Audience Participation II

Seeing two movies in the theater over the past couple weeks (300 and Shooter) has been a marvelous experience in that both cases afforded my the opportunity to see the best trailer in the world. Twice I had the privilege of getting to hear the following exchange:

OLDER, UGLY, SOUTHERN WOMAN: Are you gonna kill my baby girl?

HIP, URBANE, SMARTYPANTS WOMAN: No!

OLDER, UGLY, SOUTHERN WOMAN: Why not?

Each time I hear this part, it's like a baptism of joy into the reason I love film. Because it entertains beyond any possible alternative. There is nothing so giggle inducing and fantastically enjoyable as some old, pitiful hick whining that her child needs to be done away with and to have such a horribly depraved scene played straight. I laughed outloud in the theater both times. It's that good.

In other news, I recently asked for film recommendations because I've been out of the scene for a while. Now, despite not being out of the scene, I'm going to ask for another kind of recommendation: Literature.

Anything marvelous you've read in the last five years. No non-fiction - as I've got enough non-fiction to last me several years already. I want to read good stories, you please, help me out. Recent reads that I've enjoyed have been: Anansi Boys, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrel, Life of Pi (moderately), and... hm. I'm sure there were others, but they're not comign to mind so easily. I can tell you with certainty that The Lovely Bones was not great by any stretch of any imagination. If you imagine that it was, you are not comprehending your own imagination.

But please, what should I read. I've got Pillars of the Earth next in queue for nightstand status. And after that, something called Shadow & Claw, which was recommended by Emeth. But besides a couple cheap potboilers after that, there's not really anything coming down the pipe for me.

p.s. here's a fun shot I took of Bartleby

p.p.s. Amusing

O.M.G. Squee.

They're holding hands. And they're furry.

Irony

I don't know when it happened. But it did. I did happen just as surely man walking on the moon. Probably more surely than that, too. Because some people may reasonably (if somewhat paranoiacally) suggest that man may not have walked on anything greater than a sound stage in Hollywood. There is, however, no skepticism that the comics page in the newspaper is filled to the brim with patently unfunny strips that have inexplicably gained some sort of support from readers and since become entrenched and undislodgable.

What this says about the average newspaper reader, we're probably better off not commenting on.

But seriously. I always wondered how comic strip writers could come up with something funny every day for years on end. The sad but obvious truth is: they can't. And so, we have illustrated detritus littering newsprint daily. I have to imagine that these bits were funny at some point. At least I hope so. I almost can't imagine that some editor thought they were funny enough to print originally - if they were only as funny as they are now (which is as funny as syphilis).

Then I remember that I know people who think this stuff's funny. And then I remember that there are books compiling these travesties of humour available in ever Barnes & Noble, and I have to imagine that they sell well enough to be there. And then I want to cry for our nation.

Let's do it. Let's brush through some offenders. Name names. It'll be cathartic.

Garfield. Not remotely funny. Heathcliff. I can't believe this was ever created. Family Circus. A wasteland where funny goes to die. Slowly. Marmalade. Only funny via reinterpretation. Dennis the Menace. He only menaces your sense of humour, threatening to punch it in the uterus if anything funny comes across your path. Drabble. Might have been funny a long time ago? For Better or for Worse. I actually liked this in Juniour High. I weep for my young soul. I think this is what the media talks about when they speak of youthful indiscretions. And there are others. Your newspaper is filled with them.

The other night, I ran across a strip from some July or another. It is, what I believe to be, a test case for irony:

The strip is called PC and Pixel and I guess it's s'posed to be vaguely tech-savvy. A couple weeks ago, there were YouTube jokes*. The thing is, while the author is trying to be funny here, we see his subconscious self breaking through, crying out for help. And rather than funny, it's just kind of sad. Unless you're mean. Then it kinda becomes funny again.

The thing is, if the author is aware of the internet, he doubtless see many fine examples of strips online that actually are funny. Penny Arcade. Dinosaur Comics. White Ninja. XKCD. There are others as well. So with those examples out there, he still crafts the same kind of stuff that we already have to put up with far too much.

And lest you think that I loathe all newspaper strips, there are some out there with a consistent record of success. The Far Side and Calvin and Hobbes and The Neighborhood are the grail of comics humour. And yet, they have all done their run and stopped. Stopped before jumping the mako. Stopped before that disease of the mind we call writer's block took the life of their comics for good. Peanuts is an interesting example. Sometimes it was spot-on the funniest thing on the page. Other times, it was almost as bad The Wizard of Id.

Still, there is evidence that comics can be good. We just have to not take things lying down. There should be rallies and protests. The death of humour and the promotion of the anti-laugh is serious business. Maybe twice as serious as all the brown people George Bush is killing.

*note: that weren't funny.

