assumed Bobby C did as well.
The radio wasn't on and several of the dashboard labels were worn down to incomprehensible smudges, but Eddie knew what everything did and knew what worked and didn't. Bobby C didn't have much baggage in Eddie's car, but Eddie had a lot of his own baggage in the backseat, where it was yesterday, last week and last month. The car also had a cruise control feature that required a trick with the buttons--so in a way it worked, but only for Eddie.
Some parts of Kansas look like how non-Kansans would expect Kansas to look. Other parts of Kansas don't look like Kansas. In the early winter the hills are covered with rough, patchy field grass. Brown, tan and sometimes with a tint of red thanks to a lowering sun. The fields were sleeping hyenas and breathed in a subtle unison with Eddie.
Bobby C had a scar above his left eyebrow and a matching one on his left cheek. Eddie didn't know what had happened but also knew fifty people would ask Bobby C within his first day of being back in town so it didn't seem worth it to have Bobby C tell the origin story 51 times. Eddie assumed Bobby C had lots of things to talk to lots of people about.
Bobby C was wearing dark sunglasses so Eddie wasn't even fully convinced his oldest friend was even awake until Bobby C read a text message. Bobby C gave no reaction to the message and didn't respond back. Eddie didn't know who sent the message nor what it said, but knew it was somebody who respected Bobby C's musical ability and had no reason to ever have heard of Eddie.
Eddie knew Bobby C could do and had done anything Eddie could or had done--plus more. It was just a matter of time before Bobby C would be discovered talented. Eddie hadn't even discovered his own talent yet. Neither had become nationally famous, but Eddie hadn't even become famous within the city he had known for 20 years and performed in for 10.
Eddie kept his soft eyes forward. Bobby C kept his head tilted to his window. The mini-hills and valleys contained scattered naked trees. They drove past an old gas station that had been abandoned years ago. Some of the boards over the windows were covered with graffiti, others had been stripped away for interior access. Shingles were missing and most paint had been weathered off. The building was still standing but the inside had been hallowed out. Weeds and stray grass grew along the edges and where gas pumps once stood. Cracks in the parking lot pavement spoke volumes about the decaying roadside monument.
The radio wasn't on and several of the dashboard labels were worn down to incomprehensible smudges, but Eddie knew what everything did and knew what worked and didn't. Bobby C didn't have much baggage in Eddie's car, but Eddie had a lot of his own baggage in the backseat, where it was yesterday, last week and last month. The car also had a cruise control feature that required a trick with the buttons--so in a way it worked, but only for Eddie.
Some parts of Kansas look like how non-Kansans would expect Kansas to look. Other parts of Kansas don't look like Kansas. In the early winter the hills are covered with rough, patchy field grass. Brown, tan and sometimes with a tint of red thanks to a lowering sun. The fields were sleeping hyenas and breathed in a subtle unison with Eddie.
Bobby C had a scar above his left eyebrow and a matching one on his left cheek. Eddie didn't know what had happened but also knew fifty people would ask Bobby C within his first day of being back in town so it didn't seem worth it to have Bobby C tell the origin story 51 times. Eddie assumed Bobby C had lots of things to talk to lots of people about.
Bobby C was wearing dark sunglasses so Eddie wasn't even fully convinced his oldest friend was even awake until Bobby C read a text message. Bobby C gave no reaction to the message and didn't respond back. Eddie didn't know who sent the message nor what it said, but knew it was somebody who respected Bobby C's musical ability and had no reason to ever have heard of Eddie.
Eddie knew Bobby C could do and had done anything Eddie could or had done--plus more. It was just a matter of time before Bobby C would be discovered talented. Eddie hadn't even discovered his own talent yet. Neither had become nationally famous, but Eddie hadn't even become famous within the city he had known for 20 years and performed in for 10.
Eddie kept his soft eyes forward. Bobby C kept his head tilted to his window. The mini-hills and valleys contained scattered naked trees. They drove past an old gas station that had been abandoned years ago. Some of the boards over the windows were covered with graffiti, others had been stripped away for interior access. Shingles were missing and most paint had been weathered off. The building was still standing but the inside had been hallowed out. Weeds and stray grass grew along the edges and where gas pumps once stood. Cracks in the parking lot pavement spoke volumes about the decaying roadside monument.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Numbers and Plasma: Nick's Bloody Equations
Dollars earned donating plasma: 20 (factors: first donation of the week, 169 lbs)
Time spent donating plasma: 90 minutes
Time driving through Lawrence: 3 or 4 hours. Seriously. People in Lawrence, KS drive like their emergency break is locked in. Maybe I got stuck in a parade that nobody was watching. Or funeral procession. Both would explain that giant Snoopy balloon.
