Dear Hollywood:
First, let me say that the last few years - heck, the last fifteen years - have been magical for me. Really. I think it started with 'The Fellowship of the Ring,' one of my favorite books, and one that I certainly never expected to see on the big screen. I mean, how crazy is it that I got to see the Balrog and Rivendell and... just... everything? So I thank you for that. Then there was Spider-Man, the Raimi version. Excellent, and true to the story. Then there was Watchmen, another movie I never thought could be done in live-action. But you did it, Hollywood. And it was superb. Then there were the X-Men, and Iron Man, and the Hulk and the Avengers, all Marvel properties, which I don't begrudge you. Honestly, DC and Warner Bros. have yet to get it together for a large franchise. Harry Potter seven or eight times, Narnia, another go at Tolkien. There was Hellboy - twice - and Constantine and Ghost Rider and The Dark Knight and Captain America and Wolverine. Superman two or three times. And, yes, I'll even count Green Lantern. You discovered superheroes at last, Hollywood, and jumped in with both feet. The kid in me who always longed to see his comic-book heroes come to life has lived to see the day. Which makes what I'm about to say a little difficult.
It's got to stop.
I say this as a lifelong comic collector. I have 39 long boxes of comics- conservatively figure 10,000 issues - bought with my own money the hard way, once a week on Wednesday, every Wednesday, for decades. The comic store guys call me 'sir.' I know the material, I love the material, I love the movies, even the bad ones. I'm a fan. I'm the guy you most want in your corner, but I can't be, not any longer. Hollywood, you need to quit it with the superhero movies. The concept has run its course, it's not novel, it's not exciting, it's not anything I want to see.
Do you remember when you were a kid, Hollywood, maybe fourteen, and you knew your way around town and you had your own money? You could make your own decisions and not have to answer to anyone. Not until you got home, anyway. And that one time you decided what you really wanted to spend your lawnmowing money on was ice cream? Not a cone from the truck, but a half gallon from the grocery store. And you and your friend each bought half a gallon, and plastic spoons, and you went to the park and ate as much ice cream as you thought you wanted. When you were eating, it was great, wasn't it? But afterwards... oh, afterwards you realized that the reason your mother never let you eat an entire half gallon of ice cream was that it was a terrible idea.
You're eating too much ice cream right now, Hollywood. You're releasing too many superhero movies, and they're all starting to look the same. What began as a cause slowly became a business and now is becoming a racket.* Can't you see you're poisoning the well?
I get it, guys my age with my kind of life experiences run you now, Hollywood, and they want to see what I wanted to see. But it's not the only thing I wanted to see. Twenty years ago superhero movies were tough to sell and almost impossible to make, I get it, and now that technology has advanced you can put on the screen what you never could before. The challenge is to do that with new properties instead of retreading ideas and characters and stories that are seventy-plus years old. I thought I wanted to see my comic books up on the big screen, but it turns out I liked them better when they were on the page.
So, that's it, Hollywood. We're breaking up, you and I. No more superhero movies. I'm done. When you get a fresh idea that doesn't involve mining someone else's work, give me a call. I won't change my number, but I'm not going to hold my breath either.
Sincerely,
Don Hartshorn
* thank you Eric Hoffer
Showing posts with label soylent green. Show all posts
Showing posts with label soylent green. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 6, 2014
Tuesday, November 5, 2013
What Time Is It?
I've been thinking about time again. Yeah, I know there are theoretical physicists getting paid to ponder the same thing - what is time? - but that shouldn't keep me from thinking about it any more than the existence of NASCAR drivers should keep me from getting behind the wheel of my truck. They're professionals, and they run their race very well, but they can't get me where I need to go, that's my job.
As Einstein demonstrated, space and time are connected, the same fabric. It's where we get the concept of spacetime. And we are embedded in spacetime, all four dimensions of it. Which is why, I think, we experience time as a one-way arrow. In order to step outside of time, we'd have to be able to experience a fifth dimension which would allow us a separate perspective on our original four.
Think of it in terms of Flatland, a hypothetical two-dimensional world. The Flatlanders have forward and back, and left and right, but they do not have up and down. They can't even conceive of up and down, since that's a third dimension and they have only two. Everything they do is constrained to those two dimensions, and even if they were somehow transported through a third dimension they'd never know it, since they can't perceive it.
Same thing with us and time. It's a fourth dimension, but we're stuck in it like it's 4-D flypaper, nothing we can do to get out of it. It's not only all we know, it's all we can know.
There's a very good question about time travel: If time travel is possible, where are all the time travelers? Once time travel is invented, no matter how far in the future, every era would be lousy with time tourists, because every moment in time would essentially be 'now.' Since we don't see any time travelers, ipso facto, time travel must not be possible.
But I put this to you: if time travel is possible, it's only possible through a fifth dimension. And since we can't perceive that fifth dimension, we can't perceive any time travelers, who must, of necessity, be five-dimensional beings. So maybe there are time travelers all around us right now. We'd never know it, just like Flatlanders could never know us higher-dimensional beings.
Which brings us to another notion about time. We experience time as a linear flow, but if there is a fifth dimension outside of our four familiar dimensions of spacetime, wouldn't someone in that fifth dimension be able to see all of time? To them, wouldn't time be just another dimension they could move along, forward or backward or sideways or what have you? Furthermore, wouldn't that mean that time - though we experience it linearly - is actually all happening at once? Is every moment in time really lined up in order like a huge card catalog* we leaf through from front to back because we have to by virtue of our four-dimensionality?
