I tossed the box down on the desk, sat down in my chair, and leaned back. Not as comfortable as before, and I had a feeling that nap was going to be all the shut-eye for me. I rubbed my face and wrapped my hands around my head, hoping I'd be spared this ongoing nuissance by some greater intervention. Unfortunately, there'd been no indication of any higher order to this point; why now should there suddenly appear some divine source. Shit. Let's move fate forward on our own then.
The box wasn't that heavy but most of the important things in the world were written on pieces of paper, so that didn't mean anything. I unwrapped the bow and lifted off the lid. Pink tissue paper. Nice. Must be my birthday. Underneath all the fluff and ceremony was something cold, impersonal, and sensitive. A file folder, no official markings and unhelpfully titled "Rothschild, Donald," was filled with the kinds of things that get prying eyes in trouble: financial statements, printed emails, phone records, banking transactions. I closed it quickly and tossed it back in the box. I didn't want to see anything I couldn't unsee. Besides, I was hungry. I grabbed the phone number, slid it inside the folder, put the lid back on, and retied the bow. I didn't have a great hiding place so the lock drawer would have to do, but I wasn't going far. Eggs were just across the street.
* * * *
Mikey's was a dump, but always busy for early risers looking for a hard start to a long day. I grabbed a booth in the corner, away from the bustle of either businessmen starting their day before the world can spin too far ahead, or shift workers on either side of a twelve.
"What'll it be, hon."
These broads all look the same. Big hair, shrill voice, last thing you want to see or hear at this time of day.
"Hash and scrambled, side sausage, black coffee. And today's newsrag if you have one yet."
"Sure, hon."
"And tell Mikey I want to see him."
"He's cookin', won't be seein' nobody fo a while."
"Fine."
Wear some more makeup. I looked out the window, realizing again how little the rest of the city's done since last night, how little change their lives had been put through. Now I had even more valuable information I didn't want, a file full of background information tracking a dirty CEO's shopping habits. That number too, maybe I'd call it later and see what happens. From a payphone, I had to remind myself. Damn. Head was hurting again. What was that other thing Skinny was talking about? Some car company?
"Coffee and paper, hon. Mikey'll be out in a minute."
"Good."
Ah, that was better. Shot of black adrenaline, a little harsh but always welcome this early. I unfolded the front page and stared at the world, all laid out in black and white for me. The Legacy Foundation, that was it. Skinny proved to be at least that useful, but with all the clutter in my mind it was like handing me a flashlight with no batteries in a pitch black room; might do some good later, but for now it was just one more thing to carry around.
"Don't waste my papers, you never read them anyways."
"Mornin' Mikey."
Mikey never looked happy to see me, but he really looked uncomfortable today. He was a guy better suited to hiding in the kitchen, both in looks and termperment. They say never trust a skinny chef but when you're faced with the alternative, in this case, all three hundred pounds of alternative, it'll make you think twice. But I come to this dive for two things, the eggs and the information, and both went through the sour-face covered in breakfast grease that was already impatient.
"So, what, missing dog? Wife wants to know which one of her friends he's doin'? Case of the haunted house?"
Not all shirt and tie jobs get respect.
"Heard anything about a missing girl, since yesterday evening, might be someone important?"
"No. Who is it?"
"No name. Came to see me yesterday and it was communicated to me in a way that I believed that she's since gone missing. Know anything?"
"Just because you can't find her doesn't mean she's missing."
He was going on the offensive a little early. A good sign.
"Two guys came to see me last night. A big one and a skinny one. They seemed sure that this girl wasn't going to be around anymore."
"Sounds like solid sources. Case closed."
Mikey got up to leave. That wouldn't do. I liked visiting him during rushes, no matter what information had drifted his way, what sensitive names he had come across, his top priority was always his diner. His first attempts to leave always signalled that some rushed info would come out of his mouth pretty soon. Interesting, though. He tried to leave pretty early this time.
"Sit down. I just want to know what you know because, well, if you know anything it can't be that important."
"They'll stop eating here if they feel threatened."
"Nah, this place is perfect for upscale clients like them. They can't afford anywhere else. Talk."
Mikey looked around and saw the lineup at the door. He started whispering quickly.
"Look, some of 'em were in last night, coming and going. Lots of drinking, got all rowdy but more than usual. Yelling, at each other, something about a job and who'd have to do what. I couldn't really tell because my Spanish is shit, but it sounded like a couple of them drew the short end of the straw."
"Which ones."
"Couldn't tell, like I said, they were all drinking and yelling so you couldn't tell who was mad at who. It wasn't much different from other nights, except for one thing. One of 'em left something on their seat, a picture, some broad who looked familiar. I made the girl throw it out but I pulled it from the garbage later on, you know, just in case."
"Let's have a look."
"I don't think so. If you get it and start picking away it'll get traced back here. If I keep it, things stay quiet and this place doesn't attract any more information than it already does."
"It won't come back to you. Hand it over, I'm not working any case. Just tying up a loose end."
"You've got loose ends all over town. I don't want this one tying off one of the bigger ones."
Mikey was trying my patience, he was eager enough to spill but when it came to giving me anything useful he was stonewalling.
"Listen, it might be nothing. One could have nothing to do with the other, I just want to know for sure."
"Forget it, it's better if I keep it, I don't want anymore shit coming around here."
Asshole. I leaned towards him.
"Give me the picture right now, you fat piece of shit. If those assholes that were here last night had some girl's picture then that girl probably didn't have a good night, and whether it's the one I'm looking for or not shouldn't matter. You're a spineless fuck for not going to the police with this, but keeping it from me means that this girl, whoever she is, has no chance at all."
"Sanctimonious prick, you should measure the lives you saved against the ones you've wrecked before you walk the high ground with me."
"Um, hash and eggs, side sausage?"
She looked uncomfortable, which was strange since I assumed every day went by with at least one person threatening her boss. Mikey got up, this time for good.
"Forget it," he said. "I'm not getting involved and I don't want to know."
The waitress looked alarmed. She glanced at me then at Mikey's departing back. She set the plate down and left quickly.
"Yeah," I said to myself, "Nobody does."
Monday, November 17, 2008
Friday, November 07, 2008
Sunrise of last resorts
There was too much sun shining through the streets for my liking. It'd been a long walk back from downtown, and even from the rear seat of my empty subway car I was feeling pretty exposed. Too much to think about, and yet for a private investigator I had very little information. A brown-haired broad, daughter of Abraham Marley, a guy I'd never met whose partner leased his office overnight to a couple of low-level street archetypes. And this phone number, which wasn't even current, had only been a mild curiosity in my desk drawer until it beat me over the head, and the rest of me, with its apparent importance. That headache wasn't getting any better either, the kind only a Jack and a broad can give you, or take away. That was the plan now, as the train slowed to a stop. Few more blocks back to the office and I'd figure out the next move, unless it'd already been figured out for me.
* * * *
I closed and locked the door, hung up my jacket, and drew the blinds closed. Without a steady rain to soothe my mind it was better being in the dark; what did I want with an interrogation lamp from another morning sun come too soon. This was softest my chair had ever felt, a hard plastic with only a thin cushion but it felt like a Serta after a night that long. I closed my eyes and I tried to stir the facts together, but all I was getting was a half-baked mess. I couldn't concentrate at all, it was like trying to keep water from going down the drain with your bare hands. There was nothing that made me want to stay involved either, no money down, no real case and, it seemed, no more client. That was a thought I could cling to, that there didn't seem to be any reason to stay involved in this mess. I sighed. So was this thing over?
The number. Right. Skinny sure seemed to think I knew something, and even if I didn't it sure seemed like I had something whose importance I should know. I leaned forward and opened the top drawer. I only kept three things in that drawer and each of them helped me feel better in a different way. Now, though, it also had a piece of paper that only made me feel worse. I stared at the open drawer, wondering if I should just get rid of it. Shit. I reached in and pulled out my glass and a bottle. Jack never did give good advice and I didn't want to hear it when he spoke, but I always felt better after listening for a while. It's been along night when the first one goes down that easy, and I was pouring a second before the bite hit my empty stomach. That's a pang Jack only hits you with in the early morning, a reminder that you shouldn't call on him with a full day's work still ahead. I listened and held back on the second round. I pulled out the piece of paper with the phone number on it and tossed it on the desk. Leaning back on the chair and holding my glass, I stared at it, hoping it would tell me what it wanted. If it was talking it was doing it pretty quietly and my attention was drifting into blackness. Hell with it, I thought, there's no money down.
A knock at the door, in my dreams at first but eventually on my office door. The fog cleared and I waited to see if it would mercifully leave. Mercy wasn't in the cards, and more knocking had me reach into my drawer for some backup. I flicked the safety off but waited in my chair, staring at the door and daring it to open. Silence. I waited a little longer to be sure, finished my drink, and walked to the door. Nobody in sight through the peephole, so I unlocked the door, opened it a crack, and eyed the empty hallway. Empty, except for a white box tied with a red bow. Shit. I checked the hall again, nobody, and brought the box inside and locked the door. Looks like a deposit was going to be put down after all. Shit.
* * * *
I closed and locked the door, hung up my jacket, and drew the blinds closed. Without a steady rain to soothe my mind it was better being in the dark; what did I want with an interrogation lamp from another morning sun come too soon. This was softest my chair had ever felt, a hard plastic with only a thin cushion but it felt like a Serta after a night that long. I closed my eyes and I tried to stir the facts together, but all I was getting was a half-baked mess. I couldn't concentrate at all, it was like trying to keep water from going down the drain with your bare hands. There was nothing that made me want to stay involved either, no money down, no real case and, it seemed, no more client. That was a thought I could cling to, that there didn't seem to be any reason to stay involved in this mess. I sighed. So was this thing over?
The number. Right. Skinny sure seemed to think I knew something, and even if I didn't it sure seemed like I had something whose importance I should know. I leaned forward and opened the top drawer. I only kept three things in that drawer and each of them helped me feel better in a different way. Now, though, it also had a piece of paper that only made me feel worse. I stared at the open drawer, wondering if I should just get rid of it. Shit. I reached in and pulled out my glass and a bottle. Jack never did give good advice and I didn't want to hear it when he spoke, but I always felt better after listening for a while. It's been along night when the first one goes down that easy, and I was pouring a second before the bite hit my empty stomach. That's a pang Jack only hits you with in the early morning, a reminder that you shouldn't call on him with a full day's work still ahead. I listened and held back on the second round. I pulled out the piece of paper with the phone number on it and tossed it on the desk. Leaning back on the chair and holding my glass, I stared at it, hoping it would tell me what it wanted. If it was talking it was doing it pretty quietly and my attention was drifting into blackness. Hell with it, I thought, there's no money down.
A knock at the door, in my dreams at first but eventually on my office door. The fog cleared and I waited to see if it would mercifully leave. Mercy wasn't in the cards, and more knocking had me reach into my drawer for some backup. I flicked the safety off but waited in my chair, staring at the door and daring it to open. Silence. I waited a little longer to be sure, finished my drink, and walked to the door. Nobody in sight through the peephole, so I unlocked the door, opened it a crack, and eyed the empty hallway. Empty, except for a white box tied with a red bow. Shit. I checked the hall again, nobody, and brought the box inside and locked the door. Looks like a deposit was going to be put down after all. Shit.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Fair lady, I found you
No new chapter yet, first I have to explain why I couldn't write anything in the last month and whatever. I really expected that $700 billion buyout to go through in the U.S. so I'd have some funding for this and when it didn't, well, I just collapsed on into myself like a dying star. That and Telus refused to acknowledge the existence of our new place; to them we lived not in a basement suite of a forty-year house full of phone jacks and ethernet ports all over the damn place but at the Nexus of the Universe, a place between time and space where matter is crushed by massive amounts of gravity. It's like that Family Guy where Peter discovers his house isn't on the map and he secedes from the United States. Except, like I said, our domicile simply wasn't there at ALL.
Undeterred (or rather, EXTREMELY deterred, since it took them a month to figure out that this was the reason none of their orders were going through), Telus rose up to smite the pagans by showing the true depths of its divine power. When all seemed lost, when even the most faithful began losing hope and images of a false prophet (Shaw) began to arise it was Telus, in a miraculous display of invention, who broke the Law of Conservation of Mass and created our house out of nothingness. Tears welled up from the tired, the poor and the huddled masses as they saw, for the first time, a shocking display of the last horse finally crossing the finishing line and figuring out the problem. It then came to pass that having been blessed with existence, the House of Forehand would be granted the services for which they had prayed. And it was good to go.
The phone call begat the appointment. The appointment begat an entire shift missed without anyone's ass showing up. The entire shift missed begat an angry phone call and a $70 credit. The angry phone call begat a technician. The technician begat a phone line. The phone line (ever read the Bible? This is how it goes, okay?) begat another appointment two weeks later. The second appointment begat Forehand showing up late for work and angering his boss, but it also begat a most rewarding bounty: Internets, in all it glory (most of it anyway, it's only ADSL), along with HD Television (sort of, it's pretty compressed since it has to go through a phone line), a Harmony universal remote control (oh no, I'm happy about that. Those things are fucking sweet), and once again access granted to my virtual social network. And it was good to go.
Undeterred (or rather, EXTREMELY deterred, since it took them a month to figure out that this was the reason none of their orders were going through), Telus rose up to smite the pagans by showing the true depths of its divine power. When all seemed lost, when even the most faithful began losing hope and images of a false prophet (Shaw) began to arise it was Telus, in a miraculous display of invention, who broke the Law of Conservation of Mass and created our house out of nothingness. Tears welled up from the tired, the poor and the huddled masses as they saw, for the first time, a shocking display of the last horse finally crossing the finishing line and figuring out the problem. It then came to pass that having been blessed with existence, the House of Forehand would be granted the services for which they had prayed. And it was good to go.
