This is Why I Wouldn't Want Cormac McCarthy as my Dad

Every kid imagines what life would be like if their parents had had a cooler job. The thrill of going to school among all the other kids, themselves the spawn of accountants, secretaries, and garbage men, and telling them all about how cool it is to have a mom or dad who is a rock star, astronaut, or motorcycle stuntman. Among the lists of “Most Desired Parental Careers (for Bragging Rights)”, novelist doesn’t appear that often, and believe me, there is a reason. Cormac McCarthy is that reason.

For those of you not familiar, McCarthy is a current, American novelist whose works elicit accolades from critics and tears of a deeply profound fear and sadness from people with souls. Among his best known books are No Country for Old Men, with its crazy assasins and depressed Tommy Lee Joneses; Blood Meridian, chock full of crazy, pedophile, psycho-cowboys; and The Road a delightful romp across an ashen post apocalyptic wasteland speckled with bouts of crazy cannibalism. What does this have to do with kids? He dedicated The Road to his young son, saying it was inspired by a road trip they took together. Now, either that was a particularly messed up vacation, or the McCarthy family’s “father son bonding time” is way different than mine. I’m not saying worse, just way, way different. Given the sparse details he’s told us, the audience, about this vacation, and other fun McCarthy family adventures, we’ll just have to use our imaginations to fill in the blanks. Thus, I give you:
The McCarthy Family Bonding Time…

…On a Road Trip!
Johnny McCarthy: “Dad, are we there yet?”

Cormac McCarthy: “That bored already? I have an idea, let’s play a game of make believe!”
Johnny: “Please, no! I take it back!”
Cormac: “Too late! Imagine this: the sky is raining ash, there’s no sunlight anywhere, and look, those hills are on fire.”

In other words, Toy Story 3.

Wife: “Honey, can’t we make believe something a little nicer?”
Cormac: “Quiet, sweetie, you committed suicide years ago. Now just imagine this, son: we’re traveling down this very same highway, but we’re not in a car anymore. We’re on foot. Every step of the way, we’re heading to an ultimately hopeless destination. Can you feel it? Can you feel the existential dread creeping up on you?”

Johnny: “Is this about me asking if we’re there yet? Look, I get it now the question is annoying. There’s a better way to let me know that.”
Cormac (coughing into a handkerchief, pulls it away to reveal blood.)
Johnny (taking the handkerchief): “Is this fake blood? Do you carry fake, pre-bloodied handkerchiefs just to foreshadow your own fictitious death?!”
Cormac: “You’re not supposed to know about that!”
Johnny: “About the handkerchief trick?”
Cormac: “Alright, it’s true: I’m dying. I wasn’t going to tell you. I was just going to drop dead at the most poignant moment.”
Johnny: “Dad, can we please just play 20 Questions, or road trip bingo, or the Quiet Game, or something?”

Cormac: “No, we can’t. And from now on, don’t call me dad, just call me The Man. I’ll call you The Boy.”
Johnny: “Umm… No.”
Cormac (swerving car wildly): “Look out! Murderous cannibals!”

…On Bring a Parent to School Day!
Teacher: “Okay class, Johnny brought his dad to school today. His dad’s a novelist. Does anyone have any questions for Mr. McCarthy?”
Little Boy: “What do you write about? Ninjas? Superheroes?”
Little Girl: “Vampires and werewolves?”
Cormac: “Oh, nothing so juvenile. I write about our post modern feelings of existential dread brought on by life in this failing, crushing modern society.”

Little Girl: “Do they have a happy ending?”
Cormac: “Ha! Not a one. They normally end with death. Lots of death. You can’t be a good author if you don’t write about death, like, all the time.”
Little Girl: “Doesn’t reading about all that death make people sad?”
Cormac: “I think my Pulitzer can answer that.”
Little Boy: “What are your books like?”
Cormac: “They’re long. And they’re filled with death. And I don’t use punctuation.”
Little Boy: “I like punctuation. I like exclamation marks!”
Cormac: “Punctuation is for sissy writers who’d rather write clearly and with well defined dialogue than write about gritty and real things, like death.”
Little Girl: “My teacher says we have to use punctuation, because it makes it easy for people to read what we’re saying.”

Cormac: “I think my Pulitzer can answer that.”
(Pause)
Cormac: “Does anyone want to hear me read an excerpt from my latest book?”
(5 minutes later, everyone is bawling.)
Johnny: “Yes, Mrs. Henderson, I’m sorry. Next year I’ll just bring my mom.”
Cormac: “I don’t see what’s wrong with a little depression in the classroom.”
Johnny: “Dad, you’re embarrassing me.”

…While Having a Heartfelt Discussion on Girl Problems!
Johnny: “Dad, do you think you could help me? I’ve been having some problems at school.”
Cormac: “Murderous cannibals?!”

Johnny: “What? Jeez, no. Look, I can come back at another time.”
Cormac: “No, it’s okay, son. You know I’m always here to listen to your expressions of existential dread.”
Johnny: “No, wait, they’re not existential, not everything has to be existential.”
Cormac: “Son, when you’ve been around as long as I have, everything is existential.”
Johnny: “I don’t even know what that… It’s about a girl, okay!”
Cormac: “What kind of girl?”
Johnny: “Well, she’s in my art class, and she has blue eyes, and she smells pretty, and I want to ask her to the dance, but I’m not sure she likes me back.”
Cormac: “Well, what you need is a romantic gesture.”
Johnny: “Any ideas?”
Cormac: “Well, cowboys are always good. And running away to Mexico is also a popular choice.”
Johnny: “How do I use that?”
Cormac: “Write her a love letter. Do something romantic, like dropping it off in her locker with a flower, and telling her to meet you somewhere with the flower if she’s interested, and you’ll be wearing something to reveal yourself, like a cowboy hat.”
Johnny: “That actually sounds pretty good.”
Cormac: “Yes, and use plenty of cowboy imagery to reinforce the image she’ll see later, and maybe talk about running away to Mexico together.”
Johnny: “Well, that seems a little drastic…”
Cormac: “And make sure that you have a gang going with you to Mexico. Like, some kind of best friend who’s been with you your whole life, and you’ve got that brother relationship kind of thing down, but humanly imperfect too, like you’d leave him behind if it meant ending up with this girl of yours.”
Johnny: “Wait, this is getting less helpful…”
Cormac (beginning to type furiously at his typewriter): “And then there has to be this one, crazy guy who you pick up on the way, and who’s obviously lying the whole time, but for some reason you trust him anyway and always pick up after his messes. You know, eccentric and untrustworthy, and liable to hurt you guys all the time you help him out. The audiences really love that kind of guy.”
Johnny: “What audiences? I thought this was about my school dance.”
Cormac (typing, typing, typing): “And of course, he does turn out to ruin stuff for you. Like, he does something illegal, and then you get roped into it too, and then they kill him, and then they’re probably going to kill you too, and then your girlfriend gets her family to help you out of prison, but they don’t like you, and then they make her promise to stay away from you if they help you out of prison, and she makes the promise to save you, and then when you’re out you ask her to marry you, but then, against all romantic conventions, she does keep her end of the promise and doesn’t marry you, and then you go off and do something related to the dead crazy guy, which is left open, just to make an otherwise unsatisfying ending vaguely reflective.”
Johnny: “You’re not helping my problem with the girl at school.”
Cormac: “And if there’s any dialogue, make sure you never use quotation marks.”
Johnny: “What do you have against quotation marks? This is exactly why I didn’t want to ask you in the first place.” (storms out)

“Quotation marks killed my parents!”

Cormac: (pause) “Johnny!” (pause) “Johnny!”
Johnny (sticking his head back in the room, sighing): “What?”
Cormac: “It’s okay if you feel an overwhelming sense of ennui.”
Johnny: “Dad!”

