Putting the Fun back in Fiction

Letter to the Editor: Part Two

2010-04-10T18:11:00.003-05:00

Yah! I got published in the University Daily Kansan! Here's my Letter to the Editor, which was a response to a guest editorial. I've heard incredible range of reaction from "a slamdunk" to "dumbest letter to the editor ever." Here it is:

I would like to expand upon the analogy offered in an editorial comparing socialism and capitalism. The idea was that if student grades were averaged out, the best students would stop trying, thus proving socialism makes society lazy. But socialism isn't about taking away the rewards of the successful. Socialism is the allocation of public resources so that everybody will have a more fair chance to compete, or even survive.

To use the classroom analogy, socialism would be like giving every student a syllabus on the first day of class; and if a student misses that first day of class, they can still get a syllabus at another time. Capitalism would be giving the first three or four students who show up to class a syllabus and ignoring everyone else. Real world example: government funding for suburbs in the 1950s, which helped create property appreciation for homeowners. The funding ignored minorities who were red-lined out of home loans.

As a future millionaire myself, I'll have no problem paying more than my fair share of taxes for fire departments, libraries and health care because I know that having my neighbor's house burn down doesn't help me, having illiterate people doesn't help me and having sick people doesn't help me. Even if I'm a fire fighter, librarian or doctor, these don't help because I could have used that time or money on something new (see: Broken Window Fallacy).

As a last note, America can implement socialist policies — and has for centuries —without being socialist; much in the way that I can drink a beer without being an alcoholic. So stop looking for the simplest answer, because more times than not, it’s simple.

Heavy Drinking, Not Thinking

2010-03-17T09:00:00.000-06:00

This was a newspaper article I wrote in high school, which was than butchered by the editing staff. Here is the draft that was meant to be read:

From the rolling hills of Dublin to the prairie flats of Kansas, people will be celebrating their favorite 4th century British Christian saint on March 17. That day, of course, being St. Patrick’s Day, also known as Paddy’s Day.

St. Patrick’s Day is an Irish national holiday, though not actually an official American holiday. In fact, last Saturday Aggieville was festively green in celebration. The fun times were held a week before the actual holiday because this year St. Patrick’s Day falls on the first Saturday of spring. But there will still be Irish-related entertainment in Manhattan tomorrow.

“I’ll probably go to the parade,” senior Peter Tatarko said, referring to the town parade on Pontz Avenue.

Brought to America in the 1730s, St. Patrick’s Day is a Christian festival celebrating the title saint. The story goes that St. Patrick was kidnapped by Irish raiders at young age and was forced to work for six years before escaping back home to England. A couple years later, he became a Catholic bishop and went back to Ireland to convert people to Catholicism.

Now legend has it, St. Patrick got rid of all the snakes on the island of Ireland when he went back. Some people believe this literally, while modern scientists give the ice glaciers that covered Ireland thousands of years ago credit for clearing out the snakes. In either case, St. Patrick did go to Ireland and tried to get rid of the metaphorical snakes of sinfulness.

But St. Patrick’s Day isn’t all about Christian conversion and snake killing, it’s also about wearing green to bring out the Irish-ness in everyone. Failure to wear a green article of clothing isn’t tolerated and results in pinching galore.

“It’s traditional. A custom, cultural thing to wear green,” senior Felix Wang said.

Other students feel wearing green goes past embracing Irish culture for a day.

“I wear green because it’s the law,” senior Stuart Watts said.

But there’s several ways people have celebrated March 17, the supposed day St. Patrick died. New York City has a parade watched annually by about 2 million people. The city of Chicago actually dyes the Chicago River green. And in 1780, General George Washington let his troops have a holiday break on March 17.

Whatever the motivations and actions of celebration, it’s good to celebrate Irish heritage in America because of the rich history they’ve had in our country’s development and the inevitable existence they’ll always have in American cinema.

Conversations of the Week

2010-03-01T09:00:00.000-06:00

"She could set sail to a thousand ships."
"Is he talking about Helen of Troy?"
"Well he sure as shit ain't talking about Gertrude of Troy!"

-------------

"You don't dance enough."
"I don't dance in public."
"We're not in public, this is our living room."
"Our living room is public for me."

--------------

"How'd the basketball game go?"
"Good; we won."
"Anything interesting happen?"
"We were up by so much Bill Self put me in the game."
"Really?"
"Yeah, I was dunking on everybody."
"So you were drinking during the game?"
"Well...yeah. Still, pretty awesome."

For the Love Of!

2010-02-27T09:00:00.000-06:00

Love is kind of like the diet menu at Taco Bell, in that it doesn't make any sense. Also, I suspect trashy people try to sabotage my experiences. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I need to work on my metaphors.

Where I At

2010-02-25T16:25:00.002-06:00

I'm going to take a break from this blog to work on my first novel. It's called "We Service What We Sell" and it's about a group of reunited friends on the cusp of turning thirty years old accidentally making a wacky video that becomes an Internet phenomenon. Like all overnight sensations though, by the next morning they have been reduced to their original obscurity, none the richer. From there, the story deals with characters--young, old, forgotten and historic--trying to understand, recover from and fantastically escape their instant-entertainment, culturally-amnesic society.

I'll still post periodically, but just not daily.

Underrated Classics: Sullivan's Travels

2010-02-21T09:00:00.000-06:00

Sullivan's Travels (1941)

As proven by this movie, criticizing Hollywood for being shallow has been the most fashionable movie cliche for the first-level of self-aware filmmakers for at least seventy years. However, where this movie finds its genius is in going so far to criticize those who criticize Hollywood. Yes, this movie is a self-gratifying romp that mocks lying movie producers, struggling actresses, idealistic writers and anybody else associated with making movies. Not even homeless people (during the Great Depression) can't escape a good scolding.

The joy of being unapologetic...

I'm tired and don't have the words right now.

A Strange Realization

2010-02-20T09:00:00.002-06:00

Things that influenced my personality (that probably shouldn't have):

Weird Al - Before I could articulate it, his music taught me that there is a difference in comedy between absurdity and randomness. Absurdity has a level of truth to it that pure randomness doesn't. Also, a good story/song will have much stronger replay value than just a series of jokes.

Dynasty Warriors 3 - This video game taught the 12-year-old me that sometimes you can mangle 50 soldiers on Lubu's army, but still lose the game because your allied generals couldn't defend themselves on the other side of the map. A world happens outside of your actions, but that doesn't mean your actions don't affect the world.

Dennis Kucinich - Lesson: It's okay to be angry with moderates. That doesn't make you a radical. Get in people's faces sometimes. Congressmen get dumped on. Also, there is hope for all goofy-looking guys to marry up.

Clone High - Abraham Lincoln is essentially JD from "Scrubs"--substitute doctors for historical figures. Historically speaking, presidents beat doctors in the realm of comedy; but both are fun to laugh at when inhabiting a zany universe. Point is, comedy needs dignity.

Once Upon a Time in Mexico - Reach farther than you can grasp. If you fail, at least middle school guys will think that one fight scene was pretty cool.

Elaine Benes - If only as a fictional concept, the perfect woman exist...and she is as weird as everybody else in this world.

Much love to you all.

Local Man Becoming Philosophical

2010-02-19T09:00:00.001-06:00

A local man in Mainville City, Ohio has become increasingly philosophical in the last year report his friends and loved ones. Though originally thought as "just a phase," it has since grown into a new lifestyle.

When asked about his mental and emotional change, the local man thought for a moment, looked into the distance and said, "We all change. Sometimes, though, we just change too much to see others change."

Sam Reinhart, a friend of the local man, said the philosophizing really started last fall when the man "began asking what is the real difference between the past and the future." And though the local man hasn't given up any of his possessions yet, he has started asking people about their own life ambitions.

"Everybody is vague," says the local man, "People are afraid of specifics. Perhaps specifics can only bring about failure."

The local man is convinced that in a matter of days he will revolutionize political and/or scientific theories, and in fact change the way people view the world. But until that happens, the local man will just continue his hermit lifestyle, listening to Alien Ant Farm and eating pizza rolls.

Note about the Author

2010-02-18T09:00:00.000-06:00

After sending maybe a dozen short stories to a dozen different contests and publications over the winter, I finally got my first good news. One of my short stories got an honorable mention in a contest. I don't get any money or physical publication, but they will include my story "More Than a Zero" (originally posted here) in their e-version of the collection. Also this literary website running the show (sminkworks.com) wanted a one paragraph biography on the author so I typed up something that I hope tells them more about me than they expected:

"Nick Adams is a cool guy. When he’s not writing short stories, he often goes to art museums or on cross-country adventures with friends. One time his best friend, Dan, discovered he had a long-lost twin. So Nick and Dan drove from their hometown of Manhattan, Kansas to North Grove, Indiana—a trip of almost 700 miles. They learned the twin’s name was Anton and he was working as a bartender. Nick also likes eating at restaurants but doesn’t really care for Italian food. Nick has one younger brother, named Kevin."

Just Might Stand Up

2010-02-17T09:00:00.002-06:00

I've been trying to write a book recently. You see, a book is kind of like a movie with only subtitles...forget it. My word count is down a little so I'm trying to stretch out the story with doodles. That's how I got past my Western Civilization class, at least. Did I deserve to get a 50% on an exam answer that included a doodle of Aristotle punching Godzilla? Of course I did. I earned that grade. It was symbolic, people.

What I don't like about writing a novel for the first time though is that people want to know what my plan is when I finish. Am I going to self-publish or send it to New York or some contest or what. I don't know, what do you do when you finish selling insurance? It's the same damn answer. I'm going to make a sandwich and buy a couple of lottery tickets.

Three people this week have told me I should look into doing stand up comedy but in each case it was after a one-on-one conversation. And see, that's the difference to me. If I'm only talking with one person, it's easy to be comfortable. That's why I could only be a blind comedian. Or a drunk comedian. But I don't think entertainers drink anymore, that was really more a 1960s thing.

But I have been looking for a job recently. What? An unemployed writer looking for a part-time job?! Go on... No, seriously, I'm tired of being put up for judgment this often. I've become increasingly more self-conscious. It's like middle school all over again. The manager said she'd call me. I spend all weekend waiting by the phone and don't get a peep. I thought the interview went well. I really thought she liked me. Maybe she's just playing hard to get, but I don't want to look too desperate or she'll tell her other employer friends. What I really need is a friend to pass the employer a note during third period: Do you like Nick? Yes or No? Just stop playing with my heart!

Listen, you've been the best audience I've never seen or heard. I'll see you next time you read me.

The Anthology

2010-02-16T09:00:00.003-06:00

I've killed almost as many weekends doing nothing as I've lived through in the last 21 years. However, last weekend might have hit a high point as I spent the better part of two days watching an 8-part series, broken up into 68 videos on YouTube, chronicling the rise, stagnation and fall of the most influence band in 20th century music. I watched The Beatles Anthology.

The biggest difference between this documentary and most every other documentary ever mabe by our ever-documenting society is the courage to reduce some ten years of musical stardom into only 9-plus hours. While a contradiction, I feel this is what was necessary to truly go behind the first layer of the Beatles mania that can only be known second-hand for Generations X, Y and Z.

Are the 8 separate parts padded with concert footage and pre-MTV music videos? Yes. Of course I'm curious to see footage of the nearly incomprehensible Magical Mystery Tour movie and Yellow Submarine; but do I need to see the Beatles perform "She Loves You" three or four times? Not really. But it's there and begs the question why. The only answer I can fathom is actually one I like quite a bit. The band probably got sick of the songs. For every time I've heard their most obvious (early) hits, they probably played the song a hundred times more.

This goes further as the documentary parts 2 through 6 seek to be nothing but tour footage. Go figure, these guys did nothing but tour for the better part of four years. By investing this much time with the band you truly begin to understand the monotony and surreal aspects of a life surrounded by psycho-fans who wanted a piece of your hair as more than they wanted to listen to your music, which was quite a bit.

But through the extend and cross-decade interviews, the different Beatles personalities take hold in a way any book can only hope to achieve--all Beatles books invariably falling in their ill-conceived jump at cliches and assumptions. You simply can not trust a source that says Paul McCartney was best at handling the adoring, and even rampaging, fans--you have to listen to McCartney talk about the fans and gage his words verse the other three to make a(n inevitably) similar, though deeper understanding.

Likewise, John Lennon maintains a frustrating distance between himself and his political supporters/detractors. Largely thanks to being dead since 1980, all most all of Lennon's interview segments are taken from a time shortly after the Beatles breakout and thus did not give him the distance of the reflection the other band members, fans and cultural historians enjoy. How can one talk about Vietnam in a historical context when history was just last week? Fortunately for Lennon, his cryptic answers and lyrics blend perfectly in line with his esoteric personality. While a tragedy, he was clearly the most appropriate Beatle to not live out the 1980s, and will forever be a youth while his band mates, and the world, age.

Did the Beatles inspire a generation or were they inspired by the generation around them? Well, I regrettably have the take the coward's way out and say both. Following the Anthology, the Beatles were clearly inspired by the events and people around them, but just as clearly brought new thoughts to the world around them. What this means is that they gave a cultural microphone to ideological minorities who would have been crushed like the swing-music resurgence in the early 1990s. Would have the hippie movement in the late sixties existed without the Beatles? Yes. Would hippies have the direct, and almost inter-changable, connotation with the 1960s they have now without the Beatles? Hell no.

As for the last parts of the series, I felt it was lacking. I usually don't push for more drama for drama's sake (especially in Entourage), but I did expect a little more explanation and elaboration on the dynamics that dissolved the group that unanimously conquered the world in a way no band, or army, had before. I wanted to know more about their home lives and relationships because you can't tell me that Yoko Ono was the only girl affecting all four Beatles in their 7-plus year global romp.

I also wanted to know more about the guys' finances. For the first four parts, the musicians' relative lack of funds reduces them to the level of circus freaks who put nails in their noses. What I mean is that everybody always expected these guys to be swimming in pools of Chardonnay and drying themselves with robes bought from the king of Saudi Arabia. Not that they were ever poor, but they weren't "Cribs" rich, either. Years later, through the benefit of looking like a cartoon character, Danielle Radcliffe has easily surpassed them all monetarily, thus proving, if nothing else, a tax accountant can save you millions if you're playing the game right.

After going on this weekend journey with the boys from Liverpool, I'm convinced the greatest miracle is how they all turned out. I don't know if any group of entertainers has been pushed so hard and for so long to remain the best at what they do. These guys were releasing classic albums every six months when audiences nowadays are almost crazy to expect anything from their favorite band every two years. It really just a testament to high standards and lightning adaptation. When the world moves so fast, the band members--most notably Lennon and George Harrison--, had to always be running to what's next.

We live in a world some forty years older and when trans-Atlantic flights are almost met with a yawn. The boom of a pop junk culture and instant-meal entertainment has done little to push musicians any quicker. I defy anybody to name a band that has evolved through as many stages as the Beatles in as quick of a time period. And even then, no band has achieved the global and iconic popularity the Beatles had for as long as they wanted. Even their biggest critics (mostly in America's Deep South) burned record-sized bonfires.

Through their music, jokes and snowball popularity, the Beatles have achieved a near-mythical status for the generations that could never have seen them live, on par with perhaps King Arthur or Odysseus. The study of history has no formula for everything. Things always get left out, so I can't say The Beatles Anthology is a substitution for any other study of the 1960s, but I can say this: it is important, it is well made, it spurs discussion and it is one of the better ways I've found to bridge Saturday morning to Sunday night.

Last Night

2010-02-15T09:00:00.001-06:00

You walked right past me in the bar last night. You even said, "Excuse me." Maybe you were with people; it doesn't matter, you used to be with me. And last night, you were with me. I was twenty feet away. Then ten feet. Then two feet. Then ten feet. Then twenty feet away.

Did I leave that small of an impression on your life? If you didn't see me, would you ever recognize me? How much of me do you remember? How can I count myself as a worthy human being if I'm so forgettable? How did I fail at creating memories for you?

Other people have said I'm worthy. They said it when I was selected to go to the Moon. And no, the Moon isn't that new night club that opened up. It's the Moon. As is, "I can see the Moon in your eyes." The motherfuckin' Moon, out in space.

What do you know about me that those other people don't know? Has your life been flooded with so many incredible memories that the bar was just raised above my head? Has my life been less or did I hold you higher in my own memories?

True, I didn't say, "hi" last night. But I saw you and you saw me. You just didn't know it was me. And you didn't know that it was my last night here. Not here as in the bar, but here as in Earth. If you knew, then I would've been worth remembering. Maybe.

My name is going to survive longer than I will. Maybe some 11th grader is going to have to memorize my name along with a dozen other astronauts. Maybe not. I need people to remember me, I just thought they would. I feel incredibly lonely now knowing that I am the only person in the world who remembers us. Together or not, we were and always would be a part of a two-member club.

If I die your last words to me will be "excuse me." Which is only slightly more searing than your previous last words, "I'm glad we can still be friends."

I'm going into outer space now.

Peace.

A Spirited Defense for Mass Ideas

2010-02-14T09:00:00.001-06:00

I've contributed a blog post everyday for the last hundred and twenty some days and never fully explained why to others or myself. The latter was criminally negligent as we should all be questioning why any of us do anything. Why do we buy what we do, drive where we do, see who we do and so on. The issue just hadn't been thrown in my face until an online colleague made the oft-repeated point that less can sometimes be more. Though more is usually more, I suppose most people try to adopt the phrase, "It is better to appear a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt." But I don't see that as a rule of life anymore than one should always drive 30 miles per hour.

I think the wrong people remain silent just as much, if not more, than the wrong people don't shut up. As much as I, or anyone, can--and do--complain about the epidemic spread of obnoxious, opinionated cable news, this only makes up a rather small part in people's daily lives and thus the world in general. What contributes to the world around us are the conversations that take place in the world around us. News, online, in print or on TV, can not hear you so there is no conversations held and I think this mentality is hard to shift out of when we are amongst the living.

If you disagree with somebody, why not make an issue of it? I don't believe nearly 7 billion people can advance individually. Think of it in a capitalist mindset if you must. The more competition (ideas), the stronger the survivors will become. A monopoly gets nobody anywhere and unchecked ideas are no different. Or think of it as a conscious collaboration. But there is nothing to collaborate, nothing to build upon, nothing to add or strengthen if everyone always agrees with everyone else through their own silence.

Someone says the Internet has enough useless opinions of wanna-be journalists so they themselves will only contribute sparingly (say, one blog post a year). They say they push for quality over quantity. They have the modesty to think not everything they say is genius. But, I say, what if quantity can make quality. Why can't that be a way to learn? What if I respect readers so much that I want to improve, for them? How is it modest to think what you do contribute is genius? Why can't you just say what you have to say and let others call it genius or not? Aren't two genius comments better than one? What if the quantity becomes something more than the sum of its parts?

Sometimes the world is lacking in effort. We don't all need to aim for the Forbes 500 but we all need to aim for something, and we need to know why.

Sometimes the world is lacking confidence. Confidence to say, "I disagree," "I agree" or "I have something new." Enough question dodging. Enough pleading the fifth. Enough taking both sides. If you can't agree enough with any side, make your own side and stand for something. Something that you won't let people tread on. Something that you let identify you.

Ideas are a renewable resource but the world needs more of them. Regurgitating principles is not an idea. What you are willing to sacrifice for those principles is what makes an idea. Admittedly, I don't succeed in articulating ideas every day, but I do try every day--through this blog and in life. They take the form of quips, short stories, essays, reviews, metaphors and predictions.

