The Denouement of Tomes I've Borrowed or Own

As I walked through the open doorway of Theodore-call-me-Ted’s office, he cut his eyes at me (sufficient for intuitive Laban-shape-movement identification) and continued his screen-reading.  That was permission to sit; if he didn't have time, he'd have immediately shot me a question.

Of his three client chairs, I decided on the Haratech because I’d just finished a difficult night-shift and it was the most comfortable.  Pistons wheezed when I sat.  Additional hydraulics gasped as I leaned. Theodore-call-me-Ted could get his hackles and ire all fumed together in a ball up his ass if people popped-in-to-shit-with-the-bull and adjusted his Haratech's ergonomics.  So the other reason I sat there was (as feeble a power-play as it was, it was all I had) if he left me sitting for more than the 17-average-seconds it takes to finish a paragraph, he’d have to come around that desk and re-default-position the chair’s settings after I left.

After 25 seconds I stretched and rolled my shoulders and scapula.  A dampener in back of my spine shushed. I shifted an elbow off the armrest and allowed my arm to hang along the outside of the chair.  I wiggled my fingers near the adjustment levers like a gunslinger over his holstered Colt .45 while Ennio Morricone's guitar from the end of The Good, the Bad and the Ugly strummed in my head. 

Theodore-call-me-Ted slid his chair to center-desk, took his hands away from the keyboard, and then (begrudgingly-slowly) drug his focus from the screen and looked at me. His mouth hung partly open.  The glare from his monitor washed-out the right side of his face giving him a half-zombie look.

I wanted to say, there's two kinds of men in this world: those with loaded guns and those who dig, but I doubted Theodore-call-me-Ted would recognize the last line from the film.  Instead, I asked myself the same rhetorical question as always—how much professionalism could I expect from this mouth-breathing poster child for the Peter Principle, especially at an end of shift morning briefing?

He closed his mouth and tightened his lips. Anyone who didn’t know him would think this exaggerated-bottom-lip “frown” of his, indicated he was a scowl and two tears away from bawling. But I knew him. This was his way of smiling.

I said, “The denouement of tomes I've borrowed or own.”

After pausing to absorb the phrase for a full-second, he said, “That’s a fantastic one. Maybe the best yet. I love the vowelly way it lumbers over the tongue. Wait a minute...someone used the word denouement?”

“Yep.”

“Ancient French dude in Piccadilly-tweed with elbow patches?”

“No. Youngish. Californian. But he pronounced it wrong.” I shrugged and brought my right ankle up to rest on top of my left knee.

Theodore-call-me-Ted and I had played this game for several years—ever since we learned of a shared Drew Barrymore affinity. Her best line in Donnie Darko was: This famous linguist once said that of all the phrases in the English language, of all the endless combinations of words in all of history, that Cellar Door is the most beautiful.

So...whenever a beautiful word combination lands in the bottom of one of our boats, we share it with the other.

“How’d he pronounce it?”

“Dee.Noun.Mint.”

“You correct him?”

“Nah, he was a month-past-pain-tolerance Green. Destitute to boot. Medical records checked out.”

“He pronounce it tome, or do Californian dickweeds say it like tomb?”

I smiled enough for him to see my eyes wrinkle and pushed a little breath thru my nose with my diaphragm. This was Theodore-call-me-Ted trying out his morning funny. I crossed my arms and jiggled my right foot (I hoped my let’s-move-this-along message was clear).

He looked back at his screen and said, “Twenty-two from your shift.” Then returned his focus on me and asked, “Any of the Greens I need to look at with any weight?”

“They’re all routine. One could become a Yellow, but I already tagged it for legal to check-out first thing.” I said with a slow head shake.

“What's the source of beyond-tolerance-guy’s pain?”

“Well...that’s obviously open to interpretation. Could be the weight of the information in all the tomes he read. Maybe he was referring to the culmination of lifting an entire library one book at a time. But I suspect his statement was simply a neologism.”

“You asked him to explain the cause of his pain and his response was: ‘the denouement of all the’. . .”

“Not all, just . . . ‘tomes he'd borrowed or owned’. Yea.”

Theodore-call-me-Ted rolled his eyes, lifted his hands off his desk and said in a hushed pseudo-shout, “Insolvent Greens are people."

I pretended ignorance and jiggled my foot a little faster.

He continued, "Synopsize the Blue ones.”

“Only two. First one came in just after midnight. Woman, 68, local, NRS. (An acronym for Negative Relatives or Survivors, even though everyone knew No Responsible Siblings was more appropriate.)

I personally oversaw the exam: no deception indicated. The sticker price went on her card. I figure two-three days. She estimated high seventies, but I think it will go closer to a hundred—she’s got a reverse-mortgage on a 1939 bungalow in the Oakbrook District that’ll kick it up at least thirty, I think.

Second one was about a hour ago: guy from Idaho, 29, stage four. Records go back two years. I registered him in. Rough estimate is two-fifty. He has no will yet. The other half of his estate’ll go to a girlfriend.”

“How much went on his card?” He asked.

“Standard Med-Room Rate for the seventh floor.”

“Oakbrook bungalow’s SR?”

I knew he hated these. The law requires we formally document every Stated Reason—SR—but we are only permitted to discriminate against applicants for legitimate medical or legal reasons. . . .

