End of the Year Things

The Best and Worst Things of 2010, as decided by me:

Film
My wife and I spend less time at the theaters now due to 1.) Cost and 2.) Babysitter availability, so we research and discuss and plan our next adventure with extreme caution.  Thankfully, due to several trusted websites and reviewers, we avoid many of the most rotten movies, but also miss out of some of the better ones.  The only potential for change lies in "The Best" category, with True Grit and The King's Speech being the final two we'll see this year.

The Worst:
Valentine's Day

The One That Made Me Laugh Enough To Make My Stomach Hurt:
The Other Guys

The Best Surprise:
Unstoppable

The Best:
Inception

Books
The One I Started Twice But Found I Wasn't In The Mood For:
The Grapes of Wrath
-I know, I know.  Classic.  I'm a terrible person.  It'll get read in 2011.

The Best Short Story:
The Whisperer in Darkness
-The first thing I've read in quite some time that kept me from sleeping well.  Seriously.

The Best:
Watership Down
-I am so thankful to have read this.  Absolute perfection.

Other
Worst Day:
The adventure of temporary daycare.  The boys had spent several days with their new daycare provider and seemed to be enjoying themselves.  They took walks, played with gentle dogs and cats and turtles, were eating and sleeping well, and felt safe.

So, we get to The Day.  It was a Wednesday, if memory serves.  Everything about that Wednesday was rather forgettable in its normalcy.  Conversation, breakfast routines, music, whatever...all as it should be.  Yet, when we arrived at the house and walked to the door, there was a definite change in everyone's posture.  We were...tense.

My youngest, Jack, began shrieking the moment he left my arms, and the oldest, Joe, seemed resolute with his Brave Face.  We squeezed one another tightly there in the doorway, and he moved off towards the toys, stopping with every other step to turn and wave goodbye and say 'I love you.'  I heard the sudden panic crack in his voice and as he turned one final time, everything fell away and he ran back to me, sobbing and pleading.

I stayed a few minutes to calm and reassure, but that was an awful several minutes.  I will say, though, the woman who cared for them was a marvel.  Compassionate and friendly, she genuinely cared for them both and kept them safe and loved.  Thank you, Stacy.

Best Achievement:
Running the half-marathon.  Holy crap, did that hurt.

Jack's Best New Word:
"Co-co."  Short for "cookie."

Biggest Cry About Anything:
The finale of Lost.  I talked about it here, so I'll not repeat.  I was a mess.

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Please have a memorable, merry Christmas full of smiles, love, good food and drink, and magic.  Thank you to any of you who happened to read some of the words I've put down this year...I greatly appreciate it.

Some Catching Up

There have been numerous forces prohibiting me from updating this quiet little space for some time, and for that I apologize.  Between Thanksgiving and Christmas preparation, work schedules going a bit wonky, a new story developing steadily, and reading like a maniac, I consistently lost track both of time and The Great Things I'd planned to write about.

But, no matter.  I'm sure the two or three of you reading this weren't that heartbroken.

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Albeit a month ago, it seems I was quite right about the path upon which Mr. McDaniels was treading.  I imagine once the season is over we'll hear about a new 'organizational structure' with a true GM and another Executive in Charge of Player Development kind of thing, followed by a few years of mediocrity.  I'm sure it will take quite some time to untie the mess that Mr. McDaniels knotted, redefine everything about the Broncos, and start winning again.

Good grief.

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The new story is about a courier.  He delivers troubling things for a company (about which he knows very little) to troubling places inhabited by shadowed, troubling individuals.  But, he gets a regular paycheck, free room and board, and doesn't let it trouble his sleep.  Until it does.

No news on the other strange stories that are being passed to and fro out there somewhere...hopefully someone enjoys one of them enough to pass it along.

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As mentioned, I went through a reading frenzy for about three weeks, and finished three books.  The Left Hand of Darkness, Old Man's War, and The Hobbit (for the fourth time) were all enjoyed thoroughly moved to their new place amongst the "finished" pile.  The "unread" pile is finally getting thin, with the exception of two enormously fat volumes that consistently dare me to pick them up.  But I'm saving those for some other day when I'm brave.

On a somewhat related note, in the next few weeks, I'll probably include some of my Best Things from 2010 here.  Anyway, off to the roof I go.  These Christmas lights aren't going to put themselves up...

Miscellanea from the week.

Some thoughts from the last several days:

-A personal aside: I'd long considered the implications of such a decision, but I'm fine with it now: I no longer care about the 'someday' release of George R.R. Martin's forthcoming A Dance With Dragons.  I was a huge fan of the series, but the five year gap between stories, for me, eroded all interest.  I'll not criticize Mr. Martin's writing practices, as his words and plans belong distinctly to him to use as he sees fit, but I will say the long wait has been...disappointing.

-The power went out and my mind wandered and somehow tripped on this one:  Jim Carrey and Matthew McConaughey confound me.  I consider several of their movies fantastic: great stories, great acting, but I leave the theater wondering, "What the hell is going on here?  Why can't they do that all the time?"  I just don't get it.

-Finished the first volume of H.P. Lovecraft (Penguin classics edition), and I'm in desperate need for more.  Such is my adoration of the stories that I hope someday to visit the Brown University library (with an appointment, of course) and see what primary sources of Mr. Lovecraft's yet remain.

-The second episode of 'The Walking Dead' was quite a drop-off from the pilot.  An irritating C+.

-I think I'm finally watching the beginning of the end of Josh McDaniels' term of service.  It may not be this year or the next, but this relationship isn't going to be a lasting thing.

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A lovely, yet heartbreaking-because-I'm-a-parent chat I had with my oldest son, Joe, yesterday morning as we walked out of the store.  I was surprised that the answers were natural and just sat there in my mouth, waiting for the next question .  I was holding one of his hands, his other was on the white paper bag which held his precious Wednesday doughnut:

(This is was yesterday, and as close to verbatim as I can get.) 
HIM: Papa, will you always love me? 
ME: Of course!  Forever and ever.  And then forever some more.  No matter what. 
HIM:  Even when I go up to Heaven? 
(I pause for a second because a huge lump of emotion is choking me.  Dammit.) 
ME: Of course!  Will you always love me?
HIM: Yes! Forever and ever.  Even when you go up to Heaven. 
ME: Well, thank you. 
HIM: Papa, will I go up to Heaven by myself?
ME: No.  You'll never be alone, buddy.  I'll always be there. 
HIM: Papa, when I'm in Heaven, will God and Jesus be there to talk to me? 
ME:  I'm sure they'll be there to say hello and talk for a while.  I'm sure they have a lot to do up there. 
HIM: Yeah.  Papa, you and mama and the puppies will all be up in Heaven when I'm there, right? 
ME:  Absolutely, my man. 
HIM: Hm. Good.
ME: Okay.  Let's stop the Heaven talk because that's a long ways away.
HIM: Can I have my doughnut now, please?

Good grief.  Nothing like a nice little chat about the afterlife with a four-year-old on a snowy Wednesday morning, huh?

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Congratulations to Troy Tulowitzki and Carlos Gonzalez for their first Gold Glove Awards...here's to many more!

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One last thing.  Most of us have lists of things in our heads that I'll call 'Other Things I Should Be Doing With My Time Right Now.'  I don't like them.  Please do me a favor and make sure that whenever you stop and think about the current moment that you are doing precisely what you want to be doing.  If you're not, get up and go and do whatever you really should be doing with your time.

Don't put things off.  Otherwise, you may find vast, maddening gulfs of your life have been spent doing 'Other Things.' And that's no good.

Another wonderful idea from Mr. Gaiman...and some other things

The big boy turned four this week.  There was a party, good food, laughs, and his hoard of action figures grew exponentially.  As difficult as his four-year-oldishness can be some days, I must say that I have never been more proud of anything in my life than I am of him (and someday his brother, I'm sure...he's just not old enough to know what the hell is going on).

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The Most Valuable Player awards for this season have yet to be handed out, but our Carlos Gonzalez just earned two of the most impressive awards possible in his first full season with the Rocks.  Earlier in the week, the players in the NL voted him the most outstanding player. Yesterday, his peers continued to recognize his excellence, and he was voted player of the year for the entire league.

The "major" awards for the 2010 MLB season, the MVP and Cy Young, are determined by sportswriters.  As a collective, I'm sure they've all forgotten more baseball than I'll ever know, and due to their breadth of statistical and comparative data, I'm sure they get it right when it comes time to cast their votes.  But for young CarGo to get such high praise from his peers...it's quite an accomplishment for a player who will be a huge name in baseball for years to come.