I daresay that remaining quiet in the hopes of not being a fool is the most foolish thing one can do. So long as they are your ideas, blended from your experiences, your thoughts are not a disease on this world. It is only when you are a mouthpiece for someone or something else that you lose yourself, your identity and your right to contribute to the world around you.

So why do I do this? Because I'm trying to say more than you're reading. And maybe, just maybe, each day you'll have more to say than you just read.

Selling the Military Down the River

2010-02-13T09:00:00.002-06:00

I am overcome with a feeling that many Americans are selling the US military down the river.

President Barack Obama promised to repeal the military policy "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" in his State of the Union address. Since then, the Secretary of Defense and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff have gone before Congress and agreed with their (and your) Commander in Chief that, at the very least, the military could handle openly gay soldiers. This completely ignores the fact that many still say cohesion is key in the military and homosexuals jeopardize that.

The "many" I referred to are the Republican senators on the Arms Committee who have their jobs hanging by a thread thanks to the rumored conservative 'purity test' coming this fall and/or 2012. The purity test being a list of 10 commandments (lets not shy away the Biblical overtones), that all Republicans must adhere to in able to receive funding from the Republican National Committee. One of the commandments being: defend heterosexual marriage; and the overall theme being: oppose Obama.

This theme of blindly opposing Obama is horrifyingly transparent when former-moderate/reasonable Sen. John McCain can still be against the integration of gays in the military after his 2008 promise that he'd repeal "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" if the leaders of the military suggested as much. Hypocrisy seems to damage politicians as much as glass windows hurt 1980s action movie stars.

The current policy is a cruel joke on gay men and women in the service. It's not like they're going to start patting other soldiers on the butt in the middle of firefight (though butt-patting isn't gay so long as you're playing football--wherein the goal is to chase and tackle other men). "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" means the gays in uniform can't talk about their loved ones back home. It means that can't go to a gay bar when on leave. They can't say, "no, I don't care for your carton of Playboys." Soldiers aren't robots and we don't need them to be, nor do we ask them to be. Soldiers' personal lives very much shape why they fight, how they act, and who they are as people defending the freedoms of other Americans.

The persistent argument that this is a case of rights is asinine. The right to be prejudice is greatly overruled by the right to pursue a life of liberty and happiness. And this can't be a case of "military service is a choice," either. Military service is more than that. For many it's an honor, a tradition and sometimes even the sole opportunity to receive an education. If any of those were denied by the government, there would be outrage. Go figure, they are being denied. Go figure again, there is an outrage.

Sen. Jeff Sessions (R) defended his anti-gay views by saying the military is too busy to undertake progressive social reform. Others believed the military should never be a vehicle of social reform (essentially agreeing with the idea that the US military is always busy). The only problem here being that the military is a vehicle of social reform. President Truman integrated colored soldiers years before the Supreme Court ruled the same for public schools. Also he did it during the Korean War. The Civil War saw a boom in women volunteers; and though they were entirely nurses, they found themselves bearing unprecedented and controversial responsibilities outside of the home.

The US military is the perfect vehicle for social reform because they adapt best. They get over their initial difficulties and find new strengths. They are built for adaption in various kinds of warfare and global conditions. So I have little problem throwing new challenges at them when I feel the challenges are necessary advancements. There is no group of 1 million people I would sooner trust to overcome any obstacle than I would the US armed forces. I wouldn't hold back universal translators from the military because it had a complicated owner's manual and I wouldn't hold back 5,000 translators from the military because they're homosexual.

If America is ever going to learn the metric system, it'll be through the military first. And if America is ever going to reach high enough to grasp its ideals, it'll probably be through the military first.

So even if (and this is an arguable "if") the fearful senators are correct and open homosexuality disrupts unit cohesion, I stand by the over-due integration. Because if any group of Americans have to break the status quo by accepting homosexuals and thus be sent down the river, I just assume it be the US military...because I know they are the ones who will come back fastest, and clear the way for the rest of us.

I Know It When I See It

2010-02-12T09:00:00.001-06:00

The difference between pornography and art is notoriously subjective, but--like a lot of controversies--I hope I can further the discussion with a modest blog post. Who knows, if both people that read this tell two others, then that's four people. Four people is pretty good. And including me, that's actually five people.

Without the use of pictures, I will explain how pornography fails to be art in one of two ways:

1) It is technically impressive. The best paintings and sculptures of nude models require a craft beyond most people, educationally or physically. This is not meant to be a charge against the art of filmmaking or photography, as painting can be lazy in some regards. However, pornography usually goes down the avenue of film and photography because they are most dependent on technology and least dependent on the individual's personal ability. This discrepancy is easy to spot in nearly every case, as the intentions of the "artist" show through. The one argument to this is that it takes a skilled technician to glamorize Playboy photos (and the like) beyond the realms of reality--trick lighting, airbrushing, etc. However, this is countered by my second point.

2) The art piece is bigger than the subject matter. In pornography, the subject matter (a naked person) is the sole appeal and completely determines the value of the pornography in question. Playboy doesn't hire the most skilled photographers it can, it hires the most beautiful girls it can. Porno films are the same way, in that the actors and actresses are chosen for their physical attributes and are viewed by people seeking those physical attributes. Pablo Picasso's "Les Demoiselles d' Avignon" (The Young Ladies of Avignon) is more than just five naked ladies. It raises questions and challenges conventions. Technical skill aside, it doesn't solely (if at all) appeal to raw human desires, but appeals to the mind and intellect.

A picture, painting, movie, sculpture or literary description of a naked body is no different from the same of a car. That's not to say the subject them self is like a car, but that the piece they are depicted in is no different (ignoring the angle of "shock value"). A picture of a car must be more than just the car, from a technical, emotional or intellectual standpoint.

I am willing to apply the same rules to cars and bodies that I apply to all art. If someone can honestly point to a piece and say, "that is more than the subject, that piece is worth more than it's material value"; than I will point to the same piece and say, "that is art."

ENDING NOTE: Some days ago Tyson articulated, what I feel to be a pretty interesting point on the identification of art and that is that context is key. Because a piece (movie, sculpture, painting, photograph, etc) is in a building that houses "art"--i.e. an art gallery--it's contains are art regardless of their aesthetic appeal. I suppose this goes in line with intentions though. People go to different places for different reasons and creators seek different venues for different reasons. Still...I haven't figured out a rule that eliminates exceptions. Perhaps this shouldn't be a goal.

Stand Up Material

2010-02-11T09:00:00.001-06:00

I'm kind of nervous, this is my first time doing anything like this before. So if you could just cheer and clap when I come back on stage like I'm your favorite comedian ever, that'd really help. Thanks.

Funny how I stopped caring about lowering the drinking age once I turned 21. In my late-teen years I was positive that I could drink as reasonably as any adult; now my opinion of young people arguing for a lowered drinking age ranges between indifference, annoyance and mockery. But see, I have the same feelings towards other issues. I don't care how much millionaires are taxed when I'm not a millionaire. Incidentally, I guess I just found yet another reason to be thankful I'm not in danger of becoming a teenager again.

I see people paying $50 for a pair of pants that have holes in them. I paid $15 for mine and have ketchup stains on them. That's pretty much the same thing, right? Maybe even better, it's more original and more casual. You wait and see, in five years, all the models and store manikins will have Cheetos stains on their pants.

Sometimes I get tired of trying to make friends. Last week I came to the conclusion that the first girl who starts a conversation with me--instead of me having to break the ice--will probably be my future wife. Just lowering standards here. But soon after I thought this, a girl I've never talked to sat next to me right before our class started. She looked around the room and said, "Are there less people here than last week?" I turned to her and said with a smile, "No, we just all lost weight." She looked at me, puzzled, and asked, "Why would that matter?" I guess we're not getting married anytime soon. Sorry ladies, but the bar has been raised.

Speaking of bars, I think an army recruiter tried to recruit me at a bar last weekend. Just a plain dressed guy came up to me, asked if I was having a good time and just seemed really, really interested in what I was saying. It took me back to high school when army recruiters were a lot more prevalent. You're just talking to some stranger until they ask if you have any plans for the future. All of a sudden its like talking to a drug dealer. What did my mom used to say? Just say no? I'm serious though. I admire the willingness to day for your country, but I'm just not there yet. I just paid taxes here. When I was in high school, hell no I didn't have plans for the future. The future was this weekend. Unless Army's parents are out of town and they're throwing a party, I don't care.

The New Best

2010-02-10T09:00:00.000-06:00

There is a new courtyard in the campus of the University of Southern California—the school itself buried snuggly just south of downtown Los Angeles. Three looming buildings stand connected to one another, blurring their individual distinctions, and a majestic archway squares off the area.

Palm trees, no less than 200 years old, have found their new home nearby. Encompassed by the best and brightest sun and young, will-be professionals, the trees’ original home is appropriately forgotten and irrelevant. They are in Los Angeles now, able to shake off their old names and old destinies.

A statue fountain occupies the middle of the courtyard as a testament to the plentiful water supply in Los Angeles. The water flows smooth and clear, even the sound flows like a steady stream of perfection. Unlike the well-hidden drinking fountains, touching the water with your hand would create a barrage of impurities on par with dumping a trash bag of road kill in the water.

The northwest corner--the corner closest to only the best chain coffee shop--is shaded by a wooden roof that would be rather useless in the event of rain. Fortunately Los Angeles paid off Mother Nature and it doesn’t rain. But the wooden roof serves its purpose as invisibly as all the other elements.

Blanket by the cool shade, film students, teachers, lovers and buffs mingle, successfully avoiding the notoriously sunny weather of southern California. Most talk about subjects ranging as far as any twenty people can talk about, though all are strengthening their contacts more than their conversations. Some negate such subtleties, though, and directly plan how they will become the entertainers of us all in twenty years, ten years or next week.

And why shouldn’t they plan? Towering over all of these conversations on either side stand two buildings named George Lucas and Steven Spielberg, respectively. The latte-drinkers, studio runners and digital craftsmen can’t escape the task laid before them. Each of us is meant to give more than we get in this world, thereby holding each of the fifty students to give two of the most grand film schools ever built--as they were all given one.

And grand the school is. The American Southwest almost-adobe architecture blended with European marble is nothing less royal than the finest castles still standing in the world. Finding the best of everything required to construct and maintain this Hollywood stepping stone, these buildings truly find their individuality, not in conception, but in execution. For being the best, is being unique.

More than what new tile can do, this new world of cinema will undoubtedly create a new generation of filmmakers that could not have otherwise existed. No, the bar of expectations isn’t just thrown in the artists’ collective face every day, it is also launched into the stratosphere.

Though we all like to reach for our ambitions, the stars, they are particularly hard to see in the Los Angeles sky, making this courtyard the best built launching pad that it desired to be.

Placeholders

2010-02-09T09:00:00.000-06:00

This blog will have to be a placeholder for the great story I will write. This time will have to be a placeholder for the great story I will live.

And the Best Picture is...

2010-02-08T09:00:00.002-06:00

Not Avatar. Not The Hurt Locker or Precious. The Best Picture of 2009 was Quentin Tarantino's Inglorious Basterds. While a movie about World War II being nominated for Best Picture is like the San Diego Chargers making the playoffs (always there, but never winning), Inglorious Basterds speaks volumes about the film medium as a form of art and commercial entity. It also casts a new light on the historical film genre, how stories are told and the cinematic joys we can look forward to as long as filmmakers try to make water-cooler talkers actually say something.

Inglorious Basterds is a period piece set during WWII that contains as much historical accuracy as this sentence. But within that freedom, the film tells a story that is more cinematic than history. While many historical movies aim for accuracy, they inevitably falter in some fashion--to then be criticized, or torn-apart, by historians (professional and amateur, alike). Conversely, other period pieces keep their stories so small that they don't dare ripple the waters of time. These films (ex. "Titanic") hide behind the possibility that "this story could have happened." Inglorious Basterds enters a realm that is not only unapologetically fictional, but that it changes what you think to be fact. This provides contextual knowledge, yet throws the audience into a barrage of surprises.

But more than separating what we know and what we want from history-based movies, Inglorious Basterds also separates what we know and what we want from movies themselves. The film within the film is a highly violent and historically inaccurate depiction of a WWII battle (while WWII is still raging). And like the Basterds' audience, the audience in the film is entertained by war fantasies. In fact, while the audience on screen is cheering on their heroes, the audience (you!) is cheering for Taratino's heroes. Movies in both cases provide an escape for audiences until, go figure, the fictional audience can not escape their theater--forcing the real audience (you, again) to remain in their seats also. Inglorious Basterds isn't a self-serving blood-fest; it's a very serious--though quite funny--dissection on why we watch movies and the effects they have on us.

But the movie isn't a parody or critique on films because it purposefully branches away from audience expectations. Unlike most films, Inglorious Basterds can't be broke up into 40 separate 3-minute scenes (or in Michael Bay's case, 120 1-minute scenes). Inglorious Bastereds is an unusual yet undeniable string of 5 separate segments. This may make every scene seem "long" to the untrained eye, but it's really quite more than that. Script scribes are taught at every film school and seminar to start a scene as late as possible and end it as soon as possible--the overly-practiced theory being that the movie's momentum will stay fast and increase drama. Tarantino, here, goes the exact opposite direction and treats each scene like a rubber band. He stretches and stretches each scene and conversation until every aspect has been covered, and then some. In every case, this works beautiful, especially when the audience knows on some level how the scene is going to end and goes nuts waiting to get there.

They say the best directors can control the emotions of the audience. But I only half-agree with that. I say, the best directors control the emotions of the audience in a way they haven't seen before (thus in a more invisible way). If a bad guy burns down innocent people's home, yet again, it's too easy to hate him (I'm looking at you, Avatar!); but if a bad guy is just really good at a card game, you may end up fearing him in a very new way. It's about trusting your audience. If you see the bad guy do the most evil thing imaginable, then you know how dangerous he is--he's as dangerous as the previous character that did that. If you see the bad guy do something uniquely impressive, your imagination runs wild with what he is capable of in any larger sense. The best directors manipulate their audiences AND trust their audiences.

Photographically speaking, Inglorious Basterds paints a beautiful portray of French landscape and city life that would be more expected in a...well, French film. The deliberate framing often allows as much action to happen on screen as possible, not unlike staging a play and just putting a camera in the fifth row center. But while this is refreshingly tame, it also draws even more attention to the camera movements that do occur. All of a sudden, how the camera move sells a joke or stirs a new thought in the audience's collective mind. This isn't about cramming two thousand CG jungle warriors into a shot, it's about making the real world beautiful.

But perhaps most subtly, audiences can tell when a movie is personal to the creator(s). The movie contains within it learning experiences of the creator. The evolution of an artist is a fun thing to see because it inspires hope for what they are capable of in the future. Similarly, witnessing growth in others inspires us to look for grow within ourselves. Nobody can just sit down and write the script for Inglorious Basterds. Even Tarantino couldn't--and didn't. It took him nearly ten years and half-a-dozen previous films before he was capable of what he did. And he knows it! Brad Pitt is little more than a tongue-in-cheek mouthpiece for Tarantino when he ends the movie with, "You know, this just might be my masterpiece." Smash cut to: "written and directed by Quentin Tarantino.

Tarantino, like fellow writer-director Judd Apatow, has evolved past his imitators and his former self. Cinematic habits and stagnation are criminally rampant in this year's crop of Best Picture nominees. More damning though, this year more than any other year in recent memory, proved such artistic ambivalence is widely profitable. Why doesn't Wal-Mart just make a movie and be done with this world?

Playing With Art

2010-02-07T09:00:00.002-06:00

One of my roommates bought a video game last week that's been occupying the TV screen so much I've actually caught up on my class assignments. I don't remember which game it is; it's that one where space marines/mercenaries blast away alien monsters from another star system. You know the game I'm talking about. However, all the alien-exploding and pixel-swearing made me think about what we do with our time. How can I snub video games when I myself am sitting in front of a computer screen right now? Well, technically, I may be doing something else as you read this, but at one point I was (am?) glued in front of my own universe--it's not 2-D, it's flat screen.

There is an argument to be made that video games are art. It's crazy. But maybe, just maybe, I can make a case.

First we have to throw out the argument that video games are just a product of capitalism/hedonism/consumerism/technology and therefore not art. Obviously capitalism is a huge driver of art. Not just in aspect of artists selling their work, but in that artists (or others) purchase material to be turned into art. Yes, a coffee table may just be a coffee table, but a skilled artists can use it for a piece in an instillation that moves people. Likewise, technology can be art as the same can be down with a 42-inch plasma TV.

In line with the coffee table example, much of art is about making decisions. You choose to use the blue color. You choose to photograph that person. You choose to cast James Woods (doesn't happen much, though). Video games are like that now more than ever. You can choose to explore different areas of the digital world. You can choose to jump or run or hijack a police helicopter. Now, yes, you are bound within the laws of the game--as I cannot put a football helmet on Mario, Luigi or Spyro ('90s shout out). But artists in the real world are bound by similar laws. They cannot make a floating painting or unmeltable ice cream statue.

This notion is further complicated when one takes into the consideration, players' abilities to "break" the rules of the games. Computer nerds (I use the term lovingly) and video game hackers can re-write the codes for the games after purchase and create what are called "mods". While likely a violation of the game's warranty, they can do things previously reserved for Neo in The Matrix movies. Players can flood cities, throw cars and fly like Superman to a Rage Against the Machine soundtrack--all acts completely digital, yet moving, and, dare I say, artistic.

Furthermore games have the profound ability to make players and viewers think, talk and find real-world applications. All art is a metaphor manifested. A piece of paper and paints mean nothing because they serve no value to anybody's survival. However, when put together and made into the Mona Lisa, society spends thousands of dollars for ownership rights and protection. Video games aren't real, but what they can inspire is real. Violent video games ask us if our world is violent. Tetris made us good packers. Sports games quantity real people into a "speed" rating of 95.

Video games bring people together as much as they separate us from each other. In the 1960s, like last week, some kids played by themselves. In 2009, there were several video game conventions, selling literally thousands and thousands of tickets. The game "Pong" could be played with two people. The game Modern Warfare II holds 50,000 players online, hourly.

But together or separate, people still feel things when they play video games. Even if the most common emotion is frustration, there are more than enough traditional artists who will say challenging a viewer with their work is worth more than ambivalent shrugs, or even unrelenting praise.

All this, though, needs to be ended with the fact that playing video games doesn't make one an artist any more than looking at a building makes me an architect. And not everybody who "creates" is an artist in my book. Sorry, Michael Bay, but you're on the outs. Art is about intention and results. Someone has to say, "I am creating art"--it doesn't have to be "good" art, but they need to believe it is art-- and someone else has to say, "that is art". So if someone makes a game meant to inspire, and a player feels inspired by a game, then, viola, we have another form of art.

NFL Predictions: Superbowl Weekend

2010-02-06T09:00:00.002-06:00

Indianapolis Colts vs. New Orleans Saints
Before this season, the Colts got a brand new coach, new coordinator and lost two of their best wide receivers. On top of this, their best defensive player, Bob Sanders, continued to be injured--which is what happens when you try to tackle trucks with your neck--and the Colts still hadn't picked up a running back who can do more than tie this shoelaces. Somehow, though, they survived. Somehow they flourished. Somehow they made it to the Superbowl. Make no mistake, "somehow" is named Peyton Manning; and even though his on-field talent is only arguably league-best, he is more of the Colts' talent than any single player on any other team.

