Winter Woefulland

Image via Wikipedia

For those curious as to my complete blogging absence, I've actually written two new ones this month that I chose not to publish. Unfortunately both entries were contradictory to my normal chipper upbeat humor, and took turns into dark parts of my mind where no one should venture. I fear the descent into these caves myself as the walls are steep, covered in thorns and a thick mucus, making escape all too difficult. I lost my keys in there once and rather than going in after them I had all my locks changed.

Perhaps I'm one of those holiday goers with an inverse reaction to cheer but I suspect it's actually a response to this thing called winter. I am unused to both extended cold temperatures and precipitous events other than rain and hail, but I didn't expect to have this kind of mental meltdown, if you will. Snow meanwhile has threatened to swallow our home.

According to Wikipedia there is an actual reported condition called winter depression or seasonal affective disorder (SAD). They define this as "a mood disorder in which people who have normal mental health throughout most of the year experience depressive symptoms in the winter..." 'Normal mental health' may be a stretch but I can see differences in my overall demeanor and I'm having trouble concentrating for any length of time. I can only hope my friends and relatives take my SADness into account when reading my Christmas cards this year. Many of them are just signed "What's the point?" or are stuffed with random obituary clippings. Most intended recipients will be saved from the black Hallmark oddities however because my only attempts at mailing them were by feeding the envelopes into the garbage disposal or neighbors' car exhausts.

Vanessa fears that winter in this large house will get the best of me and she's happy we don't own a croquet set or axe. We were told that to get through the winter we have to enjoy it, finding outdoor activities in which to participate. My dog sled team is coming along nicely but I'm getting annoyed with the amount of "lost dog" posters cluttering up the neighborhood telephone poles. It's just tacky.

I'm torn on who should lead the pack at this point, the three legged Great Dane or the chihuahua with the big heart. Chi-Chi keeps getting trampled up front but I know she's strong enough. After all, she bit that big dog's leg clean off!

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Future Me

Is there maybe a two and under class I could join? Image via Wikimedia.

Procrastination is an ongoing problem I've been meaning to deal with for awhile now, but it's hard to be active when they keep making couches so comfortable.

Each morning I wake up with a list of things I want to accomplish that day and time has yet to become my enemy. Truthfully, I usually just wake up with a song playing in my head and I spend 20 minutes trying to simultaneously get rid of it, remember the complete lyrics, and figure out when and where I last heard the tune. On my way to work though I'm compiling my to dos. After my arrival:

Morning coffee. Emails. News. Colleague chats.

While at lunch I'm thinking of how I'm going to "really go at it when I get back to the office."

Full. Sleepy. Distractions. Funny emails. Time Passes.

Before leaving for the day I'm setting aside my work list for my home list, and as I go to sleep I think about what a failure I was that day and how tomorrow seems so bright and boundless. Long ago I learned to write "make a list of things to do" as the first entry on my list of things to do. This way I could immediately mark something off. When overtly desperate for a sense of achievement I would also add things like "take shower" and "eat."

Whether or not you create a mental or physical checklist of desired or necessary personal tasks, most of us are all too often in the habit of hyping up our future selves as gung-ho, workaholic, athletic, dedicated, and generous superfolk. In our optimistic visions of our idealistic doppelgangers we can do everything. We exercise, talk to our neighbors, make our own bread, volunteer at the local shelter, go to the library, build birdhouses, and watch PBS sober.

In the future I get up at 7AM and jog two to three miles, eat a big breakfast while watching the morning news and catching up on personal correspondence. (Sometimes I even write letters using old pen and ink on aged parchment for effect. Future me is classy.) My work day is productive and everyone is impressed with how much I can get done in a day and how my results are always so superior to any other employee, past or present, and of course future. When I come home I read two chapters of two books, one for pleasure and one for education, and I complete a lesson of Rosetta Stone with the end goal of mastering at least four languages. (Future me is a world traveler who stays with small village families, not fancy tourist hotels.) Every one of these activities is enhanced by intermittent pipe smoking while formulating a conclusion about, new idea from, or opinion over the information I've recently absorbed. Stir in some reflection, a chuckle about something funny I said earlier, and a snifter full of brandy and my evening is set. On the weekends I work on my novel and every second Wednesday I dabble in oil paints.

We all have a future version of ourselves and optimism is good in small doses. I do believe people can change and a big part of life is striving to be a better version of yourself. Just make sure there is a plane of reality where your current self and future self can meet. It is also advisable that you don't sign up for advanced Taekwondo if going upstairs significantly alters your breathing. Future you is strong and agile. You are still fat and slow.

Texans in Canada, Part 3

Golf. Also for white old fatties. Image via Wikipedia

The sports you play and, for the rest of us, the sports you watch, define your character as much as anything else. For awhile now I've acknowledged that the world outside of the U.S. is mostly obsessed with football. The other football, which Americans call soccer. We call it soccer because in America we like to make fun of foreigners and display our own ignorance in the least moves possible. Giving a different name to the only sport that has the perfect literal descriptive name and is beloved by Latin Americans everywhere is the two for one deal of the century.

What I never realized is when those other countries obsess with one sport, they offer so little in the other ones. Canada's obsession is of course hockey, and as a result most provinces fail to maintain a decent baseball or football team of their own. I'm not sure they've discovered basketball yet.

