tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9827493540970475602024-02-21T00:35:49.309-06:00Lower Level 30Underpaid and Overwrought.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger359125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-982749354097047560.post-26942628342657555932016-01-05T11:30:00.000-06:002016-01-05T11:30:21.313-06:00So does anyone . . . . . . still check this?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-982749354097047560.post-57676749888034017342011-09-29T08:22:00.002-05:002011-09-29T08:31:22.948-05:00I Think . . .. . . my last posting was about having to pay another year's internet dues to keep this URL .<div><br /></div><div>Then I never really posted again. </div><div><br /></div><div>I got an email telling me I've been billed for another year of domain service, so once again we're at the place where I'll feel the need to use this rather than throw money away.</div><div><br /></div><div>So . . . what's new?</div><div><br /></div><div>Getting married in two weeks. It'll be a western-themed affair in a Chinese restaurant.</div><div><br /></div><div>A few pages from a script I wrote (and posted here) were shot and will hopefully interest someone into helping finance the rest. You can check out the trailer at: www.bloodontheplain.com</div><div><br /></div><div>The Fiancee (formerly The Girlfriend) and I bought a place and are now nestled in lovely southern banks of Edgewater. </div><div><br /></div><div>We're honeymooning through the Southern US territory so if anyone has some suggestions about towns to see, I'm all eyes. (Birmingham? Is there anything going on in Birmingham?)</div><div><br /></div><div>Hope You're Well,</div><div>A.v.E</div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-982749354097047560.post-948787977855221602011-01-04T09:16:00.002-06:002011-01-04T09:38:49.023-06:00So There I Was . . .. . . smoking a cigarette in between tacos and beer at a south loop bar. To the left was a storefront window into the Xtreme Sport Fitness Center where New Year's resolutions were being honored. To the right, another window. This one displaying rows of people in sweats jumping ropes and stretching before their boxing fitness class began. <br /><br />I went back inside and ordered another round. <br /><br />The car battery was still charging and it would be at least an hour before I could go test it and see if I could drive home. <br /><br />Otherwise, it would be the train and the hope that my car isn't ticketed or worse for being left overnight in the garage.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-982749354097047560.post-14396551536016736852011-01-04T09:07:00.003-06:002011-01-04T09:09:06.728-06:00Follow me on Twitter . . .uptownsinclair.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-982749354097047560.post-76548585602474049072011-01-04T09:07:00.001-06:002011-01-04T09:07:45.649-06:00After the clerk looked at the things I'd brought to the counter he asked if I ever think about how my life didn't turn out the way I thought it would and if that made me sad.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-982749354097047560.post-43690381538942507772010-10-15T08:59:00.001-05:002010-10-15T09:01:17.401-05:00Ever realize . . .. . . that you've been giving the same response to the same question for so long that even you don't realize when it becomes a complete lie. I've always said that I keep things healthy by only smoking one pack a week. When I found the carton I bought two weeks ago was empty, I realized this is wrong.<br /><br />When people ask how long I've lived in Chicago, I say a couple years. According to the plaque hung in my cube, I've been here for at least six.<br /><br />Just kidding. There is no plaque.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-982749354097047560.post-26596274659848065182010-10-13T11:52:00.002-05:002010-10-13T12:42:01.257-05:00Warm-Up . . .. . . twenty dwarves took turns doing handstands on the carpet floor. <br /><br />Twenty dwarves took turns doing handstands on the carpet floor.<br /><br />I'm still working on Blood on the Plain, but am starting to tire of it. Normally, I'd put it away and come back when the mood strikes me, but I gave my word to someone that it'd be complete by the end of the month. Someone wants to make the fucking thing so I'm left watching a kid I'm in no way able to care for. <br /><br />I'm trying to nail the art of the long sentence. As a warm-up and to stave off the feelings of neglect for this blog, I'm going to work on expadning one passage here before you. <br /><br />James Dodge enters one hovel and is met with a knife dug into his forearm. He stares at the hilt dangling from out his arm then takes in his attacker whose wife crouches in the corner, sobbing as she clutches their child. Three shots are heard. <br /><br />James Dodge tears through and past the burlap covering into the single-bulb lit shack where a woman's sob is heard before the Mexican swings a long blade which is caught between the divining bones of wrist and forearm and pushed through like an arrowshot until the chipped blade tears out the underside of skin and the hilt presses full against the surface of arm which Dodge lifts to examine as if adjusting for a meniscus or some parallax perspective before dismissing the findings as inconclusive and raising his sidearm and firing into the chest of his attacker sending the screams of both the mother and the child she's carrying into a roar of agony and fear which is silenced by another pull of the trigger before finally a third. <br /><br />I fucking love long sentences.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-982749354097047560.post-49681475849241473762010-10-06T08:52:00.002-05:002010-10-06T09:51:21.996-05:00Last Week . . .. . . I came up with two of the greatest cobbler jokes, ever. <br /><br />The first was born of the realization that cobbler is very similar to clobber and the wonder if ever there was a funny mishap from the similarity. "Hey, I wanted to get these loafers resoled- AHHHHHHHH!"<br /><br />I told this joke to The Girlfriend who quickly changed the subject. I then repeated it and she merely sighed. <br /><br />The following day, my friend asks me if I ever get my boots worked on and who I'd suggest. I tell him about my cobbler on Van Buren and to make certain he doesn't go to the clobberer next door. There was s chuckle. <br /><br />Cut to Friday! I'm telling a friend about an Apple Festival I'll be attending in Kendallville, IN. She tells me she's going to one in Queens. And that hers in Queens will be a better Apple Fest, as the world's largest cobbler will be on display. I ask, "So this giant will be fixing everyone's shoes?"<br /><br />Killed.<br /><br />Yeah, this blog is now devolving into unfunny jokes I told. <br /><br />Enjoy that.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-982749354097047560.post-75994179900297163502010-09-30T10:36:00.001-05:002010-09-30T10:36:36.125-05:00Today . . .. . . is the office potluck.<br /><br />Everyone brought store pie.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-982749354097047560.post-49043075118088078842010-09-29T10:09:00.002-05:002010-09-29T10:24:30.855-05:00Time to Re-Up . . .The web host tells me it's time to pay for another year of lowerlevel30.com<br /><br />I figure if I'm paying for something, it's best to might as well use it. <br /><br />Last week, I returned home from an after work function with a sack of dbl dhzbrgs and a pretty decent buzz. I'm shoving these things into my vile maw when The Girlfriend tells me that the next door apartment, the one that was recently vacated by its former tenants, is unlocked. I immediately give a smile, revealing teeth behind the half chewed burger. I see what she wants. Finally, some Last Tango action. <br /><br />We'll lay naked and awkward on the cold floorboards. The streetlight casting a dim glow in the streaks and long shapes through the blinds and across the walls of the outer dark. Every sound our bodies make will create an echo that resonates through the empty space like a concert hall at full-tilt. We'll be exposed and nervous. Concerned but excited. Decency will wain in this place that belongs to no one and is subject to the rules of no other. What we do in here will defy even the perimeters of our our own bond and of our own agreements. To the other. And unto ourselves.<br /><br />Or so I thought.<br /><br />Instead, we compared their kitchen to ours and debated which is the most efficient in terms of space and if that efficiency is at the sake of convenience. Which, I think it is. Which is why we're staying.<br /><br />When I returned, my dbl chzbrgs had grown cold. And delicious.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-982749354097047560.post-52411311577834978072010-08-09T12:22:00.005-05:002010-08-09T14:25:45.099-05:00"This Suitcase Contains . . . "<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7t8e9a60ayU_KETP46GnKhZmTq57uscUvvJLuQFTzEzNjU1ZDyqQdDJDuCCszhLXcZBUkaCmGVWXTrby4vOmhsFMFt1UDfB_2Hm_IOg96Z_lNxGKRSTeHVelmkiQuKuba5UUubK_BiaE/s1600/suitcase.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7t8e9a60ayU_KETP46GnKhZmTq57uscUvvJLuQFTzEzNjU1ZDyqQdDJDuCCszhLXcZBUkaCmGVWXTrby4vOmhsFMFt1UDfB_2Hm_IOg96Z_lNxGKRSTeHVelmkiQuKuba5UUubK_BiaE/s400/suitcase.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503461919646560450" /></a><br /><br />This weekend, The Girlfriend and I embarked on another project from our list of things we've talked about without ever making definite plans: A Yard Sale. <br /><br />I brought a spacious one-bedroom's worth of things when I moved in, most of which went directly into our storage unit or remained littered about the dining room, bedroom, and car until this weekend. We slapped price tags on these unwanted goods, set out two camping chairs and sat in the perfect Saturday morning, drinking, smoking and reading as strangers went through our things.