I watch a lot of television.
A lot.
I guess it's not really TV, it's Netflix. I don't have cable in my room. Not much difference though. It's just like I'm watching TV a year ago or something.
Anyway, I come home from work and watch Netflix until I go to bed.
Every day.
Is it an addiction? Maybe. It may certainly seem that way from the outside. Do I have to do it? Certainly not. Do I actually force myself to do it? Yes. Why? because it is better than the alternative. The alternative is simply being alone with my thoughts for more than a half hour at once.
I was thinking while driving today. Thinking is almost as dangerous as drinking (while drinking is a lot like Netflix, actually). I was thinking about romance and how I've let it escape so many times. I was thinking about that charge you get when you meet someone interesting. I've gotten that charge so many times. Now, I'm so out of fuel that I'd be surprised if a spark ever ignites again. I think the reason I never really latched onto love the way I should have is because I thought love was all those little charges and sparks -- and not what came after them.
Anyway, lately I've been watching a lot of Hyperdrive. It's a British sci-fi comedy starring Nick Frost. I would love to make a show just like it. The third season of Parks and Rec is actually pretty funny. Rob Lowe and Adam Scott help tremendously. Of course there's always Deep Space Nine -- but that's mostly obligation.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
that show is funny
One month straight, then one month gone.
I needed something to watch just now while I was doing the laundry. Chappelle's Show was on. The show's hilarious, but I feel a little guilty watching it.
They apparently gave the guy like half a billion dollars to do the show and he walked away from it. Most people will tell you that the guy simply couldn't take the pressure of such a contract -- that nothing that was eventually produced could live up to such a number. I don't think that was the case.
The guy made a show that wasn't so much shocking as it was subversive. The guy had things to say. I think he not only wanted to make people laugh, but he wanted to use the show as a forum. I think he wanted to empower (hopefully I don't sound foolish as I tread carefully here) the black community in America.
The show got big enough that it went beyond empowerment, though. I think he had a hard time seeing progress made when 90% of all white kids used "I'm Rick James, bitch!" as their catchphrase.
Remember that sketch that had something to do with slavery reparations suddenly happening? If I remember correctly, the joke was that many of the people who got the reparations spent the money in extremely frivolous ways rather than building a better society for themselves. While he was trying to send a message to black America, the rest of the country was laughing at the joke a little too hard.
I wanted to write just now and just wing it, but I went to Wikipedia to verify that there actually was a reparations sketch. While there, I came across a peculiar quote from the guy during a stand-up performance in the final days of the show:
It wasn't about the pressure of the money that made the guy quit, but I think the money had something to do with it. I think it further emphasized, in his mind anyway, that he wasn't changing the world for the better. His show was doing the opposite of what he set out to do. Rather than educating through comedy, it was helping enforce the stereotypes he was trying to break down. And on top of it all -- to add to that guilt -- Chappelle was bought at a very large price. Millions and millions of dollars to keep boarding a train that had all the momentum but was going in the wrong direction.
Now every time I watch the show I'm afraid I'm laughing a little too hard.
I needed something to watch just now while I was doing the laundry. Chappelle's Show was on. The show's hilarious, but I feel a little guilty watching it.
They apparently gave the guy like half a billion dollars to do the show and he walked away from it. Most people will tell you that the guy simply couldn't take the pressure of such a contract -- that nothing that was eventually produced could live up to such a number. I don't think that was the case.
The guy made a show that wasn't so much shocking as it was subversive. The guy had things to say. I think he not only wanted to make people laugh, but he wanted to use the show as a forum. I think he wanted to empower (hopefully I don't sound foolish as I tread carefully here) the black community in America.
The show got big enough that it went beyond empowerment, though. I think he had a hard time seeing progress made when 90% of all white kids used "I'm Rick James, bitch!" as their catchphrase.
Remember that sketch that had something to do with slavery reparations suddenly happening? If I remember correctly, the joke was that many of the people who got the reparations spent the money in extremely frivolous ways rather than building a better society for themselves. While he was trying to send a message to black America, the rest of the country was laughing at the joke a little too hard.
I wanted to write just now and just wing it, but I went to Wikipedia to verify that there actually was a reparations sketch. While there, I came across a peculiar quote from the guy during a stand-up performance in the final days of the show:
"You know why my show is good? Because the network officials say you're not smart enough to get what I'm doing, and every day I fight for you. I tell them how smart you are. Turns out, I was wrong. You people are stupid."(Apparently he said this after so many people in the audience said "I'm Rick James, bitch!" over and over again).
It wasn't about the pressure of the money that made the guy quit, but I think the money had something to do with it. I think it further emphasized, in his mind anyway, that he wasn't changing the world for the better. His show was doing the opposite of what he set out to do. Rather than educating through comedy, it was helping enforce the stereotypes he was trying to break down. And on top of it all -- to add to that guilt -- Chappelle was bought at a very large price. Millions and millions of dollars to keep boarding a train that had all the momentum but was going in the wrong direction.
Now every time I watch the show I'm afraid I'm laughing a little too hard.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
things go right too often
I only caught the last half hour of the Emmys.
When Downton Abbey won the award for best mini-series, Julian Fellowes remarked in his speech, "We don't know why sometimes things go right; but tonight, they've gone right." Hopefully I typed it accurately enough to justify putting it in quotes.
He said this in the context that his joy at being in that position was a result of struggle, suffering and doubt up to that point. Things going right didn't seem natural, but ultimately that's what happened -- even after everything else going wrong.