Good Vibrations vs 300 Sixpacks

Over the weekend, I saw Marky Mark's action/thriller, Shooter. For what it was, it was a great movie. And I enjoyed it about 8 1/2 times as much as I did 300. This got me to thinking about what makes a successful action movie (in terms of those films that are purely about the kineticism of the film). Shooter is about action. 300 is about action. And despite high production values, one is definitely better than the other. Fortunately, 300 has spectacle going for it and so will easily triumph at the box office.

But really, what is the big difference between the two films? Pacing.

Until just checking right now, I would have presumed that Shooter was about twenty-five minutes shorter than 300. It's not. It's actually three minutes longer, clocking in at an even two hours. The thing is, Shooter felt like it was exactly the right length, while 300 felt rather longish.

Shooter, like 300 doesn't feel the need to promote excellence in either script or acting. It's not about that. It is about, however, telling a story in an allotted time and doing that well. Storywise, 300 is all over the map. It's gratuitous in the execution of its plot. And in seeking to find a part for Queen Gorgo to play, it loses control over pacing completely - and suffers immensely for it. By the time 300 grinded to a halt, I had been ready for nearly a half hour. When Shooter wound up, I found that it had established enough good will that I might even have happily sat through another five or ten minutes of it.

It's what we call a tight movie. The Negotiator was the same. It's go from the word go and the pacing doesn't let up until everything's finished. These kinds of movies are charged with a kind of energy that excites one just by being there. 300 didn't have that at all. Fortunately, 300 was pretty.

p.s. in related news: Caketown

Salute!

I'm actually pretty surprised at how cordial real motorcyclists are to me, as a rider of a Vespa. I initially thought they'd be down on me as a rider of something substantially less powerful and girthy than their machines of might and splendor.

And yet, a good percentage of motorcyclists do that left hand out to the side thing. That note of acknowledgement that passes between riders. That way of saying, "Hey cool, you're not stuck in a gas-chugging car! Me neither! Keep on trucking, my brother."

Or at least, I imagine that they're trying to say something to that effect. I guess. I haven't quite figured it out. But I do my best to return the greeting to those that offer it and give a polite head nod to all others.

It's a strange world and I haven't yet found my place in it.

Audience Participation

So. Though in the past I have been fairly well recognizable as an aficionado of the cinema, watching hundreds of films a year and exploring the lesser-known wonders of foreign and independent shores, the last two years have seen a notable decline in the quantity of new films I consume.

I think the last really good movies I'd seen in the theater were Before Sunset and Howl's Moving Castle. Oh, and I saw A Scanner Darkly last summer.

So then, we come to you. The dear reader. Or visitor. Or enemy. Or whatever. I want to catch myself up. What I want to know is what films of the last two years do you think are just the creme de la creme? What really made you go "Wow!" I saw King Kong and Narnia and neither of those count, obviously. So then, my dear tired, huddled masses - bring me your recommendations.

If you really thought it was great, I will watch it.

Wincing at What?

A typical response one may hear (and by this, I mean I do hear) to the concept of attending a film that contains less wholesome aspects is that one shouldn't take enjoyment from evil. This kind of expression might be found in conversation like:

"So, The Dane, what's your favourite movie of all time?"

"Well, it's pretty much a toss up between Snow Falling on Cedars and Fight Club - with Seven Samurai trailing in a close third."

"Oh really? They're that good, huh? Maybe I'll have to check them out. What are they rated?"

"Hm. Well, both Fight Club and Snow Falling on Cedars are rated R. And Seven Samurai predates the MPAA and is Japanese, so it's not rated."

"Hm. Rated R, huh? For what?"

"Well, Fight Club is pretty violent and there's quite a bit of foul language, and..."

"What about the sex? Nudity?"

"Well, Fight Club has a pretty surreal sex scene and nudity. And Snow Falling on Cedars doesn't have any nudity but there's a pretty steamy love scene in there. I wouldn't want to watch it with my mom*, if you know what I mean."

"And those are your favourites? I don't know, I just don't think that we should be entertained by sin."

And yes, I have actually had some form of that conversation many several times with many several people. And it always baffles me. I never understand it.See, the thing of it is this:

One doesn't have to approve of every motive, action, or event in a film to find it worthwhile anymore than one has to approve of every motive, action, or event in the Bible to find it worthwhile.

It is not a just criticism to declare that I find the reading of Scripture repugnant because it contains salacious passages like Ezekiel 16:25 ("At the head of every street you built your lofty place and made your beauty an abomination, spreading your legs to any passerby and multiplying your whoring"). It would be like asking in astonishment after someone proclaims that they love the Word of God: "What?! You love whoring?"

Simply put, the presence of sin in something one enjoys does not mean that it is the sin that one enjoys.

Another old stand-by is the admonition: "I just think that we should dwell on whatever is true and noble and just and lovely and of good report."

Again, if this is to be used as broadly as one might use it, we rule out the reading of Scripture, for Scripture is filled, stem to stern, with all manner of things that are neither true nor just nor lovely nor of good report. And yet, we declare the Bible good - even as it declares itself to be good.