<br /><br />Being people who would list their yard sale knowledge at expert, we knew those pitfalls to avoid with a sale.<br /><br />The first is to keep yourself behind the fence. People don't like coming onto private property. Even on first dates and shit, it's always weird to cross that threshold of where the public belongs and where the residents keep. So ours was right off the path and visible from the bustling traffic a block away. <br /><br />The next was to come-up with makeshift tables to keep out wares off the ground. Nothing is more of a detriment to sales than people having to squat or bend down to look at those goods piled atop a sleeping bag. I'd found chairs and boards which I laid, one atop the other, to provide a waist high suspension for our wares. There was no awkward squatting, our customers deserve better than that. <br /><br />I think the most crucial component was our seller's composure. We kept our noses buried in our books, looking up only at to take a drink or pull a drag off our cigarette. Nothing is worse than being watched as you silently judge a person based on those belongings to help get rid off. Or when you touch an item only to hear the owner tell you how they acquired the item and why they're selling it. <br /><br />Actually that's wrong. The Girlfriend manned-up and made some forty brownies for the sale. One free with purchase. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBVX5SiHFAwq7BXI5OTr4fIcFvCScUhwjuCcTrJbTZizOYjoo4je6fPv8f4w_JAmTdM9YPq3ehq32ZwOi2k2amH4-E24F6kQH5_c5Z35NCbiV1Uap8ub3UqkE0BWyqL3F7pFMrNzS5DBI/s1600/brownies.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBVX5SiHFAwq7BXI5OTr4fIcFvCScUhwjuCcTrJbTZizOYjoo4je6fPv8f4w_JAmTdM9YPq3ehq32ZwOi2k2amH4-E24F6kQH5_c5Z35NCbiV1Uap8ub3UqkE0BWyqL3F7pFMrNzS5DBI/s400/brownies.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503478326055645698" /></a><br /><br />Our low-key approach worked wonders as a good half of our items were gone by mid-morning. Of special note was the cumbersome furniture that I would have rather set afire to than have to relocate. When we set up shop, we noticed a yellow moving truck parked in front of the building. We worried that it belonged to a comer-or-goer who would be moving stuff directly through our sales floor. Turns out that the truck had been emptied out the night before and even better - this new addition to our apartment bought all of our furniture as we were setting it out. <br /><br />It's so hard not to look at someone as they stop before an item. What of yours could the be interested in? You guess at what they see and are almost bummed when they put it back. Stupid rejection.<br /><br />My CD collection drew the most conversation from patrons, as those in my age group had the exact same albums and bought them wistfully remarking on their first year of college - or the record store they once worked out. One stated that there wasn't a single album here that he didn't have in high school. Another girl who passed through later in the evening screeched with delight as she picked up every Vagrant records release from the labels peak (a two-week period in 2002). <br /><br />My VHS collection was probably the hardest to part with. Most of the movies I'd already re-purchased in DVD and downloaded those not worth the investment - but it's the trailers that make watching a VHS fun. More often there from movies you don't even remember being released and they're sloppily chopped together with generic action music from the studio library and the sound and video quality have deteriorated to the point that they're the cinematic equivalent to the animatronic greeter at Showbiz Pizza. After laserdisc, it's the second closest format to watching a movie on vinyl. Make that third. There were those weird videodiscs that came in a plastic platter so you could never touch the disc surface. So yeah, third. <br /><br />Turns out, nobody has a VCR anymore. Some guy bought my copy of The Wrong Guy (a terribly overlooked comedy written by Dave Foley). And I overheard someone remark that the movie collection was "good," but I was saddened that nobody wanted the thing that was hardest to part with. Right at close, a local staple in the Chicago horror community peddled up to see what we had. I'd recognized the guy from countless horror-movie screenings throughout Chicago, as well, The Girlfriend and I had seen him on the IFC series Film School a few months earlier. SO here he is going through my VHS collection and the attention he paid to the titles and bought eight of them was sort of the best compliment of the day. <br /><br />Those titles that didn't sell, I though about holding onto - or giving them to a friend who I knew would appreciate them. But in the end, I knew I was done with them and threw them in the back of the car where they were donated at the Brown Elephant.<br /><br />As the top photo illustrates, I got rid of the box of pr0n. Every guy has one. Mine had grown obsolete, what with the internetz and all. So I drew up that sign and set it out. Anytime anyone walked near it, the corners of my eyes would turn and I could feel The Girlfriend's doing the same. An older woman who bought a copy of Yahtzee! (we had six) mentioned that she was curious and made a head nod towards the case, throwing us off as we looked to wear she nodded and saw only the porn and thought that couldn't be right. But know - she was interested - just a tad too scared. <br /><br />I went inside to get some more stuff I forgot to put out and when I returned the box was gone. She was smiling at me. Some older guy had been scouting the table and read the suitcase. Asked if it was real. Then took said, "I'm happy to help," and walked off into the sunset. Truth is, the porn in that case would have been deemed shitty by a fifteen-year-old. <br /><br />One of the things with a yard sale is that you have to deal with your neighborhood crazies. Two ladies just came and hung out with us. Like they weren't shopping, they just sat around and kept asking questions in fractured English and all we could do was nod and start talking about something near to where they were. After they left, one returned an hour later to ask for the recipe to the brownies. <br /><br />There seemed to be the career yard sale-ists who seemed to know one another from the other sales. Their routine is like this: They wake-up. Check the Craig's List postings and embark - out to hit up the sales. Their wardrobes are all ill-fitting garments which were most likely acquired at like sales. They buy books and media in bulk and I can only assume their walls are lined with such. Yet - they're normal and they're nice. The woman who bought several of my books and scoured through the clothes before finding a top that wouldn't fit around her thigh - she was genial. But she wore a pair of khaki shorts that wouldn't button yet still wore them around with a four-inch gap like a man returned from a steakhouse. There were a few free items I had laid out for the taking. Most of them were loose CDs, burnt DVDs, and empty cases. People spent twenty and thirty minutes going through these stacks and stacks of discs. A Chinese woman came and simply took all of them. Eh. It was late in the sale and I would have had to toss them out had she not taken them. Then she offered a dime on a 25 cent coin purse. Then kept picking something up before asking us why we are selling it. Fucking neighborhood crazies. God bless them.<br /><br />And that was the yard sale.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-982749354097047560.post-87397806118962322222010-08-09T11:34:00.007-05:002010-08-09T12:22:31.137-05:00Jack Be Nimble Jack Be Quick . . .. . . take a ride on the West Coast kick.<br /><br />This Friday after work marks the beginning of a road trip The Girlfriend and I have talked about since we started dating, but in a way - almost felt it might be one of those things that never fully pans out. Like dropping those ten pounds, seeing Paris, or taking all that junk to Goodwill. <br /><br />We envisioned a long drive set at pace determined by our own interest - with stops located at those towns we either love or always wanted to see or knew people we loved. This is that route:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7FysXojYPfup6te4seXDkm0mYtv7BiZbaFpJAov8e1-FxSbQ8-Y5XtYwr71oeJAJHOs3ZZ5X8yTvQWj4DRec0YP5CtLHmAAJWgM8dyUFYoWNgNkQYqM6mJjZz4t5towfP4DJLIh1xbzs/s1600/map.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 288px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7FysXojYPfup6te4seXDkm0mYtv7BiZbaFpJAov8e1-FxSbQ8-Y5XtYwr71oeJAJHOs3ZZ5X8yTvQWj4DRec0YP5CtLHmAAJWgM8dyUFYoWNgNkQYqM6mJjZz4t5towfP4DJLIh1xbzs/s400/map.