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The cold autumn has arrived.  The icy fall winds have eliminated most of the leaves, so the cold weather running begins.  I bundle and wrap myself in various colors and fabrics and look a bit absurd.  The tears cement at the corners of my eyes as I go.  Snot gets wiped on sleeves and cuffs and so they are crisp when I return home.  Sometimes, the snow and ice blow at my face and it all sticks to my hood and I look like a ragged gypsy popsicle.

And ordinarily, I'm not that tough.  I'm quite pitiful when I'm ill, or when the library doesn't have what I need.  But running in the cold...it's an hour that lets me feel like maybe a small part of me is made of tougher stuff than the other guy.

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My favorite modern author, Neil Gaiman, had another wonderful idea.  Read about it HERE!  I plan on participating in such things.  You should, too.

Please find a way to have a strange, frightening, and curious Halloween.  And, should you have a moment, raise a glass to the master of all things terrifying:

Some new information

I still can't believe this happened.  I swore to myself during my youth and early adulthood and now full-grown adultness that I wouldn't submit to it.  That it stunts my growth or something.  But now, nearly every morning, the dark call is irresistable and beautiful.

Coffee is amazing.

Years ago, the taste of the stuff was repellent and I thought it absurd that there was such a thing as coffee-flavored ice cream.  Who would allow such nonsense?  But, roughly a year and a half ago when my second boy was introduced to the world, I was damn tired.  Not the mind-warping, bone-aching exhaustion that my wife slogged through, but still.  I was sleepy.  One afternoon, I stumbled through the market for some random, but now somehow necessary item that we needed to maintain our sanity, and fell victim to the Red Bull display.  Caffeine sounded wonderful.

I did that a few more times, but started hearing the whispers from the one appliance in the kitchen that was still a complete mystery to me:

It: "Hey.  Try some."
Me: I curse at it.
The next morning it continued.
It:  "Really.  Get over yourself."
Me:  No reply.  I ate my cereal and turned the volume up to hear the oh-so-clever banter on SportsCenter. 
It:  "I can warm you up the morning.  Try it with some cream."
Me:  I looked over my shoulder at it.
It:  "Only crazy people drink it black.  And only pansies need sugar.  You need some.  You look sleepy."

That weekend, I learned my wife was in league with the thing when she asked me if I wanted some.  I was hopelessly outnumbered and had little choice but to yield.

And I'm so happy.

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An incredible local news story (as reported by CBS4 in Denver):

1.) A woman stops her car along a county road because she thinks she has a flat tire.
2.) As she checks the tire, she is knocked flat by something.
3.) She turns over and sees a mountain lion behind her, pacing.
4.) The thing moves towards her.
5.) The woman does nothing.  Just waits.
6.) The lion gets closer.
7.) And she kicks it in the head.
8.) Lion screams and runs away.

Holy crap.

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I love The Twilight Zone.  The original series, of course.  The expense of the complete collection on DVD always seemed too great to justify owning it, so I learned to live without.  Occasionally I was rescued when the Sci-Fi Network (now called SyFy for some ridiculous reason) would air a marathon.  I'd call my father and let him know, drag my wife in to watch, and everything would be swell.

Last weekend in a mad craving, I learned that the Great and Glorious Internet had somehow felt my despair.  A service of our cable provider has some forty episodes, spanning three seasons, all available on-line.  We watched several episodes, the classic "A Stop at Willoughby" among them.

And, if memory serves, I watched them with a hot cup of coffee at the ready.  Thank you, magical Internet.  Thank you.

Rockies, Research, and a Fireball.

Season over.

Cardinals manager Tony Larussa had it right when asked about the Rockies' hot and cold September.  We came within one and a half game of first place in the NL West, and the roof caved in.  Larussa suggested that in situations like that, teams can exhaust themselves in the mad rush to tie or reach the top of the division, and then find themselves worn out and beaten down when they have to maintain that same level of play for the final stretch.

Were the Rockies tired?  I doubt they were physically worn out...their bodies know what 162 games feels like.  However, I'm willing to bet that there were several members of the team who at the middle of September were, mentally, on empty.  But, as the saying goes...there's always next year.

Amidst the collapse, I was pissed.  And the illogical pathology of baseball fandom began:  whenever I tuned into a game and things turned south, I was convinced it was  all my fault, and turned the damn thing off.  Then, when it all ended in St. Louis I was a bit upset, but after a few days of some therapeutic sulking, I realized something.  This feeling is yet another reason to love the game.  Baseball fans hope for a postseason or World Series appearance each season, but in the dark, logical corners of our minds hides the very real possibility that this is not the year.  We're all connected in our misery, though some more than others.

And yes, I'm looking at you Cubs fans.  And this year's Padres fans.  It's over, and our boys aren't in it...but I suppose it isn't the end of the world.  Now, we wait for Spring and the chance to try again.
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I wonder if others find the term 'research' as ridiculous as I do.  Well, 'research' as it applies to headlining, loud, bold news stories.  Lately, it seems most frequently tied to food and eating and health: "Research shows that two cups of melted chocolate a day will prevent Armageddon...Research shows raw garlic is actually good for your breath...Research shows that eating five cheesecakes a day may prevent you from ever losing your keys again."

We see nonsense like this constantly!  Research shows thing 'A' is good for you.  Then, usually a year later, that thing 'A' has been shown to prevent back pain, but those tested now bleed continuously from both eyes.

I just don't get it.  I'm sure there are wonderful people conducting valuable research that benefits everyone, but I usually take it all with a massive grain of salt.  Although, research shows that salt is bad for you.  Or maybe it's good now.  I'm not really sure.
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In my never-ending quest to become Clark W. Griswold, there was a near-catastrophe at my house yesterday.  The 'ignite' button on the grill is fickle, and only works when it wants to.  It wasn't cooperating last night, so I went to the kitchen for the lighter, and put it in the small 'lighter-hole' at the grill's base.  Bear in mind I''ve done this many, many times before.

Don't laugh.  You've done it too, dammit.

So, imagine my surprise when an enormous yellow, blue, and orange fireball exploded from the thing at my face.  I froze to make sure I was still alive, smelled and tasted the propane burn in my nose, panicked and reached for my hair.  You know.  To make sure I wasn't on fire or anything.

I'm happy to relate that everything was in one piece (but a little singed), and dinner tasted wonderfully.

So there.

Several things, including wallpaper.

So you visit the internet, peck around in various different places, and usually, read something.  Invariably, that "thing" you've just read has some space for some sort of commenting.  Some fancy rating scale such as "Golly That's A Neat Article!" or "Jeepers I Don't Agree With That And You Get a Thumbs Down!"  Or, an empty comment awaiting the words of its readership to pile in.  My question:  Why are people so damn angry about everything?  And why do the well-known, fancy news organizations even allow people to comment?

It seems that disagreement breeds contempt in those places.  They all usually start the same way, with people thanking the author, agreeing with or conceding the point, adding their own unnecessary and unrequested anecdotes, or auditioning their god-awful stand-up material. 

Then, someone disagrees.

Rather than offering counterpoints, everyone gets defensive or clever, the patience vanishes, things are thrown and broken while screaming, and the entire thread becomes a therapy session.  The anonymous nature of the commenting allows the anger to blossom and if you're unlucky, you may even forget what the original article was about.  It's frustrating.

Maybe that pink river of anger-inducing slime from Ghostbusters 2 is for real.  Someone should check on that.

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Wallpaper is a terrible idea.

Please stop.

It won't make the room look cute or "different."  Actually, it makes the room look ugly.  It's a huge pain in the ass.  And really, it just ruins everything.  So, please stop.

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Something discussed at work yesterday:

Isn't it time someone redesigned the tissue box?  On the one hand, those massive extra-sized boxes are a comforting sight when you're sick, but when the box is half empty, and you reach for one, it has the potential to completely destroy the next several minutes of your life.

Because you want one.  Your fingers scrabble on the top of the soft white pile of tissue for the seam.  That's not working, so you look into the box, and either you don't see the seam, or it's at the far edge.  So, you lift your eyes with this new knowledge and try again, and it still isn't working as you'd hoped.  Now you're pissed, you grab an entire pile and rip them out of them box, take your one, and leave the rest sitting on top of the box, which looks tacky.

So, you important thinkers and planners out there reading this, please send some unsolicited ideas to Kleenex to help them remain on the cutting edge of snot removal.