American television and everyday life is inundated with a variety of sports, so there is always a game on of some kind. (Sports Bar is easily agreed upon as the best combination of words in the English language.) In Texas however, we understand the single sport obsession and it is football that we worship. Other sports are just something for the kids to do until they're old enough to play football, or maybe between football practice, or when you're not throwing the football around. Basically if you're playing baseball or basketball it's because you didn't make the football team or you're trying to stay in shape for the next football game.

...Football.

Canada does have the CFL which is followed by all of dozens of fans. The Canadian Football League apparently is a little different from the one I know, adding ten extra yards to the field and retracting one down. I think they might also use a live chicken as the football during the second half but no one has made it that far through a game yet, so it's not a widely known fact.

There is also something called curling here, where you throw smooth stones across the ice and use brooms to sweep away ice gremlins that try to keep the stone out of the target area. I guess it's kind of like shuffleboard but I just can't imagine this sport being invented while sober. They throw rocks at the ice on which they're standing. I smell alcohol and failure, two very old friends. I will likely be joining a league as soon as possible.

Finally, I've yet to see it with my own eyes, but they've gone and screwed up bowling. Bowling! The ball is much smaller and there are only five pins. I'm not sure but I think this is some passive aggressive attempt by Canada to insult America. I think we've gone to war with countries for less. Pretty clever though Canada. If you want to offend balding overweight American men, the bulk of our governing class, go after the only sport in which they can excel.

Texans in Canada, Part 2

The Medusa stare of the black squirrel. Canadian parks are littered with extremely realistic human statues.
Image via Wikipedia

Much of the appeal in moving to another country was the idea of making a fresh start. We'd get a new home, a new car, new jobs, and most importantly new credit. Essentially our lives would begin anew. What I didn't realize was that starting over would be less like a clean slate and more like reverting to a state of infancy.

I don't know where I am most times. I can't tell you what street I last came from, but I'm mostly certain it ends in Crescent and/or starts with Rue. Remembering my own address and phone number is like disassembling complex algorithms in my head. I feel like that special kid at school in the 50s who showed up to class with his vital information pinned to his vest, like dog tags. Someone asks me my name and I look down at the little scrap of paper on my chest to make sure it's right.

Going around town I'm unsure where to stop for my needs. Luckily Canadians recognize when to keep things simple, like with naming stores that carry vital household necessities. If you need beer, you go to The Beer Store. If you need shoes, go to the Shoe Company. Need stuff for the kids, there's the Children's Place.

At Canadian Tire you can purchase far more than expected, except groceries, but they introduce a new issue by circulating their own currency like some independent monetary authority. Just when I thought I understood the Loonie versus the Toonie I'm handed some alternate Monopoly money by the Canadian Tire cashier that claims to be a nickel's worth of tire. Only in Canada can I carry around a two dollar coin and a five cent bill.

Amongst other confusions sloshing around in my newborn mind, I can't tell you what the temperature is because I'm slow to convert to celsius. I can't express how far it is to anywhere because nothing is measured in miles. Driving at 100 is really not that fast anymore but it feels like I should be a feature news story, on the run with 60 cop cars behind me. Maybe I have a hostage but the helicopter reporter is unsure as of now.

Hopefully I'll be fast to mature and these problems will fade, perhaps only to be replaced with new ones. Canadian acne? Some barriers will be harder to break through than others, like this terrible habit I have of spelling things correctly. Imagine being raised by an unethical scientist and on your 13th birthday you're told that not only do you have a twin, and you were each raised in separate identical homes only a block apart but one of you was taught everything to be opposite of what it truly was, like black is white and Fords are really good cars. Now the experiment is over but you have to relearn the world. (I am the falsely educated one in this scenario.) This is how hard it will be for me to "correct" my spelling, especially while I find that vowels playing musical chairs is still so humorous, ...humourous? My favorite sign about town so far is "Centrepointe Theatre." Tee hee.

I'm sure I'll become accustomed to most of the Canadian quirkiness, but I don't forsee any level of comfort being made with one bizarre fact: The squirrels here are black. Not just dark, but BLACK. I've never heard of such a thing and I'm concerned with how at ease everyone is with the situation. Supposedly they're harmless but I don't trust them and at this point will assume they are the devil's work. Of course, if any black squirrels are reading this I was just kidding. We're cool right?

Texans in Canada, Part 1

Folks, both locally and across the border, have asked me if it feels like I'm in a foreign country. For the most part, no. Canada is a lot like America... except cleaner, greener, more friendly, and proud without being full of itself.

There are slight differences that I find interesting and will likely make up the bulk of my Texans in Canada series. Much of it may go unnoticed to some, but for me it's like living in an episode of Sliders. The question that will need answering during my extended visit to this foreign land is will I ever make it "home" or will I end up just settling here in this alternate reality.

A visit to our new local grocer brought up the subject of language. Do Canadians sound funny? Do you have to learn French? The answers are yes and no respectively. Canadian speak is a bit off kilter but after living in the boiling pot of America, where cultural and ethnic consistency is a bit muddled, the Canadian tongue comes across as just another accent to which my ear quickly adapts.

