Transcendence in some movies

Something occurred to me about stories. I'm trying to think of cases where this is not true.

Most stories contain some kind of quest. Actually they contain two types of quests:

• a transcendent quest
• an immanent quest

In the recent Pixar movie UP, the transcendent quest is to get to Paradise Falls (a very significant name) and retire there either with your beloved, or at least alone. It is after all, Paradise. And getting there involves flying through clouds, far from the maddening crowd, in a big balloon vehicle.

Along the way, immanent quests interfere and seem to muck everything up. An endangered bird needs to be protected from the hunter, the dog named Doug gets a new master, a little boy scout-like kid is trying to get a merit badge and his broken family is in the background.

All these common life issues block Mr. Frederickson's journey to Paradise Falls, and in the end, only his house gets to go there (possibly indwelt by his wife, Ellie, who is dead and should be in paradise anyway).

The reason this pattern appeals to us is because we sense ourselves on the same sorts of quests - a higher longing for something transcendent (an 'end of life' type of goal, heaven, peace, bliss) and numerous worthwhile everyday battles that interfere.

Just going through the movies I've seen recently, it is easy to see this pattern

• Gattaca - transcendent quest to fly to another planet; immanent quest overcome the unjust genetically-based screening system
• Its A Wonderful Life - George Bailey's transcendent quest to travel the world, build buildings; immanent quest to save the Building and Loan and defeat Henry F. Potter, the evil banker who wants to control the town.
• A.I. - David, the robot-boy's transcendent quest to find the Blue Fairy and become a real boy so his mother will love him; immanent quest: no so much in this movie. He encounters trials, but none that are quests, but of course, he's a robot.

OK, not all stories fit into this pattern. In fact, a great many do not. In fact, the pattern is present in what appear to be stories with the most common appeal - Disney movies all have this. But not so much Barton Fink, The Royal Tennenbaums, Adaptation, Little Miss Sunshine. These have 'quests' of sorts, but of a different sort.

Still, I think if you want to have a successful screenplay, this is a winner.

Stories matter. Does it matter if they are true?

I saw an episode of The Simpsons in which the heroic founder of Springfield, Jedediah Springfield, was discovered by Lisa to be actually a pirate and a villain. Homer gets to be the town crier for a while.

But when Lisa makes her discovery and is about to announce to the whole town that their hero is a fraud, she sees the Jedediah Springfield parade and all the inspired people, and she can't do it. Instead, she swallows the truth and uses her moment at a microphone to say that he was a great founding father. Everyone stays happy.

Our stories define us - as a family or a school or a nation or tribe. They tell us who we are. It's an interesting question in itself why this is the case - why stories of our ancestors have such power over us. But do the stories need to be true in order to give us meaning?

Another example is the movie Smoke Signals - a story about Native Americans wrestling with the same question and deciding that No, it doesn't matter. The important thing is that they are OUR stories.

This is yet another quagmire of modernity. We do not want to be afraid of the truth as modern, enlightened, scientific people. Look bravely into the abyss. And there may be a modern bravado in admitting our cherished stories are actually false. But then, still clinging to them makes them quaint and robs them of their defining power, though postmodern prigs insist they don't. And the joy, meaning, and personal definition they gave us before are gone, even though postmodern prigs say it isn’t gone. (Damn all prigs.)

Conclusion:  the modern project works to destroy a strange, marvelous phenomenon in our mental framework called identity by telling us our stories are not true. In an anthropological sense, identity - this deepest of mental constructs - is a product of mere evolution. Strange then that this psychological construct could evolve from fictional stories, from unreality. Strange that identity is born from imagination. A little too strange to accept.

Writers who write about writers writing

I think the word is solipcism - the idea that the self is all that can be known to exist.  But I am not necessarily critical of writers who write about writers who are writing.  I have some hints of self-reference in things I write.  And its also interesting, because the experience of creating a story and the world of that story is actually a very interesting phenomenon.

Here are some examples in films:

1. Barton Fink
2. Adaptation
3. Synechdoche, New York
4. Stranger than Fiction
5. Inkheart
   

Reason fails

Where will logic and reason fail you?
How quickly will reasoning loose its usefulness?

• When you fall in love, and if you try to understand it rather than just enjoy its pleasures, reason fails
  
• When a girl (or boy) that you are deeply in love with no longer feels the same way about you and you are crushed, reason fails
• When friends betray you or those for whom you have sacrificed yourself treat lightly your gift and spurn your love, reason fails
• When you are captivated by beauty in the world or in art or music, and transported in tears, reason fails
• When you experience a debilitating failure in an important venture, reason fails
• When you find yourself in the grip of an addiction or depression or some other uncontrollable urge, reason fails
• When you ask the question, Why should I do anything for or care for anyone else but myself? reason fails
• When some injury or sickness brings you within reach of death so that you smell the odor of it and retch, and tremble at the dark figure that comes to claim you, reason fails
• When you encounter an undeniable miracle or see a ghost, reason fails
• When you are overpowered by a sense of God's presence and find yourself certain beyond all doubt of untestable truths, speechless before its power, unable to explain how you know but more certain of it than anything you've ever known, reason fails
• When you are deeply, powerfully thankful, reason fails
• When you are guilty and your own conscience condemns you bitterly, reason fails
• When you decide you want to have knowledge of unseen things and begin to long for a relationship with God, and strive to see the infinitely more satisfying truths outside the observable world of science and material possessions, reason fails
• When you are lonely, both in the momentary spacial sense and in the soul sense of being lost in the cosmos, hungry for the relationship for which you were made, vacant and cold in your soul and wishing for something good and right to fill it, reason fails
• When you loose your ability to think in old age or mental illness, reason by definition has failed
• When you experience disabling fear, either of something that is not real or of real danger that can do no more than end your life, for why does reason or logic care if your little candle stops burning?  it is not rational to fear death or anything at all because the impulse to self-preservation is instinctual, not rational

Fragmented

It has been said that a society's architecture represents the character of the society.  A building is a monument; it contains our best thoughts, it proclaims our conception of value and beauty.  It can also proclaim our aesthetic bankruptcy, moral disorientation and spiritual smugness.

Let's not rehearse the tired, obvious mantra about buildings needing to be a combination of form AND function.  We all know that.  Function is not hard in the modern world.  It is what people think about the most:  "oh, dont put a window facing the west - it will ruin the evening service"  "the front desk of the lobby should be the first thing people see so that they have to sign in before going further"  "be sure to observe all the regulations for the disabled - and that kills the idea of a balcony."

Church architecture - does any one want to argue that churches should be built first for God's glory and second for man's function?  I just finished The Hunchback of Notre Dame, so this is on my mind.  The overwhelming sense upon walking into most cathedrals is one of the greatness and majesty of God and the smallness of man.  Why did they build such buildings then, and why are church buildings so man centered today?  Who would countenance building a building that was less functional, but more formal?  forget about it.

Hungary Burning

Last year Halapi Roland of Hungary earned the world record title of Longest Distance Being Pulled Behind A Horse While On Fire - 472 meters.

Congratulations Mr. Roland.

this is no joke.