“Hell. She’s a Skanker isn’t she?” He exclaimed.

I nodded. Shrugged. Emulated his pout. Raised my eyebrows. Looked out his windows at the tops and sides of the waiving trees, their leaves being nudged by wind until they showed their lighter undersides.

Years ago, Doctor Emily Maalsquanq designed a simple quiz—available to anyone with access to the web of internets. It supposedly measured a person’s level of senility, Alzheimer’s, or dementia affectation (which she called their sAd score). If a person’s Maalsquanq score declined, repeated testing allegedly determined the optimum moment to come to us. Since the law prevented us from accepting applications from anyone mentally incapable of completely understanding their actions, we received a handful of people a week who—when asked why they were electing to terminate their life—answered with: because my score is still high enough.

“Fuckass. Suck-a-Fuck.” He said as he tucked behind his screen and began aggressive key-pounding.

I nodded some more, then I racheted a lever and the lumbar area of the chair got noticeably more comfortable, so I twisted a knob and the seat cushion moved my butt cheeks slightly wider apart.

“Go home Pommeroy.” Theodore-call-me-Ted said from behind his screen.

As I stood, turned and exited his office, I said, “See ya tomorrow, Theo.”

He said, to my back, “Call me Ted.”

I don't think that writers ... function because they have something they particularly want to say. They have something that they feel. And they like the art form; they like words... — Stanley Kubrick

Counting Countries

The amount of time I've spent in each country increases-decreases on a diagonal axis from top left to bottom right (mouse-over for country names, mouse-click for Wiki page).


Update 2010:  Belize would now be appended in the mid-low-right quadrant (one week).



There's something in the human personality which resents things that are clear, and conversely, something which is attracted to puzzles, enigmas, and allegories. — Stanley Kubrick

Fresh Old Adage

For the last few months I dissected the act of viewing film trailers as a viable means of determining a film's worth (at first-run ticket prices). I even wrote a post or two decrying film trailers. I've now decided to trot out an old adage, because it has—once again—proven to be the most effective way to determine if an upcoming film will be good, bad, or ugly.

Base your decision—whether or not to pay first-run theater ticket prices for a film—solely on the director's past performance.

If you thought all of a director's previous films were good, you will consider his next one worth the price of admission (now extrapolate those you disliked and hated to fill in the bad and ugly spots). If a single person writes, directs, produces, and edits, this is an outcome magnifier. Conversely, a creative committee is an outcome dilutor, (if the director works with producers, screenwriters, and editors he has less to say about the final product).

As an apocryphal-test of this adage:

I really liked Richard Kelly's previous films Southland Tales and Donnie Darko, both of which he wrote and directed. So I wasn't taking much of a chance on his latest: The Box (which he wrote, directed and produced). Even though the preview made me not want to see it and the film was loosely based on a poorly-written story by a bad author, I liked the film.

The adage was easily reaffirmed when a director's previous films were ones I had a strong opinion about, but what about a director with a less-than-stellar résumé?

I thought F. Gary Gray's 1998 movie The Negotiator was mediocre; his 2003 caper movie The Italian Job was nicely above average; but his 2005 un-funny comedy Be Cool (which he also produced) was dismal. I saw his latest: Law Abiding Citizen. It's a mystery-thriller, which was not as bad as The Negotiator but not as good as The Italian Job. I only paid matinee prices, and wasn't too disappointed.

So...the adage still holds up—average directorial-performance in the past, results in average future performance. What about a film made by a non-director or by someone who's never directed before?

Grant Heslov has been a bit-actor on TV for over 25 years; he helped produce the interesting bio-pic based on a true story Good Night and Good Luck; as well as the un-interesting and sour historical-comedy Leatherheads (both of these producer-credits were with his friend, George Clooney, in the director's chair). His first film as a big-screen director The Men Who Stare at Goats was very disappointing. A muddled, poorly scripted/created/imagined, mix of great actors doing what-all and what-ever. Grant Heslov is not a good director; I imagine every decision on his set being made only after he consults with all his actor buddies and the producers and the screenwriters.

So, if this adage is to become my Ouija Board—deciding what films I see—what upcoming films does adhering to this adage predict I'll enjoy?

Roland Emmerich's new film 2012? He his a writer/producer/director kind of guy. Although I don't like most his films (Universal Soldier, Independence Day, The Day After Tomorrow, Godzilla), two of his (Stargate and 10,000 BC) were not terrible-to-average. But, based on these statistics, I will not see 2012.

John Hillcoat's new film The Road? I've only seen his film: The Proposal, which I liked. So, I'll probably take a chance on The Road.

Wes Anderson's new film Fantastic Mr Fox? Another man-of-many-hats. I really liked, (loved) four of his five films, so I'm confident I'll enjoy Fantastic Mr Fox.

James Cameron's new film Avatar? And yet another WrDiPrEd kind-of-craftsman! I greatly enjoyed about 50% of his films. The ones I disliked were the sequels and historical dramas. Since I like his sf/fantasy, I'll try watching Avatar.

Peter Jackson's next film The Lovely Bones? I didn't like the first film I saw of his (Heavenly Creatures) but his next four were good-to-great and he produced this summer's District 9 which I enjoyed immensely. He is on a roll, so I'll see The Lovely Bones when it comes out in a few months.