Boy, that sounds like a riot. You know, I bet I could get a TV deal out of this if I just slap on a laugh track and ship if off to CBS.

Time to Take a Break

A wise old fortune cookie once told me, “If you love something let it go. If it returns, it’s yours forever, if it doesn’t it was never yours to begin with.” Wise words indeed, but I’ve been thinking recently that this should start applying to things we don’t love so very much; things we have perhaps gotten a little bit sick of. I propose that we, as a world, just stop doing certain things for a while, let them sit, and when the time comes (believe me, we’ll all just know) let them start up on their own again. If these things are truly something to have around, they’ll crop back up eventually, and our love and appreciation for them will have grown exponentially during the time they were away, something about absence and hearts and fodder (again, fortune cookie). If everyone forgets about them during the break, and no one ever brings them up again, then we’ll be able to congratulate ourselves on dodging a societal bullet and never have to deal with it again (much like what I hoped would happen every summer break from school, although this idea never seemed to have caught on.)

This may sound like pretty out there notion, but let me assure you there is a precedent to this sort of thing. Take a look back at Romantic Comedies. They hit a heyday in the times of early cinema, but after the Audrey Hepburn years ended in the early 60’s, they just kind of drifted off the map and everyone forgot all about them. The genre had run out of steam, all the stories had been done and all the clichés had become too commonplace; everyone was bored of Romantic Comedies. So humanity did itself a favor, and just stopped making them. It was a nice long break from the French film Irma La Douce in 1963 until someone decided to make another major Rom-Com, when Woody Allen made Annie Hall in 1977. His new and innovative take on the genre revitalized the public’s interest in Romantic Comedies, paving the way for Matthew McConaughey.

Woody Allen’s fault.

My point is, this has happened before, albeit by accident. What’s to stop us from joining together as a global community, and doing this kind of thing on purpose for the benefit of all mankind? So let’s just take a break from things like:

Romantic Comedies: Boy howdy, what ever were we thinking bringing these things back? I mean, I suppose the genre has its merits when it’s starring the likes of Audrey Hepburn, or even later generations actresses like Goldie Hawn, but it has once again reached a saturation point well beyond the time when we should have stopped making these things. Look at this list of the top examples of Romantic Comedies on Wikipedia. You can see that clear break between 1963 and 1977, but even more importantly, compare the size of the lists before and after the break. Yes, Woody Allen decided the world needed to bring back the Romantic Comedy, but I’m not sure even he knew the floodgates he was opening. Not only are the plots tired and rehashed, but the genre is also a prime breeding grounds of heinous criminal careers like the aforementioned McConaughey and Dane Cook (although, he also has benefited from the “dysfunctional family on vacation in a Vermont cabin” genre , one which is also desperately need in a semi-permanent break). So, it’s time to give ourselves a break and stop this madness for now, or possibly forever.

The “F” Word: Seriously guys, this is one that has gone far enough. Aside from pronouns, articles, and conjunctions, can you think of a single word that pops up with the frequency of the “F” word. One of the first rules of writing is to refrain, as much as possible, from using words like “thing” and “it”, because they are purposefully vague and end up sounding like filler words for when we can’t think of anything else. The “F” word is exactly that as an adjective, except it has become accepted and even encouraged. For instance, if a movie is rated PG-13, it’s merely a commercial project pandering to the lowest common denominator. If you toss in the “F” word enough, bumping it up to an “R” rating, it’s to be taken seriously as an Oscar contender. It’s a vague, often meaningless word, made inane by its overuse and overdependence. It’s barely even a foul word any more, because it’s barely even a word anymore. With such a Brobdignagian vocabulary at our disposal, we can come up with better adjectives for our everyday use, and that is why we should all just take a break from this word, for now, and possibly forever.

Autobiographies: I don’t have that much of a problem with autobiographies themselves, but their biggest problem also stems from their biggest strength: they’re a biography written by the person they’re about. The problem therein is that the person pretty much has to be alive to write it, and right now there’s really no one alive that has led a life that worthy of a biography.

The progress of autobiography readability over time.

The lack of biographable people combined with the public’s continued acceptance of autobiographies still being published has led the massive, dirty autobiography industry to horrible, horrible crimes. Don’t believe me? Three words: “Miles to Go”. And since those three words were so popular, I’m going to revise that to add another two words: “Extended Edition”. Also, since the only thing a person needs in order to be worthy of an autobiography is a pun based title describing the most frequent hardship overcome in their life, this is one of the few genres of literature, where you can actually judge the books by their cover. For this reason, we really have to take a break from this genre of books for now, or possibly forever.

Comic Book Deaths: Okay, this is a big one. This is a problem that has been going on so long that it has its own Wikipedia page. Once people said, “No one stays dead except Bucky, Jason Todd and Uncle Ben”, but it has become so all encompassing that it has been revised to leave out two thirds of its own original exceptions. The problem is not necessarily it’s own impermanence, but the fact that when it is impermanent it means it shouldn’t have been done in the first place. I have multiple t-shirts with Aquaman on them, and yet someone thought it was a good idea to kill him. When someone decides to bring him back to life, undoing a mistake that should never have been made, the act of solution adds to the ridiculousness of a situation. That is the problem. The idea of a comic book character dying is often employed as a cheap tactic for dramatic effect, emotional heart string tugging, or possibly just shock value. But all of these things rely on the rarity and permanence of the trope, and without them it is useless, thus it continues to exist without any real purpose. My suggestion serves two purposes; it lets us take a break from having to endure these mistakes in writing, and also it allows the trope to rest and regain its meaning for potential later use. I hereby challenge DC, Marvel, and everyone else to set aside a lengthy period of time to just not kill anyone. No casualties, no cannon fodder, no red shirts, no women in refrigerators. Just have everybody live for a while year or so, and see what we think at that point. You might find that we only want to pause this trope for now, or possibly forever.

Vampires: Long time coming. On the one hand, they’re already pretty overdone. But look deeper at what we, as a civilization, are doing with vampires right now. They pretty much fall into three categories: either they’re gory slasher villains, or they’re sexy, sexy bad boys, or they sparkle. It’s those three choices, or nothing.

As a fourth choice, they can sell breakfast cereal.

With all the things you could do with vampires, from a cutting commentary on the members of society who figuratively drink the blood of the innocent all the way to Blacula, the only thing we have to offer right now is the most basic array of sex, violence, or sparkles. No range, no variety, nothing deeper, just those three things. The problem isn’t that we’ve told all the tales there are to tell about vampires, it’s that we’re limiting ourselves to the best portrayals a Middle School mind could come up with. This is why we need to take a break from vampires, for now, or possibly forever.

Reality TV: No explanation needed, just take a break from this. Forever. Period.

More Like a Giant Lie!

Ladies and gentlemen, I am hopping mad right now. In my wrath, I am here to call out the scientific community for an affront that has plagued me and other likeminded people for some time now. I am here to accuse the arrogant scientists the world over for a crime against humanity I like to call “false identifying”. There have been several examples of this over the years, but the straw that broke the camel’s back takes the form of the recently discovered Giant Penguin. Or, more accurately, the so-called “Giant” penguin.

Here I am, surfing the great expanse of the internet, when I see one of the most searched topics for the day is something called the “giant penguin”. You can only imagine the excitement I exuded as I giddily clicked the link, hoping to see some sort of feathered behemoth, presumably attacking Tokyo. I was immediately, and not for the first time, disappointed. The giant in question was merely the fossilized remains of a bird that was approximately 5 feet tall.

