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.

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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.

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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.