I kept my head down as I unlocked my car door, hoping the old man would walk past and enter the apartment building without saying something.
“Well, hi there!”
I exhaled before looking up with the polite expression I’d been practicing. “Hello.”
The old man shambled closer. “Do you go to school around here?” he asked.
“No. I’ve graduated.”
“Really? Where from?”
“Eastern,” I said, hoping that would be the extent of our conversation.
“Oh.” This seemed to throw him off. The wrinkled brow beneath his baseball cap wrinkled further. “Well, where did you go to high school? Did you go to Prep?” he asked, referring to the expensive Christian high school a few blocks over. It was across the street from the expensive Christian college.
“I went to DeSales,” I answered, “in Walla Walla.”
His expression brightened again. “Oh, that’s a great school! You know, I could tell you had a good Catholic education.”
“Yeah?” I could feel my fake enthusiasm slipping.
“Oh, yes. You Catholic kids carry yourselves much better than the others. You dress better and have more respect. Good, solid education. It makes for good, solid people.”
This was clearly a compliment in the old man’s eyes, but I had no idea how to respond. “That’s what they’re hoping for, I guess.”
He ignored me and carried on. He talked about his own experiences in Christian schools. He told me about other Christian students he had approached in his apartment building’s parking lot. He named people I’d never heard of. His voice was dry and leathery, as if he had yelled it out at a pro-life rally and never regained it.
After several minutes of this I realized there would be no natural break in the conversation, so I had to interrupt him to excuse myself. He waved goodbye as I climbed into my car and drove away. I'd had this exact same conversation with the old man at least twice before. I had been parking illegally in that lot for months. Appearances can be deceiving.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
To Blistering Hell with Any Such Critic!
In an effort to make all of my creative writing professors cry, I’ve just finished reading the novelization of Star Trek: The Motion Picture. No, not the hip new reboot from this summer. The stuffy, awkward one from the 1970s. This book has the distinction of being adapted into prose by series creator Gene Roddenberry, and it is actually the most involved he has even been with the franchise.
Make no mistakes, this book is awful. However, it’s that special, fascinating kind of awful, like a literary Plan 9 from Outer Space. This is not because of the script it is based on, or even Mr. Roddenberry’s writing abilities. It is mostly because it is approached from a mindset that feels absolutely nothing like the Star Trek its audience is accustomed to.
For starters, there is a lot of sex. The sexual tension between nearly every crew member seems to underscore every scene, and it is described in agonizing detail. For a PG movie, a lot of people are apparently having sex off-camera.
Littering the book are footnotes specifying stardates, and personal observations written in character by “James T. Kirk”. This is the sort of thing a crazy person writes.
The novel’s forward, also by “James T. Kirk”, explains that in the time of Star Trek* a large peace movement was taking place on Earth. Its members were called new humans (always in italics). These new humans are universally thinking, accepting all alien cultures and customs. New humans consider other humans backwards-thinking barbarians, but new humans are not ideal for space travel. Their refusal to filter what they encounter through traditional human beliefs works against them in alien environments for some reason. Instead of these smart, cultured new humans, Star Fleet instead turns to the humans with lower test scores to trust with billion-dollar** spaceships and the responsibility of representing not only humanity, but often the entire Federation of Planets. This forward, by “James T. Kirk”, is essentially grandstanding for the dumb kids.
This viewpoint was puzzling for me, and a little disappointing. For one thing, I had always found the professionalism and intelligence of the humans on the USS Enterprise impressive.*** Also, I had hoped that idiots were all killed off by that point in the future. According to Gene Roddenberry, the idiots are still in control in the future. But then again, what has Gene Roddenberry ever understood about Star Trek?
* The mid-2270s.
** Actually, they use credits. Except in Star Trek IV, when Kirk says they don’t have any form of money in the future, but I’ve always suspected he was just saying that to get out of buying dinner. I mean, a world without money? That’s just dumb.
*** Well, at least from the ones who don’t wear red.
Make no mistakes, this book is awful. However, it’s that special, fascinating kind of awful, like a literary Plan 9 from Outer Space. This is not because of the script it is based on, or even Mr. Roddenberry’s writing abilities. It is mostly because it is approached from a mindset that feels absolutely nothing like the Star Trek its audience is accustomed to.