Brick Eisner's remake of The Crazies? He directed 2005's Sahara (a convoluted mess of sf-thriller-comedy-action). He's also been hired to direct a re-make of The Creature From The Black Lagoon, as well as a re-make of Flash Gordon over the next few years. He seems to be someone you hire to direct re-makes of failed films, which means (to me) that he has no creative talent of his own. I won't see any of his coming films, including The Crazies.

Joe Johnson's 2010 release of The Wolfman? These two films of his: Jumanji and October Sky, were OK. I thought his three films Honey, I Shrunk the Kids, The Rocketeer, and Hidalgo were blah-middle of the road-blah boring. I hated his Jurassic Park III. Based on these statistics I don't think I'll see The Wolfman.

You sit at the board and suddenly your heart leaps. Your hand trembles to pick up the piece and move it. But what chess teaches you is that you must sit there calmly and think about whether it's really a good idea and whether there are other, better ideas. — Stanley Kubrick (film director, 1928-1999)

(November will, now, be split between Oprah and Stanley quotes, because it's ramping up to be a post-heavy month.)

Armistice Day

Although I never wore a blood chit on my uniform, I confess to having an eerie interest in the silk documents containing declarative statements—written in several languages—always with one in stilted-English:

I am a citizen of the United States of America. I do not speak your language. Misfortune forces me to seek your assistance in obtaining food, shelter, and protection from the communists. Please take me to someone who will provide for my safety and see that I am returned to my people. I will do my best to see that no harm comes to you. My government will reward you.

I ponder finding oneself in such a confluence of fortuitous-unluckyness that a document sewn inside a jacket determined if one lived or died. I wonder about the soldiers who resorted to requesting those documents be read; as well as about the foreigners who did the reading, and the possible outcomes of those reading transactions (payments, retributions for "conspiring with the enemy," Ann-Frank-esque hidings, etc.).

Building a collage of the unit crests, patches, awards, and other insignia I wore* was my way to rock down to Electric Avenue Remembrance MSR.


*Two of the ribbons were created after my retirement, but are authorized to be awarded retroactively to soldiers who qualify, which I do. (mouse-over to identify, click for Wiki pages)

I've come to believe that each of us has a personal calling that's as unique as a fingerprint - and that the best way to succeed is to discover what you love and then find a way to offer it to others in the form of service, working hard, and also allowing the energy of the universe to lead you. — Oprah Winfrey

The Mighty Boosh

I find absolutely everything about this television show hilarious genius. Comedic wunderkinds of the first order, they are - sir - and anyone disagreeing with me will be summarily banished to the rhinoceros pen while I turn my back on you for once an for all.

Don't already know about the best free giggle available to today's-everyman (without having to pay someone to have a go at ya funny bone with a cricket-mallet)? Well, sir, you can catch up on some of the episodes if you know how to use a search engine they are smatter-scattered all about from Adult Swim to You Tube. Cheers.

Through humor, you can soften some of the worst blows that life delivers. And once you find laughter, no matter how painful your situation might be, you can survive it. — Oprah Winfrey

four concentric circles

(To view the circles clearly, just look at your screen from an edge, or an extreme oblique angle)

Devote today to something so daring even you can't believe you're doing it. — Oprah Winfrey

My 2¢ about Ft Hood

I'm rarely aware of current events until they're brought to my attention in a hey did you hear about... kind-of-way. I have, however, been following the Nidal Hasan spree-killing at Fort Hood Texas.

Although I know none of the soldiers or civilians involved in this incident, I still have some good friends on active duty. And, crimes of this nature still push my long-unused investigator buttons (I wonder if it will ever completely go away). Though I was in the Army for 20 years, and retired as a senior CID Agent, I realize my insights aren't very much. But, hey, what's a blog for, if not someplace to scrawl my current thoughts?

Fact: A 6 November news article reported that the day prior to the incident, the shooter, Major Nidal Hasan, gave his furniture to a neighbor and paid her to clean his apartment.

Observation: This is a textbook example of things a person who has decided to commit suicide does.

Fact: Major Nidal Hasan's performance as a psychiatrist has been questioned by members of the press. The military has responded vaguely about his performance.

Observation: Above the rank of Captain, the number of quality active-duty Army doctors quickly diminishes to zero. You see, most doctors join for the training and leave once they finish their service commitments (which happens to coincide with how long it normally takes to be promoted to Captain). For obvious financial reasons, good doctors leave the military as soon as permitted. An average psychiatrist (in most medium-large US cities) can easily earn $250,000 a year.

Major Hasan has already served twelve years (he joined in 1997). He must have completed his initial service commitment (normally 4 years after completing all training) years ago. Even with all of the specialty medical incentive pays, Major Hasan's military pay could not be much above $100,000 a year. The vast majority of doctors (and lawyers, and dentists, and pilots, and air traffic controllers...you get the picture) who remain in the Army after completing their commitments, do so because they are fully aware that earning a living in "the real world" requires more than they are capable of. Major Hasan was most certainly one of these highly-trained-incompetents.

Fact: The senior military officer's who supervised Major Hasan have not said much of anything, positive or negative, about his job performance.

Observation: What can they—the more-senior, more-highly-trained, incompetent doctors who have stayed in the Army long enough to attain the rank of Colonel because they could never earn a living as a medical supervisor in "the real world"—say? He was a terrible therapist? We knew he was a fucktard-zealot? We were deploying him to the sand box wishing and hoping that he'd step on a land mine?