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503453949662270882" /></a><br /><br />Notice that it's a giant dong? Intentional. <br /><br />We leave for work proceeding west towards Manitou Springs, Colorado with our endurance calling our town and time of rest. We'll stay there until Wednesday the 18th of August where we have a two-night stay in Vegas. After we amass our fortune and reputation, it's off to San Francisco where we'll stay until we tire of the town and head north for Portland and it's surrounding locales. I'm anxious to check out Powell's books and am almost certain that an entire day could be spent there before heading out to Seattle and possibly to points further north. Our only obligation is a hotel room waiting for us in Deadwood, South Dakota on the 26th of August. We hope to make it for the lighting of Mount Rushmore and to toss dice against the hoopleheads. <br /><br />We've been more than fortunate to finds friends in these cities eager to have us, ans well as being eerily lucky that we have a friend who will be in Chicago during our trip who will stay at our place and take care over our cat, plants, and make sure that family of opossums don't make there way in. (If you're reading this Lee, more than four opossums and we have a problem.) <br /><br />So if you, dear readers, can suggest any places of interest along or of this route - we would be more thank happy to hear it. <br /><br />Sincerely,<br />The ManagmentUnknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-982749354097047560.post-37330539343651296392010-08-09T08:46:00.003-05:002010-08-09T11:34:11.111-05:00"If It's Not Fun to Make . . .. . . it's not fun to play." <br /><br />There was a meeting several weeks ago concerning the video game. Here's what had happened:<br /><br />The game was written on a certain software platform - and it was decided to change it for a platform supposedly superior. What happens is that the game is transferred to this new system where it's small problems becomes disasters. Minor glitches now take an entire day to fix. Considering that this is a project that the group has been working on for over a year - it seemed to be the last straw. People stopped showing up on Friday to work on it. When someone did decide to find the time for it, they'd find their levels were unplayable and give up out of frustration. Add to that - most of the designers were apparently talented and three have contracts with Disney which prevents them for working any longer on the game. <br /><br />And so it was that vote was taken and in that vote it was decided that work on the game would be stopped. Everyone would walk away having learned something and everyone would walk away having an award-winning game under their belt. That is, everyone except the writer whose work was to be displayed in the now never to be released extended version. <br /><br />This is why you don't work with nerds. <br /><br />Sometime this week, I'll post the cut-screens that were developed to test the time and pace of the intro and outro. <br /><br />I'm not too upset about this. Obvious, it sucks that I won't be able to see what would have happened had the game gone "out there." It's also weird still being in the office while people I've worked with are now working at a major studio, granted we're not in the same field, but still - people pursing their desires is an insult to me. It offends me. <br /><br />Luckily, there's been recent interest in a short screenplay I previously posted here, The Shaft. It seems that it's showing signs of life. <br /><br />More. To. Come.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-982749354097047560.post-19988997073841268782010-07-02T09:04:00.003-05:002010-07-02T11:12:24.480-05:00A Few Weeks Back . . .. . . The Girlfriend and I went to a friend's birthday party. <br /><br />This friend is of the sort who will determine the viability of a place based on whether or not they have a dance floor. Don't get me wrong there's nothing wrong with dancing. It's just that by 22. 23. Most women have figured out that club dancing is just something designed by men which allows us to grind our erections on you because that's what you find sexy, no? It's the socially permissible variant of a puppy on a leg. So we're at this place in the southwest 'burbs when some song comes on suggesting the listener to "Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy."<br /><br />What a stupid fucking song. Especially when such a phrase can be used for good instead of bad. It could promote a level of social consciousness and awareness. <br /><br />Save a tall bike, ride an ironic hipster. <br /><br />Save a Prius, ride someone who doesn't get it. <br /><br />Save a Smart Car, ride someone who will be killed in a mild fender-bender.<br /><br />Save a motorcycle, ride a man trying to over compensate.<br /><br />Save a Bonneville, ride 20-mexicans.<br /><br />Save a bus, ride a black guy.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-982749354097047560.post-65360206161898842222010-06-14T09:30:00.012-05:002010-06-16T08:52:52.797-05:00Blood on the Plain . . .Updated 6/16 - It started going somewhere I didn't like and will hopefully change if this thing makes it to a second draft, but then there's a dark light at the end of the tunnel. <br /><br />Updated 6/15 - At this point I'd like to remind you, dear reader, that this is a rough first draft that's more of a free-writing exercise. There are going to be some really rough patches. Thanks. - The Management<br /><br />This is what happens when I set out to write a full-length screen play in one week with no outline, notes, or idea as to what's to come. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdupK801vfeQxjZTJuFHwmmjDHQ1P9sfNmoLZLIzniAySn-nfUsqDP7Ui71u-kYqPgp2g8M7kFds5xSQq_Lw1COObVO3pcHG629-sqySurwBXIjKd70p3yWe_Sh2idoIRmQnqzZFKGixo/s1600/plain1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 255px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdupK801vfeQxjZTJuFHwmmjDHQ1P9sfNmoLZLIzniAySn-nfUsqDP7Ui71u-kYqPgp2g8M7kFds5xSQq_Lw1COObVO3pcHG629-sqySurwBXIjKd70p3yWe_Sh2idoIRmQnqzZFKGixo/s400/plain1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482642844145737698" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9pU_DLSeakWWSVlF7kF5ySZUnhzMkyU05baPZH__J9F3FcuHNHygJ7BWgdm2A9nhlmBOCz1wj8FnuQZOQKlA-HJ9xjDxhHh2ZY17t4Dck8LI43oYhBGWUZoM6YY_WGIPCd95RxIgx33c/s1600/plain2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 255px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9pU_DLSeakWWSVlF7kF5ySZUnhzMkyU05baPZH__J9F3FcuHNHygJ7BWgdm2A9nhlmBOCz1wj8FnuQZOQKlA-HJ9xjDxhHh2ZY17t4Dck8LI43oYhBGWUZoM6YY_WGIPCd95RxIgx33c/s400/plain2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482643028742072194" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM96irNGsP7fVzLjKgam8gROnGk4MpLelIx77QXVigkyGfysbLKgC__WekRHf06STyOZTVWBK6fU_QJlvjxqVRt-2t5DXpfEyW7JVgy0iuRJi_2HyqeE5GJLKGTpRizoPXyMFdoOJqkKM/s1600/plain3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 255px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM96irNGsP7fVzLjKgam8gROnGk4MpLelIx77QXVigkyGfysbLKgC__WekRHf06STyOZTVWBK6fU_QJlvjxqVRt-2t5DXpfEyW7JVgy0iuRJi_2HyqeE5GJLKGTpRizoPXyMFdoOJqkKM/s400/plain3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482643136661858722" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4lk4P09B2j-8z05Pc3IzdD_ZEeXOoAyKY6pmmhK05aHbAiD2Qv5IJaL8OCq90uzNqU1K13OF1uHY5SA1XBPOpq4k7oRAOup7uNLCWx3LI020cxalJ85xQotFx59TfXWbJaglJF8KxENM/s1600/plain4.jpg"><img style="display:block; 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margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 254px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLlYunNkvtrmdqNsflLlNjRqeeRsu9U5nBBZule6CFxYFya_baYQb-rQQe1MifjNU0w5Ri3FCZZbv5qMicoBcB29_IKZzm1nhobKbPAtJ9yLSAlBVGsEyXYws30wnxaCdMNKiK7VLUcKU/s400/16.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483368853915486338" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-982749354097047560.post-8936055991663253642010-06-11T08:29:00.007-05:002010-06-11T09:45:49.445-05:00Oh, Yeah . . .. . . I forgot I had this blog.<br /><br />Quite a bit has happened in the past several weeks. Some of which I started to write about before, but was soon interrupted and left unfinished. <br /><br />The last few days I've been out of the office. I've written before of my eye issues, where swelling and rock hard glands have become the norm every few months. I'm not pointing any fingers at the cause of this malady . . . cough . . . the cat . . . cough. . . but it's become an aggravating recurrence that leaves me being rude to my co-workers, pissed-off at anything that so much looks at me, and eats away at my vacation days like a yellow cartoon pie chart noshing away at tiny pellets. (I fucking hate the word nosh. Why did I just use it?)<br /><br />The only pro of this ailment is that I get to wear novelty eye coverings. Last time was an eye patch that illicited fear from anyone in the same room as me. Today, it's the giant aviator sunglasses whose pitch-black frames resemble those of a champion poker-player rather than a lackey of the tax industry. Thus far in my sole office-hour, I've been standing up at random intervals and breathing heavily - like a man whose existence is tied to the face of the next card. <br /><br />And with that, I've adopted the style and manner of a drunken Scotty Nguyen:<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/2IjdQnWmUAo&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/2IjdQnWmUAo&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />I sent this video to my friend, David. He replied with a story that Scotty Nguyen told to a table. <br /><br />When he was fleeing Vietnam in his youth, he and his brother were on a boat for 22 days with a group of refugees. They survived off condensation, but without food they were slowly starving to death. Nguyen's little brother had gotten sick and it was assumed there'd be no recovery. The group had decided that they'd eat the sick child the next day. When Nguyen was told of the plan, he replied, "Yeah, baby, let's eat my brother."Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-982749354097047560.post-48304231813906522472010-05-19T09:55:00.004-05:002010-05-19T10:24:16.168-05:00I Know It's Been . . .. . . quiet around here. <br /><br />But I've got something brewing. Something big. Brewing. <br /><br />In the meantime, here's a bunch of Facebook status (long u, indicating plural). Again, no new content. <br /><br />"<span style="font-style:italic;">I was at the Starbucks Loyola, waiting on the restroom, when a teenage couple exited in tandem. I entered and was immediately scared to touch anything. My only consolation being the hope that at some point, that girl's self-respect kicked in and she said, "If we're doing this, you're not sitting there.</span>"<br /><br /><br />"<span style="font-style:italic;">This Cinco de Mayo, as you marinate shallots and fire up the VHS copy of American Me, don't lose track of what it is you're celebrating: On this day, 10,000 years ago, the Spanish settlers found the the image of the Jesus who, while perched atop a cactus, held a snake in his foot and ate of it. This is how the Spaniard...s knew where to build Mexico (present day Delaware).