Only in Quebec is there a concentration of French speaking citizens and they are as shunned and ridiculed by other Canadians as commonly as Americans shun and ridicule "true" Frenchies. Due to their influence however, country-wide Canadian signs, ads, websites and grocery items all display both English and French wording. It's like never graduating from French I in high school and being forced to review flash cards for the rest of your life. In fact, if you failed the class and had nightmares of having to repeat it over and over again, daily Canadian life would be a realization of this living hell. The chips aisle at Metro, (the Canadian Kroger I guess), would be a particularly diverse and torturous circle of bilingual mockery on your descent into Dante's snow covered inferno. I took Spanish.

I'm realizing that language may have to spill over into one or two more blog posts (we have to cover the obsession these people have with the letter "u" and their selective dyslexia of the "e"), so I'll end this on the subject of the grocery store. One major difference at the grocery store is found in the concept of bagged milk. Yes, milk here can come in a bag. I suppose milk essentially comes from bags, some more fun than others, so perhaps this is not totally unnatural. At first glance however, it is comically unnerving.

I wish they'd given me a more comfortable chair

Image by mtsofan via Flickr

When you leave one job for another it naturally calls a person's loyalty into question, but is there such a thing as loyalty left in the business world?

Not too long ago workers committed themselves to one employer for a lifetime and their employer in return would guarantee job security and attainable rungs of the corporate ladder. This is no longer the case. Business got too big and the people got lost in the growth. Employees are assigned employee numbers, and are identified as such on paperwork, in their logins, and in the barcode on their security badges. Their salaries are now expenses, and when the black line falls these expenses are the first to be cut. The gold watch appreciation days have been retired, an achievement so many aging workers now struggle for, regardless of the hue of their collar. Workers are expendable. We are an exhaustable resource, and most of us have settled into the concept far too easily.

The American worker is made to feel lucky to have a job and, out of fear and a degradation of self-worth, we cling to the mediocre and the menial wages. We're scared and timid and alone. We've given in, content to be nameless and faceless because we are also hopeless, having replaced our dreams with cable TV and goals with late night drive-thrus. Most unfortunate is that the hardest workers are the slowest to learn. Those men and women have yet to discover that there is no reward for quality and no acknowledgment for outstanding diligence. They don't accept that early starts and late stays aren't recorded in their files. They can't grasp that management will no longer be hired from within. And they'll be shocked when they're replaced for half the pay by a pre-conditioned college grad with no experience.

Corporate America asks us to keep personal lives out of the workplace because from the managerial side the concept is already well established. When a loyal employee is fired because of cutbacks or any other term meant to strip humanity or blame from the occurrance, it is still personal. So why is there no rioting? Why aren't the millionaires who initiate these mass layoffs pulled from their mansions and beaten?

Examples should be made. Warnings should be issued. Fires should ignite!

The abandonment of emotion is our biggest problem as people and the reason for this perpetual and accepted atrocity of hollow, heartless industry. A job is still a very personal thing. A career defines you and where you work speaks to your ethics and beliefs. An array of emotion is expressed in the office. We get angry and frustrated. We have pride in our success. When we are forced to leave it hurts.

Years of mistreatment and disloyalty from enterprise giants have created a workforce that is just as expendable and indifferent as they're expected to be, and maybe one day this weakened foundation will cause the tower to fall. Until then or until we awaken from our pacification there can be no notion of selfish behavior. Loyalty can no longer be questioned as anyone who wants to achieve must only do what is best for them. Anyone who wants to stand out and move up has to be a self promoter. If you work hard, make sure everyone knows it and demand compensation. Don't be afraid to quit.

I have been given an opportunity for growth in my particular industry and it means leaving my current employer. The work I've done has not been unrewarding and my employers have not been unkind. None the less, I'm taking my own advice and doing what I think is best for me. I can't possibly know how this decision will turn out, but I'm not afraid.

Movie Snob Review: District 9

District 9, from virtually unknown director Neill Blomkamp, already has a good following at theaters and all around favorable reviews. Blomkamp has a visual effects/3D animation background so it's not unexpected that his first major solo feature length film would have aliens, explosions, fictional tech gadgetry and other opportunities to display CG prowess. That said, it's good to stick to one's strengths and Blomkamp does a more than fine job at integrating digital characters and effects into the film's South African landscape.

District 9 is an expansion on Blomkamp's short film Alive in Joburg (YouTube video on the left) from 2005 and is backed by equally unknown production companies QED International and Key Creatives. The only recognizable name in this whole movie, actors included, is Peter Jackson who backs as a third producer with WingNut Films. (aside: For all of you who think PJ is flawless go back and take a look at King Kong again if you dare. For bonus confusion dig deeper and watch Meet the Feebles. Based on that movie alone I still don't know how he got to do Lord of the Rings.)


Synopsis:

After almost thirty years of the aliens' residence in District 9, an eroded relationship with the locals and the overall indifference of mankind results in delegating alien affairs to the private company Multi-National United, a group only interested in exclusive rights and mastery of alien weaponry. Wikus Van De Merwe, (I know) is a doting husband and dedicated employee of MNU, seemingly unaware of his own evil nature and disconnected treatment of the alien species as living organisms. After he is exposed to a physically altering substance, Wikus becomes ostracized from his family and colleagues and goes on the run, hunted by both his company and a gang of Nigerian thugs who see profit and power in his mysterious transformation.