I know that you cannot hate other people without hating yourself. — Oprah Winfrey

Autumn Zonk Hikes

This year's hiking season is officially over for Zonkey and I. We completed some great hikes this year—a total of thirteen. Zonk hiked 28 miles and rode in-pack or on-shoulder an additional seven. A six-mile out-n-back (with a 1,200' change in elevation), was the longest; but the most difficult ones taught me that he doesn't prefer to walk out in the open, on soft sunny beaches, nor in the forest on very soggy paths.

The primary reason our hiking is over until next Spring isn't foul weather, but because of hunting season (both furry and fowl). Although I'm apprehensive of either of us being shot accidentally-on-purpose, more importantly, any walk in the woods with a constant staccato of gunfire echoing around you is a foul hike.

I spend a lot of time by myself, and I consciously do that to strengthen myself and to stay centered. — Oprah Winfrey

This is where I was at ten years ago — You (.1)?

Passion is energy. Feel the power that comes from focusing on what excites you. — Oprah Winfrey

And the winner is...

So go ahead. Fall down. The world looks different from the ground. — Oprah Winfrey

Open letter to Crazy (or do you spell it with an i?)

Dearest Crazy,

You say you've read one of my posts or this, that or even a mass market other thing or two, and now you actually believe the world is going to end on the 21st of December 2012?

No, you sweet-idiot, the world is not going to end on our watch.

And, to be perfectly honest, I don't know. But I do have reasonable and logical reasons to think so. If I distill these reasons into a List of Facts will it be easier for you?

1. The 21st of December is the Winter Solstice (day with the least amount of daylight) in the Northern Hemisphere.

2. In the Southern Hemisphere the 21st of December is the Summer Solstice (day with the most amount of daylight).

3. The Ancient Maya lived in Mesoamerica, which was in the Northern Hemisphere.

4. These Mayans kept track of time with a large quantity of different calendars.

5. One of their long calendars kept track of time for a little more than five thousand years.

6. Many people have "matched up" this long calendar with our current (Gregorian) calendar. There are almost as many different "match up" solutions as there are people who have tried to match them up.

7. There is a small consensus of people who think the "correct match" is the one that lines up the last day of the Maya long calendar (when it clicks over to all zeros) with the last day of the solar year.

8. Which is the first day of the solar year in 1/2 the world.

My point is that even if the calendars have been matched correctly (volumes of books have been written to refute or proclaim the calculations) it is only a calendar coming to an end.

On the 22d of December 2012, the new Mayan calendar begins and, for the entire modern world, the first of January 2013 will be just another new year.

But I waste my time, don't I crazi? You don't want logic; you want to witness the end. Your strangelovian-dream has always been to be Slim Pickens hasn't it?

Breathe. Let go. And remind yourself that this very moment is the only one you know you have for sure. — Oprah Winfrey

Disturbing Eavesdropping

Conversation between two female bookstore clerks:

That's disturbing. Just disturbing.

I knooow. Can you imagine?

You should call and complain.

What?

I think you should call them and say something.

I think I will.

(20 seconds of silence)

There's no answer. I bet they're away from the desk. I'll call them later. Teach them to say disturbing shit about us.

What's the most disturbing thing you've ever seen?

I don't know; I've seen some pretty sick shit. What about you?

Me? I. Well. There was this little baby rabbit. And it had this gross kinda open sore in it's side about this big and, and you could see . . . well, there were things moving around in it . . . inside the guts and stuff. And it was panting, you know, breathing real heavy and. . . Well, then my fiancé-at-the-time just goes up and stomps on it's head and. It was. Well. I still get upset thinking about it.

(At about this point a customer is waited on; they stop talking until the customer is gone. I think her distress was caused—more—by learning that some guy who she contemplated marrying was capable of euthanizing an injured bunny with his boot, than by the maggoty wound.)

What about you?

I think it would probably be this guy I saw on the train. He didn't have any arms or legs and he was duct-taped to a skateboard. (breathy giggles spread between them) And he had this little red swiss army knife sticking out the corner of his mouth, and it bobbled up and down when he talked—like a cigarette does—you know? . . . And whenever someone would get to close to him he'd say 'I wouldn't do it'. That was all I ever heard him say...(in a Burgess-Meridth-as-The-Penguin voice, she repeats—amid more giggles) I wouldn't do it.

Your stories! I always have difficulty believing your stories.

I wouldn't do it.

Where was this? Was he flat out... how. How'd he get around?

I assume he had some caretaker-handler or someone. He'd be in the isle of the train near the door. This was when I lived in New York, but he was always near or around Brooklyn I think. I saw him more than once. Couple times.

Duct-taped? I mean it must have . . .

Right to the board. It was a long board, or at least it was longer than a regular one. There was, like, a piece of foam under his head; but other than that: he was taped flat... I wouldn't do it.

Duct tape is like the force. It has a light side, a dark side, and it holds the universe together. — Oprah Winfrey

Clackers, Creepy Crawlers & Jarts

My parents were the Howard-n-Marion-Cunningham of the neighborhood. They based their parenting ground rules on how something affected their own comfort, or (if their comfort was not in play) their decisions fell into two categories: either they approved in a clueless and over-trusting manner or they were groundlessly and adamantly opposed. Determining which way they'd decide, or why, was never simple or obvious.