I sat there watching, thinking about how everything goes right most of the time, but that doesn't mean I'm ultimately where I want to be now. Even worse, I haven't paid for it.
I've always had it too easy. Now I'm not at the Emmys.
When Downton Abbey won the award for best mini-series, Julian Fellowes remarked in his speech, "We don't know why sometimes things go right; but tonight, they've gone right." Hopefully I typed it accurately enough to justify putting it in quotes.
He said this in the context that his joy at being in that position was a result of struggle, suffering and doubt up to that point. Things going right didn't seem natural, but ultimately that's what happened -- even after everything else going wrong.
I sat there watching, thinking about how everything goes right most of the time, but that doesn't mean I'm ultimately where I want to be now. Even worse, I haven't paid for it.
I've always had it too easy. Now I'm not at the Emmys.
Monday, September 12, 2011
psychedelic youth aged to perfection
Last night I went to a concert by myself. It's a common occurrence. Second only to going to movies by myself.
The show was the Psychedelic Furs and I felt it was a good opportunity to catch some 80s vibe before all my idols die (and even though apparently Weird Al was playing at the state fair at the same time)
The Psychedelic Furs are unusual. I can't place them well. They're unique enough to not be "mainstream 80s nostalgia" if that even makes sense. They're probably best known for lead singer Richard Butler unofficially winning the prize for the Britishest accent while singing. I always found their songs to be dripping with cynicism while sort of trying to be romantic.
I wondered if after all these years, he'd look sort of pathetic.
He looked far less pathetic than he sounded if that's even a compliment in any way.
He looked giddy. Giddier than any of his songs. He looked like he went through pain and confusion in his youth, expressed his emotions and is now reaping a cathartic reward for his past suffering. It's actually inspiring. It doesn't hurt that the guy is still 80s skinny. I hope I'm always 80s skinny.
Strangely every time I go to The Depot to see a show I get a wonderful dose of 80s sax. 80s sax is so joyful. Does anybody even play the saxophone anymore? If they play it, is it just to be ironic? It seems like there's an emotional, almost dreamlike (I almost typed "almost fictional" there, but I'm not sure you'd understand what I meant by that -- obviously I don't mean it doesn't exist -- I mean more otherworldly than music actually is) quality to it that we're missing now. This euphoria is lost today. We need 80s sax equivalent.
Strangely, more inspiring was the opening band Tom Tom Club, which I knew very little about before the show.
Tom Tom Club is composed of two Talking Heads members, one of which is singer and bassist Tina Weymouth. They have another chick singer named Victoria I believe. Tina and Victoria must be grandmothers. They look like grandmothers. That did not stop the both of them from wearing tiny black dresses and dancing like teenagers while on stage. At first it was sort of embarrassing. Grandmothers have no right to do that -- that's the involuntary knee jerk. Of course, who are we to tell grandmothers what to do?
I hope I'm that cool when I'm a grandmother.
Hey, I know it's not likely that I'll ever become a grandmother, but I like to dream big, okay?
The girls in Tom Tom Club certainly looked old, but their voices really sounded 20ish. Sort of like punk angels.
I think our voices are younger than our looks in many ways. I've always said (well, ever since I got old anyway) that the worst thing about getting old is actually feeling young, but being old. Voice is a double meaning. It's the audible sound from our throat, but it's also an expression of feeling. Usually our feelings struggle to catch up to our chronology.
The show was the Psychedelic Furs and I felt it was a good opportunity to catch some 80s vibe before all my idols die (and even though apparently Weird Al was playing at the state fair at the same time)
The Psychedelic Furs are unusual. I can't place them well. They're unique enough to not be "mainstream 80s nostalgia" if that even makes sense. They're probably best known for lead singer Richard Butler unofficially winning the prize for the Britishest accent while singing. I always found their songs to be dripping with cynicism while sort of trying to be romantic.
I wondered if after all these years, he'd look sort of pathetic.
He looked far less pathetic than he sounded if that's even a compliment in any way.
He looked giddy. Giddier than any of his songs. He looked like he went through pain and confusion in his youth, expressed his emotions and is now reaping a cathartic reward for his past suffering. It's actually inspiring. It doesn't hurt that the guy is still 80s skinny. I hope I'm always 80s skinny.
Strangely every time I go to The Depot to see a show I get a wonderful dose of 80s sax. 80s sax is so joyful. Does anybody even play the saxophone anymore? If they play it, is it just to be ironic? It seems like there's an emotional, almost dreamlike (I almost typed "almost fictional" there, but I'm not sure you'd understand what I meant by that -- obviously I don't mean it doesn't exist -- I mean more otherworldly than music actually is) quality to it that we're missing now. This euphoria is lost today. We need 80s sax equivalent.
Strangely, more inspiring was the opening band Tom Tom Club, which I knew very little about before the show.
Tom Tom Club is composed of two Talking Heads members, one of which is singer and bassist Tina Weymouth. They have another chick singer named Victoria I believe. Tina and Victoria must be grandmothers. They look like grandmothers. That did not stop the both of them from wearing tiny black dresses and dancing like teenagers while on stage. At first it was sort of embarrassing. Grandmothers have no right to do that -- that's the involuntary knee jerk. Of course, who are we to tell grandmothers what to do?
I hope I'm that cool when I'm a grandmother.
Hey, I know it's not likely that I'll ever become a grandmother, but I like to dream big, okay?