Artist's Impression

Okay, fine, I get it; that is big for a bird. The average bird is often less than a foot long, and rarely weighs more than a few ounces. Most modern day penguins are rather small, with the largest species being the Emperor Penguin, which reaches a height just around 2 feet tall. I understand that for a bird to waddle around at about my height, that’s pretty impressive. But do we have to misleadingly refer to it as a giant? I don’t consider anything at 5 feet tall “giant”, and if it is, then I get to be a giant too. Giant is not “relative”; giant is concrete. A moth cannot be called giant if it’s 2 feet wide as opposed to 2 inches, it’s giant if it’s the size of Mothra. Can we just be honest and call it a Large Penguin, or a Jumbo Penguin, or a Rather Big Penguin, or a Penguin of Unusual Size? Big Bird is roughly twice my height, and we don’t even call him giant, we just call him “big”.

Artist's Impression

All this hubbub reminds me of one of my earliest childhood obsessions, and that was with the Giant Squid. For years, my young mind was filled with the tantalizing image of this mysterious, effervescent entity, this monstrous denizen of the deep. They called it giant, that meant it had to be huge! It had to be a squid the size of the Empire State Building! It was so cool, and the very fact that no one had ever seen live one at the time (or at least seen one and lived to tell the tale) simply added to the intrigue of this oh so rare giant. I marveled at this leviathan of the frozen deep for years and years until I made the relatively recent discovery that, guess what, is only a measly 13 feet, and most of that is tentacle length. What happened to the squid so big that in one gulp it could eat James Mason’s submarine? This massive disappointment in relative size of a mythical mollusk is probably the single greatest hardship I have ever faced in my life.

I thought I had learned my lesson. I thought that cynicism had taken its hold and would prevent me from ever being hurt again by the thoughtless sensationalism rampant in the animal naming industry. And yet here, again, I was misled by a beastly imaginative name, only to be abandoned at the threshold of reality. Bitterly disappointed, I am left to rely on my imagination to fulfill the broken promises I was tricked into believing by the scientific community, the recesses of my mind being the only sanctuary where I can truly find that giant penguin I was so desperately hoping for.

Artist's Impression

How many more generations are going to have go through what I went through. How many more dreams are going to be crushed because these scientists have to fulfill their own twisted need to over emphasize? From now on, let’s just make it a rule to only name something giant if it’s truly giant, and if it’s not giant, just call it “great big” or something. C’mon. We have a giant language, with plenty of synonyms for “big”. I’m sure you can find something that won’t break my heart.

¿Qué, Qué, Qué?

I just don’t seem to have a good track record with staying one race, do I?

Ladies and gentlemen, I come before you shocked, outraged, and mortified after having learned a terrible lesson, one I have learned firsthand. Racism’s ugly (splotchy, acne laden, and prematurely gray) head has reared itself once more in this supposedly forward thinking country, and I have experienced this firsthand. Yes, I have felt the venomous sting of racism. Firsthand! The situation has become so traumatizing that the details of the… incident have grown fuzzy. I will try to relate it as best as I can recall. I was sitting at my desk, taking these accursed customer service calls. As per usual, I got one. It didn’t take long for the conversation to become heated (as customer service calls are wont to do). As the customer kept asking me to do more and more for him, and I kept insisting that (as a worthless peon) I literally could not do any of the things he was asking for, he finally snapped, “you {expletive} wetback; go back to your own country!” Then the line clicked off.

I sat there stunned. After hearing what I had, various emotions stirred within my heart. First and foremost, confusion. In case you hadn’t noticed, I am white. Really, just about as white as can be. I come from along line of Danish and Irish folks. I get sunburn from nightlights. I listen to Arcade Fire. I write a blog. On a scale of 1 to 10, 1 being Buddy Holly and 10 being Danny Trejo, I rank about a 2.5.

Although I'm pretty certain I'm more genuinely Mexican than Carlos Mencia.

And I was talking in my normal voice, which includes a verbosity unmistakable for the grammatically obsessed, language arts teacher’s pet I am. I don’t sound the vaguest bit foreign, and if I tried to do a Mexican accent, it would come off as authentic as the Frito Bandito. For me to wonder how on earth this narrow minded fellow confused my voice with that of a migrant worker is only reasonable.

On a related note, I know who I'm going as at my next costume party.

Secondly, I felt confused again. Going strictly by racial stereotypes, aren’t call center employees supposed to be Indian? If I put too many jalapeños in his pico de gallo while working the dinner rush at El Fenix, I could understand getting told to get back to my own country. If I’m calling him over the cable bill and I sound like I might not be from around here, I expect to get a complaint about outsourcing

Coming this fall to NBC!

Finally, I became righteously indignant. How dare he judge me. I braved drowning and dehydration in my quest to get here. I have taken the lowliest job on this totem pole to scrimp and save and earn a living for my impoverished family, while he sits on his butt and watches Jersey Shore until the company disconnects him for non pay. And when that happens, I’m the one who gets to take his anger, I’m his verbal punching bag, and all in the name of braving hardships and breaking my back for a better life for my family. What could be more American than that? You say to get to my own country, well I from what I see, I may not be a legal citizen but this is my country! Also, I am a legal citizen, and this is literally my country.

Although, when you look closer at all the things I think are cool…

...Wait a minute...

Okay, from now on guys, I am Mexican.

Salt: A Better Defense

As with all things that taste good but just might kill you, salt appears to be coming under fire. It was one thing with the crusades against MSG, coconut oil, and transfats; most people don’t know what those are exactly, but they sound like they could be dangerous, so we might as well be rid of them, even if it changes the face of delicious food as we know it.

Can you still call it "Original Recipe" if it's missing my precious transfats?

But this time around, it’s different. This is salt we’re talking about. This is the most important spice in the history of spices, and that includes ones we have to mine from other planets. This is an ingredient that ran the world for hundreds of years, started and ended countless wars, and the control of which could raise and topple empires. This is the magical element that can make water boil and terrible food taste vaguely edible. This is the default flavor of most breakfast items at restaurants. This is the substance whose grains make us so much more level headed in the face of rumors. This is the stuff that makes aliens learn to shapeshift just to kill us for it. This is the only flavoring material I know of to get its own movie deal.

Who knew flavor was so sexy?

My point is, salt is so great the world will be jumping to its defense the moment there’s even the slightest detraction brought to its name, right? Surely the Salt Institute, the world’s foremost salt advocate, could come up with legitimate defenses in their sleep over this, right?

Well, recent appearances indicate otherwise. With thousands of years of human history screaming about how great salt is, the best defenses they’ve come up with is liberal use of the term “food police” (said while hoping the ghost of George Orwell doesn’t sue them for criminally lame attempts at villainizing someone) and staunch denial that too much of a good thing results in anything remotely negative, even if that good thing is made by combining two horrifyingly poisonous materials. This level of defense is embarrassing, and as a result, I propose a simple campaign to restore the good name of salt.

Namely, just point out the obvious.

Ladies and gentlemen, you already know that most things that taste good aren’t healthy for you, and even the ones that are fine are not meant to be consumed in Brobdignagian levels. That said, this is still salt we’re talking about. I mean seriously, it’s so delicious. It goes on anything, it makes everything better, and let’s face it, eggs would be just inedible otherwise. So what if the average person sucks in more salt than Galactus, I’ve got two words that will make all the health problems in the world seem like perfectly acceptable collateral damage: French Fries. The world in which we live is an ugly, cruel, depressing place that has a dangerously high level of ways it can kill you at a moment’s notice. One of the few solidarities we get in this life is food made delicious via salt, and if we choose to enjoy it in copious amounts, that’s between us and the bathroom scale (or the doctor, that depends entirely on us). My point is so what if it will lead you to an early grave. Give me a good reason to believe that’s not a decent trade off. Honesty is the best policy, so we’re just going to lay out the fact for you: you can either eat healthy, avoid indulgences, and live to a ripe old age, spending your abnormally long twilight years in an old folks’ home wishing your kids would visit you more often, or you can pile on those glorious little crystals, and die young with a smile on your face [:)] and a grin in your belly [?]. THERE ARE NO OTHER OPTIONS!