Memories and McFly

A brief, but interesting conversation occurred this week after I threw something away.  It went something like this:

HER: You threw them away???
ME:  ...Yeah.
HER:  What?  Seriously?
ME:  ...Yeah.
HER:  But what if you want to look at them again?  To see what people wrote?  To show the boys?  You threw them away???
ME:  ...Yeah.
HER:  Silent, flabbergasted.
ME:  Beginning to wonder if I should go dig them back out of the trash.  But...I never really looked at them.  And, well, they were heavy.  And I was sick of carrying heavy things.
HER:  You're crazy.  I don't get it.  Seriously?
ME:  Yup.  It'll be okay.  Now wondering if it really will be okay...

I'm sure many of us have a "childhood memory" stash somewhere.  In the crawlspace, attic, basement, garage, storage facility, mom and dad's house, wherever.  Massive plastic containers or bags with grade school report cards, baseball cards, letters written, scattered pictures, stuffed animals, youth sports jerseys, baby clothes, blankets, toys, and the like.  And I'm sure that you don't look through those containers too often.  Or ever.  But you just can't part with them because they're pieces of you, somehow.

Or perhaps you do look through them.  Several times a year, you sift through everything, smile, laugh at it, and organize it.  Clean it up.  Fossilize them in a scrapbook or photo album, maybe scan them and upload them onto your computer.  However, I'll bet the larger the pile of boxes and books and papers, the less you actually look through the thing, and the more it becomes an actual piece of unused, dusty furniture.

So, this week, as I was cleaning and finding places for things, I threw my yearbooks away.  All of them.  Seriously, they were heavy.  I kept all of the other lightweight memory "stuff" that looked interesting, but only later did the Culling of the Books make me think.

I wonder how much of our personal memory is tied to, or rekindled by, physical objects.  Will I remember some classmates and friend's faces forever due to the place they have in the development of who I am?  Or does it naturally fade away in time?  And if it does, is it okay that they fade because they're making room for newer, equally important memories?  I don't have an answer yet.  And I figure that I won't have the answer until I search for that face in the yearbook, only to remember that I threw the damned thing away.

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No happy updates on the multiple short stories that are floating around out there in the ether and whether or not they'll make it into a publication any time soon.  I'll continue to keep my head down and keep writing and keep sending, and hopefully, someone somewhere will give one of them a shot.  I don't really worry about getting discouraged, but rather becoming a cliche.  You know that guy.  The one who writes strange stories that nobody reads and eventually becomes a caricature of George McFly, stumbling around with greasy hair, poor social skills, worrying that someone from planet Vulcan will melt their brain.

Open.

(I sort of imagine one of those ugly, flickering neon diner signs being plugged back in right now.)

So, I took the summer off.  You know, in case you didn't notice.

But, things are back in order, school has started, and I think I'll get back to doing this on an erratic, semi-occasional basis when something interesting occurs to me.  So, rather than having a structured, flowing, thick paragraph kind of thing for my first post since The Break, I'll just list some things to catch everyone up:

-I started my own damn book club with myself.  Ostensibly, it was to read as many of the books cited by Lost writers Damon Lindelof and Carlton Cuse as influences on both their writing and themes of the show.  It started off better than I could have ever hoped.  Watership Down became one of the greatest books that I have ever read.  Words of praise from little 'ol me wouldn't do it justice, so I'll leave it be.  If you haven't read it, you should.

-Then came Slaughterhouse-Five.  Eh.  Occasionally, it's tough for me to impacted by a story shaped entirely around some massive culture war that occurred way-back-when.  Such was the case with Slaughterhouse-Five.  Also, I wasn't to keen on Vonnegut's voice in this one, and ultimately, I didn't care about Billy Pilgrim.

-So, I moved on to Stranger in a Strange Land.  Same thing.  I really didn't care.  This one, even more culturally confined than Slaughterhouse, was very interesting in the beginning, and then tailed off for me.  It certainly wasn't the technique, for Heinlein puts things together very skillfully, but rather the story.

-So, now I'm not sure which way to go.  I was considering The Stand, but I saw the made-for-television miniseries when I was young and I still recall the ending, which I'm told is one thing the movie shares with the book.  Would knowing how it all wraps up, and the more basic elements of the plot and action hinder my enjoyment of it?  Methinks so.  I'll keep you posted on the next one.

-As many critics have noted, this summer was god awful at the theaters.  Thankfully, though, I saw Inception.  Incredible.  And, I agree with the optimists view of the ending.

-One short story has been sent to several potential publishers, and possibly many more before I can announce it will appear somewhere cool.  A new story is coming along nicely, and should be finished within a month or two.

-The Rockies finished the first half of the season with a club record in wins, two games back in the division...and then it fell apart.  Massive issues at first base, Hawpe on waivers, Barmes possibly on his way out, troublesome pitching, and a voodoo hex on the offense during any road trip were some of the common topics in the sports sections here.  And, the NFL preseason is well underway...but who gives a crap.  It's preseason and therefore a total waste of time.  And the Nuggets are in free fall mode:  The two top executives were canned, Melo wants out, J.R. may be traded, Andersen and Martin will miss time due to surgery, Karl is confused, and they have a new (sort of) owner.  Fun times.

-More to come.  Sometime.

A Villain! and a Bradbury

Mama Fratelli, The Goonies

(Also, please remember that I'm writing about the less iconic, less discussed and scrutinized villains here.  The mounds of mail clogging my inbox from those suggesting I'm a moron for not including the magnificence of [insert favorite villain] are missing the point.  I like wondering at the impact the less-highlighted ones had in the larger stories surrounding them.)

"The only thing we serve here is tongue.  You boys like tongue?"

Mama Fratelli served two purposes for the film: First, she was a parenting cautionary tale for many impressionable young people.  During the film's climactic escape-from-the-underground-and-freeing-of-One Eyed Willy's-spirit-and-ship sequence, we learn why the newest Goonie, Sloth, looks the way he does.  She is a negligent mother who thought the best way to parent her over-sized boy was to chain him to a basement wall, and rather than repair his broken visage, spend the money on his whiny brother Francis' toupee.  Don't treat your kids like this, children.  If you do, don't be surprised when your child tosses your frumpy arse off the plank of a derelict pirate ship.  

Second, she was a generalization of the cold, mean, unfeeling world of the adult.  Mikey spends a majority of the film lamenting the potential loss of his childhood if his family is forced to move.  He wants everything to remain as it is, his friends to remain where they are, and the giant Rube Goldberg machine entrance to his house that his parents are strangely oblivious to remain locked and loaded.  For a film about the magic of childhood, dirt, traps, pirate treasure, and the true fun we all can have with a fat kid, the equation desperately needed a polar opposite.  And mean old Mama Fratelli played along perfectly.

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Ray Bradbury's Dandelion Wine is yet another of the multitude of books that have sat on my shelves, untouched, for years.  I started it a few weeks ago as a literary beginning to Summer, and it has been completely perfect.  It is a semi-autobiographical story of the author's childhood in Illinois during the 1920s, and the character, feel, and joy of Summer are all immediately palpable.  Due to the tale's structure and shortened chapters, the reader can experience pieces of it here and there, all the while stopping to remember their own world of Summers past.

Mark Twain and 'Lost,' and a graduation

The best story in television is over.  It ended, for the audience, in much the same way it began: with all of us discussing and sharing the exhilarating mystery of the experience.  I'll not dive into a massive dissection of the finale of 'Lost,' nor discuss where it ranks among other notable shows, as I have missed many of the 'other' stories that have received such high praise over the years.  I've never had HBO, so I'm excluded from the original airings of 'The Sopranos,' 'Six Feet Under,' 'Deadwood,' and the like.  Nor did I watch 'The Shield,' or the most current award winners, 'Mad Men,' and 'Breaking Bad.'

So yes, I suppose my view is a bit narrow and naturally biased, but as the Man in Black suggested, in my own space and time I've made my own rules.

The 'Lost' finale was perfect for me.  The conclusion was an extremely appropriate resolution for the characters involved, deeply emotional, and beautifully acted.  More importantly, the themes that developed throughout the past six years paid off in a very powerful, mentally engaging two and a half hours.  I'll not discredit those who claim it fell short and left too many questions unanswered, or moved too far from the show's more mythological and paranormal chapters.  During the six year telling of this story, there were certainly some lackluster episodes, certain characters that weren't completely developed, and certain ideas that weren't explored as exhaustively as some would have preferred.  Many had a different reading and appreciation of the finale than I, and that is completely fine.  They appreciated the journey, but perhaps disagreed with the final destination.