The phone call begat the appointment. The appointment begat an entire shift missed without anyone's ass showing up. The entire shift missed begat an angry phone call and a $70 credit. The angry phone call begat a technician. The technician begat a phone line. The phone line (ever read the Bible? This is how it goes, okay?) begat another appointment two weeks later. The second appointment begat Forehand showing up late for work and angering his boss, but it also begat a most rewarding bounty: Internets, in all it glory (most of it anyway, it's only ADSL), along with HD Television (sort of, it's pretty compressed since it has to go through a phone line), a Harmony universal remote control (oh no, I'm happy about that. Those things are fucking sweet), and once again access granted to my virtual social network. And it was good to go.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Morning too soon
"What's that, some kind of country club trust-fund literary club?"
"Yeah, that's what they are. And they all drive Subaru Legacies, you big idiot."
I didn't care for his tone, so I drove the butt-end of the pistol into his injured foot. Skinny's face scrunched up in pain, but only a whimper escaped his thin lips. He was getting tired, energy dropping. I needed to speed things up.
"The broad didn't tell me anything, she tried to send me on a bogus missing person case. I told her not to waste my time and she left. That's all. Tell your little club to leave me the fuck alone. Savvy?"
Skinny looked at me and shook his head. His breath was becoming more rushed.
"Not good enough. They'll keep coming, she knew something pretty important and they don't want it getting out. If there's even a chance somebody else knows, they'll take any and all steps to protect it."
"What did she know."
"No idea."
No surprise there. These guys were pretty low-level and if this secret was even half-way important they wouldn't know much. But I wasn't going to deal with wave after wave of thugs over something I didn't know. Now that I knew what they were after, and was sure I didn't have anything to offer them, it was time to get out. Better keep that number around though, in case something ever came up. Where'd I leave that anyways? Right, back at the office. Jesus it was getting late, I could see the first glimpse of sunrise off in the distance. Skinny was looking pretty worked over, that might come back to haunt me. Wouldn't be the first time, and if these guys were really going to keep coming, at least I'd given them a good reason. Moving Muscles' body was reason enough to be mad at me. Speaking which...
"Where are we, whose office is this."
"Don't know exactly. It's just a place we use." Skinny was getting more helpful all the time, too bad he was on the verge of passing out. It was also too bad he knew so little, though a guy who knows more doesn't usually find himself tied to chairs. I got up, tucked the gun into my pocket, and started to leave. Skinny propped himself up.
"What, you're leaving me here?"
"Someone'll find you."
"No wait, come-"
I closed the office door and looked around for an elevator. Damn. Nothing. I headed towards the stairway and took a quick look back. There was a name on the door.
Donald Rothschild III, CEO.
"Yeah, that's what they are. And they all drive Subaru Legacies, you big idiot."
I didn't care for his tone, so I drove the butt-end of the pistol into his injured foot. Skinny's face scrunched up in pain, but only a whimper escaped his thin lips. He was getting tired, energy dropping. I needed to speed things up.
"The broad didn't tell me anything, she tried to send me on a bogus missing person case. I told her not to waste my time and she left. That's all. Tell your little club to leave me the fuck alone. Savvy?"
Skinny looked at me and shook his head. His breath was becoming more rushed.
"Not good enough. They'll keep coming, she knew something pretty important and they don't want it getting out. If there's even a chance somebody else knows, they'll take any and all steps to protect it."
"What did she know."
"No idea."
No surprise there. These guys were pretty low-level and if this secret was even half-way important they wouldn't know much. But I wasn't going to deal with wave after wave of thugs over something I didn't know. Now that I knew what they were after, and was sure I didn't have anything to offer them, it was time to get out. Better keep that number around though, in case something ever came up. Where'd I leave that anyways? Right, back at the office. Jesus it was getting late, I could see the first glimpse of sunrise off in the distance. Skinny was looking pretty worked over, that might come back to haunt me. Wouldn't be the first time, and if these guys were really going to keep coming, at least I'd given them a good reason. Moving Muscles' body was reason enough to be mad at me. Speaking which...
"Where are we, whose office is this."
"Don't know exactly. It's just a place we use." Skinny was getting more helpful all the time, too bad he was on the verge of passing out. It was also too bad he knew so little, though a guy who knows more doesn't usually find himself tied to chairs. I got up, tucked the gun into my pocket, and started to leave. Skinny propped himself up.
"What, you're leaving me here?"
"Someone'll find you."
"No wait, come-"
I closed the office door and looked around for an elevator. Damn. Nothing. I headed towards the stairway and took a quick look back. There was a name on the door.
Donald Rothschild III, CEO.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
A stiff drink
I kicked my legs straight up, bringing the chair upwards and into Muscles' hand, the one holding the wrench. I brought my legs to my chest and drove them, and the chair, up into his chest then kicked up to catch his chin. Not much chin on this one as he went down hard. Skinny was fumbling in the desk, trying to find something better than a tool I figured, so I hurried my hands out of the tape and untied my legs. I grabbed the wrench off the cold floor, walked over to Skinny, and drove it into his temple. Good timing too, he'd found something better. I pulled it out of his limp hand, clicked the safety back on, and tucked it in my pocket. Those things can be useful.
Skinny protested little as I hauled him up, tied his hands and feet, and sat him up on the ledge in front of the window. He'd probably have something to say about it when he woke up, but with some persuasion the only talking he'd do would be the kind I wanted to hear. Muscles, even with the weak chin, wasn't going to be moved so I rolled him up against the opposite wall. I set the wrench on the desk, straightened my tie, and started checking out the cabinet in the corner. The smile hurt my swollen cheek but it was worth it: a twenty-year single malt and a clean glass. Things were looking up.
Skinny's eyes rolled open. It took a while for him to figure out where he was, and would take him longer to figure out how things had gone so wrong.
"Hi there."
He looked up at me, sitting on my chair, gun in one hand and a reload on the rocks in the other.
"Let's have a chat, eh?"
He said nothing, and looked over at Muscles.
"He won't be moving for a while. Just you and me."
Skinny's eyes had no expression, a blank slate that I figured I needed to write a script on . Something with emotion, something maybe dark. It's best to let your creativity take over.
"It's late and I'm tired, so let's keep this short. What's the deal here?"
Still a blank white canvas. Sometimes getting started is the hardest part of writing anything.
"Too complicated, I see. Let's try this. Who are you, who's your friend, why do you care about the girl?"
The best way to start, even if you don't know where you're going, is just to write something, anything, that'll get things moving. I clicked the safety off the gun.
"Come on fella, let's hear something."
Oh hell, I'll edit the thing later.
"FUCK!!!!" yelled Skinny as the bullet went through his shoe and into his foot. No loss on the shoe, but any more favors and he might not think I was serious.
"If you still want to hobble home tonight I'll need something more specific."
"You pathetic piece of fucking shit! You don't have any fucking clue what you're getting yourself into!"
"Usually don't. Talk."
Skinny tried to smile, but it was a struggle. His breath was fast now, heart pounding away like it was opening at a jazz club. He'd drenched his suit in sweat too, which was like spilling coffee on an old newspaper. Normally it would be a problem, but in this case...
"You'll be lucky to live another day after what you've done tonight, if you think this is going away you're in for a fucking surprise."
Skinny's eyes looked past me for a split second. I whirled around to find Muscles up and about to bring that wrench down, but he quickly changed his mind. Or would've, if he had one. My own arm was a little faster, and Muscle changed his direction in a hurry. In a moment, the only movement in the room was smoke rising from the gun barrel, as Muscles lay still on the floor after slumping down the wall. Nice piece, I thought, could've been a tough skull to penetrate. I turned back to Skinny, finished my drink, and smiled.
"Was that it? Was that the surprise?"
I'd broken through, finally. Skinny was looking as all his confidence, his backup, his manhood, lying on the floor behind me. His outer defense gone, his inner defenses has little protest left in them.
"I asked you earlier why you cared about some girl whose name you didn't know."
I said nothing.
"It doesn't matter anymore. She's dead now. We had eyes on her as soon as she left your office."
"Why was she killed, she didn't tell me anything."
"We don't believe that. She told you something, or gave you something, and we need to know what it was."
"Who's 'we,' you and your big friend?"
Skinny snorted. "Of course not."
"Then who are we talking about here."
"Have you ever heard of the Legacy Foundation?"
Skinny protested little as I hauled him up, tied his hands and feet, and sat him up on the ledge in front of the window. He'd probably have something to say about it when he woke up, but with some persuasion the only talking he'd do would be the kind I wanted to hear. Muscles, even with the weak chin, wasn't going to be moved so I rolled him up against the opposite wall. I set the wrench on the desk, straightened my tie, and started checking out the cabinet in the corner. The smile hurt my swollen cheek but it was worth it: a twenty-year single malt and a clean glass. Things were looking up.
Skinny's eyes rolled open. It took a while for him to figure out where he was, and would take him longer to figure out how things had gone so wrong.
"Hi there."
He looked up at me, sitting on my chair, gun in one hand and a reload on the rocks in the other.
"Let's have a chat, eh?"
He said nothing, and looked over at Muscles.
"He won't be moving for a while. Just you and me."
Skinny's eyes had no expression, a blank slate that I figured I needed to write a script on . Something with emotion, something maybe dark. It's best to let your creativity take over.
"It's late and I'm tired, so let's keep this short. What's the deal here?"
Still a blank white canvas. Sometimes getting started is the hardest part of writing anything.
"Too complicated, I see. Let's try this. Who are you, who's your friend, why do you care about the girl?"
The best way to start, even if you don't know where you're going, is just to write something, anything, that'll get things moving. I clicked the safety off the gun.
"Come on fella, let's hear something."
Oh hell, I'll edit the thing later.
"FUCK!!!!" yelled Skinny as the bullet went through his shoe and into his foot. No loss on the shoe, but any more favors and he might not think I was serious.
"If you still want to hobble home tonight I'll need something more specific."
"You pathetic piece of fucking shit! You don't have any fucking clue what you're getting yourself into!"
"Usually don't. Talk."
Skinny tried to smile, but it was a struggle. His breath was fast now, heart pounding away like it was opening at a jazz club. He'd drenched his suit in sweat too, which was like spilling coffee on an old newspaper. Normally it would be a problem, but in this case...
"You'll be lucky to live another day after what you've done tonight, if you think this is going away you're in for a fucking surprise."
Skinny's eyes looked past me for a split second. I whirled around to find Muscles up and about to bring that wrench down, but he quickly changed his mind. Or would've, if he had one. My own arm was a little faster, and Muscle changed his direction in a hurry. In a moment, the only movement in the room was smoke rising from the gun barrel, as Muscles lay still on the floor after slumping down the wall. Nice piece, I thought, could've been a tough skull to penetrate. I turned back to Skinny, finished my drink, and smiled.
"Was that it? Was that the surprise?"
I'd broken through, finally. Skinny was looking as all his confidence, his backup, his manhood, lying on the floor behind me. His outer defense gone, his inner defenses has little protest left in them.
"I asked you earlier why you cared about some girl whose name you didn't know."
I said nothing.
"It doesn't matter anymore. She's dead now. We had eyes on her as soon as she left your office."
"Why was she killed, she didn't tell me anything."
"We don't believe that. She told you something, or gave you something, and we need to know what it was."
"Who's 'we,' you and your big friend?"
Skinny snorted. "Of course not."
"Then who are we talking about here."
"Have you ever heard of the Legacy Foundation?"
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
The interview
"The girl. What did she tell you."
"What girl?"
Not the answer he wanted I guess, as Muscles reached into the desk and pulled out a monkey wrench. Skinny was wrong, this wasn't much different than my divorce proceedings after all.
"The girl in the trench. She came to your office three hours ago. Stayed for ten minutes, then took a cab down East Sherman. What did you two talk about."
"Human rights abuses in Sierra Leone."
Yeah, that was definitely the wrong answer. Muscles walked around the front of the desk and took a homerun swing that would've cleared center in the Bronx. That familiar taste of liquid copper brought back memories, the kind you don't quite suppress but try not to think about too often. I shook away the stars and spat on the floor. Dammit. Got some on my shoes.
"Did she tell you her name?"
"No, but I got her number without a name. Pretty good eh?"
"What other information about herself did she share with you?"
"Hey, I got her number didn't I? Broad like her, that's more than I should expect."
"Tell me, how much longer would you like this line of questioning to continue? For a girl you don't even know?"
"Got no appointments until Tuesday."
Skinny tilted his head to one side slightly, like a dog does when they don't understand something. I didn't care too much about the broad, fake phone numbers are one of my turnoffs, but I wasn't going to give her up to this chump. Not in a suit like that. Muscles looked at Skinny for direction and got none.
"What number did she give you."
"Never got to find out."
"Was it local or not?"
"This'll take a lot longer if you ask each question twice."
Skinny didn't move but his eyes flicked towards Muscles. That was direction enough, one straight shot to the moneymaker and I was flat on my back. Bigger stars this time, stayed around long enough to form a constellation or two.
"How long this takes is up to you."
Sure was. The backrest of the chair had broken away from the seat. Muscles was walking over and I started to slide the backrest further up my spine, slowly getting my hands loose. He looked down at me, holding the wrench in his right hand. He smiled. Good thing my feet were still tied to the chair. Otherwise it might've been harder.
"What girl?"
Not the answer he wanted I guess, as Muscles reached into the desk and pulled out a monkey wrench. Skinny was wrong, this wasn't much different than my divorce proceedings after all.
"The girl in the trench. She came to your office three hours ago. Stayed for ten minutes, then took a cab down East Sherman. What did you two talk about."
"Human rights abuses in Sierra Leone."
Yeah, that was definitely the wrong answer. Muscles walked around the front of the desk and took a homerun swing that would've cleared center in the Bronx. That familiar taste of liquid copper brought back memories, the kind you don't quite suppress but try not to think about too often. I shook away the stars and spat on the floor. Dammit. Got some on my shoes.