I think the notion of there being no real 'now,' just a card-catalog moment we experience as now is both disturbing and poetic. It's like we live each moment like it's a frame of movie film, one at a time, one after the other.
Which has all sorts of implications for the notion of free will. But that's another sleepless night lying in bed.
* kids, a card catalog is what libraries used to keep track of their books in the days before computers did everything for us.
As Einstein demonstrated, space and time are connected, the same fabric. It's where we get the concept of spacetime. And we are embedded in spacetime, all four dimensions of it. Which is why, I think, we experience time as a one-way arrow. In order to step outside of time, we'd have to be able to experience a fifth dimension which would allow us a separate perspective on our original four.
Think of it in terms of Flatland, a hypothetical two-dimensional world. The Flatlanders have forward and back, and left and right, but they do not have up and down. They can't even conceive of up and down, since that's a third dimension and they have only two. Everything they do is constrained to those two dimensions, and even if they were somehow transported through a third dimension they'd never know it, since they can't perceive it.
Same thing with us and time. It's a fourth dimension, but we're stuck in it like it's 4-D flypaper, nothing we can do to get out of it. It's not only all we know, it's all we can know.
There's a very good question about time travel: If time travel is possible, where are all the time travelers? Once time travel is invented, no matter how far in the future, every era would be lousy with time tourists, because every moment in time would essentially be 'now.' Since we don't see any time travelers, ipso facto, time travel must not be possible.
But I put this to you: if time travel is possible, it's only possible through a fifth dimension. And since we can't perceive that fifth dimension, we can't perceive any time travelers, who must, of necessity, be five-dimensional beings. So maybe there are time travelers all around us right now. We'd never know it, just like Flatlanders could never know us higher-dimensional beings.
Which brings us to another notion about time. We experience time as a linear flow, but if there is a fifth dimension outside of our four familiar dimensions of spacetime, wouldn't someone in that fifth dimension be able to see all of time? To them, wouldn't time be just another dimension they could move along, forward or backward or sideways or what have you? Furthermore, wouldn't that mean that time - though we experience it linearly - is actually all happening at once? Is every moment in time really lined up in order like a huge card catalog* we leaf through from front to back because we have to by virtue of our four-dimensionality?
I think the notion of there being no real 'now,' just a card-catalog moment we experience as now is both disturbing and poetic. It's like we live each moment like it's a frame of movie film, one at a time, one after the other.
Which has all sorts of implications for the notion of free will. But that's another sleepless night lying in bed.
* kids, a card catalog is what libraries used to keep track of their books in the days before computers did everything for us.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Don't Touch The Cheese
I'm not a particularly squeamish person - the five-second rule in my house is usually extended a few seconds for something particuarly tasty - but I'm growing very wary of free samples in grocery stores.
The ones you get in Costco are okay, at least when the table is monitored by one of the employees who didn't look away from the manager when they asked for volunteers. When you have someone watching the merchandise then it's okay by me. As long as the person doing the monitoring isn't a hulking tattooed serial killer or a sinister giggling Nazi scientist. If you see either of those guys behind the sausage sample table I'd give it a pass.
But when I see those samples just sitting out in the open? With no one nearby, and they've been sitting there for who knows how long? The old prep cook I used to be wants to grab the whole plate or bowl or whatever and run for the nearest trash can.
Whole Foods is the worst, ironically enough. They want to be healthy and wholesome and safe, and yet they leave sliced samples of almost anything sitting out in the store, with flimsy little useless tongs jabbed into the food as if that makes any difference. You see them everywhere, from the cheese aisle to the fruit section and all points in between. People cough on that stuff, they run their god-knows-where-they've-been fingers across every piece... just a flu epidemic waiting to happen. Or salmonella poisoning. Or measles. Or any number of African flesh-eating disorders. Not worth the risk.
I was in HEB today and I saw some guy touching every cube of cheese in a sample tray as he tried to choose the best one. Really. Like he was counting a deck of cards. Alone. In the privacy of his own home instead of in a large grocery store with other people watching in horror. I did not partake of the Gruyere bounty presented to me.
Please, from me to you, just pretend that those unattended samples aren't even in the store at all. You'll be much better off. And you'll let me sleep easier at night.
The ones you get in Costco are okay, at least when the table is monitored by one of the employees who didn't look away from the manager when they asked for volunteers. When you have someone watching the merchandise then it's okay by me. As long as the person doing the monitoring isn't a hulking tattooed serial killer or a sinister giggling Nazi scientist. If you see either of those guys behind the sausage sample table I'd give it a pass.
But when I see those samples just sitting out in the open? With no one nearby, and they've been sitting there for who knows how long? The old prep cook I used to be wants to grab the whole plate or bowl or whatever and run for the nearest trash can.
Whole Foods is the worst, ironically enough. They want to be healthy and wholesome and safe, and yet they leave sliced samples of almost anything sitting out in the store, with flimsy little useless tongs jabbed into the food as if that makes any difference. You see them everywhere, from the cheese aisle to the fruit section and all points in between. People cough on that stuff, they run their god-knows-where-they've-been fingers across every piece... just a flu epidemic waiting to happen. Or salmonella poisoning. Or measles. Or any number of African flesh-eating disorders. Not worth the risk.
I was in HEB today and I saw some guy touching every cube of cheese in a sample tray as he tried to choose the best one. Really. Like he was counting a deck of cards. Alone. In the privacy of his own home instead of in a large grocery store with other people watching in horror. I did not partake of the Gruyere bounty presented to me.