The movie is a blend of documentary and regular cinematic story telling that is interesting but results in a loss of cohesion. I realize the documentary style would have been hard to continue through the particulars of this expanded story and may have lost some of the audience, but I would have preferred Blomkamp had been dedicated to one style only. Even with Alive in Joburg's effective all documentary style, the difficulties of both believability and compelling story capture when shooting exclusively first person are enhanced with feature length films. I think for District 9 a complete abandonment of the documentary style from the movie would have been more favorable.

The supporting cast is mediocre and give little depth to their world or their people, both human and alien. No actor besides Sharlto Copley (Wikus) really stands out. Copley does a great job with a character who starts off very two dimensional and then is forced into emotional extremes throughout the film, especially as he has to explore cross-species compassion during his desperate struggle to remain human. The lead alien Christopher Johnson has his own emotional range and, especially when interacting with his young son, shows us that there might be something worth protecting and saving with these creatures. However, even with the cruelty to the collective aliens and Johnson's "performance", I don't easily feel a yearning for their survival or escape. The explanation that most of the aliens are drones and only carry out orders gives reason for emotional vacancy from the majority, but it doesn't help me root for them. It also doesn't help that Johnson's face doesn't easily convey his feelings and his digital eyes appear as just that.

Despite the alien experimentation in the movie, it is humanity that is ultimately under the microscope for the audience. There are early highlights of generosity and sympathy toward the shipwrecked alien group when district 9 is constructed as a "temporary" camp that provides food and medical care for the other worldly refugees. However, as time passes and the story unfolds, the key human characters are shown as heartless, angry, and eager to destroy the alien minority, only after greedily extracting their useful technology. There are parallels to real life district 6 of Cape Town, South Africa which involved forced relocation of 60,000 non white inhabitants from the area during the time of apartheid. I guess this is supposed to be obvious to a largely uneducated American audience, but this historical analogy falls short in its efforts at transference to a completely alien race. District 9 is basically an action and gore film, and does well in both areas, but its attempts at anything deeper in character or plot fall short and fizzle. I'm sure it will continue to do well in theaters however, and find equal success with other action films of this summer. If you were satisfied with Terminator 4 then you'll probably enjoy District 9 just as well if not slightly more.

Rating:
6 out of 10

Blomkamp was also reportedly set to direct the upcoming Halo movie, also to be backed by Peter Jackson. They collaborated on some Halo shorts which looked to solidify the partnership for the full length movie but I'm not absolutely sure this is still concrete information. However, with the already successful release of District 9 I don't see why this agreement would go unfulfilled.

Goodbye John Hughes

Image by MacQ via Flickr

I knew I had reached a point of no return in my stealthy maturation when I began consistently refusing every new offering from the youth fueled media and clothing industry. I cannot connect with teens of today. Lawful restrictions aside, I fail to establish any intimate understanding of teenagers or their interests, outlooks, styles, and actions. This landscape however was one in which film legend John Hughes could stroll through comfortably and confidently, despite his handicap of being an adult.

Though he had a limited directing career, every movie he crafted was a comedic and dramatic gem. Like early Spielberg, Hughes knew how to get an emotional depth from his actors that made them more than just characters. He embraced his audience and catered to them, feeding my generation bittersweet spoonfuls of our own angst and humor. As a writer I admire Hughes' ability to tell great stories, build memorable characters, and construct dialogue that can be both endearing and hilarious.

I don't know if current teens appreciate or are even aware of John Hughes and his cinematic canon. I don't need to list his accomplishments, as the people who know, know and the people who don't, don't matter. The mostly thirty-something fans who can join me in fond memory of Hughes feel his loss the most. We may not connect with the teens of today, but when viewing any Hughes masterpiece we can connect with the teens we used to be.

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Reverting to a childhood mindset or: How I learned to lower my expectations and enjoy an action movie

Like the rest of cinema obsessed America, I still get tinglings of excitement when whisperings of a good sequel travel on the Hollywood winds. However, years of feeble coattail follow-ups and theatrical disappointments have left me apprehensive of remakes and silver screen successors. So when I heard about a Tron continuation I was both thrilled and chilled. Before I continue, if you've even made it to the end of this sentence, here is the available trailer:



So, what are the details behind Tron Legacy and will it be any good? Disney's endorsement doesn't give me immediate confidence in the project, but at least it's not some unknown production company either. (Disney backed the 1982 version.) Jeff Bridges reprises the character Flynn and I trust Bridges' judgment when accepting a role. The original director Steven Lisberger is taking a producing credit this time around which doesn't say much either way. There's promise when original players come back, (when they weren't under contract to do so), but money can corrupt all men so we won't assume the script is solid gold. However, as writing credits go we could do worse. Lisberger contributes as he did for the original, as well as Adam Horowitz and Edward Kitsis; both are writers and producers for numerous Lost episodes. The big question is, who's directing?

His name is Joseph Kosinksi and yes, he's a nobody. His background, besides being quite limited, is in commercials and video game trailers, and it's obvious from viewing a few of his projects that he is focused on special effects and CGI. While the game and graphics portfolio makes Kosinksi an appropriate choice for this movie, it leaves little hope for the actors and story. These type of directors lack the skill to get real performances from the stars and would probably rather not deal with people anyway. Human elimination from film has been tried and fails miserably each time. Think Final Fantasy and Beowulf. For sex appeal they've included Olivia Wilde and Serinda Swan (rumored), which only confirms my doubts of this being an actor fueled picture.