</span>"<br /><br />"<span style="font-style:italic;">Killing time at a Wal-Mart in Ford City, I filled out an electronic job app at the kiosk near the mens room. I now have an interview at 11.</span>"<br /><br /> "<span style="font-style:italic;">Do you know they're laughing at you over in Evergreen Park? They are laughing at you. You want to know why? Because cosmetics is bleeding. Yeah, you might have given electronics a nudge in the right direction when you put the spic movies behind glass, but how do you expect to maximize a turn when you got $12 eyeliner ...pens in the corner next to the formula? When I was walking in here I saw Diet Dr. Pepper cubes on an endcap. Nobody that shops here drinks Diet Dr. anything. You take those cubes, put them where they belong in Home and Garden, and you make The Thunder work for you." Are you scared? Good, you should be! I will drag you and this whole goddamn store, kicking and screaming into the modern world!</span>"<br /><br />"<span style="font-style:italic;">To the person who hit my car before speeding off into the night: You couldn't hit the side that was already dented? And how do you hit someone on Winnemac, west of Ashland!? If this were east, I'd not only understand, but I'd be thankful you didn't set my car afire. To do what you did, would require drifting more than Woody Guthrie!</span>"<br /><br />"<span style="font-style:italic;">Tomorrow is Dark Lord Day. The Girlfriend is excited to pick-up the highly coveted Dark Lord Ale. I'm excited because I found a Godfather's Pizza located 26-miles away in Merrillville, IN. And to think, everyone laughed at me for saving all those buffet coupons from the DCHS newspaper.</span>"<br /><br />"<span style="font-style:italic;">It's a goddamn Godfather's Express!!! What is this, the end of a Twilight Zone episode!?</span>"<br /><br />"<span style="font-style:italic;">I'm not sure who was officitaing, but listening to it this morning, it was obvious to me The Devil was completely robbed. There's no way Johnny outplayed him!</span>"<br /><br />"<span style="font-style:italic;">Remember: Lock the restroom door behind you. As that sad patron at The Edgewater learned, I don't care if there's only room for one. I will join you. And I will be talkative.</span>"<br /><br />"<span style="font-style:italic;">No not negotitation, Angel. I think you misread the e-mail. This is the salary negation meeting.</span>"<br /><br />"<span style="font-style:italic;">A conference call without me is a waste of everyone's time.</span>"Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-982749354097047560.post-77112129011439674042010-05-11T09:17:00.011-05:002010-05-11T16:25:07.857-05:002009 in Movies . . . Part TwoThis is the continuation of a list (<a href="http://ll30.blogspot.com/2010/01/2009-in-movies-part-one.html">found here</a>) I threw together in January. I'd meant to get around to in but was soon distracted by something. I can't remember what it was. Probably something shiny. I decided to post it today rather than generate new content. . . . ENJOY!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Away We Go</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhViVccZC8uYg7NXJaOCym-tgRdw6etm5bmqNA8qCZxtU8mPb2R6naP0RC8qSEJlVwm_kpzi1s3vQBbM42b8_HliItCGyECN3AaXBreqgaYLslGKZle5VjVxUl2sh_mA0punjsGMInDh7o/s1600-h/away-we-go.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhViVccZC8uYg7NXJaOCym-tgRdw6etm5bmqNA8qCZxtU8mPb2R6naP0RC8qSEJlVwm_kpzi1s3vQBbM42b8_HliItCGyECN3AaXBreqgaYLslGKZle5VjVxUl2sh_mA0punjsGMInDh7o/s400/away-we-go.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428861772537128178" /></a><br /><br />I don't like Sam Mendes. Upon its release, I got sucked into the <span style="font-style:italic;">American Beauty</span> hype, then later realized it's a pretty bullshit remake of <span style="font-style:italic;">Big </span>that relies on a pot-smoking dad playing the role of the rebel child. <span style="font-style:italic;">Jarhead </span>is the most latently homoerotic depiction of the military, yet it's still not interesting. I wanted everyone to die in <span style="font-style:italic;">Revolutionary Road</span>. So with this smaller-scale flick following on the tails of an Academy Award contender, <span style="font-style:italic;">Away We Go</span> seemed like a politician putting on a Carharrt and ordering a sandwich from a truck to show the little people he's still one of them. Which is why I was so shocked to find myself enjoying it as much as I did. <br /><br />As I've gotten older and been close to friends who have children, I've realized that parenting seems to be a never-ending series of concessions. Every expectant parent has this value system that will work in tandem with a series of ideas and traits they're certain they'll pass onto their child. "Our child will never watch anything Disney." "Our child will never drink soda." "Our child will not touch the ground for the first three years." And you listen to this with a straight face meanwhile knowing that in two years (if they haven't left it at a fire station ) this terrible monster will be clad in mickey ears and a pink gown while using a rusty knife to puncture the side of an Ecto Cooler. (Do they still make those?)<br /><br />I wonder about the kind of father I'll be. When the subject has come up with my friends, it seems most men would have taken from the givings and mis of their own fathers to shape the dad they want to be. The goal being to better relate to their own child than their father did relate to them. Take notice of where their passions and strengths may lay and do what we can to foster those. Then reality kicks in and I start to realize I might be a really shitty dad. What if my attempt to relate to my child end up, "So, do you kids still skateboard?" Getting frustrated that my kid knows what a tool his dad is. And that I spend Saturday night sitting quietly in the kitchen while my child entertains company in the living room. Entering occasionally to see if anybody wants me to make more popcorn. The Girlfriend? Off in the Bahamas with my child's Step-Man that she met at the singles Yoga class she said had a better instructor. What am I talking about, oh yeah . . . <span style="font-style:italic;">Away We Go</span>.<br /><br />It's sugary sweet. Yes. John Krasinski rides the border of being charming to being irritable and unbelievable. Maya Rudolph's face has always kind of bugged me. But <span style="font-style:italic;">Away We Go</span> really got to me. It takes these soon to be parents and places them on a road-trip where they see the types of parents their friends have grown into. The results scare the shit out of them. Dave Eggers wrote the screenplay for this and I think that's what really separates it from Mendes' other movies. Where the couple in <span style="font-style:italic;">Revolutionary Road</span> are naive to such an unbearable degree to the point you can't stand them on the screen. (Everyone says 'they're supposed to be irritating' which I think is such a cop-out defense. You can make a character ugly or undesirable and still be able to relate to them. For that dramatic pull to exist, you really have to care about a character.) With <span style="font-style:italic;">Away </span> Eggers makes a similar couple with similar wants much more human and with whom I really make an effort to understand. And it's charming. And it's ultimately sincere. <br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Julie and Julia </span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX_QSzUsJNWVxSWj8-ArGMuVkGvwimOf7G8mo7qTx0Ustw5Tf_bxTkNIjJd2DskkO0TGIjjeo-ZtQ7aNCtz0T4WqXPucDYB-eISQLtZFFiBQhb86ZWWKBKe9wlBpdJ1huWumL1KWM_MZ8/s1600-h/2009_julie_and_julia_001.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX_QSzUsJNWVxSWj8-ArGMuVkGvwimOf7G8mo7qTx0Ustw5Tf_bxTkNIjJd2DskkO0TGIjjeo-ZtQ7aNCtz0T4WqXPucDYB-eISQLtZFFiBQhb86ZWWKBKe9wlBpdJ1huWumL1KWM_MZ8/s400/2009_julie_and_julia_001.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428878739026840178" /></a><br /><br />It was strange that people attacked Meryl Streep for playing Julia Child as a caricature. Have these people ever seen the real Julia Child? She's the closest thing to a real-life walking, talking Muppet this world will ever know. It was in watching a re-run of her cooking with that small Frenchman that I turned off the TV and told The Girlfriend we had to go watch this movie now. Watching Meryl work brought a smile to my face. This smile was quickly wiped away by Amy Adams. It's not that Amy Adams is a bad actress or that she tries to market an okay face. It's that her character of Julie (based on the blogger whose stunt is the basis of this movie)is one of the most atrocious monsters in the history of le cinema. She represents that privilege and that demand of being seen and being recognized as important so as to get a pat on the head (by the way, you people need to start commenting more) that I can't fucking stand such entitlement for a minute. This movie just came out on DVD, watch Meryl. Watch the first scene with Amy Adams (just so you know what's there) then fast skip forward scan past the rest of her. Oh, and you'll get hungry watching this. Bring a fine cheese. <br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Zombieland</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7U0E4Jqi4dkQ8VQdhxoPmQrtB5T3o69croAYJidgWmj8GVZdpMkz4ZSJ6KvEYx5w9V2rx239pBrI06fSfBNzk8URnD6yz1EKomgH_08fgJ7M1W4k8H4dkKBkI0Z6v9F4SZCUUfHlu6ys/s1600/zombieland1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 280px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7U0E4Jqi4dkQ8VQdhxoPmQrtB5T3o69croAYJidgWmj8GVZdpMkz4ZSJ6KvEYx5w9V2rx239pBrI06fSfBNzk8URnD6yz1EKomgH_08fgJ7M1W4k8H4dkKBkI0Z6v9F4SZCUUfHlu6ys/s400/zombieland1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470023049971177506" /></a><br /><br />Zombie movies are like Diet Coke. With the latter, you can indulge yourself and never take in a single calorie. With zombie movies, you can see the human form subjected to the most violent deaths imaginable and laugh without feeling any type of guilt. They allow you to enjoy something seemingly indulgent, with no recourse. It's when that fluff becomes the core of your being that a problem presents itself. I've seen too many kids with a camera work to produce something that's intentionally derivative of this most stale of genres. They don't want to make a movie, they want to have fun and drench the audience in fake blood. So that's why I've had a particular contempt for the reemergence of the zombie in popular culture. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Zombieland </span>was the last in a triple feature The Girlfriend and I took in at the Brew and View. I wasn't even certain if we'd hang around for it, as we were there to check out the second title playing. In the end, <span style="font-weight:bold;">Zombieland </span>was the most enjoyable of the three and one of the funnest times I've had since <span style="font-weight:bold;">Inglorious Basterds</span>. Granted, four hours of drinking preceded it, but I'm certain the sober mind would feel the same way. <br /><br />The movie plays out like a cross between a video game and a TV game show. And that's not a slight, it drops the pretension of trying to be a serious movie in favor of embracing it's Diet Cola-ness. With that it drops the cliches. As The Girlfriend pointed out, there isn't that moment when a comrade is bitten and must be killed at the moment of conversion to the living dead. The characters that are formulaic seem in on the joke and have fun with it. Added to that, the movie has one of the best (most well-kept) cameo appearances since <span style="font-weight:bold;">In the Army Now</span>. <br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Inglorious Basterds</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFFPiqpqeV1Bz8y8ejf1sBarTVS5WK2RxH_Zo2ILAacdGjz2fefAN9aXcBRpoFyp5NoTS7SyqBjp46xhyphenhyphenUXpkTcdpB9lVXHS_VHM5PdvE-oIyTbf1QK1PF5JctN8uInuvoUPfIQYLgUjU/s1600-h/Inglourious-Basterds-w06.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFFPiqpqeV1Bz8y8ejf1sBarTVS5WK2RxH_Zo2ILAacdGjz2fefAN9aXcBRpoFyp5NoTS7SyqBjp46xhyphenhyphenUXpkTcdpB9lVXHS_VHM5PdvE-oIyTbf1QK1PF5JctN8uInuvoUPfIQYLgUjU/s400/Inglourious-Basterds-w06.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428946616743133058" /></a><br /><br /> There's that video for Bjork's <span style="font-style:italic;">Bachelorette</span>. Where she writes a book which is turned into a play where she writes a book which is turned into a play where she writes a book which is turned into a play. The construct of the cast becoming the audience watching an audience who have become the cast was pretty brilliant and that same device is put to use in Tarantino's 7th movie - <span style="font-style:italic;">Inglorious Basterds</span>. Much like <span style="font-style:italic;">Zombieland</span>, <span style="font-style:italic;">Inglorious </span>unleashes its most vile fantasy on the other socially acceptable beast of burden: The Nazi. However, the tables turn . . . not on the allied forces, but on you the viewer. <br /><br />With each new entry, Tarantino displays a new strength. In <span style="font-style:italic;">Inglorious</span>, he shows us his ability to just wring the fucking tension out of a scene. Part of this is due to the director, but another part is greatly due to Christoph Waltz who is at once so slimy, yet so intelligent and so imposing whenever he's in frame. (I'm pretty sure he'll never have a role this good again.)<br /><br />Inglorious Basterds isn't a war movie. It's a war movie for movie buffs. One of the irritating things about Kevin Smith is that he writes these characters who speak the way he wishes the world would speak. Where even the most ancillary of characters knows the entire roster of the Justice League. But what he does is a sin committed by every screenwriter. The world they create is the one they'd like to believe exists. What Tarantino does is borrow from movie buffs who meet people from other lands. We immediately dive into our only global point of reference and ask how movies from their countries were received in their place of origin. I've seen <span style="font-style:italic;">Man Bites Dog</span> and know what the overall American consensus of <span style="font-style:italic;">Man Bites Dog</span> was, but do you guys in France like it or do you consider it exploitative garbage. For all I know, that could be your <span style="font-style:italic;">Saw</span>. So in Nazi occupied France, it's Pabst and Riefenstahl and King Kong who bring everyone together. It's the movies that unite the cultural divide. <br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Where the Wild Things Are </span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm3QvBMqUu37C-3PdQ7Kf4p6Zd6yUV-R72m4J5yG7gOVMt9UvPMWDCA-ipLZ2oH1x8tMG9QWrph8aPDs1TOB-HEsNCAD6S86T1FlgbUHHvEm1IDn3uELccOyPIyIyEVkZ5FV1agd-N6sc/s1600/where-wild-things-are-sun.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 226px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm3QvBMqUu37C-3PdQ7Kf4p6Zd6yUV-R72m4J5yG7gOVMt9UvPMWDCA-ipLZ2oH1x8tMG9QWrph8aPDs1TOB-HEsNCAD6S86T1FlgbUHHvEm1IDn3uELccOyPIyIyEVkZ5FV1agd-N6sc/s400/where-wild-things-are-sun.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470123402851289106" /></a><br /><br />It's kind of bad when the trailer is better than the movie. I was really looking forward to this one since hearing that Spike Jonze was deep in the Narnia shooting a script written by Dave Eggers. When that trailer came out set to the music of Arcade Fire, I was scouring the web for a release date. Held off on seeing it so I could experience it with my nieces and nephew. They saw it without me and gave it a pretty unenthusiastic "meh." Finally watched it last night. <br /><br />It's eight slacker roommates in fur who decide to build a skate ramp in their backyard at the behest of a kid whose mom really needs to put her son on Adderall. The movie doesn't do well enough a job of establishing why Max creates this world. Nor does it do a well enough job of creating anything. Blah.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Fantastic Mr. Fox</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib0xvKqE5oEXYuzBqTstpSnAYjgp4pJrU6vYxe_Zn8Pmairh_y-q7UTxpkWe8O9iiBi6bs3IE9I15IvP8nxNg3Pb2kP5vvxJ27LjCuk7BzasA4OiiUpJoDdkRyCVuSct71QqwilolKIyc/s1600/the_fantastic_mr_fox_movie1-500x269.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 215px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib0xvKqE5oEXYuzBqTstpSnAYjgp4pJrU6vYxe_Zn8Pmairh_y-q7UTxpkWe8O9iiBi6bs3IE9I15IvP8nxNg3Pb2kP5vvxJ27LjCuk7BzasA4OiiUpJoDdkRyCVuSct71QqwilolKIyc/s400/the_fantastic_mr_fox_movie1-500x269.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470124842145354658" /></a><br /><br />Eh. Wes Anderson is a guy who really uses style to tell the story. There's nothing wrong with that. I think Anderson inspired and introduced an appreciation for the visual aesthetic that had long been absent until <span style="font-style:italic;">Rushmore</span>, and fully realized in <span style="font-style:italic;">Royal Tenenbaums</span> then attacking its creator in <span style="font-style:italic;">Life Aquatic</span>. I think that the events on screen end up being incidental to the style which surrounds them. Some enjoy this and I can understand that. I've said that <span style="font-style:italic;">The Royal Tenenbaums</span> feels more like a book than it does a movie. And that could easily be attributed to the strong use of setting and structure instead of the conventional dialogue-driven. This wouldn't be so much of an issue, if his movies weren't touted as being so goddamn important. <br /><br />I liked Fantastic Mr. Fox in that it does away with the pretense of being that important movie and can fully regale in being a masturbatory exercise in fashion aimed at kids but not really. Taking your kids to this movie is like buying your kids the toy <span style="font-style:italic;">you </span>always wanted. I can't imagine a child's interest being kept by this movie. (My brother says his daughter was pretty bored by it.) On a technical level, I really appreciated the craft that went into making this and found Anderson's style to be perfectly suited for the piece. <br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">District 9</span> <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKjWBn3YrVTDquCWtRN1YdHdCiSPDaSuVbXTBQMo8QIHcQ_e5DgtdjH8ORgh9408zOiJTfwQBjgxRqaiqGJ9vOUaz5uZYVzvWoqqkhjbANUvYfxUwJSAyXEmAFnMSeUaSimiZebqSQKjI/s1600/district-9.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKjWBn3YrVTDquCWtRN1YdHdCiSPDaSuVbXTBQMo8QIHcQ_e5DgtdjH8ORgh9408zOiJTfwQBjgxRqaiqGJ9vOUaz5uZYVzvWoqqkhjbANUvYfxUwJSAyXEmAFnMSeUaSimiZebqSQKjI/s400/district-9.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470121564153988530" /></a><br /><br /><br />Come on, it wasn't that good. Just because it's mainstream R-Rated sci-fi doesn't mean you have to dote over it. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">An Education </span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfJTcwk8qbkCgHyaghZmjyFlYFpFwUW7GyGVC5xjqHsq4u8Gz6wz1uZ60vsZ1NK2LtM6sVmfxvFr2zRgLs1m6UYFMloDo5sKL9E8oq0Y6XdKajhSoeRIYNOIWXoNaOSb4-1Vt-xmEEodY/s1600/an+education.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfJTcwk8qbkCgHyaghZmjyFlYFpFwUW7GyGVC5xjqHsq4u8Gz6wz1uZ60vsZ1NK2LtM6sVmfxvFr2zRgLs1m6UYFMloDo5sKL9E8oq0Y6XdKajhSoeRIYNOIWXoNaOSb4-1Vt-xmEEodY/s400/an+education.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470030654348868226" /></a><br /><br />It actually ends with a <span style="font-style:italic;">Rocky </span>training montage! And Alfred Molina, grow a fucking pair!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">A Serious Man</span> <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQJ79DVkp3BnoYApK87WENmRPLUlHccJC3dBl1TKZ8KmMBDilCKApf0h_YpqnDceDsTWNQoKcN5PuzYv69YLzPkqvYcG8cCp_dBfiHSBp8iACVW26TiI33bJ7dNOaa2XoC_JrS0XYc5TM/s1600/a-serious-man.