Please, from me to you, just pretend that those unattended samples aren't even in the store at all. You'll be much better off. And you'll let me sleep easier at night.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Tales From My Past - What's French For Asshole?
There was this guy in my college, I don't want to use his real name but if you want to call him Zach then that would be fine by me. He was rich, privileged, clueless and rude. Plus he thought he was funny but actually wasn't, which in a college full of smarty-pants overachievers isn't something you want to aspire to. He was also loud, and had that young-man's habit of bellowing the first thing that popped into his tiny brain, especially if that thing was unkind or abusive.
Zach was not well-liked, is what I'm trying to convey here.
Sure, he had a few people who tolerated him and allowed him to hang out, but as the semester wore on you could see people avoiding him in the lunch room, having somewhere else to be on Friday when he showed up at a party, conveniently remembering missed study opportunities when he wanted to get a hack going.* It almost made me sad for him, but then he was a total dick so I didn't mind him being left out of stuff.
My friend Ben spent a calendar year in Paris, so when he came back for his last two semesters one of his friends from Paris came to visit. And she was a girl. Yup, a young, attractive, Parisian nurse came to Sherman, Texas to visit Ben. Way to go, man.
Anyhoo, Zach decided he like Claudette - really her name, I swear - and tried to talk to her. She spoke English better than he did, but he tried to be clever with French-ifying English words, which Claudette did not find endearing in the least. She endured him with a polite nod and pretended not to understand him so he would go away. Which he did.
My friend Rene asked her 'What's French for redneck?'
And I asked 'What's French for asshole?'
Claudette mentioned that he seemed like a very lonely, sad person, an insight that hadn't escaped me, but when she said it I felt like I should at least pretend to care. And Zach continued to be a colossal tool.
Fast forward to Spring semester. Zach had started binge drinking - as many college students did and still do - but, because he was such a conflicted mess he binged like he was trying to set a record. Even had a minor intervention that did no good.
One Friday his frat and a sorority started having a water balloon war. This action escalated and moved off the frat house grounds to the local convenience store then to the local highway, 75.
I was with my roommate in his truck waiting for a stoplight to change when Zach and his buddies pulled up and started lobbing balloons at sorority chicks in another car. The light changed, we drove on, and Mark said, prophetically, 'someone's gonna get creamed if they keep that up.'
Not five minutes later Mark and I were long gone, he blew the yellow to get away from them and Mark never disobeyed traffic laws, but the water balloon fight continued at the next stop light. Zach, three sheets to the wind, ran out into traffic and got creamed but good. Really. He ran from the left-turn lane into Southbound traffic, where some poor young mother plowed into him at sixty miles an hour. He got busted up bad, his pelvis was crushed, both legs with multiple compound fractures, broken ribs and vertebrae, the whole nine yards. We were guessing that if he hadn't been completely drunk he'd probably have been killed.
Fast forward to the next semester. Zach had been out of school and recovering for something like seven months. He came back to school with a cane and a limp and a slightly lopsided smile. We were thinking that perhaps his waltz with the Grim Reaper would have taught him some grace and humility.
He was still a dick, the only difference was the cane.
The moral of this story? People aren't going to change unless they're good and ready. And an asshole is always going to be an asshole.
* kids, I'm talking about hacky sack, which ranks up there with drum circle on the stoner hit parade of time wasters whilst coming down from the buzz of some righteous bud
Zach was not well-liked, is what I'm trying to convey here.
Sure, he had a few people who tolerated him and allowed him to hang out, but as the semester wore on you could see people avoiding him in the lunch room, having somewhere else to be on Friday when he showed up at a party, conveniently remembering missed study opportunities when he wanted to get a hack going.* It almost made me sad for him, but then he was a total dick so I didn't mind him being left out of stuff.
My friend Ben spent a calendar year in Paris, so when he came back for his last two semesters one of his friends from Paris came to visit. And she was a girl. Yup, a young, attractive, Parisian nurse came to Sherman, Texas to visit Ben. Way to go, man.
Anyhoo, Zach decided he like Claudette - really her name, I swear - and tried to talk to her. She spoke English better than he did, but he tried to be clever with French-ifying English words, which Claudette did not find endearing in the least. She endured him with a polite nod and pretended not to understand him so he would go away. Which he did.
My friend Rene asked her 'What's French for redneck?'
And I asked 'What's French for asshole?'
Claudette mentioned that he seemed like a very lonely, sad person, an insight that hadn't escaped me, but when she said it I felt like I should at least pretend to care. And Zach continued to be a colossal tool.
Fast forward to Spring semester. Zach had started binge drinking - as many college students did and still do - but, because he was such a conflicted mess he binged like he was trying to set a record. Even had a minor intervention that did no good.
One Friday his frat and a sorority started having a water balloon war. This action escalated and moved off the frat house grounds to the local convenience store then to the local highway, 75.
I was with my roommate in his truck waiting for a stoplight to change when Zach and his buddies pulled up and started lobbing balloons at sorority chicks in another car. The light changed, we drove on, and Mark said, prophetically, 'someone's gonna get creamed if they keep that up.'
Not five minutes later Mark and I were long gone, he blew the yellow to get away from them and Mark never disobeyed traffic laws, but the water balloon fight continued at the next stop light. Zach, three sheets to the wind, ran out into traffic and got creamed but good. Really. He ran from the left-turn lane into Southbound traffic, where some poor young mother plowed into him at sixty miles an hour. He got busted up bad, his pelvis was crushed, both legs with multiple compound fractures, broken ribs and vertebrae, the whole nine yards. We were guessing that if he hadn't been completely drunk he'd probably have been killed.
