Lately, owing to the fact that so far NBC has not brought back Law & Order – perhaps a result of the need to deal with the loss of presidential candidate Fred Thompson as a cast member – I’ve been watching that show Numb3rs on Friday nights.
(As an aside, a recent episode of SVU revealed that Jack McCoy has moved into the big office and is now the DA in the Law & Orderverse.)
I’ve watched the show off and on for the past few years, and it’s actually pretty decent, in a geeky sort of way.
Last night’s episode, though, upped the geek ante, as it centered around comic books.
Once I found out what the show was going to be about I was a bit wary, as, despite the tremendous success of movies based on comic book properties – and the great treatment comics just received on The Simpsons – Hollywood has a tendency to seriously mishandle stories centering around comics and comic fandom.
I have to say that I was pleasantly surprised, and that, except for a few clichéd representation of fanboy stereotypes, the overall tone was fairly respectful.
As always, it pleased me to see (well-researched) references to some of the more obscure comic characters, though it might have been nice to see some more DC characters getting some love.
I also liked the fact that the story was built around something that is an all-too common reality in the comics industry: legendary creators of failing health and limited financial means. There are far too many iconic creators who have fallen on hard times, so it was good to see this brought to life, though I would have liked to have seen a little more in the way of exploring why said creators have fallen on hard times. The primary reason? They got totally screwed by the companies that they did so much great work for during their careers as creators.
Still, that quibble (and another one that I’ll get to shortly) aside, I found myself wondering just how much research was done and who, if anyone, they talked to in the industry, as there were a lot of obvious analogues to the real comic personalities, such as the character portrayed by Wil Wheaton (a real-life geek), who was very clearly patterned after Todd McFarlane.
Being the target of a lot of fanboy antipathy himself (I mean, who didn’t hate Wesley Crusher?), I’m sure Wheaton had a blast playing the role of someone vilified by fans.
The relationship between the ailing creator – played by Christopher Lloyd, who had a great moment of meta-humor when series regular Judd Hirsch said to him, “I have a hard time picturing you as a hippie.” – and a much younger comics writer/artist seemed to be very much informed by the relationship between Jack “King” Kirby and his official historian Mark Evanier.
Anyway, it was a surprisingly fun episode that set a pretty high bar for any future handling of geek culture on TV and in the movies.
My only other quibble with the show as a statement made on how the value of a comic as a collectible is determined. The factors listed were rarity, age, and condition.
That’s most of the story, but I would submit that there is one other factor: significance.
Sure, pretty much any rare and old comic in near mint condition is likely to command a high price, but it’s the old, rare, and significant comics whose prices shoot through the roof. Action Comics #1 isn’t valuable just because it’s old and rare, but because it’s also the first appearance of Superman. The same goes for Detective Comics #27, which features the first appearance of Batman, or Amazing Fantasy #15, which gives us the first appearance of Spider-Man.
But I suppose that, all things considered, I can forgive them for this omission in their theory on the value of collectible comics.
It’s more than what the stereotypical comic fanboy geek would do, but I would say they earned it by producing a quality episode that dealt with a subject near and dear to my heart.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
How To Stop A Charging Elliephant
Thinking about my time in Red Wing – and in particular the “bar sandwich” – brought to mind my second, disastrous foray into the world of online dating.
My first venture into those manatee-infested waters wasn’t exactly terrible, but it didn’t lead anywhere, as the girl I met up with was really only looking for friends and lived two hours away, and eventually moved even further away.
The second one was another story entirely, and here comes said story.
I’d received a response to the personal I’d placed – this was in the days where there were lots of free online personals that hadn’t been bought out by match.com and the other subscription-based services – from a woman named Ellie.
She seemed nice enough, and I tried my best not to be daunted by the fact that she had a kid, as even then I was constantly being told that I was “too picky.”
(If you’re at an all-you-can-eat buffet that has been picked clean and isn’t being re-stocked, does the fact that you come back with an empty plate make you too picky? The problem isn’t that I’m too picky, it’s that there is nothing to pick.)
So I’d arranged for us to meet at one of the bars in the bar sandwich, the one indicated by the “$$$” in my diagram.
Then, after the plans were made, she elected to e-mail me a picture of herself.
I’m not sure whether, in the conversation that we had about the picture, it was me or it was Eric who cleverly (and cruelly) concluded that “Ellie” must be short for “Elliephant,” but given that I’m the one telling the story, I’ll lay claim to it.
Regardless of my horrible play on words, I’m not a complete asshat, and so I resolved to go through with the date, as it was the right thing to do, and for all I knew it was entirely possible that she would have such a vivacious and engaging personality that I would be able to look past shallow considerations of appearance.
I wasn’t holding my breath on that score, though, and had arranged for Eric and our roommate Tim to swing by in the course of the date and bail me out.
At this point, Eric and I were looking to get into brewing our own beer, and had been to a meeting of a local brew club and been invited to their annual picnic.
In an instance of lousy timing, said picnic was the same day as my big (emphasis on big) date.
There was no way I was not going to the picnic, and, given the sheer volume of really good, lovingly-crafted beer that would present, there was no way that I wasn’t going to get shit-faced. Still, I thought that I could manage things so that I wouldn’t be completely tanked by the time I showed up for my date. After all, the picnic started at 11 AM, which meant that I could get loaded and have plenty of time to get home and take a nap and get at least somewhat sobered up.
Of course, after the picnic we stopped at our favorite bar (the “$” one) for happy hour, and beyond, and by the time I got home I barely had the opportunity to shower and change clothes, and had been drinking for pretty much the past 7 hours.
Admittedly, by that stage of my drinking career I had built up an impressive tolerance for alcohol, but even I had my limits, so I was several sheets to the wind by the time I arrived at the bar, and, with a sinking feeling, spotted Ellie.
When I was a drunk I was never blessed – or cursed – with the ability to put on “beer goggles,” so being tanked really didn’t help me at all in this instance.
To be fair to me, I don’t think that it makes me shallow to not be physically attracted to someone who was the equivalent of two and a half of me.
Still, I soldiered on, and joined her at the bar, and decided, “Well, maybe we could be friends.”
I soon learned that even this wasn’t possible, as she was a thoroughly unpleasant person who spent most of the evening telling me stories about all of the times she’d been beaten up by previous boyfriends. Naturally I felt bad for her, but come on, who does that? Why would you make that the primary topic of conversation?
And when I tried to talk she was constantly interrupting me, latching onto specific keywords in everything I said to go off on a tangent about a subject relating to those particular words – much like those in-text pop-up ads that seem to be springing up everywhere, and which Fred recently wrote about over at Slacktivist – and inevitably steering the conversation back to stories about her abusive boyfriends.
Per my request, Eric and Tim had showed up, but opted not to interrupt, choosing instead to watch me squirm while they waited for me to notice that they’d arrived.
Mercifully, the date came to an end, but as I walked her to her car she expressed her interest in seeing me again, and gave me her card with her home number written on it.
As she drove off, I waved to her with the hand holding her card, and, oops, wouldn’t you know, the card slipped out and fell into the gutter. Despite everything, I did feel kind of bad about turning into the jerk who says he’ll call – because he feels trapped and fears for his safety should he honestly state his lack of interest in a woman who is clearly unstable and is two and a half times his size – knowing full well that he never will.
And again, I suppose it’s possible that my rejection of a very large and annoying woman is somehow an indication that I’m “too picky,” but at the same time I know that all of the people who would accuse me of that are the same people who would make fun of me if I were to hook up with an elephant.
In the cold, brief light of sobriety the next day I realized that, besides her weight and annoying loquaciousness, another factor that made her so unappealing was the Groucho Factor, which is to say, “I wouldn’t want to join any club that would have me as a member.” I mean, how desperate and needy to you have to be to want to pursue a relationship with someone who showed up for a date with you in the middle of an all-day drunk? And who needs someone with that level of neediness and desperation in his life? Not this guy.
After sending a dismissive and non-committal reply to the e-mail that was waiting for me at work on Monday morning that said things like “I’m glad you had a good time,” she got the hint and I never heard from her again.
However, one Saturday night weeks later my friends and I were at the “$” bar, and when I returned to our table after getting drinks at the bar, my roommate Tim said, “Jon, guess who’s here?” I said, hopefully, “Tall Chick?” He shook his head, and I noted the barely-restrained glee on his face and said, weakly, “Ellie?”
With a spreading smile he nodded and indicated her position with an inclination of his head. “She was staring at you the whole time you were at the bar,” he said, giggling at my ever-increasing pallor.
I sighed and resolved to simply pretend that she wasn’t there, casting occasional furtive glances to check if she was still looking at me (she was).
Eventually I ran into an obstacle to my continuing attempts to pretend that I didn’t see her in that I’d been drinking for some time and my bladder was beginning to urgently insist on being emptied and Ellie was seated directly between me and the men’s room.
Eventually, with steely resolve, I stood up…and turned around and walked out the front door and over to the “$$$” bar to use their men’s room.
My ploy paid off, and by the time I returned to my friends after answering nature’s – and cowardice’s – call, she was gone, never to be seen or heard from again.
Okay, so I’ll admit it: I’m a horrible, shallow person.
But you can’t judge me because you never had to face down (or run away from) a raging Elliephant.