The girls in Tom Tom Club certainly looked old, but their voices really sounded 20ish. Sort of like punk angels.
I think our voices are younger than our looks in many ways. I've always said (well, ever since I got old anyway) that the worst thing about getting old is actually feeling young, but being old. Voice is a double meaning. It's the audible sound from our throat, but it's also an expression of feeling. Usually our feelings struggle to catch up to our chronology.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
breakin' the chains of love
I bought a great CD yesterday.
I had to drive to two Graywhales to get it. It's called Pickin' Up the Pieces by Fitz & the Tantrums.
I think I like it even more than my Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings album which was the last CD I bought and that was a couple of months ago (also after driving to two separate Graywhales). Both CDs are a throwback to soul records of 40 years ago. It's exhilarating really.
I'm listening to Pickin' Up the Pieces right now and chair dancing to the music is absolutely involuntary. Like all pop songs, the material on the record is about heartbreak. This time, however, it's sincere and soulful. You need to listen to it. You deserve to listen to it.
I hate liking new music. I feel guilty enough not listening to all the music I have. Now, getting into new genres, I feel bad for not becoming a further expert in the 80s British New Romantic movement (probably my specialty).
There is too much music on earth. There's simply too much good music for me to be happy. If there were only 100 good songs in the world. I'd know those. I'd know there was nothing else, and I'd be happy. The sheer amount of pop music I'm not familiar with is simply overwhelming. I've been moved to tears by incredible songs, but the best songs out there -- the ones that would leave me in a shuddering heap -- I'll never hear.
There's misery and then there's the sublime. Both are similar. Both hurt in a lot of ways.
Back when I was depresseder than I am now, my therapist actually told me that some kind of labor is actually essential for happiness. He couldn't explain it. He just said that studies have concluded it. I suppose that explains why retired people get so blue. A reward isn't worth it unless there is a constant struggle involved.
This knowledge freaks me out. Life is painful, but there's no rest from it. The absence of pain leads to unhappiness. We work hard to get rid of our pain in order to earn different pain. That continues, I assume, long after our lives are over in some form of existence.
My late father actually coined a sort of motto: "happiness 'till it hurts." I'm not sure I get it completely. I'll have to listen to him give that speech and then get back to you.
I had to drive to two Graywhales to get it. It's called Pickin' Up the Pieces by Fitz & the Tantrums.
I think I like it even more than my Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings album which was the last CD I bought and that was a couple of months ago (also after driving to two separate Graywhales). Both CDs are a throwback to soul records of 40 years ago. It's exhilarating really.
I'm listening to Pickin' Up the Pieces right now and chair dancing to the music is absolutely involuntary. Like all pop songs, the material on the record is about heartbreak. This time, however, it's sincere and soulful. You need to listen to it. You deserve to listen to it.
I hate liking new music. I feel guilty enough not listening to all the music I have. Now, getting into new genres, I feel bad for not becoming a further expert in the 80s British New Romantic movement (probably my specialty).
There is too much music on earth. There's simply too much good music for me to be happy. If there were only 100 good songs in the world. I'd know those. I'd know there was nothing else, and I'd be happy. The sheer amount of pop music I'm not familiar with is simply overwhelming. I've been moved to tears by incredible songs, but the best songs out there -- the ones that would leave me in a shuddering heap -- I'll never hear.
There's misery and then there's the sublime. Both are similar. Both hurt in a lot of ways.
Back when I was depresseder than I am now, my therapist actually told me that some kind of labor is actually essential for happiness. He couldn't explain it. He just said that studies have concluded it. I suppose that explains why retired people get so blue. A reward isn't worth it unless there is a constant struggle involved.
This knowledge freaks me out. Life is painful, but there's no rest from it. The absence of pain leads to unhappiness. We work hard to get rid of our pain in order to earn different pain. That continues, I assume, long after our lives are over in some form of existence.
My late father actually coined a sort of motto: "happiness 'till it hurts." I'm not sure I get it completely. I'll have to listen to him give that speech and then get back to you.
sexual harassment video script
SEXUAL HARASSMENT VIDEO
INT. Side shot of a man sitting at a desk. Goofy cheap vintage training video Atari 2600 music plays. Title card reads: “The Official Graffito Enterprises Training Video: Sexual Harassment and YOU!” Cut to front view of the man at the desk. He is wearing a hideous toupee.
MAN AT DESK
Good day. My name is George
Swoobner. I work for the Human
Resources department here
at Graffito Enterprises.
I’m here to guide you
through the hopefully unexciting
world of SEXUAL HARASSMENT
Possible change of camera to side view. The man at the desk turns to face the camera
SWOOBNER
You know, many people will tell
you that abiding a company’s
sexual harassment policies is
as easy as using common
sense and considering other
people’s feelings.
This is incorrect.
Camera view change to the side.
Let’s observe our first
example shall we?
CUT TO: A woman (Miranda) walking up to a cubicle. She stops and addresses the party inside the cubicle.
MIRANDA
Excuse me James, I’m
going to need that Simmons
report immediately. Can you
manage that?
CUT TO: The man in the cubicle. He is wearing a robe that’s slightly open and wearing a speedo or something. He’s also somehow lying down and holding a wine glass. Somehow his cubicle has a softer lighting scheme than the previous cut where we saw Miranda. His cubicle also has lit candles prominently displayed.
JAMES
Sure baby. How
about right after some
happy fun time?