Although I played with my friend's Clackers, and whacked myself on the head a time or seven, I never witnessed them shatter or break (as they were alleged to). Mom wouldn't allow us to own them because she heard the noise from three yards away and didn't want that ruckus in her house.

The bubbling plastic and smoky molds which heated my day-glow worms and spiders . . . oh, I recall those smells and burns with fondness . . . (even now) a car sitting in an unshaded parking lot for hours can bring those memories wafting back. Mom restricted Creepy Crawlers to our basement; next to my wood-burning, and chemistry sets.

No one in our family or neighborhood got hurt by Jarts (even though we tossed them in each other's general direction). Playing with them was no different than playing with horseshoes, you watched where they were being arced and didn't play when smaller kids were running around.

Which reminds me of the worst Halloween injury I was involved with:

My little sister eagerly rode around me in a circle as I tried to arc a utility-pole anchor spike (tied to a string) through the back of her tricycle. The tricycle-lariat-king was off his game that day, I'll tell you. After over a half-dozen misses, I eventually hit her in the face with the pointy end, which punctured her left cheek and chipped her tooth.

It looked traumatic.

Of course I was sorry.

Only, at the time, I was actually feeling sorry for these things, in this order:

• that I'd, again, missed hooking the back-rung of the tricycle


• her screaming was, obviously, going to put a stop to the game


• now I probably won't be able to convince her to play driveway rodeo with me


• maybe ever again


• getting really screamed at (what were you thinking!?) and grounded, by my parents, felt scarier than the blood and histrionics


• saying "but she didn't mind playing the rodeo calf"
  


• realizing the answer to my parent's shouted question was that I wasn't, but was old enough to (and that I could only blame my stupidity)


• that in my imagination (as I waited in my room for them to return from the hospital) worse luck added an inch of arc to my throw, which punctured her left eye and stopped in her brain

2D Map of the 4th Dimension

It is now possible (thank you Google Earth) to collect and compile footprint-shots of every place one's ever lived. This collage reflects four decades of places I've rested my head; beginning at the top left—my parent's home when I was in high school—to the bottom right: my current abode.

The overlap of my 4th dimension (movements through time) with other people's, intrigues me. In almost every location, I've overlapped the life-prints of prior residents, and in every location someone has lived-slept in my life-print once I moved. Exceptions are few: I did not overlap anyone's 4th dimension in 1972, because my parents built that home, and the Quonset hut in which I slept from January to May of 1983 (green smudge under my parent's old house) has been torn down.

Although I limited my shots to locations where I slept for more than 3 months, obviously I could broaden my scope and increase my footprint-shots exponentially, by including sites/locations/hotels where I resided for shorter periods. My memory would be the only limiting factor. When I was three, where was that little pink house we lived in? When I was training in the California desert for 30 days (at Ft. Irwin) where did we set up camp?

I shall stay the way I am
because I do not give a damn. — Dorothy Parker

My Ten Favorite Films of the Last Decade

Everyone has their own favorites and nobody shares the same ten (and what a borin place it'd be if t'were). I hope to "discover" some I've missed by sculpting my list now (with the world ending on 21 Dec 2012 — I guess this December 21st is the last day of the 00h's — and it's not too much of a strain to suspect that no films coming out in the next month-and-a-half will be good enough to alter this list...even though I'd love that to be wrong).

To make it easier yet more complicated on myself, I picked ten categories (omitting documentary and some others), then broadened the scope to include films from all over the world, and then re-narrowed it, to insure there were not too many films from any one year.

Mystery — Memento (2000) [runner-up: Donnie Darko, 2001]
Teen — Almost Famous (2000) [runner-up: Superbad, 2007]
Musical — Hedwig and the Angry Inch (2001) [runner-up: Across The Universe, 2007]
Romantic Comedy — Amélie (2001) [runner-up: High Fidelity, 2000]
Suspense/Thriller — Oldboy (2003) [runner-up: Sin City, 2005]
Action/Adventure — Kill Bill (03 & 04) [runner-up: Hero, 2004]
Drama/Crime — Brick (2005) [runner-up: O Brother Where Art Thou?, 2000]
SF/Fantasy — Children of Men (2007) [runner-up: Minority Report, 2002]
Horror/Monster — Let the Right One In (2008) [runner-up: The Host, 2006]
Animation/Animé — Up (2009) [runner-up: Metropolis, 2001]

Authors and actors and artists and such, never know nothing, and never know much. — Dorothy Parker

These pretzels previews are makin me thirsty

I've previously discussed my desire for an ability to discern good-bad-or-ugly films from their previews. Last month, I compiled an "after seen" list (of the large quantity of suck's which sucked-me-in to their suckage so far this year), as well as the small few gems I correctly identified. My average is less than 25% for 2009.

Either preview makers are getting better at their craft, or I'm getting worse at identifying shite from shineola in my declining years. In an attempt to learn which is the case, I've decided to take a slightly different tack (as in the path a sailing vessel takes when utilizing wind and sail - or, better - tac: the abbreviated verbiage for tactic?)

I recently watched dozens of previews and these are the ones which currently have me more than 50% convinced to pay theater-ticket prices to watch their upcoming product.

You can click on each poster-pic to view an IMDB trailer.