As a somewhat humiliating side note, I need to mention that at this time I was working for the commercial printing arm of a publishing company that owned several newspapers in the region. One day, prior to the date with Ellie, I had mentioned my date to a co-worker and was overheard by the Publisher, who took an interest because he’d been thinking about adding some online personals to the paper’s Web site and also a regular feature in the paper about dating and socializing in the area.
So on the Monday after the date he came around to ask me how it went.
(He actually said, very loudly, in the presence of everyone in the bullpen, “Super Jon!” which is what he usually called me, for whatever reason, “How’d the big date go?”)
It was a strange (and embarrassing) situation to be in, knowing that my abortive attempts at having a love life were potential fodder for featured articles and for making business decisions (and were being broadcast to everyone within earshot).
My first venture into those manatee-infested waters wasn’t exactly terrible, but it didn’t lead anywhere, as the girl I met up with was really only looking for friends and lived two hours away, and eventually moved even further away.
The second one was another story entirely, and here comes said story.
I’d received a response to the personal I’d placed – this was in the days where there were lots of free online personals that hadn’t been bought out by match.com and the other subscription-based services – from a woman named Ellie.
She seemed nice enough, and I tried my best not to be daunted by the fact that she had a kid, as even then I was constantly being told that I was “too picky.”
(If you’re at an all-you-can-eat buffet that has been picked clean and isn’t being re-stocked, does the fact that you come back with an empty plate make you too picky? The problem isn’t that I’m too picky, it’s that there is nothing to pick.)
So I’d arranged for us to meet at one of the bars in the bar sandwich, the one indicated by the “$$$” in my diagram.
Then, after the plans were made, she elected to e-mail me a picture of herself.
I’m not sure whether, in the conversation that we had about the picture, it was me or it was Eric who cleverly (and cruelly) concluded that “Ellie” must be short for “Elliephant,” but given that I’m the one telling the story, I’ll lay claim to it.
Regardless of my horrible play on words, I’m not a complete asshat, and so I resolved to go through with the date, as it was the right thing to do, and for all I knew it was entirely possible that she would have such a vivacious and engaging personality that I would be able to look past shallow considerations of appearance.
I wasn’t holding my breath on that score, though, and had arranged for Eric and our roommate Tim to swing by in the course of the date and bail me out.
At this point, Eric and I were looking to get into brewing our own beer, and had been to a meeting of a local brew club and been invited to their annual picnic.
In an instance of lousy timing, said picnic was the same day as my big (emphasis on big) date.
There was no way I was not going to the picnic, and, given the sheer volume of really good, lovingly-crafted beer that would present, there was no way that I wasn’t going to get shit-faced. Still, I thought that I could manage things so that I wouldn’t be completely tanked by the time I showed up for my date. After all, the picnic started at 11 AM, which meant that I could get loaded and have plenty of time to get home and take a nap and get at least somewhat sobered up.
Of course, after the picnic we stopped at our favorite bar (the “$” one) for happy hour, and beyond, and by the time I got home I barely had the opportunity to shower and change clothes, and had been drinking for pretty much the past 7 hours.
Admittedly, by that stage of my drinking career I had built up an impressive tolerance for alcohol, but even I had my limits, so I was several sheets to the wind by the time I arrived at the bar, and, with a sinking feeling, spotted Ellie.
When I was a drunk I was never blessed – or cursed – with the ability to put on “beer goggles,” so being tanked really didn’t help me at all in this instance.
To be fair to me, I don’t think that it makes me shallow to not be physically attracted to someone who was the equivalent of two and a half of me.
Still, I soldiered on, and joined her at the bar, and decided, “Well, maybe we could be friends.”
I soon learned that even this wasn’t possible, as she was a thoroughly unpleasant person who spent most of the evening telling me stories about all of the times she’d been beaten up by previous boyfriends. Naturally I felt bad for her, but come on, who does that? Why would you make that the primary topic of conversation?
And when I tried to talk she was constantly interrupting me, latching onto specific keywords in everything I said to go off on a tangent about a subject relating to those particular words – much like those in-text pop-up ads that seem to be springing up everywhere, and which Fred recently wrote about over at Slacktivist – and inevitably steering the conversation back to stories about her abusive boyfriends.
Per my request, Eric and Tim had showed up, but opted not to interrupt, choosing instead to watch me squirm while they waited for me to notice that they’d arrived.
Mercifully, the date came to an end, but as I walked her to her car she expressed her interest in seeing me again, and gave me her card with her home number written on it.
As she drove off, I waved to her with the hand holding her card, and, oops, wouldn’t you know, the card slipped out and fell into the gutter. Despite everything, I did feel kind of bad about turning into the jerk who says he’ll call – because he feels trapped and fears for his safety should he honestly state his lack of interest in a woman who is clearly unstable and is two and a half times his size – knowing full well that he never will.
And again, I suppose it’s possible that my rejection of a very large and annoying woman is somehow an indication that I’m “too picky,” but at the same time I know that all of the people who would accuse me of that are the same people who would make fun of me if I were to hook up with an elephant.
In the cold, brief light of sobriety the next day I realized that, besides her weight and annoying loquaciousness, another factor that made her so unappealing was the Groucho Factor, which is to say, “I wouldn’t want to join any club that would have me as a member.” I mean, how desperate and needy to you have to be to want to pursue a relationship with someone who showed up for a date with you in the middle of an all-day drunk? And who needs someone with that level of neediness and desperation in his life? Not this guy.
After sending a dismissive and non-committal reply to the e-mail that was waiting for me at work on Monday morning that said things like “I’m glad you had a good time,” she got the hint and I never heard from her again.
However, one Saturday night weeks later my friends and I were at the “$” bar, and when I returned to our table after getting drinks at the bar, my roommate Tim said, “Jon, guess who’s here?” I said, hopefully, “Tall Chick?” He shook his head, and I noted the barely-restrained glee on his face and said, weakly, “Ellie?”
With a spreading smile he nodded and indicated her position with an inclination of his head. “She was staring at you the whole time you were at the bar,” he said, giggling at my ever-increasing pallor.
I sighed and resolved to simply pretend that she wasn’t there, casting occasional furtive glances to check if she was still looking at me (she was).
Eventually I ran into an obstacle to my continuing attempts to pretend that I didn’t see her in that I’d been drinking for some time and my bladder was beginning to urgently insist on being emptied and Ellie was seated directly between me and the men’s room.
Eventually, with steely resolve, I stood up…and turned around and walked out the front door and over to the “$$$” bar to use their men’s room.
My ploy paid off, and by the time I returned to my friends after answering nature’s – and cowardice’s – call, she was gone, never to be seen or heard from again.
Okay, so I’ll admit it: I’m a horrible, shallow person.
But you can’t judge me because you never had to face down (or run away from) a raging Elliephant.
As a somewhat humiliating side note, I need to mention that at this time I was working for the commercial printing arm of a publishing company that owned several newspapers in the region. One day, prior to the date with Ellie, I had mentioned my date to a co-worker and was overheard by the Publisher, who took an interest because he’d been thinking about adding some online personals to the paper’s Web site and also a regular feature in the paper about dating and socializing in the area.
So on the Monday after the date he came around to ask me how it went.
(He actually said, very loudly, in the presence of everyone in the bullpen, “Super Jon!” which is what he usually called me, for whatever reason, “How’d the big date go?”)
It was a strange (and embarrassing) situation to be in, knowing that my abortive attempts at having a love life were potential fodder for featured articles and for making business decisions (and were being broadcast to everyone within earshot).
Friday, November 23, 2007
Happy Holiday Memories
Holidays tend to be significant moments in most people’s lives, and some manage to be more memorable than others, the events and emotions associated with them permanently imprinting themselves on your consciousness and coming to the forefront each year as you gather with friends and family to forge new memories.
Memories like that Christmas of ’83 when your Uncle Phil, breath heavy with the scent of too much egg nog, positively insisted that you weren’t “too old to sit on your favorite uncle’s lap,” despite all your protests. Or that Easter Morning when it turned out that those special “Easter eggs” that were round and strung together you found in your parents’ closet were actually anal beads.
Your dad’s anal beads.
You know, the kind of memories that only come up during the holidays, or after years of intensive therapy.
In any case, for me the Thanksgiving that comes to mind every November is Thanksgiving, 1999, when I was living in Red Wing.
At that time, my friend and sometimes roommate Eric was in the midst of one of the off-again periods in his on-again, off-again relationship with his then-wife Sally, and so, along with our roommate Tim, we decided that we were going to hold a big Thanksgiving get-together at our house.
When I got home from work the Monday of Thanksgiving week, I found Tim and Eric already home, sitting in the living room with grave expressions saying that they “needed to talk to me.”
I thought, “Oh crap: it’s an intervention!”
And it was. Kind of.
They had decided that we needed to figure out our shopping list for the party and that there was a subject that had to be broached.
“Jon,” Eric said, with a surprising amount of gravitas, “we’re going to be buying a lot of beer for the party. We need you to understand that at least some of it has to be for our guests, so you can’t drink it all.”
After I solemnly swore that I would do my best not to drink all of the beer, we made our list and went shopping.