CUT TO: Slow zoom on Miranda. She looks down and slightly ashamed. STILL FRAME
SWOOBNER (Voice Over)
Obviously this kind of
harassment will not be
tolerated. And... just as
an unofficial word of advice,
if you are going to harass
somebody, it helps if you’re
NOT the subordinate.
CUT TO: FRONT OF SWOOBNER
SWOOBNER
In this example, James
made Miranda feel very
uncomfortable -- especially
later when she fired him.
CUT TO: side shot.
SWOOBNER
Let’s look at another example
of an uncomfortable situation
that should be avoided.
CUT TO: scene with a man (ROY) interviewing a young woman (BETTY) for a promotion.
ROY
Well, Betty, your quarterly
reports are on task. I do
have several other employees
to interview, however and...
BETTY
Roy -- I need you to know
something.
CUT TO: She puts her hand on his arm.
CUT BACK TO:
BETTY
I’m a go-getter. I’m wiling to
do anything...
CUT TO: She puts her hand on his thigh.
CUT BACK TO: CU ON BETTY
BETTY
(ctn’d)
… ANYTHING to get
this promotion.
CUT TO: WIDE
Roy stands up.
ROY
Betty. I’m stopping this
interview right now. I
will not allow things to
escalate in the direction
they’re going.
CUT TO: Slow zoom on Betty. She looks down and slightly ashamed.
CUT TO: FRONT VIEW OF SWOOBNER
SWOOBNER
Here at Graffito Enterprises
we’re committed to respecting
whatever type of sexual
orientation our employees
identify themselves with.
Keep in mind that many types
of sexual orientation aren’t as
obvious as gay/straight/bi/bestial.
In the previous example,
Roy was not very respective
of Betty’s obvious orientation
of fooling around with her
work superiors for a promotion.
Roy was fired shortly after
the filming of this video.
CUT TO: SIDE OF SWOOBNER
Remember to be mindful
of potential sexual harassment
situations beyond sexual
orientation. Sometimes someone’s
normal daily routine may spark a
potential incident.
CUT TO: An office party. A man (DAVE) is eating chips behind the party table. He is (assumed to be) completely naked (we see him from the waist up). A couple of guys come up to him. The first comes up behind him and starts rubbing his shoulders.
GUY 1
Daaaaave! How ya been man?
DAVE
Alright.
GUY 1
Boy, you’re pretty tight, buddy.
Workin’ too hard maybe? You
Ought to relax, ya think?
Guy 2 comes up to Dave and spar-punches with him a little -- ending his combination with a fake kick in the crotch.
GUY 2
Yeah, Dave. Loosen up. We’re
headin’ to the club after work,
you should come along. I’m driving.
Got a new beaded seat cover.
Think about it!
The two men walk away. A woman (JOYCE) approaches the dip timidly.
DAVE
Hi.
JOYCE
Hello. Uh... so you...
uh... are you married?
She cringes her face a little as she says this.
CUT TO: Slow zoom on Dave. He looks down and slightly ashamed. STILL FRAME
SWOOBNER (VO)
Sometimes people have
unusual routines. Remember,
just because someone is the
office nudist, it doesn’t mean
they want you to open the door
to filthy harassment talk.
You may as well open the
door to a room with a lawsuit
in it.
CUT TO: FRONT OF SWOOBNER
So far, we’ve talked a lot
about direct one-on-one
conflict.
CUT TO: SIDE OF SWOOBNER
SWOOBNER
But what about third-party
harassment? Even if the
party isn’t directly addressed
in the conversation, they
still have a case for harassment
if they see or hear something
of a harassing nature.
CUT TO: Interior of the women’s bathroom. The camera pans from left to right down low in front of the stalls. We see two different sets of women’s feet. They are in conversation.
WOMAN 1
Hey, I hate to bother you,
but do you happen to have
a tampax with you?
WOMAN 2
Oh! Um... I might I...
WOMAN 1
I’m so sorry! I left my purse
at my desk and I REALLY need
one.
WOMAN 2
Oh, that’s alright! Here! I’ll just pass
one underneath the stall.
WOMAN 1
Thank you! Lemme, just reach it...
The women grunt a little as they try to maneuver the tampon to the right place. By this time, the camera has panned all the way to the end of the stall bank where there is a man with his ear pressed up against the stalls. He has the most appalled look on his face ever. The camera zooms slightly in on his aghast face.
CUT TO: SIDE VIEW OF SWOOBNER
SWOOBNER
But what about Robots?!?
CUT TO: a silver robot (a guy wrapped in silver boxes and foil with a motorcycle helmet and a chest display -- which is an iPad) is collating some forms. A woman comes in.
WOMAN
Hey, R4-189! Nice can!
The woman slaps the robot on its robot butt. It makes a hollow sound like she punched a garbage can. The robot’s front display blinks with a beeping sound effect “SHAME! SHAME! SHAME!” The robot looks down. The woman laughs maniacally. STILL FRAME
SWOOBNER (VO)
As I mentioned earlier,
I represent Human Resources
for this company. Presently,
Graffito Enterprises does not
actually have a Robot Resources.
Therefore, sexual harassment
against robots is permitted.
The title “FAIR GAME” is stamped on the screen over the still shot of the shamed robot with the woman laughing at it.
CUT TO: FRONT OF SWOOBNER
SWOOBNER
This concludes your instruction
regarding the sexual harassment
policies of this company.
Please, remember to take these
policies into your head, but not
your heart. Thank you.
The cheesy Atari 2600 music plays.