"Did she tell you her name?"
"No, but I got her number without a name. Pretty good eh?"
"What other information about herself did she share with you?"
"Hey, I got her number didn't I? Broad like her, that's more than I should expect."
"Tell me, how much longer would you like this line of questioning to continue? For a girl you don't even know?"
"Got no appointments until Tuesday."
Skinny tilted his head to one side slightly, like a dog does when they don't understand something. I didn't care too much about the broad, fake phone numbers are one of my turnoffs, but I wasn't going to give her up to this chump. Not in a suit like that. Muscles looked at Skinny for direction and got none.
"What number did she give you."
"Never got to find out."
"Was it local or not?"
"This'll take a lot longer if you ask each question twice."
Skinny didn't move but his eyes flicked towards Muscles. That was direction enough, one straight shot to the moneymaker and I was flat on my back. Bigger stars this time, stayed around long enough to form a constellation or two.
"How long this takes is up to you."
Sure was. The backrest of the chair had broken away from the seat. Muscles was walking over and I started to slide the backrest further up my spine, slowly getting my hands loose. He looked down at me, holding the wrench in his right hand. He smiled. Good thing my feet were still tied to the chair. Otherwise it might've been harder.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
That's a nice desk
So little while ago I dabbled in a self-aggrandizing noir adventure that I quickly became bored and displeased with. Now unbored and armed with lower standards, I'm continuing on. Here's where I left off. Here's where it begins again...
******
Damn, that's a headache only Jack and a broad can give you. I couldn't see any lights but I had to figure that was a blessing. As the world unmercifully started making sense again, I started seeing shapes in the fog. Big shapes, moving slowly. Where the hell was I?
I started to reach for a smoke when I picked up another funny detail about my situation, the kind of funny that gets polite chuckles at Mickey's on Tuesday nights. My hands weren't moving, a lot of duct tape was seeing to that, and doing its job real well. I shook off the last the cobwebs, found myself with my hands behind my back, tied to a wooden chair. The shapes started looking a little more familiar. And a lot less friendly.
"Nice office, you let the boss know you were working overtime?" Pissing people off was a skill of mine, too bad it didn't pay better.
Two of them, opposite side of the room from me, looking like they owned the world. Skinny was staring at me behind a big wooden desk, twirling a pencil in his fingers while the rest of him sat still. Cheap suit, fit too tight, you could spot the bulge under his jacket across the street. Bad tie, no class. And sit back in that chair will ya, you can't scare people unless you look relaxed and this guy looked like his chair'd have diamonds on it when he left. By default you'd figure the other guy, standing to Skinny's left, was the brains but one look would put that thought to rest. Probably six five, three fifty, but you figure a track suit like that would add on a few. Didn't figure he was here to do the talking.
"This is my office" said Skinny. Deep voice, I was impressed.
"Last time I sat in an office this nice I was giving half my stuff away." Maybe they could be provoked with a bad joke.
Skinny smiled and nodded his head towards Muscles.
"Consider yourself lucky that day."
******
Damn, that's a headache only Jack and a broad can give you. I couldn't see any lights but I had to figure that was a blessing. As the world unmercifully started making sense again, I started seeing shapes in the fog. Big shapes, moving slowly. Where the hell was I?
I started to reach for a smoke when I picked up another funny detail about my situation, the kind of funny that gets polite chuckles at Mickey's on Tuesday nights. My hands weren't moving, a lot of duct tape was seeing to that, and doing its job real well. I shook off the last the cobwebs, found myself with my hands behind my back, tied to a wooden chair. The shapes started looking a little more familiar. And a lot less friendly.
"Nice office, you let the boss know you were working overtime?" Pissing people off was a skill of mine, too bad it didn't pay better.
Two of them, opposite side of the room from me, looking like they owned the world. Skinny was staring at me behind a big wooden desk, twirling a pencil in his fingers while the rest of him sat still. Cheap suit, fit too tight, you could spot the bulge under his jacket across the street. Bad tie, no class. And sit back in that chair will ya, you can't scare people unless you look relaxed and this guy looked like his chair'd have diamonds on it when he left. By default you'd figure the other guy, standing to Skinny's left, was the brains but one look would put that thought to rest. Probably six five, three fifty, but you figure a track suit like that would add on a few. Didn't figure he was here to do the talking.
"This is my office" said Skinny. Deep voice, I was impressed.
"Last time I sat in an office this nice I was giving half my stuff away." Maybe they could be provoked with a bad joke.
Skinny smiled and nodded his head towards Muscles.
"Consider yourself lucky that day."
Saturday, July 05, 2008
mountain f(molehill)
I'm running the risk of turning this blog into a Festivus gumbo, one part Incompetent Absolutist Movie Reviews and two parts Ha Ha Ha Youz A Stupid Customer! Onward...
Panasonic makes televisions. They also make everything else, except for toothbrushes and dwarf pony saddles. Other than that, they have your ass covered. They make two kinds of televisions. One is called "LCD," the other is called "plasma." When combining the total number of television types made by Panasonic, one being LCD and the other being plasma, we arrive, after some serious squinting, at the number 2 or, written out, "two." Stop me if I'm going too fast. Are you at the age where you use your children as printer repair people? Yes? Then I am going too fast.
Okay. LCD stands for liquid crystal display, which sounds Super High Tech except that is it not because the Ironman watch you are either wearing right now or threw in your top drawer because it was a crappy present from an ungrateful relative, is made of the same technology. So, think of LCD as a really big digital watch, except that this watch is a lot bigger, plays tv and movies, and won't tell time or go on your wrist. Got it? No? Plasma televisions are made out of halogen light bulbs, and follow the First Rule of Jurassic Park Economic Thermodynamics: Heavy=Expensive. Ever picked up a single halogen light bulb? Not too heavy right? Okay, now a plasma TV has literally infinity billions of bulbs on the inside. If you tried to pick up a plasma using all your strength the force would blow your colon inside out and your feet would be driven so deep into the ground you'd be kicking Asians in the shins. You need at least two people to lift a plasma television, from Panasonic, one of two kinds of televisions produced by that company.
Television used to be like people, every single one was different (unless they are a different brand than you, then they're all the same), but then 9/11 changed everything. Today tv's (LCD+plasma=2(two) kinds) come in things called "models," because they're so attractive. Haaar! Actually, they're called models because each type is made to the same specifications and is expected to perform exactly the same for each customer. I'll say that again, with less words: each model is exactly the same. Can you hear me in the back? EACH MODEL IS EXACTLY THE SAME. Just the guys! EACH MODEL IS EXACTLY THE SAME!!! The kids in the front! EACH MODEL IS EXACTLY THE SAME!!! Now the women! I COULD COOK AND DO LAUNDRY AT THE SAME TIME IF YOU'D LET ME!!! Well, close enough...
A gentleman entered my department recently. I could tell this was going to be trouble; call me ambidextrous but I have a fifth sense for these kinds of things. He had purchased a Panasonic television from one of our competitors. Now, I'm not at liberty to discuss such matters with the public but I can say that it rhymes with Yuture Slop. He had questions about the functionality of his new television, and naturally went back to Queueture Flop to inquire further. Har! He came to us instead. We were able to confirm, eight times in total, that we did in fact have the same model using a little retail trick I learned. I'd like to pass it on, but...okay, you can keep a secret right? You take the model number of the customer's television, then hold it up next to the display model's price tag. Find the model number on the price tag, stare at it, then look at the customer's model number, then back at the price tag, then back at the customer's model number, back again, then again, and again, faster, Faster, FASTER until they start looking like the same thing. Now, this is crucial. If they do NOT look the same, if they aren't blurring together properly, then they are NOT THE SAME.
In this case, the numbers blurred together properly and we had an exact Television Model Coupling, meaning that the TNA was a positive match. Except there was a problem. You see, in the world of televisions and the stuff that goes through them, we are at the precipice of an enormous crossroad. Tv's used to look basically like squares, for every four inches horizontally there's three inches vertically. Now, boy howdy, have things changed. Not only has the resolution gone from around 200 lines of resolution to 1080, but the shape has actually changed. It's caused quite a ruckus in the thinking of conservative audience types, folks who think consarnit, mah pappy watchded tealo-vision on one a dem square boxes an' nat wud gud enuff fo him! It's not just the USS Enterprise from forty years ago that has a rectangle TV, now YOU can have one too! Instead of impotent, hamstrung, gutless 4:3 televisions we now have robust, virile, spleen-flexing 16:9 tv's! These are the kinds of tv's that, if you're not careful, will attack you on your own couch, leak excess telestosterone all over you and order you to make it a protein shake.
This shape-changing paradigm causes some problems. What if you were a total caveman, using your feet to drive your car and a hammer and chisel to drawn stickporn? By which I mean, what if you wanted to run a 4:3 source, like a tv show or VHS tape, on your 16:9 tv? Don't worry Amish, the Future has you covered with a wide array of zooming and stretching features, all designed to make the original source look like stomach tattoo on a pregnant chick. The Future is designed to make your current products Crappy Compatible (Crapatible, natch), rendering your entertainment lifestyle a model of syncronistic harmony. Until something goes wrong...
When comparing his own Panasonic to our floor model, the gentleman stumbled upon a shocking oversight: his tv was missing a feature found on the store model. I went into immediate Utopian damage control: "Sir, contrary to what you may believe, all the Panasonic PX-85's are equipped with the H-Fill zooming feature. There's simply no way your model is missing it for you see, Panasonic long ago perfected their Model Cloning Technique rendering the kind of individualism you're suggesting utterly impossible." I smiled blandly, indicating that he was foolish to belief that such a perfect system could be in any way flawed. He insisted, no, his was different, it wasn't the same as every other Panasonic PX-85! I increased Customer Patronizing Tone by 12% and tried again, still smiling. "I'm sorry sir, you must be mistaken. Perhaps you erred when reading the instructions, or were misusing the feature." He carried on, insisting his was unique, singular, special, all while his right hand rubbed his hairy sweating chest, picked his ear, then his nose, then grabbed a remote off the shelf and began clicking it frantically. I became worried at his increasingly loud outbursts and called for my supervisor. "Sir," my supervisor said, "You are mistaken. All the PX-85's are the same. They carry with them the same features, the same internal circuitry and as such are capable of reaching the same performance. To suggest otherwise would be...." he trailed off, unable to verbalize the implications of the alternative. The man wouldn't listen, he was lost in a state of panicking confusion. We realized we only had one option, for the betterment of the store, Panasonic and the man's very soul. I moved towards him, not too close because he smelled like old soup, and said calmly but urgently, in a low voice, "Sir, perhaps it would be best for you, for all of us, if you took your television back to Buture Glop and asked for an H-Fill infusion. They will understand." He looked at me, at my supervisor. We stared back, hard, hoping he'd come to his senses and take his television back for re-conditioning. He looked at the remote in his hand, which would soon be incinerated, slowly set it down on the shelf, and left.
We took a deep breath, fearful from the man's bizarre claim. After a while we were able to laugh, quietly at first but soon louder and with unrestrained jocularity. We told fellow employees who laughed, told others, and spread the story of the Crazy Man who though his TV was different. It was soon forgotten, filed away into the group's collective memory where lie all the crazy customer stories. Work went back to normal.
Yesterday, a woman came into work saying that her new plasma tv was missing a contrast setting, that she could only go from "Cinema" to "Vivid," and was supposed to have "Game" in between. I looked around, seeing if my supervisor was back from lunch yet. His absence confirmed, I looked the woman in the eye and said quietly, "Tell me more."
Panasonic makes televisions. They also make everything else, except for toothbrushes and dwarf pony saddles. Other than that, they have your ass covered. They make two kinds of televisions. One is called "LCD," the other is called "plasma." When combining the total number of television types made by Panasonic, one being LCD and the other being plasma, we arrive, after some serious squinting, at the number 2 or, written out, "two." Stop me if I'm going too fast. Are you at the age where you use your children as printer repair people? Yes? Then I am going too fast.
Okay. LCD stands for liquid crystal display, which sounds Super High Tech except that is it not because the Ironman watch you are either wearing right now or threw in your top drawer because it was a crappy present from an ungrateful relative, is made of the same technology. So, think of LCD as a really big digital watch, except that this watch is a lot bigger, plays tv and movies, and won't tell time or go on your wrist. Got it? No? Plasma televisions are made out of halogen light bulbs, and follow the First Rule of Jurassic Park Economic Thermodynamics: Heavy=Expensive. Ever picked up a single halogen light bulb? Not too heavy right? Okay, now a plasma TV has literally infinity billions of bulbs on the inside. If you tried to pick up a plasma using all your strength the force would blow your colon inside out and your feet would be driven so deep into the ground you'd be kicking Asians in the shins. You need at least two people to lift a plasma television, from Panasonic, one of two kinds of televisions produced by that company.
Television used to be like people, every single one was different (unless they are a different brand than you, then they're all the same), but then 9/11 changed everything. Today tv's (LCD+plasma=2(two) kinds) come in things called "models," because they're so attractive. Haaar! Actually, they're called models because each type is made to the same specifications and is expected to perform exactly the same for each customer. I'll say that again, with less words: each model is exactly the same. Can you hear me in the back? EACH MODEL IS EXACTLY THE SAME. Just the guys! EACH MODEL IS EXACTLY THE SAME!!! The kids in the front! EACH MODEL IS EXACTLY THE SAME!!! Now the women! I COULD COOK AND DO LAUNDRY AT THE SAME TIME IF YOU'D LET ME!!! Well, close enough...