For starters, there is a lot of sex. The sexual tension between nearly every crew member seems to underscore every scene, and it is described in agonizing detail. For a PG movie, a lot of people are apparently having sex off-camera.
Littering the book are footnotes specifying stardates, and personal observations written in character by “James T. Kirk”. This is the sort of thing a crazy person writes.
The novel’s forward, also by “James T. Kirk”, explains that in the time of Star Trek* a large peace movement was taking place on Earth. Its members were called new humans (always in italics). These new humans are universally thinking, accepting all alien cultures and customs. New humans consider other humans backwards-thinking barbarians, but new humans are not ideal for space travel. Their refusal to filter what they encounter through traditional human beliefs works against them in alien environments for some reason. Instead of these smart, cultured new humans, Star Fleet instead turns to the humans with lower test scores to trust with billion-dollar** spaceships and the responsibility of representing not only humanity, but often the entire Federation of Planets. This forward, by “James T. Kirk”, is essentially grandstanding for the dumb kids.
This viewpoint was puzzling for me, and a little disappointing. For one thing, I had always found the professionalism and intelligence of the humans on the USS Enterprise impressive.*** Also, I had hoped that idiots were all killed off by that point in the future. According to Gene Roddenberry, the idiots are still in control in the future. But then again, what has Gene Roddenberry ever understood about Star Trek?
* The mid-2270s.
** Actually, they use credits. Except in Star Trek IV, when Kirk says they don’t have any form of money in the future, but I’ve always suspected he was just saying that to get out of buying dinner. I mean, a world without money? That’s just dumb.
*** Well, at least from the ones who don’t wear red.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Everything I Need to Know, I Learned from Shitty Mike Myers Movies
There's a scene in the first Wayne's World film where Mike Myers has learned Cantonese to impress Tia Carrere. His face contorts and he makes a series of strange noises which are translated at the bottom of the screen. He tells her she is very pretty. Ms. Carrere responds, telling him he is a very handsome man. Myers shrugs, looking modest, and says, “Slowly. I am still learning.”
Growing up, I always laughed at this line. I laughed not only because it struck me as a witty, unconventional way to disarm a compliment, but also because I could relate to it. I am also not a handsome man, but I'd like to think I am learning how to be.
I have always viewed myself as a work in progress. Self-improvement is a worthy cause for anyone to have. I think it is important to have an idea of the type of person one wants to be (such as someone Tia Carrere would find attractive), and to actively make strides towards making that a reality. Every time I walk through a book store, I am more interested in the day I can tell people, “Oh, Barrel Fever? It's all right. Not his best work.” Whenever I walk into the gym, I imagine the conversations I'm bound to have. “Why yes,” I'll say. “You can grate cheese on my abs. Feel free.”
I came across Wayne's World on TV not long ago, and I was excited to watch my favorite scene again. As it turns out, I had remembered it wrong. The learning Mike Myers was referring to was his knowledge of Carrere's native language. He was not making any pithy comments on self-improvement, he was just asking her to not speak so quickly.
I dedicated years of my life to a philosophy I had invented from a misunderstood off-hand remark in a 90's comedy based on a Saturday Night Live skit, and I have absolutely no idea what that says about me.
Growing up, I always laughed at this line. I laughed not only because it struck me as a witty, unconventional way to disarm a compliment, but also because I could relate to it. I am also not a handsome man, but I'd like to think I am learning how to be.
I have always viewed myself as a work in progress. Self-improvement is a worthy cause for anyone to have. I think it is important to have an idea of the type of person one wants to be (such as someone Tia Carrere would find attractive), and to actively make strides towards making that a reality. Every time I walk through a book store, I am more interested in the day I can tell people, “Oh, Barrel Fever? It's all right. Not his best work.” Whenever I walk into the gym, I imagine the conversations I'm bound to have. “Why yes,” I'll say. “You can grate cheese on my abs. Feel free.”
I came across Wayne's World on TV not long ago, and I was excited to watch my favorite scene again. As it turns out, I had remembered it wrong. The learning Mike Myers was referring to was his knowledge of Carrere's native language. He was not making any pithy comments on self-improvement, he was just asking her to not speak so quickly.