Conversely the Saints have been one of the most fun teams to watch this entire season. They had a considerably harder schedule than the Colts and won their games with more points and style week after week. While the Colts stumbled past the Jaguars and Texans, the Saints were dismantling a Giants team so thoroughly that they never recovered. Likewise, the Patriots' decade of self-righteous dignity was stripped from them by the Saints and paraded down Bourbon Street like so many cheap string beads.

If the Saints want to do what no other team has done this year (beat Manning), they need to think like no other team has done. Traditionally speaking, if you want to neutralize a quarterback, you blitz 5 to 7 guys continuously. You knock down the quarterback or at least make him run. This is how the Saints retired Kurt Warner and put Brett Favre back in a pseudo-retirement position that'll just jerk Minnesota around for a while. However, blitz packages will not work against the Colts. This is largely because the Colts have so completely neglected their running game that you'd swear Joseph Addai was a middle child. Team after team has come after Manning, and even if they get to him in the first half--they run out of blitz schemes and he dices the under-manned secondaries in the second half.

The second problem with blitzing Manning as much as teams do, is that the defenses wear out by the 4th quarter. On a pass play, the O-line just has to stand up and be in the way, so when the Colts are running 10 or 15 more pass plays than normal teams, eventually you have relatively strong linemen protecting a quarterback who has dissected the defense's playbook.

So Saints, if you want to win, don't blitz. Keep 6 or 7 or 8 guys back and make the Colts run the ball. If the Colts are going to win this game, make sure it's because of Addai, because Manning will just make it too easy. And this is where the game will be decided. The Colts have stronger kickers, the Saints better returners. The Saints have an evenly explosive offense, the Colts defense has more hidden talent than the last three seasons of American Idol combined.

The Saints were as lucky to win against the Vikings as they were to get 5 turnovers against them; and then required an overtime field goal. And even that wasn't as lucky as the Colts not having to play the Chargers two weeks ago. The Saints won't get 5 turnovers on the Colts; but the Saints also aren't the Chargers.

Saints win--and for bonus points, Drew Brees gets Superbowl MVP.

Ships are Sinking

2010-02-05T09:00:00.003-06:00

February brings about more than just cold-weather frustration and an inexplicable day-shortage. As many Americans know, it also celebrates, or at least remembers, black history. But unlike many Americans know, the first week of February is the most damaging week of the year for romantic relationships.

According to a study conducted by MIT undergraduates, 3% of 20 to 29 year-olds were in a relationship on January 28, 2009. Within three weeks, both couples had broken up.

According to a more successful study, 54% of all couples dating in January break up by February 7th. Just as shocking, nearly all of these couples get back together in March or late February. Most relationship-ologists believe the warming weather of March brings people together, though non-February winter months don’t seem especially difficult on couples. Most shocking of all, nearly all of the relationships are ended by the guy.

When asked if Black History Month plays a role in February’s romantic troubles, Jon Washington said, “Definitely a factor; it’s the only factor for me.”

Washington went on to explain, that like a lot of guys (regardless of nationality or race), he wants to spend some time remembering and reflecting on proud African-American traditions and history; commemorating the things that really matter.

“You just loss scope sometimes,” said Washington, “and I just feel like I can’t give any relationship I’m in the energy and time it deserves.”

Washington admitted that in three or four weeks he may feel differently, but it’s hard to say. When asked if the early February timing had anything to do with Valentine’s Day, Washington looked around the room in disbelief, saying, “Valentine’s Day? Who said-what’s…Is that this month?”

Washington then deliberately knocked over a glass of water and ran out of the room.

Alienation in Politics

2010-02-04T09:00:00.002-06:00

The most “technologically-shocking” movie of the year about aliens, with slightly above average reviews, stunned audiences again this week by being nominated for yet another award. Not just any award, mind you, but the highest, most honorable movie award. Among nine other Best Picture nominees, the Academy will have to decide if the best movie of the year was (you guessed it!): District 9.

Last spring I was excited for the release of what promised to be a smart, original and possibly realistic look at aliens landing on present-day Earth. This promise was broken. Like lots of disappointing movies, I could have just let this one go and drowned my sorrows in only the finest of malt liquors, but no. This movie lingered. It lingered on critic’ top 10 lists, it lingered in the Golden Globe race and now it is being thrown back in my face by the Academy that finds new ways to offend my insecure, cinematic arrogance every year.

While I would relish the opportunity to find 30 or 40 ways to blast the visual effects of the film that ranked no higher than the best the SciFi channel can offer, I will instead show why this nomination is more shocking on a cultural level than on any personal preferences. The Hollywood elite, usually charged with the worst of crimes (liberalism), has unknowingly nominated a film that lambastes Democrats, humanizes Republicans and foreshadowed the alienation of President Barack Obama.

Several years prior to the start of the story, an alien spacecraft entered Earth’s orbit and hovered in mid-air for weeks on end before humans learned that the alien race inside had succumbed to a disease and ran out of energy. Obviously the alien race had achieved space travel, though not completely mastered it. Similarly, Republicans several years ago gained considerable advantage in politics (controlling both chambers of Congress, the Supreme Court, and, by extension, the White House). However, like the alien race that had achieved so much, the Republicans were hurt by a hard-to-explain energy shortage—which led to car manufacturers bankrupting, a stock market slump and rise in unemployment (stranded aliens were also unemployed).

At this low point for the aliens/Republicans, humans/Democrats took over in a big way. The aliens, being a disenfranchised, leaderless minority in the film, are shoved into ghettos and makeshift housing while the human try (in vain) to figure out the technological power they suddenly obtained. Meanwhile, some of the less maniacal humans try to understand the alien creatures. The protagonist of the film, a nerd named Wikus, finds himself in the alien camp as a large part of his job—and, despite some smugness, tries to work with the alien species that doesn’t quite understand humans. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the film’s Barack Obama.

While trying to understand the alien culture, Wikus/Obama becomes infected by the alien technology/ideas and slightly deformed. When other humans/Democrats see Wikus is one-tenth alien, they all freak out. The questions then become, “is he going to turn completely alien?” and “How long do we have?” Similarly, Obama ideologically morphed, slightly but visibly. Of course in this world of two cultures there can be no in between, so Wikus is hunted by the humans for his new condition and hated by the aliens for what he had represented (the face of a pushy government) during their de facto incarceration.

Wikus eventually stumbles upon a grass roots uprising. Specifically, a small space ship previously buried beneath the grass rises up to the mother ship thanks to the bond of the only loving family in the whole movie...an alien family.

Unfortunately the movie ends with enough ambiguities to warrant a sequel but--like election cycles--I don’t really want to see it because it’s just going to be bigger, louder, more expensive and have more nonsensical inconsistencies. So bravo, Academy Awards, you gave the masses what they didn’t want (more nominees) because you didn’t have what we have always asked for: modesty.

Echelons of Society

2010-02-03T09:00:00.000-06:00

"Nobody was challenging this guy. He had an opinion that was at the very least disagreeable but everybody in class was afraid of confrontation."
"You're complaining that a fight didn't break out in your class?"
"Not a fight, just a discussion that didn't feel like a game of Simon Sez with the teacher or the one student who speaks out just a little too much."
"So what was he actually saying?"
"He was criticizing writers for being too self-important."
"So?"
"So why is that a problem? I concede that some writers are self-important, but I wanted somebody to jump after him and say, 'what's wrong with being important?' Maybe I want writers to take their writing seriously. There aren't any self-deprecating jokes in the Declaration of Independence."
"If you wanted somebody to say this, why didn't you?"
"I did."
"So what's the problem?"
"I guess I put a little edge on it or something because the teacher kept me after class to see if I was angry."
"Were you?"
"No. I honestly wasn't. I just wanted to further intellectual debate."
"That sounds self-important."
"Self-important nothing! I'm the Robin Hood of education."
"How are you Robin Hood?"
"I defend ideas."
"What did Robin Hood defend?"
"I don't know, people. Whatever, bad example. The other problem that grows from this is that I probably scared away any potential friends I could have made in that class."
"Controversy will keep you pretty lonely."
"But I would have been untrue to myself if I let that guy blast his opinion to the entire class without challenge. It's a question of morals."
"Ever seen Grease?"
"The movie?"
"No, our neighbor, yes, the movie. The moral of that story is that you should change yourself so John Travolta will like you."
"Okay."
"But that's a stupid movie. If you hadn't have said anything in that class, there is no promise you would have made a friend. But you would be here, complaining that you feel bad about not speaking your mind in a class that was asking you to speak your mind. Now stop eating Pop-tarts on my bed and let me go to sleep, it's three in the morning!"

Frodo: The True Story of Our Trip to Mordor--Part Three: I Feel Like Death

2010-02-02T09:00:00.000-06:00

We took a momentary break between the second and third movies but more than give us time to use the restroom, it gave us time to reflect on what we've done and what lays before us. No one has left or even mentioned that possibility in the last six years--I mean 'hours'.

4:18am - We have started The Return of the King.

4:19am - I am beginning to realize that these movies will claim my life.

4:53am - I feel sick, undoubtedly too much drink and food. Way too much food. I feel like I ate nine dollars worth of Taco Bell--that's how much food I think I ate! Sweet Jesus.

5:16am - We've all become more quiet, only occasionally saying something to the film or each other. For a number of reasons though I have not updated this log as much as the first...8 hours?

5:23am - The Beacon of Gondor is lit!

5:40am - Matt broke out another package of Hawaiian bread. Also, my eyes hurt.

6:10am - "You will suffer me!" So weary. We all need a battle (and soon) to lift our spirits.

6:26am - We have just put in the sixth, and last, disc. Everyone has to repeat what they just said because no one can talk or hear at a normal level.

6:50am - Rohan's cavalry has shown up and I find life worth living again.

7:25am - We are marching onto Mordor and everyone is pumped. The morning light is faintly coming in through the window. This a world of my own.

7:40am - Somehow we have all gotten distracted talking about when Halle Berry was topless in Swordfish. Man, that was awesome.

7:45am - People here are getting violent towards Frodo. He is quite unpopular right now; probably because if Sam had been given the ring the trilogy would have been 85 minutes long.

8:18am - It's over. All of it. Over. I want to die...and post this journal on my blog, but I think I need a week of recovery. And on a final note, I want to mention how bullshit it is that Frodo clearly forget Legolas's name when reuniting with the hobbits, Gandolf, Gimli and Aragorn.

I'm going to bed.

Frodo: The True Story of Our Trip to Mordor--Part Two: What Have We Done?

2010-02-01T09:00:00.002-06:00

The first movie was finished but two others were not. Without a second hesitation, we put in the third of six discs. Remembering that "Fellowship" is my favorite of the three, I wondered if we should have just watched the movies in reverse--then characters could join Frodo and Sam during their trip from Mordor to the Shire. Also, I began to regret getting up at 9am earlier that day.

12:20am - Our own fellowship is arguing over the movie DISTRICT 9. Tempers are flaring because it was a stupid movie. I pray that Gandolf's impeding fight with the Belrog will re-unify us.

12:40am - "...the union of the Two Towers." Name of the movie! Take a drink.

1:20am - Shrimp and cocktail sauce has been added to the table of food directly in front of me.

1:33am - I feel tired for the first time. This is partially because I haven't slept in some 17 hours; partially because all the "Worm Tongue" scenes in this movie are absolute death.

1:43am - The second movie doesn't have the direness (or fun moments) of the first movie.

2:01am - Max is quiet. Matt is missing (kitchen, maybe?). R.C. and myself are lively again. Also, Smigel is arguing with Gollum.

2:08am - First disc of Two Towers is over. People are noticeably weary and verbal communication has failed us a couple of times.

2:40am - Matt made delicious stew. Real nice. Potatoes and...conies?

3:00am - Jeht is drifting in and out, verbally at least. Others are becoming more aggressive in their opinions, almost always including the phrase "in the books..."

3:20am - It's hard to stay awake when the characters themselves are falling asleep.

4:00am - Sam Wise Ass is giving his speech about stories and I think its emotionally affecting the audience more than usual.

4:12am - The Two Towers are over. The Two Towers is over? Whatever. I feel (overly?) critical of that last scene with Smigel setting up the third movie. It's more forced and self-conscious than the first movie's ending. I mean, how can you just watch the second movie? No beginning, no ending. Oh, but there's more shrimp left!

Frodo: The True Story of Our Trip to Mordor--Part One: Let's Do This!

2010-01-31T09:00:00.003-06:00

Recently I suggested to my two roommates that we kill an entire day and watch the Lord of the Rings trilogy, extended edition. Like most things I say, I was half-joking; but unlike most things I say, they both took this suggestion 100%. So that very day we went to the grocery store and bought munching food. We also made a pair of phone calls to recruit fellowship prospects. As getting everybody together was not unlike getting ten cats in one box, we didn't actually all sit down until 8:45 pm. Being the compulsive writer I am, I logged our journey in real time. It was at this hour when hobbits came to shape the fortunes of all.

8:45pm - Matt just gave us a kickoff speech. From here, Matt, Jeht, Max, Angelina, RC and myself will embark on the (extended) trilogy to Mordor and back. Food is plentiful and everyone is in good spirits.

8:50pm - Actually Matt has disappeared in the kitchen, juggling food and drink. Our journey has been delayed, but why not get it right?

"Whispers of a Nameless Fear"

9:48pm - "Get off the road! Quick!" Everybody is still drinking and laughing. There is an appropriate amount of credence to the film (as we know when to shut the fuck up) but yet people aren't afraid to venture jokes and quips.

10:37pm - Jeht just made pizza rolls at Rivendell. We celebrated.

10:42pm - We changed discs and everyone wrote their favorite lines on a giant piece of butcher paper hanging on the wall. p.s. I can't wait for: "What is this new devilry?"

11:23pm -"You shall not pass!" Everyone is totally into it, but conversations have strayed into strange realms. Ex. "What would a date with Gandolf entail?"

11:28pm - I feel good but don't like how quickly 6 people ate 80 pizza rolls. Also, why do people forget that Ewoks wanted to EAT Han, Luke and Leia? I mean, shit, that's dark.

11:45pm - Matt passed out Hawaiian bread. Easily the tastiest thing ever. This is our elven bread? Or is it elfin bread? You nerds know what I mean.

12:17pm - Fellowship is broken over (read: end of the first movie). Shorter than I feared. Wait. We're only one-third through this story? Dammit...

NFL Predictions: Probowl Weekend

2010-01-30T09:00:00.003-06:00

You'd be hard pressed in this world to find a bigger waste of time and resources than the NFL Probowl, this year more than any previous year. Traditionally the Probowl (professional football's all-star game), is held the weekend after the Superbowl--lifting it to a prominence generally worthy of a, "oh yeah, I forgot about that." This year though, it is being held in the same stadium as the Superbowl, one week before the biggest annual event in televised sports--arguably because they don't play the game seven damn times.

Football players, like high school seniors, mentally clock out for the summer as soon as their duties are done for the season, meaning the Raiders usually get a 3 month head start, the Chiefs start their annual "rebuilding" season and Ricky Williams gets to toke up in January--also like high school seniors. But then the players are dragged back to play in sunny Hawaii; and yes they are dragged, as each "honored" player is given a sizable bonus check (likely buried in the back of the end zone). Imagine how much effort students would put to an assignment a week after getting their final grade. Now imagine those students are already promised no less than $600,000/week next fall if they don't get injured. Football fans are then forced to watch this attitude manifested on the field for three arbitrary hours. I think last year they actually caught Matt Hasselback tampering with the game clock to shave off 11 or 12 minutes.

Now, I say fans are "forced to watch" this game because it is an unusually pathetic all-star game. Perhaps this steams from the physical nature of the game, as baseball players can still try to hit home runs in their all-star game and basketball still gets classic one-on-one match ups. But with football, the season is over and nobody cares about scoring (or stopping) touchdowns. You can almost smell the Hawaiian rum from the field to your living room.

Not only is the Probowl game regrettably less forgettable due to its two-week bump, but now it's been rendered even more useless as 14 players for the Colts and Saints will obviously not be playing. Forget injury on the field, if there's an off chance somebody were to throw a hot dog at Drew Brees and blind him with mustard, I wouldn't want him to play a week before the Game of the Year. As these players were still selected, they must unconscionably miss out on pre-Superbowl team practices and meetings, as they are expected to physically be at the Probowl. That gives the NFL 14 designated drivers who are supposed to be prepping for the game of a lifetime.

Even beyond the Superbowl teams, players are waving off their Probowl invitations. No Tom Brady this year. Or Randy Moss. No Ben Roethlisberger. And--this may foreshadow a future post--definitely no Brett Favre. Instead, the NFL is turning towards players who didn't even play for the entire season to fill out their all-star rosters. Is the 19th best QB in the NFL an all-star? Apparently. All of a sudden the NFL Probowl is becoming a try-out camp for next year, not unlike the NCCA's "Senior Bowl." Which actually brings me to...

Don't have an all-star game. Have an almost-star game. Pick the players on teams that don't get much field action and have them play against each other. You better believe they'll play harder than your commercial/SNL/press conference boys will play. And if the competition gets harder, you'll really be able to see just who has some talent. As it stands now, nobody tries so fans can't really gauge if that was a good play or poor defense. And no coach or owner will have to say this to the players, but the message will be clear: you are playing for the privilege to be on a team next year. Here's a general writing lesson the NFL should know: it doesn't matter what the hero wants, if they want it badly, the audience will want them to get it. Translation: if the players WANT to win, the audience will want them to win.

And that's how the NFL can win, too.

EDITING NOTE: Just realized there wasn't one "prediction" in this blog post, so let's just say...uh...the NFC will win.

Having Faith

2010-01-29T09:00:00.001-06:00

Dark matter is a theoretical form of matter that does not reflect or emit electromagnetic radiation. There is no proof of its existence, but its existence answers a lot of questions people just don't know. In fact, dark matter isn't so much of a physical "thing" as it is a placeholder for the mystery in the universe.

Odd that people don't worship dark matter.

The January Skyscraper

2010-01-28T09:00:00.001-06:00

I have one novel idea, but that’s not enough for a book.

I considered hitting a dog in the face with a cream pie and felt down thinking about it. I considered hitting a cat in the face with a cream pie and fell down laughing about it.

While discussing TV actors with a friend, another friend started singing, “Shimmy shimmy cocoa what? Listen to it pound. Light it up and take a puff, pass it to me now.” After I moment I realized what had happened and yelled into the other room, “We were talking about Kelsey Grammer!”

A grizzly bear got shoved out of a plane. For that minute before the parachute deployed, the bear just absolutely freaked the fuck out.

Brett accused me of never washing my car. I told him, “You watch too many movies, Brett.” I’ve discovered this is the ultimate comeback to any criticism. Use it wisely and rampantly.

I’ve been job hunting, in the sense that I tracked down employment opportunities and then killed them. I then got stopped by a Park Ranger who said using hand grenades is morally reprehensible and, more importantly, illegal. However I escaped her bear trap-like grip and hid underneath a waterfall for two and half days. After that I found some campers and stole a bag of Skittles. Now that’s a metaphor!

Like casinos, life has no seats for onlookers.

A “welcome” mat showed up at my door. I turned it backwards so that it does not welcome the people that do not visit me, but rather the mat welcomes me to the world when I leave.

I made up the jazz song name “Tuesday Bluesday” for forgotten reasons. My friend was convinced a song that bad must already exists. It turns out there is a band by that name, and a music series in Harrisburg…and a song.

Meanest thing I heard this month: “Nice shopping cart; what are you, homeless?”

Stanton said he wanted to be buried with all his Dallas Cowboy football jerseys. We all laughed. “I’m serious!” he said. We all laughed harder. When we stopped, he continued, “No. Really.” We stood in silence.