A gentleman entered my department recently. I could tell this was going to be trouble; call me ambidextrous but I have a fifth sense for these kinds of things. He had purchased a Panasonic television from one of our competitors. Now, I'm not at liberty to discuss such matters with the public but I can say that it rhymes with Yuture Slop. He had questions about the functionality of his new television, and naturally went back to Queueture Flop to inquire further. Har! He came to us instead. We were able to confirm, eight times in total, that we did in fact have the same model using a little retail trick I learned. I'd like to pass it on, but...okay, you can keep a secret right? You take the model number of the customer's television, then hold it up next to the display model's price tag. Find the model number on the price tag, stare at it, then look at the customer's model number, then back at the price tag, then back at the customer's model number, back again, then again, and again, faster, Faster, FASTER until they start looking like the same thing. Now, this is crucial. If they do NOT look the same, if they aren't blurring together properly, then they are NOT THE SAME.
In this case, the numbers blurred together properly and we had an exact Television Model Coupling, meaning that the TNA was a positive match. Except there was a problem. You see, in the world of televisions and the stuff that goes through them, we are at the precipice of an enormous crossroad. Tv's used to look basically like squares, for every four inches horizontally there's three inches vertically. Now, boy howdy, have things changed. Not only has the resolution gone from around 200 lines of resolution to 1080, but the shape has actually changed. It's caused quite a ruckus in the thinking of conservative audience types, folks who think consarnit, mah pappy watchded tealo-vision on one a dem square boxes an' nat wud gud enuff fo him! It's not just the USS Enterprise from forty years ago that has a rectangle TV, now YOU can have one too! Instead of impotent, hamstrung, gutless 4:3 televisions we now have robust, virile, spleen-flexing 16:9 tv's! These are the kinds of tv's that, if you're not careful, will attack you on your own couch, leak excess telestosterone all over you and order you to make it a protein shake.
This shape-changing paradigm causes some problems. What if you were a total caveman, using your feet to drive your car and a hammer and chisel to drawn stickporn? By which I mean, what if you wanted to run a 4:3 source, like a tv show or VHS tape, on your 16:9 tv? Don't worry Amish, the Future has you covered with a wide array of zooming and stretching features, all designed to make the original source look like stomach tattoo on a pregnant chick. The Future is designed to make your current products Crappy Compatible (Crapatible, natch), rendering your entertainment lifestyle a model of syncronistic harmony. Until something goes wrong...
When comparing his own Panasonic to our floor model, the gentleman stumbled upon a shocking oversight: his tv was missing a feature found on the store model. I went into immediate Utopian damage control: "Sir, contrary to what you may believe, all the Panasonic PX-85's are equipped with the H-Fill zooming feature. There's simply no way your model is missing it for you see, Panasonic long ago perfected their Model Cloning Technique rendering the kind of individualism you're suggesting utterly impossible." I smiled blandly, indicating that he was foolish to belief that such a perfect system could be in any way flawed. He insisted, no, his was different, it wasn't the same as every other Panasonic PX-85! I increased Customer Patronizing Tone by 12% and tried again, still smiling. "I'm sorry sir, you must be mistaken. Perhaps you erred when reading the instructions, or were misusing the feature." He carried on, insisting his was unique, singular, special, all while his right hand rubbed his hairy sweating chest, picked his ear, then his nose, then grabbed a remote off the shelf and began clicking it frantically. I became worried at his increasingly loud outbursts and called for my supervisor. "Sir," my supervisor said, "You are mistaken. All the PX-85's are the same. They carry with them the same features, the same internal circuitry and as such are capable of reaching the same performance. To suggest otherwise would be...." he trailed off, unable to verbalize the implications of the alternative. The man wouldn't listen, he was lost in a state of panicking confusion. We realized we only had one option, for the betterment of the store, Panasonic and the man's very soul. I moved towards him, not too close because he smelled like old soup, and said calmly but urgently, in a low voice, "Sir, perhaps it would be best for you, for all of us, if you took your television back to Buture Glop and asked for an H-Fill infusion. They will understand." He looked at me, at my supervisor. We stared back, hard, hoping he'd come to his senses and take his television back for re-conditioning. He looked at the remote in his hand, which would soon be incinerated, slowly set it down on the shelf, and left.
We took a deep breath, fearful from the man's bizarre claim. After a while we were able to laugh, quietly at first but soon louder and with unrestrained jocularity. We told fellow employees who laughed, told others, and spread the story of the Crazy Man who though his TV was different. It was soon forgotten, filed away into the group's collective memory where lie all the crazy customer stories. Work went back to normal.
Yesterday, a woman came into work saying that her new plasma tv was missing a contrast setting, that she could only go from "Cinema" to "Vivid," and was supposed to have "Game" in between. I looked around, seeing if my supervisor was back from lunch yet. His absence confirmed, I looked the woman in the eye and said quietly, "Tell me more."
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Movie Time
Said something rather silly the other day while in discussion about movies and audience response. I said that I didn't care much for movies that required the viewer to watch them multiple times to gain a true appreciation. I said I found that rather self-important and pretentious, that a director would assume his audience would be so enraptured by his vision that they'd sacrifice even more of their time to worship the vast creative spectacle in which they were a part. That's stupid. No matter how silly a movie is, intentionally (Spiderman) or not (Spiderman 3) you can always get more out of it with a few repeated viewings. My favorite movies are like anyone's favorite movies, I've watched them over and over and found something new with each viewing. What I meant to say was that I don't care for movies that require repeated viewings to get anything out of them. If you find yourself watching the end credits just staring at the names, bewildered with the two-hour combination of image and sound that failed to elicit any emotional response or remove the scrunched-up eyebrow expression from your face, then that movie sucks. That's not the same as thinking "What the hell? I thought she was with THEM!" or "But wait, I thought the Sandman was a Bad Guy!" That's fine, it's a good thing to be confused at the end of a movie, to feel that while it was in your capacity to understand the point, or the plot, or the twist, and that you missed a few things along the ride. It's NOT okay to feel like you had no shot at all, like a murder mystery where the killer is revealed to be food poisoning.
Of course, neither of those two movie types have anything to do with the summer movie experience. Louder=better, sequels all over the place, and lots of dead ethnic bodies. So far the summer movie extravaganza has been pretty successful. Iron Man was a great time, the only movie I've seen since Transformers where I wanted to leave the theatre and head straight into the next showing. It's funny, doesn't take itself too seriously, great effects and the dialogue, often a weakness with action films, is natural and engaging because of director Favreau encouraging the cast to improve their dialogue. So big thumbs up. I enjoyed Indiana Jones as well, not as much but still more than most people I've talked to. It was hard to watch because you spent most of the time wishing it was 15 years ago, or more, because there's a difference between "rugged" and "old." With Get Smart and The Dark Knight on the way, there's still lots to look forward too and judge.
Then we come to the Incredible Hulk. North American movie fans were unhappy with a version of the Hulk that was insightful, used innovative cinematography, was character-focused, and made an ambitious, introspective attempt to go beyond the simple Jekyll-and-Hyde transformations. I thought it was pretty good, a 3/4 star movie, but only because it revealed the truth about the Incredible Hulk: he's boring. When he's Banner, he's just a regular nerd who doesn't do anything terribly interesting. When he's the Hulk, he just gets mad and wrecks shit up. He's either trying not to become the Hulk, which is all we want to see, but then we he becomes the Hulk there's no personality, no motivation outside wrecking everything, and no possibility of character development. Pretty one-dimensional, for a two-dimensional character. And I like the Hulk, he's a pretty cool comic book character, but one that Ang Lee's movie proved did not translate well to the screen. Marvel thought otherwise, and went ahead and made another one starring noted action superstar Edward Norton. Norton went headfirst into the movie from what I can tell, writing huge portions of the scripts and battling with producers for a less mainstream, more intelligent final cut. You know, like the first one. To prepare for the role of Bruce Banner he studied deep breathing exercises, gained 20 pounds of muscle, learned to speak fluent Portuguese and Spanish, lost 60 pounds of fat, went to Harvard for 12 years and graduated with a PhD in molecular biology, and exposed himself to obscene levels of gamma rays. Oh, and he had to learn how to wear green contacts.
It's not a bad movie, the performances are all pretty inspired actually. They look like they're having fun, playing comic book characters with comic book emotions rather than real-world characters. It's just that the movie itself is pretty standard. The story is pretty ordinary, no origin story for the Hulk (shown in flashbacks during the opening credits) but one for the villain, themes about lusting for more power (groundbreaking), experimental military technology gone bad, and a love triangle that just gets dropped halfway through. The Hulk looks fantastic though; lots of people seemed to think he looked bad in the last one, I thought he looked fine, but a huge improvement in effects for the Hulk and for Emil Blonsky's Mr. Hyde. And the Hulk beats things up real good, using car halves (!) as weapons. I left feeling like my summer movie expectations had been well met, but certainly feeling like the film aspired for far less than the first one. It's like gymnastics or diving at the Olympics, more credit goes for attempting a spectacle with a higher rate of difficulty.
Of course, neither of those two movie types have anything to do with the summer movie experience. Louder=better, sequels all over the place, and lots of dead ethnic bodies. So far the summer movie extravaganza has been pretty successful. Iron Man was a great time, the only movie I've seen since Transformers where I wanted to leave the theatre and head straight into the next showing. It's funny, doesn't take itself too seriously, great effects and the dialogue, often a weakness with action films, is natural and engaging because of director Favreau encouraging the cast to improve their dialogue. So big thumbs up. I enjoyed Indiana Jones as well, not as much but still more than most people I've talked to. It was hard to watch because you spent most of the time wishing it was 15 years ago, or more, because there's a difference between "rugged" and "old." With Get Smart and The Dark Knight on the way, there's still lots to look forward too and judge.
Then we come to the Incredible Hulk. North American movie fans were unhappy with a version of the Hulk that was insightful, used innovative cinematography, was character-focused, and made an ambitious, introspective attempt to go beyond the simple Jekyll-and-Hyde transformations. I thought it was pretty good, a 3/4 star movie, but only because it revealed the truth about the Incredible Hulk: he's boring. When he's Banner, he's just a regular nerd who doesn't do anything terribly interesting. When he's the Hulk, he just gets mad and wrecks shit up. He's either trying not to become the Hulk, which is all we want to see, but then we he becomes the Hulk there's no personality, no motivation outside wrecking everything, and no possibility of character development. Pretty one-dimensional, for a two-dimensional character. And I like the Hulk, he's a pretty cool comic book character, but one that Ang Lee's movie proved did not translate well to the screen. Marvel thought otherwise, and went ahead and made another one starring noted action superstar Edward Norton. Norton went headfirst into the movie from what I can tell, writing huge portions of the scripts and battling with producers for a less mainstream, more intelligent final cut. You know, like the first one. To prepare for the role of Bruce Banner he studied deep breathing exercises, gained 20 pounds of muscle, learned to speak fluent Portuguese and Spanish, lost 60 pounds of fat, went to Harvard for 12 years and graduated with a PhD in molecular biology, and exposed himself to obscene levels of gamma rays. Oh, and he had to learn how to wear green contacts.
It's not a bad movie, the performances are all pretty inspired actually. They look like they're having fun, playing comic book characters with comic book emotions rather than real-world characters. It's just that the movie itself is pretty standard. The story is pretty ordinary, no origin story for the Hulk (shown in flashbacks during the opening credits) but one for the villain, themes about lusting for more power (groundbreaking), experimental military technology gone bad, and a love triangle that just gets dropped halfway through. The Hulk looks fantastic though; lots of people seemed to think he looked bad in the last one, I thought he looked fine, but a huge improvement in effects for the Hulk and for Emil Blonsky's Mr. Hyde. And the Hulk beats things up real good, using car halves (!) as weapons. I left feeling like my summer movie expectations had been well met, but certainly feeling like the film aspired for far less than the first one. It's like gymnastics or diving at the Olympics, more credit goes for attempting a spectacle with a higher rate of difficulty.
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
Gossip
Boredom at work, is there anything it can't do? Except for anything, of course. Boredom at work is an industrial-size incubator for gossip, a way to pass the time while artificially propping up one's adrenal system so that, for one moment in the day, you feel motivated. The velocity that gossip will spread (VG) is inversely proportional to the meaningfulness of a person's job title on the employee ranking scale (T). You can calculate the time it will take for News (N) to spread based on the time it takes to have a gossip-related exchange, as in the following typical workplace example:
"Did you hear about Honus, the hilarious foreigner with a heart of gold?"
"No! What happened?"
"I can't really talk about it, but it looks like he's in trouble"
"For what?!?"
"I shouldn't tell anybody but it's bad, really bad, like Denise Richards-in-The World Is Not Enough-bad."
"Come on, I won't tell anyone!"
"Okay, but you absolutely positively ultrasupersisivity CANNOT tell anyone else. Honus committed a ritual virgin sacrifice in the shipping room using old cardboard, lighter fluid, a forklift and orange safety cones."
"So what?"
"It was DURING his shift and he used company materials!"
"OH NO!!!!!!"
"Yeah, it look like he's going to get a WRITTEN WARNING!!!!"
"OH NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
Given that this is a typical workplace gossip exchange, the word length, and thus the time it takes to replicate itself, becomes a Word Number Constant (WNC) in our formula. That'll do for now, and once a certain physics friend of mine bothers to read this he can help me articulate the formula properly. I realize that is this merely 11th grade math but I turned from that path long ago. I have chosen exile.
Gossip, of course, creates paranoia. In my own case, I like my job enough to get through the day but not enough to care very much about the surrounding work atmosphere. I'm aware of the news, I can't help but ask follow-up questions as my curiosity gets the better of me, but once the conversation is over any feelings of sympathy or bitterness disappear. The latest rumour, probably founded in some degree of truth, was that our department was being watched for possible internal theft. This was due to some discrepancies in the cashouts and some recent "employee activity." Since I've been at work the last six days and it's been during this time that suspicions have increased, I "naturally" assumed that I was being watched. Because no stock is missing, no cashout issues came back to my employee number and I haven't actually done anything, it's no big deal. Of course, this is a boring job, so any excuse to run the imagination for a few minutes is a welcome relief for an increasingly atrophied brain. For my own amusement I've played out noirlike scenarios where I've been pulled into the back room, with no windows, two chairs separated by a long table, while a mustached, chain-smoking Dennis Franz-lookalike tries to "break me down."