I dedicated years of my life to a philosophy I had invented from a misunderstood off-hand remark in a 90's comedy based on a Saturday Night Live skit, and I have absolutely no idea what that says about me.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Billy Mays (1958-2009): Rot in Hell, You Son of a Bitch
The other night I watched an old movie called “I Bury the Living.” Like all B-movies from the 1950s, the film itself barely lived up to the promise of its title, poster, and tag line. The story revolved around the owner of a cemetery who discovers he controls the power of life and death through his paperwork. If he lists a living person as dead, they die.
This comes to mind because of the recent holocaust of has-been celebrities. David Caradine, Michael Jackson, and many others have met their slightly-overdue end lately, but this never really struck me personally. And then Billy Mays died. This is noteworthy because he is one of the few people I have ever actively wanted to die.
Billy Mays, the commercial pitchman, caught on like the bubonic plague, slowly spreading across the airwaves. Back in high school he was an unfortunate occurrence, popping up during sitcom intermissions to attack my eardrums. That’s when I started cursing his name in a variety of creative ways. Slightly later, I began pressing the mute button before the commercial break even started, but cursing nonetheless. By then it was too late. He had been spreading for years, endorsing more shoddily-made products for lazy idiots and yelling the rest of us into submission. Billy Mays’ voice haunts me like a concentration camp loudspeaker. It was impossibly loud, booming through static and across living rooms. It was condescending, accusatory, and just a little bit whiny. This was not a naturally occurring sound. Billy Mays must have stared into the mirror for hours, daring his beard to grow thicker and blacker, yelling at himself until he achieved the perfect voice to best gain attention. Selling things was secondary to being heard.
In my life, I’ve been around for more than a few celebrity deaths. Family members have died on me. Pets. Even a friend or two. But Billy Mays changes everything. This has taught me to control myself and this ungodly power I wield. The next time someone cuts me off on the freeway, or the next time I see an interview with Zak Penn or Michael Bay, I’ll know to relax before I do something I might regret. Even though it will probably make the world a better place.
This comes to mind because of the recent holocaust of has-been celebrities. David Caradine, Michael Jackson, and many others have met their slightly-overdue end lately, but this never really struck me personally. And then Billy Mays died. This is noteworthy because he is one of the few people I have ever actively wanted to die.
Billy Mays, the commercial pitchman, caught on like the bubonic plague, slowly spreading across the airwaves. Back in high school he was an unfortunate occurrence, popping up during sitcom intermissions to attack my eardrums. That’s when I started cursing his name in a variety of creative ways. Slightly later, I began pressing the mute button before the commercial break even started, but cursing nonetheless. By then it was too late. He had been spreading for years, endorsing more shoddily-made products for lazy idiots and yelling the rest of us into submission. Billy Mays’ voice haunts me like a concentration camp loudspeaker. It was impossibly loud, booming through static and across living rooms. It was condescending, accusatory, and just a little bit whiny. This was not a naturally occurring sound. Billy Mays must have stared into the mirror for hours, daring his beard to grow thicker and blacker, yelling at himself until he achieved the perfect voice to best gain attention. Selling things was secondary to being heard.
In my life, I’ve been around for more than a few celebrity deaths. Family members have died on me. Pets. Even a friend or two. But Billy Mays changes everything. This has taught me to control myself and this ungodly power I wield. The next time someone cuts me off on the freeway, or the next time I see an interview with Zak Penn or Michael Bay, I’ll know to relax before I do something I might regret. Even though it will probably make the world a better place.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Another way to waste everyone's time
Once again I have proved to myself what I have proved to every school teacher, Catholic abstinence pledge, and weight lifting partner I’ve ever had – I possess absolutely no willpower. ‘What is it this time?’ you ask. ‘Too many Bagel Bites? $50 bar tabs? Fancy salads you’ll never eat?’ All of this and more, my good friend. I joined Twitter.
In my need to express myself without any actual effort (for further examples, see this very blog), I opened the account over the weekend and managed to do… very little with it. Twittering is harder than I expected, if for no reason other than I am attempting to operate my account with common decency and my ever present sense of shame. Before each post, while spell-checking, I ask myself how necessary what I am about to say is. It is a wonder I’ve written anything.