A young, British secret agent is sent on a top-secret mission half-a-world away to stop a madman from unleashing an unspeakable act of violence on the most powerful nations around the globe. The young, brash agent later discovers that the criminal mastermind was once the best secret agent for the same secret government agency that sent him. The name of the super villain? James Bond. Best movie ever? Yes.

Give a man a fish and you've fed him for a day. Teach him how to fish and you've lost a customer.

This story is a skyscraper because it is made up of dozens of stories.

American Beauty for the ReGeneration

2010-01-27T09:00:00.000-06:00

With the Oscars nearing closer everyday (like everything else in the future), I'd like to remind the Academy of a very important quality to look for in movies. This is especially important when they'll be able to choose from ten movies for Best Picture--probably Avatar, Precious, The Hurt Locker, Up in the Air, Inglorious Basterds, A Serious Man, Nine, Invictus, Up and Star Trek (dead serious). The cinematic virtue I'm talking about is longevity. Not running length--though many of these films have that in spades, too--but of cultural relevance to the year the movie came out in.

It's these movies that have cultural relevance that stick with audiences. It's these movies that are more than Best Pictures winners. They remain in the public consciousness years later. This is what separates Braveheart from The Last Emperor. Why do people still know the goofy accents from Fargo but can't name the writer, director or star of The English Patient? Audiences don't remember Forrest Gump because it won Best Picture. Likewise, audiences haven't forgotten about Pulp Fiction even though it lost.

So let's talk about 1999. The Cider House Rules, The Green Mile, The Insider and The Sixth Sense were all beaten by American Beauty. More than the others, I feel The Sixth Sense was a better film than American Beauty. Unfortunately, The Sixth Sense is crushed by its iconic twist ending and deemed unwatchable by many solely because "they know the ending." But we don't watch movies to get to the ending. If that was true, all movies would be as short as possible. 5 second movies would become the norm. Aside from making 20 minutes of previews all that more excruciating, this would also serve as a sad commentary on life. Are we going through life to get to the ending? No, we're not. And no, we shouldn't be watching movies just to know the ending.

Back to an earlier point though, American Beauty may still have been the best pick for that year as it serves as a great marker on American sensibilities of the time. The late 90s was host to a number of movies backlashing against the rise of white-collar culture. American Beauty was about Lester quitting his job and rejecting all the status symbols his family and neighbors had come to love (including an Italian sofa). Similar themes are found in Fight Club, The Matrix, Office Space, American Psycho, etc.

This rejection of "the system" was itself a backlash to group unification seen in movies during the early nineties and eighties. This period was marked by the end of the Cold War and America's confusion about the next big threat. As we had been faced with nuclear annihilation for years on end, we could only imagine the next threat to be similarly huge. This is why movies focused more on unify against a common enemy--for instance, the saucer-aliens from Independence Day (my god, is that movie really THAT old?).

As the terrorist attacks on September 11th, 2001 were arguably the biggest single-day event in American history, it should be of no surprise that they changed movies. All of a sudden it's the little threats that scare us. Batman/James Bond/whoever else fights street criminals, not traditional super villains. Now we aren't concerned about aliens blowing up the entire east coast (as a metaphor for nuclear destruction), but we're concerned about aliens being near our homes and families, as seen in Signs (2003). In Signs, alien ships hover above Mexico City, and presumably other major cities, but we only learn this information through the television. The audience, like the characters, are stuck in their homes and neighborhoods, completely vulnerable to a threatening enemy we cannot see or understand.

Now let's re-examine my Oscar nominees prediction. These movies, for the most part, are not an acceptance or rejection of "the system." Nobody is going rogue, nor are unconnected people unifying. Rather there is a different phenomenon. Characters are finding their voice within the system they are a part of. They do not feel like a pawn in the great scheme of things like the characters in the late 90s. Brad Pitt is most definitely a part of the Allied forces in Inglorious Basterds, but he is special within the group. Kirk from Star Trek needs the star fleet to do what he feels is his calling, despite having a different up-bringing.

I think this mentality will reverberate within my previously defined ReGeneration. We need the system, we need each other, to reach new heights but also need independence to cope and fight with the independent-based threats flooding society. Outside of movie-world, nobody can argue that Facebook hasn't opened up new ways of organizing; while at the same time emphasizing the individuals. And while movies about being made about the financial industry, the army and even Facebook, I am confident they'll all be instantly forgettable if they don't tap into this solidifying generation.

Sometimes working within a good group isn't enough. Sometimes being a good individual isn't enough. And, sorry Academy Awards, sometimes winning Best Picture isn't enough.

Go Bender, Go Bender, Go Bender

2010-01-26T09:00:00.003-06:00

Back in June, Comedy Central gave the order for 13 brand-new episodes of the "hit" television show Futurama. As I've been swamped with women, lack of women, school work and bear fights for the last 7 months, I haven't been able to collect my thoughts on Futurama...until now.

As a big Futurama fan, I welcome the new episodes with some trepidation. I was mildly amused by the four direct to DVD movies since the show was canceled--and that's a criticism, as any four episodes of the show were far beyond "mildly amus[ing]." All too often shows have suffered in quality after the four-season mark; moreover, I felt the show had a nice conclusion with the season four finale and, to a lesser extent, the final movie. Admittedly, the show always had a quiet dignity missing from shows like Family Guy and Rock of Love, but the movies were too self-aware. However I would be lying if I said I didn't want to watch any of the new Futurama episodes--a promise I could make regarding nearly every other show on television.

However I'd like to extend this opinion of Futurama to a broader audience and broader assertion; and that is that Bender was one the best television characters of the millennial decade.

Empirically, Bender is a robot in the year 3000. The show's protagonist (Phillip Fry) meets and befriends Bender despite, and because of, Bender's chronic smoking, drinking, larceny, swearing and other debauchery.

On the out most level, Bender is just the best friend character necessary to comedic balance and seen in every nearly every competent show. However, Bender's selfish hedonism is particularly absurd given his existence as a robot--a tool meant to make people's lives easier. For years robots have been an appealing concept to modern society as they reject the weakness of people (such as sleepiness, fear, pain, etc).

When we think of robots, we think of the Terminator variations. It is a machine that does its duty without fail or hesitation. However, this robotic efficiency is a pipe dream. I can't even count on my shower faucet to give me hot water 100% of the time, so we have no reason to think our robots would perform perfectly. Bender is just an extreme to epitomize this point. He is a paradox of our technology; a dream creation that is, by all measurable rights, a complete failure...like much technology (Pippin, anybody?).

However Bender's rampant hedonism strikes a cord in the audience, as we find ourselves yearning to live such a carefree lifestyle. Bender does little work yet never starves. He can drink all night and never be hungover. He can swear and steal without regard for consequences. Bender is us--if we completely did away with those annoying inhibitions. He is the ego that Freud talked about, even though such worldly pleasures seem absurd to a robot we assume to be without desire or emotions.

Our commonality with Bender deepens even more when he embodies our own insecurities, failings and fears, though. Bender's one inhuman trait is his inability to mask himself. He cannot keep secrets and cannot act like somebody else. Everyone (audience and other characters) always know how Bender is feeling and what he is thinking because he is always showing or telling what he feels or thinks. Through this one fault, Bender taps into another common human experience: our desire to be real; our desire to quite acting, our desire to just accept who we are and be accepted for who we are by the world.

And though these insecurities seem broad, or even cliche, they are originally portrayed as no other character on Futurama (or other show for that matter) can be so refreshingly transparent. Bender has a reoccurring, and impossible, dream of being a Harlem Globetrotter. He also has a considerably more philosophical fear of being forgotten once he is dead/turned off/thrown away. Bender wants to know he made an impact on the people in his life--a theme deemed universal since the Jimmy Stewart classic It's A Wonderful Life. But above all these insecurities, Bender is afraid to be alone. As early as Futurama's third episode, Bender shows he loves his friends and can be cut quite deep when rejected by people. More than people need Bender as a tool, Bender needs people as friends. Bender needs people as friends even more than he needs them for victims in his aforementioned tomfoolery.

But Bender is also known for his perpetual hatred for humanity. While this is playing off the sci-fi stereotype of all robots eventually turning on humanity, it also taps into our most repressed and cynical thoughts. The world may not be full of crazy/annoying people, but it sure seems like those people do all the driving.

On a more lighthearted and ending note, Bender is a fine example of cultural blending as he is proudly Mexican (or at least built in Mexico). However, aside from the last name (Rodriquez) and motivation to save "senoritas," Bender displays no Mexican culture. He is a perfectly assimilated New Yorker in the sense that his Mexican identity is never used against or for him--however he does experience some discrimination as a robot, possibly proving that complete assimilation is impossible and thus not a virtue. Here we reach the last point: conformity can not be reached, so we must find strength in the diversity that is present in our society; even if said diversity includes metallic beings.

"My" "Perfect" "Day"

2010-01-25T09:00:00.001-06:00

My perfect day--as constructed from three separate and actual memories--may have actually been from the same day. Unfortunately my memory isn’t what it used to be, though come to think of it, I don’t actually remember what my memory used to be like. Anyhow, I chose these three events because they were the first to come to mind, rather than any actual ideal I aim for in my pursuit at a more perfect life.

The best morning I have on cerebral record was when I woke up from a vivid dream in which I was about to get a speeding ticket. The dream was so vivid it borders on boring with any re-telling that begins with, “So I had this dream…” However, as in real life, I was experiencing considerable frustration at the prospect of getting a ticket so when I woke up I celebrated. I had been given a “get out of jail free” card. I got all of the life experience of getting a speeding ticket without actually having to pay a fine. More over, I woke up quite late in the morning, which itself is good on two accounts: 1) warm beds are comfortable and 2) no school or other worldly obligations necessitated my existence. If it was my way, I think I’d make every dream I have rather miserable so that awaking can be that much more glorious and liberating. However, there is probably a downside to that wish that I am not seeing.

My perfect afternoon is, again, just the first one that came to mind. Actually, it may even read as lazily vague, but I assure you dear reader, this is true. The afternoon occurred sometime over winter break when I watched some movies with my little brother Chuckles. I think we watched The Hangover or Watchmen or something. Regardless, it serves in my memory as an indicator that Chuckles is back in my life after the better part of a 6 year absence--or from whenever I started high school. Aside from sharing a lazy (though cinematic) afternoon together, we were at the house that always has the most junk food: our parents’. There’s something about a sibling relationship that makes doing nothing really easy. Friendship relationships are like muscles, they require usage to stay strong. Sibling relationships are more like your skin. It’s always going to be there--barring some strange acid disaster that would surely lead to a life of super-villainy.

Like my perfect morning and afternoon, my perfect night is repeatable, unpredictable and more a commentary on life than just a flip anecdote. And that night was, again, some time over this last December or January. I was at friend’s house, which is actually lived in by multiple friends, though generally occupied by more, and it’s their house in the way that it’s own by the first friend’s parents. Confused? Good, because it doesn’t matter. Point is: a lot of my friends were together and we are all quite merry. I can’t swear to the absence or presence of alcohol, though my clouded memory is an indicator of latter. At one point we played a variation of a Russian card game we’ve come to know as “The Fool.” After that, or perhaps before that, we watched just awful television but had fun doing it. At one point I believe it was Revenge of the Sith—as that’s just an awful movie thrown on television periodically. Throughout the evening and night we shared laughs and had no less than 230 “you just had to be there” moments.

As I reflect on these three real life moments, I realize my life appears to be a pursuit of hedonism, though I routinely preach different avenues of duty and sacrifice. Likewise, my “perfect” moments are quite replicable though they don’t seem to occur as often as I’d like; or as often as any stranger would assume after reading this essay. And though these events are admittedly un-extraordinary, they are fun memories, but more importantly, they were fun moments to live and did not pass before my eyes unnoticed. If their valor is proven through no other reason than my loose ability to recall them, then they are still worth mention in what I would call my true perfect day.

Sometimes Life (continues)

2010-01-24T09:00:00.001-06:00

At least when driving, the nicest thing
you can do for people is be predictable

NFL Predictions: Championship Weekend

2010-01-23T09:00:00.002-06:00

Lesson from last week: If sports casters ever bring up the virtue of "momentum" again, feel free to throw last week in their face as the red-hot Cowboys and Chargers got appropriately and unexplainably embarrassed, respectively. Conversely, the Colts won with relative ease after four weeks of just playing Madden '09.

New York (Jets) at Indianapolis
The Jets were not only unlikely to win a spot in the playoffs last fall but their head coach Rex Ryan said it "was not possible." Go figure, the Colts came from behind to beat the Jaguars, giving them home field advantage throughout the playoffs (rendering their last two games obsolete). One of said games was against the Jets, who then managed to beat "the Colts" and enter the playoffs. So if the football gods are cruelly ironic, the Jets have to win this game. But while people do a lot of praying on Sundays, I don't think this theological angle is a common betting technique. In fact, so many people are going to be betting on the Colts that it'd be the smarter bet to pick the Jets (money-wise). And though the Jets' defense has been flying, Rex Ryan has never beaten Peyton Manning (excluding that throw-away game)--including the years Ryan was defensive coordinator for the Ravens. And while Peyton Manning is always enough reason to pick the Colts to win any game, I think their own defense has been an understated factor this season. I have to pick the Goliath of this game. Colts win.

Minnesota at New Orleans
I wrote on November 28th that a Vikings-Saints conference championship game would be "more fun and more expected than anything the Superbowl can promise" and I can proudly still stand by that. Both are exceptional teams on both sides of the ball and have quarterbacks putting up unprecedented numbers. Easily the most surprising thing about Favre this entire season has been his new-found ability to sacrifice a play. The man has learned to throw the ball away or go for the short pass rather than force an circus throw down the field. I take this as an indicator that Favre has learned to trust his teammates for the first time in years--and with good reason. However, throw-for-throw, I like Drew Brees more--as also previously written about. And if I liked the quarterbacks the same, I'd still go with the Saints because their head coach, Sean Payton, keeps drama out of the locker room and juggles a better running game. And if I liked the coaches the same, I'd still go with the Saints because they are at home and all four Minnesota losses this year were away games. Saints win.

The Times I Live In

2010-01-22T09:00:00.001-06:00

I can't write the next great American novel. I can't even write a story longer than 10,000 words (most of these blog posts run between 300-600 words). I can't stick with a single story for more than a pair of months. That's why I have to try.

To have a good present, I need to have a great future and a selective past.

I have written short (and short-short) stories and will continue to do so; but now it's time to write the unwritten. The thousand-thousand ideas. Shields will be broken and compromises will be made, but this will not be the last endeavor to a place bordered by failure.

This isn't the final whistle, it's the kickoff. It's time I start playing this new literary game of ambitions: We Service What We Sell.

Nick Rundowns Some Movies

2010-01-21T09:00:00.002-06:00

These movies aren't out yet but trailers are made for pre-release criticism.

THE RED BARON - This early fighter pilot film brings back 2006's FLYBOYS--but woefully without James Franco. And while it's from the German perspective, I don't think this movie will have the vague culture-sharing moments that dragged down LETTERS FROM IWO JIMA (aside from everybody in Europe speaking English). Also, remember, it's only about WWI so it's okay to like the Germans in this movie.

EDGE OF DARKNESS - This movie was green-lit after the unpredictable success of Liam Neeson's star-vehicle: TAKEN. Another old, Oscar-winning actor beats up young thugs who have kidnapped/killed his daughter. But can Mel Gibson play a crazy man? Sounds like kind of a stretch to me.

ALICE IN WONDERLAND - Tim Burton retells another tale few people have actually read. He continues to make Burton-esque decisions; such as casting the eccentric Johnny Depp to play the eccentric Mad Hatter and assaulting your eyes with ugly colors. This movie does nothing but further confirm that experimentation is a dead concept to Burton and Depp.

CLASH OF THE TITANS - This movie can jump off a cliff. The preview indicates the filmmakers made this classic story as trashy, obnoxious and meaningless as possible. If there is justice in the world, after this movie Sam Worthington will at least be thrown in "movie jail" and at best become known as another "former next big movie star."

WALL STREET 2 - Oliver Stone will likely continue his streak of ruining timely concepts with awful writing, awful casting and self-important directing. I have no reason to believe Stone will reach for unique drama; but I can take some solace in the fact that he won't be butchering history in his own rendition of true people ala Nixon, JFK, Alexander, World Trade Center, W., etc.

SALT - Stupid.

ROBIN HOOD - The gray color schemed deconstruction of a literary hero is so last decade. And even if it wasn't, Ridley Scott still needs to prove this is a character with layers like an onion, not a balloon meant to be played around with for two hours and then left to deflate in silence. What frustrates me most is that the trailer includes the promise to show "the hero behind the outlaw" in Robin Hood's character. What? Everybody already knows him as a hero! If you're a trying to spin a different angle on Robin Hood, why not emphasis the outlaw-ness? Or loneliness? Or short-sightedness? This movie was too easy on every level.

She Can Never Know

2010-01-20T09:00:00.001-06:00

Benjamin Harrison sat behind a desk that could not be lifted by three men. This was partially because the desk was so heavy but also because it was illegal to steal furniture from the Oval Office. Harrison wrote on a piece of paper in silence. He wrote like a man writing a resignation letter, but he was not resigning. Nor was he just writing from the White House, he was writing from the soul.

In the letter Harrison confessed how he felt and when he started to feel that way. He told the woman why she was so special and how he could see a perfect life with her, even if the universe remained imperfect. Mention of her name stopped his world and seeing her lifted his heart every time. He started a new paragraph when he decided he must mention the obvious chasm between them, her husband, his friend, his party’s leader; all one man: Senator James Blaine.

With a single knock and a single second pause, Harrison’s secretary entered the office. Harrison had overheard many snide remarks on his choice to hire a woman as his personal secretary. He trusted a woman to organize his schedule? To communicate with ministers and kings around the world? What next, would Harrison hire a woman as Secretary of State? Or Supreme Court Justice? Perhaps Harrison thought a woman could be president. Obviously Harrison did not have a keen eye for competence.

Harrison, only slightly started by the intrusion, began to burn the letter he had written. And while his secretary was not the smartest person in the country, she knew enough to not waste time asking questions about a destroyed message.

Sir, she started, unsure if she had his attention. Walters just told me Puck is going to feature a segment criticizing you for allowing the creation of what they are calling “the Billion-Dollar Congress.”

Harrison continued to burn the letter until he couldn’t hold it any longer and dropped it on his desk. The fire would leave a small burn mark, but no bigger than the others. Harrison responded to his secretary by pointing out only President Jackson had gotten the country out of a national debt, and that only lasted for about thirty minutes. Unsure of whether to laugh or not, his secretary chose to remain silent.

Perhaps I should call together some reporters and defend the spending, Harrison suggested.
I wouldn’t sir.
Why?
For one, Senator Blaine has already come out and defended the policies and Republican Party.
Was it a speech?
Yes, sir.
Was it good?
Yes, sir.
Good, I suppose.

Harrison wondered if he should still say something to the public. He was, after all, the president. It did seem redundant though. Then it clicked. He could just ask Blaine what to do. He could ask him over for dinner and the three of them would talk about the direction of the party.

Who else are you talking about, sir?
Me, James, and Harriet.
His wife?
Yes. She’s a good friend of mine.

This all was quite short notice, Harrison knew. Blaine would likely already have plans for this entire week; he was, after all, a very busy senator. But maybe Harriet would still like to come to the White House for dinner. But no, James loved her and she loved James.

Sir?
Go now, schedule nothing and forget this conversation.
Like the others, Harrison’s secretary whispered to herself as she left.