After a while of envisioning all the different shades of grey these walls will be and the different types of mustaches Dennis would have, I realized that the idea of being outright accused of stealing from the store did not bother me at all. I had no real problem with having my moral compass challenged and my professional integrity called into question. That struck me as amusing and frankly, a much more interesting way of passing the time than helping Ernie the Geriatric understand that no, technology isn't cyclical and the VCR isn't coming back. No, the part that bothered me about being accused of theft is that they thought I'd get caught. What? You think I'm stupid enough to just yank things off the shelf like some 15 year old, or simply not ring things through on a purchase? A little respect please. You can challenge my values, accuse me of ethical impropriety and threaten my people with slavery and death but you do NOT question my ability to pull of a heist! How DARE you lump me in with common smash-and-grabbers!? You think you could CATCH me??? Quit wasting my time and go check on Honus, I think we're coming up on another full moon.
I've never stolen anything from a job in my life, except for several thousand tons of sweet and sour pork, steamed rice, spring rolls, dry pork, spicy prawns and office supplies, so I really don't know if I'd be a good thief or not. Well okay, I'd be better than most of the idiots who steal from stores because most thieves are poor and all poor people are dumb, therefore most thieves are dumb. It's an entire genre of Hollywood movies, the Dignified Criminal Wearing Expensive Suits genre, that's warped one's way of looking at thievery in our society. Because those films (and Futurama) have established that stealing is cool, the only possible character flaw that can be derived from someone who's stolen something is incompetence. Did they get caught? Then they're sloppy and stupid and a Bad Person. Did they get away with it? Then they applied themselves, worked hard and went from the Bottom to the Top and, in doing so, achieved the American Dream and became an American Hero. So don't accuse me of theft, and by extension that I might do such a poor job as to get caught, because what you're really calling me is un-American. If you do that, the terrorists win and all of Toby Keith's work has been in vain. This isn't making much sense anymore.
"Did you hear about Honus, the hilarious foreigner with a heart of gold?"
"No! What happened?"
"I can't really talk about it, but it looks like he's in trouble"
"For what?!?"
"I shouldn't tell anybody but it's bad, really bad, like Denise Richards-in-The World Is Not Enough-bad."
"Come on, I won't tell anyone!"
"Okay, but you absolutely positively ultrasupersisivity CANNOT tell anyone else. Honus committed a ritual virgin sacrifice in the shipping room using old cardboard, lighter fluid, a forklift and orange safety cones."
"So what?"
"It was DURING his shift and he used company materials!"
"OH NO!!!!!!"
"Yeah, it look like he's going to get a WRITTEN WARNING!!!!"
"OH NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
Given that this is a typical workplace gossip exchange, the word length, and thus the time it takes to replicate itself, becomes a Word Number Constant (WNC) in our formula. That'll do for now, and once a certain physics friend of mine bothers to read this he can help me articulate the formula properly. I realize that is this merely 11th grade math but I turned from that path long ago. I have chosen exile.
Gossip, of course, creates paranoia. In my own case, I like my job enough to get through the day but not enough to care very much about the surrounding work atmosphere. I'm aware of the news, I can't help but ask follow-up questions as my curiosity gets the better of me, but once the conversation is over any feelings of sympathy or bitterness disappear. The latest rumour, probably founded in some degree of truth, was that our department was being watched for possible internal theft. This was due to some discrepancies in the cashouts and some recent "employee activity." Since I've been at work the last six days and it's been during this time that suspicions have increased, I "naturally" assumed that I was being watched. Because no stock is missing, no cashout issues came back to my employee number and I haven't actually done anything, it's no big deal. Of course, this is a boring job, so any excuse to run the imagination for a few minutes is a welcome relief for an increasingly atrophied brain. For my own amusement I've played out noirlike scenarios where I've been pulled into the back room, with no windows, two chairs separated by a long table, while a mustached, chain-smoking Dennis Franz-lookalike tries to "break me down."
After a while of envisioning all the different shades of grey these walls will be and the different types of mustaches Dennis would have, I realized that the idea of being outright accused of stealing from the store did not bother me at all. I had no real problem with having my moral compass challenged and my professional integrity called into question. That struck me as amusing and frankly, a much more interesting way of passing the time than helping Ernie the Geriatric understand that no, technology isn't cyclical and the VCR isn't coming back. No, the part that bothered me about being accused of theft is that they thought I'd get caught. What? You think I'm stupid enough to just yank things off the shelf like some 15 year old, or simply not ring things through on a purchase? A little respect please. You can challenge my values, accuse me of ethical impropriety and threaten my people with slavery and death but you do NOT question my ability to pull of a heist! How DARE you lump me in with common smash-and-grabbers!? You think you could CATCH me??? Quit wasting my time and go check on Honus, I think we're coming up on another full moon.
I've never stolen anything from a job in my life, except for several thousand tons of sweet and sour pork, steamed rice, spring rolls, dry pork, spicy prawns and office supplies, so I really don't know if I'd be a good thief or not. Well okay, I'd be better than most of the idiots who steal from stores because most thieves are poor and all poor people are dumb, therefore most thieves are dumb. It's an entire genre of Hollywood movies, the Dignified Criminal Wearing Expensive Suits genre, that's warped one's way of looking at thievery in our society. Because those films (and Futurama) have established that stealing is cool, the only possible character flaw that can be derived from someone who's stolen something is incompetence. Did they get caught? Then they're sloppy and stupid and a Bad Person. Did they get away with it? Then they applied themselves, worked hard and went from the Bottom to the Top and, in doing so, achieved the American Dream and became an American Hero. So don't accuse me of theft, and by extension that I might do such a poor job as to get caught, because what you're really calling me is un-American. If you do that, the terrorists win and all of Toby Keith's work has been in vain. This isn't making much sense anymore.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Freestyle
The minute you walked in the store
I could see you were a man of the Bible, a real Puritan,
Cowboys boots, face unclean,
Say, wouldn't you like to know what I'm thinkin' that's so mean?
So let me get right to the point,
I don't mock and tease every man who's beneath,
Hey Real Puritan!
Spend a little money on your teeth.
Yeah, that's pretty liberal and superior of me. Here's some more!
Here comes Tom and he's lookin' for a movie,
Not sure what but there'd better not be boobies,
Them's no good 'cause skin makes Jesus cry
And Tom's little daughter is still living in a lie,
It's fine if you show lots of people being shot,
Beheadings and revengings, we'll take them by the lot,
Virtue and stoicism shall always win the day
Keep your sword and your gun, just don't forget to pray
See, Tom watches movies every week with his kid,
Gotta keep things clean so weekly sins will be undid,
Exposure to violence is easy enough to explain,
Any villain not from here just blow away the remains,
Yet sometimes there arises often after a good shooting,
The worst kind of smut, the kind you'll find polluting
The minds of our young'uns, their souls and their hearts,
What must we watch? Some LOVING dares start!
"That's offensive," Tom says, and with awfully good reason,
"I knew it would happen, after the execution for treason,
A nice family film, full of killing and double dealings,
And I had to shut it down, because those two showed their feelings!"
Hey that's fine Tom, I understand, I says with a smile,
Parenting's hard enough without all that is vile,
Why can't it be easy, without challenges, without danger?
After all, sex ed should be left up to some stranger.
I could see you were a man of the Bible, a real Puritan,
Cowboys boots, face unclean,
Say, wouldn't you like to know what I'm thinkin' that's so mean?
So let me get right to the point,
I don't mock and tease every man who's beneath,
Hey Real Puritan!
Spend a little money on your teeth.
Yeah, that's pretty liberal and superior of me. Here's some more!
Here comes Tom and he's lookin' for a movie,
Not sure what but there'd better not be boobies,
Them's no good 'cause skin makes Jesus cry
And Tom's little daughter is still living in a lie,
It's fine if you show lots of people being shot,
Beheadings and revengings, we'll take them by the lot,
Virtue and stoicism shall always win the day
Keep your sword and your gun, just don't forget to pray
See, Tom watches movies every week with his kid,
Gotta keep things clean so weekly sins will be undid,
Exposure to violence is easy enough to explain,
Any villain not from here just blow away the remains,
Yet sometimes there arises often after a good shooting,
The worst kind of smut, the kind you'll find polluting
The minds of our young'uns, their souls and their hearts,
What must we watch? Some LOVING dares start!
"That's offensive," Tom says, and with awfully good reason,
"I knew it would happen, after the execution for treason,
A nice family film, full of killing and double dealings,
And I had to shut it down, because those two showed their feelings!"
Hey that's fine Tom, I understand, I says with a smile,
Parenting's hard enough without all that is vile,
Why can't it be easy, without challenges, without danger?
After all, sex ed should be left up to some stranger.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Set that watch
Remember this?
Of course you do. If you're like me, and it's safe to say you are or want to be, you've thought of little else since the movie's end credits. Two thoughts cycle around in your mind like atoms around a nucleus: When Can I Watch It Again and When Will The Sequel Come Out. Well, you can watch it right now if you want to. At work? Hey, thanks for reading while at work! Tell your boss you're suffering from Optimus Primitus, a rare form of what is colloquially referred to as "24 hour Shrieking Giddiness." At home? If you are, you're probably watching Transformers right now and not even reading this anyways. Out with friends? Stop reading your Blackberry and tell these people that they can either come back to your place immediately, stopping only for donuts and Schnapps or go fuck themselves.
It's fair to say this movie, and soon to be movie franchise, gets me more than a little irrational. I can't even give this movie any more than three out of four stars; the fight scene is too long at the end and Anthony Anderson does to his castmates what William H. Macy does to other gamblers in The Cooler. Still, I couldn't even watch previews last year because I got too excited, I almost broke the Boss' hand when I saw the first theatrical trailer, and was pretty sure I had a minor heart attack that lasted through the entire first half of the actual movie. I can't explain it, it's totally irrational to get this excited at this age. Plus, I don't even enjoy the old show anymore, or really any of the new shows, because after a certain point in one's life you run out of capacity to tolerate endlessly taunting. I don't own any toys (though wish I had kept my old ones, like everyone else who sees what they go for on Ebay), don't own the 1986 movie and haven't really kept up with the TV shows since Generation One. And yet...
It's a good time to be in your mid-twenties. Special effects technology has reached the point where it can produce real-life articulations of the stuff of our childhood imaginations. Comic book/Saturday morning cartoon franchises like Spiderman, the X-Men, Batman, the Hulk, the Fantastic Four and the new and fabulous Iron Man may have upset some nerds by changing the odd plot point and origin story (something Marvel NEVER EVER fiddled with in the comics, oh NO NEVER) but it's safe to say nobody saw these movies and thought, gee, maybe they should have just animated it so that it didn't look like crap. Transformers will be followed with G.I. Joe to add to our list of childhood nostalgia films, and you can include the upcoming Star Trek prequel and the new Indiana Jones as part of the ongoing effort to exploit audience nostalgia.
There's two things that people just don't understand. First, they seem to think there's something wrong with Hollywood leafing through stacks of comic books and old TV shows for new movie ideas. This is a common misconception, and I'd like to clear it up for you. Comic books have great characters and rich, developed plots while old TV shows, if you strip away all the taunting and often lame main characters, have all sorts of sweet supporting characters and side-relationships. Like Snake-Eyes and Storm Shadow in GI JOE, or even Megatron and StarScream, there's plenty of backstory and character histories you can pull out and condense into a two-hour movie, then build upon to make several more. I WANT my nostalgia exploited, and so do YOU. What you don't want is someone else's nostalgia exploited, like when they make a Charlie's Angels or Chipmunks movie, because YOU didn't watch it. Honestly. What's wrong with you. You're just selfish, though certainly armed with better taste.
The other misconception is that a film franchise, or threequel, or series, or whatever you want to call it, are bad things. They're actually awesome. Understand now? No? Okay, I'll explain. Sure, there's lots of bad franchises out there (the Mighty Ducks, the recent Star Wars trilogy, the Scary/Date/Epic/Movie movies. Hey Genre Movie writers: Just Die Already! Thanks!) and even more that had terrific starts but became bloated and ran out of momentum (the Burton/Schumacher Batmans, Pirates of the Carribean, and to a lesser degree the Matrix and Spiderman). Because of this, some people conclude that because some movie series suck, or start out great and then suck, there's something inherent in the multiple movie format that causes this. The reality is Most Stuff Sucks, if you follow Sturgeon's Law like you should. Well actually don't follow it, instead try to improve upon it, if you can. Most movies of any kind suck, whether part of a series or not. Yet the inherent benefit of making a trilogy or a series, is that the audience becomes more committed to the characters and will invariably have a greater emotional investment in their future. If you crammed the Lord of the Rings into one movie, then Frodo's sprint up the rocks to the opening of Mount Doom resonates much less with the viewer. In the Matrix Revolutions, Trinity's death is a far greater emotional blow because of how much time we've spent with her. Making a few more movies greatly enhances any fate that befalls our heroes and villains.
Start counting down, if you haven't already, to June 26, 2009, the target release date of Transformers 2. Keep track of added cast members and new trivia at IMDB. These studios are spending $200 million bucks of their own money to make a best-guess of what we might want to see. They're spoon-feeding us timewarps back to our youth, the least we can do is enjoy the tribute. If the movie isn't perfect, just find a way to like it. It's your childhood memories, don't let Michael Bay ruin them for you. He won't ruin mine, click on the IMDB link and go the FAQ section. Unicron?!?! Are you fucking KIDDING me?!??!!?!