An excerpt from my writing project

Tristan

It was a few years earlier that Tristan rode in a summer-hot Buick gazing sideways out the window. The old metallic smell gave him a headache as always. But this day was a good day – he was going to see his mother, and his eyes were brighter than usual. His husky father drove the grizzled old sedan with something clattering in the hubcap, and the late afternoon sun beat hard across his jagged, unshaven face, casting a shadow in which Tristan hid. He wasn’t his real father, and Tristan just thought of him as ‘the old man.’ He’d always looked slightly absurd driving, Tristan thought - the look of annoyed concentration on his large blood-engorged face, the way his shoulders and chest seemed too bulky for him to move around. A cigarette was pinched between his lips and he occasionally puckered on it and released a cloud of smoke, never touching it. Tristan cracked a window.

“Whaddyudoin’? Close the window.”

“I need some air.”

“The AC is on, idiot. Shut the goddamn window.”

He sunk down and looked again out the window at the passing architecture as they passed through the city streets. He squinted and allowed his vision to blur. His focus strained far away beyond the buildings, to the horizon, then wrenching back too close, he crossed his eyes. He rolled his eyes around painfully backwards, further and further to try and focus on what was behind his eyes. He saw red veins close-up as if under a microscope and particles floating around, little amoebas, all against a background of pink and orange, full of blood which pulsed in his temples. He relaxed and focused back on the sidewalk and buildings, his vision jostling and askew. A mythical beast passed by, prowling the sidewalks, and another was stalking pedestrians. He felt cool fresh air and he studied their gruesome features, increasingly familiar and somehow more distinct than the rubbish and bicycles and neon storefronts all around.

Tristan was simultaneously young and old, and the onset of teenage years had solidified his cold, forlorn exterior while other warm sources burned inside him. Breathlessly he watched the creatures of a vicious, urban phantasm bordering on reverie. His fingers found their way to the holes in the pockets of his black hooded jacket and he distractedly tore at the remaining fabric. Radiant vampiric stalkers mingled with pedestrians, and a stone gargoyle on the façade of an old bank awoke and subtly leered at him as they passed by.

His father’s unsteady right foot jerked the car forward, followed sharply by the braking left foot. The old jailbird clouded up the enclosed space and murmured about odds on the football game that evening when he stood to win $200 if the Colts could make just twenty first-downs against Miami. The caramelized residue of nicotine and salt oozing from his pores gave him an encrusted, yellowish hue.

They slung widely into a gravelly asphalt parking space and Tristan walked ahead to the entrance. Their visits had become less frequent once it appeared that no further recovery was likely. He was reduced to asking his father for a ride whenever his longing for his mother began to haunt him, which was more than weekly. He hated to admit it, wishing awkwardly that the old man would orchestrate these visits and that Tristan could simply go along. Last time they came she never woke up. What would she be like this time?

Entering the facility his face soured anew with that unique smell, the same at every nursing home everywhere: unpleasant, attempting clinical but merely chemical, fetid like bleached urine, a smell of mist blown from the Stygian river just over the next hill. Alarming gaunt faces stared urgently at him as he and the old man walked down the hall to his mother’s room. The eyes followed him, a young fellah, ogling him like refugees at a junk food buffet, glaring with their sunken cheeks and wrinkling brown liver spots and wispy yellowing hair. He recoiled. Were they not decrepit prisoners awaiting release? They beheld his young eyes, and celebrated his mobility. They reached for his firm skin and imagined his intestinal regularity. What euphoria it would have been just to take his supple hand in theirs and press it to their faces. Oh, it didn’t matter to them that he had dyed his hair jet black, or that he walked with a slightly hunching gait. They basked in his dim light. He was fresh, just fourteen. His clear blue, tired and virgin eyes shifted and drew inward.

His mother was asleep when they arrived in her room. The old man stood near the door and looked at his watch. “Go say hello to your mother.” Tristan stood silently at his mother’s side trying to let the image fall lightly on him so he would maybe not have more nightmares. Some time passed and he saw her hand flinch. Her eyelids were drawn down and slightly ajar, lacking the seal of mucus present in those who are deeply asleep. Was she awake and bored? Unaware of her visitors, uninterested in them as strangers? Was she used to strange people coming and going, doing things to her body, being nice to her? He could not tell, but he could see a little bit of her iris under the drowsing eyelid, and so he imagined that she was awake.

“Are you awake momma?”

He reached down to touch her hand and she startled, and he took a quick step back, cooing and whispering “Sh-sh-sh! It’s OK, it’s just me, momma, Monk. It’s Tristan.” She began to breathe more rapidly, her enormous breast rising and falling, and her head turned slowly back and forth. With a lurch into her physicality, he grasped her clammy hand. Her lips moved and she whispered and mumbled something unrecognizable with each breath, “himidy, himidy, himidy.”

The words gained strength and he heard her gibberish and the silent room and yellow light swallowed him up in terror and gooseflesh. As the utterance got loud enough for him to distinguish as repetitive nonsense he turned to move away and she stopped, and she said “Sugar, aw, sugar.” It was clear speech, and it struck him in the gut. This word, his pet name, brought a fast stream of tears to his eyes which he wiped away with a jerk of his sleeve. Her head bobbled around and finally her drooping eyes lighted on him, but there was no light of recognition, no smile of pleasure at his visit. She looked right through him – into his face and beyond to the wall behind him.

He steeled his nerve and looked full into her empty eyes. He saw himself, his life in her. He searched for something to recognize in her face, some expression he would remember or some flicker of cognition. Her mouth hung halfway open drooling and her eyes could not stay open.

“Did you say sugar? Sugar?” he attempted.

In what appeared like total exhaustion, she mouthed the word imitating him. Then she fell back to sleep and could not be roused. He drifted back from her bedside.

“Why is she in this place with all these old people? She’s not that old.” The old man did not respond, and Tristan had not really expected an answer. A nurse came in and checked some statistics, then she left. Tristan looked halfway over his shoulder at the fat figure, not making eye contact. He clenched his jaw and felt the awkwardness of the silence. He was thinking about one summer when his mother had held him close after a severe beating whispering “Sugar, there now, sugar,” and then the old man spoke.

“The doctors put her here. Caint nobody help her.”

“She’s just lying here, how come she cant lie in bed at home? I don’t want to come to this place no more. I want to take her home. If she’s not gonna live, let her die at home.”

“This is a place for people like her; who got what she got…”

He mumbled, “people who got almost drowned by someone…”

“You shut your goddamn mouth, Monk, or I swear to God!”

Tristan hunched a shoulder, running his fingers across his hair in a defensive block in case the fist came at him, but it didn’t. His eyes turned cold and heavy as disgust swelled. Amid the tension he felt a tender female hand on his shoulder, the unseen hand of his new friend, a lover, a strong young lady who had come to him. It was the hand that soothed him at night as he raged on his bed for the death and sickness and poverty that surrounded him. He found the strength to control himself from further words or from releasing his pent up anger on the one he suspected had intentionally taken his mother away from him.