The crux, then, is not in the presence of fouls thing in the make-up of the which we find worthwhile. It is elsewhere. It is, perhaps, in the reading of the thing. In the individual's reaction to the thing. As an adult, I could watch Schindler's List and be properly overwhelmed by the horror and folly of mankind. As a seventh grader, I most certainly would have been thinking: Bοοbs!

The fact of the matter is that in either Fight Club or Snow Falling on Cedars, there are parts and pieces that - if one were to cull out and focus all of one's attentions and enjoyment upon - would be considered unhealthy. That is why we rate these movies with an R rating. It is our way of saying not that the movies are bad, but that we are warning off those with immature sensibilities. It is our way of saying: "Look. This movies contains material that you, as the childish (in mind or faith or motive), will not be able to properly appreciate. Come back when you're older."

And really, if you're an adult, processing things in an immature fashion, please hope for better for yourself. If you walk into a movie like 300 or Black Snake Moan or Cinema Paradiso and you are titillated as my seventh-grade self would have been, that is really just sad. I'm not saying that you should go out and subject yourself to a deluge of stuff that you have a certain weakness for; I am saying that you do have a weakness and should seriously consider why you have this weakness and how to overcome it.

*note: Yes. I did indeed watch Snow Falling on Cedars with my mom. But it wasn't as uncomfortable as you might think. At least not for me.

The Mole vs. the Gay Baby

Yesterday, Tom posted a link to an article on Al Mohler's recent comments regarding homosexuality and genetics. The day before, I was browsing through comments on the subject by Metafilter's muddle-headed user base (it was great cause for mirth, reading their descriptions of what Al was saying and why he was a hypocrite). Amusing stuff, really.

I'm always fascinated by the things that will anger people. Mohler's stance here is surprisingly rational (I'm not a big Mohler booster and find some of his thoughts to be pretty thoughtless) - and it just happens that this is the one that gets under the broadest range of skins.

Now, some points:

A) The believer should have no more trouble accepting the possibility that homosexual proclivity may in fact be sometimes related to genetic disposition. Just like alcoholism, anger, and total depravity. It kinda puts homosexuality in well-tread territory.

B) Even granting the popular-yet-asinine definition of homophobia, the desire to solve what amounts to a genetic difficulty doesn't betray any more necessary a hatred of the homosexual than a desire to solve cerebral palsy in the infant necessitates a hatred of the handicapped. Homosexual society has been lobbying for several decades now for the widespread acceptance of homosexual orientation as a genetic condition rather than a learned (and therefore, deprogrammable) condition. They should have more carefully considered the implications of their quest.

C) Some of the rhetoric bouncing around is ingeniously silly. E.g.:

What bothers me is the hypocrisy. In one breath, they say the sanctity of an unborn life is unconditional, and in the next breath, it's OK to perform medical treatments on them because of their own moral convictions, not because there's anything wrong with the child.

That this could be contrary to the idea of the sanctity of unborn life is laughable. And that the messenger is hypocratic more so. I presume the speaker wouldn't oppose a medical intervention to solve cerebral palsy (even though there's nothing wrong with the handicapped). We, as a people, just prefer that other people be run under optimum conditions. So we try to fix their inadequacies. Give that child some Ritalin so he'll be "better"! Use occupational therapy with that child so that his motor skills are "better." Abstain from antibiotics during your pregnancy so your child will be "better."

We make values judgments all the time. This is just another one. The only difference is that this one threatens to strip people of their raison d'etre. Whatever.

Randomocity

Thing One:
Why do feminists have to hate fish so? Why can't they just leave their poor bicycles alone?

Thing Two:
This is the cover for the mixtape CD I'm making for our CD club.

Thing Three:
I love/adore the antics of fringey Bible people. Missler would be proud?

Thing Four:

EVE's mired in the space equivalent of a world war. After the JumpGate story broke, all but a few of the big alliances in the game declared war on BoB, the alliance who benefited from the cheating devs. BoB controls the southwestern corner of the map, and they're defending pushes from the southeast and northwest. They've committed the majority of their forces up north, so their strongest ally in the south, Lotka Volterra, is getting crushed by a RedSwarm attack. I'm just doing my part, zipping around in interceptor-class ships during 200-man fleet engagements and leading small groups behind enemy lines to harass supply lines and the like. It's pretty fun, kinda like raiding in WoW, only you're always moving and the things you do have an impact on the world around you.

—The Escapist

I find this stuff utterly fascinating. I played EVE Online for a week once on a free trial they offered and found it to be a gorgeous game that I'm sure wouldn't have been all that boring if I persevered and become a rad space pirate or something (unfortunately, I didn't continue with the game and only content myself with reading about all the crazy stuff that happens in it).

EVE is fascinating because it's one of the most truly boundary-free games I've ever heard of. It's got PvP play like PvP play should be. It also encourages the building of huge corporate structures by which players can truly make their mark on the game. EVE also exists in a persistent environment, and one that can be affected by its players.