The trailer reveals what we can ultimately expect from Tron Legacy: visual effects, explosions, slow motion action and maybe some occasional dialogue. I'm picturing The Matrix with an alternate color scheme.

While I'm not going to pretend the first Tron was an awesome and untouchable film, I still greatly enjoyed it and don't want to see it tainted. Perhaps it's more nostalgia and a respect for pioneering effects that keep my interest in the original, because a current review of it is quite unfavorable. The acting was mediocre then as well and the story was kind of silly. In the end, both Tron pictures will have been visually driven with little regard to much else. But sometimes, that's all we want and just what we need.

The Mike Aubrey...Intervention

Image by Getty Images via Daylife

Many among us have a legitimate beef with Hitler. He was a vial, anti-Semite, dictator. The man corrupted and stole the lives of millions of men. His legacy is one of fear, sadness, and regret. Of greatest significance in his sustained influence through time, he succeeded in single-handedly spoiling an entire facial hair configuration.

The abbreviated mustache will forever be associated with hatred and genocide and, despite Chaplin's noble comedic, heart warming efforts, can be worn by no other. No one has a more justified anger for Hitler than men with very specific harelips, but even they have accepted that this unique grooming composition is now forfeit.

Despite the universally shunned development of this miniature soup strainer, Mike Aubrey, host of HGTV's Real Estate Intervention, is pushing the limits of acceptable mustachiosity. Aubrey narrowly escapes public ridicule with a slight lower flaring, expanding a few degrees out at the bottom like a trapezoid, but we are not fools. You're only a flick of a wrist away from the Adolf special Aubrey, so grow it out or cut it out.

With so many glorious options for the showcase of masculinity, why can't you choose a less offensive bristly signature? The chops, the goat, the chinstrap, the handlebar, the soul patch. All of these well established choices already make such powerful statements as to your character, interests and disposition. There's no need to mess around with the square haired upper lip, especially if you might scare away the home buying Jewish clientele.

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The Sure Thing

A soldier may suffer one of a thousand different deaths. Whether he goes out cowered in the foxhole or charging the enemy line, his death will likely be considered honorable. Just for voluntarily donning the uniform, anyone in the military at least possesses a modicum of bravery. Not everyone, however, will meet their end with grace or courageousness. There are over 100,000 accidental deaths in America every year. People fall from ladders, forget basic gun safety, or mix the wrong medications. These people die because they're careless or stupid and their lives were really just a delay of the inevitable. But what about the other kind of accidental deaths, like car crashes or hurricanes? Are there no circumstances that are out of our control or is our death predetermined and inescapable?

Nature may be unpredictable to a degree but it also establishes itself quite well in certain areas of the world. Information on natural disaster frequencies is readily available, so God is not to blame when your Florida home is demolished by a hurricane. Where you make a home is a circumstance well in your control. I may be calling karma into question on this one, but when you construct a wooden house next to a tree that eventually falls on you, this is a vengeful justice.

There are

Image via Wikipedia

things we've become accustomed to that are completely unnatural so it's a little odd when we question why someone dies in a car collision. We can jam pack airbags and safety features throughout our vehicles but we're still needlessly traveling at high speeds in boxes of metal, plastic, rubber and glass. What's worse, obtaining and maintaining a license to drive a car is possibly the least restricted and regulated safety measure put into place in this country. We can all agree that there are plenty of stupid drivers out there and we can all agree that motor vehicles are dangerous, yet over 250 million vehicles actively speed down our American streets and highways. There is no dumb luck when someone dies from a car wreck. It's a risk we knowingly enter into every time we climb in the car.

I don't really believe our deaths are fixed from birth but I also don't believe that the dangers of life can be completely avoidable. Part of experiencing the world is accepting the hazards that accompany it. Take the risk if you value the reward and live the life you want. Your death is only as significant as your life has been.

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WriterType

Image by Shiny Things via Flickr

A friend of mine, many moons ago, pegged me as wanting to be the type of writer who would drink too much and spew prose like others would spew their last meal. I knew he was right even then, that I would gladly embrace any excuse for my mediocre storytelling. The only problem is that writing is one of the only things I just can't do when drunk. I can still verbalize a good joke and weave an amusing tale for the crowd while intoxicated. I just can't project a complete thought onto the page.

When I first began to think myself a writer, I romanticized the pains and trappings of the profession. Images of my future self bubbled up through my imagination like freshly poured champagne. I'd naturally be a success, I thought, but I'd avoid the spotlight and shun my fans. I'd be gruff, haggard and unkempt, wear an old torn and stained sports coat, wreaking of gin or whiskey. My publisher would loath me and my editor would dread my idea of a finished product. Though I would fail to know war, like Hemingway I would be brutal, tenacious, stoic and periodically inconsolable. Yes, this is the terribly wonderful man I wanted to be.

No one employs me as a wordsmith and likely never will, but I'm still drawn to the practice and the persona. Perhaps it was my nascent familiarity with these traits that prompted my journalistic desires at all. Maybe I didn't want to be a writer. I was just psychologically suited for it. Of course I have no novels to speak of and no screenplays to promote. I write now because it keeps me grounded and gives me purpose. It keeps me alive.