In the next couple of days, Eric and Sally went on-again, and early on Thanksgiving morning Tim decided that he was going to head back to South Dakota for the weekend with his friend Brad.
So I found myself alone with a refrigerator full of food that I couldn’t do anything with (I wasn’t much of a cook in those days), and a great deal of uncertainty as to what was going to happen.
Fortunately only one of the people we’d invited actually showed up, and he left when I explained that I didn’t know what was going to happen.
At around 11 AM I decided to break open the beer and do my best to break my promise.
At 1, Eric and Sally showed up and Eric began cooking.
He was grilling the turkey, and having prepared everything that he could, we decided to leave the turkey grilling and head to the only bar in town that was open.
The open bar was the one indicated by the cent symbol in the diagram, a bar that I hated being dragged to because a) they had no good beer on tap and b) its clientele consisted entirely of people who would consider Milwaukee’s Best to be a good beer.
By this time I was already pretty tanked, though, so it didn’t bother me as much as it normally would. What did bother me was the reason we were there.
During one of their off-again periods, there was a chick – an old friend of Sally’s – that Eric had hooked up with. Turns out that this was the bar that said chick normally hung out at, and Sally was there for the purposes of ambushing her should she show up.
At this point, I had decided that Eric and Sally should have called it quits for good an off-again or two ago, and given that she had hooked up with a couple of guys herself – some of them during the on-agains – I found myself disgusted and frustrated by the whole thing, and, tongue loosened by the beer, decided to speak my mind on the subject.
This didn’t go over well.
We went back to the house and ate our Thanksgiving dinner in silence. Bitter, resentful silence, which, come to think of it, makes it just like many family Thanksgiving dinners.
After Eric and Sally left, I settled into a chair to get my second wind so that I could head out to my regular bar, which was opening at 7. While there, I slipped into a food and beer-induced coma.
So I never made it the bar that night, but troubled by the events of Thanksgiving, I did hit the bar every night that weekend, and I hit it harder than Mike Tyson ever hit Robin Givens.
(This led to a conversation on Monday afternoon when he came home to find that I hadn’t gone in to work because I’d been too hungover, in which he asked, “Have you ever thought that your drinking problem is getting worse?”
My response was, “It better be, considering how much time, money, and effort I’ve devoted to developing it.”)
It was more than a month before Sally would even speak to me again, and that made me sad. Not that it really mattered, though, as it wasn’t long after that she and Eric moved to Maryland and eventually finally decided to quit trying. Apart from one day in the spring of 2000 when she was in town and had stopped by to pick up a few things they’d left behind at my place when they moved, I never saw or spoke to her again.
Still, I had always liked Sally and considered her a friend in her own right, not simply the wife of one of my friends, so despite how things worked out between her and Eric, it always made me sad that she and I had parted on such frosty terms.
In any case, I just thought I’d share some of my festive memories with you on this holiday weekend. I hope you all had Thanksgivings that were at least as good as that one.
Memories like that Christmas of ’83 when your Uncle Phil, breath heavy with the scent of too much egg nog, positively insisted that you weren’t “too old to sit on your favorite uncle’s lap,” despite all your protests. Or that Easter Morning when it turned out that those special “Easter eggs” that were round and strung together you found in your parents’ closet were actually anal beads.
Your dad’s anal beads.
You know, the kind of memories that only come up during the holidays, or after years of intensive therapy.
In any case, for me the Thanksgiving that comes to mind every November is Thanksgiving, 1999, when I was living in Red Wing.
At that time, my friend and sometimes roommate Eric was in the midst of one of the off-again periods in his on-again, off-again relationship with his then-wife Sally, and so, along with our roommate Tim, we decided that we were going to hold a big Thanksgiving get-together at our house.
When I got home from work the Monday of Thanksgiving week, I found Tim and Eric already home, sitting in the living room with grave expressions saying that they “needed to talk to me.”
I thought, “Oh crap: it’s an intervention!”
And it was. Kind of.
They had decided that we needed to figure out our shopping list for the party and that there was a subject that had to be broached.
“Jon,” Eric said, with a surprising amount of gravitas, “we’re going to be buying a lot of beer for the party. We need you to understand that at least some of it has to be for our guests, so you can’t drink it all.”
After I solemnly swore that I would do my best not to drink all of the beer, we made our list and went shopping.
In the next couple of days, Eric and Sally went on-again, and early on Thanksgiving morning Tim decided that he was going to head back to South Dakota for the weekend with his friend Brad.
So I found myself alone with a refrigerator full of food that I couldn’t do anything with (I wasn’t much of a cook in those days), and a great deal of uncertainty as to what was going to happen.
Fortunately only one of the people we’d invited actually showed up, and he left when I explained that I didn’t know what was going to happen.
At around 11 AM I decided to break open the beer and do my best to break my promise.
At 1, Eric and Sally showed up and Eric began cooking.
He was grilling the turkey, and having prepared everything that he could, we decided to leave the turkey grilling and head to the only bar in town that was open.
The open bar was the one indicated by the cent symbol in the diagram, a bar that I hated being dragged to because a) they had no good beer on tap and b) its clientele consisted entirely of people who would consider Milwaukee’s Best to be a good beer.
By this time I was already pretty tanked, though, so it didn’t bother me as much as it normally would. What did bother me was the reason we were there.
During one of their off-again periods, there was a chick – an old friend of Sally’s – that Eric had hooked up with. Turns out that this was the bar that said chick normally hung out at, and Sally was there for the purposes of ambushing her should she show up.
At this point, I had decided that Eric and Sally should have called it quits for good an off-again or two ago, and given that she had hooked up with a couple of guys herself – some of them during the on-agains – I found myself disgusted and frustrated by the whole thing, and, tongue loosened by the beer, decided to speak my mind on the subject.
This didn’t go over well.
We went back to the house and ate our Thanksgiving dinner in silence. Bitter, resentful silence, which, come to think of it, makes it just like many family Thanksgiving dinners.
After Eric and Sally left, I settled into a chair to get my second wind so that I could head out to my regular bar, which was opening at 7. While there, I slipped into a food and beer-induced coma.
So I never made it the bar that night, but troubled by the events of Thanksgiving, I did hit the bar every night that weekend, and I hit it harder than Mike Tyson ever hit Robin Givens.
(This led to a conversation on Monday afternoon when he came home to find that I hadn’t gone in to work because I’d been too hungover, in which he asked, “Have you ever thought that your drinking problem is getting worse?”
My response was, “It better be, considering how much time, money, and effort I’ve devoted to developing it.”)
It was more than a month before Sally would even speak to me again, and that made me sad. Not that it really mattered, though, as it wasn’t long after that she and Eric moved to Maryland and eventually finally decided to quit trying. Apart from one day in the spring of 2000 when she was in town and had stopped by to pick up a few things they’d left behind at my place when they moved, I never saw or spoke to her again.
Still, I had always liked Sally and considered her a friend in her own right, not simply the wife of one of my friends, so despite how things worked out between her and Eric, it always made me sad that she and I had parted on such frosty terms.
In any case, I just thought I’d share some of my festive memories with you on this holiday weekend. I hope you all had Thanksgivings that were at least as good as that one.
And A Vicious Wind Blew Hard And Fast
I had Thanksgiving dinner at Jamie and Casey’s house along with Scott and Stacy and their brood.
(Thanks again for having me over. Sorry I didn’t bring anything.)
I hung out as long as I could before the dog started to get to me, and then I swung by Brian and Kathleen’s to deliver Kathleen a plate (and some peanut butter cookies I’d made for her). As they’d had to put one of their cats down the night before, Kathleen wasn’t really up to going to any sort of celebratory feast, and Brian was working.
What had started out as a beautiful, slightly windy day rapidly turned into a dismal, cold, rainy, and incredibly windy day.
The wind had picked up pretty early on, and in my backyard it looked as though it was raining falling leaves before the actual rain started.
Fortunately, in the front yard the wind stripped the still-leafy tree bare, and blew clear the massive blanket of fallen leaves that had developed immediately after I’d raked up the first batch of fallen leaves, sparing me the effort that would have gone into raking again.
Today has been pretty uneventful. There is, after all, nothing that could compel me to venture out into the world on Black Friday.
Lately I’ve been watching a lot of HGTV, mostly because I have the HD version in my HD line-up, and I have to say that I’m continually amazed at how many hot chicks there are associated with real estate and home improvement. I’m not just talking about the hosts, because, yeah, obviously producers are going to pick hotties to be the primary on-air presences, but also among the designers and Realtors, and whatnot.
Among my new favorites are Brandie Malay from Hidden Potential and Jane Wogan from the show Don’t Sweat It.
(Of course, none of them holds a candle – an icy, frozen candle – to Mistress Kirsten of Property Ladder)
In any case, I suppose I should get back to figuring out just how I’m going to waste the rest of the day.
(Thanks again for having me over. Sorry I didn’t bring anything.)
I hung out as long as I could before the dog started to get to me, and then I swung by Brian and Kathleen’s to deliver Kathleen a plate (and some peanut butter cookies I’d made for her). As they’d had to put one of their cats down the night before, Kathleen wasn’t really up to going to any sort of celebratory feast, and Brian was working.
What had started out as a beautiful, slightly windy day rapidly turned into a dismal, cold, rainy, and incredibly windy day.