Virtual city, actual city

In this NY Times article, many parents worry about letting their children walk a few blocks to school. Fears of abduction stemming from the Jaycee Dugard story have made parents even more protective. So they drive their children to school, even if they live only fractions of a mile away, exacerbating problems of traffic congestion, fuel waste, etc.

But, says the NT Times writer, statistically such fears are unwarranted. Far more children are injured in car accidents than are abducted: about 250,000 to 115 annually.

Why is it then that parents are not equally fearful of their children walking the streets of the virtual city, the internet? I have compared the internet to a vast metropolis often in my thinking and conversation. You have nice places: candy shops, word games, bulletin boards, music and entertainment. You also have adult places: sex shops, tell-all gossips, casinos, bomb recipes.

Perhaps just as much cause for concern are spots that influence kids negatively but subtly: sites that advocate cynical urban rebellion, unbridled rage, hyper-casualness about sex, addictive soul-destroying activities like games that put a virtual weapon in your virtual hand and have you mercilessly kill others, and the coolness of other sites and sources promoting the same thing.

The best and most well-meaning parents, the most protective parents, will let their 10 year-olds wander these streets at will. Perhaps they will not be abducted (physically) (or maybe they will), but the harm is done in their hearts and minds. Their ability to relate properly with a spouse, their sense of compassion for those in need, their sensitivity to death and injustice, their ability to relate to the beauty which requires patience to see - these things are more are destroyed. And like an abductee who requires years of recovery after the trauma, internet street-walkers will need long reprogramming to function like normal humans again.

Then again, if every one gets screwed up in the head by the internet, maybe there will be no need.

2 Obscure Movies

I watched two movies that apparently no one else in the world has watched. One was Margot at the Wedding and the other was Rachel Getting Married. They sound similar, and they are. Same setting (a wedding), same context (crazy relative shows up, causes a stir), same characters (two sisters in the center, with parents, friends, etc in the fray).

The strange thing about these movies is that there was no resolution. No characters grew, no real obstacles were overcome. They did get through the wedding, and a lot of brutally juicy arguments and betrayals took place. But I think normal viewers of these films have that familiar "that's it?" feeling when the credits roll.

What were these movies about? Should I feel ashamed if I found the in-your-face multiculturalism of Rachel disconcerting? Am I a impolitic for thinking that it was preachy? For pete's sake. The wedding sequence and the frequent music montages were so long and overt, as if the director's point was to stuff as many cultures in your face as possible in five minutes. The eschewing of any hint of tradition, the uttermost free form in the vows (consisting essentially of each thanking the other for marrying them).

Religion figured prominently. I guess the white family was Hindu (in Rachel). What else could they be? And the black family (his family) was Universalist with a haunting of some gospel past thrown in.

I will say the acting was good, and this went a long way toward making the movies watchable. I actually watched Rachel twice, partly to see Hathaway, partly to try and figure it out. Anne Hathaway was fabulous as the addict sister fresh out of rehab. But Nicole Kidman in Margot was, I dont know, gross. Blame it on the writer, because she is beautiful and talented. Co-star Jack Black is funny but a poor actor. And other co-star Jennifer Jason Leigh can turn it on when needed.

Both movies left me disturbed and re-entering earth's orbit after a very bumpy ride. I just want to say the people were stupid. I want to complain, What was the point? Yes, we see a human interaction that was very authentic. It showed brokenness and realistic yucky human crap that gets sprayed all over some people in Connecticut. But an essential element was missing that makes it a "story", I dont know, something like resolution, development, dare I say redemption.

Its not enough to just portray a messed up family's experience. You have to do something with it. I suspect that some artsy-fartsy impetus is behind both films, some self-authenticating "if you dont get it then it is your problem, facist" attitude. As if the postmodern artiste' had disabused themselves of the obligation to suggest anything like meaning, resolution, growth or beauty in their characters.

You idiots writing these movies, look. You are either 1) laziness masquerading as angst or 2) so anemic in your view of the beauty of human experience that all you see is the dark side, and fortunately for you, it sells because viewers love a good cat fight. The artistic community you emerge from may be bold in its impluse to spread our faces with tar, but it is empty. Wake up and rediscover meaning. It is not passe.

The end is near

If you think this recession has been bad, wait until the collapse of the internet. Really, how long do we think the speed of life can continue to increase? How much more precarious has the economy become since it transferred to reliance on delicate wires connecting servers? I am writing this now so that when it happens I can say I saw it coming.

The Bible foretells the destruction of Babylon in the end times. Could it be Babylon is the internet, the new virtual global city?

What would it take to bring it down? A lot actually. It's pretty robust. But a depression would do it. If suddenly Cisco and other companies couldn't maintain it, then what? What if technology could not keep up with ever-increasing worldwide demand? Example: the i-phone uses 10x the capacity of other browsing phones, and AT&T is choking, and iphone users are getting mad.

People are moving toward constant color-graphic connectivity. At some point, technology simply will top out when billions of people streaming video, GPS, playing online games, skypeing etc. The scale gets unsustainable.

Unless terrorists find a way to destroy multiple routing hubs nationwide, the internet wont die in a day. More likely, our children will live in a world where either 1) internet is like riding a subway (wait to get on, pay for a ticket etc.) or 2) private internets, co-ops, spring up for groups of people to exchange info, and sending data across the country will be like sending a package by UPS - it will be scheduled for overnight delivery.

Teenagers and college students will suffer the most when it goes. And they will shout the loudest, "Alas, the great city, Babylon, the mighty city! For in one hour your judgment has come!"

I have seen the enemy, and it is us

I-Tattoo by Spin Master comes with a realistic vibrating tattoo pen. Boys are told to "get inked".

Lone Star beer and wife beater sold separately, or get them from dad, who bought this for them in the first place.




Makers of this product should be in jail:

Peeka-boo Dance Pole, complete with 8' chrome pole, sexy dance garter and play money to stuff in to the garter.

CNN calls this product "dumb".

A dream I had on 3/29/08

Last night I had the following dream: flowing out of some previous dream sequence, which I don’t remember, I found myself riding my motorcycle down Kingwood Drive in heavy traffic, headed out of the subdivision. It was at night, and there was the usual dim, pallor created by passing streetlights, and outside the hazy bubbles of lamplight, the black darkness. The moist night wind was in my hair. Riding along I noticed to my right, a platform about shoulder-level – it was the bed of a flat-bed truck. I was not aware of the cab or driver, only the platform immediately before my eyes to the right. On the platform was a hospital bed with my dad sleeping in it, tilted up in the adjustable bed, just like my last hazy dream-like contact with him in the hospital. He was out in the open air, and we both drove along together in the wind and motor noise. My motorcycle was right next to him, and I was surprised to encounter him like this, because…well, what are the chances of looking over and seeing your dad in the vehicle next to you?