Fast forward to the next semester. Zach had been out of school and recovering for something like seven months. He came back to school with a cane and a limp and a slightly lopsided smile. We were thinking that perhaps his waltz with the Grim Reaper would have taught him some grace and humility.
He was still a dick, the only difference was the cane.
The moral of this story? People aren't going to change unless they're good and ready. And an asshole is always going to be an asshole.
* kids, I'm talking about hacky sack, which ranks up there with drum circle on the stoner hit parade of time wasters whilst coming down from the buzz of some righteous bud
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Impressions Of A Supermarket
I went to the supermarket for the first time today. I mean by myself, shopping for my own place, I've been to Texas supermarkets many times since I moved to SoCal, with my mother and sister. But today I was all by my big self. Here are some impressions.
Fat - it's my hometown, but, damn, San Antonio, you've let yourself go. The only people who weren't fat were the guys stocking the shelves. Everyone else was faaaaaaaat. And not solid fat, like the guy operating the jackhammer in Laurel and Hardy movies, floppy fat like they haven't worked out since their last gym class in 1978. It's not healthy and you people need to cut it out. Eat a vegetable for once.
Rude - I thought people in SoCal were rude and pushy, but somehow, some way the rude and pushy has flowed East. People moving too fast in tight spaces, trying to be first, like it was a contest. Admittedly the NASCAR race had just started so maybe they wanted to get home to catch the action, but still... Bunch of awful people. Fat, awful people.
Oblivious - in a store that big you'd think people would realize they're not alone. But then you'd be wrong. Evidently there are many people who are the sole occupants in their universe, the rest of us are just figments. Stop in the center of the aisle? Why not, there's no else around at 1 PM on a Sunday, is there? Fat, awful, oblivious people.
Too big - maybe I'm used to my SoCal stores, smaller and more of them in a geographical area, but this HEB was just too big. You could have fit three of my old Pavilions stores into this one. What's it cost to air condition that behemoth in the summer? And do I really need to be able to buy a barbeque and lawn furniture where I buy my limes?
No parking lot etiquette - this goes along with rude and oblivious. Evidently people drive their cars in grocery store parking lots like they drive their carts inside, with an undeserved sense of aggressive entitlement. Looks like I'm gonna have to put the smack down sooner rather than later.
Organic? - okay, this is for sure my SoCal pretensions showing through, but I didn't see any organic options, either in the produce section or the prepared foods. It really is like Field of Dreams, if you offer it, they will buy. Maybe South Texas farmers aren't growing organic? Though I bet if I go to Austin I wouldn't be able to punt a dirty hippy five feet without him hitting something organic. I'll test it out.
So... all in all a disappointing experience. I spent less per item than I would have in SoCal, but I had to put up with some truly reprehensible behavior from my fellow Texans for the privilege. Be nice, you rat bastards, we're all in this together.
Fat - it's my hometown, but, damn, San Antonio, you've let yourself go. The only people who weren't fat were the guys stocking the shelves. Everyone else was faaaaaaaat. And not solid fat, like the guy operating the jackhammer in Laurel and Hardy movies, floppy fat like they haven't worked out since their last gym class in 1978. It's not healthy and you people need to cut it out. Eat a vegetable for once.
Rude - I thought people in SoCal were rude and pushy, but somehow, some way the rude and pushy has flowed East. People moving too fast in tight spaces, trying to be first, like it was a contest. Admittedly the NASCAR race had just started so maybe they wanted to get home to catch the action, but still... Bunch of awful people. Fat, awful people.
Oblivious - in a store that big you'd think people would realize they're not alone. But then you'd be wrong. Evidently there are many people who are the sole occupants in their universe, the rest of us are just figments. Stop in the center of the aisle? Why not, there's no else around at 1 PM on a Sunday, is there? Fat, awful, oblivious people.
Too big - maybe I'm used to my SoCal stores, smaller and more of them in a geographical area, but this HEB was just too big. You could have fit three of my old Pavilions stores into this one. What's it cost to air condition that behemoth in the summer? And do I really need to be able to buy a barbeque and lawn furniture where I buy my limes?
No parking lot etiquette - this goes along with rude and oblivious. Evidently people drive their cars in grocery store parking lots like they drive their carts inside, with an undeserved sense of aggressive entitlement. Looks like I'm gonna have to put the smack down sooner rather than later.
Organic? - okay, this is for sure my SoCal pretensions showing through, but I didn't see any organic options, either in the produce section or the prepared foods. It really is like Field of Dreams, if you offer it, they will buy. Maybe South Texas farmers aren't growing organic? Though I bet if I go to Austin I wouldn't be able to punt a dirty hippy five feet without him hitting something organic. I'll test it out.
So... all in all a disappointing experience. I spent less per item than I would have in SoCal, but I had to put up with some truly reprehensible behavior from my fellow Texans for the privilege. Be nice, you rat bastards, we're all in this together.
Friday, February 25, 2011
When Tom Sings You Listen
Years ago I gave my younger niece a CD of Tom Jones hits. She loved it, especially the chorus of 'What's New, Pussycat?'* She amazed and delighted my sister's friends who had no idea a little kid could know all the words to any song, let alone Tom Jones. My younger niece is now an accomplished musician and I like to believe that Tom Jones had a very large part in making that happen.
So I was re-listening to my copy of that Tom Jones greatest hits CD - on iTunes, natch, who handles CDs these days? - and I realized that some of his songs don't make a whole lot of sense. I mean, they're undeniably catchy and I can listen to them over and over, but only if I don't pay a whole lot of attention.
