"What does 'scene' make you think of?"
"I don't know, like a... place, or like in a movie."
"Great! A movie. What's your favorite movie?"
"I don't know. I don't know what it's called... it's um... Oh yeah. District 9."
"What was your favorite scene?"
"I don't know."
"The guy turning into the alien? Something like that."
"NO!"
"Any scene then."
"Oh yeah. When the alien threw up."
"That's GREAT! Will you throw up for us?"
"No. I'm not gonna throw up."
"Why not?"
"It's gross."
"But it'll be great! Here, I'll throw up with you. On 3. 1... 2... 3."
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Friday, November 27, 2009
8th Floor
He stepped into the elevator, pressed “8” and waited. Before the doors closed, an older woman stepped in, looked at the buttons, and pressed nothing. A moment later, they came to floor 8. She turned to him and asked, “Is that you?” He responded affirmatively and stepped out. She stayed in, presumably to ride for the rest of the day.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Thursday morning
She woke up decorating. And then we suddenly had a new home with a yard and the space for her to decorate. So goes the day.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Friday, October 9, 2009
Dum Dums and Hipsters
It could very well be that I am a sucker. For many things: girl singers, pancakes, inspirational sports moments. While I do not concede that I suck, I accept that perhaps I am a sucker. (What's the difference between a lollipop and a sucker? Give me five dollars and I'll tell you.)
Movies come along and people call them boring, twee, hipster bullcor disguised as profundity, but I, the sucker, become thoroughly entranced, engaged. That could be us, my wife and I whisper to each other. Neither of us wears a beard or owns an ironic t-shirt, so no hipsters are we. Where does the engagement come? The story, of course, and the characters and the beautifully photographed vistas and the intelligent writing that does not pander and the serious lack of car chases and the quest of a married couple wondering what the hell they're doing with their lives. Hey, that could be us.
"Are we fuck-ups?" Verona asks. This question crosses my mind EVERY SINGLE DAY, though admittedly it is not pluralized as my wife is in no single way a fuck-up, no matter how hard she tries and she does try. But really, am I a fuck-up? Time will tell as it so often does. We are all fuck-ps in our precious ways. The axiom "nobody's perfect" is nature's polite way of telling us we are fuck-ups. Thank you nature. And Osgood Fielding.
Now when people say that a movie like Away We Go is boring, pointless, and a waste of time, while I find it quietly enthralling, who is the sucker? Something felt so familiar about the journey of Verona and Burt. and their quest for home. And if I feel it, it should be true for me. The naysayers obviously have no connection, no feeling to the story or the material. Or maybe their quest for home is not one made up of philosophical questions punctuated by tender acoustic guitar. My thought is that most of the people who do not enjoy this movie have been cut off from the part of them that would allow them to enjoy it. They do not want to share a journey, they want to be catapulted full throttle into a world of adrenaline, pain, crunching metal, and kickassery. In their world, pain don't hurt. Thank you, Dalton.
Never wanting to dismiss someone's opinion -- unless it is really, really stupid -- I wonder then if some people are on a different path in life. They know exactly who they are and what they are doing, or even what they are and who they are doing, or even who they what and what they who. The gradual discovery of self does not interest them because they found it years ago with no questions, no sidetracks, no tender acoustic guitar. Maybe the world of the film bore no resemblance to their own. No overbearing career women with dowdy husbands; no spoiled, self-righteous hippies; no happy couples harboring deep-seeded pain; no absurd people at all in their lives -- except maybe Johnny "The Gooch" Mendoza who once banged out a pony keg of Coors solo while standing in the back of a Ford Ranger driving to Reno.
While enjoyment is experiential, the enjoyment does not need to be derived from a common experience. That is why comics who begin with "Do you ever notice" are not always funny. Yes we notice it, and what about it? People do not have to associate themselves with the characters in the movie to enjoy it, though it does help. Someone out there may have never met a spoiled, self-righteous hippie before seeing this movie and flipped at those evil peace mongers. What is it then?
It has to be the allegations of boredom. I was never bored. Someone was bored enough to describe Away We Go as boring, hence this post. Who is the sucker? Boredom is subjective -- duly noted. No car crashes or robots -- aforementioned. Are people, more specifically, people who watch movies cut off from beauty, self-reflection, absurdity of character? I usually rail against self-aware intellectuals and their dastardly bouts of cleverness, but here I could find none. I found honesty. Maybe honesty is boring. Has there ever been an honest explosion?