However, if anyone wants to start paying, I can start shopping for sports coats.

Nothing to see here

In an effort to find blog configuration and content inspiration I often abuse the "Next Blog" button on Blogger's navbar. (Just look up.) It takes you to a random blog, with no regard to nationality, geolocation, or linguistic comfort zone. It is especially ignorant to reader interests and, with no confinement of subject matter or membership exclusivity, Blogger unveils a spectrum of drudgery that I had not believed possible.

There are blogs dedicated to farming, sneakers, and sewing. There are merchant sites, selling

Image via CrunchBase

clothes, bedspreads, and purses. Then there are the endless sites about people's pets and/or their children, which seems like an incredible waste of Internet real estate. Now, while none of these sites hold my interest, I am glad to know that anyone can have a voice here. Everyone has the right to express their opinions and concerns with the world. If they don't have any gripes they have the right to just share their hobbies with the world. If they are completely vacant shells they can visit the retail blogs and continue their flickering existences as mere consumers, as we all have the right to make money from the insignificant. Most importantly, I am glad that I have the right to spurn and chastise all previously mentioned groups within my own blogging sovereignty.

Of course the real question is, do other blog cruisers see value in my written word? It is conceivable that not everyone would enjoy my particular flavor, but at least then they would have an opinion. They could then blog about their opinion, moving themselves immediately up the ranks of those constituents here who actually contribute. It's a win/win scenario either way. Well, I suppose that doesn't address those whose eyes glaze over when they show up here. For them there's always "Next Blog."

You got cheap thrills

Image via Wikipedia

Of all the wonderful things the Internet has brought us over the years, legal and otherwise, I have to say my favorite thing is the Domino's Pizza Tracker. It's simple, personal, and more entertaining than watching the microwave timer when waiting for my meal. When it first came about I thought it only mildly amusing, dismissing it as merely a representation of a countdown, not an actual pizza play by play.

Then one day we realized we forget to ask for extra sauce. I had glanced at the tracker, taking casual note that "Wayne" had prepared my pizza and chuckling to myself at the software's effort at generically naming virtual employees. Then I called Domino's to correct my blunder and Wayne answered the phone. I was taken aback.

"Wayne? As in THE Wayne who just finished prepping my dinner?"

"Yes sir? How can I help you?"

I stumbled through the conversation like a starstruck fan asking for an autograph, then hung up. Pizzaless nights passed. Sometime later I began to doubt the reality of that occurrence, and slid back into disbelief, marking it all as coincidence or some drunken memory warp. The name Wayne is fairly common I thought. Maybe it's always Wayne.

I was of course proven wrong. The names changed and even began to denote ethnic variety. Shoneka would prep. George would bake. Tiffany would box it up. Michael delivered, just like the tracker promised he would.

The red glow of the pizza progress bar still keeps me coming back to online ordering. The only downside is when it reaches delivered status and it all ends. Sure the pizza is delicious but its journey isn't over quite yet. Why can't the tracking continue?

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S.S.D.D.

Image via Wikipedia

We are inarguably creatures of habit, both good and bad. Sometimes it's easier to maintain the bad ones, and it's definitely easier to start a habit than it is to quit one. The "good" habits are really just repetitive mundane actions, routine behavior that keeps us doing what is necessary to get through our daily lives. Straying from this routine, intentional or accidental, can disrupt the chain of daily events. A few days ago I altered my normal morning routine and forgot my lunch and my watch, leaving me starving and lost in time.

Sticking to the "norm" would appear to be what's best, but adhering to our benign habits is ultimately stealing away our lives. There is a part of our brains that allows us to function through everyday activities without requiring much focus, allowing us to keep our sanity. It's the reason you arrive at work and can't remember anything from the commute. We supress the commonplace acts in order to use our mind for more worthy situations. The problem is that most parts of life become mundane, repetitive, and commonplace, given a long enough span of time. When every day is the same we suppress more and more of our mortality. Then, once we actually stop to think, we discover that time is speeding up. We lose the substance and depth of our lives. We age faster. We remember less. All because there's nothing fresh, nothing new.

Job security is a retired concept and monetary stability is a fluctuating abstraction. There is nothing concrete in this world and what goes unchanged collects dust and is forgotten. People are convinced that healthy living assures a long life, but age is meaningless without significance, crux, or purport. Change is not only good, but it's necessary. Uproot yourself. Start over. Make life refreshing and new so the years, no matter how many or how few, will be abounding and complete. Break the habit. You risk forgetting lunch but it's better than forgetting your life.

Didn't hear it from me

Keeping a secret is one of the hardest things a person can ever do, requiring more commitment and dedication than marriage and better proof of devotion than all other tests of loyalty. Make any other mistake, break any other promise, and you can likely be forgiven. Expose someone's true secret and the strongest bonds are irreparably severed, friendships dissolved. This is why personal facts are so rarely isolated amongst only two people and why the prospect of discovering a secret is so titillating.

Just mentioning the possession of confidential knowledge excites interest for anyone listening, and it's the biggest reward for agreeing to its shared ownership. Of course, mentioning the secret at all to those outside the trust is the first step into the pitfalls of swearing secrecy. As great as it feels to be accepted into such an exclusive club, holding onto a secret is an erosion of the mind and will. Maybe it's the acidic nature of being sole proprietor over such information that fuels our need to tell another, and justifies forgiving ourselves when the deed is done.