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Sultans of Swing: Great song or the Greatest song?
I love Dire Straits. I've had my share of favorite bands and there will surely be more, but until I discovered Dire Straits, or re-discovered since everyone's heard Money for Nothing, I'd never before heard a band whose music just seemed perfect. Effortless, balanced, harmonious. This is the kind of music that makes $120,000 speakers, $150,000 turntables and $50,000 interconnects seem like the highest of goals rather than a money-burning scheme. Like any band they have songs stronger than others, more memorable than the rest, but if a good band is one whose CD you can listen to from start to finish without feeling the need to skip anything, then a great band is one whose entire discography allows your fingers a long rest.
Sultans of Swing, certainly a classic and one of my favorites, is the best representative of the band's sound and impact. It's just there, a song that sits in the background when you have friends over, takes over a room when it comes over your speakers, or changes and amplifies any mood. I've listened to it while blowing off steam after work, while chilling out after long stimulus-enhanced poker nights, and during those times where I didn't really know what I was feeling, just that I didn't like it. It's impact changes depending on your own mood, but without losing any of it's own identity. If you're just peacefully relaxing, it brings you to a smokey London pub on a Thursday night, listening to a local band in the background while you take your time with one last pint. The kind of pub where the smoke is the only atmosphere, where the room barely affords the singer's sunglasses light to reflect, yet those glasses still draw the gazes of casual listeners while he plays only for himself. If you've had a bad day, feeling worn out and needing to hide from all the possibilities in the world, it's a rhythmic melancholy massage that comforts while reinforcing the sadness in your heart. Like being wrapped in a warm wet blanket, it soaks into you from all sides while you decide whether the softness is worth the inevitable chill to come.
It's not for everyone and that's fine. I like lots of music that others find any of boring, offensive, bland, simple, talentless, and just plain crap. I don't care if people call me a wigger for listening to Eminem, a punkass for listening to Guns'N Roses, or a snooty pseudo-artist for listening to the Dandy Warhols, those would be shots at the bands rather than shots at me. Yet I can't bring myself to be objective or dispassionate when people call Dire Straits boring, or untalented, or country. They just leave a kind of impact that bonds you to their music and when they're put down I always feel not like my taste has been questioned, but that the very nature of that taste was just attacked. So I don't handle it very well, like I didn't handle my 18 year-old assistant manager picking away at Bob Dylan lyrics at work the other day. I'll grant anyone that Dylan's harmonica playing is kind of irritating (it's not Dylan, it's frankly a shitty instrument better suited to use in Guantanamo Bay), his singing has debatable merit and his guitar playing is, at best, called "underrated." But his lyrics, of course, are incredible. You're talking about arguable the most important songwriter of the 20th century. What people fail to realize is that there are certain pillars of art that are not interested in layman judgments. They are simply on a higher plane, with a parallel purpose whose destination will not be deterred by flippant Philistines. Such is my connection with Dire Straits. I don't care if you like them or not, but you're best served recognizing their greatness or simply leaving the room, as there won't be any space left for interference.
Sultans of Swing, certainly a classic and one of my favorites, is the best representative of the band's sound and impact. It's just there, a song that sits in the background when you have friends over, takes over a room when it comes over your speakers, or changes and amplifies any mood. I've listened to it while blowing off steam after work, while chilling out after long stimulus-enhanced poker nights, and during those times where I didn't really know what I was feeling, just that I didn't like it. It's impact changes depending on your own mood, but without losing any of it's own identity. If you're just peacefully relaxing, it brings you to a smokey London pub on a Thursday night, listening to a local band in the background while you take your time with one last pint. The kind of pub where the smoke is the only atmosphere, where the room barely affords the singer's sunglasses light to reflect, yet those glasses still draw the gazes of casual listeners while he plays only for himself. If you've had a bad day, feeling worn out and needing to hide from all the possibilities in the world, it's a rhythmic melancholy massage that comforts while reinforcing the sadness in your heart. Like being wrapped in a warm wet blanket, it soaks into you from all sides while you decide whether the softness is worth the inevitable chill to come.
It's not for everyone and that's fine. I like lots of music that others find any of boring, offensive, bland, simple, talentless, and just plain crap. I don't care if people call me a wigger for listening to Eminem, a punkass for listening to Guns'N Roses, or a snooty pseudo-artist for listening to the Dandy Warhols, those would be shots at the bands rather than shots at me. Yet I can't bring myself to be objective or dispassionate when people call Dire Straits boring, or untalented, or country. They just leave a kind of impact that bonds you to their music and when they're put down I always feel not like my taste has been questioned, but that the very nature of that taste was just attacked. So I don't handle it very well, like I didn't handle my 18 year-old assistant manager picking away at Bob Dylan lyrics at work the other day. I'll grant anyone that Dylan's harmonica playing is kind of irritating (it's not Dylan, it's frankly a shitty instrument better suited to use in Guantanamo Bay), his singing has debatable merit and his guitar playing is, at best, called "underrated." But his lyrics, of course, are incredible. You're talking about arguable the most important songwriter of the 20th century. What people fail to realize is that there are certain pillars of art that are not interested in layman judgments. They are simply on a higher plane, with a parallel purpose whose destination will not be deterred by flippant Philistines. Such is my connection with Dire Straits. I don't care if you like them or not, but you're best served recognizing their greatness or simply leaving the room, as there won't be any space left for interference.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Gallimaufry
The absolute best part of my day, after going to bed knowing I'm going to get lots of sleep and turning on my speakers and finding out that, yup, they are way friggin better than the ones at the LD Lounge, is being at work and asking Baby Boomer-types how they're doing and have them respond with "Nope, just looking thanks." Whoa. WHOA. I didn't ask you if you wanted to purchase a product, I didn't even ask if you had any questions. You're too stupid to know what you want and your questions will be critical, insulting and only serve to illustrate your own lack of ability to listen to or absorb new ideas. That's why instead I asked how you're doing. Next time I'm going to going to respond with "Oh, I'm not going to sell you anything. I just want to know how THE FUCK YOUR DAY HAS BEEN!!! HAHAHAHA!!!"
I also like old people who come in and tell me how much better their stuff is than our stuff. "Old" is not an age with customers, it's a state of mind. It's how often you throw up your hands while listening to an explanation of how new things work, the amount of times you shake your head and accusingly complain about how fast things are changing, the extent you assume I, the relatively young salesperson, know little about this "real world" that myself and peers continue to be threatened with while we work our asses off for barely above minimum wage while paying off student loans on the degree we paid for ourselves for the purpose of getting ahead and getting that better job we were told would be out there. It's also the kind of sweater you wear. I'm fascinated by these people who managed, despite being unable to decipher the difference between an ethernet cable and a tipped cow, to find the perfect television and the ideal home video format 15 years ago (a 37-inch Sharp and a Laserdisc, of course). If arguments can be won with no facts and intense staring, and they can, then I'm fucking sold. I'd rather watch a 37-inch Sharp than real life now, and DVD's and Blu-Ray? Fuck off. Three words for you: Shiny Colored Records. They are the SHIT, the bee's knees, the one cold beer in a fridge of stillwarms. Laserdiscs, despite having no true surround sound, no digital audio, the inability to fit any more than 60 minutes on each side (yep, you had to flip them. Flip them FOR REAL) and BEING FUCKING ENORMOUS, are way better than DVD's, and probably Blu-Ray too. Why? Get the hell out of here with your "why." They just are. You're too young to understand, that's all. See, years ago there were these things called "A-tracks." You'd put them in your car and they wouldn't hold many songs and you'd have to flip them for real at some point. THAT'S why Laserdisc and TV's weighing as much as a solid gold car driven by William Howard Taft are better. Now look what you've done, you've gone and upset me. I've got spittle on my cardigan.
I actually do find older customers fun to talk with, it's a low-pressure sales job so listening to nattering folkies is considered good service. Most of them are friendly and earnest and don't want to learn about technical things, which is awesome because I know not of technical things. Well I do know of technical things, like I know of Latin or changing transmissions. Old people don't know about these things and don't WANT to know about them, they want to know if they can still hook up "that big black one over there" to their VCR with coaxial cables, and if The Waltons will come on at the same time. It's easy to sell things when all your answers are "Hell ya you can hook dat shit up!"
It's those lonely old men who've taken on the responsibility of Voice of The Greatest Generation that are the worst. They don't want to buy anything, they're not impressed by a full 1080p Blu-Ray picture or a lossless DTS soundtrack and, most importantly, they don't like YOU. I don't think much of my own generation, it may not be entirely our fault we're so apathetic, disinterested and nihilistic but it's tiresome nonetheless, and thus I don't enjoy having title of Voice of the Gratest Generation imposed upon me.*
It occurs to me that if I didn't make so many little typos in my writing I might get away with more a few more subtle puns. As such "Gratest" may be mistaken as just another error than the intended pun of "grating," or irritating, in place of "greatest." It's not even a joke really, just an appropriate description, but still not worthy of such a long explanatory diversion.
Listening to the old Luddites prattle on about the superiority of their own wooden equipment, with their stone circuitry and toilet paper tubes and string interconnects, I can't help but wonder if they just ran out of people to tell and are now working through Strangers, or they just repeat the same rants over and over without concern about whether anyone's actually in front of them or not. Either way, hearing about how great some person's old crap sounds makes me think that probably both of us would be happier if they were at home listening to it right now.
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
"Violence is fine, just no boobies"
At work the other day when Big Poppa Pump comes in looking for DVD's. I sashayed myself to the other side of the disc rack, passive-aggressively forcing my overly-keen fellow employee to "help" Pump, who was mingling in a suspiciously interested manner. Pump tells Keen that he's just looking for a movie, so kudos to Pump for managing to find the right place. Keen asks if Pump is looking for anything in particular, Pump says no but is looking for something G rated, nothing too offensive. I assumed this was for his little Pumplings at home but further eavesdropping reveals that no, Pump wants something non-offensive for himself. Okay, so Keen leads him towards dude-friendly comedies starting, of course, with Knocked Up and Superbad. Pump says NO, by non-offensive he means something without any nudity or sexuality, he finds that unacceptable. Violence is fine though.
In customer service the best approach is to treat people like they're your friend already, or least that you already know them. This takes away the formality, eases the tension, and makes it easier to get customers to open up and actually tell you what they want. Yet in the real world a person's friends are usually people with similar worldviews. This allows us to say what's on our mind or voice some challenging opinion without worrying about offending anyone. In my own case, I spout off all kinds of profane opinions as part of a process of working through some thought process, sort of thinking aloud just to hear what that opinion sounds like, what the obvious flaws in it may be, and how to change it. Most people do this of course, and are careful to go through this process in an environment where they won't get into a friendship-breaking argument. Yet in customer service, you have to tread carefully; you have to think of that person as an acquaintance but one whom you know nothing about so as to avoid challenging their values. Let the customer lead the discussion, wait until they've voiced an opinion, then either agree or change the subject.
That's all pretty obvious, but it's still surprising when you come across someone who appears perfectly normal, meaning they look and sound the way you think you look and sound, but then voices some stupid thought out of nowhere. Listening to Pump describe his rather specific taste in movies was one of those times where you're reminded that some people out there are crazy right wing repressed Puritan fundamentalists who have all sorts of foolish values, one of which being that they prefer to see a human body blown up and ripped apart than topless in a hot tub. What's really creepy is that these people, these Daywalkers, live amongst us everyday totally anonymously and can only be unmasked by their own volition. Just like Nicolas Cage in City of Angels, if instead of an angel Cage played Jerry Falwell, instead of a doctor Meg Ryan played a prostitute with a heart of gold, and instead of having sex with her Cage/Falwell cut off her head, threw her body in a river and gave the movie a PG rating because her hair was tied back the whole time. For a metaphor that isn't as stretched out as a pair of Lulu Lemons in a Curves, try Wednesday Addams going out for Halloween, dressed completely normally and claiming to be a homicidal maniac because "they look just like everyone else."
Find the flattest thing around you. That table? Fine. That's my Point, and it has been beaten as flat as your table, but without all the Rockstar and porn lying around it. Rockstar is disgusting. What struck me about the Pump situation was that it seemed perfectly normal, if only very very slightly anti-free market, to tell Pump that he would not be allowed to purchase products until his taste in movies, and by extension his Talibanist values, reversed themselves into something less reactionary and archaic. It's not like private companies don't already dictate customer taste; London Drugs doesn't carry any South Park and Wal-Mart doesn't carry unedited Eminem. I'd simply be extending this corporate policy to fit my own more enlightened entertainment values and, being a representative of the company, would essentially be a medium for the company's continuing quest to provide the highest standard of home entertainment. I should probably get a raise for having taken two or three sentences uttered by a complete stranger, turning them into a thorough character portrait, and designing a value-based sales system around him. This will be known as a "Concentrated Sample Size Focus Group."
In customer service the best approach is to treat people like they're your friend already, or least that you already know them. This takes away the formality, eases the tension, and makes it easier to get customers to open up and actually tell you what they want. Yet in the real world a person's friends are usually people with similar worldviews. This allows us to say what's on our mind or voice some challenging opinion without worrying about offending anyone. In my own case, I spout off all kinds of profane opinions as part of a process of working through some thought process, sort of thinking aloud just to hear what that opinion sounds like, what the obvious flaws in it may be, and how to change it. Most people do this of course, and are careful to go through this process in an environment where they won't get into a friendship-breaking argument. Yet in customer service, you have to tread carefully; you have to think of that person as an acquaintance but one whom you know nothing about so as to avoid challenging their values. Let the customer lead the discussion, wait until they've voiced an opinion, then either agree or change the subject.