Harrison realized his recent excitement had led him to the middle of the room for no particular reason. He then sat back down and looked at the smoldering ashes on his desk. Harrison loved Harriet but that just wasn’t going to be enough. Harrison wiped away the ashes like tears.

Caroline, Harrison’s wife, died two weeks before he lost his bid for re-election.

Lighting a Fire Under HBO

2010-01-19T09:00:00.002-06:00

Somebody apparently lit a fire under an HBO executive to come up with some arguably original, award-winning, budget-busting new series because next season HBO will premiere its craftiest show ever: SALEM.

SALEM will chronicle the the period of witch trials in colonial Massachusetts, in which 150 people were imprisoned and 20 were publicly executed--promising a devilishly good time. The story lines will followed the judiciary and political intrigue that went along with the trials and also follow the specific lives of many characters affected--some based on real people and others acting as compilations of townspeople at the time, according to the best historical records.

With so many possibilities, this series isn't being watched just by the eye of newt, but the eyes of critics everywhere. This period piece story, like most HBO series, required a production budget far greater than most networks shill out for such a witch pitch as an entire Salem village has been reconstructed as it was some 400 years ago. No black magic here, just $80 million.

The series will mostly follow accused witches (such as Sarah Good, Sarah Osbourne, Tituba, etc) and the people accusing them (such as John Hawthorne, Johnathan Corwin, etc). The series creators want to depict life as it actually was, including the sexual promiscuity in the town, while adding touches of dramatic liberties--such as adding romantic relationships among the more fictional characters.

The show may also undergo certain creative changes in the first season as the producers go through their own trial by fire. Undoubtedly though SALEM will develop a following of loyal viewers made up of some frustrated historians but mostly just of rich people curious about how much sex was going on in SALEM at the time of the trials.

Producer Gilbert Wilson has already said that SALEM will not adhere to modern television audience sensibilities and depict the town as historically accurate as possibly, no matter how much sex everyone was having. Wilson is physically excited himself for the upcoming show as premium channel audiences have gotten into bed with other sex-filled period pieces. Many critics credit the genre's popularity to their ability to be historically accurate, a budgetary and rating-restricted impossibly on network and even cable television.

"It's really amazing how much sex people had during these time periods," said television critic Burt Lippentoncott, "I mean, damn, they were at it all the time; at least according to these well-produced shows. I guess they just had more time back then to have sex, nowadays we have a bunch of shows to watch. Personally, I even blame television for killing my wife's libido--all we do in bed anymore is watch shows about other people having sex. That reminds me, The Tudors is on tonight!"

Call me a liar with my pants on fire, but I believe HBO's got another winner under its belt with this witchin' good series about smart political intrigue, well-developed characters and historically accurate, uncensored romantic entanglements.

Like Holding Water

2010-01-18T09:00:00.000-06:00

(A nice little sandwich place with moderate to low business rests in a nice little city with moderate to low business. AVA, a fashionably, yet casually, dressed, young lady enters the restaurant/bistro/whatever. She quickly spots and walks over to her already-sitting boyfriend, NOAH. Noah is dressed comparatively to Ava but has noticeably less enthusiasm. Only two glasses of water sit on the table and Noah keeps both hands near his glass but not touching it. Ava watches him for a while.)

AVA: You okay?
NOAH: You know how I am.

(Ava's phone plays a jingle to inform her, and Noah, that she received a text message. Ava reads it. Noah looks at the phone, only guessing what it says. Ava puts it away and they both keep looking at Noah's water.)

AVA: Is this all you've been up to?
NOAH: I think we should break up.

(Beat.)

AVA: Whoa.
NOAH: I'm sorry.
AVA: Whoa.
NOAH: Things have changed.
AVA: I mean...whoa.
NOAH: We can still be friends, just not with the “couple stuff.”
AVA: Just yesterday. Yesterday you said you loved me.
NOAH: Yeah.
AVA: Did you mean it?
NOAH: I don't know.
AVA: What about weeks ago, when we played on the playground?
NOAH: Yeah.
AVA: You meant it then? And at Hailey's party?
NOAH: I always meant it.
AVA: Do you love me now?
NOAH: No.

(Ava gets another text message. She reluctantly reads it and puts away her phone.)

AVA: I deserve to know more.
NOAH: It's just, I don't know, things have changed.
AVA: Things can improve.
NOAH: Don't do that. Don't do your flippy-lawyer-type logic spinning on me. Not now.
AVA: Okay fine. But look at me. Look at me and say this has nothing to do with the fact that you lost your aqua-kinetic superpower.
NOAH: Okay, that's part of it. But it's more than that. It wasn't just the power to move water--it was my identity, my individuality. I don't feel like an individual; I can't be happy in a relationship until I can be happy with who I am. And right now, without my superpower, I don't know who I am. I'm a nobody. I'm everybody.
AVA: But you're still a somebody to me.

(Ava gets another text message. She hesitates. Noah waits for her to look at her phone so she does, but she doesn't bother to respond.)

AVA: I can help you find yourself. Your new self.
NOAH: Why?
AVA: Because you helped me find a version of me I never knew possible. This last year has been the best year of my life. I understand you're going through some stuff right now, stuff I can never fully understand because I've never gone through it myself. But I can still help. I can offer perspective, I can listen, I could maybe even be a distraction.
NOAH: You think I'm going to forget who I was? Who I am?
AVA: No. But you can imagine who you will be.
NOAH: I'm sorry, but for at least a while, I just don't think I'm going to be much fun to be around. I don't feel fun. Or good. You can do better.
AVA: I can do better with you.

(Ava takes Noah's hands, breaking their focus on the glass of unmovable water.)

NOAH: No. You've been drifting away for weeks now. I'm just letting you go.
AVA: I know I've been busy. I'm sorry.
NOAH: Your phone is making music non-stop.
AVA: I'll put it on silent.
NOAH: That's not what I mean.
AVA: It's just other people.
NOAH: No, that's good. I want you to have a life outside of me. And that's the life to focus on right now. That's the life with a future. And with powers.

(Ava's phone starts ringing.)

NOAH: And there's your damn phone again.

(Ava takes her phone and drops it into Noah's glass of water, splashing some on to the table. Noah jerks back a little, baffled--and impressed.)

AVA: See? You still have a power with water.

(Noah returns Ava’s smile.)

NOAH: That's why I loved you.
AVA: Want to try again?
NOAH: That's why I love you.
AVA: Cool. Now let's get some lunch. I’m starving.

Hours of Commentary

2010-01-17T09:00:00.001-06:00

DVD commentary is an often over-looked present. Of course it can also go down as one of the worst ways to waste two hours this side of re-coloring arm hair. So maybe I can help with some brisk, and rather random, commentary commentary.

THE ROYAL TENENBAUMS - Wes Anderson takes this commentary solo and balances light humor with light trivia well and consistently. The most shocking insight offered comes up every couple of scenes, that the seemingly deliberate movie has a lot of nuances even Anderson himself doesn't know the origins too. What is the difference between randomness and depth? Watch to find out.

TROPIC THUNDER - Ben Stiller, Jack Black and Robert Downey Jr. really make this commentary a feature-length piece of entertainment. Staying true to his hyper-method-acting character, Downey Jr. stays in his Osiris character until dropping the character in the movie itself. And while there is a bit of ass-kissing ("Robert here is absolutely brilliant", etc), the guys seem like fun people to be around.

THE MATRIX - One of the older DVDs I own, I found it appalling the cast and crew (minus the Wachowski brothers) failed to properly use the microphones required for the commentary. Seriously, one person's voice is captured by a microphone I can only assume is placed two rooms over. Baffled by the technology, the people behind the techno-iest film since TRON often forget to talk about the movie and opt instead to watch the film like a polite audience. Boring.

ROBOCOP - Like Wes Anderson, director Paul Verhoeven manhandles the task of talking to no one for two hours. Unlike Anderson though, Verhoeven goes to great length to explain the Christian symbolism in ROBOCOP. Though his Dutch accent is heavy, and oddly intimidating, Verhoeven makes sure you won't toss aside his movie like so many other robot-cop escapades captured on film.

THE GODFATHER (part I and II) - Francis Ford Coppola may be one of the best directors of all-time, entirely thanks to his exceptional craft in these two films (and APOCALYPSE NOW). If one believes I over spoke, listen to the steady commentary of THE GODFATHER and learn how to make good movies. However, I can't make the same recommendation for Part II. Coppola drifts in and out of the film and, on no less than fifty occasions, mentions the relative ease in the production compared to Part I.

STAR TREK - The commentary by the filmmakers (led by J.J. Abrams) actually made me appreciate the movie more than the first (and only other) time I saw it in theaters. They show an appropriate amount of love to the Star Trek canon but also took more risks than I originally credited them for. Abrams especially seemed to have an impressive insight to the iconic characters and was even somewhat apologetic for the over-use of lens flares throughout the film.

NFL Predictions: Divisional Weekend

2010-01-16T09:00:00.003-06:00

Things learned last week: Cardinals are perpetual "David's," the Cowboys' curse is bunk and you can disregard the last two statements because apparently I don't understand NFC games at all--though was perfect on the AFC side.

Baltimore at Indianapolis
The Colts arguably have more to prove than anybody in the playoffs after basically throwing their last two games, spitting at their chances of an undefeated season. By now, Peyton and the others have had nearly 4 weeks off and I am one to argue that is too much. Conversely, the Ravens beat up on a wounded Patriots team (no small feat) last week. Still...during the regular season the Ravens played 7 games against playoff teams and lost 6 of them. I think the Ravens will be back in this position next year, and I like their chances better next year. Indianapolis can't lose this early without murderous consequences. The Colts win.

Arizona at New Orleans
The Cardinals were the best NFC team in the playoffs last year and the Saints were the best NFC team in the regular season this year. When I imagine the Cardinals walking into the Superbowl and upsetting the Saints, I also imagine Al Davis showing up at my doorstep and presenting me with a nine-million dollar check to sit on the Raiders' bench. This is just a circuitous way of saying the Cardinals need some irregularities to win this game. And while many Saints' games have irregularities, they usually look like the work of God inexplicably and unprecedentedly blessing New Orleans. Saints win.

New York (Jets) at San Diego
I feel more confident about this game than any other game this weekend. The Chargers can't remember the last time they lost and they've made notably runs to the Superbowl every year, always falling just short. The Chargers have home field, (only) one week bye and most importantly: more talent. L.T. is going to force New York safeties into the box and Rivers will play keep away from the secondary in the second half. Coined term for the game: Jet Lag. Chargers win.

Dallas at Minnesota
Okay, so I went against a lot of early season predictions and said neither the Cowboys nor the Vikings would make the NFC championship despite their star-studded rosters--still rumors at this point. So I'm going to be half-genius and half-idiot no matter what here. Perhaps out of personal vendettas more than any actual observing, I still feel Dallas' success is balancing on toothpicks. Likewise, the Vikings have crashed 3 of their last 4 games. What it comes down to is who would I personally prefer to see in the NFC championship, or more theatrically, the Superbowl? Tough decision when I don't have faith in either. Vikings win.

Travel Log Blog: Episode Two: Utah's Plane and Kansas Two

2010-01-15T09:00:00.002-06:00

Continuing my one-day travel log blog, in an airplane over Utah:

9:00 AM - Still circling Salt Lake City, the location of my one-hour layover. I'm drifting in and out of consciousness but can't fall asleep. I can't see the city because of really heavy fog--or because the window shade is down.

10:00 AM - So my flight to K.C. was delayed but I feel better after eating some Chinese food (a first?). I'm watching CNN in the boarding area but there is a rather affectionate couple directly under the TV. Man, I really hope they don't think I'm watching them and then writing about them in my notebook...though I guess I just did. Dammit.

11:00 AM - Finally in the new airplane. We actually drove around the tarmac so long I figured the pilot had a change of heart and was just going to drive this plane to Kansas City. My head hurts and the guy sitting next to me doesn't think I'm funny--but those two tidbits aren't related.

1:00 PM - I just want to cut off my legs so that I don't have to feel them anymore. And if planes have gas masks, why don't they let us wear them when we want? It's not that I can't breathe, but that I just want some excess oxygen (gets you high)--'sides, they already serve alcohol on planes. Also, I'm back in the Central Time zone, or as the locals call it: Cen-Ti.

2:00 PM - Same as 1:00 PM, except I accidentally spilled water on my lap and now have wet pants.

3:00 PM - On the road with Tyson. We're going to Lawrence then Manhattan, all in all, another two hours in a car. Most obvious lesson of the day: driving through Kansas City is not a stress-reliever for Tyson. Related, I'm not going to update this log for a little while, I'm going to have fun with a friend.

6:00 PM - In Manhattan, Kansas but only to pick up some stuff that needs to go back to Lawrence. I grabbed a quick bite but also turned on the news. I'm a news junkie--which actually carries with it a lot of similar traits to other junkies...hey, I think I got an idea for another blog post!

8:00 PM - Finally back in Lawrence, again. But this time at home. Granted the place isn't how I left it but it is how I'd expect it...goofy roommates. Frankly right now I feel grimey and suspect my breath could kill a small horse. After a shower and another obsessive check of my email inbox, I think I'll go to bed. I'll set my alarm for next week so that I don't sleep too long.

Good night.

Travel Log Blog: Episode One: There Are No Stars in L.A.

2010-01-14T09:00:00.004-06:00

Expecting my solid day of cross-country traveling after a 21st birthday party to be mildly to undeniably humorous, an inspiration of mine suggested I keep a travel log. Well, I did and here it is in all its authenticity:

12:30 AM - Dan and myself talked about all there is to talk about, once again, until this point. He has an early morning class tomorrow (today?) and I should get a couple hours of shuteye before my ridiculously timed airport shuttle pickup. Today was a good day, but it was long and started too early. Hopefully tomorrow will be similar...by which I mean "today."

1:30 AM - Just kidding. I checked my email again for some reason and circled the inter-web for nigh on 60 minutes. I'll get to the end of Wikipedia later this week. So tired though.

2:30 AM - Woke up as quickly as I feel asleep. You hear a sound so offensive it knock you into the present. The cell phone alarm is off before I know where I am. I have everything ready to go, but won't pack this notebook.

3:30 AM - The shuttle bus picked me up and one other guy who could probably be me in a different universe. He asked me where I'm from, and I said "Lawrence, Kansas." I don't think I've ever said that before.

4:00 AM - At LAX already. Just waiting in line to go through security. The guy in front of me looks like Gary Oldman. That would also explain why nobody is talking to him.

4:30 AM - The security guards took my toothpaste but let me keep my harmonica. Yeah, I got patted down, but I appreciated the human contact. Also, forget body scanners, they undressed me with their eyes--I could feel it. Physically I'm tired again but expect a third or fourth wind to kick in later tonight, I mean last night, I mean this morning. Whatever.

5:00 AM - Bored in the terminal. Legs are sore. A little hungry but I'm not about to pay four American dollars for a bagel. I wonder if my deep eyes keep me from ever looking suspicious. I don't remember being patted down when I looked like the Unibomber's bohemian nephew.

6:00 AM - About to finally leave this stink town. Nah, I like L.A., so I understand why so few people are on this plane. Maybe one-third full? Also, according to Sky Mall, I need a personal oxygen bar.

8:00 AM - My foot has cramped up some 35,000 ft in the air; but I am on Mountain Time now--speaking of which, "Mountain Time" would be a sweet name for a pro wrestler.

To Be Continued...

Movies For Chuckles

2010-01-13T09:00:00.002-06:00

My little brother, now nicknamed "Chuckles," and I have watched a number of movies this last winter break and perpetually appalled each other by admitting our own failures to see obviously great films the other knows and loves. To correct this injustice, we each will make/have made a list of ten movies that the other one has not seen but should. However, I found this two-person interaction quite limited so am posted my list on this here Internet machine.

Remember, these are not my top films, just ones I feel more people should see. I tried to give the list some variety and factored in general entertainment. Also, I should concede this list was more difficult than I expected, as Chuckles wasn't as deprived of great films as I originally feared. If he actually makes a list, I might post that on here too, as I am quite curious and pride myself on having experienced the Top 65 films on IMDB, 78 of AFI's Top 100 and 78 of WGA's Top 101 screenplays.

The list, in no real order:

NETWORK - This movie decries television news twenty years before The Daily Show ran CNN bloopers. Featuring devastating monologues and horrifyingly hilarious (and insightful) social commentary, NETWORK becomes meta-corrupted itself as the naturalistic style slowly but inevitably blends to stark and alienating absurdity.

ANNIE HALL - I can't think a movie that fully captures the pain, love, anxiety and comedy of relationships as completely as this one. The last Best Picture winner to be considered a comedy, this film is Woody Allen at his best in writing, acting and directing. Also, look for early celeb cameos.

BEING JOHN MALKOVICH - Charlie Kaufaman's mind-bending screenplay is really expanded upon by director Spike Jonze. Because of it's cold and alienating characters (they have heart, too), this film hasn't received the vast-reaching, warm embrace of young people like it's Kaufman-counterpart: ETERNAL SUNSHINE OF THE SPOTLESS MIND.

THE ASSASSINATION OF JESSE JAMES: Yes, the title tells you how the movie ends, but the journey to get to that point is truly exceptional and relevant to modern times (see: celebrity culture). Brad Pitt shines once again as a sociopath, but was generally panned by audiences who wanted a more Brad Pitt-esque Jesse James.

M - Banned by the Nazis (proving its greatness), this film finds and burrows itself into the realm of moral ambiguity in a world that is usually seen as black and white. Plot: Criminals team up to find a child killer because the police are cracking down on other forms of vice in the city, exploding moral frustrations among the immoral deviants.

THE FALL - One of the most beautifully shot films of the last decade, this film rises above eye-candy status as a truly remarkable movie thanks to its earnest story. Failing to create any cookie-cutter characters or relationships, the story is a tragedy begging to be a fairy tale. Also, great end credit sequence showing footage of 1920s stunt acting.

MODERN TIMES - Charlie Chaplin's last movie about his iconic character, The Tramp, this story reaches across all society affected by the Great Depression--with timeless relevance. It's wacky, it's witty, it's heartfelt and holds some of the other best comedic stunts of the 20th century.

SUNSHINE - This over-looked sci-fi film shows how one plays in a financial sandbox others would deem too small. Like all sci-fi, one has to allow the story teller a fantastical concept, but unlike most sci-fi films, SUNSHINE holds up its end of the promise and remains real, original and symbolic the rest of the time. And it's just another movie that uses exceptional cinematography to enhance the story.

TOUCH OF EVIL - Orson Welles writes, directs and stars opposite of Charlton Heston in this 1958 crime drama. Shot with all the deliberateness and ground-breakingness of the dreary CITIZEN KANE, this smaller production moves quick and isn't afraid to slap you with a joke before running away to the next scene. Welles himself plays a natural blend of Chief Wiggum and Dick Cheney that makes him so entertaining you just might fall a step behind him.

MY NEIGHBOR TOTORO - An earlier film by Hayao Miyazaki--who just may be the only animation storyteller keeping Pixar honest--, this movie's demographic is far from limited to its little girl protagonist. Capturing the life of children so indisputably would warrant this movie's status alone; however it also shows, more than any other film, why and how traditional animation is still a viable medium of storytelling and imagination.

Please feel welcome to comment on this, especially to suggest other films--everyone knowing that you cannot possibly know every film I (or Chuckles) have and haven't seen.