Preventing him from rolling out was a foot-high pane of Plexiglas along the side of the platform, and he was slumped sideways, mouth open, either asleep or more likely, in a fog of sedation. He was in a white gown and all white sheets, and he was unshaven and hair tousled as when he’s been in the hospital for several days. When I saw him, I was very happy and excited. I felt like a little boy again and tried to get his attention, “Dad! Hey Dad! Dad!” I was able to get right next to the platform and reach over the Plexiglas to touch his hair. I wanted to rouse him enough to say Hi. He looked up at me through the plastic pane and his face showed recognition, and he reached over one of his unmistakable hands which had an i.v. dangling along with it, and he gently held my four fingers for a moment before they slipped away and he was taken away from me.

[My beloved father left this world in August 2007.]

A deeper layer in The Incredibles

There's this scene in the Incredibles. The entire family is being held captive by Syndrome's force field, and he's explaining his plan.

"...then I'll sell my inventions, so that everyone can be super! And when everyone's super...heh, heh, heh...no one will be."

Oh, Syndrome you evil man! How could you? Destroy the supers??

OK, here's my question. What's so bad about Syndrome's proposition? I ask, because I'm one of those that Syndrome is talking about. I would be able to buy his stuff and be super. Why not let everyone be super? What's wrong with that?

But admit it, when Syndrome suggested his plan, we all collectively gasped in horror, because we knew what he was saying. The celebration of mediocrity will become so pervasive that supers will be drowned in an ocean of wanna be's.

Do you see what's going on? Why do we react to the idea of everyone being super? Because. We want heroes. We need them. We want our heroes so badly that we will affirm near universal mediocrity so that a few can be great. Don't take away greatness, don't take away the ability to aspire, to be inspired.

We want heroes because we want a value system to show us what is high and noble and virtuous and honorable. We want there to be a lower level so that the higher can exist. We need lowness so we can recognize highness.

Do you see what this means? Take a super leap forward and recognize that this ultimately leads to the fact that we need evil in order to recognize good. We need, yes NEED, sin and darkness and pain. Without it we could never have known goodness and beauty and virtue.

Where did evil come from? I dont know, except that it was part of God's plan. There could be no other way.

Review of "So Brave Young and Handsome"

Leif Enger was instantly installed as one of my favorite authors after I read his first book, Peace Like A River. In that book, the two children characters, the dad, the older son (on the run from the police), the villain - every character was great. Good guys were endearing and unique, bad guys were really bad. It had miracles, chases, romance, ethical questions and flawed characters.

His new book has a similar feel to it - the simple perspective of northerners (probably Lutheran), policemen chasing the protagonists, flawed people dealing with their weaknesses, men thinking about their women, etc. No miracles this time. But I have to say I did not enjoy this book as well as the first - its hard to put a finger on why.

Maybe its because the action slows down several times in the book to be replaced by quaintness. Like home cooking, fruit trees being harvested, and hand-crafted sailboats being made. You can almost see the men in suspenders and pork pie hats and women in floral dresses looking wistfully toward a cloudy sunset on a summer's eve. Neither book elucidates the title very well.

Admittedly, the homely parts are appealing and not bad writing. I guess I had just been primed for gifted creativity by the first book, and the second seemed to meander quite a bit. Being a writer of sorts, I want to believe that he has layers of meaning and symbolism, but if he does I missed it. Some descriptions seem merely for the sake of description. Occasionally I got the feeling he just wasn't trying.

But before I say too much negative, I want to say that there is a lot of the same charm that seems to be becoming Enger's trademark. The narrator is an uncertain cowardly wimp with great longings for bravery, conquest, eloquence etc. He longs for the approval of his wife, which seems elusive. He reminds me of the middle boy in Peace Like A River - same sorts of demons. Which makes the book accessible, because so many of us feel ourselves to be cowards inside and desperately wish we could be exceptional.

Happily, he steers clear of triteness, especially in the ending, although husband and wife live happily ever after, as you figure they will from page 1. But the other dramatic characters rarely get what they want, and hard justice is usually served.

I recommend the book to someone looking for a good summer read, although with less enthusiasm than I did the first book.

The Crash of the Wienermobile

We are forced to inhabit a planet with this sort of thing.

How apropos, how fitting, how necessary that the wienermobile crashed into this house in Wisconsin. It has been subdued, nay, struck down to rise no more. It shall crawl upon its belly, it shall eat dust all the days of its life. How the angels in heaven must rejoice. How the mighty have fallen. The wrath of God expressed in a flash, his righteous anger, his long patience could endure the ignominy no longer as this massive frankfurter, this beast that roams the earth to and fro, seeking whom it may devour, is cast from its lofty perch into the lake reserved for the devil and his angels.

Until now, it has driven at large, crying out as it goes, the song of the fallen:

"Look upon me, O man, and despair! Tear your robes, and claw your faces! Beat your breasts in anguish for I am your undoing. Outwardly I advertise a puree'd paste of pork refuse, but in essence I exist to mock humanity, to parade your foolishness, to condemn you in the midst of your vaunted selves, your technology, your advancements, your medicine, law, philosophy, science...I also am among your achievements, ye infamous, ye paltry, ye who have rejoiced in my pallid light. You will never emerge from the swamp while I wander the hiways and byways of this land, your neighborhoods, beach fronts, your sports events and company parties! You will never evolve, never achieve enlightenment, never find harmony, love, redemption or peace while I live! The albatross to humanity am I, your shame. Look upon me!"

Transformers 2 - bad movie alert

I just finished reading Roger Ebert's review of Transformers 2, which is apparently much more entertaining than the movie. The sex content of the movie is strangely high for a what is basically a big toy advertisement. I haven't seen this movie, but Im glad to have been warned to avoid it.

sigh

So what happened? Here its been almost two months since I found a reason to write on my blog. You've probably quit coming, moved on. Regardless of a sad slump of non-creative ennui on my part, you have spouted new internet wings, found new blogs to read. You were probably just updating your facebook page when you thought on the odd chance that I had written something worthwhile, although why would I since its been so long, you might wander back to your old chum, who used to be good for a wry smile, a flight of your left eyebrow, a sadistic dose of what-the-hells-wrong-with-the-world regularly to be found here, on the Vale of Tears. I wish I had more for you tonight. What's wrong, you ask? Where's the spark, the pizazz, the je-ne-se-qua? I've wondered myself. But I strongly suspect that this fad known as blogging is loosing its steam. And I, slave to the whims of fashion, am also ready for the next thing. Twittering came and went so fast, the name even sounds like the transiency of the phenomenon itself, like the morning dew of an Austin summer. Oh, its not dead yet? well, it'll be dead shortly. But blogging...it rests on the egos of Americans, therefore it will live forever.

Reading Tolkein to my son

Once in a blue moon, a happy blog entry:

Lately, I walk in the door and my 9-year-old son asks me, "Can we read The Hobbit tonight?"

The fourth child never gets the same nurturing attention that earlier kids get. So I haven't read as much to this one. He was too young even to sit still as I read out loud every book in the Harry Potter series to the rest of the family. He was always off playing elsewhere.

He was reluctant to undertake the Hobbit with me. It's a daunting book to a boy. Probably has a lot of unfamiliar words, etc. But with a little gentle persuasion, and a promise that would just read a couple of pages to start, he agreed.

After five pages I asked, "Do you want to quit now?" "No." We read about 15 pages that first sitting.