However, those who feel the entire 'Lost' experience ruined due to short-sighted writing are complete and utter fools.  Several sites I visited for my weekly 'Lost' discussions overflowed with the reactionary loudmouths who proclaimed rubbish such as this:

"...they really wrote themselves into a corner..."
"...they had no idea what they were doing or where they were going..."
"...this is evidence they made things up as they went..."
"...simply lazy writing..."

Know this, oh nations of people poring over these words:  Any of you who happened to be invested members of 'Lost' and agree with any of the above, get the hell off my lawn.  You're a damned fool, and you don't know your ass from a hole in the ground.

Writers Cuse and Lidelof had a story they wanted to tell because it was important to them.  They didn't scrap things together week to week, drawing what connections they could as they went.  This story, as illustrated by the finale, is one that was extremely personal to them, and one they felt would be important to many others as well.  For me, the show has had a tremendous impact on my heart and mind, and will continue to do so for many, many years.  I am saddened to see the story close, but incredibly thankful to have been a part of the audience for this beautiful tale.

And, for those concerned with the unanswered questions, I'll offer this:

"We have not the reverent feeling for the rainbow that the savage has because we know how it is made.  We have lost as much as we gained by prying into that..."

-Mark Twain

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My son finished his first year of preschool today, and there were celebrations and food and cheering.

I watched him smile and quietly eat his lunch, interact with his friends, play in the grass and summer winds beneath the trees, and I saw it happen.  He is thinking longer.  Growing.  Aging.  Moving fluidly away from a dependence on us and becoming his own.  I watched this happen today as I held onto my youngest and felt the parental sadness of time swallowing things.  He sat back down on the plastic blue chair with his preschool diploma and smiled out at us.  The smile was big and reassuring.

As much as he grows and learns, it said, he'll always be my little boy.

The Finish Line

Two hours, ten minutes.

13.1 miles.

I finished a half marathon on Sunday as I hoped, without stopping.  The run went, more or less, as I expected it would.  As they always went.  I ran alone with thoughts and sounds and sights and memories washing ashore in my head, and I did my best to have a conversation with each as I moved.  Pain arrived, and I moved along with it, felt it, moved with it.  Severe pain blossomed in new places, and I heard people in my heart telling me it was going to be okay and that I didn't need to stop just yet.

The clapping and smiling from the faces at the finish line weren't there, for I was somewhere else completely.  I finished, and was happy with myself.  Somewhere in this necessarily isolated, and somewhat selfish exercise, down no specific road, I'd convinced myself that I could do this.  That no matter what, I could accomplish this one thing, this finishing, and the emotion that burned in my chest when I stepped over the line was the best surprise of all.

I learned some very important things about myself, and what I am capable of during the past five months.

And, until my body yields, I will continue to run.  I will run to find those new places inside and answer those questions that have yet to be asked.

A time machine and a Villain

I considered myself extremely lucky yesterday.  Lately, the boy with the yellow hair who is an artist and gentle and a thinker doesn't bring his work to anyone's attention unless they ask.  But yesterday, he slid a piece of paper across the table and asked what I thought of his time machine.  I looked it over and asked him to tell me about it because he was very excited and smiley.  And to be clear, I'm not making this stuff up.

Him:  The time thing is in a jet!
Me:  Huh?
Him:  The time thing is in this jet.  Inside.  There.
Me:  Huh?  Oh.  The time machine is a jet.
Him:  Yeah!
Me:  So, what are these things floating here?  Jellyfish?
Him:  Those are missiles.
Me:  Why would a time machine need missiles?
Him:  Because jets have missiles.  So they can shoot 'stuth' if there's bad guys.
Me:  Good point.
Him:  Yeah.
Me:  What's this thing behind the jet time machine?  A schoolbus?
Him:  Gahhh...you don't know anythiiing!
Me:  (Silence)
Him:  That's where the other people who aren't flying the jet can sit and relax.  (Here he anticipates my next question, a common one, for all of his creations have one fatal flaw.)  And there's no bathroom!  So they all have to poop on the floor!  And whoever does has to clean up their own mess.
Me:  Well, yeah.  That's only fair.  (Me, trying to steer away from the giggles of the bathroom talk) So, tell me how your time machine works.
Him:  Well, the engine is made of all the car engines in the world, but only they're smaller and then they put them all together like one big machine and put it in the jet.
Me:  Gotcha.  What about the fuel?  What kind of fuel does it need?
Him:  All three kinds of gas combined.
Me:  Like, from a gas station?
Him:  Yeah.
Me:  So you just have to park this jet and the back part with the people in a gas station and then mix all the gasses together and it's ready?
Him:  Yup.
Me:  Nice.  So, I have to ask.  Your time machine jet is ready to go.  Where would you go?
Him:  Huh?
Me:  You can travel back in time, forward in time, see dinosaurs, see pirates and knights...where would you go?
Him:  Legoland.

==========

Villainy!
Brick Top, Snatch

"You need at least sixteen pigs to finish the job in one sitting, so be wary of any man who keeps a pig farm.  They will go through a body that weighs 200 pounds in about eight minutes.  That means that a single pig can consume two pounds of uncooked flesh every minute.  Hence, the expression, 'As greedy as a pig'."

Prior to his explanation of his corpse-disposal methods, the audience understood that Brick Top was a powerful gangster who controlled the unsanctioned, bare-knuckle boxing matches of the London underground.  He employed a varied amount of witless thugs, and snarled darkly humorous threats of castration or death to anyone who happened to piss him off.  However, once he ranted about the benefits of pig farms, Brick Top became intensely remorseless and much, much more dangerous to our protagonists.

Fully self-aware that he was the film's nemesis, he also provided many of the film's laughs, uncomfortable as they may have been.  The source of much of his anger, I would argue, was due to the idiocy and haplessness of his employees, clients, and enemies.  Brick Top wants to run an efficient, sustainable, and profitable business, and all of the players that find themselves 'in his pocket' never make things easy.  They botch the simplest of requests, and then have the audacity to act surprised that they're being punished.

Thus, the need for a pig farm.

The taser thing and another Villain

He ran, he dropped, he twitched:
17-year old Philly fan jumps onto the field, runs across the outfield, eludes the grasp of the bumbling and wheezing stadium security guards, traipses in circles waving his t-shirt, and shortly thereafter is blasted by a Philadelphia officer's taser and drops like a sack of rocks.  People on the radio and television are still wondering if the use of the taser was appropriate or excessive, and the Philadelphia police department has issued their support of the officer's decision.

This one was quite easy for me to categorize.  If anyone should be foolish enough to jump onto the field of play during any major sporting event, the use of tasers should be allowed at the officer's discretion.  Unless ballparks start filling their security ranks with the fastest, most athletic guards capable of running down any on-field violater, there isn't much recourse.  The officers are trained in the use of this equipment, and as stated in the Philly case, the weapon was used because the initial attempts to tackle the kid were (quite humorously) unsuccessful.

Will the prospect of getting filled with 50,000 volts be the ultimate deterrent to someone who really wants to get on the field?  No.  Will it always stop a maniac from racing to the first or third baseman with the intent to harm the players?  Probably not.  But, it should remain an option.  It allows the police force a way in which to trump the usually less-than-agile crack security forces manning the field, and hopefully, keep the length of the disruption to a minimum.

Also, there's the added bonus of being able to watch those foolish people twitch, face down on the grass, the following day on the internet.

==========

Villainy!
Teddy 'KGB,' Rounders

Identifying the one, true antagonist in Rounders is difficult.  On the one side is the devilish side of Mike's conscience, his long time friend and newly-paroled cheater, Worm.  Worm is the voice in Mike's ear, urging him back into the hazy poker rooms filled with the tourists who desperately need someone to take their money.  Furthermore, Worm doesn't insist that they play the game on the straight, but thirsts for the rush that accompanies hustling.  One could certainly argue that Mike himself is part of the problem here, due to his exceptionally poor decisions.

However, the most solid and identifiable villain of this film would be that of the Russian poker madman, Teddy KGB.  Malkovich's KGB lies at the end of each debt, and every bad decision Mike fumbles his way through, culminating with one final game that should Mike lose, the Russian won't let him walk away with his hands in his penniless pockets.  Mike simply would not be heard from again.

The beauty of Malkovich's many roles is that you immediately feel that you're watching a tangible, complete character develop on screen, rather than watching the actor John Malkovich play a character.  Beneath each of his creations is a roiling emotion that inevitably explodes at some point, and the fun is precisely that anticipation of when the explosion will happen, and what the outcome will be.  In Rounders, we are immediately close to Mike, and desperately hope that when KGB bursts that Mike will make it out in one piece.

Sport and Opinion

(For those of you who find sports talk distasteful, pay no attention.)