Understand that I do not proclaim this as the perfect film by any means. (That would be Casablanca or La Ronde or Rushmore.) It is very good, though, and when it is denounced by people, I truly wonder if I am just a sucker. Maybe so. Meanwhile, I have some magic beans to plant.
Movies come along and people call them boring, twee, hipster bullcor disguised as profundity, but I, the sucker, become thoroughly entranced, engaged. That could be us, my wife and I whisper to each other. Neither of us wears a beard or owns an ironic t-shirt, so no hipsters are we. Where does the engagement come? The story, of course, and the characters and the beautifully photographed vistas and the intelligent writing that does not pander and the serious lack of car chases and the quest of a married couple wondering what the hell they're doing with their lives. Hey, that could be us.
"Are we fuck-ups?" Verona asks. This question crosses my mind EVERY SINGLE DAY, though admittedly it is not pluralized as my wife is in no single way a fuck-up, no matter how hard she tries and she does try. But really, am I a fuck-up? Time will tell as it so often does. We are all fuck-ps in our precious ways. The axiom "nobody's perfect" is nature's polite way of telling us we are fuck-ups. Thank you nature. And Osgood Fielding.
Now when people say that a movie like Away We Go is boring, pointless, and a waste of time, while I find it quietly enthralling, who is the sucker? Something felt so familiar about the journey of Verona and Burt. and their quest for home. And if I feel it, it should be true for me. The naysayers obviously have no connection, no feeling to the story or the material. Or maybe their quest for home is not one made up of philosophical questions punctuated by tender acoustic guitar. My thought is that most of the people who do not enjoy this movie have been cut off from the part of them that would allow them to enjoy it. They do not want to share a journey, they want to be catapulted full throttle into a world of adrenaline, pain, crunching metal, and kickassery. In their world, pain don't hurt. Thank you, Dalton.
Never wanting to dismiss someone's opinion -- unless it is really, really stupid -- I wonder then if some people are on a different path in life. They know exactly who they are and what they are doing, or even what they are and who they are doing, or even who they what and what they who. The gradual discovery of self does not interest them because they found it years ago with no questions, no sidetracks, no tender acoustic guitar. Maybe the world of the film bore no resemblance to their own. No overbearing career women with dowdy husbands; no spoiled, self-righteous hippies; no happy couples harboring deep-seeded pain; no absurd people at all in their lives -- except maybe Johnny "The Gooch" Mendoza who once banged out a pony keg of Coors solo while standing in the back of a Ford Ranger driving to Reno.
While enjoyment is experiential, the enjoyment does not need to be derived from a common experience. That is why comics who begin with "Do you ever notice" are not always funny. Yes we notice it, and what about it? People do not have to associate themselves with the characters in the movie to enjoy it, though it does help. Someone out there may have never met a spoiled, self-righteous hippie before seeing this movie and flipped at those evil peace mongers. What is it then?
It has to be the allegations of boredom. I was never bored. Someone was bored enough to describe Away We Go as boring, hence this post. Who is the sucker? Boredom is subjective -- duly noted. No car crashes or robots -- aforementioned. Are people, more specifically, people who watch movies cut off from beauty, self-reflection, absurdity of character? I usually rail against self-aware intellectuals and their dastardly bouts of cleverness, but here I could find none. I found honesty. Maybe honesty is boring. Has there ever been an honest explosion?
Understand that I do not proclaim this as the perfect film by any means. (That would be Casablanca or La Ronde or Rushmore.) It is very good, though, and when it is denounced by people, I truly wonder if I am just a sucker. Maybe so. Meanwhile, I have some magic beans to plant.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Sanity in Silence
He knew well that hell was tinted in red and yellow, but it took the golden arches hovering above his head to realize the evil power of those colors. The eyes of dozens lit up a the sight of them, condemning themselves in complicity. They took from him what the devious ones had told him to do. He did not believe in his actions, but he knew well what should come next. He figured he should cure cancer since he was giving America diabetes. And heart disease. And future trash. All before 11 AM.