I can guarantee you, salt, air this in your ads and you will not see any decline in sales whatsoever. In fact, you’d probably get some kind of award for corporate honestly or something. Or really, don’t do anything at all. Salt is very, very popular, and it’s not going to go the way of transfats and lose its place in established recipes.

Bucket full of LIES!!

Why do I Keep Watching?

I’m going to go ahead and preface this by saying that when it comes to movies and TV, I’m a special kind of snob. I watch what I like, and I like what I feel is “good”, high quality entertainment based on a personal rhetoric of critique. This rhetoric can be very different from most critics and most audiences, but it encompasses the things I enjoy and appreciate; I rarely will admit to liking a “bad” movie, as I almost only enjoy movies I feel are “good”, even when that is vastly disagreed upon by almost everyone else. With that out of the way, let’s continue.

One trend in cinema and television that I am growing restlessly tired of is shortcuts. In what once was a market where capitalism demanded making good movies to achieve audience support, filmmakers have been looking for, and finding, easier ways to get to all that cash. Like professional athletes turning to drugs to enhance their performance, audiences are falling victim to the effects of cinematic steroids. Here I am going to list some of the most insidious examples.

"What Have We Got To Lose?": Probably the oldest and easiest trick in the book is to simply put so little effort into something that the slightest gain results in inexplicable profit. The Scary, Epic, Date, Dance, and Disaster Movies are proof of that. Why hire writers when all you need is other scripts, scissors and hot glue? Why hire actors when all you need is people dragged off the street who maybe look like famous people when you squint. Epic Movie was, economically speaking, a huge success because of its $80 million gain over a comparatively low budget. The very fact that there are more on the way, means this trickery is working.

"Look At Me! Look At Me! Look At Me!": A snappily edited trailer can go a long way into making something not funny look funny:

Some folks just don’t rely on being low spenders. Despite the fact that they actually spent money and effort, they still ended up with nothing but crap, and now they have to sell it. How do you do that? With the trailer, and any other alluring aspects that come out before the film does. Case in point, Year One. With that trailer and that cast, there was no way it couldn’t be hilarious. Yet there I was in the audience, wondering how so many funny people got together and couldn’t think of anything funnier than ample use of the word foreskin. It didn’t take long for people to realize just how bad it was, as it dropped off the charts by the end of its first weekend. But the opening made enough money to be considered a financial success. What put it in that category was the fact that they spent far more time and effort making enough funny bits to look good in a preview, than trying to make a good film. Between casting and trailers, and any other non on screen choices that will trick people into thinking something will be good long enough to make them pay for it, one can still make a success out of the snakiest of oil.

Also, remember this still works on a week by week basis. The revival of “V” has contained a dream sequence almost every episode, the entirety of which manages to be incorporated into every next week preview.

You left your gun in my promo material.

"Indie Darling":

Tricking people with a stunning trailer for a bad film is still strictly small fries, though. The end result will be a good opening weekend with little else; to get a good long run requires tricking people on a larger scale to think something is good even after they’ve seen enough to know otherwise. How to do this? Enter the hipsters. As someone who’s taken three High School art classes, I’ve had firsthand experience with people who think Juno is a legitimate film. Few social groups are easier to trick into liking something ridiculous than hipsters. Anything with the words Indie in it originates from somebody who knows this, and is determined to make money off of them. But what really takes the cake is the career of Wes Anderson. I’ll be the first to admit that the trailer for Life Aquatic looked hilarious. And now that I’m older, wiser, and not trying to impress my art class friends, I’ll also be the first to say the actual movie was very much not hilarious. Wes Anderson, the kind of jokes you’re not supposed to laugh at, who I’m certain has blank parts in his scripts that he convinces his producers are jokes only smart people can see, managed to make a preview that appeared like it was a mainstream, laugh out loud comedy. After the opening weekend crowds realized it wasn’t, there was always the ever reliable hipsters there to back it up for the rest of its theatrical run. Clever, Mr. Anderson, very clever indeed. But when it comes to long running, career spanning trickery, there is truly only one master.

"Looks Can Kill": J. J. Abrams is a genius. An evil genius. For starters, he is the man who made Cloverfield. Cloverfield can be called many things; “good” and “a movie” are not among them. Having taken a camcorder and ran around New York on any given Friday night for an hour and a half, he released it into theatres and told people that if they look hard enough, there might be a monster in there. People didn’t go to see it because it was a good movie, because it wasn’t a real movie. They saw it because of the huge network of viral marketing, and the countless unanswered questions that would all be explained in the film itself. There was more effort put into the advertising; there was more plot put into the advertising. But people ate it up, and still are; just check out the buzz surrounding his newest trailer, Super 8. Basically it’s Cloverfield 2 except with a different blur for a monster, and a different group of presumably attractive teenagers. And also because the Cloverfield 2 is its own thing.

But on the subject of unanswered questions, how can we overlook Lost. He made another claim, slightly less incredulous than saying Cloverfield was a real movie, that Lost was real sci-fi. But it got people watching. And kept them watching for 6 years. Pretty much the best thing to get and keep people watching (that is allowable on network television) is curiosity. Lost had curiosity in spades, and refusing to answer any question asked along the way really just lead to even more curiosity. It filmed in Hawaii, thus winning over all the crowds who would otherwise be watching the Travel Channel on any given Wednesday night. Several main characters (like Kate and Sawyer) were played by former models, and it doesn’t take 12 seasons of America’s Next Top Model to tell you why folks tune in to watch those people. And when all else fails, there was always the good old fashioned soap opera storylines. This is in fact a show where the decision to change the course of history via nuclear proliferation fused with time travel on who was in love with who at the time (a status which changed about 15 times in that episode). When using this conglomerate method of storytelling, it didn’t really matter what actual plot events happened, as nothing actually happened on Lost. This wasn’t plot, this was formula and trickery and every aesthetic choice possible made with the goal of getting people to watch week after week, and never question until it was all over. For 6 years. In perspective, the popularity of Lost outlasted the reign of presidents and the existence of certain countries, despite every episode consisting of attractive people moping in Hawaii, and occasionally some goes out to murder a teenage girl or pregnant woman. Because J.J. Abrams really, really hates pregnant women.

Honestly, audiences, if we keep letting ourselves get bamboozled like this, we deserve it by this point.

Pandora's Box

I like to stay abreast with the times, and technology, as fast as it advances, is one of those things that it’s healthy to have a decent understanding of. Now, given that I am a very nerdy young man, one might assume that I have an unquenchable affinity for technological gadgetry and the like, and you would be wrong. I am developing a pointed mistrust of technology, to the point of outright paranoia, and if you had my experiences with the latest gadgets and internet toys as I’ve had, you would be paranoid too.

Take for instance my encounter the other day with Pandora Radio. For those not in the know, it’s a website that allows you to input music you like and using a sophisticated algorithm and musical feature tag system it will play more music that it thinks you will like. Now, anyone who’s read my stuff for a while knows I pride myself on my choice of music, and rightly so: I am awesome. I am an undisputed champion of making musical playlists, and if I deem a song, album, or band worthy of time taste, then you’d better start listening to them too because (and I say this with the utmost humility) I am the greatest music listener on the face of this otherwise tone deaf planet. I need not embellish on how good of a thing it would be to have at my fingertips an intelligent, learning system that would introduce new music I hadn’t heard of before that was on par with my previous lofty choices.

I still rock out unironically to Ace of Base; why aren’t you?!