So, currently, in this online space-game involving battlecruisers and mining ships and whatnot, a recent scandal involving the in-game mega corporation, BoB, has caused other megacorporations to declare war on the entity. Now, BoB is just made up of regular joe players like me or you (if we were playing EVE and more than slightly addicted to it). So are the members of the corporations that are declaring war on BoB. And this is the thing, if BoB loses and is crushed by these other groups, their assets - I guess - can be stripped and stolen from them just like in real life. That's what fascinates me. It's kinda like real life - only with 200-man space fleets.

1. Lesson: PvP stands for Player vs. Player and is used especially to describe those online games in which one person has the ability to challenge other live players.

2. Lesson: Persistent environment means that the game never stops running and continues even after you've logged off. If you leave your character off floating in space, he'll be right there when you come back; but he may not be in one piece if some ne'er-do-well came across him while you were out.

Pirates vs. teh Dumb

Universal Music Group, a unit of France's Vivendi SA, had threatened to sue YouTube, saying it was a hub for pirated music videos.

In an article that shows that large media corporations still don't know how to relate with either a) their consumer base or b) digital piracy, this particular sidenote stuck me as really funny. Universal Music Group doesn't want YouTube showing UMG music videos? What are they thinking. Do they even understand what music videos are for?

Yes. That's right. A music video is an advertisement for the music (and maybe even the band). And here's the thing about advertising: you want people to see it. Even better if they want to see it.

So what if YouTube users are pirating UMG music videos and putting them online for people to see? YouTubers are selling albums for UMG by their piracy. If MTV (the way I remembered it) had any slogan back in the day, it shoulda been something like MTV: Selling the Music.

Personal anecdote time:

I would have never really listened to Weezer if it hadn't been for the ready availability to view their video for "Buddy Holly" on the internet. I watched the video, thought it was a crack up and so watched it again. Then the song kinda started creeping around in my head. So I bought Blue. Then Pinkerton. Then Green and Maladroit. Then the two-disk special edition of Blue. Then Make Believe. And then the Weezer dvd. Watching a single pirated dvd, got me to spend a hundred bucks on a label's band.

Now, I wasn't ever going to run into the video that started all that through any venue outside the internet. I certainly wasn't watching music video stations. I was barely listening to the radio by then. I was, however, on the internet about ten hours a day.

I'm not sure if UMG decided not to sue because they realized they couldn't win or because they realized that having their pirated music videos (advertisements) showing up on YouTube was actually good for them. But seeing as how they're a traditional company, I'd bet that it was the first.

HT to Alex for the article.

Cinematic License & the Movie 300

Baffled and over-heated historians should be happy to know that not only does the weekend's Spartan slaughter of the box office rape whatever actual historical facts we might divine from the crumbling pages of history, but the film takes some pretty broad liberties with its source text as well. And with the heavy hand and lack of skill with which it approached these new devices, I hesitate to use the term artistic license to describe the film's freewheeling approach to its sources - because "artistic" often implies a noble end. Perhaps it would be better to describe it as cinematic license.

Now to be certain I don't bear the original comic so much love that I think straying from it in bold, new directions would necessarily be any bad thing. It fact, some of Miller's original work bears a little too much of his clunky, over-cooked dialogue and narrative, and I honestly wouldn't have minded seeing it fall by the wayside. Unfortunately, the changes are neither bold nor particularly effective.

In the book, Leonidas's queen is a non-character. A cameo with a smart mouth. She appears on a single page, early in the book, and then is gone forever. Obviously then, none of the film that dealt with her and her plight back in Sparta to raise an army to confront the Persian hoards was based on source material. I suppose it could have been interesting, but it really wasn't. It didn't add to the film.

Well, save for in length. By my watch, 300 was about thirty minutes too long.

I imagine the part of the queen was presented to offer women their token figure of power. But she didn't really work. For all her words, she is as powerless as her husband to turn the heads of the council she attempts to sway. Her great speech - the one I imagine was meant to be stirring - fell flat. There was no strength to her voice or her words. No conviction. When her betrayer offers her a flaccid round of courtesy applause, he's giving her more than she deserves. In the end, it is not by her strength or craft that her side is taken. It is not through cunning and shrewd maneuvering that she wins the days. It is by accident. There is no glory or freedom or honour in her victory. There is even little victory. She had lost and in her agonied throes of defeat, she is saved, ex machina, by the foolishness of her enemy.

Yet, beyond this, even worse, she is boring.