1.  Watching the Nuggets over the past month has been painful.  For those who initially thought their poor play was not due to the absence of their coach (myself included), their first round playoff catastrophe with the Jazz has been decisive evidence to the contrary.  Regardless of who is on the floor, they are getting outworked, outplayed, out coached, and quite simply, embarrassed.

Not even our beloved Chauncey can herd these cats on the floor.  With no one to provide a calming, emotionally stable influence, the Nuggets are coming unglued.  Their failures are certainly known by the players and coaching staff, but changes have not been made.  They're simply not moving the ball, and when they do, they play careless and turn it over.  In their three losses, the Nuggets averaged 15.6 assists per game, and a loathsome 16.3 turnovers per game.  Good heavens.

And now, down 3-1 to the Jazz, good 'ol J.R. Smith offered up this gem via his Twitter account:

"You play selfish you lose selfish that's all I'm saying about the game!"

Golly J.R., thank you for enlightening us.  For the series he's shot 15-44 from the field, just in case any of you were curious.

2.  The near 24-hour NFL draft coverage this year was completely out of hand, as was the non-stop discussion of the Broncos selection of Tim Tebow.  All of the broadcasters, analysts, and irate fans really need to calm down and take a walk, have a drink, eat some cookies or something other than wring your hands at the decision.  We've now been inundated with talk of his ability, his leadership, his faith, his lack of technique, his eye black, his favorite cereal, playing in a spread offense, his work ethic, and all of his future failures.

I plan on being patient, and watching this whole thing play out, good or bad.  Because the fact is, none of those high-profile bigmouths that were smeared all over our screens during the draft coverage have any damn clue what will happen here with Mr. Tebow.  Time will tell.

And, if you happen to be curious, you should go back through some archived draft coverage to see what the "experts" had to say about the player who was drafted in the sixth round of the 2000 NFL Draft at pick number 199.

3.  The Hype Machine is already screwing with the Rockies.  Jorge De La Rosa has a torn tendon band in his middle finger, and he'll be sent to the DL for an undefined length of time.  Oh, and another starting pitcher, Jason Hammel has a strained groin and will be out for a bit.  Oh, and Chris Iannetta is being sent down to the minors to figure out what's wrong with his swing.

Damn the hype.

Flying houses and A Wrinkle

Yesterday, I moved over to the pack of tiny children working ferociously at their legos to see what new empires or fleets were being built.  The only one who acknowledged my presence was the blond one from this conversation some time ago.  He looked up and smiled and we talked about his newest creation.

Him:  Do you like my house?
Me:  I do!  Why is there no roof on this thing?  What if it rains?
Him:  He already looks irritated with me for asking such nonsense.  So I can build stuth inside it.  I'll add a roof at the end.
Me:  Ahhh, I get it.  You're not done yet.  Well, tell me about it.
Him:  Well this is my room and there's a movie theatre in it that can also play video games and my bed is right here and it's big so my dogs can sleep with me and this is the kitchen and the other TV room and this is the secret entrance where all of the weapons go for fighting the bad guys if they come up the mountain and get over the big pit and this is the other TV room with a couch right here and a chair over there.
Me:  Whoa, dude.  Take a breath.
Him:  Huh?
Me:  Nevermind.  Whatever.  What's this on the side?  A propeller?
Him:  Well, yeah.  He raises his eyebrows, cocks his head to one side and scolds me for asking another dumb question.
Me:  So, wait.  This thing can fly?  Or is this just a fan?
Him:  Oh no, it can flyyy.
Me:  This is maybe the coolest house I've ever seen.  But.
Him:  But whaaaat?
Me:  Where's the bathroom?
Him:  His eyes go wide, and he scans the place nervously.  He's frantic and looking for an answer.  It's right here.
Me:  Inside that wall?
Him:  Yes.
Me:  False.  You just made that up.
Him:  NOoooo  I didn't!  Well, then it's over here.
Me:  Under that brick?
Him:  Yeah.
Me:  No.  That's against code.  And there's no room for a terlet.  And no door.
Him:  FINE!  There is no bathroom!
Me:  So...what then?  Where do people go if the need to 'go?'
Him:  He's pissed off now and turns away.  I don't know.  They just go out the window.
Me:  Okay.  Fair enough.  Cool house, man.


He never got a roof on that thing either, in case you were wondering.

==========

I diverted from my original reading list and am splitting time between some of Hemingway's short stories which are remarkable, and A Wrinkle In Time by Madeleine L'Engle.   I read the book and it's sequels back in middle school, if memory serves, and I remember they left a very deep impression on me.  The first one received the Newbery Award in 1963, and it is fantastic.  Creating a story that feels so genuinely dangerous and unsettling is a testament to L'Engle's mastery of character building in only a very few pages.

At some point, I'm sure many of us read this one in school or are familiar with the name.  If it's been a while for you as well, I highly recommend a re-read of this classic.

Behind the Curtain: The Running

My dad asked, "Why the hell are you running now?"  I tried to think of an appropriate answer, but was called away by the sound of my son shrieking and slobbering on something antique that shouldn't be handled so violently.

I'm not entirely sure where this started.  Somehow, the idea of running a marathon wiggled into my mind and it became of those Things I Want To Accomplish Someday.  So, I started running with no particular goal or date or distance or time in mind.  I wanted to determine if this thing was as detestable as it was during 5:30am basketball practice.

It was entirely different.  I was doing it for me.  The solitary aspect of it was immediately soothing, and the feel of fire in my legs and lungs was no longer an enemy.  It was something to know and remember and push through.  Above it all, though, is the simple sense of accomplishment.  Finishing the run is important, and the knowledge that I'm capable of overcoming those little doubts that blossom in my head each time I'm out there makes me happy.  I've registered for my first half-marathon in mid-May, and I already know that I'll finish all 13.1 miles without incident.

Health benefits aside, running is this constantly moving place to learn and find and hear things inside me that I didn't know were there.  It is a constant journey along the roads and paths through the quiet neighborhoods and the avenues of my mind and heart, and I am enjoying it immensely.

Villainy! and more

Back by popular demand (but not really) is the next member of the Villainy! discussion.
 
Warden Samuel Norton, The Shawshank Redemption

"I believe in two things: discipline and the Bible.  Here you'll receive both.  Put your trust in the Lord; your ass belongs to me.  Welcome to Shawshank."

Somewhat overshadowed by the larger story of Andy and Red's friendship and redemption, as well as the fury and violence of Captain Hadley, the cold menace of Warden Norton was felt everywhere within the prison walls.  The audience became comfortable within the confines of Shawshank and the lives of its characters, we were immediately concerned when Norton appeared.

His puritanical vitriol and hatred of the inmates surrounding him was held fast beneath his neatly pressed shirts and suits and his polished shoes.  He moved about his world with a heavy-lidded reptilian calm which made his few outbursts feel so dangerous.  And yet, when he meted out his most harsh punishment to Andy, that of continued solitary confinement, his calm and emotionless order to Captain Hadley earned him a spot on the list:

"Give him another month to think about it."

Random Notes:

Encouraged with the knowledge that literary scholar Harold Bloom couldn't handle it his first few times through, I finished Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridian some time ago.  It was my third attempt at it, and now that I'm done, I haven't been able to shake it from my mind.  It caused one nightmare and several nights of fitful sleep due to the blood and horror that accompanied the players throughout their travels.  I would see Judge Holden when I closed my eyes, and it was truly unsettling.

I moved through it, and I knew that I was only fully understanding the most superficial aspects of of it.  I could feel other themes, complex and dark beneath everything, but that top layer of character and violence was at times too thick to dig through.  Now that I've finished, I want to read it again and look deeper...it may become an obsession.

Also, I've read that a screenplay is being bandied about for this story.  That someone out there in that mystical land of Hollywood thinks Blood Meridian is something that can be translated to film is preposterous.
==========

Baseball season is here, and I couldn't be happier.  My beloved Rockies have been ordained by many to be the favorites in the NL West, and serious contenders for another World Series appearance.  I'm not sure if I should rejoice that "important" people in the world of baseball now feel the same way that we all do, or if I should be terrified that something calamitous is afoot due to the Hype Machine setting its sights on Coors Field...
==========

The half marathon happens in five weeks, and my training is progressing nicely in spite of a few minor injuries and illnesses.  I'll be ready.