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 220px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQJ79DVkp3BnoYApK87WENmRPLUlHccJC3dBl1TKZ8KmMBDilCKApf0h_YpqnDceDsTWNQoKcN5PuzYv69YLzPkqvYcG8cCp_dBfiHSBp8iACVW26TiI33bJ7dNOaa2XoC_JrS0XYc5TM/s400/a-serious-man.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470030922730773346" /></a><br /><br />I liked it. But I think I would have loved it had I been Jewish. Not a dig. I'm sure there's a Jewish person out there that doesn't fully grasp <span style="font-style:italic;">American Me</span>. I think this movie necessitates the lifelong struggle, guilt, and burden inherent with being Jewish. The Coens are reverting back to their Ladykiller/Intolerable Cruelty streak. Please, boys, take some time before projects. <br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">The Road</span> - <span style="font-weight:bold;">The Watchmen</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyYSfAHP3SDf_LsaBxhS9xLGTrAeR2Vtt8NEpZwi-_G3S3P14OnimMqKVtu4oKPzHkVHAllA063dSbbBJDnzPn5m4Xt6Hi_AqwjEWRnsi01ikj8SsR1QVHpzWCqlB14zbaWi7KK6UDBEM/s1600/watchmen.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 322px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyYSfAHP3SDf_LsaBxhS9xLGTrAeR2Vtt8NEpZwi-_G3S3P14OnimMqKVtu4oKPzHkVHAllA063dSbbBJDnzPn5m4Xt6Hi_AqwjEWRnsi01ikj8SsR1QVHpzWCqlB14zbaWi7KK6UDBEM/s400/watchmen.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470035813054986178" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI7U92h_TueWHezWz0acipDzQVqQlXPoCy1QF7mqmFaIiBFW4hNBkhWJC5QerpK3OXDOX3XwLT5lvQuV2AefZNgqPMolqpCCg7oK-kg0S7anDQ9ofCebS25L9jn6vLFcocAT8SjuR3qNY/s1600/the-road-still-5.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI7U92h_TueWHezWz0acipDzQVqQlXPoCy1QF7mqmFaIiBFW4hNBkhWJC5QerpK3OXDOX3XwLT5lvQuV2AefZNgqPMolqpCCg7oK-kg0S7anDQ9ofCebS25L9jn6vLFcocAT8SjuR3qNY/s400/the-road-still-5.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470035994028385650" /></a><br /><br /><br />Here's the bitch about adaptation: If you remain faithful to the source material, you have done nothing more than transcribed. If you deviate and introduce an element that might not have been in the source, you'll be crucified for your blasphemy.<br /><br />It was pretty ridiculous to read through the criticism of Zack Snyder's <span style="font-style:italic;">Watchmen</span>. I mean, the guy translates a work of fiction that even Terry Gilliam said was 'unfilmable.' He fights to release a theatrical version that runs 2 hours and 40 minutes (4 hours on DVD)-ultimately reducing the movie to box-office diminishing two-showings a night (whereas something like <span style="font-style:italic;">Iron Man</span> could squeeze in four-screenings per screen) and he still catches shit from the likes of those who suddenly consider the graphic novel to be on par with the bible and are pissed off that The Comedian fights back in the opening scene. If they'd stop squabbling in some attempt to show how they understand (thus love) <span style="font-style:italic;">The Watchmen</span> more than you, they'd see it's a pretty damn good realization of a far-fetched, over-reaching comic book.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">The Road</span> ran a little differently. Most people who read Cormac McCarthy's book wondered how they'd make <span style="font-style:italic;">The Road</span> into a movie. The book is made up almost entirely of one man's inner thoughts as he and his son traverse a path hoping to reach a place away from the unexplained destruction. Turns out the movie was pretty much that. But without any voice-over narration (thank god) we fill in the blank as the man and boy schlep a shopping cart along. While the actions and few events which occur in the movie remain faithful to the book, the only possible deviation would be in what the father is thinking about. Since we're not given that information, we leave the theater thinking, "yeah, I guess that was the book." <br /><br />I'm a big fan of McCarthy. Would call him one of my favorite authors. The Road is probably my least favorite of his books. This book is more Hemmingway and it's good for what it is but it's pretty far removed from what he normally writes. Extremely descriptive while still often succinct passages. Flowery language the likes of which even a Harvard scholar would have to look up. He drops in words that unless you were a rustler at the turn of the century, you'd have no clue as to the meaning. <br /><br />What I'm saying is you should skip all these movies and read <span style="font-style:italic;">Blood Meridian or, The Evening Redness in the West</span>.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-982749354097047560.post-74904575707153979512010-05-10T10:29:00.003-05:002010-05-10T10:40:28.157-05:00Kirby,<br /><br />Hope this e-mail finds you well. I'm hoping a bit more comfort comes with the warmer weather and that the knee is giving you as little trouble as possible.<br /><br />Well, last Friday we had an incident in the 'ole workspace. M. came in at the tail end of one of her benders. Before, it's been an amazing coincidence that she always pulls this on the same days our boss ends up out of the office. On this occasion, dear reader, her timing was poor. She'd been a zombie for the better part of the week. She was front desk and had only shown up two days. Friday she comes in and is pretty ugly. Our boss' boss even notices it first thing and asks me about her deal. I shrug and say it's probably the medications. Now here's what I'm not sure about. If boss called her into her office or if she went in on her own accord. What we do know is that the [rep from out new managing firm]was conferenced in and the decision was made to send her home. We assumed this meant she was fired. But Hugo Boss then goes around the office and tells us each that we're not to tell her she's been fired. She'll be informed when she arrives on Monday morning. Isn't that fucked, you're going to make someone dress up and come all the way downtown to tell them they're fired.<br /><br />She didn't call or try to come back.<br /><br />This morning CORPORATE was here. They waited on M. who never showed. As I started to write this all down, Big Baby (her suitor's moniker) came in. He spoke with Boss Cavarici and told her that M. had been hospitalized over the weekend. She was at Northwestern but has since been transferred to Weiss. How she arrived there and for what reasons are the subject of pure speculation.<br /><br />What this all comes down to, in my opinion, is that he could never fire someone. I don't think he has it in him. He's like a dealer who can't fire a pistol. As was stated in our interviews with the new managing entity, the rep had never seen an office with a 0% turnover. Since then, we've lost: You. G-Man. J-Balls. S-Girl(she was let go for just being a pain in the ass. At a work party after the merger, she got drunk and started talking shit on everything - including the new management within earshot. A few weeks later someone noticed something odd on our check stubs -our hours worked are listed a little weird but it's due to a difference in accounting between the two firm. S-Girl would not let this go and started calling and hounding them about her wages. They had enough of it and came in to clear out her desk for her. L-town was officially released last week, she'd been here on a week-to-week basis all this time.) So it seems Buggle Boss Boy has finally been able to find someone to wash the sheets.<br /><br />Enough about all this. How is the market treating you? I see on the news of the stagnation in unemployment. That we've held steady on jobs and are starting to show signs of improvement. Are you seeing any of this? Have you been able to put your tax brain to use to your own benefit? Everyone here keeps asking if I've heard from you.<br /><br />I'd like to say I have. And that he's doing well.<br /><br />Your friend,<br />A.v.EUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-982749354097047560.post-44779639513352193682010-05-03T09:19:00.004-05:002010-05-04T12:38:38.578-05:00This Weekend . . .. . . marked the first days of shooting for that short script I cleaned up earlier this month. <br /><br />Through the means of the director and his access, a ridiculous amount of "things" were available. I arrived to the location Saturday afternoon; a sprawling one-story on the edge of a golf course just near the Milwaukee border. Three RV trailers filled the dirt driveway leading to a roundabout in front of the home. I assumed the owners were avid travelers who have collected these in their age. Then I saw production stickers on the doors. "Make-up: Actors Only." "Cast Trailer: Actors Only" I met with the director of photography who was standing in the yard. I shook his hand. "Trailers, huh?" We continued shaking. "Yup." Still shaking. "That's so . . . unnecessary." Shaking. "Isn't it!?"<br /><br />Don't get me wrong, I still think the thing is a train wreck and there's no way anyone who reads it has any idea what it's about. So it's hard knowing that then going onto set and being introduced as the writer of this thing. (The other writer and person responsible for the brunt of it all was nowhere to be found. Smart, I tell you. Smart.) So as I'm introduced to the cast and crew as the writer, I have to correct, "Script doctor." I met the cast and was introduced to a woman with a little boy clad in pajamas. <br /><br />In the script, I wrote a kid in for what would amount to all of 30-seconds screen time. It was weird to find they actually cast the little bastard. Not just asked someone with a six-year old to swing by. They went through head-shots, had them audition, then put the mother and child in a trailer for most of the day. It was terrible to see. There's a sadness in trying to secure acting gigs for your kid. But putting him in shitty student films is an altogether new kind of abuse. <br /><br />Working with the kid is difficult. After 30 takes they just start crying and you have to yell at them for an hour to start working again. <br /><br />Seriously, it was hard to know that a kid is spending a sunny Saturday in a trailer with his mom because you thought having him run across a kitchen would be a nice touch. And I really doubt he'll see any of the hundred bucks he's earning for the day. It wasn't worth it and I felt like a pornographer. <br /><br />They say a writer doesn't belong on-set. I can agree with that. But it's not because you don't want some emotional prick whining about his work being ruined, it's because all the writer can do is just stand around. All the production roles were filled so a lot of my day was just walking around. Occasionally, the director would ask how the actor should play a scene and my response was usually, "He was smiling in the last scene. Let's have him frown here."