Beyond the sad addition of the queen's story, there were all manner of curiosity to pull one out of the story. The monstrous cast of Lord of the Rings evidently collided with the film crew and the director, after groaning, thought to himself, Two great tastes that taste great together, and left the monsters in. And as cool as they might be in LOTR, cave trolls and gollums have little place in a re-telling of the Battle of Thermopylae. And how 'bout that guy with bone-swords for arms? And... uhm... was that a donkey playing guitar? Nevermind. I take it all back. A donkey playing guitar makes this: the greatest film of all time.*

And some of the dialogue - whoo boy. The narrator proclaims that Leonidas and his speedo-boy with their cute red capes have, in their sacrifice, made the world "free from mysticism and tyranny." It's a good thing that poor, lonely Spartan only had one eye. If he had two, he would have certainly seen that his own culture and every one that followed in its footsteps was a culture of mysticism and tyranny. Remember that wraithlike dancing girl on top of the mountain and the call for Karneia? Remember the fact that the council hated and despised the queen for daring to address them? It's also good that his one eye couldn't see the future either. I mean Rome? Emperor worship, Vestal virgins, et cetera. Really, Rome, Greece, and early Christian Europe are nothing without their mysticism.

Well, maybe ol' one-eye did know all this but was just propagandizing. I mean, he's the one telling the story. Maybe that's why the cave troll was there. Maybe that's why Xerxes was eleven feet tall. Maybe that's why he's yelling about the defeat of all evil for all time. He just wanted to get the poor, dumb Spartans fired up and ready to kill.

*sigh* What a stupid movie.

Hm, I just realized that I never really said whether or not I liked the movie. In short, it was dumb, poorly written, and way too long. It was fraught with standard clichés, dull formula, and ham-fisted acting. It was gruesome, violent, and lovely. It was the most beautiful mess I'd seen in a long time. As a story, it's crap. As a visual experience, it's incredible. It was worth my $9.5o. I doubt, however, it would be worth anything on rental. This is not a dvd movie. This is theater or nothing. If you miss it in the theater, don't bother queuing it on NetFlix. Don't Pay-per-View it. Don't watch it on your iPod. Theater or nothing. Theater or nothing. Drill that into your thick, Neanderthal skulls.

*note: Only we're the only ones who know it.

Elitism & Critique

In considering the reason why those who enjoy the mainstream and the popular may feel (and often rightly so) that those who prefer the obscure and the indie, I came up with the following thoughts:

It should be no surprise that those who seek out the stuff beyond what's easily available have a tendency to feel as if they are elite, as if they are better lovers of whichever medium they profess to love. This is evidenced, from their perspective, by the fact that they seek out that which is beyond the easily accessible. I'd imagine that if you visited a Techno Music Appreciation Club and, when asked who your favourite artist was, responded that you really loved Moby's Play - I'd imagine that your credibility in that crowd would be ho-hummed.

And I think that in some respect, they would be right to diminish your credibility. If all you had ever heard was Moby, some Apollo 440, and that Fat Boy Someone or Other. Though Moby is great and you might have FANTASTIC reasons for adoring his work, it will be hard for you not to seem ignorant if you are, in fact, ignorant of what else is out there. I think this is probably why a lot of indie-lovers may poo-poo the opinion of those who do not stray outside the boundaries of of the mainsteam, of the easily accessible.

As a simple test case, let's consider my own trajectory as a reader of comic books and graphic novels. I began, as do most, with superheroes (Power Pack, X-Men, Micronauts, and GI Joe) and gradually filtered in more and more diverse reading experiences (European books, independent fare, and finally Asian books). Now, while I still enjoy a well-crafted superhero tale(Walt Simonson's Thor is still amazing to me and I loved Brian Michael Bendis's run on Daredevil more than is probably reasonable), I have this whole other bucket full of comic experience with which to inform my superhero comic experience.

And that bucket helps me to better see that some of the stuff I may have otherwise enjoyed is really some pretty trite crap. And that's some of the stuff that is ridiculously popular and sells ridiculously well.

We could chart the same tragectory in film. In the mid '80s, Gremlins may have been the Greatest Film Ever Made.* By the early '90s, I found more mature and intelligent works such as Last of the Mohicans, Jurrasic Park, and Terminator 2 to be much more enjoyable, and dare I say, "better" films. Gradually, I introduced myself to the world of independent film-making and the foreign market. And wow. I really felt the world of cinema open up to me. I began to understand film as I had not understood it before. I could no longer conceive of Terminator 2 being "a great film." Fun, yes. Great, no.

And the person who claimed that Terminator 2 was the greatest film they had ever seen? Their opinion is of no use to me. Unless, perhaps I know that they have watch film nearly as widely as I. Then, I might be willing to concede that they may have caught something in the movie that I had not. It's possible.

So does that make me an indie-snob? An elitist? I don't think so. It just means that I know more about a subject and so-armed with the breadth of knowledge I possess in certain areas, I believe that I am better qualified to understand what is good and what is not. Not ultimately qualified, but merely better qualified.

And this is, I think, where the question of elitism ought to come down. It's a matter of street cred. Appreciators of indie stuff, more than likely, have engaged piles of mainstream stuff as well as the indie stuff they've grown to prefer. Most people who prefer superheroes may not really have that much experience with what all's out there. Most people who adored Pursuit of Happyness probably haven't absorbed the works of Krzysztof Kieslowski. Therefore, it may not be so much a matter of the indie-snob vs. the mainstream non-snob (as lovers of the mainstream are less likely to look down upon the opinions of the art-house-lover but simply see them as having esoteric tastes), but simply the well-read vs. the not-so-well-read. Just a guess. And of course, a huge generalization.