Behind the Curtain: The Addictive Gene

(What follows is in no way intended to be flippant, but rather a genuine wonder.  I know the topic is a serious one)

Part 1.  The Question and The Seriousness

I remember listening to the radio program Love Line when I was in high school.  The show was a drive-by counseling session for people struggling in relationship and addiction problems, with Dr. Drew Pinsky doling out the medical rationale and suggestions, referring the majority of them to local professionals or support groups.  As Pinksy spoke with addicts and drew their conflict out, the audience usually learned that one or both of the caller's parents were also addicts of some kind.  That the 'addictive gene' had been passed to the caller, and it was now their demon to manage for the remainder of their life.  Knowing little to nothing at all about the science of addiction, last week a question bubbled in my mind:  Can someone be an addict without the addictive gene, or is that particular gene present in everyone?

For instance:  Can someone without any history of addiction in their family become an addict?  Are the destructive ones such as alcoholism, eating disorders, drug problems, gambling, etc. directly related to the presence of that gene?  Perhaps the gene has been passed along the family line for some time and didn't manifest in anyone until that one person was unfortunate enough to awaken it?  And please take this grand scientific wondering of mine with a grain of salt, for my various attempts to understand the worlds of science invariably end with headaches, frustration, and poor grades.

Part 2.  Me.

Why the hell am I thinking about this?   Because I've wondered if I'm addicted to certain things in my daily life.  If they're actual addictions, if there is a such a thing as a 'healthy addiction' (which honestly doesn't make much sense), if it's just compulsive behavior, a strange habit, or something else entirely.  Listed below are some of those 'things,' both present and past.

-Soft cookies.  Impossible to ignore, and now I don't even bother fighting the impulse to eat them.
-Exercise.  I'm now into that irrational space where I feel like an utter slob if I don't maintain my routine.
-World of Warcraft.  I cut free of this one some time ago.  I played that game wayyyyy too much.
-Certain TV shows.  Some of you know that feeling.  You happen to miss that one show that you count on all week, you're pissed.  Currently, missing an episode of 'Lost' is not an option for me.
-Eating the same dish at your favorite restaurant every time you're there.  This one is strange.  You go to your favorite restaurant, let's say once every month or two.  How often do you try something different?  I always eat the same incredible thing, not because I'm worried the other items won't be good, but because the feeling of going to that restaurant and missing out on that meal is somewhat terrifying.

As always, thank you for being patient with my wonderings...

The Complaint Department

The Management rattles the complaint box, and the papers drift to the floor...


False Fruit.
You scan the rows and boxes and stands of fruit, trying to be as deliberate and perfect in your choice of the fruit that suits your fancy for the week.  You find the Navel oranges (or clementines, as the season dictates), struggle to open the plastic bag, and go about your selecting.  You might squeeze a few, look for ones devoid of any discoloration, or just grab randomly.

None of it matters one damn bit.

You perform a similar ritual with those lovely looking Braeburn apples over yonder, and yes, struggle again with the plastic produce sack.  All of these apples look delightful and are unbruised.  It's only later, possibly the following day, when you eat one.

Rather than the satisfying snap of a crisp, juicy apple, the whole thing sags beneath your teeth like some evil pulp.  You can't even chew it because the texture is utterly what an apple is not, and you let the wad of wasted apple fall into the trash.  Now you're irritated that this, and possibly each of the other apples are ruined (they are), so you move onto your orange.  The citrus floats from the rind as you peel and tear through it to the flesh.  You separate one wedge of the orange, place it between your front teeth, and bite.

Dry as a goddamn cob.  The juice has evaporated.  Or been sucked out.  Or something ridiculous.  And your day has been effectively ruined because of this pile of false fruit.

Plastic Produce Sacks.
You can't half-ass these bags, folks.  Poking through produce with one hand and tearing a bag with the other is completely impossible.  Should you attempt such a move, not only does the bag not tear at the dotted line where it promises you that it will, but due to your lack of superhuman strength you end up unrolling another three to four bags before any tear occurs.  You'll snap out of your produce search, tear the one bag off that you need, and are then faced with a dangle of unopened, untorn produce bags that you cleverly try to hide behind the roll, stuff in the trash, or put them in your pocket because you feel too guilty.
 
And the thing isn't even open yet.  You flip the bag over a few times looking for the correct end, find it, rub the bag together to get it to open, and realize that you're at the wrong end.  Or not.  So you shake it out, snapping it in front of your face like a crazy person.

'That Kind of Day.'
1.)  You oversleep a bit.  Something small.  Let's say five minutes.
2.)  You get out of bed, wondering what happened there.  You don't recall hearing the alarm, and you already feel a bit...off.
3.)  You bang your toe on the edge of the bed.  Or bang your shin on something as you get into the shower.  Either works fine.
4.)  You get ready for work, school, whatever, conscious that you're five minutes off.  Your toe/shin hurts.
5.)  You go to the kitchen to eat cereal.  There isn't enough milk for such things.  So, you have toast and coffee and some Oreos.
6.)  You head out to the car, carrying your bag, your coffee, and any other paraphernalia you may need to have a successful day.  You're still conscious that you're running about five minutes behind.
7.)  The radio is irritating you.  The commercials will not stop.  Or, your iPod isn't playing songs you'd prefer today.  Either works fine.
8.)  The traffic is absurd.  But you can't decide if it's because you're running a bit late, if there's a wreck ahead, or if it's always like this.
9.)  You get to work, try to get the various things off the passenger seat in one giant well-balanced pile.  You're successful.  You walk to your office/desk/room/bunker, nod your head or smile to a co-worker in greeting, and your pile collapses, inches from it's destination.  Now the irritation is gone and you are genuinely pissed off.  Also, you're crashing from the sugar in the Oreos.
10.)  You're quiet for the rest of the day, and you feel ridiculous getting upset at such little things.  But whatever.  It's your life, and you can be cranky whenever you feel like it.
11.)  A significant other asks you what's wrong/how's your day/why are you so cranky, and you feel foolish telling them any one of those things, let alone the entire list, so you say, "Nothing."
12.)  You hit your head on something painful.  Trust me.  It'll happen.  You're seeing red and wondering if it makes more sense to cry or try to obliterate the thing that you just hit your head on.  Instead you glare at it and threaten it with horrible, unspeakable things under your breath.
13.)  The small things keep happening, and the day progressively swirls down the toilet, and everyone else seems to be deliriously happy.  Whenever someone stops by with their cheer, you're tempted to tell them to piss off and slap them in the teeth.  And then you feel guilty again.
14.)  You wonder if things will get better once you get home for the night.  They won't.  It's one of those days, and you have to see it through to it's conclusion.

Villainy!

(Disclaimer: some coarse language follows, as taken from the mouth of a villain for the purpose of this post and The Management didn't want to leave you unprepared.  Those who don't care for such nonsense, please avert your eyes for the time being.) 

It's relatively easy to think of the film and television villains who, supreme and dark in their evil power, fill the scenes with such an overpowering presence as to render them unforgettable.  Kenneth Branagh as the amoral Iago in Othello, Anthony Hopkins as Hannibal Lecter, or Heath Ledger's portrayal as the Joker for some reason jump immediately to mind.  Lists and essays of villains of this dark sort have been, and will continue to be, written by people much smarter than me, so I'd rather do something else.

Each a foil to a particular characteristic of the protagonist, the villain resonates differently in each story they occupy.  The villain can inspire hate, loathing, confusion, comfort, and occasionally, the hope for redemption.  The villain is arguably a much more intricate and important character than the hero, and they are therefore much more difficult to handle.  We've all been lost in a story in which we hope the villain is in some way successful.  That they may escape the action unscathed or find salvation for their damaged hearts and minds.  They provide humor, suspense, and more often than not, serve as the most honest characters in a story.

So, in this and future Villainy! rambles, I'll post some of the myriad of minor or more-forgotten villains that are part of the tapestry of fantastical characters in my head.  That said, I can't promise that I won't stray into more established, iconic Bad Guys from time to time.

Vizzini, The Princess Bride

Westley: You're that smart?
Vizzini:  Let me put it this way.  Have you heard of Plato?  Aristotle?  Socrates?
Westley: Yes.
Vizzini:  Morons.

Vizzini was one of the first memorable villains from my childhood.  Not only did this mastermind have a real giant and a master swordsman at his beck and call, but he appeared to be the most nefarious and confidently intelligent creep in the world.  His wit, lisp, and utter impatience for the idiocy and rhyming of his cohorts made him believable and, more importantly, fun to watch.

Additional Villain Points: 
1.) Not only did Vizzini serve to counter Westley's mental prowess, he was a foil to the film's primary villain, Prince Humperdink.  The Prince was an elite, vacuous twit we all hoped would suffer a swift and hopefully humorous demise.
2.) The bastard literally laughed in the face of his own death.