To wit, 'Thunderball':
He knows the meaning of success.
His needs are more, so he gives less.
They call him the winner who takes all.
And he strikes, like Thunderball.
Get away from the groovy 60's theatrical score and just listen, and the song doesn't really hold together. Never mind that it was the theme for a James Bond picture.
Or how about 'Help Yourself'
Love is like candy on a shelf
You want to taste and help yourself
The sweetest things are there for you
Help yourself take a few
That's what I want you to do
Or 'Puppet Man'
Baby, Baby, I'm your sweet pet
I'm just your personal marionette
Wind me up and let me go
Don't you know I'm a one man show?
I think I've made my point.
However, the fact that some of Mr. Jones' lyrics approach dadaist meaninglessness makes absolutely no difference. At. All. I want to strike like Thunderball, even though I have no idea what that means. And I want my love to wind me up, even though marionettes aren't wind-up dolls. And I want my love like candy on a shelf, even though candy goes in jars. When I listen to Tom Jones I just sit back and enjoy, and turn my brain off. I leave myself in his tender care, because I know he won't do me wrong.
When Tom Jones sings, you listen.
* whoa-whoa-whoa
So I was re-listening to my copy of that Tom Jones greatest hits CD - on iTunes, natch, who handles CDs these days? - and I realized that some of his songs don't make a whole lot of sense. I mean, they're undeniably catchy and I can listen to them over and over, but only if I don't pay a whole lot of attention.
To wit, 'Thunderball':
He knows the meaning of success.
His needs are more, so he gives less.
They call him the winner who takes all.
And he strikes, like Thunderball.
Get away from the groovy 60's theatrical score and just listen, and the song doesn't really hold together. Never mind that it was the theme for a James Bond picture.
Or how about 'Help Yourself'
Love is like candy on a shelf
You want to taste and help yourself
The sweetest things are there for you
Help yourself take a few
That's what I want you to do
Or 'Puppet Man'
Baby, Baby, I'm your sweet pet
I'm just your personal marionette
Wind me up and let me go
Don't you know I'm a one man show?
I think I've made my point.
However, the fact that some of Mr. Jones' lyrics approach dadaist meaninglessness makes absolutely no difference. At. All. I want to strike like Thunderball, even though I have no idea what that means. And I want my love to wind me up, even though marionettes aren't wind-up dolls. And I want my love like candy on a shelf, even though candy goes in jars. When I listen to Tom Jones I just sit back and enjoy, and turn my brain off. I leave myself in his tender care, because I know he won't do me wrong.
When Tom Jones sings, you listen.
* whoa-whoa-whoa
Monday, January 31, 2011
Analyze This
I woke up from a dream last night and I wrote it down, which I used to do a lot but got out of the habit of. This one was odd enough that I think I need some help. I don't know if the imagery means anything or if it means nothing.
I wrote this in the dark, half-asleep, so there is a section where I couldn't decipher my handwriting. Make up your own words to go in there, like a Mad Lib.
I was in Monument Valley, where Krazy Kat was set, and where John Ford did a lot of his westerns, with all the sandstone bluffs and wind-carved rock formations. Everything was red and ochre, like the sun was setting. I sat alone by a campfire, roasting marshmallows.
Pretty tame so far. Could be right out of a Travel Channel show. Then the kangaroo showed up. He was a normal kangaroo except for the boxing gloves and monocle. Well, he talked too. For some reason he wanted my marshmallow and I wouldn't give it to him or share the rest of the bag. So he threatened me and said he'd be back with friends.
So I packed up what little I had and got into my Volkswagen Microbus and made my escape. The bus was littered with fast food wrappers, piled feet deep from front to back, which whipped out the windows as I fled the kangaroo.
Then I was in a city, for some reason I thought it was Philadelphia even though I've never been to Philadelphia. I parked the Microbus in front of a ballet studio and ran inside, convinced the kangaroo was in hot pursuit.
I gave a little kid my marshmallow on a stick, but then realized the kangaroo would probably hurt him so I took it back. Which made the little kid cry. His mother came out of ballet class and started yelling at me. So I ran from her.
Then it gets weird. Instead of Philadephia I was in Rome, where I have been before, except this was future-Rome, with moving sidewalks and Jetsons cars. I ran through St. Peter's Square where people were playing soccer. I interrupted the game and deflated the soccer ball somehow, which made them all run after me.
An old man hid me from the mob, which included the ballet mom and the kangaroo. He told me he was Leonardo and that he was immortal (this I probably got from Star Trek) and needed my help to...
[this is the part I can't read, I think it says 'steal' scribble scribble scribble, although 'steal' could be 'strike' or 'stomp' or something. All I know is the word starts with an 's']
He said his secret lab was in Monument Valley, and I told him I was just there. He asked if I was the one who left the campfire going and burned everything down.
Then I woke up.
Not the most surreal dream I've ever had, but I didn't much care for the threatening kangaroo for some reason. And, being an Eagle Scout the part where I left the campfire going doesn't please me either. The most disturbing part, though, was the Volkswagen Microbus; I'm no hippy, dammit, I would never drive one of those, and I don't eat in my cars, let alone leave fast food wrappers everywhere like a big fat slob.
What does it all mean? I need some help here.
I wrote this in the dark, half-asleep, so there is a section where I couldn't decipher my handwriting. Make up your own words to go in there, like a Mad Lib.
I was in Monument Valley, where Krazy Kat was set, and where John Ford did a lot of his westerns, with all the sandstone bluffs and wind-carved rock formations. Everything was red and ochre, like the sun was setting. I sat alone by a campfire, roasting marshmallows.