CUT TO: Side view of Swoobner, but a wider shot.
TITLE: “Copyright 2011 Graffito Enterprises”
Swoobner gets up to leave. We see that he is obviously wearing no pants. He walks out of the shot.
FADE OUT.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
anger slide away
I think I didn't get a post in last night.
I think I'm free.
Maybe I don't have to post every day.
Still though. I'm gonna finish that dang college romance story. It's almost done. I swear.
I think I'm free.
Maybe I don't have to post every day.
Still though. I'm gonna finish that dang college romance story. It's almost done. I swear.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
fake college romance story pt. 5
Math 235.
After high school Clara swore she'd never take another math class again. Now here she was. This time she actually snuck in to this class. In! The ideals she was now compromising now needed to be counted on more than one hand.
Clara picked Math 235 because it was Dustin's last class for the day and if she was able to make contact with him she could work something out with him over the course of several hours. Of course she could have just planned on the ten minute break between economics and Math 235. Getting a scandalous polaroid with him at that time would have been public, difficult and stressful, but at least it would be over with. Now, with all the time on her hands she's guaranteed a few hours of excruciation.
She shouldn't have picked Math 235.
The class contained 15 people and she was the only girl. Surely in the 21st century girls were learning math by now? Apparently not. College math classes must be like our present-day Elk's Club. She didn't think it would be an issue in these enlightened times, but she wasn't being very low-key. Perhaps glasses would help. At least nobody minded she was there (or all the math skills in the world can't help anyone kick someone out of a math class).
She spotted him shortly before class started. That left 50 minutes of looking down into a math book while the professor supposedly spoke about what lies therein. The only thing left to do would be to wait until he walked out and make a very distinct observation as to whether he wandered out to the right or to the left.
After high school Clara swore she'd never take another math class again. Now here she was. This time she actually snuck in to this class. In! The ideals she was now compromising now needed to be counted on more than one hand.
Clara picked Math 235 because it was Dustin's last class for the day and if she was able to make contact with him she could work something out with him over the course of several hours. Of course she could have just planned on the ten minute break between economics and Math 235. Getting a scandalous polaroid with him at that time would have been public, difficult and stressful, but at least it would be over with. Now, with all the time on her hands she's guaranteed a few hours of excruciation.
She shouldn't have picked Math 235.
The class contained 15 people and she was the only girl. Surely in the 21st century girls were learning math by now? Apparently not. College math classes must be like our present-day Elk's Club. She didn't think it would be an issue in these enlightened times, but she wasn't being very low-key. Perhaps glasses would help. At least nobody minded she was there (or all the math skills in the world can't help anyone kick someone out of a math class).
She spotted him shortly before class started. That left 50 minutes of looking down into a math book while the professor supposedly spoke about what lies therein. The only thing left to do would be to wait until he walked out and make a very distinct observation as to whether he wandered out to the right or to the left.
father's day
I never knew my dad and it's not even sad.
Growing up, people thought it was sad, but they didn't really put themselves in my position. How could I miss something I never had in the first place? Having a father wasn't normal for me. For the first 20 years or so, my father was nothing.
Like the protection grid from Ghost Busters failing, Darth Vader and Hamlet's dad (hey, I'm totally Danish -- plus I have this incredibly Hamlet-like ability for inaction); eventually the ghost of my father became more powerful. Somehow, I don't know how -- maybe there's something weird happening from the grave -- but the influence of my dad is more a part of me now than when I was a kid. Maybe living a longer life gives me more of a chance to evaluate how much I've either disappointed or impressed the guy.
Today, out of nowhere, I get an email from my mom (which was actually dated a few days ago, but I hadn't checked my email in a few days) telling me how much I'm like my dad in my compassion, intelligence and sense of humor -- three things I would expect are more learned traits than hereditary. So much of me is programmed by genetics. Half of me I never knew and the other half I don't relate to very well.
I wonder if I could ever be as personally compassionate as Dad apparently was. I remember reading in two separate issues of Rolling Stone about the personal lives of Bob Marley and John Lennon. Apparently, while the two men were outwardly and publicly huge and obvious advocates of peace and love, the family members close to them found them surprisingly surly and unaffectionate. I'm usually that way. Broad ideals that I'm annoyed at others for not following, but have difficulty living them myself.
I make no secret that I spend my days watching Netflix streaming and DVDs while checking my Twitter feed. Today, on Twitter, I found a surprisingly touching comical video on CollegeHumor.com that's about how we view our fathers as we get older. Right after that I resumed my Netflix Family Ties watching and it was the episode where they stay at Steven's mom's house and Steven suffers guilt memories for not getting along with his dad when he was a kid. After that I resumed my Babylon 5 DVD watching where the station doctor tries to patch things up with his military father who was the black guy who got the ear worms in Star Trek II.
It's like Strange Brew. My dad is like Pam's dad in that movie (which is also a remake of Hamlet if you think about it). He's a ghost who controls the technology in her life (probably because he was electrocuted (but it's probably not best to overthink Strange Brew)).
I guess you're still there somewhere, Dad. For most of the past 30 years -- I'm sorry. But thank you. I don't know the specifics or the science, but what you've given me is invaluable.
Growing up, people thought it was sad, but they didn't really put themselves in my position. How could I miss something I never had in the first place? Having a father wasn't normal for me. For the first 20 years or so, my father was nothing.