That's all pretty obvious, but it's still surprising when you come across someone who appears perfectly normal, meaning they look and sound the way you think you look and sound, but then voices some stupid thought out of nowhere. Listening to Pump describe his rather specific taste in movies was one of those times where you're reminded that some people out there are crazy right wing repressed Puritan fundamentalists who have all sorts of foolish values, one of which being that they prefer to see a human body blown up and ripped apart than topless in a hot tub. What's really creepy is that these people, these Daywalkers, live amongst us everyday totally anonymously and can only be unmasked by their own volition. Just like Nicolas Cage in City of Angels, if instead of an angel Cage played Jerry Falwell, instead of a doctor Meg Ryan played a prostitute with a heart of gold, and instead of having sex with her Cage/Falwell cut off her head, threw her body in a river and gave the movie a PG rating because her hair was tied back the whole time. For a metaphor that isn't as stretched out as a pair of Lulu Lemons in a Curves, try Wednesday Addams going out for Halloween, dressed completely normally and claiming to be a homicidal maniac because "they look just like everyone else."
Find the flattest thing around you. That table? Fine. That's my Point, and it has been beaten as flat as your table, but without all the Rockstar and porn lying around it. Rockstar is disgusting. What struck me about the Pump situation was that it seemed perfectly normal, if only very very slightly anti-free market, to tell Pump that he would not be allowed to purchase products until his taste in movies, and by extension his Talibanist values, reversed themselves into something less reactionary and archaic. It's not like private companies don't already dictate customer taste; London Drugs doesn't carry any South Park and Wal-Mart doesn't carry unedited Eminem. I'd simply be extending this corporate policy to fit my own more enlightened entertainment values and, being a representative of the company, would essentially be a medium for the company's continuing quest to provide the highest standard of home entertainment. I should probably get a raise for having taken two or three sentences uttered by a complete stranger, turning them into a thorough character portrait, and designing a value-based sales system around him. This will be known as a "Concentrated Sample Size Focus Group."
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
You lost today kid, but it doesn't mean you have to like it
So I went with Job Plan B, which would be fine except I had like 30 plan A's. Because my new attempts at anonymousity mean I can't disclose exactly which London Drugs AV department I work in, right now all I can say is that I don't work at the one with the sardonic hockey/hippie haired employee who can't be bothered to learn the cash register or his boss's name and wearing the humiliating Be Patient With Me I'm A Retard pin. That's definitely not me, I prefer to think of my hair as "Homeless Chic." Oh, I can sell you speakers. That's no problem. I like speakers, and Blu-Ray players and receivers and cables and all that stuff. What I don't like is people. That's what I bought all this crap for in the first place, because actually leaving the house to see a movie, like I did the other night to see Forgetting Sarah Marshall, is like that scene in Temple of Doom where Indiana Jones ("Junior!") and Short Round get stuck in the shrinking room with the spikes. Only instead of spikes emerging from the floor it's a mixture of filthy rednecks, slimy emos, and underaged undermedicated teenagers. And instead of stone walls closing in it's a shrinking room made of sticky floors, walls, and ceiling. And everywhere you see ads. With cells phones ringing in the background. For $14.50.
This job will be fun. I'll make it fun. It's not a job I fear losing and as such I'll feel free from failure and pressure. I've never worked for a big company before so hopefully I can take advantage of that and maybe end up somewhere warmer as a result. Otherwise a management position for a clever guy like me, competing only against high-schoolers, should be pretty attainable. That's unlikely though, as I only hope to last long enough to pay off my debts, get a Blu-Ray player, and maybe an electric razor and a new popcorn maker. Truly, my goals have finally sunk to an achievable level.
So this is the plan for the short-medium term, as much as I'd rather have any of the jobs I applied for. In the meantime, I'll continue to hold out hope that a shadowy figure will approach me one night after work, ask me for a drink, chat about sports or the weather before handing me a blank business card with an address and time on the back. That address will be an empty field off a long dirt road, surrounded by a chain link fence and with no buildings or people in sight. I'll walk up to the fence, look around, see nothing but a cool spring breeze russle through the long grass. I'll step back, take on last look around, turn back towards my car and stop suddenly. An older man would be standing there, with white, wispy hear and wearing grey suit, black overcoat and a grey fedora. He'll be standing in front of a black limousine with the engine running quietly. I'll look around, puzzled how I failed to notice anything approach.
"Please sir, we must be going."
"Wait. Who are you, where did you come from, what's going on?" I'll foolishly stutter.
"You were approached. The Company has needs for a man of your particular talents."
"You don't know who I am."
"You're quite wrong, sir. It is you who does not know yourself."
With no possible response, I simply stare in silence before following the man into the limo.
"Welcome to the Company," the man says, then smiles. "It has been a very long time coming."
Product training Friday. *SIGH*
This job will be fun. I'll make it fun. It's not a job I fear losing and as such I'll feel free from failure and pressure. I've never worked for a big company before so hopefully I can take advantage of that and maybe end up somewhere warmer as a result. Otherwise a management position for a clever guy like me, competing only against high-schoolers, should be pretty attainable. That's unlikely though, as I only hope to last long enough to pay off my debts, get a Blu-Ray player, and maybe an electric razor and a new popcorn maker. Truly, my goals have finally sunk to an achievable level.
So this is the plan for the short-medium term, as much as I'd rather have any of the jobs I applied for. In the meantime, I'll continue to hold out hope that a shadowy figure will approach me one night after work, ask me for a drink, chat about sports or the weather before handing me a blank business card with an address and time on the back. That address will be an empty field off a long dirt road, surrounded by a chain link fence and with no buildings or people in sight. I'll walk up to the fence, look around, see nothing but a cool spring breeze russle through the long grass. I'll step back, take on last look around, turn back towards my car and stop suddenly. An older man would be standing there, with white, wispy hear and wearing grey suit, black overcoat and a grey fedora. He'll be standing in front of a black limousine with the engine running quietly. I'll look around, puzzled how I failed to notice anything approach.
"Please sir, we must be going."
"Wait. Who are you, where did you come from, what's going on?" I'll foolishly stutter.
"You were approached. The Company has needs for a man of your particular talents."
"You don't know who I am."
"You're quite wrong, sir. It is you who does not know yourself."
With no possible response, I simply stare in silence before following the man into the limo.
"Welcome to the Company," the man says, then smiles. "It has been a very long time coming."
Product training Friday. *SIGH*
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
I'm not your fwend buddy
Mixed from scenes in Season 12, episode 4. Check out www.allsp.com and watch the original episode, it's amazing how little editing goes into timing the character exchanges.
Friday, April 11, 2008
American Psycho
I've watched American Psycho seven or eight times and, like most great movies, there's a new layer and theme revealed with each viewing. All my favorite movies are ones I didn't get right away, though many were ones I saw when I was too young to get them. I saw Fight Club at 19, American Psycho at 20, Apocalypse Now at 18, Pulp Fiction at 14, and in retrospect I never feel like I had a good handle on any of them after the first crack. Not an expert now either, but I'm much more comfortable discussing the themes and messages in these films, and saying with some confidence that Pulp Fiction is a vastly overrated nonsensical mishmash. Each time I see that movie I like it less. It has some great scenes, great style, cool dialogue, but there doesn't seem to be any direction or point to it all. If that is the point, they why bother. I dunno, re-educate me I guess.
Anyway, I've seen American Psycho a few times, then bought it, watched it a few more times and at this point, I'm finally comfortable saying that I don't think it matters if he actually committed all those murders or if it was all in his head. The point of the movie, commentating on the materialistic 1980's, is that nobody notices anything and are completely wrapped up in themselves and their own accomplishments. Conformity and acceptance are the only goals and once reached, they are hollow, superficial and unsatisfying. The fact that he seemingly gets away with the murders shows how little people take note of their surroundings and the extent to which society worries about itself. If they were only fantasies, they illustrate the extent to which Bateman feels trapped, repressed and desires to lash out and be noticed. Either way, the point is the same. This is illustrated three ways, using quotes from IMDB.com.
The first is with Patrick's internal identity struggle with the conformist lifestyle he leads. That people keep mistaking Patrick Bateman for other people is the obvious plot tool, but there's a variety of ways the film makes the point that in this world, people intentionally act, and are thus treated, like clones. Characters are constantly unsure of who is whom. In the business card scene not only is each card basically the same, but they all have the same title, "Vice President." This is what Bateman is fighting within himself, his desire to be included ("You hate the job anyways, I don't see why you don't just quit" "Because I want to FIT IN") and his feelings of entrapment within that conformity. He wants to be accepted but clearly recognizes the price of such a shallow, superficial facade. He talks about how important it is to take care of oneself and address the world's problems (his long soliloquy at Espace about ending apartheid, civil rights, social responsibility) yet film ends with a monologue where he says he "does not hope for a better world for anyone." He knows what to say, everyone in his circle of "friends" knows how to react and chime in but Bateman admits to not caring about any of this, and goes out of his way to act contrary to his politically correct speeches by, well, killing a LOT of people. That's the sliver of humanity within the character, he knows he's trapped in this contradiction but can't find a way out. Hence the last shot of the movie, the sign saying "This is not an exit," where his realization does not result in any catharsis or new insight about his world or how he can improve his life as a result.
The most obvious way the film shows his inability to escape his shallow lifestyle cycle is in how he constantly tries to get caught. He ridiculous lies to Det. Kimble about his whereabouts ("I was probably returning some videotapes [that night]") and obvious evasiveness ("Listen, you'll have to excuse me. I have a lunch meeting with Cliff Huxtable at the Four Seasons in 20 minutes") are some of the movie's funniest scenes. They show Bateman almost crying out for help, hoping to get caught. An interesting scene after he kills Paul Allen illustrates the whole point of the movie. Bateman, dragging Paul Allen's body slowly out of his apartment through the lobby and into his car, runs into co-worker Luis Carruthers just as he's shoving the body into the trunk. He looks absurdly suspicious, dragging this huge BLACK body-size bag through the lobby, which is of course empty, making no attempt to be conspicuous at all. Oddly, the camera following him through the lobby shows a trail of blood behind the bag, then when he's outside moving towards the car, the blood trail is gone. My sense is that it's an intentional way of throwing the viewer, maintaining that existential ambiguity. Carruthers, happening upon Bateman moving a big black bag into the truck of his car, with a trail of blood that is, or is not, leading up to the car, looks taken back and hesitant before delivering perhaps the best line in the film: "Where did you get that overnight bag?"
Lastly, the film (and by greater extension the book, which I keep intending to read) is so intentionally gratuitous and profane in its violence, language, and sexuality in order to magnify Bateman's internal struggle. Without the shock value of these scenes, you don't get the contrast from his bland, clonelike public personality and the violent, psychotic desires of his "actual" or fantasy self. To show just how frustrated and trapped Bateman feels, the film shows scenes of gruesome violence (real or fantasy) as a way of showing the incredible breadth of Bateman's personality split. This contrasts the group scenes where all the suits, haircuts, job titles, business cards etc are all the same and nothing jumps out at the viewer to make Bateman stand out. Marcus Halbertram is of course the best example of this, as he is essentially an exact duplicate of Bateman (glasses, suits, barber, though Bateman's haircut is slightly better). It's ironic to me that which gave the movie its notoriety, and thus its meaning, is also what many people focused on at the expense of the whole point of the film.
So the points overlap to some degree, the conformity, the lost identity, the cries for help and individuality, all to illustrate the central theme of the film: Bateman is lost in a sea of similarity caused by the shallow materialism, self-centeredness, greed, and culture of uncaring that was the 1980's. Cultural traits that have, mercifully, been overcome. I love this movie, Christian Bale is incredible at showing that fake, manufactured expressions and emotions that make his character so hollow and soulless through the majority of the film. Because of this, his breakdown and "confession" at the end are so much stronger and authentic, or as close as possible, thus creating another contradiction within the character.
That's what I think anyways. What I really enjoyed about writing this was typing "Batman" instead of "Bateman" almost half the time. That's where my mind's really at.
Anyway, I've seen American Psycho a few times, then bought it, watched it a few more times and at this point, I'm finally comfortable saying that I don't think it matters if he actually committed all those murders or if it was all in his head. The point of the movie, commentating on the materialistic 1980's, is that nobody notices anything and are completely wrapped up in themselves and their own accomplishments. Conformity and acceptance are the only goals and once reached, they are hollow, superficial and unsatisfying. The fact that he seemingly gets away with the murders shows how little people take note of their surroundings and the extent to which society worries about itself. If they were only fantasies, they illustrate the extent to which Bateman feels trapped, repressed and desires to lash out and be noticed. Either way, the point is the same. This is illustrated three ways, using quotes from IMDB.com.
The first is with Patrick's internal identity struggle with the conformist lifestyle he leads. That people keep mistaking Patrick Bateman for other people is the obvious plot tool, but there's a variety of ways the film makes the point that in this world, people intentionally act, and are thus treated, like clones. Characters are constantly unsure of who is whom. In the business card scene not only is each card basically the same, but they all have the same title, "Vice President." This is what Bateman is fighting within himself, his desire to be included ("You hate the job anyways, I don't see why you don't just quit" "Because I want to FIT IN") and his feelings of entrapment within that conformity. He wants to be accepted but clearly recognizes the price of such a shallow, superficial facade. He talks about how important it is to take care of oneself and address the world's problems (his long soliloquy at Espace about ending apartheid, civil rights, social responsibility) yet film ends with a monologue where he says he "does not hope for a better world for anyone." He knows what to say, everyone in his circle of "friends" knows how to react and chime in but Bateman admits to not caring about any of this, and goes out of his way to act contrary to his politically correct speeches by, well, killing a LOT of people. That's the sliver of humanity within the character, he knows he's trapped in this contradiction but can't find a way out. Hence the last shot of the movie, the sign saying "This is not an exit," where his realization does not result in any catharsis or new insight about his world or how he can improve his life as a result.