Twitter is not a site for necessity. It’s not even a site for vanity. Twitter exists to celebrate the everyday minutia I generally prefer to ignore. If I’m going to the store, I can talk about it. Cooking dinner? I can write about it. Blogging? You get the idea.
This is not to say it is completely useless. People like Jon Faveau and Chuck Klosterman are actually trying to do something interesting with their ‘microblogs’, and that’s what gives me hope. Maybe, if I keep at it, I can find my niche, my voice, my clever little excuse to force my life on the barely-interested. How hard could it be to live an internet life full of dignity?
And now, to completely fail myself once again, I’m going to Twitter about this blog about Twittering. Don’t judge me.
In my need to express myself without any actual effort (for further examples, see this very blog), I opened the account over the weekend and managed to do… very little with it. Twittering is harder than I expected, if for no reason other than I am attempting to operate my account with common decency and my ever present sense of shame. Before each post, while spell-checking, I ask myself how necessary what I am about to say is. It is a wonder I’ve written anything.
Twitter is not a site for necessity. It’s not even a site for vanity. Twitter exists to celebrate the everyday minutia I generally prefer to ignore. If I’m going to the store, I can talk about it. Cooking dinner? I can write about it. Blogging? You get the idea.
This is not to say it is completely useless. People like Jon Faveau and Chuck Klosterman are actually trying to do something interesting with their ‘microblogs’, and that’s what gives me hope. Maybe, if I keep at it, I can find my niche, my voice, my clever little excuse to force my life on the barely-interested. How hard could it be to live an internet life full of dignity?
And now, to completely fail myself once again, I’m going to Twitter about this blog about Twittering. Don’t judge me.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Spin-off 2: The Beginning
God damn George Lucas.
I’m fairly certain that the word “prequel” didn’t exist before 1999 birthed the monstrosity known as The Phantom Menace. That weekend, collective filmgoers groaned so loudly that I’m fairly certain the noise is still echoing throughout the galaxy. The movie did, however, make a ridiculous amount of money. Hollywood, being what it is, latched onto the idea so completely that we have had dozens of prequels in the past decade.
They’re still not doing it right.
A prequel is intended to be the first chapter of a film series, introducing the viewers to characters or showing events that were alluded to or implied in the earlier films (which were set afterwards). It is supposed to be the beginning. The Phantom Menace is supposed to come before A New Hope. You’re supposed to watch Wolverine before you watch X-Men. Tremors 4 happens before Tremors 1-3. This, in theory, sounds interesting and not at all frustrating for the viewer. However, as I just said, they’re not doing it right.
As far as Hollywood is concerned, “prequel” means “spin-off without the burden of continuity”. Viewers are expected to walk in with complete knowledge of the other parts of the story, which pretty much destroys the idea of making it a “first chapter”. I have genuine pity for someone who attempts to watch Star Wars for the first time from Episode I to Episode VI. Lucas’s prequel trilogy doesn’t even attempt to explain the universe, or who people are, or why anything happens. You’d be about eight hours into the series before someone on screen finally tells you what the hell a Jedi is. X-Men Origins: Wolverine does not utter the word “mutant” until over an hour into the movie. These sorts of things are kind of important to the plot.
J.J. Abram’s Star Trek (that’s Star Trek XI, for those of you keeping track) still breaks the prequel rule while, at the same time, it doesn’t. Utilizing time travel in a way that doesn’t involve whales, the movie is simultaneously a prequel, and a sequel. Despite the whole “parallel universe” thing, the movie takes place before the Original Series, which makes it a prequel. This gives the movie an opportunity to expand on the origins of James T. Kirk and Mister Spock, something fans have always wanted to see in canon. While Star Trek reintroduces these characters, some important tropes (such as phasers, tri-corders, and the Vulcan Nerve Pinch) are never explained. But that’s okay. It’s also a sequel.
I’m fairly certain that the word “prequel” didn’t exist before 1999 birthed the monstrosity known as The Phantom Menace. That weekend, collective filmgoers groaned so loudly that I’m fairly certain the noise is still echoing throughout the galaxy. The movie did, however, make a ridiculous amount of money. Hollywood, being what it is, latched onto the idea so completely that we have had dozens of prequels in the past decade.
They’re still not doing it right.