Tonight he was disappointed that we didn't have much time to read, so I suggested that he do his homework in the afternoon instead of after dinner. He realized that would give us about two hours to read. God willing, a reader in the making. Maybe it's not too late.

Woman with SWINE FLU!

ALERT AMERICA!

THIS PICTURE JUST IN OF A WOMAN WITH SWINE FLU!

Swine flu has been confirmed by every known government agency to be accompanied by grotesque facial mutations like this one. Doctors from every field and practice are stunned and confused by the development. In a closed door session last week, many doctors wept in horror as they considered the implications with President Obama .

The Surgeon General hypothesized openly last night that mankind is actually entering a period of devolution, reverting backward to more animal characteristics. "Man will recede into the horizon eventually, surrendering his reason, language and creativity, being reduced to an insignificant organism."

Meanwhile, G20 nations meeting in private session unanimously agreed that God is punishing the race of men for its ecological crimes, in effect suspending man's place of primacy among the creatures, for squandering his dominion over the planet. Said one diplomat from Ukraine, "Swine flu is proof! There is a God, and he is punishing us for our crimes! Ichabod! Ichabod!"

A team of scientists in Austria have now identified the next animal expected to assume global dominance: the Bactrian Camel. The Camelus Bactrianus is especially suited to endure the long period of global warming expected to engulf the earth, which will further degrade man through the profuse sweating expected to ensue. After the holocaust, camels who are deeply loving, intellectual and witty creatures, will rise up and create a brave new civilization based on liberty, equality, and brotherhood among all camel species - from the Arabian Dromedary to the distantly related alpacas of South America.

If any humans remain, they will be reclassified under the biological family Suidae under the species Posthomonid Sus domesticus. Or, not.

Review of The Machinist

I watched this movie again last night. It was honestly probably the 8th time I've seen it.

Why am I attracted to movies that portray a man dealing with his demons? And are you not dealing with demons of your own? Am I the only one who has recurrent pangs of guilt and regret for things in my past? I know there are a few of you out there. It would help to know who you are. But yes, I too, could easily get caught up on a cycle of denial that leads to insomnia, which leads to hallucinations and waking dreams.

That is what The Machinist is about. Some details about the movie.

1. Stars Christian Bale and Jennifer Jason Leigh
2. Christian Bale lost about 100 lbs. in preparation to shoot the film
3. Was filmed entirely in Spain, though set in LA. Street signs and scenery had to be modified to look like Los Angeles.

This movie is haunting, like no other. It is not a horror film, but it is a psychological thriller. The sound track is so freaking creepy! I love it.

So you're saying, Get on with the review. I can't. I don't want to ruin it for you! I can't even talk about it without stealing from the dark creepy magic! Let me just say that if you like to notice plot details, this movie has them in spades. They are so sweet, most of them. I didn't see many of them until the 3rd or 4th viewing. It just makes me want to thank the director for giving me layers. I want layers! I want you to give me a clue that you CARE about this film you're making. Is that too much to ask? Have you any soul in you whatsoever? Are you an artist or an industrialist? Ah! The Machinist was made by someone who cared enough to put nice foreshadowing and significant props there for the observant viewer to notice.

And if you find truth in the stories of people doing mortal combat with sin, guilt and redemption, you will enjoy this movie.

Hancock, the realistic hero

We like our heroes because they are not like us, although we pretend that we are like them. Take Batman. If we were rich beyond all reason, trained ninjas, had connections to cutting edge government technologies and vehicles, we would like to think... no stop. Forget it. Because you would not, neither would I, go around fighting crime.

No, if you and I were superheroes, above the law for all practical purposes, we would not spend out efforts fighting crime. At least not for very long. Sure, I could see you doing some noble, selfless acts, because you have this ethos inside you that likes to see the bad guy punished.

But it would not take very long before, realizing that you were unstoppable, uncatchable and let's face it, better at determining justice than the cops or judges or legislators...it would not take very long before you would find yourself above the law - not helping the cops, but making up for their stupid restrictions (like the oh so tiresome Miranda rights) and crooks who get out on a technicality etc.

No matter how convinced you are that such laws are good because of the people the protect, even though a few bad guys get away...Yes, now you're thinking Hey, I believe in those laws! But give yourself a few days with ultimate powers and witness a few of the worst villains set free to harm others, and you too will be taking the law into your own hands.

Which is why I think Hancock is perhaps the most realistic "superhero" to come along. He's not rich, good-looking, privileged, he's not privy to government secrets. He also does not give a flip about helping the cops, unless he get's something out of it - like amnesty for his wanton destruction of public property or public drunkenness.

Yes, we like our heroes, precisely because they are not like us, and they feed our fantasy that we could be noble, upstanding, defenders of truth and justice too, if only we had the powers.

But heroes actually serve a better purpose. They give voice to the secret cry of our soul for rescue from a vicious and cruel world. Its not so much the hero himself, but the people who are saved by them. We are them. We also are dangling from a precipice, bound and gagged by a villain who laughs while starting up the big lumber mill saw and laying us on the conveyor belt.

The attraction of heroes tells us that we need a hero, not like Hancock, but like the old Superman. A benevolent god who will move mountains to save us. Just like Lois Lane in the earthquake - we cry for superman, though he's hundreds of miles away, to come save us. We are dying, even dead. But he will do whatever is necessary, even turn back time, even rise from the dead, to save us. We fantasize to think we could be like him. But we desperately need him.

I read The Watchmen

The holy grail of graphic novels, the starting point for someone who wants to know what graphic novels are, one review said. So I read the 100-page long comic book, published around 1987.

Holy grail or not, it didn't change my life.

My impressions were 1) it was very comic-bookish, not as one might have assumed, that is, something quite different, somehow of a different quality than a comic book. 2) it had more sex than I expected. 3) it was dark, adultish, and unresolved, as if the way to entertain people was to leave them in a moral quandary.

The review I read tried with urbane journalistic objectivity to say that "intellectuals" always look down on graphic novels. The insinuation was that those who are accustomed to reading books without pictures should get down off their high horse and understand the times. Who are you, anyway, to say that books with words are better than books with pictures? That's just your tiresome western assumptions again, trying to assert that your way is superior to another equally valid way. Another case of logocentrism, or the intolerance of word-oriented toward those of other literary orientations. At least, that's what was laden in this review's attempt at literary pluralism.

I suppose I have to line up with the "intellectuals", we few, we snobs who said, "you mean, a comic book?" when we first heard the term "graphic novel", we who like flagellant monks prefer the archaic way, the dusty road of toilsome words, words, words, we who cling to tradition with an arthritic bent finger upheld sermonizing about the good old days, we who eschew even the Kindle in favor of the earthy, dead, eco-unfriendly books. But I digress.

Little boys do this when they gotta go

Maybe if rappers used the bathroom before the show, they wouldn't be caught on camera in embarrassing postures like this.

I wonder if they pick their noses too

A bathroom conversation

I went into a public restroom today and noticed what is now undeniable empirical evidence that men have evolved a totally new language used only in restrooms. But this language consists of a reversion to primitive body signals, not words.