Personally, I like it all. Superheroes and blockbusters. Indie drama and foreign masterworks. So long as it does a good job keeping me interested, I'll enjoy it. If it's well-crafted, chances are, I'll enjoy it. Whether it's breezy, romantic comedy or maudlin German exploration of generational ennui. Of course, I might find the German film more rewarding in terms of mental stimulation, but each has its place. Turn, turn, turn.

*note: Incidentally, working with juniour high students gives me a flashback glimpse of this mindset. Quoting a fairly bright member of this community: "Van Helsing is probably the greatest film ever made. And you know what? We're the only ones who know it! The adults just don't get it." I've got to say that I admire the pluck in that sentiment - even if Van Helsing is cinematic detritus.

other note: mast image stolen from blankets and made entirely crass by stripping it of Craig Thompson's words. Sorry, man.

Slack-Jaws Are Not Always Zombies

It's been more than ten years since I've had a tooth drilled. I've actually needed a tooth drilled for a good ten years too. But I just couldn't do it. I couldn't go back to the dentist.

Here's why.

In 1996, while having a cavity on my lower left drilled and filled, my mouth became home to the most excruciating pain I have ever in my life experienced. As the dentist drilled, I felt a slight tingling sensation. A small pain. More an annoyance than anything. On the subjective one-to-ten pain scale that they proffer in emergency rooms, this was only a two. It was the kind of thing you might take a Motrin to stop. Or you might just tough it out. Your prerogative.

But then. It was as if he had broken through. Screw floodgates, he had just obliterated whatever dam had existed to keep me from drowning in the most intense and sudden pain imaginable. My eye burst wide. My fingers actually punched through the vinyl on the chair's armrests, leaving three distinct and fingertip-shaped puncture wounds on each. A muffled howl of fury and agony gargled out of my throat. And my jaw clenched shut in protest. On the drill that was still in my mouth and I can only imagine, still running. On that ER scale-of-ten, I maintain the level of pain I felt was an eight (leaving room for the horrible possibility that something could be more painful), but at that point assigning a numerical value to the pain becomes merely academic because pain beyond that threshold would likely feel just about the same - as I really ceased to feel anything on this plane of existence and was catapulted into some spiritual realm, a dimension in which the concerns of the body are left behind and viewed with the kind of detachment one reserves for pain inflicted upon either Larry, Moe, or Curly (but not Shemp; we care about Shemp).

As it turns out, I'm resistant to anesthetic in the same way I'm resistant to caffeine. Even a lot only affects me a little. Good to know...

And so, despite my dental needs, I have happily foregone any dental care beyond regular brushing and that blue-moon sacrament we call flossing. For more than a decade. The mere thought of having a tooth drilled was enough to truly and honestly give me cold sweats and cause my mouth to water inordinately in some vain hope of purging the evil via deluge of saliva (and there would be no ark on which denizens of my mouth might find salvation - this would be winner take all). Paranoia? Perhaps. But it was so real, this fear, that every single promise I had made to see a dentist "soon" has been either outright lie or self-delusional myth-making.

Finally though, at the earnest request of friends and family, I have relented. I saw a dentist a couple months ago and she leveled the news: after a decade of only brushing, I had four cavities - all of which, of course, needed attention. So today... I had the first of it done.

All in all, it wasn't that bad. She gave me three times the normal anesthesia, which enabled her to do her work without me ruining her chair. Unfortunately, she could only do one tooth because, as I said, I'm resistant to such medications. By the time she had finished with the tooth, I was already gaining feeling back. Parts of my face and mouth that had been pretty numb had already returned to normal, and I could carry on conversation with her without any of that droopy-mouthed, slack-jawed mumbo jumbo that had defined our conversation fifteen minutes prior.

So it seems I have a super power. Resistance to anesthetic and caffeine. Not a very useful power if you ask me. Not only can I not used caffeine to perk me up, but my super power ends up allowing me to be overwhelmed by pain. Joy.

Not Quite Hip

I read an article a couple days ago called Starbucks' 'venti' problem that was vaguely interesting. For now, I'm going to skip over the ridiculous editing standards (standards? what standards?) of the L.A. Times and the fact that ever so thankful that I'm not a journalist if opening lines like "COFFEE ADDICTS WERE SHAKEN, and stirred, recently when a memo written by Starbucks Corp. founder and Chairman Howard Schultz was posted on the Internet" are de rigueur for journalists these days.

Anyway, the article goes on to quote Schultz, who says that there are those who "even call our stores sterile, cookie cutter, no longer reflecting the passion our partners feel about our coffee." Pretty honest appraisal from the big man who more than likely looks around and doesn't even recognize the coffee haüs he founded. And what's more?