The wind had picked up pretty early on, and in my backyard it looked as though it was raining falling leaves before the actual rain started.
Fortunately, in the front yard the wind stripped the still-leafy tree bare, and blew clear the massive blanket of fallen leaves that had developed immediately after I’d raked up the first batch of fallen leaves, sparing me the effort that would have gone into raking again.
Today has been pretty uneventful. There is, after all, nothing that could compel me to venture out into the world on Black Friday.
Lately I’ve been watching a lot of HGTV, mostly because I have the HD version in my HD line-up, and I have to say that I’m continually amazed at how many hot chicks there are associated with real estate and home improvement. I’m not just talking about the hosts, because, yeah, obviously producers are going to pick hotties to be the primary on-air presences, but also among the designers and Realtors, and whatnot.
Among my new favorites are Brandie Malay from Hidden Potential and Jane Wogan from the show Don’t Sweat It.
(Of course, none of them holds a candle – an icy, frozen candle – to Mistress Kirsten of Property Ladder)
In any case, I suppose I should get back to figuring out just how I’m going to waste the rest of the day.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Turkey Day!
Bonus: Check out this Thanksgiving-themed Chick Tract that reminds you what a rotten, ungrateful heathen you are and demonstrates just how zany old Jack's mindset really is. Apparently those evil liberal secular humanists have managed to prevent public schools from teaching the story of Thanksgiving (Thanksgiving? What's that? Is it like Turkey Day?), and they certainly aren't teaching its true meaning (they probably use the time that used to be devoted to teaching that part of US history to teach kids how to be gay and how to get abortions). But we can all be thankful because Jack is on the case!
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Beowulf Thoughts Continued
I had intended to write a lot more about Beowulf in my previous post, but my writing was interrupted by an urgent need to go back to bed, as, for whatever reason, I was up half the night struggling to sleep.
So what was going to be a mildly spoilery post ended up not being spoilery at all.
I really don’t have too much more to say about the movie, but there were a few things I wanted to add.
Mostly just some of the quips I made to Scott in the course of the movie.
For example, the queen, as portrayed by Robin Wright Penn, was the most incredibly glum character I’ve ever seen. If even I think you’re too glum, then you definitely need to get on some anti-depressants. I said to Scott, “Would it kill her to smile?”
It reminded me of an episode of The Simpsons in which Homer, while reading the paper, has the following exchange with Lisa:
Homer: Sheesh, look at these refugees. How about a smile?
Lisa: Dad, they’re suffering under terrible conditions!
Homer: Well moping isn’t going to make it any better.
Of course, and here’s where some of the spoilers come into play, I guess you can’t blame the queen for being glum, given that both of her husbands saw fit to knock boots with some ancient pagan monster.
At one point the queen asks Beowulf, “Is she really so irresistible?”
I said to Scott, “Duh…she’s Angelina Jolie!”
When Beowulf is suiting up to fight the dragon, the queen says, “It looked better on you when you were a young man.”
My rejoinder on his behalf was “Well, your breasts used to be above your knees.”
As for Grendel, it was made clear that the reason he was launching his attacks on Heorot was that the noise of their revelries were painful to his overly sensitive tympanum. When the queen was singing a song the action shifted to Grendel’s lair, where the noise was sending him into a rage.
I said, “He’s not evil; he just hates musicals.”
There was enough singing in the movie that I turned to Scott and asked, “When did this movie turn into Spider-Man 3?”
In a strange way, the scenes in which Angelina Jolie – who you’re not actually seeing on-screen at the time – cradling her dying son and speaking in a mixture of Danish and English was actually kind of a turn-on. I know it’s weird, but it’s at least better than being turned on by her when she was a CGI fish in A Shark Tale.
(Seriously, that was one sexy fish.)
In any case, I’ll say once again that it’s a great movie and well worth seeing just for how amazing the technology behind it is, though that’s far from the only reason.
There were great performances captured from all of the cast members, particularly from Crispin Glover as Grendel. Of course, I can easily imagine Crispin Glover acting like in real life.
So yeah, that’s my slightly less in-depth than I’d intended take on Beowulf.
Not much else is going on, so I guess I’ll bring this entry to a close.
So what was going to be a mildly spoilery post ended up not being spoilery at all.
I really don’t have too much more to say about the movie, but there were a few things I wanted to add.
Mostly just some of the quips I made to Scott in the course of the movie.
For example, the queen, as portrayed by Robin Wright Penn, was the most incredibly glum character I’ve ever seen. If even I think you’re too glum, then you definitely need to get on some anti-depressants. I said to Scott, “Would it kill her to smile?”
It reminded me of an episode of The Simpsons in which Homer, while reading the paper, has the following exchange with Lisa:
Homer: Sheesh, look at these refugees. How about a smile?
Lisa: Dad, they’re suffering under terrible conditions!
Homer: Well moping isn’t going to make it any better.
Of course, and here’s where some of the spoilers come into play, I guess you can’t blame the queen for being glum, given that both of her husbands saw fit to knock boots with some ancient pagan monster.
At one point the queen asks Beowulf, “Is she really so irresistible?”
I said to Scott, “Duh…she’s Angelina Jolie!”
When Beowulf is suiting up to fight the dragon, the queen says, “It looked better on you when you were a young man.”
My rejoinder on his behalf was “Well, your breasts used to be above your knees.”
As for Grendel, it was made clear that the reason he was launching his attacks on Heorot was that the noise of their revelries were painful to his overly sensitive tympanum. When the queen was singing a song the action shifted to Grendel’s lair, where the noise was sending him into a rage.
I said, “He’s not evil; he just hates musicals.”
There was enough singing in the movie that I turned to Scott and asked, “When did this movie turn into Spider-Man 3?”
In a strange way, the scenes in which Angelina Jolie – who you’re not actually seeing on-screen at the time – cradling her dying son and speaking in a mixture of Danish and English was actually kind of a turn-on. I know it’s weird, but it’s at least better than being turned on by her when she was a CGI fish in A Shark Tale.
(Seriously, that was one sexy fish.)
In any case, I’ll say once again that it’s a great movie and well worth seeing just for how amazing the technology behind it is, though that’s far from the only reason.
There were great performances captured from all of the cast members, particularly from Crispin Glover as Grendel. Of course, I can easily imagine Crispin Glover acting like in real life.
So yeah, that’s my slightly less in-depth than I’d intended take on Beowulf.
Not much else is going on, so I guess I’ll bring this entry to a close.
I Am Blogger. Writer. Poster. I Am The Partial Plates In The Night. I! AM! JON!
Okay, so maybe it lacks some of the punch of “I! AM! BEOWULF!”
(Or even “THIS! IS! SPARTA!”)
As should be immediately apparent, I went to see Beowulf last night, along with Scott and Casey.
We went to the digital 3D version.
Short form, Internet-speak review: It was Teh Awesome.
The longer, slightly spoilery version follows.
It’s been about sixteen years since I last read Beowulf. The first time was in high school, the second in college. In high school, I believe we were only required to read through the Grendel portion, so it wasn’t until college that I got to the part involving Grendel’s mother.
Regardless, my memory of this first major English epic is spotty at best, so how accurate the movie adaption was is a question I can’t really answer.
What I can say is that the movie kicked ass in ways that will, I think, be much more memorable than the actual poem.
While the story – by Neil Gaiman and Roger Avary – is a good one, and adds considerable depth to what could otherwise be a simple telling of the story of a mighty hero and his accomplishments, with a lot of easily-spotted Gaiman touches, the movie’s real appeal lies in the stunning animation. The look of the CGI characters animated over the capture performances of the actors, lends then an unearthly affect. They are at times indistinguishable from real human beings, at other times it’s clear they’re not really there, all of which lends the overall look a kind hyper-reality, as though you’ve developed some new kind of vision and are looking upon the world for the first time.
Much of that comes from it being 3D, I think, and though I’m sure that the non-3D version is also cool, I would definitely recommend that anyone seeing it opt for the 3D version.
Given that Beowulf fights Grendel au naturel, the fact that they borrow a trick from Austin Powers (or The Simpsons Movie, though thankfully without the final touch that made the gag in that movie so funny) to keep conveniently obscuring the naughty bits is positively a godsend, as we were spared from having a 3D experience like this:
And for the record, CGI Angelina Jolie, with her thin covering of some molten material and her stiletto heel-like talons, looks especially amazing.
I’ll have some more thoughts on the movie in a later post.
(Or even “THIS! IS! SPARTA!”)
As should be immediately apparent, I went to see Beowulf last night, along with Scott and Casey.
We went to the digital 3D version.
Short form, Internet-speak review: It was Teh Awesome.
The longer, slightly spoilery version follows.
It’s been about sixteen years since I last read Beowulf. The first time was in high school, the second in college. In high school, I believe we were only required to read through the Grendel portion, so it wasn’t until college that I got to the part involving Grendel’s mother.
Regardless, my memory of this first major English epic is spotty at best, so how accurate the movie adaption was is a question I can’t really answer.
What I can say is that the movie kicked ass in ways that will, I think, be much more memorable than the actual poem.