When I walked into the restroom, a man in a stall sniffed, and he sniffed louder than necessary. I realized, "he is signaling to me, 'there's someone in this stall.'" I can only presume that he was doing this as a courtesy to me. Perhaps he was afraid that I might break wind at the urinal, or start singing out loud thinking I was alone, and then I might be embarrassed when I did notice someone else in the stall.

I have been noticing this now for a couple of years, and I am trying to piece together the rudimentary elements of the language that is developing - an anthropologists dream this is! To be able to witness a new form of communication developing in its natural habitat.

So here for the first time, I will share with you a typical conversation using this new language with translation. I may post further advancements in future blogs as my vocabulary grows.

[I walk into the men's room and go the urinal.]

Stall 1: Sniff. [Translation: Heads up, sir. There is someone else in this bathroom.]

Me: Cough. [Thank you, friend. I will be careful of my behavior.]

Stall 1: Rattles newspaper. [Splendid. Now, no need to get too friendly.]

Stall 2: Ahem, Ahem. [I say lads, just letting you know there's a third one here.]

Me: Sniff. [Yes, I could already tell by the odor coming strongly from that stall.] Sigh. [If you dont mind gents, I need to concentrate here.]

[Long pause.]

Stall 1: uncomfortable silence. [If someone would be so kind as to turn on the tap, it might stir things up a bit, ay what? Might also deliver me from some embarrassment over the terrible splashing that is about to occur.]

Stall 2: russling loudly with pants and zipper. [One moment old chap, I'm happy to oblige. Just let me tidy up my trousers.]

Me: Heavy sigh. [I bloody wish both of you wankers would get out of here so I could bloody well concentrate.]

Stall 2: especially loud flushing. [There you are, old man! That should help things a bit. A good rushing water sound usually helps me. Better let it go fast before the flush is over. You too, stall number 1. Go ahead, I can't hear a thing!]

Stall 1: cough. [Sir, you are a gentleman. I hope you will let me buy you a drink.]

Stall 2: clattering door latch and squeaky hinges. [No need to thank me, old sport. I know how it can be. We're all in this together, right-o!]

Stall 1: vigorous unrolling of approx. 15 feet of toilet paper. [If only my ex-wife and I could communicate this well, our marriage might have lasted. As it is, she's run off to Strattford on Avon with some bloke from the bankers office. Bloody wretched business. But as Dr. Johnson said, "a man of genius is seldom ruined but by himself." I have to catch the trolly at 6, so let me get you that drink. What'll you have?]

Stall 2 man at sink: briefest possible dispensing of soap, washing, drying hands on paper towel. [Really, there's no need. I trust you would do the same for me.]

Stall 1: quick flush. [I insist!]

Stall 2 man exiting: casual, relieved exit. [very well, sir. Gin and a dash of elderflower cordial. Shot of apple juice.]

Stall 1: exit briskly without washing. [brilliant! Make it two!]

me: sigh. [Great ceasar's ghost, finally a chap can have a bit of peace without those two yammering on.]

How close we came

Sarah Palin's daughter, Bristol, had her baby in December. Shortly after, she and her fiance broke up. Then in February, the single 18-year-old did an interview for Fox in which she said that abstinence is "not realistic at all". Granted the statement was made in passing.

Not that she's different from most other teens. And not that teen-pregnancy is such a great catastrophe. What gives me that sensation of the being narrowly missed by an out-of-control semi truck is her mother's incompetency, the depths of which we still apparently have not discovered, as demonstrated in her inability to pass on her ultra-right-wing worldview to her closest family members. And John McCain's inexcusable, uncritical, highest-possible-stakes gamble in selecting her for a running mate.

Respect for Islam

Last week I heard more than one news report about Muslims upset at being labeled terrorists because of the bad behavior of a few radicals. Everyday Muslims, they said, do not condone terrorism, and dont appreciate their faith being associated with it. We shouldn't let a few crazies blemish an otherwise peaceful world religion.

So, what about when the craziness is the action of an entire nation? Are we allowed to think Islam is a cruel, violent religion then? Take a look at this article. This is not just a handful of crazy men.

"That's only the Wahhabist sect," they say, "that's not all of Islam." I say, OK fine, its a sect, but it is a large, influential sect that controls several middle eastern nations, perhaps even the majority of practicing Muslims.

This seems a conundrum for the post-moderns who want to have us tolerate everybody. I like tolerance, but I like humane behavior better. Sentencing a 70-year-old woman to 40 lashes for having two men in her house, her surrogate son and his friend, is insane.

How modern culture is destroying our ability to view art

I was looking for something on how to approach nudes in art. On the web, I expected to have to wade through a lot of adolescent silliness, but I figured there would be some cultural site, some artists blog or museum page that would give a mature answer.

What I found was...a lot of nude art. Also, artists demanding veneration, bloggers insisting that pornography is simply art (beauty of female form etc.), news stories about religious people ringing their hands about taking their children to the art museum. I did find a few pages trying to deal seriously about it, but not many.

Then it occurred to me. Maybe the accretion of western civilizations, the layers of attitudes for hundreds of years, has made it impossible for good men to view nudes today. How so? Sown deep down within us are the inherited attitudes of Victorian prudishness (if it werent true, we wouldn't be having this conversation) plus the ever-pressing-the-envelope hyper-sexualized culture of the 80's and 90's. Today, pornography is only a problem for those who have a problem with it. In the paradox of the age, we are both prudish and salacious at the same time. We hide sexuality from our children fearing for their innocence (as if sex was bad), but we are obsessed with it, get treatments for enhancement, and seek counseling or divorce when we are not sexually fulfilled. Christian moms dress in tight fitting sweats for what other reason that to show off their bodies? Large percentages of Christian men indulge in secret, solo adultery with pornography.

It used to be that viewing the great classical nude paintings and sculpture, and even some 18th century stuff, with was possible for the mature: usually married people or at least sexually initiated. Today's nude "art", however, is so sensual as to be difficult to distinguish from porn. It's as if artists want to take the mature attitudes that were possible in the past and sneak it into viewing gradually more salacious or shocking material, calling it art all the time, and leading cultured viewers into greater disarmament of modesty.

But what about the classical old stuff? Can we view that? As a teacher of history to Christian teens, I encounter this. I had to teach about it today in talking about Greek sculpture. And what about me? I think I can view Botticelli's Birth of Venus or Durer or Matisse. These pictures are pretty tame compared to today's "nude art", aren't they? But is everything permitted? Is there no limit as long as we call it art?

Which gets to my point. Since chaste men today have such a hard time with images on billboards, newsstands, commercials and contemporary styles of dress, since flirtation and sensuality are blasted at us almost constantly during the day, can we still go to the museum and view nudes without the raw nerve of conscience being prodded with a needle? Since we still have the baggage of Victorianism, gnostic physical-is-bad-ism, Leave-it-to-Beaver Sleeping-in-separate-beds cardigan-pipe-and-pearls perfectionism - all of this is in us as Americans. Just think about sex in other cultures - one room huts where mom, dad, and all the children share the same room. They had to have sex there in the room with the children listening.