The most obvious way the film shows his inability to escape his shallow lifestyle cycle is in how he constantly tries to get caught. He ridiculous lies to Det. Kimble about his whereabouts ("I was probably returning some videotapes [that night]") and obvious evasiveness ("Listen, you'll have to excuse me. I have a lunch meeting with Cliff Huxtable at the Four Seasons in 20 minutes") are some of the movie's funniest scenes. They show Bateman almost crying out for help, hoping to get caught. An interesting scene after he kills Paul Allen illustrates the whole point of the movie. Bateman, dragging Paul Allen's body slowly out of his apartment through the lobby and into his car, runs into co-worker Luis Carruthers just as he's shoving the body into the trunk. He looks absurdly suspicious, dragging this huge BLACK body-size bag through the lobby, which is of course empty, making no attempt to be conspicuous at all. Oddly, the camera following him through the lobby shows a trail of blood behind the bag, then when he's outside moving towards the car, the blood trail is gone. My sense is that it's an intentional way of throwing the viewer, maintaining that existential ambiguity. Carruthers, happening upon Bateman moving a big black bag into the truck of his car, with a trail of blood that is, or is not, leading up to the car, looks taken back and hesitant before delivering perhaps the best line in the film: "Where did you get that overnight bag?"
Lastly, the film (and by greater extension the book, which I keep intending to read) is so intentionally gratuitous and profane in its violence, language, and sexuality in order to magnify Bateman's internal struggle. Without the shock value of these scenes, you don't get the contrast from his bland, clonelike public personality and the violent, psychotic desires of his "actual" or fantasy self. To show just how frustrated and trapped Bateman feels, the film shows scenes of gruesome violence (real or fantasy) as a way of showing the incredible breadth of Bateman's personality split. This contrasts the group scenes where all the suits, haircuts, job titles, business cards etc are all the same and nothing jumps out at the viewer to make Bateman stand out. Marcus Halbertram is of course the best example of this, as he is essentially an exact duplicate of Bateman (glasses, suits, barber, though Bateman's haircut is slightly better). It's ironic to me that which gave the movie its notoriety, and thus its meaning, is also what many people focused on at the expense of the whole point of the film.
So the points overlap to some degree, the conformity, the lost identity, the cries for help and individuality, all to illustrate the central theme of the film: Bateman is lost in a sea of similarity caused by the shallow materialism, self-centeredness, greed, and culture of uncaring that was the 1980's. Cultural traits that have, mercifully, been overcome. I love this movie, Christian Bale is incredible at showing that fake, manufactured expressions and emotions that make his character so hollow and soulless through the majority of the film. Because of this, his breakdown and "confession" at the end are so much stronger and authentic, or as close as possible, thus creating another contradiction within the character.
That's what I think anyways. What I really enjoyed about writing this was typing "Batman" instead of "Bateman" almost half the time. That's where my mind's really at.
Friday, April 04, 2008
The CHILDREN
Children are the most important thing in whole world, our greatest natural resource, even more valuable than oil. They're also more important than the lives of American soldiers in Iraq, failing health care and education systems, and most certainly silly things like the environment, the housing crisis and election year featuring a war hero against the first black candidate or the first female candidate. Indeed, children are important. But they are not more important than marijuana.
I was in a one-way conversation with the Boss recently regarding some curious judgments over performance enhancing drugs. Like most of these conversations, it featured me doing most of the talking while the Boss tried in vain to stay awake and say "yup" and "I reckon" at the right moments. Baseball, it seems, has a problem with performance enhancing drugs. So do the Olympics, the National Football League, the Tour de France, but not the NHL. Baseball's come under fire in the last few years as a result of Roger Clemens and Barry Bonds making themselves into Professor Farnsworth's Atomic Supermen, and then passing hallowed records like water stations in a marathon. U.S. politicians, having solved all the world's problems and needing a break from strenuous golf course openings, hauled Roger Clemens and his former trainer in front of an official Congressional committee so they could amuse the sporting world by making absolute asses of themselves. Under the guise of protecting the children, the steroid cheat and the steroid enabler were harangued for their staggering disrespect and utter disregard for the precious, innocent, mindless zombie children of the world. Just those two though, none of the other players and trainers mentioned in the Mitchell Report.
Steroids are bad, always, unless they save lives. They're unhealthy and can make your biceps explode and otherwise look like this:
It's very important that children not look like this, for reasons I can't come up with right now because that picture is fucking awesome. Oh right. It's horribly unhealthy and clothes won't fit you. And impossible actually, because that's a fake picture. But it's all about health, being healthy, living naturally, eating soy until we kill ourselves, being one with nature who tries to kill us at every opportunity, and making sure that CHILDREN HAVE GOOD ROLE MODELS and THAT is why you cannot do steroids, Mr. Bonds and Mr. Clemens.
Remember Ross Rebagliati? The charming Canadian pothead from the 1998 Winter Olympics? Sure you do. Once the people in charge of medal-stripping and re-gifting realized that it was okay to smoke pot if you were a snowboarder from Whistler, and frankly should be given TWO medals for making it down the hill while high (though a Doritos motivation might have quickened his pace), they quickly returned his rightfully earned medal and apologized for confusing public perception over drugs. Remember Ben Johnson, that other Canadian who had his medal stripped? Sure you do. He made the mistake of taking Stanozolol instead of marijuana (and being black instead of white) and as such was treated with slightly less forgiveness.
So the message about drugs and sports and children and contradictions is simple. You cannot do drugs, ever, because it sets a bad example for children who look up to pro athletes and nobody else. All children want to be pro athletes all the time, and if you do drugs you'll corrupt today's youth and as a result we, Society, will punish you and strip you of any and all accolades you may have accumulated as a result of your own nefariousness. However, it's okay if you do drugs that are bad for you but don't make you better at anything. That's okay. Kids won't associate recreational drugs with any kind of "cool" image, especially not if you're a snowboarder. Kids are smarter than that, when it suits us, Society, to think so.
For the record, I was glad Ross kept his medal and I thought it was the right decision. I'm just pointing out the rather obvious contradictions between holier-than-thou rhetoric from politicians and anti-doping officials and the actual penalties they impose. This is all pretty dated obviously, but with baseball trying to purge steroids out of it's system (you know, while it has a few untainted records left) it's still a current topic, and probably will continue to be.
I was in a one-way conversation with the Boss recently regarding some curious judgments over performance enhancing drugs. Like most of these conversations, it featured me doing most of the talking while the Boss tried in vain to stay awake and say "yup" and "I reckon" at the right moments. Baseball, it seems, has a problem with performance enhancing drugs. So do the Olympics, the National Football League, the Tour de France, but not the NHL. Baseball's come under fire in the last few years as a result of Roger Clemens and Barry Bonds making themselves into Professor Farnsworth's Atomic Supermen, and then passing hallowed records like water stations in a marathon. U.S. politicians, having solved all the world's problems and needing a break from strenuous golf course openings, hauled Roger Clemens and his former trainer in front of an official Congressional committee so they could amuse the sporting world by making absolute asses of themselves. Under the guise of protecting the children, the steroid cheat and the steroid enabler were harangued for their staggering disrespect and utter disregard for the precious, innocent, mindless zombie children of the world. Just those two though, none of the other players and trainers mentioned in the Mitchell Report.
Steroids are bad, always, unless they save lives. They're unhealthy and can make your biceps explode and otherwise look like this:
It's very important that children not look like this, for reasons I can't come up with right now because that picture is fucking awesome. Oh right. It's horribly unhealthy and clothes won't fit you. And impossible actually, because that's a fake picture. But it's all about health, being healthy, living naturally, eating soy until we kill ourselves, being one with nature who tries to kill us at every opportunity, and making sure that CHILDREN HAVE GOOD ROLE MODELS and THAT is why you cannot do steroids, Mr. Bonds and Mr. Clemens.
Remember Ross Rebagliati? The charming Canadian pothead from the 1998 Winter Olympics? Sure you do. Once the people in charge of medal-stripping and re-gifting realized that it was okay to smoke pot if you were a snowboarder from Whistler, and frankly should be given TWO medals for making it down the hill while high (though a Doritos motivation might have quickened his pace), they quickly returned his rightfully earned medal and apologized for confusing public perception over drugs. Remember Ben Johnson, that other Canadian who had his medal stripped? Sure you do. He made the mistake of taking Stanozolol instead of marijuana (and being black instead of white) and as such was treated with slightly less forgiveness.
So the message about drugs and sports and children and contradictions is simple. You cannot do drugs, ever, because it sets a bad example for children who look up to pro athletes and nobody else. All children want to be pro athletes all the time, and if you do drugs you'll corrupt today's youth and as a result we, Society, will punish you and strip you of any and all accolades you may have accumulated as a result of your own nefariousness. However, it's okay if you do drugs that are bad for you but don't make you better at anything. That's okay. Kids won't associate recreational drugs with any kind of "cool" image, especially not if you're a snowboarder. Kids are smarter than that, when it suits us, Society, to think so.
For the record, I was glad Ross kept his medal and I thought it was the right decision. I'm just pointing out the rather obvious contradictions between holier-than-thou rhetoric from politicians and anti-doping officials and the actual penalties they impose. This is all pretty dated obviously, but with baseball trying to purge steroids out of it's system (you know, while it has a few untainted records left) it's still a current topic, and probably will continue to be.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
I Am A Suitable Model For Jack's Next Movie, we hope.
I just want to say that this is the greatest cartoon theme song/introduction ever. Better than Transformers, better than X-Men and that's really it for the top tier. After that, you're dwelling in mediocrity: Ninjas Turtles, He-Man, Spider-man, all average introductory fare. This intro is where it's at. YouTube, next to the wheel, birth control and A & W cream soda (some day, it will come back...), is the greatest invention in the history of inventors inventing inventions, inventively so.
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
A funny thing happened on the way to the phauraum
What's a "phauraum?" you say? Well, it's hard to explain. Some would say it's a special time in young boy's life when the trees seem a little greener, roses smell fresher and fauns are harder to enslave and sentence to lives of servitude. Others would say it's that funny lump that forms on one side of your neck but not the other. Actually, that's just me. When I had mono they said it was a swollen lymph node. Fine, but now I have just one of them swollen instead of having them on both sides. I guess I have half-mono then, which means I'm just really bored. It's been a while since I've just written a rambly, self-absorbed entry.
STILL no job, though fortunately the Alberta economy is slowing down. Some would say that's bad, but those are the same people who's rather get an A on a math quiz than a C. Normal people know that getting a C means that people will expect less from you, am I right? Yeah? Can I get an amen? No? Good, fuck you with your amens and godblessyous and gezoontiEEts. "A's". What a bunch of assholes.
I stand firm in my applications for government jobs that I only scratch the surface of being qualified for. See, there's a difference between "being able to do a job" and "being qualified for it." Maybe not in the minds of those doing the hiring, but certainly to me. Just one phone call and one solid interview and I'm gold baby! That probably means I'll have to shut down this blog, or at least get a more anonymous pic, but that will be the worthwhile cost of a job that, if I get the one I want, will allow me to tell people at my high school reunion (why does it still matter? It's not fair!) exactly what I want to tell them:
Some stupid redneck: "Yeah, I've made Grand High Foreman at Some Depressed Soon-To-Be Shut Down Mill, they pay me $58.38/hr and I only have to work three 16 hour night shifts a week. No big deal. It's pretty awesome, I just bought four new snowmobiles, an second trailer and a John Deere skidder."
Some snotty asshole: "Yeah, I graduated from Yale, Mega Cum Loade, and now I'm Vice-Awesome Delegate to Farawayfullofsandistan. Just seeing the plight of the Farwaynese and their struggle to achieve autonomy against impossible odds, and North American disinterest, makes going to work each day seem so REAL, you know?"
Some stupid redneck and Some snotty asshole to Me: "So, what are you doing now?"
Me: "Actually I can't talk about it, it's Classified."
Other people: "Oh come on!"
Me: "Sorry guys, I'd be dead tomorrow if I said anything."
Other people: (die in a puddle of their own relative lameness).
STILL no job, though fortunately the Alberta economy is slowing down. Some would say that's bad, but those are the same people who's rather get an A on a math quiz than a C. Normal people know that getting a C means that people will expect less from you, am I right? Yeah? Can I get an amen? No? Good, fuck you with your amens and godblessyous and gezoontiEEts. "A's". What a bunch of assholes.
I stand firm in my applications for government jobs that I only scratch the surface of being qualified for. See, there's a difference between "being able to do a job" and "being qualified for it." Maybe not in the minds of those doing the hiring, but certainly to me. Just one phone call and one solid interview and I'm gold baby! That probably means I'll have to shut down this blog, or at least get a more anonymous pic, but that will be the worthwhile cost of a job that, if I get the one I want, will allow me to tell people at my high school reunion (why does it still matter? It's not fair!) exactly what I want to tell them:
Some stupid redneck: "Yeah, I've made Grand High Foreman at Some Depressed Soon-To-Be Shut Down Mill, they pay me $58.38/hr and I only have to work three 16 hour night shifts a week. No big deal. It's pretty awesome, I just bought four new snowmobiles, an second trailer and a John Deere skidder."
Some snotty asshole: "Yeah, I graduated from Yale, Mega Cum Loade, and now I'm Vice-Awesome Delegate to Farawayfullofsandistan. Just seeing the plight of the Farwaynese and their struggle to achieve autonomy against impossible odds, and North American disinterest, makes going to work each day seem so REAL, you know?"
Some stupid redneck and Some snotty asshole to Me: "So, what are you doing now?"
Me: "Actually I can't talk about it, it's Classified."
Other people: "Oh come on!"
Me: "Sorry guys, I'd be dead tomorrow if I said anything."
Other people: (die in a puddle of their own relative lameness).
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