Ace Merrill, Stand By Me

Ace: Okay, Chambers, you little faggot.  This is your last chance.  What do you say, kid?
Chris:  Why don't you go home and fuck your mother some more?
Ace: [pulls out switchblade] You're dead.

There was nothing funny about Ace Merrill.  You hated him instantly and completely.  He was cold, heartless, and cruel.  He was the reckless alpha male of his circle, and in a small community like Castle Rock, Maine, he had little to fear.  When he and his group of friends (whom he loathed) decided that they would be looking for the body of Ray Brower as well, a confrontation with the four young boys was inevitable.

What became the most remarkable aspect of this character upon the film's conclusion was his utter irrelevance to the boy's painful loss of innocence.   The boys found the dead body near the train tracks, and the audience felt things crumble.  Their laughter ceased, and the party ended as they stared at the bloodied, pasty face of a boy not much older than they.  The idyllic childhood was finished.

Ace's threats and snarls of vengeance fell to pieces as he stared down the barrel of gun of held by a boy no longer concerned with the bluster of a pitiful, "cheap, dime store hood."

A Bad Dream and Coming Attractions

I imagine in the future I'll be better equipped to reflect upon the job I've done as a parent to my boys due to the sheer volume of memories to sift through and judge and decide if the right move was made.  I'm confident though, that a few nights ago I fulfilled my job responsibilities when my oldest had his first legitimate, heart-breaking nightmare.

I heard his door open sometime around 2am and he shuffled cautiously down the hall, whimpering.  I got out of bed and met him in the hall, and he was shaking.  The screams and tears burst from within him, and his trembling intensified as I lifted him off the ground.  Between sobs and shrieks and bubbling snot, he pointed into his room and said that there was someone bad in his room and he wasn't going back in there.

I carried him back towards the room, and he lost his mind.  He tried to climb and claw his way out of my arms, screaming about the bad person and clamped his hands over his eyes.  I took him into the bathroom in the hall, turned on the light and we sat on the cold floor together.  I rocked him in my lap until the sobs slowed, and I stood up to perform that simple duty that I'd seen so many times.

"I'm going in your room.  There's no one in there, buddy.  I promise.  Poke your head out the door and watch, if you want."

His wet, blue eyes followed my steps into his room, watched as I threw open his closet door, peeked behind the curtains and under the bed.  He padded out of the bathroom and towards me, and I bent down to him.  "There's no one here.  You're safe.  Everything's going to be okay."  He nodded and yawned, the exhaustion of sleep returning to his bones.  I lifted him up and slid him under the covers and kissed him goodnight.

I walked back to bed and felt that in that small moment I had actually done it right.



In the coming days:
-Famous People I'd Enjoy Punching, Even If It Meant I'd Get My Ass Kicked
-Some Favorite (fictional) Villains
-The Complaint Department

Behind the Curtain: Scraps and Portions

The Beginnings of Habits
As you read and categorize and place me in the most appropriate and cozy compartment in your mind, allow me to make the identification process a bit easier:  I'm a huge nerd.  I read comic books, play video games, watch cartoons, enjoy good fantasy and sci-fi novels, talk to myself, and already worry about the finale of Lost.

Many of these habits started in elementary school.  I was home with the flu, slept the day away, and stumbled awake once the sun began to drop and the skies turned violet.  My dad returned from work, tie loosened, shirt untucked, heavy lidded, and set this gently on my lap:

I smiled and sat up from the ravines I had worn in the couch.  Dad grinned back and said, "Saw this today in the mall, and thought you'd like it.  Glad you're feeling better."  And that was that.  Reading comics, even if I had no idea what the hell was going on, became one of the most exciting times of the week.

The video games began with my older brother introducing me to Intellivision, Atari, and eventually his NES.  Countless hours were clocked on Metroid, Zelda, Mega Man, Contra, Gauntlet, Blades of Steel, and Double Dribble.  The NES strengthened friendships, became such a shared experience with so many of my classmates, and allowed my mind to begin its imaginings and wanderings.


Careers I've Considered Either In Passing Or Intently While Staring
1.) Shooting guard in the NBA
2.) Chef
3.) Assassin
4.) Editor-in-chief of DC Comics
5.) Origami Grand Master
6.) Counselor
7.) Florist
8.) Voice Actor
9.) Thief
10.) Bartender
11.) Independently wealthy philanthropist
12.) Professional fort builder
13.) MLB closer
14.) Superhero


A Fault
I allow too much time to pass before making contact with old friends.  Hell, even with family.  I used to figure this complacent behavior typical for men, but now I'm not so sure.  It may be me.  Several friends (all of whom are also men, which complicates things further and leads me to believe that it is actually a common pattern of behavior) exist now as only a clouded outline of a memory of good times spent together.  The opportunity to reconnect is always there, within reach, and yet I'm reluctant to do it.  Why?

I have absolutely no idea.

In Rockville: The Rolls

The scent of his mother's cinnamon rolls in the oven always tugged him from sleep, hopeful that he could get to the pan before his sister and father and mother marred the perfectly iced surface of the golden rolls with their greedy damn hands.  He grabbed what clothes lay at the foot of the bed, and dressed wildly as he moved through the house to the kitchen.  His bare feet landed on the cold linoleum as he pulled the raggedy t-shirt over his head, backwards.  Fashion mattered little to a boy of seven, especially when he needed to focus on the grim battle of attrition that faced him with each new batch of rolls.

His mother stood at the counter, spreading the icing across the surface of the soft, perfect warmth inside the pan, and they were untouched.  Big sister was at mother's side, eager to take her share and ruin the entire pan with her clumsiness.  His father sat at the table with the paper, nodding his head at the box score of last night's Cardinals game.  He looked over the top of his paper at the ragamuffin loitering in the kitchen.

"Hey.  Shirt's on backwards.  Where's your other sock?  And what the hell is on your pants?  Boy."  He repeated himself for the final time, firmly.  The glare blazed into his sky blue eyes, "Boy."

"Mornin'."  He walked slowly to his mother's side, eyeing his sister's movements as he approached, lest he need to tackle her to prevent her from being The First to take a roll.  "Hey ma...how many did you make?"

"Answer your father," she reminded, softly.

He stood at the counter, transfixed, fumbling within his shirt to right it.  He pulled a crumpled gray sock from his back pocket, stood on one foot and hopped as he struggled to slide it on without breaking eye contact with the gift of heavenly nourishment.  "Hey dad.  I told you The Man hit one out last night.  Number 33, I think it was."  The boy looked down, quickly, remembering the question and rubbed the stain.  "It's oil.  Mr. Huff was changing his oil yesterday and I was watching and got some on me."

"Hm."

Just as his mother started to lift the pan from the counter, his sister grinned at him, and made a grab for a roll.  The boy's eyes widened in horror.  Mother barked, "Will you stop?  You know he'll throw a fit.  Just stop.  Or you can go without."  Sister retreated to sulk in her chair at the table.  Rolls were distributed, to the boy first, of course, and everyone was silent.  Eager.

Forks clinked against the plates, glasses rapped against the table, and appetites were sated.  The boy smiled as he swallowed, thinking of the day to come.  Baseball with Charles and Larry.  Maybe a trip down to Panther Creek for some catfish, or to his uncles for some leftover fireworks.

This was going to be the greatest day ever.  Glorious, even.

He swallowed the remnants of his fourth roll and patted his little stomach.  His father wiped his mouth, folded the paper, and rose from the table.  "Thank ya for the rolls, baby.  Come on, bub.  We need to get moving."

Things began to rattle and shiver in the boy's mind, teetering on the brink of ruin.  "What?  Get moving where?"

Father shook his head.  "Jesus, you really don't listen do you?  Chickens.  We're picking some up for the store out at the Davidson's.  And you've got a coop to clean.  Move."

This was going to be the worst day ever.

A Brief Conversation and Other Things

(Apologies for the lack of blog consistency as of late.  Between illnesses and time being strangely elusive for the past two weeks, I've felt horrible for the legion of readers who might have been wondering if the author was trapped under something heavy or perhaps frozen dead in the wilderness after failing to recreate scenes from an episode of Man vs. Wild.  So, for the two of you reading this, the consistency will return.)

The little boy with the blond-white hair, big eyes, small chin, enormous smile, and who is oddly-reminiscent of Bullseye the horse from Toy Story 2, was drawing.  Well.  "DrawLing," as he sharply corrects me.  I sat down next to him and watched him scribble and add sharp things to what looked like an angry Christmas tree.  Or a sharp tornado.