We are messed up. But I wonder - is our demented attitude about sex also making us squeemish about nudity in art? Is it stealing away our souls in this way too, that the legitimate mature admiration of the physical form of the human body in art has become "naughty" for adults who want to be mature, but who's vision is clouded by the barrage of the sexually conflicted culture?

Its the end of the world as we know it

This week one news article asked out loud what everyone is thinking: can we use the "d" word yet? Are we in a depression? Because, ya know, the stock market is still going down, and everything. And today it is even lower than yesterday!

Think. What if the stock market goes all the way to zero!

One thing that would happen is that Tattoo Barbie would no longer be available because Mattel would go out of business.

Notes on a funeral

My aunt died last week and I went to the funeral in Sherman, a modestly sized town in north Texas. Funerals always make me notice things more acutely, and the strange things you notice when your powers of observation are attenuated are worth writing down.

Several people were weeping for the grief of loss, but I was not dealing with a sense of grief personally. She had battled Alzheimer's for some years, and though I have the regular familial affinity for my aunt, I haven't seen her much in the last 15 years, and I was not having trouble with my emotions. However, at times my throat tightened because I saw other relatives much closer to her in their grief. Weeping, like laughter, is contagious.

I noticed an odd level of drama in the 18 hours I was there. Interestingly, in our very Christian family, I learned of behavior and heard words that were certainly born out of the great stress of the event, but would have seemed impossible previously. Feelings left over from old wounds, criticisms for minor issues, highly impassioned expressions of anger. It reminded me of deaths of other family members in the last 10 years - always so much more than bereavement going on. All the past comes back with it.

I could have identified only about 8 people at the event, but was introduced to many cousins once- and twice-removed. How easy it is to find your own flesh and blood oafish or wearing too much perfume or laughing too loud or uncomfortably shy, unattractive or overly devoted to appearance. Either I am just like them with my own off-putting mannerisms or else I am as I see myself - appropriately groomed, cultured, and sophisticated, with elevated mental clarity and mature tastes - and am therefore especially called to account before God for snobbery or condescension or failure of humility or gracelessness.

During the funeral we sang "In the Garden" and "It is Well with my Soul." Of course, In the Garden has been one of my favorite hymns to hate for some years - an attitude taught to me by my Presbyterian teachers. We love to hate In the Garden for its sappiness and 1912-vintage smarmy pietistic solipsism. After all, verse 1 says,

I come to the garden alone
While the dew is still on the roses
And the voice I hear falling on my ear
The Son of God discloses

This is world-class sap. The chorus is just as bad, talking about how each Christian's relationship with God is unique, and how God has a me-shaped vacuum in his heart, and how he just loves those pastel-colored walks where he gets to woo me like some cheesy romance.

However, I know that many Christians experience true religious sentiment through this song, bad as it may be. And I also know there are people who view my preferred type of church music as hopelessly banal. "How can you sing in English?? Feh! Latin is the language, the superior culture used in the historic church etc. etc." I have long thought that the music wars and their eloquent defenses on either side neglect the fact that even the best music is crap before God, made acceptable only through Christ. So whether it be doggerel or a 9th Century Latin Mass, all is sanctified and made acceptable to God because Christ is our mediator.

Lars and the Real Girl

When I heard the premise of this movie, I was very reluctant to see it. The last thing I need in my head is a bunch of visuals and Hollywood-psychobabble granting viability to the latest fetish to spring from the salacious and creative retailers of the internet. Who wants to see (or admits to wanting to see) a movie about a man’s attachment to an inflatable sex doll? Why did this movie see the light of day? And why is my wife suggesting we watch it? The reason is because I am going to tell you that this movie is actually deeply human and beautiful.

I know. I had to be persuaded too. I had to get in the mood for something on the level of Idiocracy. I thought this movie would either float along on a stream of predictable naughty school-boyish sex jokes or else would be a deflating lesson in tolerance, a battalion of sociologists to lecture us about accepting those who have chosen a different blah, blah, blah. Boy was I wrong.

Lars and the Real Girl is a film about community, the power of love and sacrifice on the part of many to help one man in need. We learn early on that Lars is a victim of mental illness and his defense mechanism takes the form of an inflatable doll that he orders from the internet. He is painfully shy, living with his brother and sister in law, in a separate garage apartment. When his new girlfriend Bianca arrives in the mail, he is suddenly able to function socially. But to the horror of his brother Gus, Lars treats the doll like a real girl and expects others to do the same.

Filmed in Ontario, Lars and the Real Girl was nominated for many awards, including a Academy for Best Original Screenplay. One of the pleasant surprises of this film is the fact that the producer (Nancy Oliver) and director (Craig Gillespie) are newcomers to major film.

My first alcoholic drinks

I can't remember what age I was, but when I was young, I occasionally would sneak into the closet under the stairs where my dad kept all of his liquor bottles, and I would take a swig of something. They all looked the same to me, sitting there on the shelf in that little closet, all half empty, all decorated like no other bottle in the house. There was something secret and adultish about those bottles. Soft drinks and fruit juices were all tamely adorned. And they were not forbidden. But there they were tempting me on that little shelf.

When my parents were out of the house, only on a few occasions, I went in and took a sip of a bottle. Nothing bad happened. But I did discover the taste that was warm and wild like paisleys in the mouth and sent fumes up the nostrils. But it was not interesting enough to make me try again the next day.

No, a child has no interest in alcohol unless led to it by some influence. Strong drink is only meaningful to those who have seen the dark side of life. This I believe: a person has to be brought to a point of bitterness in some major aspect of his/her life in order to understand strong drink: marriage, job, failures, personal inadequacies, tragedies. They must look back on a point or points when, as an adult, they carried an anguish that surprised them, in which they said to themselves, "I didn't know this could happen." That black moment leaves a stain, but it is the stain of truth. Upon the soul. The rose-colored glasses are removed and one has the brokenness of the world set in their laps.

With this background, one can drink liquor and experience something like confirmation. The powerful punch speaks to the soul, and in response the souls says, yes.

Suicide

Does anyone else see the poignancy of the "spiraling number" of suicides among American troops in Iraq and Afghanistan. In addition to being profoundly sad, it also makes me wonder if suicides are happening on the other side. The answer is yes - we know them as suicide bombers, mainly Iraqi women lately.

So. Insurgents and Taliban are killing Americans. Iraqi women bombers are killing Americans. And Americans are killing themselves. The odds seem not to be in our favor when both sides of the conflict agree on who shall be killed.

Sickeningly, Army Secretary Pete Geren said this week, according to MSNBC, that "officials are stumped" at the number of cases. Maybe being stuck on the other side of the world, facing death daily, being separated from loved ones, dealing with sand and military rations and foreign culture every second of the day, for repeated tours and no end in sight, maybe it just gets to a fellow.

Little girls love kittens

Still not tired of Radiohead

I only own two of their albums - OK Computer and In Rainbows. But for months now I have been listening to these recordings regularly with only short breaks to listen to something else. What is it about Radiohead that I find so wonderful?