<br /><br />Shooting resumes next weekend and the director asked me to be there for it as he'd like to keep me close by as a sort of consultant. I've seen my boss do the same thing. He's preparing to balance out the blame if things go bad.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-982749354097047560.post-4774107265110275562010-04-29T08:46:00.003-05:002010-04-29T09:19:12.906-05:00I Always Dread . . .. . . the story meetings with the video game team. <br /><br />I try to push them off for as long as possible and never get much done until the hours before.<br /><br />Last week I wrote of a lost drive. I ran out of steam and couldn't even jerk generic dialogue onto the page. Luckily, that feeling subsided and I've been back on track. So when I arrived last night, I handed over 20-pages of banter to be heard as the player plays. (Players gotta play. Haters gotta hate. Sorry, had to put that out there.)<br /><br />This right here is why I try to push these things off for as long as possible. It's one thing to put content out for others to read; it's another (and for me, fucking unbearable) to sit in the same room as someone who is reading something you wrote. I can only liken it to a job interview where it seems like the interviewer is reading your resume for the first time. <br /><br />Then it happens. The laugh. Then a current beings where you hear the laugh from another. Then another. As the writer you know where they are. It's like that first drop in the roller coaster. That hurdle you needed to get past to kick this thing off. Now you have an idea of where they are and what's next. So you start tracing through in your head. The child has passed the chamber beneath the trap floor. Now they've maneuvered through the "soul binder" so here the overhead voice should be telling the child that he will lead the brigade of the catamite. <br /><br />"What's catamite," asks one. <br /><br />I answer, "It's a weird kind of slave."<br /><br />"Oh, cool."<br /><br />I leave with their praise ringing in my head. The drive home, I'm jubilant and decide to celebrate the best way I know how. <br /><br />"Yes, thank you. I'll have three chicken and three double cheese."<br /><br />"Sir, how many people are in the car?"<br /><br />"Just one."<br /><br />"You sicken me."<br /><br />"..."<br /><br />"Please pull around."Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-982749354097047560.post-3461480821771155362010-04-27T09:00:00.004-05:002010-04-27T20:01:56.863-05:00As I Approach the Stage . . .. . . the announcer's voice can be heard in the auditorium as the theme music plays from the pit. "This marks the third time that A.v.E's car was involved in a hit-and-run accident while he was blocks away."<br /><br />Here's how it started. <br /><br />The Girlfriend and I returned from Indiana to find that "supergroup" <span style="font-style:italic;">Angel's & Airwaves </span>enthusiasts were already lined up outside the Aragon - a former 1920's ballroom that now operates as a live music venue. The place is several blocks from us, but the traffic it brings can be felt well beyond our neighborhood as parking becomes a murderfuck of aggravation known only to those who refuse to admit that a spot didn't just open up while circling the block.<br /><br />I'd double-parked in front of our building to unload the freight we brought from the Hoosier State: Fancy beer, pizza from a chain I didn't know still existed, and mid-century furniture. <br /><br />The unloading took the better part of a half-hour. When we first stationed, I heard the rattle of an off timing belt. Though a block away the rattle bounced off the cars and filled the street. Behind its wheel was a girl, cell phone to ear scanning in each direction for a gap between vehicles. Just like the other cars that we'd seen creeping through at a snail's pace. <br /><br />When the last of the goods were secured in the apartment, I set out to park the car legally. I heard the sound of the timing belt. She'd been circling this entire time. I learned from her and decided to cross the nearest major street which was two blocks east of us. Major traffic ways, under/over passes and train tracks are natural barriers. People use these as dividers and as the borders which separate the here from the there.<br /><br />So I crossed Ashland Avenue and immediately found a spot cross the alley from a small hospital. The road was wide in and removed from all but one residential complex - a vinyl sided two flat. I was comfortable leaving the car there. It was less than a five minute walk home so I felt myself ahead of the game. The sound of the timing belt still rang on my return.<br /><br />The car remained at the spot until the following evening. We decided on indian from Hema's - one of the best restaurants along the international district of Devon that is Little India. We walked to the car and I noticed that the mirror was folded in, facing the window. This wasn't unusual as cyclists tend to clip them as they pass by. And my mirror is able to collapse in for safer parking on narrow streets. But the turn signal mounted beneath the neck of the mirror was hanging from its nylon harness like an eye dangling out from a socket. I cursed whatever prankster did this before looking down to see that the entire driver's side door was crashed in. And the first thing I wondered was if the person who hit my car then did this to the mirror to distract me or give himself a head start. (I'm assuming it's a him. Who else could it have been. A woman? There's no way. Their dainty hands could never grip a steering wheel.) <br /><br />The rational person, upon seeing the damage or destruction of some personal property, will immediately begin calculating the total cost to replace/repair that tangible good. In his book Danse Macarbe, Stephen King explains why The Amityville Horror was a hit with older audiences and a dud with younger crowd. Blood dripping down the walls and into the floor is pretty tame to the seasoned teenager, but anyone who owns a home immediately equates this to the nightmare that is water damage. So the horror of the haunted house is that of a structure as an investment suddenly becoming a money pit. (I'd levy the same reasoning for thrill of the action movie where the $80,000 Aston Martin is driven right into a fucking wall. Fuck the poor!) <br /><br />$2,400. That's what I keep repeating to myself as we're driving to the restaurant. Where did I get that number from? How could I possibly quantify such a cost? I don't know. It was a gut number and it felt right so I accepted it as so. <br /><br />The next morning I take it to a garage. I tell the mechanic that someone hit the car then drove off. He follows me to the trailblazer (Hydra II) and gives his diagnosis. "That door is fucked." As we walk back in he asks who I'm insured through. I tell him I wanted to see if this could be done without going through the insurance company. He nods and retreats to his office where I hear him making several phone calls. <br /><br />He returns with the numbers now crunched. He can get a used door for about $800, then with labor and paint, we'd be looking at $1,200 to make things right. <br /><br />$1,200 is less than $2,400. I'm relieved. <br /><br />It's telling when only having to pay $1,200 dollars to fix something makes it a good day. <br /><br />I leave with the assurance that he'll check around to find the cheapest door he can.<br /><br />I go back to the site of accident. I hope that he cracked a headlight or cracked his oil pan as he sped off. <br /><br />Across the alley stands the hospital. I walk the perimeter of the building staring at it's roof. On a corner I see mounted three metal enclosures pointing in separate directions. <br /><br />Inside, the front receptionist asks how she can help. <br /><br />"This is an unusual question. My car was parked on the north side of your building over the weekend and was hit by someone who drove off. Now I noticed you have cameras watching this street and . . ." <br /><br />"You'll need to take the hallway down to the end. Command center is on your right," she said.<br /><br />I follow the hall down to a Puerto Rican woman in a guard's uniform. She has a rose tattooed on her wrist that looks like it was done with hot pen. I tell her about what happened and she leads me to a room where four monitors are split into four screen, each detailing a different view of the building. <br /><br />Only one camera is near where I'm stationed. It stops short a few dozen feet from my bumper. I scan through the footage, looking for that moment where a white car enters the frame, then crosses back with a red streak across it's front. <br /><br />The car never appears. The Puerto Rican tries to console me. "We've been meaning to upgrade those."