The partner assigned to him talked endlessly about anything and everything. Early on in the task, the partner proclaimed the absence of love in his life presently and possibly for the future. The morning crept more slowly the more the partner talked. Occasionally, he disappeared around the corner and the silence was golden, much like the arches hovering above his head.
The task was easiest when no word were necessary. A photo of a burger, coffee, fries, a knowing glance between two strangers and another step closer to a double bypass. The exchange had to happen five hundred times in four hours. Some needed convincing, however. Free fries and drink would do it most of the time. Other questioned the quality of the burger. He had nothing to say for it had never passed his lips. He nodded and smiled. Complicity in silence.
Done by 11 AM, he would be asleep by 11:30. The roars of traffic, rumbling construction, shouts of train riders, endless streams of words from the partner, all disappeared. He had probably dreamed of arches above his head, people reveling in the sight of a floating corporate logo, the distribution of disease in the form of a coupon. The rest of the day continued in silence, sanity returned.
The next morning he was back on the street with the red and yellow, golden arches above him. Free fries and drink. Dollar coffee. Free fries and drink. Dollar coffee. The partner told him his car had been towed and that he had anger issues and he managed a bar and grill and-
Soon silence soon.
The partner assigned to him talked endlessly about anything and everything. Early on in the task, the partner proclaimed the absence of love in his life presently and possibly for the future. The morning crept more slowly the more the partner talked. Occasionally, he disappeared around the corner and the silence was golden, much like the arches hovering above his head.
The task was easiest when no word were necessary. A photo of a burger, coffee, fries, a knowing glance between two strangers and another step closer to a double bypass. The exchange had to happen five hundred times in four hours. Some needed convincing, however. Free fries and drink would do it most of the time. Other questioned the quality of the burger. He had nothing to say for it had never passed his lips. He nodded and smiled. Complicity in silence.
Done by 11 AM, he would be asleep by 11:30. The roars of traffic, rumbling construction, shouts of train riders, endless streams of words from the partner, all disappeared. He had probably dreamed of arches above his head, people reveling in the sight of a floating corporate logo, the distribution of disease in the form of a coupon. The rest of the day continued in silence, sanity returned.
The next morning he was back on the street with the red and yellow, golden arches above him. Free fries and drink. Dollar coffee. Free fries and drink. Dollar coffee. The partner told him his car had been towed and that he had anger issues and he managed a bar and grill and-
Soon silence soon.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Bright Side
Hoping for any sign from the bright side, he comforted himself with the notion that the sun was always darkest before the dawn. It took him no time to realize that the sun was a giant ball of flame that burned perpetually millions of miles away, except in Britain where the metric system still reigned.
He walked home humming a tune that must have belonged to INXS because he had found it in the freezer thinking it was someone else's tune completely. On second thought, it may have been his own tune to hum found in a dream or on the moon. Maybe the moon was darkest before the dawn, but that made no sense because the moon had no power of persuasion in the first place let alone the capacity for dark, light, and dim.
In Japan, the sun always rose or so he heard or so the flag told him. It did nothing to get the INXS tune out of his head, which was fine for the moment or at least for the walk home. He looked off left and saw where the land ended and the lake began. That was about the time he realized he was walking the wrong way and the tune immediately escaped him. So much for the bright side or the sun or the moon or any damn thing really.
His knees did him no favors and clinched up three blocks from home. He leaned against a sign pole hoping that his shame and the cold metal would ease the pain or even unlock the binding agreements his knees had opted to take. The magical pole did neither and proved itself only to be a mostly normal pole of deadening streetlife persuasion. He cursed the pole and hobbled home stiff-legged and still ashamed.
The pie is always darkest before the dawn. Maybe, just maybe this would bring him salvation. Salvation of apple filling and crumble topping. His knees told him no and his fridge concurred. The bright side proffered him no pie tonight and no pie tomorrow and his heart thanked him for another clogless night.
He lumbered log-legged into bed and dreamed of falling asleep. The night stayed bright no thanks to the city lamps and cars and revel screams below. Sleep is always darkest before the dawn. No. Sheep are darkest before the lawn. Definitely not. Bright night tonight and nothing to show for it. He drifted off several minutes later with thoughts of black sheep eating pie on the moon and admiring the darkening sun.