Releasing this mystery upon someone else is a confession, a relief from a heavy burden. A good secret can be a powerful weapon, but one that's volatile and unstable. When we break it all down, nothing is a secret for long. It's a game of revelation hot potato, and the only guarantee is that someone will get burned.

4-n aid

Image by K2D2vaca via Flickr

Well it's the 4th of July, America's birthday, and even North Korea is stepping up to help us celebrate our independence! It's a really sweet demonstration, launching ballistic bottle rockets out over the East Sea, though Alabama roadside stands carry stronger firepower.

It's not the first time they've joined in on the ceremonies but they have some large shoes to fill in regards to foreign congratulatory gestures. I'm speaking of the giant French kicks worn by our Lady Liberty. In related news, welcome back to her hat! After much anticipation people can once again climb around in the green giant's head though, as much fun as it is to play brain parasite, that's not what this day is about.

No, Independence day is about helping China's economy, buying up as many miniature American flags, pool toys, and explosives as possible. Through pro-American propaganda we can help circulate the dollar and yuan like a sparkling Saxon. But China is not the only country who will profit this year. Anheuser-Busch continues to be one of the top companies benefiting from Independence Day celebrations and, thanks to inBev's purchase of America's largest brewery, more US paychecks will go to this Brazilian and Belgian based company.

Make no mistake. I'm no poster child for patriotism and I don't check the labels of my shirts for manufacturer location. I just enjoy thinking a little deeper about the irony of situations like this. I'll probably continue to buy Toyota in the future but maybe just for today I can put a little effort into displaying my American pride.

I'll eat too much, express an air of undeserved superiority, and maybe drive home intoxicated, but if I'm drunk on Yuengling the cops are sure to be more forgiving. Anything else would be unAmerican.

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Putting your best Facebook forward

Despite my hermit-like avoidance of social networking sites, I land on a few from time to time. None hold my attention for very long, but I do thumb through the pictures despite the often

Image by Getty Images via Daylife

shallow and redundant content. Cameras can now take hundreds of pictures which should greatly magnify our ability to capture rare events and brief moments in time, yet the majority of online photo albums feature the same predictable scenes: friends posing as if staged for a portrait, holding up their drinks, flashing their "victory" fingers or wagging their tongues (how happy the day will be when this trend dies).

The background, foreground and context are ignored and candidness apparently goes without consideration, unless of course it's in catching someone in a compromising situation. This raises the real point of concern.
When teens through twenty-somethings are documenting the unruly, experimental, law-breaking, party-dedicated experiences of their youth, what kind of photographic legacy are people leaving for their children?

The photos I have of my relatives are respectable scenes, depictions of civil social gatherings. I don't have a picture of my grandfather doing a keg stand or my mother hanging on men who were not my father. I know they were all young once and went through similar experiences, maybe made similar mistakes, but the world wasn't watching then. Their was no chance their embarrassing situations would end up on YouTube.

When generations down the line are assigned a genealogy project for school, they'll compile their ancestral information with ease by simply plugging our names into Google. What sorts of images will they find?

Who am I to question me?

Image by Getty Images via Daylife

As I returned to work this morning with my Starbucks coffee in hand, I began to wonder about who I had become and how far from my twenties' self I had strayed. There was a time when the day began at noon and a beer for breakfast was not a rarity. I was a failure at school, had no goals or dreams for a stable future, and lived only for the moment. The word venti was nowhere in my vocabulary.

Though I was aware of the disapproval others had for my lifestyle, I was fine with being emotionally driven, motivated only by prospects of pleasure, in search of the next good time. I was a hedonist, and felt no guilt for sluffing responsibility for the immediate return of self-gratification.

Time passed and I didn't die a young rebel going out in a blaze of glory. To my surprise I got older and life progressed, if not at least continued. I dropped out of college, was fired from several jobs, and regarded my friends and family as faded apparitions.

Years Later.
Now I'm working in a respected profession, making a decent salary, and live in a trendy Midtown Atlanta apartment. Reflecting on that past era in my life I suppose I should see how stupid I was or consider those years a waste, but I don't. I was young, directionless, and a bit of a thick-headed jerk, but I was pursuing happiness which is what we're all still doing.

The old me never wanted to be a button-down, stuck up, Starbucks drinking professional, and never thought he would be. The old me would have knocked the overpriced chain retailer coffee right out of my hands. I hope however, with some explanation, he would still be okay with who I am.

Okay. I'm a bit typical. I do what most guys my age do, still clinging to their youth. I drink beer when I can and wear throwback T-shirts to show people how cool I still am. (I'm okay with my Atari shirt and my Bob Ross Happy Trees tee.)

Part of me needs the respect and understanding of my old self, hoping I'm not what I would have considered a "total sell-out." The newer part of me though wants to punch the old me right in the nose and tell him to "get it together."

I know however that I am both men, a blend of the good and bad parts of each. So I've started to look to the future and make some plans, but I can still be impulsive. I'm a working professional but I still say inappropriate things around coworkers. I make more money than I used to but I'm still cheap, er thrifty. (I saved my coffee cup from the day before to get the refill discount the following day.)