OK Computer was pure magic the first time I heard it - most of the album, that is. There are a few tracks that dont go anywhere, or else they simply dont have the magic. I am luke warm toward Electioneering" because is just jangles to abrasively. "Karma Police"is a good song ruined by whining vocals. But every other song has something, and some are simply amazing.

Most people say they dont like In Rainbows as much as their other stuff. I say, they are crazy. Yes, it took me a long time to realize it, and like all good art, it takes patience to appreciate it. I have seen the truth: like OK Computer, the latest album is magic except for one or two songs. I cannot listen to it enough.

I think the reason is that no other band has the complete freedom to record what they want, and the talent and vision that Radiohead has. They use sounds no one has ever heard before. They are not afraid to mess with alternative beats. They never use cliche chord progressions, in fact, they wallow in dark, minor chords, but mix them just right with colorful major chords to create a beautifully dark tapestry.

Which brings up the last reason I like them - because they are messed up and dark, like me.

Copier dialogue at the school where I work

Scenario 1: Old worn-out copier experiences a paper jam

Grammar (Elem.) Teacher Response: ‘I know what to do! It’s easy! This happens a lot. Think of all the poor children in the world who don’t have a copier. I’ll fix it myself, that way everyone can share!’

Logic (Jr. Hi) Teacher Response: ‘Woe, woe. Here we go again. Administration hates us, the perpetual step-children; all the other divisions get new stuff. We are forced to live with this contraption that wouldn't impress Johannes Gutenberg. Another movie, I guess. On the odd chance, I’ll just check and see if I can fix it myself with these scissors…’

Rhetoric (Sr. Hi) Teacher Response: ‘Pshaw! This is unacceptable! I cannot work in these conditions! I cannot mold the souls of tomorrow’s world leaders if I have to deal with copier malfeasance. What’s that? A “paper jam”, you say? Yes, I’ve heard the term. I wish one of the serfs would fix it. Meanwhile, I will do my copying downstairs.’

Scenario 2: Brand new shiny copier catches fire at the beginning of finals week

Grammar Teacher Response: ‘Praise God for this awesome new copier! It rarely has any problems. And look how fast it is! Shout to the Lord, all the earth, let us sing…!’

Logic Teacher Response: ‘Oh great. A fire. There, you see? I told you this new copier was a lemon. I miss the old copier. Ah, Sweet Gypsy Rose, we called it. I will take it out on students by giving an oral exam and require them to sing their answers to the tune of “Proud Mary” while doing the MC Hammer dance.’

Rhetoric Teacher Response: ‘I have had a headache since September. I think I’ll use this fire to light a cigar and pour myself a drink. I bet this damn copier is a result of injustice, corporate corruption and waterboarding. There will be no more broken copiers in the Obama administration.’

Cruel and Unusual

Being forced to listen to "Brand New Key" (click to listen) is used in one Colorado town as punishment for playing your radio too loud. Convicted offenders must spend 1 hour on a Friday evening (when they would presumably rather be out socializing) with the county judge listening to whatever he wants to play. Other reported instruments of justice: Barry Manilow, Culture Club and Beethoven.

Said one convict, "A little Barry Manilow every now and then is OK. At least we didn't have to listen to ABBA."

The recidivism rate is said to be around 5%.

Head Tattoos

Where to start.

What kind of a world is it when people view their own bodies as a place to tell a sick joke, a playground for absurdity, advertisement space, or a prison house of the soul?

There are some MUCH worse - click the picture to see more.

Writers too hung up on being published

The ironic thing about my comments yesterday is that until recently I never entertained thoughts of publishing anything. Who am I to consider such things, I thought. I wrote for my own pleasure, for therapeutic reasons, to exorcise my demons, whatever. I had some notion; I've had lots of notions, but for once I had some time on my hands, and so I just wrote my notion down, fearfully, because I knew I was not a writer and my story would stink. Yet like a passerby who finds a lump of red clay lying on the ground, and contrary to good sense, normal behavior and the desire to keep one's clothes clean, picks up the clay and plunges into it thinking he will make a replica of Michaelangelo's David, but instead makes Mr. Bill, I wrote down my notion.

Perhaps this shows in my entry on the 18th which reveals how childish I can be. And, of course, I was somewhat putting on a character for the sake of writing, so dont think I am succumbing to the overweening dreams so many writers, who simply HAVE to make it big.

American Idol contestants often seem the same way. I have been forced to watch a couple of episodes - the backstage interviews of contestants awaiting their turn...appalling. They just drove in from Toledo in their '89 Sierra, they've just barley wiped the Arby's off their face, wearing clothes that other high school juniors in their town of 15,000 are wearing - undersized 90's sexy fashion a la Mariah Carey, or gangsta baggy heavy wool with hoods, primadonna waif dressed like Stevie Nicks, or guy-liner metrosexual jeans and a stylish shirt. These people talk as if their only desire in life, nay, the very hinge upon which their fate turns is getting picked to be the Next American Idol. They have dropped out of school to go to New York and stand in the contestant line. They have sold the farm, cashed in all their chips, borrowed money from Grandma, who will be watching. They are convinced that they've got what it takes, their potbelly notwithstanding. They are crying, jumping, hugging, praying like Mother Theresa to be picked. 98% of them parade forth in a veritable carnivale of mediocrity at best.

Anyway, that's not what kind of writer I want to be. So if I never get published, I'll just continue to polish doorknobs and admire good novelists.

Im writing a book

It seems like everyone I know is writing a book. I'm writing a book too, which nowadays is like saying, Hey everybody, I got a cell phone! So, why do I get jealous when I hear that someone else is writing a book? There is some little creature inside snarling and saying, "No! Mine! I write book!" Even if its something like a field guide for photo-lithography, I have this itch, like a tick, a fear that my novel will somehow be affected by the competition. I can visualize a man in a book store standing in the aisle, one book in each hand. "Now, let me see. A gloomy novel or the photo-lithography field guide - which will it be?" And he gladly pays the $150 for the field guide rather than that $9.99 for my self-published rag.

Anyway, my book is about a man named Silas who looses his family in a car accident. Counting up right now, I have 176 pages double-spaced - more than I realized. That may be roughly half of the book.

More later...

Story blog

Im starting a separate space in which to write my latest fiction. Its called The Former Hero. Thanks for reading the daily postings which are like a serial novel, and giving me feedback.

I read the news today, oh boy

Today in the news:

• Washington State appeals court says sex between teacher and 18 year old student is not illegal
• Obama will use Lincoln's Bible for inauguration
• CEO's and financiers increasingly committing suicide, faking deaths, in wake of financial crisis
• Toddlers named Adolf Hitler Campbell and Joyceln Aryan Nation removed from home in New Jersey
• This just in: attractive girls in bikinis tend to attract male attention. Discovery made when biniki-clad girl auditioned on American Idol last night and was sent to Hollywood

Teach your children well

Cadillac Escalade

I just saw a big cardboard box for this toy in the hallway where I work. Must have been somebody's Christmas gift. The Fisher-Price website says it retails for about $350.

Now, I can't complain too much, because my children all went to Disneyworld for their Christmas present (thanks to grandparents). But this abomination makes me want to move to the moon.