Pretty tame so far. Could be right out of a Travel Channel show. Then the kangaroo showed up. He was a normal kangaroo except for the boxing gloves and monocle. Well, he talked too. For some reason he wanted my marshmallow and I wouldn't give it to him or share the rest of the bag. So he threatened me and said he'd be back with friends.
So I packed up what little I had and got into my Volkswagen Microbus and made my escape. The bus was littered with fast food wrappers, piled feet deep from front to back, which whipped out the windows as I fled the kangaroo.
Then I was in a city, for some reason I thought it was Philadelphia even though I've never been to Philadelphia. I parked the Microbus in front of a ballet studio and ran inside, convinced the kangaroo was in hot pursuit.
I gave a little kid my marshmallow on a stick, but then realized the kangaroo would probably hurt him so I took it back. Which made the little kid cry. His mother came out of ballet class and started yelling at me. So I ran from her.
Then it gets weird. Instead of Philadephia I was in Rome, where I have been before, except this was future-Rome, with moving sidewalks and Jetsons cars. I ran through St. Peter's Square where people were playing soccer. I interrupted the game and deflated the soccer ball somehow, which made them all run after me.
An old man hid me from the mob, which included the ballet mom and the kangaroo. He told me he was Leonardo and that he was immortal (this I probably got from Star Trek) and needed my help to...
[this is the part I can't read, I think it says 'steal' scribble scribble scribble, although 'steal' could be 'strike' or 'stomp' or something. All I know is the word starts with an 's']
He said his secret lab was in Monument Valley, and I told him I was just there. He asked if I was the one who left the campfire going and burned everything down.
Then I woke up.
Not the most surreal dream I've ever had, but I didn't much care for the threatening kangaroo for some reason. And, being an Eagle Scout the part where I left the campfire going doesn't please me either. The most disturbing part, though, was the Volkswagen Microbus; I'm no hippy, dammit, I would never drive one of those, and I don't eat in my cars, let alone leave fast food wrappers everywhere like a big fat slob.
What does it all mean? I need some help here.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Ear Hair Is Next
I have, from time to time, discussed my impending old-man-ness. Usually the source has been my habits, my crankiness, or my general outlook. Now, though, it's physical.
I found a huge hair on my right eyebrow. A great big one, thick and long, which I pulled out as soon as I found it. And then stuck to the mirror. Because I live alone and I can do what I want in the bathroom.
And so it begins. Before too long I'm going to have a whole forest up there, waving back and forth like tube worms on the ocean floor. Or - for the more nerdy among you - like Thufir Hawat from the David Lynch version of Dune.
What's next? Ear hair? Great big tufts blossoming from the side of my head? Inch-thick glasses? Suspenders and a belt? A coin purse? Herb Alpert albums? Werther's hard candies? An NRA membership? Dinner at Denny's at 4:30 PM?
I could go on, but I'm getting a little depressed.
I found a huge hair on my right eyebrow. A great big one, thick and long, which I pulled out as soon as I found it. And then stuck to the mirror. Because I live alone and I can do what I want in the bathroom.
And so it begins. Before too long I'm going to have a whole forest up there, waving back and forth like tube worms on the ocean floor. Or - for the more nerdy among you - like Thufir Hawat from the David Lynch version of Dune.
What's next? Ear hair? Great big tufts blossoming from the side of my head? Inch-thick glasses? Suspenders and a belt? A coin purse? Herb Alpert albums? Werther's hard candies? An NRA membership? Dinner at Denny's at 4:30 PM?
I could go on, but I'm getting a little depressed.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Convertible Smells
I actually had to drive to work today - I left my gym bag there Thursday - but since I was on a search-and-recover mission I took the hot rod instead of the truck. I had the top down and the heater cranked up, and I decided to see how long the commute would take on a lazy Saturday morning (details below). But with the top down I discovered a whole new science experiment.
Man, LA stinks.
And I don't just mean metaphorically, I mean actually. Without the hermetic isolation of rolled-up windows and blowing AC you can really experience the startling funk of Los Angeles. Coming down the 110 I got the familiar wafts of earth and plants, since there is a lot of open land around there. Open for LA, anyway. Not much to smell because it's a highway.
Coming into downtown I got a metallic/concrete sniff, then some exhaust, of course. There was also, oddly enough, onions. Must have been from a taco truck or something.
Going down Wilshire I really got into the Los Angeles-style of odors. Garbage, more exhaust, lots of urine, something rotten, cooking grease, beer, gasoline, wet dirt, and some sickly-sweet odor that followed me for a while but that I just couldn't place. Kind of like anti-freeze but that wasn't it.
Coming back I went down 3rd, and there the odors were eclectic. Cotton candy, more exhaust, grass, melted plastic, new electronics, sewer gas, BO (really, passing a bus stop, it must have been truly epic), old lady perfume, pineapples, gunpowder and spray paint.
In my experience the one way to really experience the spirit of a neighborhood is to walk it. But a close second would be to roll through in a convertible. It'll make you realize why you don't live there in the first place.
COMMUTE - not really a commute, since I wasn't working, but here's the best-case scenario when there is very little traffic:
there - 33 minutes back - 31 minutes
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 56 days
Man, LA stinks.
And I don't just mean metaphorically, I mean actually. Without the hermetic isolation of rolled-up windows and blowing AC you can really experience the startling funk of Los Angeles. Coming down the 110 I got the familiar wafts of earth and plants, since there is a lot of open land around there. Open for LA, anyway. Not much to smell because it's a highway.