He walked home humming a tune that must have belonged to INXS because he had found it in the freezer thinking it was someone else's tune completely. On second thought, it may have been his own tune to hum found in a dream or on the moon. Maybe the moon was darkest before the dawn, but that made no sense because the moon had no power of persuasion in the first place let alone the capacity for dark, light, and dim.
In Japan, the sun always rose or so he heard or so the flag told him. It did nothing to get the INXS tune out of his head, which was fine for the moment or at least for the walk home. He looked off left and saw where the land ended and the lake began. That was about the time he realized he was walking the wrong way and the tune immediately escaped him. So much for the bright side or the sun or the moon or any damn thing really.
His knees did him no favors and clinched up three blocks from home. He leaned against a sign pole hoping that his shame and the cold metal would ease the pain or even unlock the binding agreements his knees had opted to take. The magical pole did neither and proved itself only to be a mostly normal pole of deadening streetlife persuasion. He cursed the pole and hobbled home stiff-legged and still ashamed.
The pie is always darkest before the dawn. Maybe, just maybe this would bring him salvation. Salvation of apple filling and crumble topping. His knees told him no and his fridge concurred. The bright side proffered him no pie tonight and no pie tomorrow and his heart thanked him for another clogless night.
He lumbered log-legged into bed and dreamed of falling asleep. The night stayed bright no thanks to the city lamps and cars and revel screams below. Sleep is always darkest before the dawn. No. Sheep are darkest before the lawn. Definitely not. Bright night tonight and nothing to show for it. He drifted off several minutes later with thoughts of black sheep eating pie on the moon and admiring the darkening sun.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
A man of great humility and work ethic. Speaking with Mara the other night, I realized I admire players like Mr. Stockton because they remind me of who I hope to be as a person more than as a player.
His opening statements were tremendous, congratulating the other inductees and asking, "What am I doing here? I played 30 years competitively... in all those years, not once, was I the best player on my team."
There is a love of basketball that is pure. It comes from the swish of a ball through a net, the squeak of sneakers on a hardwood floor, watching Hoosiers, listening to Bill Russell speak. No outlandish shoe ads, unnecessary energy drinks, indulgent tales of sexual conquests. This speech and the speaker himself brought me back to that purity.
Please. Enjoy.
Sung by a man on Chicago Avenue
McDonalds is my favorite place
They feed you rattlesnakes
Put roaches in their shakes
They give me belly aches.
They feed you rattlesnakes
Put roaches in their shakes
They give me belly aches.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Day one
His journey began with a stop at the 24-hour doughnut shop. The apple fritters tasted best at 4 AM and here it was nearing 3:58. He stepped in and saw no fritters and thought to wait. The gaunt master of doughnuts behind the counter told no fritters would be coming his way anytime soon. He settled on a plain buttermilk and maple old-fashioned and continued on his way.
By 5 o'clock he had passed from the city into the outer suburbs. The doughnuts were long gone, though glimpses of maple still appeared in his mouth. Here there were trees, fences, cars in driveways. He saw a man delivering newspapers from his car and wondered whatever happened to the Schwinn. He stopped in a park for a sip from the drinking fountain. The water tasted fine, but he could not help thinking of all the dirty suburban kids that had put their mouths on the spigot. Maybe a doughnut would kill the germs.
The suburbs began to dissipate around him, then finally ended altogether. A wall signaled their end, and starkly at that. People lived on one side, weeds grew on the other. He thought of stopping to take a last look, but kept on ahead. Best to think of some things instead of doing them. A person sees the suburbs and no last look is going to change a damn thing about them.
At midday he stopped and chewed on some jerky out of his pocket. He imagined a wolf or bear or even a deer coming up and fighting him for it. Nothing and no one came anywhere near him just then. Nor did they the rest of the day in fact. A lonely bit of travel that day was, especially for a man who had no idea where he was going.
He thought maybe that would be the best part of his journey, an existential trip for the ages. He was wrong. With no destination and no company to keep, he was just meandering lonely for lonely meandering sake. But the doughnuts tasted nice and god bless to be out of those suburbs.