Number of parking spots: 35-45.
Number of cars that can reasonably park there: 20. Every single spot is marked "for compact cars," but since most people donating plasma can't afford Smartcars or even Geo's, that's asking a bit much. Perhaps the line painter assumed in five years everybody will be driving mopeds or Segways. Bust.
Number of people there who I assume consider themselves "professional plasma donating person": How many people were there total? Nobody was dressed to impress and a few weren't properly dressed at all. Come on people, it's November, and if it wasn't, you still need to wear more than an orange-stained tank top. Certainly gives People of Wal-Mart a run for it's money...if there was money at stake.
Number of CSI episodes watched: 2
Number of times characters said "semen": 38
Number of times I laughed at the word "semen": 37
Most terrifying thing I heard from an employee while sticking a patient: "Turtle's my favorite character. He just chills out and gets high. I'm so jealous of him!"
Number of times I've donated plasma this month: 1
Number of times I've compared it to anonymous prostitution: 3 (including this)
Likelihood that I'll spend the money on a book: 4:1
Likelihood that I'll not remember where I spent the money in a month: 1:1
On a scale of one to "Jaime Pressly," how trashy did I feel: Maybe a 6. So noticeably annoying but tolerable to some. Right around the "Prince of Persia" level, I suppose.
Times I considered the money insufficient compensation for my personal well-being: 100
Times I considered the money sufficient: 101
Time spent donating plasma: 90 minutes
Time driving through Lawrence: 3 or 4 hours. Seriously. People in Lawrence, KS drive like their emergency break is locked in. Maybe I got stuck in a parade that nobody was watching. Or funeral procession. Both would explain that giant Snoopy balloon.
Number of parking spots: 35-45.
Number of cars that can reasonably park there: 20. Every single spot is marked "for compact cars," but since most people donating plasma can't afford Smartcars or even Geo's, that's asking a bit much. Perhaps the line painter assumed in five years everybody will be driving mopeds or Segways. Bust.
Number of people there who I assume consider themselves "professional plasma donating person": How many people were there total? Nobody was dressed to impress and a few weren't properly dressed at all. Come on people, it's November, and if it wasn't, you still need to wear more than an orange-stained tank top. Certainly gives People of Wal-Mart a run for it's money...if there was money at stake.
Number of CSI episodes watched: 2
Number of times characters said "semen": 38
Number of times I laughed at the word "semen": 37
Most terrifying thing I heard from an employee while sticking a patient: "Turtle's my favorite character. He just chills out and gets high. I'm so jealous of him!"
Number of times I've donated plasma this month: 1
Number of times I've compared it to anonymous prostitution: 3 (including this)
Likelihood that I'll spend the money on a book: 4:1
Likelihood that I'll not remember where I spent the money in a month: 1:1
On a scale of one to "Jaime Pressly," how trashy did I feel: Maybe a 6. So noticeably annoying but tolerable to some. Right around the "Prince of Persia" level, I suppose.
Times I considered the money insufficient compensation for my personal well-being: 100
Times I considered the money sufficient: 101
Saturday, November 28, 2009
NFL Predictions: Week Twelve
So a Saints-Vikings NFC championship game would be more fun and more expected than anything the Superbowl can promise at this point. Those are probably the two best teams in the nation right now. Also, I'd like to say the NFL needs to change it's sudden-death overtime rules for one reason and one reason only: it's more fun to see both teams score more points.
Indianapolis at Houston (+2.5)
Not content to drive just other teams’ defensive coordinators furious, Peyton Manning has actually thrown down challenges to the Colts’ defense. The Ravens head coach Harbaugh made the exact same (wrong) fourth quarter call as Belichick two weeks ago and both underestimated the Colts defense after (arguably) over-estimating Manning. The mentality of “the undefeated Colts have to lose sometime” is comparable to Vegas gamblers chasing their losses in a vain effort to win them back. As a strike against the Colts though, Manning has been off his mark, statistically speaking, three weeks in a row and is due for a typically exceptional performance. Wait. Am I degenerate gambler? Whatever. Colts cover.