While the story – by Neil Gaiman and Roger Avary – is a good one, and adds considerable depth to what could otherwise be a simple telling of the story of a mighty hero and his accomplishments, with a lot of easily-spotted Gaiman touches, the movie’s real appeal lies in the stunning animation. The look of the CGI characters animated over the capture performances of the actors, lends then an unearthly affect. They are at times indistinguishable from real human beings, at other times it’s clear they’re not really there, all of which lends the overall look a kind hyper-reality, as though you’ve developed some new kind of vision and are looking upon the world for the first time.
Much of that comes from it being 3D, I think, and though I’m sure that the non-3D version is also cool, I would definitely recommend that anyone seeing it opt for the 3D version.
Given that Beowulf fights Grendel au naturel, the fact that they borrow a trick from Austin Powers (or The Simpsons Movie, though thankfully without the final touch that made the gag in that movie so funny) to keep conveniently obscuring the naughty bits is positively a godsend, as we were spared from having a 3D experience like this:
And for the record, CGI Angelina Jolie, with her thin covering of some molten material and her stiletto heel-like talons, looks especially amazing.
I’ll have some more thoughts on the movie in a later post.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Now With Visual Aids!
As you may have noticed, I've decided to start including a little more in the way of visual aids in my posts. I'll be doing this whenever it's appropriate (read: when I bloody well feel like it).
I figure it's a good way to break up the sometimes dense nature of my posts.
Sometimes, as in this case (well, except for this introduction), the visual aid will itself be the entire post.
Note: On his absolute worst day - even when he's having his absolute worst day and is being inked by Nelson - John Byrne is a greater artist than I could ever hope to be, and despite this affectionate jab at some of his idiosyncrasies, I view him as a bona fide master of the comic form who has earned his place in the pantheon of the Comic Gods. Also, I believe he is aware of his tendency to do this sort of thing and has even poked fun at himself for doing it.
I figure it's a good way to break up the sometimes dense nature of my posts.
Sometimes, as in this case (well, except for this introduction), the visual aid will itself be the entire post.
Note: On his absolute worst day - even when he's having his absolute worst day and is being inked by Nelson - John Byrne is a greater artist than I could ever hope to be, and despite this affectionate jab at some of his idiosyncrasies, I view him as a bona fide master of the comic form who has earned his place in the pantheon of the Comic Gods. Also, I believe he is aware of his tendency to do this sort of thing and has even poked fun at himself for doing it.
Decision Tree
If we assume that final approval is granted and I get the job, that will mean that I have to start getting really comfortable with using programs like Microsoft Visio.
It will also mean, if I stick to the terms of the deal I tried to make with the Universe, that I will have to ask out the hot recruiter from that technical recruiting company.
In an effort to prepare for both eventualities, I have created the following diagram:
It will also mean, if I stick to the terms of the deal I tried to make with the Universe, that I will have to ask out the hot recruiter from that technical recruiting company.
In an effort to prepare for both eventualities, I have created the following diagram:
A Magnetic Personality
Whatever other attributes I may possess, natural grace is not one of them, and it’s been that way since before I even entered the world.
My birth was the end result of my mother being in labor for 72 hours – despite this, my mom still wanted to have even more kids, but my dad was unwilling to let her go through that again – which was brought on by the fact that, without getting too much into the mechanics of it, I actually managed to hit my head and get stuck on the way out.
That inaugural blow to the head was the first of many I would suffer in the 35 years that followed. Honestly, the number of blows to the head I’ve suffered is truly Homeresque.
This is mostly due to the aforementioned lack of natural grace (and to not paying attention to my surroundings).
For example, in college I had a student job as a custodian, and one of the areas I had to clean was the woodshop where students pursuing certificates in woodworking took their classes. One night, after crouching down to sweep some sawdust into my dust pan, I stood straight up…directly under the arm of a radial arm saw.
To my recollection – which can’t be trusted, all things considered – this was the only time I managed to give myself a concussion.
Of course, my clumsiness has, over the years, led to increased wariness when there’s a chance I might hit my head against something, though said wariness has done little to prevent further blows.
Even if it did lead me to not bang my head against doors and other objects, I would still suffer a lot of blows to the head because my head is itself a magnet for hurled objects.
This is why it always made me nervous to sit in the spot at the bar near the dartboard in my drinking days.
I first confirmed my long-standing suspicions about my cranial magnetism one spring day in the mid-80s when I stepped out onto our front deck and cast a glance in the direction of my dad, who was mowing the lawn. I had turned my head just as the mower went over a rock, which, hurled by the whirling blades, flew several yards with unerring accuracy, and caught me right between the eyes knocking me flat on my back, and causing my dad to abandon the mower and rush over to check on me. I was fine, but the spot where I was hit was, naturally, quite tender.
(My dad also took this as an opportunity to give me yet another lecture about why it was so important to make sure that the yard was free of rocks.)
Later that same day I went to a friend’s birthday party and got clipped by a Frisbee in the exact same spot the rock had hit me.
That was when it hit me – literally and figuratively – and I realized that my head had some sort of pull that could influence the trajectory of any flying object. It explained so much: all the baseballs, soccer balls, rocks, snowballs, Frisbees, and any other flying object that was inexorably drawn toward my melon.
(When you combine my lack of grace with a general lack of athletic prowess and my unnamed but intuited understanding of the affect that my head apparently has on spacetime and the objects hurtling through it, you can see why I didn’t bother joining up for a second season of little league baseball.)
In any case, thoughts about my cranial magnetism came to me like a blow to the head the other morning as I was in my kitchen looking out the window and saw a leaf fall from a tree outside of my property fall, and then, seemingly against the laws of physics, veer sharply upward and drift determinedly over my fence and onto my patio. Apparently my patio is a magnet for fallen leaves, just as my head is a magnet for flying objects, and my attic is a magnet for squirrels, though the latter seems to squirrel-free at the moment.
My head emits powerful waves of some fundamental force that pulls any flying object towards it. Pilots flying overhead need to make major adjustments in order to stay on course and not crash into my head. My patio seems to have a similar effect on dead leaves.
My birth was the end result of my mother being in labor for 72 hours – despite this, my mom still wanted to have even more kids, but my dad was unwilling to let her go through that again – which was brought on by the fact that, without getting too much into the mechanics of it, I actually managed to hit my head and get stuck on the way out.
That inaugural blow to the head was the first of many I would suffer in the 35 years that followed. Honestly, the number of blows to the head I’ve suffered is truly Homeresque.
This is mostly due to the aforementioned lack of natural grace (and to not paying attention to my surroundings).
For example, in college I had a student job as a custodian, and one of the areas I had to clean was the woodshop where students pursuing certificates in woodworking took their classes. One night, after crouching down to sweep some sawdust into my dust pan, I stood straight up…directly under the arm of a radial arm saw.
To my recollection – which can’t be trusted, all things considered – this was the only time I managed to give myself a concussion.
Of course, my clumsiness has, over the years, led to increased wariness when there’s a chance I might hit my head against something, though said wariness has done little to prevent further blows.
Even if it did lead me to not bang my head against doors and other objects, I would still suffer a lot of blows to the head because my head is itself a magnet for hurled objects.
This is why it always made me nervous to sit in the spot at the bar near the dartboard in my drinking days.
I first confirmed my long-standing suspicions about my cranial magnetism one spring day in the mid-80s when I stepped out onto our front deck and cast a glance in the direction of my dad, who was mowing the lawn. I had turned my head just as the mower went over a rock, which, hurled by the whirling blades, flew several yards with unerring accuracy, and caught me right between the eyes knocking me flat on my back, and causing my dad to abandon the mower and rush over to check on me. I was fine, but the spot where I was hit was, naturally, quite tender.
(My dad also took this as an opportunity to give me yet another lecture about why it was so important to make sure that the yard was free of rocks.)
Later that same day I went to a friend’s birthday party and got clipped by a Frisbee in the exact same spot the rock had hit me.
That was when it hit me – literally and figuratively – and I realized that my head had some sort of pull that could influence the trajectory of any flying object. It explained so much: all the baseballs, soccer balls, rocks, snowballs, Frisbees, and any other flying object that was inexorably drawn toward my melon.
(When you combine my lack of grace with a general lack of athletic prowess and my unnamed but intuited understanding of the affect that my head apparently has on spacetime and the objects hurtling through it, you can see why I didn’t bother joining up for a second season of little league baseball.)
In any case, thoughts about my cranial magnetism came to me like a blow to the head the other morning as I was in my kitchen looking out the window and saw a leaf fall from a tree outside of my property fall, and then, seemingly against the laws of physics, veer sharply upward and drift determinedly over my fence and onto my patio. Apparently my patio is a magnet for fallen leaves, just as my head is a magnet for flying objects, and my attic is a magnet for squirrels, though the latter seems to squirrel-free at the moment.
My head emits powerful waves of some fundamental force that pulls any flying object towards it. Pilots flying overhead need to make major adjustments in order to stay on course and not crash into my head. My patio seems to have a similar effect on dead leaves.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Absent Friends Or Love And Pee
Shortly before I moved out of my old place I managed to record a couple of episodes of HBO’s new series Tell Me You Love Me.
I wasn’t really impressed, but after I moved I decided to download some more episodes, and while I don’t actually like it, I’m invested enough in it that I want to see how the season ends.