Curing Jackson Blair: bp9

2010-01-12T09:00:00.000-06:00

The sun was plummeting to the horizon on Sterling’s right side while he cruised down the highway to a place in front of his car. Sterling’s car radio hadn’t worked in years but he didn’t mind so long as the engine ran fine, which seemed like a toss up anymore. No sentimentality for this car; no sentimentality for this 1995 Honda P.O.S. However Sterling started to develop a destination in mind as he flowed down the asphalt. It would not be a permanent destination but it would at least be a vague stepping stone. A run of the mill taco place.

Exiting from an exit, Sterling prowled for the hypothetical eatery. After passing two Taco Bell’s and one Taco John, Sterling found a promising restaurant aptly named: Taco Place. The tiny parking lot, probably made for six cars, was filled with eight, forcing Sterling to park at the White Castle across the street. Thanks to Sterling’s experience playing the video game Frogger and from watching friends dodge rodeo bulls, Sterling was able to cross the six-lane road separating the establishments--only getting hit twice.

Sterling walked into the restaurant and up to the ordering counter. Across the counter stood a gangly guy in his twenties, failing to wear any uniform, nametag or other markers of employee identification. As the guy standing across the counter did not smile at Sterling or seem to place Sterling’s value above a pile of algae, Sterling correctly concluded this was an employee awaiting his order.

“I’ll take the Big Burrito Grande,” Sterling requested. The Employee looked at the register—which Sterling swore was just a modified adding machine—and punched a single button.

“Ah man,” the Employee groaned, “Mister Zambowski, the register is broken again!”
“Mister Zambowski?” Sterling questioned, “What kind of taco place is this?”
“Man, I just love tacos so godddamn much. They’re like, just, incredible.”

Zambowski came over the to button box and typed in a twenty-key combination in three seconds before leaving again, without a word. The Employee continued, “Have you ever thought about the word ‘taco’? Like, what does it mean? Why is it called a taco?”
“I’m starving. So please, I just want my Big Burrito Grande. Please.”
“Yeah. I could go for one of those.”
“No. Me. I want one. I will pay you. Money. For one.”
“Yeah, okay.”

Sterling handed over his money, giving himself a fifty-percent chance of getting any food at any point. The frustration to get here had only made Sterling even hungrier. After too long, Sterling’s order was called up and Sterling went back to the counter only to see a plate of chips on the tray being presented to him. Sterling informed the Employee that those were just chips, to which the Employee agreed. Sterling politely reminded the Employee he had actually ordered, and paid for, the Big Burrito Grande. Inexplicably disappointed, the Employee went back out of sight. Near heartbreak, Sterling sat back down at his seat.

Millions of people at this very point were at McDonald’s and Burger King worldwide. Millions more were eating at their home, with loved (or at least mildly liked) ones. Why did Sterling have to suffer this abuse because he wanted something different? Was individuality punishable? Couldn’t Sterling just be happy eating at places everyone else could be happy eating at?

Eventually Sterling did get his Big Burrito Grande. And it was big, kind of. It wasn’t big and grande though, that’s for sure. And its taste was near the middle of flavor bell curve. It was enjoyable but forgettable. Of course it was rendered even more forgettable as Sterling found a newspaper shortly after that included an article about various entertainers being invited to the White House, including his old friends Cookie, Chester and Preston.

Curing Jackson Blair: bp8

2010-01-11T09:00:00.000-06:00

“Do you remember when we had that homeless guy buy us booze in high school? I never learned his real name, but I guess when a guy fights ninjas every day of his life you can’t expect to learn everything about him.”

Brooklyn lightly laughed and admitted she did remember him. Sterling thought back to other happy memories, simultaneously grateful that the sparsely occupied bar had turned down its music. God, Brooklyn was still stunning. No one wonder I had been so confident back then, Sterling thought, I had a beautiful and insanely sharp girlfriend, I could do anything I wanted. I was 8 feet tall and bulletproof.

“So, how’s life?” Brooklyn broadly asked. Sterling smiled for a number of reasons. One of which was Brooklyn’s unrelenting and earnest optimism. Sterling explained that he had attended Ashton Clown College but dropped out. Fully aware of sounding like an aimless, unemployed loser, Sterling tried to emphasize his desire for experience and adaptability. It didn’t just talk this way to Brooklyn, but talked this way to himself.

She seemed to have a lot of fun asking Sterling rapid fire questions about clown college and Sterling had a lot of fun answering them. Sure, clown colleges have athletes. John-John America was the captain of the football and basketball team. He had gotten a scholarship and was pursuing a degree in Clown Communications—which was a joke of a degree. But some clowns are great athletes; how do you think Michael Irving got his big break?

Brooklyn then started forcing the discussion to religion, which threw Sterling off a little bit. During the time they had gone out, religion never came up more than a general passing—and that was only after driving pass a church, synagogue, mosque or whatever those snake-handlers call their building. Since having her daughter and getting married (holy crap, she’s married!?!), Brooklyn had found comfort in God Almighty. And though she didn’t want to push her religion on Sterling, she felt it could really help him in this time of need. Sterling thought up dozen of responses including: “All of life is a time a need,” “And I thought I was the clown,” and “I really do need help, when’s the next show?” But Sterling said nothing immediately.

Brooklyn finished her drink but did not ask for another one. She watched Sterling think and occasionally glanced at her glass to make sure it was still empty. Sterling, carefully, started to explain that he didn’t like the way organized religions provide answers. He said he’d prefer mystery over incorrect knowledge. Science is a continuum of learning whereas religion seems static in its teachings. Sterling conceded that neither science nor religion was inherently more true or moral. He hoped more than anything though that he had not offended his former love.

Brooklyn grew solemn and began, “You said you want to always know the truth, even if it is less meaningful or fulfilling than current knowledge. Well, then I need to confess. I honestly don’t remember that homeless man. Nor do I remember having government class together or some of the other stuff we talked about earlier. And frankly, yes, I did love you once but right now I am not what you need in your life nor are you what I want in mine. I’m sorry. I want us to be friends, but I think you know what that means.”

Brooklyn got up and went home, letting Sterling stay in the bar by himself--failing to immediately recover from the emotional beating. Feeling cold once again, Sterling decided he should take his life south.

Curing Jackson Blair: bp7

2010-01-10T09:00:00.001-06:00

“Okay, the story starts with this robot. His name was Isaac. Isaac stood for something like: Intelligent System Automaton something something. Anyway, he was sent from the future--500 years in the future. And he was sent in the past to fix certain problems that originated during the past and made the future a difficult place to live.”

“Sterling, this is confusing.”

“Well, sorry. I’ve haven’t made up stories on the spot in a long time. Want to do something else?”

“No, keep telling the story.”

“Okay. So Isaac the Robot was sent to the pas, a time of great political turmoil and violence. The world was in danger of over-population. New industry was harming the environment. Cities were dangerous places and millions were starving to death while the rich reached unprecedented wealth. This is why the future scientists sent Isaac in the past, to cure these problems. They sent him to the awful year of 1910. However their space-time continuum equation was off because they forgot to carry the one. Which meant they accidentally sent Isaac to the year 2010.

So Isaac the Robot finds himself in the wrong time period but realized the problems are the same. While lamenting this societal tragedy, a dog approached Isaac and asked him why he doesn’t smell like other humans. Isaac tells the dog that he is not human, but in fact, a robot. The dog asks if he can be Isaac’s friend because he likes how the robot smells. So they hang out for a while. Go bowling or whatever people do nowadays.

Isaac wasn’t concerned about getting back to the future, though. Because he knew that in a few weeks, in the future, he was going to be rendered obsolete. A new robot was coming out. One that could move faster and run longer. The new robot also had a break-through in artificial intelligence. It could tell jokes. Not only did it have a cache of jokes programmed in, but could also learn and remember jokes it heard. The idea there being that a robot that makes you laugh is a robot that could be your friend. Anyhow, Isaac wasn’t funny and not nearly as efficient as this new robot. Oh yeah, and the dog’s name was Bogart.

After a while Isaac and Bogart ran into Rutherford B. Hayes. However Hayes had a mild case of amnesia and didn’t know anything about himself other than he was a former U.S. president. Hayes was also confused about the time period he was in. However he joined up with Isaac the Robot and Bogart the Dog and they walked the city streets until Hayes saw a sign he did recognize. It said: Taven. So a robot, a dog and a former president walk into a bar and the bartender turns to them and says, ‘What is this, a joke?’ and kicks them out. And then…”

“Does anything ever happen in this story?”

“Uh, yeah. They got hit in the face with a cream pie.”

“Who did?”

“They all did. Some clown threw three pies and hit all of them in the face. Then they walked around some more and, uh, I don’t know. They found an unlocked Ferrari.”

Sterling then stopped his impromptu story, noticing Brooklyn standing at the doorway, smiling. Nobody had expected her phone call to take so long and Sterling regretted he had done such a poor job entertaining Brooklyn’s daughter during the meantime. In fact, it had probably been Sterling’s worst display of creativity in years. Nevertheless the characters would linger in Sterling’s mind for the rest of the day and for many days afterwards. But more immediately, they would linger in Sterling’s mind thirty minutes later when he was getting a drink with his former girlfriend: Brooklyn.

NFL Predictions: Wildcard Weekend

2010-01-09T09:00:00.002-06:00

12 of 32 teams still have the Superbowl trophy glistening in their watering eyes as the regular season is over. And why do they want this trophy? Because it proves each year which city in America is truly, albeit temporarily, the greatest. Surely no one doubted the value of Pittsburgh, Indianapolis, Tampa Bay and St. Louis over the last decade.

New York (Jets) at Cincinnati
The Jets absolutely dismantled the Bengals just six days ago but that was in New York. Related, Cincinnati had little reason to play and sat out their over-rated stars (including Chad Eight-Five). Cincinnati fell into the playoffs after hitting phenomenal heights during the first half of the regular season. Since then, they have just crashed and been stripped back down to the team the rest of the NFL is used to seeing. Some games it’s like the Bengals perpetually forget they are not playing two-hand touch football. Like every other weekend in the year, there will be little reason to celebrate in Cincinnati. Jets win.

Philadelphia at Dallas
If Dallas wins this game every Cowboy/Tony Romo fan is going to act like they won the Miss America pageant—confetti, music, tears, hugging the loser, etc. And why shouldn’t they? Dallas hasn’t won a playoff game since 1996 and Donovan McNabb’s Eagles are 6-0 in their first playoff games. Eventually Dallas will have to win a playoff game in the same way that I’ll eventually have to win the lottery, we both just have to lose enough. Actually, I suppose this means I should buy a lottery ticket this weekend—but I wouldn’t bet on my own chances and I wouldn’t bet on the Cowboys. Eagles win.

Baltimore at New England
The Patriots beat the Ravens earlier this year because of two 3rd down-penalties on what would become a game-winning drive. Since then, the Patriots have been beating up on weak teams and losing to playoff teams. The Patriots are old guys, trying to win big games with their old ways. The Ravens are young guys who basically started playing football a couple of days ago. This is a game where the virtue of experience will become the hindrance of age. Ravens win.

Green Bay at Arizona
By coincidence, I am going four-for-four with the visiting team. The Cardinals were the David’s…or Cinderella’s, or whatever of last year’s playoffs. However David only had to fight once. And Cinderella, wait, okay, I don’t know where that metaphor was going but it made sense at some point. Regardless, the Packers have won 7 of their last 8 and ended up only one game behind the Vikings in their division, and that was losing to the Vikings twice. Conversely, the Cardinals get to play teams in the NFC West every year that couldn’t score on the set of “Rock of Love.” The Packers have the momentum, the talent, the benefit of unknown players and the grit developed after duel smackings from Brett Favre, who has now become Clint Eastwood in shoulder pads.

Please Note This

2010-01-08T09:00:00.000-06:00

Next time I hear the song "Summer Days" from the musical GREASE, I will jump off a very high cliff--which is notoriously difficult to find in the middle of Kansas.

An Essay on the Martian Book

2010-01-07T09:00:00.002-06:00

Sometime ago researchers discovered an artifact on the planet Mars. It was a highly sophisticated series of paper tablets that were bound by some highly sophisticated adhesive—at least two generations more advanced than spit. At first the scientists believed it to be pure gibberish so they gave it to a group of more optimistic scientists who determined it was in fact a written language. Within 30 minutes they had the entire language translated—but that was only because they took a 15-minute coffee break. After translating the language, nobody read the ancient alien artifact, so they determined it was a political memoir.

At this point, the alien book was given to me, a literary critic, to determine the relevance and decide upon which class middle school students should be forced to read it. As I hope the alien writings were not meant to be entertaining, I will not tire my own readers with trivialities such as characters or plot, but rather focus on the context, themes and importance of said work.

From what I can interpret, this book was written by some sort of ostracized tribal queen. But rather than rolling around in lavish royal benefits, this was a position of duty and responsibility. And while the queen clearly sought power and influence, she only did so in the name of defending her tribal people—presumably unable to defend themselves. This is not to say her people were inferior in anyway; in fact by any conceivable measurement they were superior in every way. Her people were the most dedicated, the strongest, the most intelligent, kind, (Martian) worldly and moral. It is fitting than that she was their leader, as there is none who carried any of these qualities more than this tribal queen. At any point she makes this particular assertion though, she quickly counters it with nun-like modesty.

However this plain-Martian-speaking tribal queen was only one of thousands of royal members in her society. Unfortunately it seems their society collapsed, as the corrupt, incompetent and mean-spirited leaders were more persuasive to the masses. And while the queen identified pockets of intelligent thought, they were usually ousted from their limited power holds--herself included. The way she describes the leaders and policies of the antagonistic leaders seems nothing short of societal suicide. Only this queen and a few of her peers bothered to assess their planet’s history and think about the future. However her clear thinking and obvious reasoning was purposefully distorted, or withheld, from the masses, leading to her political expulsion. This is a horrify depiction of a once-great society that fell from grace.

Unfortunately this work was an autobiography, so we can never fully know what came of this banished tribal queen who prided herself on her loyal, and apparently sizable, following. What is certain is that Mars is now devoid of intelligent life. Granted, some new forms of bacteria were discovered on the planet, but none of them have been able to learn past the fifth letter in our alphabet. My guess would be that this queen never obtained any greater political power, as the planet is so irreversibly damaged. Moreover, any other alien books that are discovered should be immediately burned as they are undoubtedly filled with lies and misinformation.

And regarding Mars in general…wait. Have I been writing “Mars” this whole time? Shoot. I meant “Earth.” Whatever. I’m not going to proof-read this.

The Cornerstone of Legos

2010-01-06T09:00:00.003-06:00

The cornerstone of Legos is a Lego. Aiden knew this when he was playing with his Legos, but he didn’t know why. On the floor of his room he dumped out his tub of Legos, briefly grimacing at the loud, clunky, flow of blocks. An afternoon sun warmed half of Aiden’s room but the world outside his room was asleep. Aiden scooted around the pile of Legos and ran his palm-sized hand straight down the middle, like he always did. He then scooted on his knees back to where he started, now behind one pile of Legos, putting the other pile out of his reach.

Aiden ran his fingers through his pile of Legos to find the little Lego people he was sure to have. Aiden found and held three Lego people. A pirate, a police officer and a plain person. Aiden also found Lego hair and put it on the plain person. Aiden then looked at the pile of Legos across from his nearest pile. Aiden could see at least two Lego people. Also he could see the police officer’s hat. However, Aiden did not move from the Legos directly in front of him. He continued to take a general inventory of what Lego pieces lay before him and broke apart pieces of Legos that were stuck together from yesterday.

Aiden put down a red block and put a blue block next to it, not connecting them. Aiden lined out a square of blocks that could comfortably house his three people. He looked at the other pile. It had not moved. Pieces were separated and no foundation had been laid. Aiden used his little Lego people to move the next pieces and build up the square he had made. The Lego pirate, police officer and plain person worked together, though only one at a time could move. They built up a fort and had a fence circling the top tier. Above the ladder, the Lego people had installed a door on its side that would then swing downward to knock intruders off the top of the ladder.

Yet the other pile, the other one-half of Aiden’s Legos, did not move. They did not build a fort or a boat or even a wall. Aiden listened to his three Lego people talk about going over to the other pile to get the satellite dish that they could see. They decided to not go over and get it. Instead they moved around their own fort and built a window into one of the walls. The extra pieces were then used to make the lookout tower a little taller. The police officer stood on the lookout tower.

After concluding the fort was pretty good and that the other pile would remain a pile, Aiden stealthily made his way out of his bedroom and into the living room. He was pretty sure the world was still asleep so he made sure to not step on the fourth stair--as that stair always squeaked. In the living room downstairs, Aiden turned on the television and instantly hit the volume button down nearly a dozen times.

Ender's Other Game

2010-01-05T09:00:00.001-06:00

In Orson Scott Card's sci-fi novel "Ender's Game," there is a side story about two kids (Peter and Valentine) who access a futuristic version of the Internet. Because their viral arguments are so well researched and reasoned, they develop an online following of readers. In fact, without having their identities exposed, they become published writers and grow a readership of millions. Basically this is the dream/expectation of anyone who blogs on a regular basis. The goal is to have a reader base. The goal is to make a difference in the world around you and that can only happen when people are aware of you...theoretically.

I think there is a contradiction in striving for original opinions yet reaching for as many people as possible too agree with you. I feel the best writers--or other artists for that matter--reach people in a way they understand but inspire thoughts never thought before in a way never seen, heard, smelled or felt before.

Actually I going to take my own advice right now and restrain my long-winded tendencies about setting writing/artistic standards and cut to the main point I was going to somehow get around to making: quality in any facet of life is roughly 20% luck, 30% skill, 50% effort. And more and more, effort seems to be a "yes-or-no" situation rather than a spectrum.

Also, in "Ender's Game" the online reader fan base eventually demands Peter and Valentine be put in real political power--as the current leaders were weak and ineffective. Peter and Valentine step into these roles and change society for the better--with Ender's help of course. However I don't think this is the actual end goal for any blogger; including myself, as I wouldn't mind living vicariously through someone I knew I inspired. Still...the entertainment business pays better than the world of politics.

This post was kind of all over the place. Good.

You Can See Me

2010-01-04T09:00:00.001-06:00

Six friends sat at a circular table in a bar. The table would have comfortably sat four, but the intimate circle knew how to squeeze in six. After sometime of greeting and talking and laughing, their seventh friend, Marley, showed up.

“Hey Marley!” most everybody greeted in some variation.

Marley smiled but immediately noticed she wouldn’t fit at the table. There was no empty space, which was particularly burning to Marley, as she could turn into empty space. More specifically, Marley had the most unusual affliction of uncontrollable invisibility.

Like how some people sneeze, burp or fart, Marley would turn completely invisible for an indefinite amount of time at a moment’s notice. While this made Marley popular at some point, years later, her friends stopped bringing attention to it; and sometimes, Marely hoped--and feared--that they had forgotten about her power altogether.

“Pull up another table, Marley” someone suggested.

Marley forced an agreeing smile and did as told--finding an empty table and dragging it over. She touched her own circle table to the edge of her friends’ table, two of whom took the awkward seat on either side of the connecting point. Both friends, ever so slightly, kept their feet pointed toward the table of six.

Thirty minutes ago, Marley had asked a friend to the movies. The friend retorted a suggestion that Marley come to the bar and be with all the other friends. Marley felt accusing questions burning inside her.

“If I hadn’t of called you, were you ever going to have invited me here? At what point was somebody going to say, ‘Where’s Marley? I miss her company. She would make our lives more fun right now’?” Marley screamed in her head, “Am I not a part of this circle of friends?”