Kansas City at San Diego (-14.5)
The Chiefs aren’t 3 points better than the Steelers and the Chargers aren’t 29 points better than the Broncos, but here we are. San Diego smoked the Chiefs by 30 ka-blamos earlier this year, in KC. So, all else being even, the spread should be 32.5 in San Diego’s favor. But getting rid of Larry Johnson has worked better for the Chiefs than most wart removers and I’d say they are different team than three weeks ago. Now I expect a number things from this game: 1) Darren Sproles will drive defenders nuts 2) KSU fans, even if rooting for the Chiefs, will feel an unexplainable amount of pride when that happens and 3) for reasons I can't possibly explain, the Chiefs beat the spread.
Pittsburgh at Baltimore (even)
Ben Roethlisberger is out. Charlie Batch is out. Joseph Gordon-Levitt is in. No, Joe won’t be the starting quarterback for the Steelers this game but if he had an NFL career that consisted of only two passes, he’d have more experience than the actual starting QB: Dennis Dixon. The Ravens aren’t an easy defense for any quarterback (see: Manning’s performance). The Ravens are masters at losing close games but I’d say the best .500 team in the NFL. This is unusual, but the personalities on both defenses will probably be more than then their offensive counter-parts. This could be a game of James Farrior vs. Ray Lewis. Troy Polamula vs. Ed Reed. If the Ravens lose now, their season is over. Ravens win.
New England at New Orleans (-2.5)
I love what the Saints have become. Drew Brees replaced his arm with a t-shirt cannon, the defense scores almost 1 TD/game and Reggie Bush has settled into being the team acrobat. The Patriots will undoubtedly win their division but they are not the best team in the nation anymore--which I am thankful for. I have more fun watching football when other people are having more fun.
Patriots' Belichick after he won the goddamn Superbowl--has the man never even seen a smile?
Saint's Payton after he saved 15% or more on car insurance.
Indianapolis at Houston (+2.5)
Not content to drive just other teams’ defensive coordinators furious, Peyton Manning has actually thrown down challenges to the Colts’ defense. The Ravens head coach Harbaugh made the exact same (wrong) fourth quarter call as Belichick two weeks ago and both underestimated the Colts defense after (arguably) over-estimating Manning. The mentality of “the undefeated Colts have to lose sometime” is comparable to Vegas gamblers chasing their losses in a vain effort to win them back. As a strike against the Colts though, Manning has been off his mark, statistically speaking, three weeks in a row and is due for a typically exceptional performance. Wait. Am I degenerate gambler? Whatever. Colts cover.
Kansas City at San Diego (-14.5)
The Chiefs aren’t 3 points better than the Steelers and the Chargers aren’t 29 points better than the Broncos, but here we are. San Diego smoked the Chiefs by 30 ka-blamos earlier this year, in KC. So, all else being even, the spread should be 32.5 in San Diego’s favor. But getting rid of Larry Johnson has worked better for the Chiefs than most wart removers and I’d say they are different team than three weeks ago. Now I expect a number things from this game: 1) Darren Sproles will drive defenders nuts 2) KSU fans, even if rooting for the Chiefs, will feel an unexplainable amount of pride when that happens and 3) for reasons I can't possibly explain, the Chiefs beat the spread.
Pittsburgh at Baltimore (even)
Ben Roethlisberger is out. Charlie Batch is out. Joseph Gordon-Levitt is in. No, Joe won’t be the starting quarterback for the Steelers this game but if he had an NFL career that consisted of only two passes, he’d have more experience than the actual starting QB: Dennis Dixon. The Ravens aren’t an easy defense for any quarterback (see: Manning’s performance). The Ravens are masters at losing close games but I’d say the best .500 team in the NFL. This is unusual, but the personalities on both defenses will probably be more than then their offensive counter-parts. This could be a game of James Farrior vs. Ray Lewis. Troy Polamula vs. Ed Reed. If the Ravens lose now, their season is over. Ravens win.
New England at New Orleans (-2.5)
I love what the Saints have become. Drew Brees replaced his arm with a t-shirt cannon, the defense scores almost 1 TD/game and Reggie Bush has settled into being the team acrobat. The Patriots will undoubtedly win their division but they are not the best team in the nation anymore--which I am thankful for. I have more fun watching football when other people are having more fun.
Patriots' Belichick after he won the goddamn Superbowl--has the man never even seen a smile?
Saint's Payton after he saved 15% or more on car insurance.
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