By 5 o'clock he had passed from the city into the outer suburbs. The doughnuts were long gone, though glimpses of maple still appeared in his mouth. Here there were trees, fences, cars in driveways. He saw a man delivering newspapers from his car and wondered whatever happened to the Schwinn. He stopped in a park for a sip from the drinking fountain. The water tasted fine, but he could not help thinking of all the dirty suburban kids that had put their mouths on the spigot. Maybe a doughnut would kill the germs.
The suburbs began to dissipate around him, then finally ended altogether. A wall signaled their end, and starkly at that. People lived on one side, weeds grew on the other. He thought of stopping to take a last look, but kept on ahead. Best to think of some things instead of doing them. A person sees the suburbs and no last look is going to change a damn thing about them.
At midday he stopped and chewed on some jerky out of his pocket. He imagined a wolf or bear or even a deer coming up and fighting him for it. Nothing and no one came anywhere near him just then. Nor did they the rest of the day in fact. A lonely bit of travel that day was, especially for a man who had no idea where he was going.
He thought maybe that would be the best part of his journey, an existential trip for the ages. He was wrong. With no destination and no company to keep, he was just meandering lonely for lonely meandering sake. But the doughnuts tasted nice and god bless to be out of those suburbs.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Friday, September 4, 2009
Richard the Ninth and the First Rabbit War
Richard the Ninth shopped for oranges one afternoon when suddenly he was struck with a carrot, struck in the face actually. He looked for the source of the carrot, but found he was alone in the market. A closer look revealed that he was not in the market at all, rather he had wandered into a library.
Libraries confused and angered Richard the Ninth and he wondered why he wandered there. Just as another carrot struck him in the ear he realized the library was where those jerk rabbits had been hoarding all of the town's oranges and, yes, carrots.
Richard the Ninth scanned the room, but nary a long-eared hooligan was to be found. Thinking quickly he very suddenly became very tired. He sat down for a nap when a carrot flew into the back of his head. He stood up again but could not see a single buck-toothed bastard anywhere.
Ignoring the longstanding law of silence, Richard the Ninth began making a ruckus and ran around the library shouting invective aimed squarely at the rabbits. This did nothing to help his cause but did tire him again. He fell to the ground and slept for several minutes.
When Richard the Ninth awoke he had forgotten where he was, why he was there, and even wondered who he was in the grand scheme of things. He did have the awful taste of carrots in his mouth which marred his slightly more pleasant hunger for oranges.
Richard the Ninth's memory was suddenly jogged as a rabbit hopped past. He stood and chased the rabbit through holistic medicines, agriculture, and LSAT study aids when he was stopped short by a diminutive librarian. Though meager in height, she was abundant in discipline.
The librarian removed Richard the Ninth from the premises, ignoring any and all proclamations of war against those furry feckers. She instituted a ban to begin immediately and last through until the next day. Richard the Ninth had lost the First Rabbit War. He headed for home knowing another war would follow, feeling uneasy at the way the librarian had touched him, and still craving oranges.
Libraries confused and angered Richard the Ninth and he wondered why he wandered there. Just as another carrot struck him in the ear he realized the library was where those jerk rabbits had been hoarding all of the town's oranges and, yes, carrots.
Richard the Ninth scanned the room, but nary a long-eared hooligan was to be found. Thinking quickly he very suddenly became very tired. He sat down for a nap when a carrot flew into the back of his head. He stood up again but could not see a single buck-toothed bastard anywhere.
Ignoring the longstanding law of silence, Richard the Ninth began making a ruckus and ran around the library shouting invective aimed squarely at the rabbits. This did nothing to help his cause but did tire him again. He fell to the ground and slept for several minutes.
When Richard the Ninth awoke he had forgotten where he was, why he was there, and even wondered who he was in the grand scheme of things. He did have the awful taste of carrots in his mouth which marred his slightly more pleasant hunger for oranges.
Richard the Ninth's memory was suddenly jogged as a rabbit hopped past. He stood and chased the rabbit through holistic medicines, agriculture, and LSAT study aids when he was stopped short by a diminutive librarian. Though meager in height, she was abundant in discipline.
The librarian removed Richard the Ninth from the premises, ignoring any and all proclamations of war against those furry feckers. She instituted a ban to begin immediately and last through until the next day. Richard the Ninth had lost the First Rabbit War. He headed for home knowing another war would follow, feeling uneasy at the way the librarian had touched him, and still craving oranges.
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