Coming into downtown I got a metallic/concrete sniff, then some exhaust, of course. There was also, oddly enough, onions. Must have been from a taco truck or something.
Going down Wilshire I really got into the Los Angeles-style of odors. Garbage, more exhaust, lots of urine, something rotten, cooking grease, beer, gasoline, wet dirt, and some sickly-sweet odor that followed me for a while but that I just couldn't place. Kind of like anti-freeze but that wasn't it.
Coming back I went down 3rd, and there the odors were eclectic. Cotton candy, more exhaust, grass, melted plastic, new electronics, sewer gas, BO (really, passing a bus stop, it must have been truly epic), old lady perfume, pineapples, gunpowder and spray paint.
In my experience the one way to really experience the spirit of a neighborhood is to walk it. But a close second would be to roll through in a convertible. It'll make you realize why you don't live there in the first place.
COMMUTE - not really a commute, since I wasn't working, but here's the best-case scenario when there is very little traffic:
there - 33 minutes back - 31 minutes
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 56 days
Friday, March 26, 2010
A Beard And A Cigar
Okay, I'm going to admit it: I'm getting tired of being 'between assignments.' There, I've said it. The bloom is off the rose, the shine is off the new penny. I want to work, even if it means going back to a corporate amoeba and putting in my 40 from a cubicle.
But I still have dreams of something better.
I'm thinking that, if I play my cards right and have the proper backing, I could become dictator of my own banana republic. And I don't mean the clothing store (those still exist, right? I haven't been to a mall in a very long time).
I want to rule a blighted land with an iron fist, I want to take over from a corrupt regime and become even more corrupt, I want to grow a bushy beard and smoke a big cigar. I want my image plastered on every wall and have my statues in every public square. I want my citizens to publicly praise me yet privately condemn me. I want Google to cater to me, and then develop a conscience only when my state hackers try to crack their system. I want Wall Street vampires to admire me and wonder how they can duplicate my political success in their financial world.
Couldn't be worse than fighting LA traffic to work at a soulless corporation for defeated, sallow middle-managers who aren't good at their jobs and don't care to be. At least if I was Great Leader of my own banana republic I'd be the one abusing my power at the expense of others, instead of being the victim.
Of course, my regime is destined to fail. Eventually. They always do - Hugo Chavez, I'm looking at you here. But if I'm properly paranoid and ruthless I could make it last a good twenty, maybe thirty years. I'm gonna need a cadre of faithful believers in my 'cause,' who I will eventually and gradually betray until I become the very thing I was fighting against. Who's up for it?
But I still have dreams of something better.
I'm thinking that, if I play my cards right and have the proper backing, I could become dictator of my own banana republic. And I don't mean the clothing store (those still exist, right? I haven't been to a mall in a very long time).
I want to rule a blighted land with an iron fist, I want to take over from a corrupt regime and become even more corrupt, I want to grow a bushy beard and smoke a big cigar. I want my image plastered on every wall and have my statues in every public square. I want my citizens to publicly praise me yet privately condemn me. I want Google to cater to me, and then develop a conscience only when my state hackers try to crack their system. I want Wall Street vampires to admire me and wonder how they can duplicate my political success in their financial world.
Couldn't be worse than fighting LA traffic to work at a soulless corporation for defeated, sallow middle-managers who aren't good at their jobs and don't care to be. At least if I was Great Leader of my own banana republic I'd be the one abusing my power at the expense of others, instead of being the victim.
Of course, my regime is destined to fail. Eventually. They always do - Hugo Chavez, I'm looking at you here. But if I'm properly paranoid and ruthless I could make it last a good twenty, maybe thirty years. I'm gonna need a cadre of faithful believers in my 'cause,' who I will eventually and gradually betray until I become the very thing I was fighting against. Who's up for it?
Saturday, March 6, 2010
For Your Convenience
Last night was sitting on the couch eating dinner, as I usually do since I don't have a dining table. What can I say? I'm a guy who lives alone, it never occurred to me that I should get a dining table. Still hasn't. Anyway, I tried to eat healthy, so I had some baby carrots, apple slices, dried cherries, walnuts, and a whole wheat English muffin with a little peanut butter on it. Proud of my dietary restraint, as I munched away I realized that I had spent a total of two or three minutes arranging my meal, because all of the food preparation had been done for me.
The carrots came already peeled and washed and in a bag, the apple slices too, the cherries had the pits and stems removed and the walnuts were already shelled. The English muffin came pre-sliced. I did have to stir up the peanut butter - I get the kind that separates - but that was the only real effort I had to expend, aside from plugging the toaster in.
Wasn't this a Twilight Zone episode? The one where modern man becomes so dependent on others to do menial tasks like peeling and slicing carrots that in the end he becomes irrelevant? When did I become so busy that I can't cut up an apple? Or slice my own English muffin?
And what about the packages these things come in? When I slice my own apple the only thing left is the core, which could become compost. If I did that sort of thing. Carrots would leave tips and stems and peels. But when I'm done with my pre-sliced apples, and carrots, and cherries, and walnuts, I have four plastic bags. Thick sturdy things with zip-tops, that don't biodegrade in the least. I hope hermit crabs find a nice home in them when they wash back up on the beach.
I'm not advocating a return to the 19th Century or anything - I'm not really down with the idea of eating what I kill - but, jeez, what is consuming all this convenience food freeing me up to do? Watch more TV? I do enough of that already, thank you very much.
Time to make my own sourdough starter, churn my own butter, and smoke a ham. Or maybe I'll just hit Jack-in-the-Box, COPS is on tonight...