It's true. Starbucks may have once been right at home with the indie-hip scene, providing a gypsy sort of ramshackle ambience. At some point in distant memory, Starbucks may have been a labour of love. But, as has been no doubt remarked thousands upon thousands of times, the road to success is paved with broken dreams - with the most broken of dreams being that of he who succeeds.

The price of ubiquity, it seems (at least in Starbucks's case), is the dry, hermetically sealed sterility that only corporate mandate can forge. Gone is the personality that may have once been intimate with the brand. Fled is the conception that there is any heart beating behind the vast, juggernaut machine that is the Starbucks Empire. And really, according to how they currently present themselves, "Empire" is the last thing they want you thinking.

The sad thing is that Starbucks is desperately trying to maintain that bygone aura of relatability and personal relevance. It wants to be cool. Hip. Indie. Whatever the cool kids are saying these days. It promotes its we're-still-one-of-you image all over the place, but the people are wise to it. We may like the coffee okay, but we don't imagine we're taking part in some cool community of fresh new voices and indie-chic hipness. Nowadays, Starbucks comes off like a mom who shops at Wet Seal and wears clothes that no one who isn't sixteen should be wearing. And that contributes to the Fake that gets in my eye whenever I see Starbucks trying to promote itself as the Place Where It Happens.

First clue: the Place Where It Happens doesn't have time to promote itself as said Place because its to busy being that Place.

That said, there is nothing inherently wrong with Starbucks. It just needs to grow up and embrace itself for what it is. "Hi. We're Starbucks. We're everywhere so it's kind like introducing yourself: 'Hi. I'm Tom Cruise.' You know who we are. We're huge and we are going to sell you fairly decent coffee-drinks at fairly not small prices. You can customize your order. And while you're customizing. We'll give you a slick experience. After all, if you wanted 'hip,' you'd have gone to that little shop down the street that no one's really heard of - except maybe the people in-the-know (e.g., not you). But you didn't go there because you're interested in slick and clean and corporate. That us and that's why you love us. Peace out, droogies."

Coffee Haüs Profiles

As I've been spending a lot of time at one of the local purveyors of over-priced and caffeinated beverages - enough time, perhaps, to even be considered a regular - I have the opportunity to spy out an enormous quantity of people from the many varieties of Southern Orange County life.

Today's episode: What's Up Coach?

Slowly, they gather. A teeming hoard, pouring forth as a stream without end, infiltrating every corner of the shop. Their squeals of derision and mirth rule the evening. They are young. They are girls. And they have come for one reason. They have come with their parents. They have come for him.

The Coach.

This is actually really humourous and sad to watch. These girls are probably in fifth grade or so. And each of them, in their turn gets her own personalized ten-to-fifteen minute lecture. First, he offers them a cursory praise of their strengths, building them up so that they will have farther to fall when he gets to the meat of the reason why they have invaded this beanery. So after shining a ray of hope into their sad existence, he crushes them under the weight of the knowledge of what they ought to be living up to (kinda like naming your kid "Jesus"). He does this so that he can better mold them to his own maniacal soccer designs.

Or something.

Almost more intriguing is to watch the parents while this is going on - for indeed, they sit adjacent to their forlorn daughters through the entire ordeal. Some of them are so into it you can feel their ears bleeding from straining so hard to hear every nuance of Coach's admonitions. Their daughters will be the best, they have no doubt. I think their dream is that if their daughters have even one skill that sets them apart from the rest, that it is that skill that will save their daughters from enduring the tortured, upper-middle-class suburban nightmare that is their every waking moment. You can tell that the download soccer drills off the internet and have their daughters practice on Sunday mornings while the family's at church.

Then there are the earnest parents who are really trying to seem interested, but in the back of their minds they know this man is crazy. They begin the conversation with a cool sort of detachment, trusting that this man's just going to give their child a small dose of encouragement - the kind that their coaches gave to them when they were in little league. Within minutes all their hopes are dashed and they are struck far harder than their children are by the words of this man of singular focus in whose trust they have delivered their daughters on a weekly basis. Their daughters are usually only half-way paying attention to anything being said at the table (as their parents have encouraged them to have merely a sane interest in fifth-grade soccer victories) and so the brunt of the conversation generally shifts more and more toward the parents - who grow ever wider of eye. Things they can do to increase their daughters' aggression. Methods by which they can maintain their daughters' focus on what's important.

And then, there are the group meetings wherein Coach regales the team with tales of glory, victory, and the sweet-sweet taste of one's own blood as it fills one's mouth after a particularly hard hit. And then he'll speak in hushed tones of the undeniable soccer-prowess and sheer power of the teams they'll soon face upon the soccer field of battle. Teams that have been together for years. Teams that work together, sleep together, and worship the almighty Shah-Kohr, garnering her handing of blessing on their feet, making them fleet and deadly.