Marley knew she had no right to be angry. She knew her friends meant no harm and she knew they were her friends. But she couldn’t conjure up a memory wherein she was a part of an established circle and didn’t fully open it up--physically and conversationally--when someone arrived later.

Marley looked at her hand. It wasn’t there. Nor were Marley’s legs or body. Marely made a face nobody could see and rolled a pair of eyes that could still see everyone else. Marley stood up and walked to the bathroom, dodging other patrons—who might as well have been blind.

But before Marley made it too the bathroom, she saw an incredibly beautiful guy at the bar watching her. Their eyes met and he looked away, embarrassed he had been caught. Marley glanced at her hand. Her hand was smooth, slender and the color of a lioness, with white finger nail polish. Marley smiled to herself then looked back up at the boy. This time their eyes met and he did not look away, but smiled.

It was actually Marley who looked away. She looked toward her friends’ table but only saw a pair of tables behind her. Marley knew her friends didn’t leave her, at least not forever; they’d be back in sight eventually. And until then, Marley was going to let this kind-smiled guy buy her a drink.

The Middle Name Child

2010-01-03T09:00:00.001-06:00

The Child hid under the kitchen table. He had stolen a notepad from his father’s desk and a pen, too. The Child was determined to come up with names better than "James". He hated James. So he wrote down his ideas, later planning on narrowing down the list and eventually presenting them to Mom and Dad. The Child put the edge of the pen in his mouth, not because he subconsciously wanted to, but rather because he had seen people on TV do that when thinking—and the Child was trying to think really hard.

Tommy was a good name. It sounded fun. It sounded like a leader. But he didn’t like a boy named Thomas. Maybe Portland. The Child had a cousin in Portland and she was his favorite cousin. She would help him steal cookies. But then again, Portland sounded funny. It sounded like the name of a fat kid and the Child didn’t want to be a fat kid. The Child’s favorite color was Green. Maybe his name could be Green. He could even then have the nickname Mean Green. He still wouldn’t be a bully, but he would probably be stronger. Other names? Jojo. Or A.J.? A.J. sounded cool. But doesn’t A.J. have to stand for something? Maybe. It really didn’t matter. As long as he could change “James,” the Child would have any name. Maybe even a girl’s name. But he needed a name fast.

“Kyle James Nolan! What did you do to your closet?!”

Too late. The Child’s mother had found his mud collection and used his middle name. The Child was convinced his parents only gave him a middle name so that he’d know when he was really in trouble—which seemed to be a lot lately. No doubt about it; for the sake of his playtime future, the Child would have to change his middle name.

Cut Short

2010-01-02T09:00:00.004-06:00

I have a confession to make: I got my hair cut.

I succumbed to outside pressure to change myself superficially. I liked how I looked but that wasn't enough for some people. I began to believe I was being held back in anyway one can be held back by looking like any number of "crazy" "celebrities" (Dave Grohl, Grizzly Adams, Jesus, George Harrison, Tom Cruise in THE LAST SAMURAI, Henry Fonda, etc.).

My look was originally the result of laziness mixed in with frugality. Later it became an embodiment of comfortable originality. I was the in-between of radicals (see: Pink) and the establishment (see: Johnny Unitas).

Of course most people will offer up some kind of flip remark in the vein of, "Your hair/beard/whatever doesn't make you who you are; it only matters what's on the inside." And while true, I feel different on the inside. I am embarrassed because I finally see a physical representation of my own societal negotiations. I am not Henry David Thoreau; I can not just leave society, so I negotiate my beliefs daily. For example, I am using "blogspot" for this blog and am generally using Sunflower Broadband to get here. However, I feel I at least break even if I can entertainment people in a meaningful way and/or being meaningful in an entertaining way.

But now I went too far. If I had cut my hair to prove a point or to donate it or to do whatever, then I would not have a problem looking like this. But that's not why it happened. I cut my hair because it MIGHT have been keeping me from getting a job (side note: this blog has earned my 8 cents since inception). When/If I get a job, my time with be focused on some mundane task likely serving mundane people. Moreover, I will have less time to write on this blog, outside short films or the novel that has yet to develop a beginning, middle or end.

Any cause done for a shallow reason is a shallow cause. This isn't about hair, this is about knowing why anyone does anything. Know why you act or know why you do not.

I screwed up in a way that affects nobody but myself. Still, that's the only way I ever learn.

Direction of the Deal

2010-01-01T09:00:00.000-06:00

The warmly lit room was well decorated but the comfortable room was only comfortable to one man—and he was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. A fire snapped and crackled nearby. A plate of small sandwiches sat undisturbed on a side table. Warren Harding had been sitting at the velvet octagon table for ten minutes and he had been president for over a year now.

Harding looked at his pocket watch. Only one minute had passed since he last looked. Harding held a single red poker chip between his index and middle finger. He lowered his middle finger so that the chip could move in between his middle and ring finger. He lowered his ring finger and then reversed the motion. The coin flipped and flipped over his knuckles back and forth. Harding noticed he was getting more graceful at this little finger dance. He never intended on having enough time to practice, but here he was.

Harding considered that these informal meetings with his cabinet were not working. They were all men of intelligence and patriotism. They all had important, unique and busy jobs, but they were also his friends. When they could get together for poker, Harding was convinced everyone was more comfortable, offered more truthful insight and become more politically creative.

These games were monthly early on but had since fallen off most people’s radar it seemed. Now Harding needed them back because the administration was beginning to flounder. Most pressing, Harding wanted to take everybody’s temperature on his own wishes to denounce the lynching in the South. Granted, Harding would only be embarrassing the Southern Democratic leaders, as lynching was already illegal, but Harding didn’t like his own silence on the issue. By not condemning it, he was ignoring it. By ignoring it, he was allowing it. But he couldn’t make his point until somebody, anybody, showed up.

Had Harding changed? Had his friends? Maybe life had just forced them apart. He hadn’t even seen Albert Hall in three months. But Harding didn’t feel unpopular. When he was around people he laughed and could make others laugh. He spoke well and never lost his temper or made enemies. Hell, most first-time women voters found him quite handsome. But maybe Hall just wasn’t a true friend after all.

But if Harding couldn’t count on Hall, how could he count on Charles Hughes, Andrew Mellon or Herbert Hoover? If they weren’t coming, why wouldn’t they have sent a message? And even then, why wouldn’t they come? They used to come. Harding had so many questions and the seven empty seats around him were not helping him come up with answers. How could the most competent and powerful men in the world not meet one night a month for a poker game?

The other politicians were now twelve minutes late and Harding became more convinced he didn’t have a true friend in the country. He had assistants, several siblings and a wife—but those just weren’t the same. Perhaps, he thought, one can not be a friend with subordinates. They didn’t want to be around their boss unless ordered to. So that’s what he’d do, he decided. Tomorrow morning everyone would need to be in his office or out on the street. He was going to—the door opened.

Harding looked up from his chips and smiled. His vice-president, Calvin Coolidge, closed the door behind him and walked over to the sandwich table. Coolidge put two White House-catered sandwiches on a plate and sat down across from Harding. It warmed Harding’s heart to think Coolidge could become president in another seven years or so.

“Thanks for coming, Cal. I don’t know where everybody else is, but I guess that leaves more sandwiches for us. More poker chips, too.” Coolidge nodded and kept eating, so Harding continued, “I guess I just want to make things like they used to be; politically and socially. But we don’t have to talk politics tonight. We could talk about whatever you want. Anything. Anything at all.” Harding paused a moment, letting Coolidge finish chewing before asking, “Mister Vice-President. Why did you come tonight?”

“Got to eat somewhere.”

Harding smiled. No doubt about it, Calvin Coolidge was a true friend.

Resolutions and New Beginnings

2009-12-31T09:00:00.000-06:00

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?

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.

The December Skyscraper

2009-12-29T09:00:00.005-06:00

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.

"Funny People" are Where You Find Them

2009-12-28T09:00:00.000-06:00

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.

Sum of Human Knowledge

2009-12-27T09:00:00.002-06:00

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."

Latenight Breakfast

2009-12-26T09:00:00.004-06:00

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.

Is He Real?

2009-12-25T09:00:00.000-06:00

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

Curing Jackson Blair: bp6

2009-12-24T09:00:00.001-06:00

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.

Curing Jackson Blair: bp5

2009-12-23T09:00:00.000-06:00

“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.”

Curing Jackson Blair: bp4

2009-12-22T09:00:00.001-06:00

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.”

Dignity Gone the Way of the Dodo

2009-12-21T09:00:00.002-06:00

Facebook-->View News Feed-->

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

Curing Jackson Blair: bp3

2009-12-20T09:00:00.003-06:00

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.”

Curing Jackson Blair: bp2

2009-12-19T09:00:00.002-06:00

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.”

Curing Jackson Blair: bp1

2009-12-18T09:00:00.004-06:00

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.”

I'm Thinking About Everything and You

2009-12-17T09:00:00.001-06:00

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.

Sometimes Life (continues)

2009-12-16T09:00:00.003-06:00

During finals week, God save you--
Because your professors won't.

End the War

2009-12-15T09:00:00.003-06:00

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

The Darker Image

2009-12-14T09:00:00.003-06:00

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.

I Didn't Squeak

2009-12-13T09:00:00.001-06:00

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?!"

NFL Predictions: Week Fourteen

2009-12-12T09:00:00.004-06:00

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.

When Fire Burns White

2009-12-11T09:00:00.003-06:00

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.

Too Much Water in the Desert

2009-12-10T09:00:00.002-06:00

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.

The Great Equalizer

2009-12-09T09:00:00.001-06:00

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.

Gregory Riggs

2009-12-08T09:00:00.001-06:00

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.

What Year is It?

2009-12-07T09:00:00.000-06:00

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"!

The Devil Lives on 8th Street: Part Three of Three

2009-12-06T09:00:00.000-06:00

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.

NFL Predictions: Week Thirteen

2009-12-05T09:00:00.003-06:00

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.

The Devil Lives on 8th Street: Part Two of Three

2009-12-04T09:00:00.004-06:00

“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.

The Devil Lives on 8th Street: Part One of Three

2009-12-03T09:00:00.004-06:00

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.

Sometimes Life

2009-12-02T09:00:00.001-06:00

All I did was make change with a certain tip jar.
Now I'm no longer welcome at a certain hip bar.

The Time Has Come

2009-12-01T09:00:00.003-06:00

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.

Hyenas

2009-11-30T09:00:00.004-06:00

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.

Numbers and Plasma: Nick's Bloody Equations

2009-11-29T09:00:00.002-06:00

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

NFL Predictions: Week Twelve

2009-11-28T09:00:00.004-06:00

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.

Low Class Pride

2009-11-27T09:00:00.000-06:00

I sit in what would probably be called the interrogation room of the Washington, D.C. police station. I’m reluctant to call it an interrogation room because I don’t want to over dramatize my situation. It’s just a room. And the police are just about to ask me a couple of questions. The room looks like how you’d imagine it, largely thanks to the images in Hollywood movies. I wonder if maybe a lot of movie producers have found themselves in a similar room. But like I said, I don’t want to over dramatize my situation. Though I am by myself, under fluorescent lights, in front of a voice recorder and bleeding.

Officer Graves walks back in—I swear that’s his real name.

“Well, congratulations. I’ve been told to tell you that you’re fired.” Figures. “Want to talk about what happened?” Yeah. I can do that.

I work, er, worked at Mooven Group directly under CEO Preston Sterling. It’s the third biggest bank in the United States. So big, in fact, we hardly do any direct banking at all. Money is measured in the billions, that is, except for my paycheck.

“Enough jokes. Just tell the damn story.”

Fine. I was one of four personal assistants to Mr. Sterling. Actually he has a Ph.D. in economics so I guess he’s actually Dr. Sterling. He rose to the top by bundling thousands of poor-mortgages and selling them off, knowing they were toxic. He’s a genius. He turned down offers to teach at Yale, MIT, you name it. Anyway, the Mooven Group has diversified and changed not just the banking industry, but, well actually you’ve probably seen the commercials and slogan: ‘We’re Mooven the industry.’

“Yeah, those commercials suck.”

Well they worked. Business has been great. But because of the financial collapse, we were obviously one of the many banking companies to take the federal loans--which will be paid back to the taxpayer with interest. Earlier this week all of the major CEOs were called to testify before Congress as to why they needed more time to make the next quarterly payment. Mr. Sterling graciously brought along myself, Cooper, Sitton and Perry. We took the company plane but only because it’s a time-saver. The less time Mr. Sterling is traveling, the more time he can work on fixing this financial mess and getting money back to the taxpayers. Mr. Sterling isn’t going to succumb to some impractical inconvenience just because it sounds good for the cameras and Washington fat cats.

“Oppose to Mr. Wesley’s boys?”

Wesley and his…gang of assistants—it’s basically an army that follows him around—are total camera whores. He testified that he and his people ate food from a gas station on their drive to D.C. But that was only because he didn’t eat at the Wendy’s they first stopped at. An hour later though he’s starving to death and they have to pull into some Plug ‘n Chug and buy a packaged sandwich and bag of Doritos! So when Wesley’s lackeys start bragging about how their boss is in touch with real Americans, you can understand why I got angry.

“No, I don’t understand. Would you say Mr. Sterling, your former employer, is a nice man? Or pays you exceptionally well?”

He doesn’t need to be nice, he’s my boss. And it doesn’t make sense to pay me more than I’ll work for.

“Why would you get into a street brawl with employees of a person you don’t know because they are employees of a person you don’t know? You’re a personal assistant, not a best friend to Preston Sterling. So why did you really fight those other boys?”

You’ll never understand. Unpopular CEOs of unpopular companies have their biggest fans, not amongst stockholders, but amongst their secretaries, assistants, servants, maids and janitors. It doesn’t matter how the personal employer acts or treats you. If you’re going to be a mistreated assistant, you want to be the mistreated assistant to the richest and most powerful. It’s bad enough having this job, but no one wants to be a nobody to the poor or weak.

What Are We Thankful For?

2009-11-26T09:00:00.004-06:00

I hope everybody has a good Thanksgiving Day. I hope everyone has as good of a day as I ever wish anybody to have on any day (which is quite good). And if you're rooting for the same football teams as myself (Lions, Raiders, Giants), I hope your teams win.

However, I would also like to propose some notions that I would not suggest be discussed at the family dinner table. Nothing more vulgar than any thing previously read here, but as seen firsthand nothing quite kills family togetherness as abruptly (and loudly) as political controversy.

Thanksgiving is an American holiday. In fact, we could almost call it America Day (though a similar argument could be made for Independence Day, Memorial Day, Presidents' Day, Labor Day, Valentine's Day and, to a lesser extent, parent-teacher conferences). It's a complete celebration of American culture. The culture itself makes up the traditions. A dichotomy of cartoon characters and corporate mascots make up a parade sponsored by a department store and televised on no less than three TV networks. American football is as ingrained into the day; as is the joy, expectation and regret of eating too much. Then there are turkey sandwiches at night. And if we can keep the rampant and unconscionable consumerism from killing three people, then we as a country will have shown more restraint than last year's Black Friday.

American culture, I fear, is corporate culture. What is an "American" restaurant in other countries? McDonald's? What is an "American" restaurant in America? Chili's? This criticism is more appropriate to suburbs and small towns were nationalism is as boasted as it is unexamined. The melting pot has become coldly efficient. American culture is a gray goo of corporations, conformity and consistency. American culture should not include an Americanization process. Our culture should pride itself on diversity. That is American. Our history is made up of world cultures coming together, and I don't just mean in the grade-school-production-of-"The-First-Thanksgiving"-way. The cornerstone, hell, the whole foundation of America is built on equal freedom for anybody from anywhere in the world. We should be a collection of cultures, not one that appeals to the lowest common denominators of consumers. I don't want to believe cultural authenticity is a myth and I don't want to believe America is naturally face-less.

An American culture is based on our perceptions of the world from which we should be drawing our culture. However among much of America there is an indifference toward the global community at best and a cruel mockery at worst. The other countries are so incompetent at existing on their own, we still maintain over 750 bases in over 40 countries even after the Cold War, that's the logic, correct? Funny. Forgive me for not being convinced that the world has been more peaceful in the last 50 years thanks to this $600 billion-per-year endeavor.

Why are people more ready to consider themselves American citizens than world citizen? And why are those two different things? Why isn't there a collective responsibility to the world we live in? Aren't countries just arbitrary borders? Shouldn't I feel as connected to the 6.4 billion global people I don't know as the 300 million Americans I don't know? Why don't massive corporations believe stopping disease and starvation is profitable? Why does it cost leaders political capital?

I am thankful for more things than I care to list (most of which: family, friends and health). But that doesn't mean I'm done wishing for a better world. There haven't always been countries in the traditional sense we know and I believe a day will come when the notions of individual countries will change again. Maybe not in my lifetime, but they didn't get to space in Galileo's lifetime either (how's that for some ego-stroking?). In all sincerity, I would like to see a national change in Americanism and renewed perspectives on international organizations. I like being an American but I also know that just living in America doesn't make you a good American any more than standing in a garage makes you a car.There are times when we are 250 countries and there are times when we are one world. I believe the ReGeneration and the many generations after us will create, change, and unify an unprecedented global community.

And for that, I am thankful.

The November Skyscaper

2009-11-25T09:00:00.005-06:00

These are all novel ideas but none are the one I'm looking for.

I know lots of short stories but I know more shorter ones. Some are true stories, the others just happened in my life.

I was told to get a job so I went to the store but they were all out. I went to the store across the street but they had sold out weeks ago. In fact, no store in town was selling jobs. Now I have to go online to find one.

I saw an exceptionally hairy man on campus one day--though I suppose it could have been an even more exceptionally hairy woman. Nonetheless, he was walking with a slouch and seemed to move in a hurried gait. I thought perhaps he was Sasquatch. He was blurry and dodged behind immense shrubbery. Or maybe it was just foliage. I chased him down all afternoon. When he walked through mud it was easy to follow his footprints. When he walked on the sidewalk, it was much more difficult. Growing tired I decided to pull a raw steak out of my back pack and put it on the ground. Within moments, the man-like Sasquatch approached. He asked for my steak and I granted it to him. I asked him if he was the famous Sasquatch. He said no, he was the other Sasquatch.

I was learning to type once and asked my teacher why there were indents on letters "F" and "J". On second thought, I might have just called them "bumps." My teacher said they were there so that blind people could type. I then asked how would blind people read what they typed. She didn't know the answer. Whoever invented the computer really messed up.

I was told pain/pleasure is physical and renewable in the Muslim afterlife. If your skin burns off in hell, it will grow back and you will keep getting burned. Conversely, in heaven, virginity is physical and renewable. I suppose this means you will keep getting disappointed. Aside from that, I've never understood the appeal of 72 virgins. When not having sex, do you think they all just talk about Star Trek?

I wear red shirts when I go to Target and wait for other customers to ask me where the hose nozzles are. I then point them in the wrong direction and follow from a distance. When they don't find the hose nozzles, I laugh and run away.

I knew a man once who shot flies with his revolver. He used to design video games so he was a very good shot. In fact, I don't think he ever missed one fly. But he was brutal. If he only wounded a fly with the first shot he would then get out of his chair so that he could stand over the helpless bug and execute it at point-blank range. When I went to the man's house I saw bullet holes in his bookshelf, sofa, refrigerator, walls, floor and doors. I understand why he shot flies but I don't understand why he shot everything else.

Latantent - the act or description of fraudulent information being included with factual information in hopes of going unnoticed.

This story is a skyscraper because it is made up of dozens of stories.