The first thing that happens on Pandora is that you pick a single song or artist, which it will by default name the new radio station after, then you start adding music you know from there. Soon, I was tossing song after song, artist after artist onto the “99 Red Balloons Station”. I pretty much just went with a large collection of my favorite songs and waited to see what would come up. But after a few songs, it started playing music far below the quality my ears are used to. Several showtunes and Hilary Duff songs later, I realized I had to destroy this station, and start anew. This time, I would have to be smarter about my first choices, and in an effort to get less girly music out of it, I went for some good old fashioned rock.

Crocodile Rock, to be precise

Sadly, this approach also ended in showtunes.

Grumbling under my breath something along the lines of, “Hey, man, what are you trying to say about me?”, I deleted yet another station and started again. This time there was no messing around. It was only the manliest of music for me, so I bunched together as much Bruce Springstein and Dire Straits as I could, and added some Tom Waits at his gravelliest for good measure. An hour later, and it had played Sally’s Song from The Nightmare Before Christmas three times.

Now, up to this point, I can just count these grievous errors off to a couple bugs in the system and try again, but then things started getting weird. As I tried to make the best of this newest station and hope that things all turned out for the best, the ads started popping up. Apparently, again based on what kinds of music you like, it will periodically play an audio advertisement that it deems to suit your preferences. When they were just telling me about the great deals on video games and local cupcake stores, that’s fine; but there comes a point when I start to cry “Subliminal Messaging”.

For me, that point is when several ads in a row for a foreign robotics company crop up. This was followed by an internet survey that asked the question “How do you feel about self awareness?”, and this might have been just me, but I think there was something funny about the “Submit Your Answer” button.

Reporting the ad to be offensive to me, I tried to push this out of my mind, and soldier on through the music. Finally they played Karma Police. Singing along loudly (and badly) as I am wont to do, I soon began to notice some inconsistencies with the lyrics, though. Last time I checked, after singing “this is what you get when you mess with us” he’s supposed to echo “for a minute there I lost myself” all Thom Yorke like for a few minutes. I’m pretty certain it doesn’t start repeating the word “OBEY!” accompanied by demonic robo-laughter. Yet that’s what all the lyrics sheets I can find online say, and that’s what it did for about 25 minutes before sparks started flying out of my disk drive. I shut down the computer as fast as I possibly could.

You know, from now on, I’m just going to pick my music manually.

Philosophical Breakfast

You ever get those days where your brain just won’t turn off, no matter how hard you try or how much you need it to (for, say, work related reasons)? I get that way sometimes, and every little thing I come across in my daily routine sends me off into a wistful, vaguely philosophical series of questions and comparisons, my feeble mind trying desperately to understand the concepts of the world around me. Today was one of those days.

It started like any other day. I got up this morning, and poured myself a big bowl of Life cereal. And that's when I started thinking. Eventually, I came to the conclusion that Life cereal is like Life life. You see, it starts off easy and simple enough. Early life feels like it is made up of a series of meaningful, important events which are like pieces of sweet, sugared grain, floating among the less important rest of life, the soft, creamy milk. It’s brand new and doesn't know anything of the world to come. It doesn't understand anything other than just to sit there and float on with ease. If you’re born into luckiness, then things starts off with cinnamon or marshmallows, but most of the time, it's ordinary sugar Life cereal, no different from anything else. Then things start changing. One becomes aware of its own existence, and begins to realize what its place is in the universe, what it does in life, or milk. It starts getting to work. At first it’s hard and crunchy, and can hurt if you handle it wrong, but then it starts to mellow down, and slowly become increasingly softer and easier with time and experience. This is about the point where everyone really likes Life. Things are simple, smooth, easy; you know what you're supposed to do, and you can do it without any problem. You’re used to it by now.

It seems so nice; but it won't last forever...

But then you start wanting more. At first you want just a little variety, like maybe a chocolate chip or something; but even if you have that already, it just feels like the same old stuff. Then you begin to get sick of dredging through the same old mush of Life, and you want something completely different. You're threatening to throw away the whole box and go out to get some Kix, but you realize that even if you do, the excitement of the Kix Berries is just an illusion. There are no more adventure in Kix Berries then there is in Life, there's just more sugar that gives you a rush of excitement right off the bat, and then suddenly fades away, leaving you down in the dumps after your sugar rush. Yet, you still don’t want to return to normal Life. Maybe you turn to augmenting your Life, like adding sugar, or cinnamon on your own. You try to make it better with new ingredients, or by having your Life with a bagel or something on the side. Or maybe you become superstitious. You turn to trusting your fate in Lucky Charms, or put your Life in the hands of powerful figures like Count Chocula. Some even try to force a form of structure on their lives by joining Captain Crunch’s navy. If you're not too careful, you hit a midlife crisis and suddenly find yourself chasing the white rabbit down the hole to a Trix Wonderland. But eventually, no matter what course you choose, you'll find yourself right back where you started, on the same road you've always been on, the endless road of Life. Some of the insanity is still hanging over you from the crisis. At this point you can either choose to accept your life and go on, no matter how mushy it is, no matter how soggy the milk has made it. Or you can go off the deep end and throw it all away down the sink, milk, flakes, mush, whatever your Life is at this point. Just wash it away, hit the garbage disposal, and end it all. It's a crossroads; it's a difficult choice.

This is where I sit. My Life is mushy, soggy, and downright disgusting. I don’t like Life, I hate Life. I don’t want this Life anymore. I want to escape this Life. I never want to taste my Life again. But I'm not ready to take that final step, that leap, to plunge to the depths of the sink and dash away all that's left of my Life. I'm stuck here, sinking into the abyss of the oozing Life, everything in it the same, indiscernible to tell the difference between what is solid Life and what is mere milk. What will you do? Continue eating, or just give up and throw it away? Your very Life depends on it. As for me, I think I have an idea. I'm not going to settle for this Life. I'm going to make something more of my Life, I'm going to change. I'm going to make oatmeal. What will you make out of your Life?

Well that’s all I got for now. Join me next week, friends, when I compare Ramen Noodles to divorce...

Pinball Wizard (I Wish I Was)

I’m going to begin this week with a very straight forward statement, one that I have recently decided I feel very passionately about: video game conventions are stupid. Now, before assumptions are made and conclusions jumped to, let me explain.

I spent a significant portion of this last weekend at a Pinball Convention. Now, I know it would be easy to hear the word “convention” tacked onto the end of another word (anything with a relatively small but devoted following) and assume any jokes I tell at its expense, or reasoning I have for it being stupid, will resort to the typical imagery of acne laden, bespectacled nerds filling an auditorium with the kind of behavior and discussions as to blatantly demand a round of wedgies, but I’m simply not going to go down a route as easy and clichéd as that (because I’m not the writers of Big Bang Theory.) No, I maintain that video game conventions are not dorky havens for the anti social, but are, simply put, stupid.

For as much as I love video games, and pinball especially, I emerged into that huge arcade bright and eager to take on the toughest of challengers. I scanned the arena before picking anything to make sure I had a great first game. Finally settling on a jungle machine was fairly difficult because there were so many themes to choose from, but eventually I began my game.

Cleavage is a theme, right?

And let me just say, I pressed the living daylights out of those flippers. That shiny, little marble bounced all around, rolling through loops and hitting targets all over the place. After three rounds of lightning fast reflexes and precision flipping, the game ended, and I triumphantly crossed my arms, smirked slightly, and read out my score. Not being one for numbers I looked around to gauge how impressed everyone else must have been. But there were no accolades or applause; everyone else was still rapt in their own games. These people around me had mostly started right as I did, yet they were still on ball 2 for the most part, and a handful of them were only on ball 1! The outrage!