Me:  "Hey.  What's this?  What's going on there?"
Him:  No reply.
Me:  "Hey.  You.  Boy.  Whatcha makin'?"
Him:  "Huh?  Oh!  This?  Just makin' some Army guys."
Me:  "Ah.  So, this big dark thing in the middle.  What's this?  A hairy ninja?"
Him:  Rolls his eyes.  "No...he's THE Army guy!"
Me:  "Why is he so sharp?  What's all of the pointy things everywhere on his clothes?"
Him:  "Those are the sharp things to protect him from the killer whales."
Me:  I nod, approvingly.  Because, you know.  If you're in the Army, you never know when you'll get dropped into a sea teeming with ravenous killer whales, so being sharp is always a damn good idea.  I continue, "So, what are these round things growing out of his shoulders?  Golf clubs?  Weapons to use against the killer whales?"
Him:  "No.  Those are mirrors, so he can see stuth behind him."
Me:  "Stuth?  What are you talking about?"
Him:  "StuTH.  You know...like, things.  Stuth."
Me:  "Ahhh.  StuFF.  I get it.  Mirrors to see stuff behind him.  Like the mirrors in a car, right?"
Him:  "Yup."
Me:  "What kind of stuff?"
Him:  Stops drawing and looks at me.  "Killer whales."
Me:  "Oh.  Sorry.  Dumb question.  And what's that thing growing out of his head?  A poisonous tree to keep the whales away?"
Him:  "Nooo!  Jeez!  It's his kniiiife!!!"
Me:  "Ohhh nice.  To attack the whales if they get too close."
Him:  "Ugh, no.  This is a fire knife to use against the robots."

I was completely lost now.  I pity the poor bastard who has to plan to fight killer whales AND robots in the same day.  I laughed and said thanks for the chat, patted him on the head and walked away.  Later, when it was colored and complete, he brought it over to me to show it off.  He's a good 'drawler.'

________________

Currently reading The Tender Bar by J.R. Moehringer and I'm loving every sentence.  During college, I had a terrible habit of asking for or buying books to read before I finished the current one, which resulted in a massive backlog of unread things choking out all of the space on my bookshelves and desks.  Over the past few years, though, I've read quite a few of them, donated the ones I'd read to friends or libraries, and remarkably, the backlog is shrinking!  The next three on the menu:
-Blood Meridian, Cormac McCarthy.  I've tried this one twice before, but lost the momentum needed to get through it.
-The River of Doubt, Candace Millard.  Teddy Roosevelt in South America.
-A Confederacy of Dunces, John Kennedy Toole.  This one is a maybe.  I'm nervous that it's overrated.

Lastly, it's February 18th.  Pitchers and catchers reported to Spring Training in Arizona today!  Woohoo!

Where Is Home?

My family moved from here to there as I grew, and while it never felt like we were nomads, the question still arose.  Each new home of ours was within the same five-to-ten mile radius as the one previous, and in that subconscious way of maintaining normalcy, we remained customers of the same grocery store.  The look of the neighborhood may change, but we'd be damned if we'd go to a new store and get lost looking for food.

We stayed in each house long enough for me to develop thick, knotted friendships, to feel like this place was uniquely mine, and to attach a distinct identity to each time.  One recent night, I drove slowly through each of those neighborhoods of memory, gliding past the yellow-orange porch lights dangling on the fronts of those containers of my youth.  And it felt very, very strange.

Experiencing memory in the places they were born immediately feels like one massive cliche.  Once I was able to accept what was happening and sift through all of the scenes from film and television that have recreated such a trip, the connection to these places felt familiar yet...remote.  I watched the football games we played in the street, felt the bloody rips in my hands and knees and elbows as I tumbled to the asphalt.  A tornado howled beyond my neighbor's fence.  The concrete was warm against my legs in summer as we sat in driveways and traded baseball cards.  Walking home from school, kicking rocks, strolling up the gentle hill to the snack and cartoons that were inside the house.  The girl next door.  Everything.

Eventually, I pulled back from it all and drove away wondering, Was that my home?  Or was it this one?  It wasn't all of them, I knew.  'Home' felt like a singular term.  Some had it easier, I thought.  They grew up in another city, and were forever a part of its culture, regardless of the address on the front of their house.  That city was home.  Others grew within the walls of the same house for their entire lives, and identified with that place.  I thought it over as I drove through the frost, and it caught in my head:  Home is about finding a constant.  A place that feels completely familiar to your heart, regardless of the names on the street signs.  Home, therefore, can be just about anything.  A city, a house, a school, a career, or in my case, a person.

Realizing that my home was not somewhere, but someone, made me smile at the resolution of it all.  The fog crept up the windshield from my breath and snatched me from the daydreaming.  I switched the heater over to defrost, once again irritated that winter still held everything beyond captive in the goddamn cold.

Strangeness At The Pepsi Center...

A while back I wondered what keeps the Denver Nuggets from winning a title and decided that it was The Black Mamba.  I've thought it over the past few months, and realized that though he still plays a huge part in it, the more painful answer lies within:

The Abbot and Costello of the Nuggets organization, J.R. Smith and Nene.

During the course of the past three to four years, the Nuggets have been consistently dangerous in the regular season (ignoring their tendency to take nights off against the uglier teams), and are always part of the mix in the playoffs.  There are plenty of cities who haven't had a sniff of a post season in a long time, and would love to be in our situation.  Minnesota, Washington, New Jersey, and the L.A. Clippers quickly jump to mind.  This season, I promise you, dear reader, will prove no different.  It is not beyond the realm of possibility for the Nuggets to finish the season with the best record in the Western Conference.  And yet, I fear the result will be the same, due largely to the crippling effect that J.R. and Nene have on the structure of the team.

That J.R. is 24, and entered the league straight from high school is no longer an excuse.  He's had two full seasons to watch and learn from one of the game's best leaders, Chauncey Billups, and has little, if anything to show for it.  Chauncey is as classy, team-first, intelligent, and composed a player as the Nuggets organization has ever been lucky enough to have.  That J.R. still thinks it necessary to celebrate like a madman after every dunk or big shot is a huge sign for opposing players:  This guy is emotional, and you can get inside his head with ease.  Attack at will.

Nene still has the ability to be one of the strongest, most powerful big men in the league.  He's fought his way back to his monster physique after his struggle with cancer, but he spends an exorbitant amount of energy hoping the officials can improve his game.  Looking for a call every time down the floor is lazy.  They're not going to help you, big fella.  Get back on D, please.  He's never displayed the ferocious 'get the hell out of my or I'll turn you into a stain' mentality that many of his dominant front-court brethren display.

With Nene and J.R. playing consistently, doing what they do, you can be assured that the Nuggets will have an exceptional regular season.

With Nene and J.R. playing consistently, doing what they do, you can be assured that the Nuggets will not win an NBA Championship.

The Complaint Department

The following complaints were received by the Complaint Department during the past several weeks, and are now posted to ensure that managerial transparency is maintained.  Rest assured, nothing will come of these complaints, and I will do my utmost to resolve none of them.


Being even more tired after you've taken a nap
Rather self-explanatory.  It's a tragic thing to lay down hoping to be refreshed and wake up to feel like you've been run over by a train.  Nevermind the fact that you look like a mugshot with your matted, tangly hair, the creases on your face from the pattern of whatever you were sleeping on, and the puffy, dazed, 'what the hell just happened to me' look in your eyes.


Artists resisting the all-consuming power of iTunes
Yeah.  I'm looking at you, AC/DC and Bob Seger.  Resistance is futile, gentlemen.  Any continued plans to evade the grasp of the brave new world will result in...well, nothing really.  I just don't want to go to Best Buy for your albums because I feel like I'm being stalked by the employees.  Always lurking, watching, following, pacing, watching, watching, watching...


The 'new' Karate Kid
What the shit?  Ideas get recycled in those magical places where movies get made, but this one is especially irritating.  The source of my irritation, however, has nothing to with the cast, or even the film's new direction.  My irritation is due to the fact that 1984 was a long damn time ago.  That some kiddos may see the new version and be completely oblivious to the original really sticks in my craw.  And, for the record, I'll take Mr. Miyagi's crane technique over Jackie Chan's Kung Fu tomfoolery any day of the week.

Band-Aids on fingers
are incredibly irritating.

Overused sports cliches
"We've got our backs against the wall."
"He's a gunslinger."
"We control our own destiny."
"It is what it is."
"That's a great golf shot."
"Soccer is the world's most popular sport."

 Stay strong, Daniel-san.  You remain the original badass.

Pictures provided courtesy of someone else, in some other place.  Their names:

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Yes, it's all nonsense.  I'm just that odd.