Fantastic Mr Fox (25 November)
Thoughts: A unique stop-motion visual with lots of Wes Anderson's "regulars" voices. The script may not be all that funny. Wes missed last time out, so may be off his game (Darjeeling Unltd. sucked).
Chance I'll pay $10 to see: 60% (18 Dec: GOOD!)


The Crazies (February 2010)
Thoughts: A remake of a not-so-good George A. Romero movie. Their use of a snippet of the song Mad World works perfectly. An-Nuther zombie film? I may be more sucked in, if the last minute of the trailer didn't reveal so much second act information.
Chance I'll pay $10 to see: 70%


The Men Who Stare at Goats (6 November)
Thoughts: This looks like a Coen Brothers Comedy - it's not - the director directed the Leatherheads suckage, and Goodnight and Good Luck. This all-star cast guarantees a quality acting product. I hope the remaining 90 minutes are as funny.
Chance I'll pay $10 to see: 90%
(7 Nov update: Not as funny as I hoped; ragged script; forgettably-average film)


The Fourth Kind (6 November)
Thoughts: This is the second scary movie to over-shoot Halloween weekend by seven days. An alien abduction film from the viewpoint of the PTSD-survivors. Milla Jovovich not kicking ass in a tight suit is a welcome change.
Chance I'll pay $10 to see: 60% (7 Nov update: less than 5% chance)


The Wolfman (February 2010)
Thoughts: Benicio Del Toro and Anthony Hopkins! The CG special effects look nice. What is it with this glut of scary films?
Chance I'll pay $10 to see: 75%



The Imaginarium Of Doctor Parnassus (25 December)
Thoughts: Depp, Ledger, & Law are the same character, Terry Gilliam directs, and the supporting cast is crunch-packed-to-the-point-of-leaking. Chance I'll pay $10 to see: 99%


Avatar (18 December)
Thoughts: Science Fiction and Fantasy and Military Action in one tootsie roll - with James Cameron directing... I sure hope he mixed Aliens, Terminator and Titanic successfully. Supporting cast has Sigourney Weaver, Giovanni Ribbisi, and Michelle Rodriguez.
Chance I'll pay $10 to see: 85%
(28 Dec update: Cowboy & indians; simple script and plot; above avg.)

Gentlemen Broncos (30 October)
Thoughts: This could be hilarious. This could seriously suck.
Chance I'll pay $10 to see: 50.0001%
(6 Nov update: terrible review downgrade. Current chance of paying $10 to see: 10%)


The Lovely Bones (January 2010)
Thoughts: Could be a bad mix of What Dreams May Come and The Invisible. Could be a good mix since Peter Jackson directs it. But when's the last time Marky-Mark acted in a good film? Maybe - 2006 - his small role in The Departed?
Chance I'll pay $10 to see: 55%


The Road (25 November)
Thoughts: Filmed in Oregon. Viggo Mortenson, Guy Pearce, Charlize Theron! I've been waiting for this to be distributed for over 18 months (when I first saw a teaser).

Chance I'll pay $10 to see: 95%
(4 Dec update: Stuck to the book too closely.  Mortenson mis-cast; OK)

... now I know the things I know, and do the things I do; and if you do not like me so, to hell — my love — with you! — Dorothy Parker (from her poem Indian Summer)

All That She Want...The Road Jack — Dub FX

I am inclined to think this man's ear/mouth-coordination work much-in-the-same-way as my eye/hand.

Into love and out again, thus I went, and thus I go.
Spare your voice, and hold your pen — well and bitterly I know...
all the songs were ever sung, all the words were ever said;
could it be, when I was young, someone dropped me on my head? — Dorothy Parker

Magnifico's Safer-Brand Tomato

Last month, I challenged Driz—who's amazing prose can be read at Ex Movere—to provide me with some imagery I could use to refract and distill a digital rendering of his love. He provided the following finely-woven tapestry, abstractions of image and form:

Looking through, looking past and into, a sideways glance, a shard and piece of the whole, half of a reflection, a tenth of soul and yet all too much substance, oppressive in her presence and demanding of my lips.
I feel like everything she tells me is a secret she’s decided to share, words I’ve earned, softly spoken, directly to my heart.
Wild acceptance, unending patience, friendly smiles, happy glances and giggles, girlishness and pride in and of it, sensuality of curve and curvature of senses, wild arcs in impossible directions and sly slopes of female in all of her form.
I feel like everything she does she does with grace, moving slowly as the world rips by at fantastic speeds, time itself bending to her beauty and pushed aside to make room for her divine soul.
Generous glee and softhearted insistence, pushing and penitent in her desires and drive; hesitant and anxious, self-conscious and self-conquered; well traveled and static; bright, loving, noble eyes.
I feel like every day starts where our last day ends, and the sun rises and sets with every sweet breath she drinks in.
God help us all if this love ever dies; she’s made with her love, this monster a monk.
And not in final, but with finality, to look upon her is to desire the memory of her the instant you see her; the very second eyes such as mine come to touch on her skin, I should never want of anything else again but to find that soft topaz glow in the darkness behind my eyes… I should become a defender of memory, guarding precious rocks and ore of the mind, crystal memories of only the best, and whole storehouses of past trinkets and the unprecious gems of my prior recall laid out with the trash to make good room and space for my new betters.
I am better for keeping my memories of her; all present(s) in her presence should be secondary to a burning and wild need to remember them. Men like me should see her and live in such unbelief of themselves at that moment, we should be human enough to fail at our understandings, and find ourselves scrambling about collecting temporal scraps of proof should doubt of her and our moment together ever enter our hearts.
She demands that I feel like she belongs only to me.
I demand then of myself that I rise, and deserve.