There’s really not much to say about the show. Basically it revolves around the lives and loves of a several people of varying ages, lifestyles, and financial success. Though they don’t actually know each other, for the most part, their lives do intersect, and they’re all seeing the same therapist, said therapist, along with her husband, being one of the people whose life the show revolves around.
And it has some really explicit sex scenes that make you wonder if the people involved are actually doing it.
Would I recommend it? Well, if you like watching old people tongue kissing and getting it on in a chair, of if you’ve ever wondered what it would be like to see the original star of that show Profiler give the guy from Fist of the Northstar a hand job, then yes, I would say this is the show for you. (Update: It wasn’t the chick from Profiler, though she is on the show.)
(Seriously, look at this guy and try to tell me he doesn’t look like an anime character brought to life. You can’t do it, and even if you can, you’re wrong. Hmm, according to his IMDb entry, he played the part of Aaron Tyler on the unaired pilot for Wonderfalls, a role that was later filled by the actor who now plays Ned the Pie Maker on Pushing Daisies. Weird.)
One of the main problems I have with the show is an entirely idiosyncratic aversion to the title. I have a story – which I’m not going to tell here – associated with tell me you love me (the actual phrase, not the show).
Suffice to say that said story happened during the worst part of my drinking career and involves a beautiful and zaftig bartender and a friend who was all-too eager to gleefully fill me in on events that I didn’t remember in the sober light of day.
Without the details, you pretty much have the story right there, but I’m not going to fill in the blanks for you.
I once told my friend Betts the story and his response, which was, I think, quite sensible, was, “Dude, don’t ever tell anyone that story.”
Somewhere along the line in discussing it, he added that at least the phrase “pee on me” never came up in the course of the events described. Ultimately this led us to conclude that, just once, one of us should answer the phone – this was in the call center – using the phrase “Pee on me and tell me you love me” in our opening script. It was something of a standing dare. We concluded that the best way to do it was to just quickly slip it in, something like, “Thank you for choosing America Online, my name is Jon, pee on me and tell me you love me. Before we get started…”
Of course, neither of us ever took the dare.
I never mentioned it, as my focus has been elsewhere of late, but it was a year ago last month that Betts disappeared. In fact, it was a year ago on the day I got laid off.
Even though I haven’t said anything about it here before now, he has been on my mind, and I miss him, and I hope that if he is still out there that he’s safe and happy, though I wish he would come back.
As is evidenced by the anecdote above, our senses of humor were very much in sync. He was one of the best friends I’ve ever had, the kind of friend with whom I could talk about anything, and I know he felt the same way about me.
I just wish he would have remembered that and talked to me before he decided to disappear.
I wasn’t really impressed, but after I moved I decided to download some more episodes, and while I don’t actually like it, I’m invested enough in it that I want to see how the season ends.
There’s really not much to say about the show. Basically it revolves around the lives and loves of a several people of varying ages, lifestyles, and financial success. Though they don’t actually know each other, for the most part, their lives do intersect, and they’re all seeing the same therapist, said therapist, along with her husband, being one of the people whose life the show revolves around.
And it has some really explicit sex scenes that make you wonder if the people involved are actually doing it.
Would I recommend it? Well, if you like watching old people tongue kissing and getting it on in a chair, of if you’ve ever wondered what it would be like to see the original star of that show Profiler give the guy from Fist of the Northstar a hand job, then yes, I would say this is the show for you. (Update: It wasn’t the chick from Profiler, though she is on the show.)
(Seriously, look at this guy and try to tell me he doesn’t look like an anime character brought to life. You can’t do it, and even if you can, you’re wrong. Hmm, according to his IMDb entry, he played the part of Aaron Tyler on the unaired pilot for Wonderfalls, a role that was later filled by the actor who now plays Ned the Pie Maker on Pushing Daisies. Weird.)
One of the main problems I have with the show is an entirely idiosyncratic aversion to the title. I have a story – which I’m not going to tell here – associated with tell me you love me (the actual phrase, not the show).
Suffice to say that said story happened during the worst part of my drinking career and involves a beautiful and zaftig bartender and a friend who was all-too eager to gleefully fill me in on events that I didn’t remember in the sober light of day.
Without the details, you pretty much have the story right there, but I’m not going to fill in the blanks for you.
I once told my friend Betts the story and his response, which was, I think, quite sensible, was, “Dude, don’t ever tell anyone that story.”
Somewhere along the line in discussing it, he added that at least the phrase “pee on me” never came up in the course of the events described. Ultimately this led us to conclude that, just once, one of us should answer the phone – this was in the call center – using the phrase “Pee on me and tell me you love me” in our opening script. It was something of a standing dare. We concluded that the best way to do it was to just quickly slip it in, something like, “Thank you for choosing America Online, my name is Jon, pee on me and tell me you love me. Before we get started…”
Of course, neither of us ever took the dare.
I never mentioned it, as my focus has been elsewhere of late, but it was a year ago last month that Betts disappeared. In fact, it was a year ago on the day I got laid off.
Even though I haven’t said anything about it here before now, he has been on my mind, and I miss him, and I hope that if he is still out there that he’s safe and happy, though I wish he would come back.
As is evidenced by the anecdote above, our senses of humor were very much in sync. He was one of the best friends I’ve ever had, the kind of friend with whom I could talk about anything, and I know he felt the same way about me.
I just wish he would have remembered that and talked to me before he decided to disappear.
I'm Number One!
So it appears that I may soon be back among the ranks of the employed.
I got a call from the recruiter for the job I interviewed for last week, and while they need to get final approval before extending me an offer, it seems that I pretty much have the job.
After interviewing the other candidates, my (probable) future boss stated unequivocally that I was the best choice and wanted her to at least call me and let me know where things stand.
I should be hearing back from her next week.
So that's - conditionally - a very big relief.
I got a call from the recruiter for the job I interviewed for last week, and while they need to get final approval before extending me an offer, it seems that I pretty much have the job.
After interviewing the other candidates, my (probable) future boss stated unequivocally that I was the best choice and wanted her to at least call me and let me know where things stand.
I should be hearing back from her next week.
So that's - conditionally - a very big relief.
I Got Your Common Courtesy Right Here
The novel Lord of Light by Roger Zelazny is one of my all-time favorite books. In fact, if it weren’t for Watchmen, it would probably be my absolute favorite (though I can’t say that I would want to live in a world without Watchmen, so it’s rather a moot point).
For those who haven’t read it – which is pretty much all of you – the basic concept is as follows:
A group of humans travel across interstellar distances to colonize another world.
The world is a rather hostile place, with several nasty indigenous creatures that roughly correspond to demons and spirits from human mythology – in fact, many of the creatures deliberately take on these forms, which they have pulled from the minds of the intruding humans – so in order to properly settle the world, the colonists cultivate superhuman attributes and develop advanced technologies to aid them. After years of warfare, the world is soon properly subjugated and the real work of colonization – namely having kids and lots of them – gets underway.
Among the advanced technologies the colonists possess are the ability to artificially grow cloned bodies and a technique that allows them to transfer consciousness from one body to another. Barring any accidents that might prevent someone from being transferred into a healthy new body prior to the death of the old one, this “reincarnation” technology effectively allows for immortality.
As new generations are born and the original colonists further develop their superhuman attributes the question of who gets to take advantage of this technology becomes a divisive one. The majority of the colonists believe that it should not be shared with their descendants, the common rabble who are spreading out across the world and living at subsistence levels. A vocal minority hews to a more egalitarian ideal and feels that the technology should be shared with everyone equally.
This division leads one of the First, as the original colonists are known, to take his leave of his fellows and settle off in distant lands. This person is named Sam, and was one of the greatest heroes of the wars against the natives, his ability to manipulate electromagnetic fields serving as a perfect weapon against the disembodied sentient energy beings known as the Rakasha.
Eventually, after living to a ripe old age, Sam decides it’s time to pick out a new body, and makes his way back to the Celestial City, the home of the First.
Along the way, Sam learns that things have gotten even worse than they had been when he left. The First are no longer merely content to lord over their children as simple human masters, they have designated themselves as gods, patterning themselves after the Hindu pantheon. Further, they have devices that allow them to read human memories and they use these readings to judge anyone seeking to be reincarnated, evaluating their Karma to determine what sort of new body – if any – said supplicant will receive.
Like any commodity, Karma, Sam learns, can be bought, as is evidenced by the devices he refers to as “Pray-o-Mats” located at the front of the temples erected in honor of the “gods.” Supplicants are able to purchase tokens, which, when deposited into the Pray-o-Mats can help to ameliorate their Karmic burden.
Intrigued by this, Sam gets in line and begins asking one of the pilgrims questions about the workings of the Pray-o-Mat. Eventually, frustrated by the questions of this ignorant savage, the pilgrim turns to Sam and says, “Perhaps ‘twere better that you make prayer in the old way and give the donation directly into the hands of the priests.”
I apologize for the wordiness of my little recap, but I needed to give you the context before mentioning that this particular scene came to mind today when I was at the grocery store in line at the self-checkout behind someone who couldn’t figure out how to ring up the produce he was buying.
To be fair, I can’t really blame him for opting to use the self-checkout, given how packed the place was, but honestly, it probably would have been faster for him – and everyone behind him – if he’d just gotten into the regular line and did it the old-fashioned way.