Like the protection grid from Ghost Busters failing, Darth Vader and Hamlet's dad (hey, I'm totally Danish -- plus I have this incredibly Hamlet-like ability for inaction); eventually the ghost of my father became more powerful. Somehow, I don't know how -- maybe there's something weird happening from the grave -- but the influence of my dad is more a part of me now than when I was a kid. Maybe living a longer life gives me more of a chance to evaluate how much I've either disappointed or impressed the guy.
Today, out of nowhere, I get an email from my mom (which was actually dated a few days ago, but I hadn't checked my email in a few days) telling me how much I'm like my dad in my compassion, intelligence and sense of humor -- three things I would expect are more learned traits than hereditary. So much of me is programmed by genetics. Half of me I never knew and the other half I don't relate to very well.
I wonder if I could ever be as personally compassionate as Dad apparently was. I remember reading in two separate issues of Rolling Stone about the personal lives of Bob Marley and John Lennon. Apparently, while the two men were outwardly and publicly huge and obvious advocates of peace and love, the family members close to them found them surprisingly surly and unaffectionate. I'm usually that way. Broad ideals that I'm annoyed at others for not following, but have difficulty living them myself.
I make no secret that I spend my days watching Netflix streaming and DVDs while checking my Twitter feed. Today, on Twitter, I found a surprisingly touching comical video on CollegeHumor.com that's about how we view our fathers as we get older. Right after that I resumed my Netflix Family Ties watching and it was the episode where they stay at Steven's mom's house and Steven suffers guilt memories for not getting along with his dad when he was a kid. After that I resumed my Babylon 5 DVD watching where the station doctor tries to patch things up with his military father who was the black guy who got the ear worms in Star Trek II.
It's like Strange Brew. My dad is like Pam's dad in that movie (which is also a remake of Hamlet if you think about it). He's a ghost who controls the technology in her life (probably because he was electrocuted (but it's probably not best to overthink Strange Brew)).
I guess you're still there somewhere, Dad. For most of the past 30 years -- I'm sorry. But thank you. I don't know the specifics or the science, but what you've given me is invaluable.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
crimes and misdemeanors
The thought occurs to me that there are really three types of people you can relate to in Crimes and Misdemeanors.
First, there's the one I relate to -- the Woody Allen character. He's filled with weaknesses, but basically good. He has a hope that if he holds onto his ideals (no matter how worthless they actually are) the universe will reward him. The universe actually rewards him just a little.
Second, there's the Alan Alda character. He's the one who is a realist, so he has no qualms about taking advantage of life whenever possible. You only go around once, so you should do whatever it takes to be successful in others' eyes so you can achieve greatness in the world and in wealth. The universe rewards him tremendously.
I am not including Martin Landau's character as one of the relatable ones. Hopefully we don't relate to him (but the whole movie tragically illustrates that we very easily can).
The final character in this comparison is Sam Waterston's character. He is perfectly moral. he knows there is a moral code in the universe, and beyond that, he knows his happiness is directly related to how well he lives by this code. The universe punishes him horribly.
I definitely relate to the Woody Allen character. I don't work for my success like the Alan Alda character, yet I feel I deserve more than I have. I don't suffer the misfortune of the Sam Waterston character. I don't deserve to have the honor of suffering for what I believe in.
First, there's the one I relate to -- the Woody Allen character. He's filled with weaknesses, but basically good. He has a hope that if he holds onto his ideals (no matter how worthless they actually are) the universe will reward him. The universe actually rewards him just a little.
Second, there's the Alan Alda character. He's the one who is a realist, so he has no qualms about taking advantage of life whenever possible. You only go around once, so you should do whatever it takes to be successful in others' eyes so you can achieve greatness in the world and in wealth. The universe rewards him tremendously.
I am not including Martin Landau's character as one of the relatable ones. Hopefully we don't relate to him (but the whole movie tragically illustrates that we very easily can).
The final character in this comparison is Sam Waterston's character. He is perfectly moral. he knows there is a moral code in the universe, and beyond that, he knows his happiness is directly related to how well he lives by this code. The universe punishes him horribly.
I definitely relate to the Woody Allen character. I don't work for my success like the Alan Alda character, yet I feel I deserve more than I have. I don't suffer the misfortune of the Sam Waterston character. I don't deserve to have the honor of suffering for what I believe in.
Monday, August 29, 2011
fake college romance story pt. 4
Clara wanted to enjoy this and not feel too cheap.
She wasn't about to give him a sultry "come hither" face -- not without cracking up anyway. That's right out. If anything, having fun with this would be a "meet cute" as she heard they sometimes say during movie production executive meetings. Audiences liked seeing couples meet in an unusual way that leads to their getting together. Clara always wanted a meet cute of her own, even if it was the most insincere thing she's ever done.
She snickered almost sadly to herself when she realized she ought to be calling it her "meat cute." So far her only plan was objectifying herself.
Well, if she was going to meet him, she'd better find him.
First, the internet stalking. According to his student account, his connected website appeared as his blog. http://dustinwhittacre.blogspot.com/. Ha. She didn't even need student access to get that prime stalking nugget. Of course this isn't some Al Qaida spy. He's just some nerd with internet access. May as well make it as obvious as possible.
Clara typed in the URL. Bingo. A list of his class schedule. This guy actually posts his class schedule on his blog. Clara surmised he must be a screaming wallflower.
Good. Now this debacle could be solved in the less-shame-filled sunlight. Easy. She just had to meet the guy and then get his or her clothes off.
Her mind sighed. Why was she doing this again?