After absorbing the essay, I sparingly plied search engines with Driz's descriptive phrases (verbatim) and then crawled through the multitudinously-proffered images until successfully discovering all the materiel I needed for this piece.

I decided to compile the open-source images into this mosaic. Although it might be interesting to try and determine which phrase resulted in which picture (some are simple to see, others not so) I also thought it might be fun to try and de-re-construct the shattered kaleidoscope.


The completed digital rendering is titled Magnifico's Safer-Brand Tomato, for two reasons: because those words are an anagram of Driz's original title, and I think I was getting a little giggle-slap-happy-tired before I completed this rendering.


Art is a form of catharsis. — Dorothy Parker

Petting Rhymester

Summer makes me drowsy. Autumn makes me sing. Winter's pretty lousy, but I hate Spring. — Dorothy Parker (writer and poet, 1893-1967)

Lions and Fires and Fairs, Oh My

(five postcards from summer to you)

- Oh My
The people who run the 36-hole disc golf/picnic area/swimming hole/fishing pond/campground/music venue in the countryside, northwest of Portland, have more than a dozen guard peacocks roaming their grounds. I collected this one—for you—at the beginning of the Summer during a disc golf outing.

This (almost-extinct) type of Mom-n-Pop business leaves a handful of money in a bucket on their porch under a hand-scrawled list of prices, instructing you to: make your own change. Of the many signs in both English and Spanish, one was in Spanish only. I asked my paramour to translate it and she replied, "It warns about the penalties for catching fish and not paying for them."

Oh my Mom-n-Pop...there's a reason you're goin extinct.

- LionsI will not beat them in a dimly lit cave, I will not beat them crowded on a rock, I will not beat them if depraved, I will not beat them even to shock.

The chiaroscuro quality from my camera phone, rendered what would have been a mundane snapshot of sea lions in a cave worthy of presentation.

- The Fair
I captured a rare public display of the popular-in-a-previous-century, African-American headdress, being worn by a bald member of the Caucasoid race. In other words: a bald red neck cracker wearing a blue doo-rag. Because he also wore a white t-shirt with torn-off sleeves exposing racist tattoos, and four of his friends and family members were wearing at least one item of camouflaged clothing, I feel confident about my classification.

Please note: This is not an accidentally blurry photograph. I took this after four hours at the state fair err... really it was the Oregon Brewers Festival...and successfully captured what my eyes were seeing at that time.

- Fires
We went to Crater Lake and it was as snapshot-pretty as you'd expect (*oohh aahhh so bluuue*). As we were leaving the National Park surrounding the lake, a rather vaguely written portable electronic sign along the side of the highway flashed: FOST FIRE BX MM 39/44 H138. No mention of a closed road. So, about fifty miles later (with the smell of smoke gradually increasing) we were slowed by traffic cones when the two-lanes narrowed to one in several spots because of an adjacent fire.

Taking a picture of a forest fire—as one drives passed it, in a car—is something most people, in the US, don't get to do (I know in some countries, like Australia, it's more commonplace).

- Non-conformity rocks!
On a beach with a half-mile of smooth gray, varying from torso- to Lima-bean-sized, (stacked over twenty feet deep) I fell in love with a white palm-sized skipping stone.

Towering genius disdains a beaten path. It seeks regions hitherto unexplored. — Abraham Lincoln

In defense of . . .

Profiling. It's something every police officer does; all the time, every day.  Every effective police officer becomes an efficient profiler.   But, the definition of profiling has been twisted-into and confused-with that of:  prejudicial behavior (by lawyers and their ilk) making it necessary for those efficient members of law enforcement to add to their repertoire:  perjurer (which "adds insult to injury," compounding the negativity).  Profiling was (and still is) the best way to get the job done, it's just that now, police officers need to lie in court when they do it.

Black-marketing is an economic crime, which is enforced by US military law enforcement officials in some oversea locations.  Twenty years ago, I worked as a Military Police black market investigator in South Korea.

At that time, the 27" Sony Trinitron television was one of the more highly black-marketed items.  It could be purchased by US soldiers for about $550.00 in on-post stores but was available in South Korean stores for approximately $950.00 (because the South Korean government considered high-end Japanese electronics 'luxury items').

If Private Dingleberry wanted to make some extra money, he could buy a Trinitron and sell it to Mister Kim for $750.  Mr Kim saved $200, so he was happy.   PVT Dingleberry made $200 in an afternoon, so he was happy.   But the South Korean government lost $400 in taxes.  Put simply: black-market enforcement was, and still is—tax enforcement.

A black-market investigator accomplishes the same thing as a highway patrol speed-enforcement officer. You can't (and aren't intended to) catch all; but, by occasionally catching a few (and by maintaining a visible presence) others will slow down out of fear of being caught.  Or—in the case of black-marketing—the government won't lose as much, in luxury taxes, if soldiers fear being caught.

So.   Put yourself in my 1989 shoes.   How do you catch someone who is legitimately allowed to purchase items but is not permitted to sell them to Koreans?