<br /><br />I return home and make a PB&J. <br /><br />Last week, The Girlfriend found this antique kitchen cabinet on craigslist. The thing was cumbersome as all hell to pick up but when we finally got it in place, I was amazed at what it added to the kitchen. <br /><br />Most furniture I've acquired in my life has been with the understanding that it's temporary. When I leave, most of it would end up on the sidewalk. There was nothing that couldn't be left behind. When I moved in with The Girlfriend it was different. She had furniture that she cared about and takes great pains to keep in good condition. But that was all hers. This cabinet is the first thing we brought through that door together. And in just looking at it you can feel it's weight. Like the monolith in 2001. Wherever we end up, this thing will come along. This is the base sum by which all else will be added to. <br /><br />We have a home together. And with that, how bad can anything ever be?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-982749354097047560.post-64725159652459688432010-04-21T00:14:00.004-05:002010-04-21T00:52:18.066-05:00In Junior High . . .. . . I watched a Q&A with Stephen King on C-SPAN's Book TV. <br /><br />The question was asked by a girl who was younger than me at the time. <br /><br />What scares you?<br /><br />King described the writing process as going to the well and lowering a bucket. His fear, is that one day that bucket comes back empty. (Somewould argue that it did, but it really hasn't stopped him.) The idea of inspiration being a depletable resource is one that was great enough to embed itself in my pre-teen mind. <br /><br />This blog serves a few purposes. Originally it was to keep in touch with friends and let them know how I'm doing, whenever it was convenient for them to check-in. Then it become my morning jog. That exercise that kept the mind from atrophying under the weight of municipal tax code and payment interfaces. There was probably a solid year where this thing only had one or two readers a week, and it never bothered me. This forum was the most readily accessible of moleskin binders.<br /><br />But it's by no means creative. It's the literary equivalent of three middle age guys in the basement of a one-story ranch job murdering Bad Religion covers while the kids are at soccer. The "real stuff" was worked on immediately following the morning's post. After the fingers were revved up from the trial run.<br /><br />Lately, the spark that fuels that which bears my actual name has been dull. There hasn't been that drive. And even with deadlines looming over me like the shadow of someone walking behind you, I still can't find my release: That desire to get the work done. And it terrifies me.<br /><br />I've found that nearly everything I've written is a blend of two separate ideas. Be it a scene or a situation that suddenly recalls another and the marriage of the two results in the work. Downside is, I'm finding that gap between the synapse to grow longer and longer each time. Soon, it'll be years for the two to coalesce. That won't really work out for me if I ever plan on making this more than a way to kill time before lunch. <br /><br />You're probably thinking what I'm thinking: Movie tie-in novelizations under a pseudonym. <br /><br />Maybe this won't be so bad after all.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-982749354097047560.post-6578697829307354522010-04-16T12:41:00.004-05:002010-04-16T13:33:47.436-05:00Part of My Job . . .. . . involves going out to to offices across the City. And since I don't really have a supervisor, it's usually on me to coordinate with whomever I'm to be meeting with. The thing is, I'm sort of lazy and I don't like planning. Given that these are all sites belonging to the Department of Revenue, my lack of foresight can make the simplest of tasks utter murder. At the same time, it's part of the fun. <br /><br />I have the worst sense of direction. Most people from rural communities do. They say you can spot someone from out of the way, by how they guide. People from more developed areas - major cities or urban areas with a more complex roadway system - will speak in north, south, east and west. Those of us who come from Real America, where the smell of industry fills the air, we speak in landmarks. Things are pointed out by way of number of turns after the water tower. So when you see us in your bustling downtown with our maps outstretched, we appreciate you helping us out - but please, keep it simple. Tell us if we need to go right or left when we hit the Sbarro.<br /><br />Where was this going - oh yeah, lack of planning. So I never take a map anywhere and I have a horrible sense of direction. So even if I did have said ghost map, or even if I did stop to ask for directions, it would all be for naught (nougat). I'm lost. And eventually I'll unlost myself. That's the fun. I get to find those places off the beaten path. And since I've driven to so many major cities, I've been lost in some of the most obscure neighborhoods. This proves fruitful when I meet someone from one of those places, and I ask if they've ever had the chicken fingers in that gas station in Memphis, you know. The one seven miles away from the nearest interstate to Graceland. (My God, those chicken fingers were yum-azing!)<br /><br />For the last however many years, I've been doing this at my job. Showing up at high-security city offices and having to figure out a way to get in. You'd be surprised and maybe scared by what works. <br /><br />The first and foremost thing that will get you past any line or into any office, restaurant, club or even concert. What you need is a cell phone. As you enter the building, hold the cellphone to your ear and give the occasional "Yeah," or "uh-huh." As you approach the threshold guardian, tip the receiver away from your mouth, while keeping the speaker to your ear. Open your mouth like you're about to say something but then only give a nod. Then speak into the receiver, "Yeah, after he re-scheduled." The trick is to have the utmost confidence. Don't hesitate for a second. (This has worked at bank lockbox rooms, auto pounds, the Signature Lounge and Conan O' Brien when he did his week-long stint at the Chicago Theater.)<br /><br />Another is one I call, the Sad Clueless Man. For those places that incorporate a phone system where you have to page the person to gain you admittance. What I often find is that the person who is supposed to let me in, or whose name I read from the e-mail, is out to lunch or on leave. I'm too important to wait. Immediately make a sad face at the phone and hold the receiver to your side as you push the same button over and over again. Make a whiny sound when you hear someone coming. That passing person will stop. And they will feel sorry for you as you must be here on some type of work/assisted-living program. "Oh, I'm supposeda do some work on a compooter, misses." Even if they don't let you in, they'll find someone who will. <br /><br />The You Don't Even Know What You've Just Done. This one worked at the Daley Center and the three months I couldn't find the keys to my apartment and didn't want to pay for another fob. (Turns out, they were on the key rack!) With intercom systems that buzz you in, it's the value of that pound key being depressed on that network which trips the circuit and lets you in. The phone number associated with my old apartment was wrong for the entirety of my stay. My guests took to calling me as they were nearing the building and I would meet them at the lobby and then the door people eventually knew who was there to see me. (Though, they don't know when I didn't want that person to be there. As was the case when a friend and I returned home to find an ex I'd just broken things off with in my place collecting the things she'd left behind. Weird. I couldn't be mad as it was ME who left my apartment door unlocked and slightly ajar for about four years. I also blame that on being from a rural community.) Where was I, oh yes. Entering the building. So the intercom rang some old lady on the west side of town. For the period I was without my key, there were a few times when the door person was gone and I was without means to enter. So I rang my own apartment which called the lady on the west side and flat out told her, "Hi, this is (a.v.e). I'm the person people are always asking for when they call you. Sorry about that. Look, could you be a doll and press the pound key on your phone."<br /><br />*buzz*<br /><br />"Thank you."Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-982749354097047560.post-87785697205795086672010-04-14T14:37:00.002-05:002010-04-14T15:22:39.470-05:00Man . . .. . . today has been a day wherein everything I ate was purchased on the street. Keep in mind, Chicago has a strict ordinance prohibiting the sale of prepared foods on the streets and sidewalks. But that didn't stop me from buying some the greasiest al pastor I've ever had. <br /><br />I was driving down 47th street towards the expressway. The vendor stood idle at a corner when the breeze brought the scent of spit pork and hot <span style="font-style:italic;">maize </span>. I slammed the break and pulled onto the curb. Fell out the car as I opened the door, and crawled those first few steps to the puzzled <span style="font-style:italic;">vendedora</span>. <br /><br />He took the tortilla from out a steam box and ran it through the pan beneath the marinated spit of skirted pork. His calloused fingers, immune to the hot of the oil. I didn't know he was going to do that, but when I figured it out - I didn't stop him. <br /><br />To be honest, it wasn't that great. The flavor wasn't there and with no cilantro or onion to add texture it came across as bland. <br /><br />But when I found the lady selling peanut butter cookies at 95th and Jeffery, I knew I hit the jackpot! She sold them at a dollar-forty per three. A weird pricing structure, but I'm sure she had her reasoning. However, the cookies lacked some of the peanut-butter blast I've come to expect in such a delicacy. Still, the worst peanut butter cookie is better than the world's best snickerdoodle. <br /><br />What I'm saying is that I have nothing to say and this is me saying it.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1