A prequel is intended to be the first chapter of a film series, introducing the viewers to characters or showing events that were alluded to or implied in the earlier films (which were set afterwards). It is supposed to be the beginning. The Phantom Menace is supposed to come before A New Hope. You’re supposed to watch Wolverine before you watch X-Men. Tremors 4 happens before Tremors 1-3. This, in theory, sounds interesting and not at all frustrating for the viewer. However, as I just said, they’re not doing it right.
As far as Hollywood is concerned, “prequel” means “spin-off without the burden of continuity”. Viewers are expected to walk in with complete knowledge of the other parts of the story, which pretty much destroys the idea of making it a “first chapter”. I have genuine pity for someone who attempts to watch Star Wars for the first time from Episode I to Episode VI. Lucas’s prequel trilogy doesn’t even attempt to explain the universe, or who people are, or why anything happens. You’d be about eight hours into the series before someone on screen finally tells you what the hell a Jedi is. X-Men Origins: Wolverine does not utter the word “mutant” until over an hour into the movie. These sorts of things are kind of important to the plot.
J.J. Abram’s Star Trek (that’s Star Trek XI, for those of you keeping track) still breaks the prequel rule while, at the same time, it doesn’t. Utilizing time travel in a way that doesn’t involve whales, the movie is simultaneously a prequel, and a sequel. Despite the whole “parallel universe” thing, the movie takes place before the Original Series, which makes it a prequel. This gives the movie an opportunity to expand on the origins of James T. Kirk and Mister Spock, something fans have always wanted to see in canon. While Star Trek reintroduces these characters, some important tropes (such as phasers, tri-corders, and the Vulcan Nerve Pinch) are never explained. But that’s okay. It’s also a sequel.
Monday, April 27, 2009
More analogies to sex
Upon first glance, the waiting room made me feel like I had just entered a gentleman’s club. And not the kind where everyone wears silly hats and does community service. The kind of club where everything is so fancy to divert attention from the fact that something illegal is happening. Let me start over. Upon first glance, the waiting room made me feel like I had just entered a bordello.
I had been driving for a while Sunday morning looking for a barber shop. Every one I happened across was closed for at least several more hours. All the way across town, I finally found a Weldon’s barber shop. Needless to say, it was not what I expected.
To me, barber shops have always been a necessary inconvenience, in the fact I have to trust myself instead to a group of irritating girls who claim hairstyling is just for paying their way through college. A traditional barber shop, or something cheap like Super Cuts, is much more like a strip club. It’s not the best by far, but least they’re getting the job done.
I must’ve looked nervous as the woman led me into the back.
“I’ve never been in a place like this before,” I stammered. She nodded, understanding.
“Do you have a wife?” she asked as she sat me down and prepared her tools. “Girlfriend? Kids?”
“Please,” I said. “I don’t want to talk about that. I’m just here for my haircut.”
“So how do you want to do this?” she asked.
“Um, well, I’m not sure. Do what you think would work. You’re the professional.”
She leaned me back and got to work. I can’t lie; it was amazing. I never knew a haircut could be like that. I was never comfortable, however. I could never relax. With every hot towel, with every scalp massage, I sat tense, trying to calculate how much more each perk would cost.
I had been driving for a while Sunday morning looking for a barber shop. Every one I happened across was closed for at least several more hours. All the way across town, I finally found a Weldon’s barber shop. Needless to say, it was not what I expected.
To me, barber shops have always been a necessary inconvenience, in the fact I have to trust myself instead to a group of irritating girls who claim hairstyling is just for paying their way through college. A traditional barber shop, or something cheap like Super Cuts, is much more like a strip club. It’s not the best by far, but least they’re getting the job done.
I must’ve looked nervous as the woman led me into the back.
“I’ve never been in a place like this before,” I stammered. She nodded, understanding.
“Do you have a wife?” she asked as she sat me down and prepared her tools. “Girlfriend? Kids?”
“Please,” I said. “I don’t want to talk about that. I’m just here for my haircut.”
“So how do you want to do this?” she asked.
“Um, well, I’m not sure. Do what you think would work. You’re the professional.”
She leaned me back and got to work. I can’t lie; it was amazing. I never knew a haircut could be like that. I was never comfortable, however. I could never relax. With every hot towel, with every scalp massage, I sat tense, trying to calculate how much more each perk would cost.
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