Given that Thanksgiving is coming, I expected the store to be busier than usual, but I wasn’t prepared for how packed it was at noon on a Monday.
Of course, the question of “Don’t these people have jobs they should be at?” was answered by the fact that it appeared that there was an AARP convention going on in the store.
It was like someone had planted old people seeds in rows like corn, particularly given that they all seemed to be rooted to the spot, turning the place into some sort of septuagenarian obstacle course.
I just don’t understand why people who are actively shrinking feel the need to take up as much space as possible, with their carts turned sideways in the middle of an aisle while standing there unmoving, as if they were all Lot’s wife and had just turned to look back on the wicked city and been stricken by the wrath of God.
It really shouldn’t take that long to pick out which can of tomato soup you’re going to buy, and if you’d turn up your hearing aid you might hear the young whippersnapper saying, “Excuse me” as he tries to maneuver around your Geritol-laden cart.
(Do they even make Geritol anymore?)
I understand that you’re old (and American) and that this gives you a sense of entitlement, but I have to say that, now that medical science and modern hygienic practices have pretty effectively wiped out things like cholera and small pox, making it to an advanced age isn’t quite the accomplishment it once was.
Maybe you fought in a war and think that gives you special permission to be completely inconsiderate. Well, I appreciate your efforts to defend freedom, and make the world a better place for future generations, and I hope you had a nice Veterans Day, but you might consider doing something to protect the freedom of future generations to get access to the cheese in the dairy aisle.
At the very least, I would ask that you actually acknowledge the fact that you’re in the way. I mean, everyone is in someone’s way sometimes, but even if you’re not particularly nimble, you can try to keep that to a minimum and recognize that other people – particularly the ones who are politely saying “Excuse me” – have just as much right to buy eggs as you do, and there’s no need for you to willfully block their access to them.
And the fact is that I wouldn’t be quite so bothered by this lack of consideration if old people weren’t constantly complaining about how rude and impolite younger people are. During one of the dozen or so times in the course of a day that you ask, “Whatever happened to common courtesy?” I want you to remember what the answer to that question is: you did. You happened to it.
Consider the fact that the young man ahead of me who failed to master the art of buying produce turned to me and everyone else in line and apologized for causing a delay.
That’s considerably more courtesy than I got from the old lady who jammed her bony shoulder into my back as she pushed her way past me while I was loading my groceries onto the belt.
For those who haven’t read it – which is pretty much all of you – the basic concept is as follows:
A group of humans travel across interstellar distances to colonize another world.
The world is a rather hostile place, with several nasty indigenous creatures that roughly correspond to demons and spirits from human mythology – in fact, many of the creatures deliberately take on these forms, which they have pulled from the minds of the intruding humans – so in order to properly settle the world, the colonists cultivate superhuman attributes and develop advanced technologies to aid them. After years of warfare, the world is soon properly subjugated and the real work of colonization – namely having kids and lots of them – gets underway.
Among the advanced technologies the colonists possess are the ability to artificially grow cloned bodies and a technique that allows them to transfer consciousness from one body to another. Barring any accidents that might prevent someone from being transferred into a healthy new body prior to the death of the old one, this “reincarnation” technology effectively allows for immortality.
As new generations are born and the original colonists further develop their superhuman attributes the question of who gets to take advantage of this technology becomes a divisive one. The majority of the colonists believe that it should not be shared with their descendants, the common rabble who are spreading out across the world and living at subsistence levels. A vocal minority hews to a more egalitarian ideal and feels that the technology should be shared with everyone equally.
This division leads one of the First, as the original colonists are known, to take his leave of his fellows and settle off in distant lands. This person is named Sam, and was one of the greatest heroes of the wars against the natives, his ability to manipulate electromagnetic fields serving as a perfect weapon against the disembodied sentient energy beings known as the Rakasha.
Eventually, after living to a ripe old age, Sam decides it’s time to pick out a new body, and makes his way back to the Celestial City, the home of the First.
Along the way, Sam learns that things have gotten even worse than they had been when he left. The First are no longer merely content to lord over their children as simple human masters, they have designated themselves as gods, patterning themselves after the Hindu pantheon. Further, they have devices that allow them to read human memories and they use these readings to judge anyone seeking to be reincarnated, evaluating their Karma to determine what sort of new body – if any – said supplicant will receive.
Like any commodity, Karma, Sam learns, can be bought, as is evidenced by the devices he refers to as “Pray-o-Mats” located at the front of the temples erected in honor of the “gods.” Supplicants are able to purchase tokens, which, when deposited into the Pray-o-Mats can help to ameliorate their Karmic burden.
Intrigued by this, Sam gets in line and begins asking one of the pilgrims questions about the workings of the Pray-o-Mat. Eventually, frustrated by the questions of this ignorant savage, the pilgrim turns to Sam and says, “Perhaps ‘twere better that you make prayer in the old way and give the donation directly into the hands of the priests.”
I apologize for the wordiness of my little recap, but I needed to give you the context before mentioning that this particular scene came to mind today when I was at the grocery store in line at the self-checkout behind someone who couldn’t figure out how to ring up the produce he was buying.
To be fair, I can’t really blame him for opting to use the self-checkout, given how packed the place was, but honestly, it probably would have been faster for him – and everyone behind him – if he’d just gotten into the regular line and did it the old-fashioned way.
Given that Thanksgiving is coming, I expected the store to be busier than usual, but I wasn’t prepared for how packed it was at noon on a Monday.
Of course, the question of “Don’t these people have jobs they should be at?” was answered by the fact that it appeared that there was an AARP convention going on in the store.
It was like someone had planted old people seeds in rows like corn, particularly given that they all seemed to be rooted to the spot, turning the place into some sort of septuagenarian obstacle course.
I just don’t understand why people who are actively shrinking feel the need to take up as much space as possible, with their carts turned sideways in the middle of an aisle while standing there unmoving, as if they were all Lot’s wife and had just turned to look back on the wicked city and been stricken by the wrath of God.
It really shouldn’t take that long to pick out which can of tomato soup you’re going to buy, and if you’d turn up your hearing aid you might hear the young whippersnapper saying, “Excuse me” as he tries to maneuver around your Geritol-laden cart.
(Do they even make Geritol anymore?)
I understand that you’re old (and American) and that this gives you a sense of entitlement, but I have to say that, now that medical science and modern hygienic practices have pretty effectively wiped out things like cholera and small pox, making it to an advanced age isn’t quite the accomplishment it once was.
Maybe you fought in a war and think that gives you special permission to be completely inconsiderate. Well, I appreciate your efforts to defend freedom, and make the world a better place for future generations, and I hope you had a nice Veterans Day, but you might consider doing something to protect the freedom of future generations to get access to the cheese in the dairy aisle.
At the very least, I would ask that you actually acknowledge the fact that you’re in the way. I mean, everyone is in someone’s way sometimes, but even if you’re not particularly nimble, you can try to keep that to a minimum and recognize that other people – particularly the ones who are politely saying “Excuse me” – have just as much right to buy eggs as you do, and there’s no need for you to willfully block their access to them.
And the fact is that I wouldn’t be quite so bothered by this lack of consideration if old people weren’t constantly complaining about how rude and impolite younger people are. During one of the dozen or so times in the course of a day that you ask, “Whatever happened to common courtesy?” I want you to remember what the answer to that question is: you did. You happened to it.
Consider the fact that the young man ahead of me who failed to master the art of buying produce turned to me and everyone else in line and apologized for causing a delay.
That’s considerably more courtesy than I got from the old lady who jammed her bony shoulder into my back as she pushed her way past me while I was loading my groceries onto the belt.
I Have To Admit, I'd Probably Buy "Watchmen Babies"
Here's Alan Moore (along with Art Spiegelman, and Dan Clowes) on The Simpsons:
If anyone could write an interesting story about a non-radioactive, heroin-addicted jazz critic, it'd be Alan.
It was an all-around good episode from a comic book geek perspective, even apart from the appearances by Alan and the others. Lots of geeky references.
This episode marked the second time in one day that Alan made me laugh, with the first being with this passage from The Black Dossier in a segment detailing the life of a transgendered immortal:
Male once more, I returned to Rome in 70 BC, my fling with its founders now forgotten. Embroiled in slave revolts, I escaped punishment by simply declaring "I'm Vito," everyone else apparently being named "Spartacus."
Fellow author and friend of Alan Neil Gaiman was offered the opportunity to also appear on an episode of The Simpsons by creator Matt Groening. Neil declined, stating that he'd much rather appear as a head in a jar on Futurama. Groening, who is bringing Futurama back for a series of direct-to-DVD movies (which will air as episodes on Comedy Central) told him, "That can be arranged."
If anyone could write an interesting story about a non-radioactive, heroin-addicted jazz critic, it'd be Alan.
It was an all-around good episode from a comic book geek perspective, even apart from the appearances by Alan and the others. Lots of geeky references.
This episode marked the second time in one day that Alan made me laugh, with the first being with this passage from The Black Dossier in a segment detailing the life of a transgendered immortal:
Male once more, I returned to Rome in 70 BC, my fling with its founders now forgotten. Embroiled in slave revolts, I escaped punishment by simply declaring "I'm Vito," everyone else apparently being named "Spartacus."