She wasn't about to give him a sultry "come hither" face -- not without cracking up anyway. That's right out. If anything, having fun with this would be a "meet cute" as she heard they sometimes say during movie production executive meetings. Audiences liked seeing couples meet in an unusual way that leads to their getting together. Clara always wanted a meet cute of her own, even if it was the most insincere thing she's ever done.
She snickered almost sadly to herself when she realized she ought to be calling it her "meat cute." So far her only plan was objectifying herself.
Well, if she was going to meet him, she'd better find him.
First, the internet stalking. According to his student account, his connected website appeared as his blog. http://dustinwhittacre.blogspot.com/. Ha. She didn't even need student access to get that prime stalking nugget. Of course this isn't some Al Qaida spy. He's just some nerd with internet access. May as well make it as obvious as possible.
Clara typed in the URL. Bingo. A list of his class schedule. This guy actually posts his class schedule on his blog. Clara surmised he must be a screaming wallflower.
Good. Now this debacle could be solved in the less-shame-filled sunlight. Easy. She just had to meet the guy and then get his or her clothes off.
Her mind sighed. Why was she doing this again?
Sunday, August 28, 2011
The Internet is acting real screwy.
Sigh. I suppose I'll us that as an excuse to save my anger for the moment. Things are usually angry or sideways and often both at once, but let's just say there's none of that and nothing to say.
I'm still upholding so many days in a row of writing in this. Yay me.
Sigh. I suppose I'll us that as an excuse to save my anger for the moment. Things are usually angry or sideways and often both at once, but let's just say there's none of that and nothing to say.
I'm still upholding so many days in a row of writing in this. Yay me.
fake college romance story pt. 3
Actually, never mind. Her mother wouldn't be happy. Clara was going to seduce Dustin Whittacre -- or rather just prove she did.
It wasn't about him though. She just couldn't walk away and give the sorority queens a safe assumption that she just didn't have what it takes. The rules certainly weren't fair. This whole production was base and demeaning. If she didn't participate, that was certainly the reason and Clara knew it; but Sabrina, Sandra and Lisa didn't. If, during the next four years Clara ever passed one of them on campus, their eyes would meet and Clara would see the slight smirk on the other girl's face that would vividly say "you were defeated."
Now, Clara was going to win. None of them would be able to smirk at her. Dustin would be in the way, but Clara knew that when this was over, he certainly wouldn't mind getting caught in the middle. She was going to show him good, show up these bitches and then... become best friends forever with them. Girling doesn't always make sense.
Dustin. The guy looked like he subscribed to Asthma Quarterly. Under normal circumstances, an ounce of attention from her would make Dustin's year. These circumstances were abnormal. Even though the guy's a pariah, he'd be getting lots of attempted play whether he wanted to or not.
Clara has never considered herself vain. Her appearance, while appealing, has never been a major priority in her day to day life. She hated doing it now, but Clara actually went superficial for a few minutes and actually took stock in her appearance. Guilty endorphins went through her system as she looked in the mirror. Not bad. The freshman fifteen hadn't begun to hit yet and the summer before college started was filled with activity. Clara actually giggled and posed seductively before composing herself back into her normal self. She'd be mortified if someone walked in on her acting like that -- and not just because she was in her underwear at the time. Sheesh. If she walked in on herself in that state she'd probably punch herself in the face. On the bright side though, Dustin would be helpless.
It wasn't about him though. She just couldn't walk away and give the sorority queens a safe assumption that she just didn't have what it takes. The rules certainly weren't fair. This whole production was base and demeaning. If she didn't participate, that was certainly the reason and Clara knew it; but Sabrina, Sandra and Lisa didn't. If, during the next four years Clara ever passed one of them on campus, their eyes would meet and Clara would see the slight smirk on the other girl's face that would vividly say "you were defeated."
Now, Clara was going to win. None of them would be able to smirk at her. Dustin would be in the way, but Clara knew that when this was over, he certainly wouldn't mind getting caught in the middle. She was going to show him good, show up these bitches and then... become best friends forever with them. Girling doesn't always make sense.
Dustin. The guy looked like he subscribed to Asthma Quarterly. Under normal circumstances, an ounce of attention from her would make Dustin's year. These circumstances were abnormal. Even though the guy's a pariah, he'd be getting lots of attempted play whether he wanted to or not.
Clara has never considered herself vain. Her appearance, while appealing, has never been a major priority in her day to day life. She hated doing it now, but Clara actually went superficial for a few minutes and actually took stock in her appearance. Guilty endorphins went through her system as she looked in the mirror. Not bad. The freshman fifteen hadn't begun to hit yet and the summer before college started was filled with activity. Clara actually giggled and posed seductively before composing herself back into her normal self. She'd be mortified if someone walked in on her acting like that -- and not just because she was in her underwear at the time. Sheesh. If she walked in on herself in that state she'd probably punch herself in the face. On the bright side though, Dustin would be helpless.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
traxspotting relapse
I just finished eating a meal at Carl's Jr. again.
I don't feel well.
Last time I mentioned eating there, I neglected to say something on my mind. I have recently been told by two very separate beautiful women that our bodies actually tell us what we want. Every once in a while, our bodies crave a burger or something because that's exactly what's needed at the time. It makes sense of course, but they've never told me the difference between our bodies telling us the difference between want and need.
Sometimes we need a burger. Sometimes we need a candy bar. I think our bodies tell us that in the same way it says it needs alcohol or heroin. Ladies please, tell me how you know the difference.