Tom Gunner and Lincoln Revisited

2009-11-24T09:00:00.002-06:00

You know the first story of Tom Gunner and Lincoln
There were games with words and it left you thinkin’
This tale is stranger with a stranger, hope you don’t mind
But our heroes find themselves in the year nineteen ninety-nine

They mused and walked the ity-bity city
Just a two-man, problem-solving committee
Summer leaves left, fallers stayed to try
Like everyone else, they were asking why

You’re here for a problem, said a man with six strings
I am a master of all these crazy little things.
Name was Webster, he talked real fast
He had no future but a helluva past

Tom and Link knew the language, but he knew the words
Webster was a hawk in a world of birds
His bite had sting; his bark had bite
Didn’t matter if he was in the wrong or right

Why do we have a case? Asked Tom and Link
We all have problems said the man with a wink
Give me some change and I’ll give you some back
Ideas, not money, is what you lack

Internal, infernal rhyming is my game
Fighting all shame in the name of fame
Slacker Generation and a pop junk culture
Fights and death but no war for the soldier

I’ll stop spraying, start saying what game I’m playing
Its about old ideas, repackaged as new
Listen up close; don’t do as I do
Laugh, don’t pity this shitty little diddy

Two Mexican guys found themselves up north
Homeless and helpless on January fourth
They got lucky, couple blankets they found
Wrapped themselves up but couldn’t move around

Cut a hole in the middle; a pancho for each
Now they could move, it's the freedom of teach
Like you fellas, they didn’t seek glory
It’s the little wins that make a really good story

Prevent Y2K, maybe that’s why you’re here
Your problem is big but the answer ain’t clear
So you can’t help us out, said Link with no fears
No luck. Like a lot of solutions, yours will take ten years!

What am I Thinking?

2009-11-23T09:00:00.005-06:00

So I was surfing the web the other day when I wondered if people still say "surfing the web." Seems more like the kind of new age lingo that would have gone bust with the dot-coms in 2000. Anymore people say stuff like "stumbling"or "Facebooking" when referring to their cyber-based activities. Just then, Joey Shababado, my roommate, waltzed into the living room.

"Whatcha doing?" he asked.
"Scuttering on the internet."
"What?"
"Stumbling."
"Oh. That's cool" he emphatically responded. "Today in class I sat next to Rachael, not for any real reason but blah blah blah and blah. Also blah blah."

Hugely is a funny word. Something can be "hugely important" in substitute of "very important." But "huge" means "big." Something can't be "bigly important." Or maybe it can. The English language changes so much I doubt anybody even says "bigly" anymore. Oh wait, Joey Shababado was still talking.

"Yeah?" I muster.
"Yeah," he confirms before continuing. "It's like that movie 'Boat Trip,' you ever see that?"
"Hell no."
"Well... in the movie two guys blah blah, blah blah, blah blah. Then Cuba Gooding, Jr., throws up on Vivica A. Fox and all blah blah blah. "

And what's the deal with that one statue? I think it's called "St. Wenceslas Riding a Dead Horse." That monument, or whatever, doesn't make any sense. Jeez. Europe sure has a lot of problems. I should just tell people I've been to Europe, it's not like they can prove I haven't been there. And pictures aren't bigly important. Everybody wins. Uh oh. Joey Shababado stopped talking.

"That's life for you, isn't it?" I suggest.
"Yeah. No kidding. Say, thanks for listening to me."
"Yeah, no problem."
"Talk to you later, man."

He went back into his room. I stayed on the computer, exuttering the internet. I have to stop making up these ornate, epigrammatic and latantent words.

I'm Going Ape For...

2009-11-22T09:00:00.001-06:00

THE PLANET OF THE APES (1968).

This review contains spoilers: the planet is Earth.

The original PLANET OF THE APES is arguably the best classic movie that people don’t watch anymore. Part of the blame is on the cataclysmic amount of parodies, all deriving from the same iconic, though over-emphasized, ending scene. The twist is not the whole movie, nor even in the best 5 moments. Like THE SIXTH SENSE, audiences have turned against a great movie because the ending made a monkey out of them. Guess what? There is a lot more to the movies than the endings. Also, part of the blame is on Tim Burton, who showed audiences a movie about a bunch of monkey business and nothing more. No, the 1968 film is incredible and I mean that in the least sarcastic way possible because when a movie’s flaws contribute to its greatness, that’s a pretty damn good movie.

The film starts off with Charlton Heston smoking a cigar in his spaceship while contemplating the vanity and violence that plagues mankind (completely disregarding that a global war was funding the space race that made his inter-stellar voyage possible). Regardless, his mentality is not applauded by the movie as he is then put in a world of like-minded individuals who hate humanity as much as himself. This is the self-destructive story of a misanthrope man vs. a misanthrope society. When this is the case in life, everyone is hurt. Lesson to viewers: lighten up. This message has since been lost on audiences over the last twenty years but should come back with a hopeful vengeance.

Then our heroes crash land on the planet--killing one of four astronauts--and travel around the desert landscape to a monotonous, eerie death march of blind exploration. Great moments ensue (including the best gay skinny dipping this side of ALEXANDER), two more ‘nauts drop and Heston becomes a temporary mute captive.

Before Heston regains his ability to swear, though never losing his ability to be belligerent, the movie hits upon another great concept relevant pre-moon landing and 40 years after the famous mooning. The monkeys in charge do not explore “The Forbidden Zone” because there is “nothing out there.” The undertone here is that wasting your time and resources is “forbidden.” Regarding space travel, this is the obvious counter-argument to going to Mars--or even the Moon again. There can be no discovery, no advancement at all, without exploration. But free your mind from spatial exploration. This is about education and cultural diversity. Exploring sciences and cultures lead to discoveries. Isolating oneself in anyway is never acceptable.

Shortly after, Heston vocally suggests the monkeys stop manhandling him and is put on trial, alongside his two staunch owners. This monkey trial has shades of the McCarthy communist hearings, as people are being tried for their beliefs rather than any actual crime, but the more overt message is the more appropriate one; and that’s the concept of “scientific heresy.” The science of Heston naturally learning to speak flies in the face of ancient, unalienable, scrolls. These scrolls, unlike science’s “theories,” are fact and allow any evidence put forth to be “contestable.” Note: Dr. Zaius asserts that science and religion are not in conflict with each other, but rather science is wrong until it agrees with religion. Hauntingly realistic, Zaius goes on to echo the sentiment that it is religion--not science--that holds together society. His views are so relevant and damned disagreeable that you want to choke your TV.

So science is found guilty of being secular and the apes of religion are shown to be apes of wrath by sentencing Heston to a fate rivaled only by his role in THE OMEGA MAN. Then somehow, Heston finds shaving cream, shaves, and helps uncover human fossils, including Senator Robert Byrd (zing!). Monkeys with guns show up, start some gorilla warfare and everybody ends up with a gun to their head—just how Heston likes it. Eventually Heston is freed but new-found knowledge is silenced and destroyed (also implying that the heroes, Cornelius, Zira and Lucius, are executed off-screen).

And as for the ending, I believe it was actually a parody itself, as the line “You blew it up! Damn you! Damn you all to hell!” is identical to the profanity-riddled ending of GONE WITH THE WIND. I guess I just really want to clarify that some of the most imperative movies to our time were actually made for another time. I don’t mean this as a smear against modern films, but rather an applaudment of classic films deserving of their classic status. Maybe a thousand monkeys at a thousand typewriters could eventually produce a movie of this quality, but I highly doubt it. Unless they just did.

NFL Predictions: Week Eleven

2009-11-21T09:00:00.004-06:00

Sorry I missed last week, but more important issues arose. On a season scale, I'm still going with New Orleans to win the NFC but am more aghast by the Bengals (I thought they had been run out of Cincinnati years ago!). Also, Peyton Manning for MVP.

Indianapolis at Baltimore (even)
Ever notice how in ten years, the Colts have never needed a "rebuilding" year? Manning could elevate the play of a team made up entirely of second-graders--as is getting damn close if the Colts can't have 206 healed bones in the backfield. I still don't think the Colts are strong enough as a team to win the Superbowl but they are strong enough to beat Baltimore. I would not have said that three weeks ago. Or two weeks ago. In fact, Baltimore's watered-down win against Cleveland on Monday hurt them even more in my eyes. The Ravens are going to need to score more than 16 points on the Colts to win this game. I don't think the Colts will go undefeated but I'm also tired of overselling the Ravens. Colts win.

Atlanta at New York (Giants) (-6.5)
Here's two teams I've lost a lot of hypothetical money on. In fact these teams are incredibly equal at every position and come from equal divisions (the NFC East can jump off a bridge). I suppose most people are even considering this game to be on a neutral field after the Giants' 2-2 home record. Problem is: it's not. It's a grass field 1000 miles north of the Falcons' indoor, bouncy rubber field. Also, the Falcons get collectively car sick as seen with their 1-4 road record. Maybe Matt Ryan needs to learn some fun road games or needs to stop feeding the team truckstop sandwiches. Whatever they do, they need to do it fast to save their season because the Giants are just competent enough to win this game with some dignity. Giants cover.

San Diego at Denver (even)
Another game Vegas odd-makers are considering a toss up. But I called it, Denver found away to completely blow another division title that was in their frosty little hands. I made the prediction and Denver has now dropped 3 in a row. Meanwhile the Chargers remembered they are a talented football team and won 4 in a row. Three weeks ago, the spread would have been seven points for Denver. Three weeks ago, everyone was high on Coach Josh McDaniel's charisma. If this was week one, the spread would have been seven in the Chargers favor. Both teams are 6-3. Oh god! We've traveled back in time to Week One! Chargers win.

New York (Jets) at New England (-10.5)
The Jets beat the Patriots earlier this year but since then the Jets have dropped 5 of 6 and the Patriots showed flashes of their 18-1 year. Belicheck made the wrong 4th quarter call against the Colts last Sunday and has something to prove because the Patriots aren't weak in any on-field personnel. I'd expect Belicheck to be as aggressive as ever and really "out-coach" Rex Ryan; in the way that I would get "out-coached" in a 1-on-1 basketball game with Lebron James. The Patriots'll pound the Jets so hard into the ground they just might strike oil. Look more for a score of 35-10. Or 45-3 if the paperboy threw Belicheck's Sunday read into the birdbath again. Patriots cover.

Bound Around Town

2009-11-20T09:00:00.003-06:00

I am riding the bus and finding myself getting pissed every time the bus stops at a stop. Only one person gets on. I look ahead and see the next stop is only a block away. These stops should be consolidated. I can’t believe there is one person standing at the next stop. They could have walked over to the first stop and then the bus wouldn’t have to stop the second time, assuming nobody wanted off—and even if they did, they could get off at the first stop. I’ve got places to be. Step on the gas bus driver. Put a jalapeno in the tailpipe and let’s go! No, don’t stop. That person needs to walk anyway. I could walk faster than this. I won’t. But I could. I watch the one person get off and he almost trips. Such incompetence.

I pray that nobody saw me trip off the bus but somehow I know somebody did. Whatever. I don’t care about being clumsy. That’s who I am. Unless that’s why she left me. It’d make sense in the way that I can’t figure out any other reason she’d stop loving me. I feel so melodramatic, which makes me more melodramatic. I am a walking cliché. I hate when I think I’m in a movie when I’m just living life. I don't want to be lonely but I don't want to ever fall in love again. Love isn't rational and you can't trust something that's not rational. Just then I see a guy standing alongside the road; I wonder if he knows he’s not at a bus stop?

My roommate is always late. Here I am freezing my ass off on the street curb and he can’t drive ten blocks in as many minutes. Probably got lost. I answer my phone. You’re on your way? No kidding. I hang up. I need a drink and I need one bad. Not as badly as I need ten though. Hell, this might be a twenty-night. I’ve had a couple of those, I think. I’ve always been under the impression that anyone who doesn’t like college life is just too sober. We’re young, we’re meant to have as much fun as possible. And we usually do; at least when our friends pick us up when they say they will and not twenty minutes later. I see my roommate and flag him down.

Is that guy waving at me? No wait, it was for the car; good thing I didn't wave back. He's probably going to be blasted tonight. Good for him. I don’t know what I’m doing tonight. And that’s disappointing. I really need to read “Vacation” by Deb Olin Whatever but the damn library said the book was declared lost. Okay fine. But it was declared lost in February 1988! It was lost before I was born. At what point does the library admit the book is gone and get a new one? Calm down. I need to be cool. But now I know I can’t do my homework tonight and that’s disappointing. Maybe it’s already night. What time is it? I pull out my cell phone. Two pennies drop on the ground. Two pennies? Not worth it. I keep walking.

Two pennies? Excellent. It’s not a fortune, but now I have a buck seventy-eight. More than enough for a cheeseburger. That’s like four foods from the food pyramid. Cheese is one of the pillars of the pyramid, right? Wait. What pyramid has pillars? The system don't make a lick of sense. And definitely not a dollar and seventy-eight cents. I’m probably lucky they don’t sell seventy-eight cent lottery tickets. Or do they? And what the hell is that smell?

And what the hell is that smell? Does that lady think it's me? She shot me the stink-eye. What’s wrong with this world? Should have I said sorry? I don't smell; and I’m always saying sorry. I have to stop doing that. Starting tomorrow, because I’m definitely going to be saying sorry within the hour. Our relationship just isn’t working. I can’t control how I feel but I’m tired of feeling this way. I need a change in my life. Maybe it’s a change for the better, maybe not; but it’s a change. We’re too similar to be a couple but I hope we can stay friends. I just need somebody who isn’t like me, or maybe nobody at all. My life isn't where it should be. I envy that guy over there at the bus stop. There’s somebody who doesn’t give a shit about anything.

I think I missed the bus. I was a little late but aren’t buses usually a little late? Doesn’t really matter. I could wait here for the next twenty-four if I had to. I won’t. But I could. Nobody is expecting me anywhere. I see so many people it’s hard to image what they’re all thinking. Where they’re all going. It’s impossible. Sad really. Really sad if nobody wonders what I’m thinking. I should think something clever in case someone can read my thoughts. Shit. I can’t think of anything. I’m lonely, I’m sorry. If the city was my house I’d be under house arrest. That’s stupid. Okay, what if I knew this was my last twenty-four hours of loneliness? What if the entire rest of my life, I’d be with people? What would I do for my last day of solitude? The answer to that is what I am going to do today. Just as soon as the bus gets here.

My Process

2009-11-19T09:00:00.002-06:00

A conceptual artist name Sol Lewitt wrote that "Perception of ideas leads to new ideas." I really hope he's right because I intend to struggle with my perception of ideas for some time.

Unable to think of a poetic or humorous transition, I'll just say Emily Dickinson is credited with writing over 1,700 poems. Most of these poems are between 8 and 16 lines. Is this impressive? Is she an impressive poet? These are two different answers. And I believe this because it is unfair to say a piece of work has more artistic value given its process, I think. Instead of 20th century literature, let's look at some movies.

Some of the greatest reviewed movies of all time were the most plagued by difficulties. Did the films become great because of their process? Or despite their process? Of course some difficulties indicate the movie is just bad (I'm looking at you WATCHMEN). If a movie was incredibly difficult or easy to make, does that even slightly alter your opinion about said movie? Or how about this: Separated by less than a year, THE MATRIX had the same production budget as WHAT WOMEN WANT.

That's right:
these two films cost the exact same
\/

Does that make either movie more or less impressive? I'm going to cut out a lot of what I wanted to say to just hit the conclusion. Art can be impressive in process and in conclusion. A lot of conceptual and performance art is dedicated to the process, I think. But I would also say many movies are more dedicated to the process than conclusion. Many of the most popular movies are the most expensive. They are the most expensive because they are dedicated to the process of having realistic unreal elements (whether that be dragons, robots or A-list actors). But you can not buy originality, emotion or cerebral interest.

If a left-handed Da Vinci painted the Mona Lisa right-handed, would you like it more?

Now if I were to write 365 short stories in one year, would that be more impressive than 200 equally good stories? Or 50? Or 10? Of course. Not writing a story doesn't help anybody. But on a side-by-side comparison the 365 stories are not individually as good as the 10. Perhaps the 365 stories bundled together speak stronger as one voice, as one piece; but I fear they are all only seen as one. The stories are like people; they don't see themselves as a bundle, they are individuals. Some may be related through over-lapping characters, but they should be able to stand alone.

And let me answer many questions I posed earlier: artistically, I only care about the process of art when it affects the conclusion. Process can be interesting in itself (ex: if a movie cost $500 million, that'd be interesting) but it speaks nothing of the movie or other artwork.

Process without meaning is nothing and I see it all around me, high budget or no. A technical or physical achievement does not add artistic value. Some people create so they can say they created. This is no different than saying, "the only absolute in the world is that this is the only absolute in the world." Congratulations, you have contributed nothing.

I am not going to write 365 stories, or 365 poems or blogs. I will not write a novel of the sake of writing a 500-page story. I will not write a feature-length script for the sake of saying I've now written twelve of them. I will not write when I have nothing to say. I hope the days will continue, but I am making the promise now, I will only write when I have words worth being read...and let that be my process.

Putting the Fun back in Fiction

Letter to the Editor: Part Two

Heavy Drinking, Not Thinking

Conversations of the Week

For the Love Of!

Where I At

Underrated Classics: Sullivan's Travels

A Strange Realization

Local Man Becoming Philosophical

Note about the Author

Just Might Stand Up

The Anthology

Last Night

A Spirited Defense for Mass Ideas

Selling the Military Down the River

I Know It When I See It

Stand Up Material

The New Best

Placeholders

And the Best Picture is...

Playing With Art

NFL Predictions: Superbowl Weekend

Ships are Sinking

Alienation in Politics

Echelons of Society

Frodo: The True Story of Our Trip to Mordor--Part Three: I Feel Like Death

Frodo: The True Story of Our Trip to Mordor--Part Two: What Have We Done?

Frodo: The True Story of Our Trip to Mordor--Part One: Let's Do This!

NFL Predictions: Probowl Weekend

Having Faith

The January Skyscraper

American Beauty for the ReGeneration

Go Bender, Go Bender, Go Bender

"My" "Perfect" "Day"

Sometimes Life (continues)

NFL Predictions: Championship Weekend

The Times I Live In

Nick Rundowns Some Movies

She Can Never Know

Lighting a Fire Under HBO

Like Holding Water

Hours of Commentary

NFL Predictions: Divisional Weekend

Travel Log Blog: Episode Two: Utah's Plane and Kansas Two

Travel Log Blog: Episode One: There Are No Stars in L.A.

Movies For Chuckles

Curing Jackson Blair: bp9

Curing Jackson Blair: bp8

Curing Jackson Blair: bp7

NFL Predictions: Wildcard Weekend

Please Note This

An Essay on the Martian Book

The Cornerstone of Legos

Ender's Other Game

You Can See Me

The Middle Name Child

Cut Short

Direction of the Deal

Resolutions and New Beginnings

You Are Here

The December Skyscraper

"Funny People" are Where You Find Them

Sum of Human Knowledge

Latenight Breakfast

Is He Real?

Curing Jackson Blair: bp6

Curing Jackson Blair: bp5

Curing Jackson Blair: bp4

Dignity Gone the Way of the Dodo

Curing Jackson Blair: bp3

Curing Jackson Blair: bp2

Curing Jackson Blair: bp1

I'm Thinking About Everything and You

Sometimes Life (continues)

End the War

The Darker Image

I Didn't Squeak

NFL Predictions: Week Fourteen

When Fire Burns White

Too Much Water in the Desert