I'll never be truly comfortable as a button-down type, though that's mostly due to my problem with losing buttons off my shirts. I'm not too worried about becoming a faceless conformist because I'm still a snob when it comes to music and movies. I've used valet parking and been to a non-movie theater show, but I'm not a materialistic upper class citizen. (My class is well revealed just by how I spell theater.)

I may drink Starbucks but I still have a few steps to go before I'm a completely pretentious douche bag prick. When I buy a BMW and start yelling at hotel staff I'll become worried. Until then I think both old and new me have balanced out just fine.

The window treatments to the soul

Image via Wikipedia

My attraction for women is not always founded on baseline physical attributes, meaning a well dressed woman or one that takes the extra time with her hair can be equally as attractive as one with well formed curves. There are many variables in play as to what might peak my interest in any given woman. Some of these variables I acknowledge and understand as obvious reasoning or perhaps having cross-related areas of pleasure.

One such example is my affinity for waitresses. There is no struggle for logic here. It is a woman who brings me food and drink upon request. She is beautiful in my eyes. The added flirtation that has worked its way into the food service industry is just a bonus element, holding parallels to well established "dance" clubs and houses of ill repute. It consists of women feigning intrigue for a man with the end goal of slimming down his wallet, a lifelong exchange of money for coquetterie. This is a condition for which both men and women are at fault and both are worse off with its perpetuation. Women monetarily win out in the short run but ultimately lose, having continuously failed relationships and finding it hard to discern why men don't take love seriously.

My less transparent attraction enhancement, in both rationale and reality, is when a woman wears sunglasses. Every woman, regardless of age or physical makeup, is slightly more of a woman behind those tinted shields. Within a world of fading mystery, there is little left untouched or beyond comprehension or examination. It is silly, but in plastic eyeware I can find a bit of wonder again.

What color are her eyes? Green? Brown? Red with tears?

Is she looking off into the distance or staring at me?

The eyes reveal so much about a person and stripping this essential insight into one's humanity causes my imagination to churn. As a character in my mind, her depth is endless, but the fantasy proves time and again to be better than the tangible truth. All good stories have a sad ending depending on when you stop reading, and eventually the glasses come off. The majority of the time, like with the bras of today, what was covered looked better before, and the thrill subsides. Every once in awhile though the mystery woman is as she was supposed to be, a reflection of projected perfection. It's then that the world seems right and my day is better for it.

Weezer's missing ingredient

Image by parn via Flickr

Upon the release of Weezer's third album I was confounded. I heard sounds emanating from my car stereo that had familiar Weezer flavors, but as I sat listening in the Hasting's parking lot, each track felt cold, shallow, and foreign. I never want artists to safely reproduce earlier works because growth and experimentation is key to a lasting band, but where was my Weezer?

Plastic wrapping and sticky security strips, once a nagging barrier between me and fresh audio pleasantries, vomited from my shopping bag, reflecting my sense of disgust. The songs, the whole album, was short quips of meaningless dribble; it was cookie cutter pop that didn't justify their previous years of silence. I didn't understand. I had heard "hash pipe" and thought it was kind of ridiculous but assumed naively that it would be the isolated radio single that was necessary for album promotion. It was instead the baseline of mediocrity for the green "Weezer" album.

I looked at the cover and looked at the faces. Something was terribly wrong. I drove home, able to listen to half the album once over again, needing answers. I called a friend who I thought would share in my dispair, but he failed to hear me as I assumed he failed to hear that disaster of a CD. "It's not that bad," he said.

I went into a rant that would be repeated many times over the next few years, trying to explain how solid and timeless the first two Weezer albums were and that these recent imposters were shells of the men they once were, devoid of talent and soul.

Weeks later, after a few attempts at "giving it another shot," I retired Weezer's third album into a sleeve somewhere in the back of my CD case, along with other collections of dissapointment and various gifted discs. Many months passed and I heard rumors of another album release. "It all makes sense now" I thought. That was just a fun throwaway album, like a bunch of B-side songs rejected from the upcoming legitimate CD. It was all just silly antics and they weren't being serious, those goofy guys! I was relieved, but only temporarily.

Of course a replay of previous year's events would occur with more angry ranting and general heartbreak, but with time, and acceptance at Weezer's irreversible decline and failure as respectable musicians, I moved on. I found new bands and new sounds and some new disappointments as well.

The painful resurgence of this subject is due to Pandora's insistence on recommending Weezer songs for many of my personalized stations. I decline most and praise a few, but it got me wondering just what happened to those guys. Some research, more simplified and unified now due to Wikipedia, and I discover the removal of bassist Matt Sharp was the reason all musical and structural integrity was eradicated from this tumbling tower of a band.

As others have said, Sharp is no musical genius, and perhaps he wasn't the heart and soul of Weezer or their sole talent, but it is unquestionable that his absense severely altered their sound, lyrical depth and upward development as a group.

Rethinking the concept of the third album, I realize that maybe the remaining members were very self aware of the band's reinvention. The album is self titled like their first one and the cover is a solid color, green instead of blue, with all the members striking a pose as if introducing themselves to the world. It is only in thinking that they too recognized Weezer had become something else, even if it was a devolvement, that I regain some thread of respect for the band. In listening to those first two albums I hold on to this thread tightly, but with great solemnity I will be forever walking away.

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