As usual, let's take this further. What's the difference between a human relationship you need and a human relationship you want? What's the difference in feeling? Just like eating at Carl's Jr., mistakes can be made.
I don't know if it's the body or soul that decides. I'd love to hack that code. I should be your mistake.
***
Part 3 of the fake college romance is on its way.
I don't feel well.
Last time I mentioned eating there, I neglected to say something on my mind. I have recently been told by two very separate beautiful women that our bodies actually tell us what we want. Every once in a while, our bodies crave a burger or something because that's exactly what's needed at the time. It makes sense of course, but they've never told me the difference between our bodies telling us the difference between want and need.
Sometimes we need a burger. Sometimes we need a candy bar. I think our bodies tell us that in the same way it says it needs alcohol or heroin. Ladies please, tell me how you know the difference.
As usual, let's take this further. What's the difference between a human relationship you need and a human relationship you want? What's the difference in feeling? Just like eating at Carl's Jr., mistakes can be made.
I don't know if it's the body or soul that decides. I'd love to hack that code. I should be your mistake.
***
Part 3 of the fake college romance is on its way.
Friday, August 26, 2011
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
fake college romance story pt. 2
She was right.
Clara entered Alpha Gamma Zeta house and was met, not with exuberance, but rather... normalcy. The girls there were welcoming, but not over the top.
A dark haired girl walked up to her. "Like, welcome. I'm Sabrina." Sabrina deadpanned this delivery. It worked. Sabrina acknowledged a sorority stereotype and then basked in it with restrained fun. Clara was disarmed.
After the introductions and the chats which seemed legitimately sincere, Clara thought she could actually enjoy this little sisterhood. There was nothing bad about it. Here were people who actually seemed to enjoy inclusion rather than unnaturally force themselves into it. Nothing snobby at all. No reason to not share these girls' company.
She was right. But only a little.
There were 10 other pledges. All of the initiates were each given a Polaroid camera. Polaroid? Clara thought. They still make these things?
"They don't make these things anymore..." Said Sandra, one of the normal tour guides of the house. Clara realized that Sandra didn't need to read her mind to answer the question all the new girls were thinking. "...so I don't recommend taking any pictures until you know what to do with them. Each of these Polaroid cameras only has 10 shots. That's all you get -- but you'll only need one."
Lisa, the girl Clara actually felt was most sincere, held up a glossy 8 x 11 photo of some guy. Some guy who looked like he smelled like Grandma's house. "This guy's name is Dustin Whittacre," Lisa said. "He's a sophomore. He's a bit shy and honestly, a lot weird. The first of you to seduce him will become a sister in Alpha Gamma Zeta."
At this point Clara was amazed at how much of a physical sensation she had regarding this bombshell. Everything boiled on the inside. She actually had to think about breathing for a few seconds.
"Relax," Lisa continued. "You can just say you did. But you sorta have to prove it. We'll need a picture of you with Dustin. Only ONE of you needs to be in underwear. It can be you or him. Doesn't make a difference, but it has to be a Polaroid picture."
Clara knew Polaroid was a smart idea. The black back with the white strip on the bottom for holding the picture without the image getting all fingerprinty... and very Photoshop proof.
Well, it was fun while it lasted. Her mother would be happy Clara didn't start college all slutty. It's probably better to finish college that way.
Clara entered Alpha Gamma Zeta house and was met, not with exuberance, but rather... normalcy. The girls there were welcoming, but not over the top.
A dark haired girl walked up to her. "Like, welcome. I'm Sabrina." Sabrina deadpanned this delivery. It worked. Sabrina acknowledged a sorority stereotype and then basked in it with restrained fun. Clara was disarmed.
After the introductions and the chats which seemed legitimately sincere, Clara thought she could actually enjoy this little sisterhood. There was nothing bad about it. Here were people who actually seemed to enjoy inclusion rather than unnaturally force themselves into it. Nothing snobby at all. No reason to not share these girls' company.
She was right. But only a little.
There were 10 other pledges. All of the initiates were each given a Polaroid camera. Polaroid? Clara thought. They still make these things?
"They don't make these things anymore..." Said Sandra, one of the normal tour guides of the house. Clara realized that Sandra didn't need to read her mind to answer the question all the new girls were thinking. "...so I don't recommend taking any pictures until you know what to do with them. Each of these Polaroid cameras only has 10 shots. That's all you get -- but you'll only need one."
Lisa, the girl Clara actually felt was most sincere, held up a glossy 8 x 11 photo of some guy. Some guy who looked like he smelled like Grandma's house. "This guy's name is Dustin Whittacre," Lisa said. "He's a sophomore. He's a bit shy and honestly, a lot weird. The first of you to seduce him will become a sister in Alpha Gamma Zeta."
At this point Clara was amazed at how much of a physical sensation she had regarding this bombshell. Everything boiled on the inside. She actually had to think about breathing for a few seconds.
"Relax," Lisa continued. "You can just say you did. But you sorta have to prove it. We'll need a picture of you with Dustin. Only ONE of you needs to be in underwear. It can be you or him. Doesn't make a difference, but it has to be a Polaroid picture."
Clara knew Polaroid was a smart idea. The black back with the white strip on the bottom for holding the picture without the image getting all fingerprinty... and very Photoshop proof.
Well, it was fun while it lasted. Her mother would be happy Clara didn't start college all slutty. It's probably better to finish college that way.
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