I found out at that moment the kinds of people who go to Pinball Conventions: people who are insanely, supernaturally good at pinball. I also found out the kind of person who I myself am: someone who is neither insanely nor supernaturally good at pinball. And these weren’t just uber nerds either, who give me the satisfaction of ridiculing their lack of girlfriends when they get a better score than me. These were normal, healthy, occasionally attractive men, many with girlfriends, or wives even! Some there were girls, who will never ever be my girlfriend now that they know I can only get through two ringmasters on Cirqus Voltaire.

You'll be my girlfriend, won't you spring lady?

And did I mention mature?! Do you know how embarrassing it is to look through the high scores and realize you’re the only one who’s typing in three letter curse words?

My point is that these people with their uncanny pinball prowess ruin the fun of playing games for the rest of us who aren’t X-Men. So if you still haven’t realized that it’s not that impressive to get to the first challenging stage of Galaga (that’s right, there’s more than one), I suggest we all collectively take our ball and go home. You ruin everything, and it’s not fun anymore.

Job Jitters 2: This Time, It's Personal

The woman sat behind her desk, briefly attempting to meditate on the moment’s peace. So long did peace elude her in this place, and as usual, this moment had just about reached its end before it reached its zenith. There was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” she said bluntly, resting her fingers on her temples.

A scruffy looking young man entered and approached timidly. She waved him to the chair, where he gently sat and looked up at her sheepishly. She brought her hands to the desk and threaded her fingers, then looked squarely at the young man, not into his eyes, but simply at him. She had learned the impersonal gaze from experience, realizing it gave her a sense of authority over the subordinate (and more importantly, insubordinate) employees. The most troubling part of her job, it had turned out, was telling the differences between the truly insubordinate and rebellious employees from the ones simply in over their head, and it was an unbiased gaze of observation that could often tell that difference. The results, unfortunately, were usually the same.

The young man waited furtively for her to speak. The young man is me, by the way. I should have mentioned that earlier, but I wanted to start in 3rd person and transition to 1st. I thought that might be cool. Eventually, she cleared her throat and spoke. Again, it was at, and not necessarily to.

“So how do you think you’re adjusting to the position? Think you’re picking it up okay?” she asked like she was reading an unseen script just over my shoulder.

“Yeah, I think I’m doing fine,” I lied. At the moment, it seemed like the right thing to say, but aided with the clarity of hindsight, and perhaps a bit of honesty, it was pretty much an outright lie. She knew this.

“Really?” For the first time in the room, she seemed to actually be addressing me, but she tried her best to quickly return to her distant aloofness. “We’ve been monitoring your performance for the last couple weeks.”

I cringed. “That’s… good…” Again I lied.

Incompetent, she thought, this one isn’t bad, he’s just incompetent. If not for the sterility she mentally forced upon these conversations, the incompetent ones would be harder.

I had figured I’d been monitored. It was like all those paranoid moments when you’re washing your hands and think you see a pair of eyes over your shoulder in the mirror, but you turn and there’s no one there. When you can feel the stare on the back of your head, but there’s no one else in sight. When you enter a room and hear the faint skitter of fleeing shoes, but once you enter there’s no other door. Except, in this case, it was moreso the remote viewing of computers that the higher ups use to monitor their employees’ internet activity, the Orwellian “tattle” policies, and the constant threat of firing should you be caught in possession of a cell phone on the call center floor. Due to the fairly severe sets of privacy laws that govern cable bill debt collection call centers, I and all the other employees were rigidly monitored pretty much at all times, and had been told that at the beginning. Still, it felt a little invasive to be outright told this after being called into my superior’s office.

“Is there something wrong with how I’m doing things?” I asked, not really wanting to hear the answer, mostly because I already knew it.

“Well, let’s just take a look at one of your recent calls. I think this might explain things a bit.”

“Hello?” asked someone on the other end of the phone line.
“Hello, is this Alexander Simmons?” asked me, in a perfect, and I totally mean perfect Sean Connery voice.
“Um, yes, who is this?”
“This is Sean Connery with Time Warner Cable. It seems you have, rather unfortunately, been missing some payments. This, I’m afraid, is completely against our regulations.”
“Okay, this clearly isn’t the real Sean Connery, but aside from that I’d be happy to make a payment right now, if…”
“Hold on a second. What do you mean I’m not Sean Connery. Can’t you tell it’s me from my ever so distinguishable voice?”
“Why would Sean Connery be calling me about my cable bill?”
“It’s bring a world class celebrity to work day.”
“Yeah, not buying it.”
“I WAS IN THE ROCK!”
The line went dead.

The woman behind the desk stared at me blankly, until I spoke up to defend myself.

“I don’t see what Sean Connery’s poor bedside manner have to do with me…”

“Yeah, don’t even try that kid.”

“Okay, okay. You got me. That was me. It’s my daily 10 O’clock Impressions. I just wanted to liven the atmosphere once a day, so sue me.”

“We know about your 10 O’clock Impressions. Over the last several weeks we have recordings of Robin Williams, Marlon Brando, Hank Hill, and Rod Serling.”

“But what harm is a little fun if it doesn’t harm productivity in any way?” I asked, plaintively.

“Not a single of these calls have made a payment.”

“Okay, fine. So the 10 O’clock Impressions are out. Is that all?”

“No, actually. Why don’t we review this next call?”

“Hello?” asked the customer.
No reply.
“Hello?” she asked louder.
Slight rustling on the other end, and a bit of breathing.
“HELLO?”
There was a sudden snoring noise that peaked crescendo with a snort and a very slurred “Don’t eat me!” followed by a hasty “Yes who is this?”
“Uh, you called me…”
“Yesthat’sverytrue,I’mcallingonyourrecordsjusttoletyouknowletmecheckthecomputernoiseyouoweussomethingmoneyforyourcablebillservicehereisalistofthenearestpaymentlocationoutletswouldyouliketoknowourcurrentspecials?” My voice lilted up and down through the whole jumbled speech as I tried to do my job through hazy, half consciousness.
“Were you asleep? Are you even awake now?”
“Don’t tell my boss” came my slow, dreary reply.
“Don’t worry, I won’t. Just let me know what you’re calling about.”
“These… these men in coats said the books sent me to find the secrets…” there was a muffled thud followed by intense snoring. The line went dead.

“Sleeping on the job is a very serious offense, Harry,” the woman said sternly.

“Yes, I know, I understand. I’m very sorry about that, but it was just once on one of the first few days, and I swore I’d never fall asleep at my desk again, and I’ve taken steps to prevent it.”

“Yes, that might explain this next one, which was recorded the following day.”

“Hello?” asked the customer. There was nothing on the other end of the line but what sounded like some kind of static, and an almost imperceptible ringing.
“Hello, is someone there?” There was more of the ringing noise.
“Look, I’m going to hang up if no one answers.” The ringing seemed to begin to cry out frantically, but no sound of a voice ever materialized. There was a hang up noise, followed by several minutes of the ringing sound. Eventually, the line went dead.

“Actually, I remember this call, but I swear from my end it sounded like he was talking in slow motion.”


“Yes, this one took us a while to decipher. The boys in the lab eventually slowed the track way down and that noise is your voice speaking at an incredibly high speed. I think they said it proved a couple theories about the theory of relativity when it comes to subjective speeds.”

“…We have boys in the lab?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“Oh, okay. See, that was my first Red Bull, and I’m starting to think those don’t agree with me. But hey, my words were technically still there, and didn’t I do a good job on those?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Hmm… Okay. Well, is that all the phone calls?” I asked.

“Well, we kind of have one more. It starts out as a phone call, but the important part of it is what we’ve started to call “the outburst”. This is really the reason we brought you in here today.”

“Hold on. Alright, there’s no need to play that. I think I understand what this is about. This is about last Friday’s escalation? Yeah, I am very sorry about that. Things got out of hand with a very impatient customer, and maybe I lost my cool a little bit, but I think you should know it wasn’t entirely my fault.”