Fellow author and friend of Alan Neil Gaiman was offered the opportunity to also appear on an episode of The Simpsons by creator Matt Groening. Neil declined, stating that he'd much rather appear as a head in a jar on Futurama. Groening, who is bringing Futurama back for a series of direct-to-DVD movies (which will air as episodes on Comedy Central) told him, "That can be arranged."
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Well THAT Perked Me Up!
Tonight's episode of The Simpsons is the one in which Alan Moore is guest-starring as himself!
On Pointlessness
One of the many advantages of no longer drinking – such as not ending up in jail or discovering that I need to apologize to someone for doing/saying something that I don’t remember doing/saying – is that I don’t have to wake up in the morning (or afternoon, as was more often the case) with a hangover.
At least, that’s been my experience for the past seven years, until today, when I woke up feeling hungover with a raging case of the Zacklies.
(For the uninitiated, “the Zacklies” is the term used to describe the experience of waking up and finding that your mouth tastes zackly like your ass.)
What’s up with that? Did someone sneak into my house and inject me with booze while I was asleep? It’s like when I lived in the dorm and my suitemates would smoke pot in the shared bathroom, causing the smoke to filter into my room and resulting in me waking up feeling vaguely buzzed with red eyes and a sore throat, so I was essentially paying for a crime I didn’t commit.
In any case, waking up with an unearned hangover didn’t exactly work wonders for my motivation.
One of the problems I’ve been running into in terms of motivation is that now when I have so much free time there are so many things I could be doing with the time.
Should I work on the Heroic Portraits redesign, and if so, what aspect should I work on? The site layout? The content for the site?
Or should I work on some pictures that I can turn into products on Zazzle?
What about writing a Threshold entry? Or maybe a short story, or a novel? Maybe an article for some online or old media publication? What about those screenplay ideas that have been kicking around in my head? Maybe write up some of those comic book scripts that I’ve come up with? What about one of the many Web comic ideas I have?
Or how about some art for art’s sake? Couldn’t I do some work on that picture of Scarlett Johansson, or Kelly Brook, or Jessica Alba, or any of the dozens of others I’ve been meaning to get to or to finish?
With all of these options available the key would seem to lie in prioritizing, but the only problem is that it’s impossible to prioritize when every available option seems equally pointless.
Heroic Portraits has been up for over a year and a half without generating any real interest from anyone. Is a redesign really going to make a difference? Do I even really want it to make a difference? When I can’t even make a Portrait that satisfies someone who’s getting it for free, what makes me think that I’d be able to do so for someone who’s actually paying for it?
I’ve been creating products on Zazzle for over four years and in that time have sold two, for a whopping total of $3.80. Working to create more of the same doesn’t really strike me as a worthwhile investment of time.
Don’t even get me started on the pointlessness of writing this blog, devoid as it is of celebrity bra sizes, Bikini Cavegirl downloads, or any information about Giada’s height (or pictures of her nipples).
As for all the rest of it, honestly, who cares? I haven’t gotten enough rejection slips over the years to realize that no one is interested in anything I have to say?
(And yes, I do realize that most of the handful of you who are actually reading this do, in fact, care, and I appreciate it and don’t mean to come off as ungrateful, but so far as I know, none of you is an editor or publisher or in any sort of position to provide me with financial motivation.)
Obviously my number one priority right now is finding a job, and that’s not exactly going swimmingly, which can’t help but be discouraging in a job market as “hot” as that of Northern Virginia.
*Sigh*
So yeah, motivation is at a low ebb. If I’m ultimately just going to be wasting my time anyway, why invest a bunch of effort into it when I can much more easily do nothing?
I know, I know; I have to keep plugging away regardless, for whatever reason, but my point is that there are some major obstacles to overcome in my efforts to get motivated.
Of course it doesn’t help that I’m naturally inclined towards procrastination. laziness, and time-wasting.
And where did that come from anyway? I mean, I exhibit so many other stereotypical Finnish traits, so how did I avoid the whole “hard-working” thing? And it’s not like I didn’t have plenty of positive role models in that regard in my life. My dad was like some unstoppable juggernaut when it came to work, and my mom always kept busy. So what the hell? Am I some sort of mutant?
Interestingly enough, despite all of this, I honestly haven’t been even slightly tempted to take a drink. In fact, I can’t think of a time in my adult life in which I’ve been so thoroughly disinclined to do so.
And yet, here I am, still shaking off the effects of what feels like a monster hangover.
I suppose I could just be plain old sick, but even that is almost as unheard of in my life as a hangover.
Anyway, I don’t want this to sound like some cry for help or anything like that. It’s just been a shitty day in a string of shitty days, and I’m sure my motivation will be back up to its usual abysmal levels tomorrow.
And in the meantime, I actually did, finally, prioritize and pick a pointless activity to engage in. Aren’t you glad?
At least, that’s been my experience for the past seven years, until today, when I woke up feeling hungover with a raging case of the Zacklies.
(For the uninitiated, “the Zacklies” is the term used to describe the experience of waking up and finding that your mouth tastes zackly like your ass.)
What’s up with that? Did someone sneak into my house and inject me with booze while I was asleep? It’s like when I lived in the dorm and my suitemates would smoke pot in the shared bathroom, causing the smoke to filter into my room and resulting in me waking up feeling vaguely buzzed with red eyes and a sore throat, so I was essentially paying for a crime I didn’t commit.
In any case, waking up with an unearned hangover didn’t exactly work wonders for my motivation.
One of the problems I’ve been running into in terms of motivation is that now when I have so much free time there are so many things I could be doing with the time.
Should I work on the Heroic Portraits redesign, and if so, what aspect should I work on? The site layout? The content for the site?
Or should I work on some pictures that I can turn into products on Zazzle?
What about writing a Threshold entry? Or maybe a short story, or a novel? Maybe an article for some online or old media publication? What about those screenplay ideas that have been kicking around in my head? Maybe write up some of those comic book scripts that I’ve come up with? What about one of the many Web comic ideas I have?
Or how about some art for art’s sake? Couldn’t I do some work on that picture of Scarlett Johansson, or Kelly Brook, or Jessica Alba, or any of the dozens of others I’ve been meaning to get to or to finish?
With all of these options available the key would seem to lie in prioritizing, but the only problem is that it’s impossible to prioritize when every available option seems equally pointless.
Heroic Portraits has been up for over a year and a half without generating any real interest from anyone. Is a redesign really going to make a difference? Do I even really want it to make a difference? When I can’t even make a Portrait that satisfies someone who’s getting it for free, what makes me think that I’d be able to do so for someone who’s actually paying for it?
I’ve been creating products on Zazzle for over four years and in that time have sold two, for a whopping total of $3.80. Working to create more of the same doesn’t really strike me as a worthwhile investment of time.
Don’t even get me started on the pointlessness of writing this blog, devoid as it is of celebrity bra sizes, Bikini Cavegirl downloads, or any information about Giada’s height (or pictures of her nipples).
As for all the rest of it, honestly, who cares? I haven’t gotten enough rejection slips over the years to realize that no one is interested in anything I have to say?
(And yes, I do realize that most of the handful of you who are actually reading this do, in fact, care, and I appreciate it and don’t mean to come off as ungrateful, but so far as I know, none of you is an editor or publisher or in any sort of position to provide me with financial motivation.)
Obviously my number one priority right now is finding a job, and that’s not exactly going swimmingly, which can’t help but be discouraging in a job market as “hot” as that of Northern Virginia.
*Sigh*
So yeah, motivation is at a low ebb. If I’m ultimately just going to be wasting my time anyway, why invest a bunch of effort into it when I can much more easily do nothing?
I know, I know; I have to keep plugging away regardless, for whatever reason, but my point is that there are some major obstacles to overcome in my efforts to get motivated.
Of course it doesn’t help that I’m naturally inclined towards procrastination. laziness, and time-wasting.
And where did that come from anyway? I mean, I exhibit so many other stereotypical Finnish traits, so how did I avoid the whole “hard-working” thing? And it’s not like I didn’t have plenty of positive role models in that regard in my life. My dad was like some unstoppable juggernaut when it came to work, and my mom always kept busy. So what the hell? Am I some sort of mutant?
Interestingly enough, despite all of this, I honestly haven’t been even slightly tempted to take a drink. In fact, I can’t think of a time in my adult life in which I’ve been so thoroughly disinclined to do so.
And yet, here I am, still shaking off the effects of what feels like a monster hangover.
I suppose I could just be plain old sick, but even that is almost as unheard of in my life as a hangover.
Anyway, I don’t want this to sound like some cry for help or anything like that. It’s just been a shitty day in a string of shitty days, and I’m sure my motivation will be back up to its usual abysmal levels tomorrow.
And in the meantime, I actually did, finally, prioritize and pick a pointless activity to engage in. Aren’t you glad?
Keyword Kraziness: You Know Google Isn't A Wish-Granting Genie, Right?
A recent search string:
i want to fuck tanya memme
I can't say that I blame you, but a search engine isn't really going to help you achieve that goal.
i want to fuck tanya memme
I can't say that I blame you, but a search engine isn't really going to help you achieve that goal.
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