For myself, I'm glad that when I played soccer, we'd play the game and go home - never having to endure either lecture or praise. But this? This is a brave new world and it is being inaugurated under the watchful eye of coffee slingers everywhere.

The Problem with Blogging: Ep. 1 47% F-U-N

So I was talking to Wendy the other day and we were ruminating about why blogs are only 47% as fun as they once were. There were a couple factors we came up with, but one of the big ones is RSS. Syndication, so far as I can tell, has rendered blogging by-and-large inert. As some of you know, I've gone back and forth with the whole site-feed thing and this is not an alert to let you know that I'm once again disabling it.

However, I did notice that I am part of the problem. I had been using a feed reader to keep up with blogs that I'd occasion. Most of the time, I'd read the articles on the reader instead of going to the sites in question. And if the site's feed only displayed the title or a sentence or two, it'd really have to hook me to actually visit. And why is it important to visit sites even when they're not updating? Because much of the life of a good blog rests in the conversations that occur within the comments. Even comments on boring posts have the potential to offer a sort of second life to a blog. And recognizing that change always begins with a single person, I decided to do my part.

I've uninstalled my feed collector.

Even though I think there are legitimate uses for feeds—like keeping up with people's del.ico.us links, catching news items, stuff like that—the temptation to add some favourite blogs to keep up with their posting schedule might be too great. Better to just kill it outright. So instead, I'll be relying on my homepage, with links to everything I need to get me through. And hopefully, this will help me enjoy blogs more.

Age of Influence

You may or may not have noticed, but I've finished the first draft of my script. At final count, it'll chop out to 271 pages - a good medium respectable length for a graphic novel. Currently, I'm preparing a few review packages to send to various and sundry persons who are both critical and able to be mean. The packages will contain the entire script, an introductory letter, and a few samples of art. The art samples won't be from the book itself, but may be indicative of the approach and mood I'm leaning towards - and will hopefully help bring the script to life (there is little so dry as a comic script; they're even worse than movie scripts).

Below is a sample of one of the possible art styles I'd go for in the book. I'll almost certainly be using models and photoreferencing for the book's art - since that's the kind of mood I'm going for. And I'll probably be using a more painterly approach to the book's colouring. It may not end up looking anything like what I've got going on in this sample, but I'm just testing around right now. (I can't really start the art until I get my script critiques back anyway.)

p.s. please note that the photo reference for this image was ripped directly from Deviant Art and so, is not actually the main character of the book. I just needed something quick to play with. For the real deal, I won't be ripping off other people's art to bolster my own ^_^

p.p.s. Yeah, I know I left off her foot. I didn't have time to finish it before I slapped it together to post here this morning. That's also why the background is just a stylized shot of the ET20 rather than an actual drawing.

Entertained by Angels

So I'm driving to church on Sunday. I'm pulling up to a light. I'm in the right lane. There's a orange pickup in the left lane and another car in the left turn lane. So all three lanes are now filled as we wait for the green.

Now as I'm pulling up, it sounds like this guy in the orange truck must be listening to his music very loudly. I can hear that sort of thump-shake you get from a deep bass. As I ease up further, I'm starting to be able to see into his cab.

This guy is yelling full-bore. He's doing that thing where you chop into the palm of one hand with the other to emphasize your point. I pull up further and can see that he's beet-red. This guy is pissed to high heaven and he's yelling the kind of yells that you know are launching little bits of spittle and the morning's bacon into his immediate atmosphere and he's karate chopping into his left hand with his right. And...

And no one else is in the car with him. He is alone.* And he is scary. And I am ready to move on lest he look at me and somehow divine where I live and show up there one dark and stormy night to... well, to karate-chop his hand in my direction and cast spittle and bacon chews upon my person.

So, the light turns green and I accelerate my way to freedom from Mr. Scarypants. And...

And four seconds later, I check my mirrors and he's gone. I'm a second and a half through the intersection and he is one-hundred percent vanished. Gone. No trace.

Now, freaked out as I am, I do a quick inventory of the possible things that could have occurred here: 1) he was an angel and was just messing with me; 2) he made a quick left-turn even though he wasn't in the left turn lane and other people were; 3) he suddenly became so small that I couldn't see him in my mirrors (holding true to the fact that objects in mirror are larger than they appear); or 4) he turned invisible (in which case, he may have followed me and be in this room right now - which would scare me except for the fact that I'm pretty sure I would hear the karate-chopping and so be alerted to his presence).

So yes, I have decided that the most logical explanation is that I have been entertained by angels.

*note: I admit the possibility that he was using one of those blue-toothed, cyborg ear-thingies, but two things: 1) he didn't look the type; and 2) have you ever noticed how few people use them in their left ears? These things make the possibility slim. Plus, it's a radder story if he's just acting all crazy - though I suppose someone screaming into their blue-tooth cyborg ear-thingy and karate-chopping their hand to a phone is all stocked up on crazy.

p.s. in looking for something to incorporate into the mast for this post, I found this, which made me realize that the world is better off without people.