“We have $14,000 worth of property damage.”

“I maintain that the computer was broken before my reaction, and was a part of the stresses that led to said reaction.”

“Over half the damage was to the property on the next lot over.”

“Sometimes when I’m really mad, I need to take a walk to calm my nerves.”

“Eye witnesses described your actions. Of the many verbs used, not a one of them was the word ‘walking’. ‘Leaping’, ‘stomping’, ‘crashing’, ‘air punching’, ‘foaming at the mouth’, ‘Hulk-smashing’, ‘crying’, and ‘gnawing’ were all words that came up in multiple reports.”

“Perhaps a bit of an overreaction, but the good news is no one got hurt, right?”

“The customer from the other end of the phone line is having to go through extensive therapy. It seems that you repeatedly used the phrase, ‘This job is devouring my soul’, and the customer claims she saw ‘wisps of hellfire’ seeping through the speaker phone.”

“You can’t prove that.”

“I’ve heard the tape myself.”

I paused, “Hellfire?” She nodded.

“Is there anything, anything at all you want to say to explain for your actions?”

“Look, I can only say ‘I’m sorry’ so many times, but if it lightens the mood, would like to hear an apology from Sean Connery?”

I am fired.

What Not to Wear

I’ve tried to mind my own business, but there is a certain problematic segment of society who I believe are ruining it to its core. They are known by many names. Some call them Indie, others call them Hipsters. I myself simply prefer to call them Stupid. And while my normal stance on public displays of stupidity is to live and let live, sometimes the stupidity of others encroaches on my very way of life. As a result I would like to submit a simple law to govern certain aspects of lifestyles of the dumb and proud of it.

Specifically, you cannot wear merchandise ironically.

I think I should probably elaborate on the events that led to this decision. I was very hungry Sunday afternoon, and despite how much I despise hipsters and every hipster friendly restaurant, sometimes food needs to be consumed, regardless of the source. So as I warily made my way through the parking lot at Chipotle, gingerly avoiding any cars with fedoras and tambourines on the dashboard (I am not even kidding), eventually gaining my food and finding an empty table. My goal was to get through this meal as quickly as possible, so as spend as little time in that foul den of irony as I humanly could. Still, the hope that someone of these wicked hordes might indeed have some form of humanity left within their oxidized soul is too great to prevent my eyes from peering at one, then at another, in the vain possibility of some semblance of personality and purity. All seemed lost, until I spied one young man in a group, specifically it was a faint splash of green that caught my eye. Further gazing prevailed upon my doubts to reveal an answer to my hopes; goodness could indeed be found in someone among these denizens, and here it was the proof before me: a man in a Green Lantern t-shirt! Dare I approach? I dare, for the prospect of locating someone else who found themselves so lost among this crowd of barbarians was too great to ignore. Slowly I picked my way across the room, the dismal din of soft cooing backed by repeated acoustic power chords caterwauling against my ears, enhanced by the faux-artistic style of concrete floors and steel walls. Halfway across the arena, I froze. My mouth agape, I spotted a horrible apparition that showed my previous discovery to be nothing more than a hoax. Joining the table, the same as the man who bore the emblem of the emerald gladiator, was some kid in a Thundercats shirt! The horror, the pain, the wretched ignominy! How dare he, HOW DARE HE! Thundercats was all the evidence I needed; no one wears anything Thundercats related in any way other than ironically. And where one person wore ironically, so did others, including he who would defile the mighty name of the Corps! Steadfast and manlike now I strode across the floor, before coming to a halt before the vile wretches at the table. With a look of stern reprimand wrote across my face, I stood with feet apart, shoulders back, and fists on hip as I stared straight at the man’s chest. My worst fear confirmed; his Green Lantern shirt was artificially faded. My lips spread involuntarily in a scornful grimace.

The wretch looked up at me, and confusedly asked, “Can I help you, space cadet?”

I ground my teeth and paused, lengthily, before responding. “Recite the oath,” I ordered.

“Excuse me?”

“Recite the oath, scumbag.”

“What oath?” while, puzzled he still managed to convey a sense of self righteous pride.

“You know very well what oath I’m referring to. The Lantern Oath. The Oath associated with the uniform you wear so callously.” Despite the fact that I did not use any “P” sounds in that sentence, I forced my mouth to spit extravagantly as I spoke.

“Are you some dumb comic nerd?” he asked, haughtily.

“Do not dare impugn the reputation of a Lantern wielder, evildoer. Now recite the oath or remove that sacred uniform from your person.”

“Dude, it’s a t-shirt.”

“This is a t-shirt!” I retorted. In retrospect, that didn’t make a whole lot of sense.

“No, that is a Halloween costume.”

“Excuse me?”

“What you’re wearing. Did you buy that at the comic book store?” He must’ve been referring to the green and black body suit I was wearing, complete with green domino mask and ring.

“And what is wrong with the comic book store?” I queried.

“Nothing, if it’s an independent comic book store…” I think that’s how he was going to finish that sentence. He really couldn’t have gone many other ways with that. I’ll never know however, as my fist (again, involuntarily) began to repeatedly punch him in the side of the head as soon as he said the word “independent”. Then I began to punch other people, too. I believe I exhibited a decent sense of self control during the whole ordeal, as I refrained from punching anyone not wearing scarves, converse shoes, or shirts for bands I’ve never heard of. But there were a lot of people wearing those things. I believe the police reports claimed assaults again 27 people, but I swear it was no more than 14.

Either way, this is my basis for enacting this rule from now on. Hipsters, you are no longer allowed to wear merchandise for comics, cartoons, movies, bands, or breakfast cereal “ironically”. From this point onward, any store carrying t-shirts, pins, stickers, or any other form of imprinted clothing or accessories must quiz any customer buying said products, to make sure they truly are a fan who is wearing this for the merit of displaying their affection of something. I know this may seriously damage the sales of certain properties, but if an 80’s cartoon cannot enough to support a thriving t-shirt industry without the crutch of indie people, it wasn’t that good to begin with. Many store franchises may go out of business, but if Urban Outfitters goes under and there’s no other place you can get shot glasses with filthy words written on them in cursive, I think the world will actually be a better place.

Plain as Day

While I haven't been watching too much current TV recently, I have been keeping pretty close tabs on what's actually on TV now. And I've come to the startlingly sudden realization that the most popular setting for shows anymore is a crime scene investigation. Even more than just that, it's specifically a lower name celebrity playing a character with a gimmick that plays a coincidentally large factor in the resolution of every case. Whether it's Tony Shaloub with OCD, Tim Roth as a human lie detector, or Jeff Goldblum forgetting he's not in the 6th Sense, there's always a crime, there's always a celebrity, and there's always a gimmick. So to jump the gun on what is sure to eventually happen, I'm going to present to you a preview of my own crime scene investigation drama, Plain as Day. The hero is Detective Jack Day, who has an uncanny knowledge of typical TV mystery twists and turns. Here's a sample of the script:

(Open on a police lineup, Jack Day being led in, presumably following a cantankerous but ultimately likeable police chief begrudgingly saying, "Get me Jack Day.")

Day: So what's the deal?

Attractive Female Officer: It's a murder, sir. A moderately rich man was found dead in his mini-mansion. Shot dead.

Day: Any leads?

Officer Attractive: His wife. She was having an affair, she holds his life insurance policy, and she was found with the murder weapon.

Day: Let her go, she's innocent. We introduced her before the first commercial break, and it's never that obvious. Anyone else?

Officer Attractive (leading Day through the suspect lineup): His mistress, his brother, his stockbroker, and his veterinarian.