The carrots came already peeled and washed and in a bag, the apple slices too, the cherries had the pits and stems removed and the walnuts were already shelled. The English muffin came pre-sliced. I did have to stir up the peanut butter - I get the kind that separates - but that was the only real effort I had to expend, aside from plugging the toaster in.
Wasn't this a Twilight Zone episode? The one where modern man becomes so dependent on others to do menial tasks like peeling and slicing carrots that in the end he becomes irrelevant? When did I become so busy that I can't cut up an apple? Or slice my own English muffin?
And what about the packages these things come in? When I slice my own apple the only thing left is the core, which could become compost. If I did that sort of thing. Carrots would leave tips and stems and peels. But when I'm done with my pre-sliced apples, and carrots, and cherries, and walnuts, I have four plastic bags. Thick sturdy things with zip-tops, that don't biodegrade in the least. I hope hermit crabs find a nice home in them when they wash back up on the beach.
I'm not advocating a return to the 19th Century or anything - I'm not really down with the idea of eating what I kill - but, jeez, what is consuming all this convenience food freeing me up to do? Watch more TV? I do enough of that already, thank you very much.
Time to make my own sourdough starter, churn my own butter, and smoke a ham. Or maybe I'll just hit Jack-in-the-Box, COPS is on tonight...
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Industry For The New Milennium
After the financial fiascos of the past year or two, it should be clear to everyone that 'finance' should be a means to an end, and not an entire industry to itself. And any economy based solely on financial institutions is doomed to failure when those institutions fail - just ask Iceland or Charlotte, NC. Our economy shouldn't be based on imaginary dollars moved from one place to another, we need to get back to making stuff, our economy needs to be the sum total of goods moved and services provided.
"But Don," you say, "the auto industry has failed just like the steel industry did. And the time for railroads was two centuries ago. What could the United States possibly make that the rest of the world wants to buy?" Well, thanks for asking, I have a few suggestions.
Garbage-based Deodorant. Americans generate a lot of garbage, and much of the rest of the world smells bad (pretentious Eurotrash, I'm looking your way). All we have to do is figure out a way to make our garbage smell better than stinky foreigners and it's an instant growth industry. And, let's be honest, we don't have all that far to go.
Discarded CD Solar Reflectors. Steve Jobs was right, the iPod changed everything; it killed an entire industry, as a matter of fact, which makes you wonder why pretentious record store douchebags were the first to go digital. Who buys CDs any more? And once you load your music onto your computer what do you do with the old ones? Solar is a growth industry, and they need shiny stuff. CDs are shiny and otherwise useless. Picture acres upon acres of worthless copies of 'Pocket Full of Kryptonite' shining valuable sunlight back into solar cells. Brings a tear to your eye.
McMansion Holidays. We have a glut of hastily-built, overpriced, immense homes all across the country, standing vacant and waiting for banks to realize they're never going to make back the money on those overextended mortgage notes. People in developing countries will have money for vacations, and rather than stay in an impersonal hotel that looks like every other hotel on the block, they can stay in an impersonal home that looks like every other home on the block. Oooh, look, granite countertops! And a jacuzzi in the master bath!
Soylent Green. Just hear me out on this one... the developing world is hungry, and the best innovations in the next century are going to come from third world nations, as long as they get enough to eat. Here in the US we have an overabundance of 'reality' performers whose only claim to fame is that they once showed up on TV. We take our surplus, make Soylent Green out of them, a high-protein easily-digestible food, and 'voila!' problem solved. I think the first to go should be Jon and Kate, then the big-booty Kardashians.
I'm available for consulting, once the 'captains of industry' catch up to me.
"But Don," you say, "the auto industry has failed just like the steel industry did. And the time for railroads was two centuries ago. What could the United States possibly make that the rest of the world wants to buy?" Well, thanks for asking, I have a few suggestions.
Garbage-based Deodorant. Americans generate a lot of garbage, and much of the rest of the world smells bad (pretentious Eurotrash, I'm looking your way). All we have to do is figure out a way to make our garbage smell better than stinky foreigners and it's an instant growth industry. And, let's be honest, we don't have all that far to go.
Discarded CD Solar Reflectors. Steve Jobs was right, the iPod changed everything; it killed an entire industry, as a matter of fact, which makes you wonder why pretentious record store douchebags were the first to go digital. Who buys CDs any more? And once you load your music onto your computer what do you do with the old ones? Solar is a growth industry, and they need shiny stuff. CDs are shiny and otherwise useless. Picture acres upon acres of worthless copies of 'Pocket Full of Kryptonite' shining valuable sunlight back into solar cells. Brings a tear to your eye.
McMansion Holidays. We have a glut of hastily-built, overpriced, immense homes all across the country, standing vacant and waiting for banks to realize they're never going to make back the money on those overextended mortgage notes. People in developing countries will have money for vacations, and rather than stay in an impersonal hotel that looks like every other hotel on the block, they can stay in an impersonal home that looks like every other home on the block. Oooh, look, granite countertops! And a jacuzzi in the master bath!
Soylent Green. Just hear me out on this one... the developing world is hungry, and the best innovations in the next century are going to come from third world nations, as long as they get enough to eat. Here in the US we have an overabundance of 'reality' performers whose only claim to fame is that they once showed up on TV. We take our surplus, make Soylent Green out of them, a high-protein easily-digestible food, and 'voila!' problem solved. I think the first to go should be Jon and Kate, then the big-booty Kardashians.
I'm available for consulting, once the 'captains of industry' catch up to me.
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