Day: It wasn't his mistress, she's the snarky hooker with a heart of gold; it wasn't his stockbroker because he's gay and secretly in love with the victim (and it's never the token minority); it wasn't the vet because no one of that noble profession can ever kill, so he's a red herring. No, it was his impoverished brother who is secretly in love with his wife and is the one having an affair with her.

Brother: It's true!

Gay Stockbroker (Dressed like Elton John, but he doesn't have a lisp. That would be tacky.): How did you know?

Day: Because it's as plain as Day.

(Suddenly the wife comes in, still holding the murder weapon.)

Wife (to the Brother): You killed my husband?!

Brother: I did it for us!

Wife: I could never be with you! Sure I was having an affair with you, and my husband was chronically unfaithful, but I still loved him! (Points gun at brother.)

Chief Curmudgeon: Quick, someone talk her out of it!

Day: It's fine. She can't actually do it.

Wife (drops gun and hangs her head.): You're right, I can't.

(Cue a bittersweet montage of people looking wistful along to a barely off mainstream moody alternative song rife with repetitive acoustic guitar chords.)

How's that, huh? What? You say it's too preposterous? Well, I got you covered. Let's take a look at Day's pseudo-realistic (read: depressing) home life. His first wife was murdered, but never solved; his second wife divorced him and has his daughter who periodically guests as the sharp tongued teen during the home scenes; and his current, third wife is secretly planning to kill him. Let's read a scene at home:

(Day is at home and is relaxing, as symbolized by his unbuttoned white dress shirt over a wife beater with his untied tie draped over his shoulders and neck. He is playing Clue with his cute, blonde, too-young-for-him wife.)

Day: Colonel Mustard with the Revolver in the Library.

Wife: How did you know that?

Day: There are only two of us playing. Clue is a game for 3 to 6 players.

Wife: You didn't even look at your cards.

Day: It was as plain as Day.

Wife (to herself): Sometimes, I swear, I could just kill him... (Cue "Dun Dun Dun")

So how's that? Too formulaic you might say. This may be true. But it could be worse, it could be something that showed a spark of originality or didn’t attempt to rely entirely on the star or hot co-star or gimmicky premise. Thank goodness it wasn’t something else dreadfully creative. So count your lucky stars that it’s plain. Plain as Day.

Job Jitters

I was starting to think this day would never come, but here at long last it is: I have a job. Granted, it’s only a temp job and doesn’t look to last long, but it does mean I have a reason to leave the house, and I got to use a cash register, and I’m pretty certain this place doesn’t pay in monopoly money (although the “Get Out of Jail Free” cards I got as a Christmas bonus have been useful). For those interested, I work the cash register afternoon shift 2 days a week at a local greenhouse and market. This time of the year is rather slow, so I probably only get 6 to 7 people over my 4 and a half hour shift. As you can see, this shouldn’t be so hard. Let me go ahead and walk you through what a normal day thus far consists of.

10:00 AM: At home. Remind self I have a job now, and I can’t forget to show up (again).

10:30 AM: I Dream of Jeannie marathon starts.

2:40 PM: Suddenly remember that my shift started 10 minutes ago, and rush to get ready (during commercial breaks).

3:10 PM: 40 minutes late (again.) I explain that I was distracted by a I Dream of Jeannie marathon. I am fired. I correct myself; it was a Matlock marathon. I am granted a second chance.

3:30 PM: First customer. Phew. I was getting worried for a minute. They look around for a while.

3:45 PM: They bought a Fruit Roll Up? Just a Fruit Roll Up? They show for 15 minutes and that’s all they get? What is wrong with humanity, I ask.

4:00 PM: No one else has shown up yet. I’m starting to wonder if there’s been some kind of cataclysmic event that wiped our humanity, and somehow I’ve survived because of some kind of, um, I dunno, radiation that the vegetables give off. I am alone. So very alone.

4:35 PM: Still no one. My hopes for the survival of the human race are dwindling. I believe if there were survivors I would have heard something by now.

4:57 PM: I have begun constructing the necessary tools for survival. I set fire to the crates that held the watermelons, so I will be able to keep warm. I have designated the former cash register desk as the lookout point, and using a pair of binoculars I fashioned out of paper towel rolls I am scoping out the charred and burnt countryside (which looks surprisingly pristine for having just survived an atomic holocaust.) I have spotted several cows wandering the deserted plains, and have contemplated using them for food. They would be heavily irradiated, but when the winter months set in, I’ll need to stay alive no matter what.

5: 48 PM: I have made my first kill! Crossing what used to be a street, I ventured boldly into the cows’ habitat, and used a bow and arrow I made to hunt one down. I am now a man!

6:27 PM: I am so lonely. After finishing off my kill, the tragic hopelessness of my situation set in. Staring at the raging inferno of the watermelon crate fire, I just sat there contemplating what was left of my life. When the embers finally died out, I began to weep. It feels like I’ve cried for days. And with no one here to console me, I feel like it will be several more days before I stop, or until I collapse from dehydration.

6:59 PM: Swing low, sweet chariot…

7:00 PM: Oh, hey my shift’s over. That wasn’t so bad, was it?

7:10 PM: I am fired.

The Best Things in Life are Vague

…Or in this case, songs.
Ladies and gentlemen, I have been giving this a lot of thought lately, but I have decided that unclear song lyrics really are the best. I think the reason is that you can only say so much when you do it with precision. When you repeatedly sing about something clearly and specifically, it’s only a matter of time before you realize just how much the emotions that we feel can only be expressed in song are just like everyone else’s. There’s only so many ways to sing “I love you”, “I no longer love you”, or “I’ve changed my mind, I love you again”. And seeing as how these are apparently the only regular emotions that are musically inclined, we end up with decades worth of top forty hits all expressing the same sentiments, and a future bevy of songwriters desperately trying to find new ways of saying the same things, often landing on retarded ways that irreversibly embed themselves in the popular culture.

Two words: Disco Stick.

But then there are those artists who realized that the only way to sing something different was to write lyrics that were indecipherably vague, or outright nonsensical. Growing up, They Might Be Giants were one of my favorite bands, partly because they had impossible to resist catchy music, and partly because there was no one else in history who had sung about Particle Man (particle man), doing the things a particle can. Another of my favorites was Laika and the Cosmonauts, who eschewed lyrics altogether and just used Russian surf guitar riffs. Instead of hearing how much some guy wants “you” back being expressed in the simplest terms possible (“I want you back”), I got to listen to surf guitar and picture wacky aliens doing wacky things. Which is not too hard to imagine when their album cover looks like this:

Am I just showing off how much better my musical choice as a child was then yours? Okay, yes.

Going by this logic that vagueness makes the best lyrics, I’ve decided that two of the best songwriters ever are Beck and KT Tunstall. Listen to almost any song Beck has ever done, and there will be maybe one line that sounds like it makes sense. He talks about “robots and gigolos”, “one’s got a weasel and the others got a flag”, and says he’s “wishing I was living with a hit man.” Not a one of those lines makes any more sense in context, either. It doesn’t take long to realize he’s most of the time saying absolutely nothing, but he says it so well, often, even humorously. KT Tunstall on the other hand is not too different from mainstream writers, if you only count subject matters. She’s a perfect reminder that you do sound totally original even when you sing about the same things as everyone else except that you dredge them through extended metaphors until they’re gloriously unrecognizable. I listened to her first album for a couple years, and it still took her outright saying in an interview one song is about long distance romance before I got it. Makes sense in retrospect, but I’ll be damned if I was ever going to guess something so mundane from lyrics about icebergs melting. And that, it turns out, is what she does best: bringing metaphorical imprecision to what would otherwise be mundane (she also holds the distinction of creating the only positive use of the term "banjo solo" that I can think of).

So for all you fledgling songwriters out there reading this, learn from these artists and always remember to write vague.