Go to the store and follow every person who buys an item that is wanted on the black-market until they either:  carry it into their house/barracks, or deliver it to a Korean?

— or —

Conduct research to determine what type of person is normally targeted by the Korean black-marketeers.  And then identify a "profile" of the typical person who becomes involved with black-marketeers.

As you may suspect, it was waaay beyond futile to attempt to follow every purchaser of every item found on the black-market.  And...no matter what...conducting month upon month of daily surveillance in stores is chrysanthemum-on-a-pogostick-amazingly-boring.  The solution was (yes, you guessed it) profiling.

I learned:

Black-marketeers, logically, targeted young risk-taker-type soldiers who wanted more money than they earned.  That turned out to be: (84% of the time) 18-25 year old male Privates, Corporals, and Sergeants; (14% of the time) Korean wives; and (2% of the time) someone who did not fit the profile.

$500 (in late-1980s dollars) was almost a full months pay for a Private; about half months pay for a Corporal; but less than a weeks pay for an Lieutenant or a Captain.

Many officers could afford (and were permitted to own) their own car.  Privates and Sergeants took taxis.

It became possible for me to identify a persons pay-grade...even when they were not in uniform...just by looking at their demeanor, their tattoos, their clothing, (especially shoes and shirts) their haircut, and their friends.   It normally took less than ten seconds.

I could watch a person purchasing an item (say a Korean-made, Samsung VCR, because it wasn't just Trinitrons) and, in under a minute, I could identify if he was going to become a black-marketer.

Some of the indicators I watched for were:

Purchase speed - A black-marketer, sent to purchase a specific item, didn't "shop".  He just went to the counter and said he wanted to buy a model 1099SD Samsung VCR.

Reference material - Since a black-marketer was sent to buy a specific item, he may have written it down or refer to a piece of paper in a Korean's handwriting...very distinct.

Payment type - Black-marketing soldiers were, many times, fronted the cash to make the purchases by the Korean black-marketeers, and - if so - that cash was, normally, all twenties.  However, most soldiers made routine "honest" purchases with a check or credit card.

I still ended up following the occasional person who "fit the profile," but didn't sell the item to a Black-marketeer.  But, mostly, the people I chose to follow would attempt to sell the item to a Korean.  Once they attempted to sell (or sold) the item(s), I'd arrest the soldier, and seize the item, and identify the Korean(s), if possible.

THE RUB:  When asked by a defense attorney, "Mister Glines, when and how did you identify my client as a person engaged in the illegal transfer of duty free goods to a foreign national?"  I had to lie.  Always.

"Sir, I was conducting surveillance on Saturday, the 13th of November, at 1930 hours, on a known Korean black-marketeer, whom I only know by a nickname:  "Donkey."  I noticed your client arrive near Donkey's location with a delivery truck containing an eight point four cubic foot refrigerator.   The refrigerator box bore only words in English.  Your client was obviously an American soldier.  I identified myself as a Military Police officer and asked your client if he lived here.  At which time, he admitted that he did not. I, then, detained him and seized the refrigerator."

If I told the truth:   "Sir, I watched a 19 year old man, dressed in ripped jeans, a Def Leppard T-shirt, and $10 Converse sneakers—which means he was a Private or, at best, a Corporal—walk directly to the appliance counter of the PX, refer to a scrap of paper, and tell the clerk he wanted a GE Frigidaire model number 8.4ED.  He then pulled a wad of over forty twenty dollar bills out of his front pocket to pay for it, which I knew was over a month-and-a-half pay, for him.  So, I followed him to the PX warehouse where he loaded it on a delivery truck.   Then I followed him to an off-post location in Seoul where I arrested him before he could unload the truck."

He'd have said:  "What was your probable cause to begin surveillance and subsequently stop and question my client?"

And I'd have had to reply:  "He looked too young and too poor to afford a refrigerator that shits ice cubes and pisses ice water out the front."

The judge would have ruled that I had no probable cause and thrown that case (and every case) out, because appearing too young and too poor are prejudicial words.

The number one reason I left law enforcement, as soon as I was eligible to retire, was:  I was tired of being forced to constantly lie to make my living.

It is said an Eastern monarch once charged his wise men to invent him a sentence to be ever in view, and which should be true and appropriate in all times and situations.  They presented him the words:  'And this, too, shall pass away.'  How much it expresses!  How chastening in the hour of pride!  How consoling in the depths of affliction! — Abraham Lincoln

Trailers For Sale or Rent

Being a phrequent-pheckin-philm-o-phile, it will come as no surprise that I want the power to determine (accurately and 100% of the time) whether a philm is going to be good, bad, or ugly—just from viewing its trailer. Please take note, dear all-powerful-genie, and grant me this straightforwardly (with no bizarre side-effects, which habitually befall those who've oft been granted greed-based desires*) thank you.

Too many of the philms I watched this summer (because their trailers successfully accomplished what they were designed for) were phalures. I bemoan the money I spent to see: 9, which is the phirst to mind, because the animation was wonderful, but it was the only good; the script was bad and the plot ugly. Cold Souls was a miserable pile of shite (Paul Giamatti was his usual good, everything else was mambo-ugly). Adam was phorgettably bland with a heaping side of unmemorable. 500 Days of Summer was unphortunately mediocre (since I, usually, love both Joseph G.-L. and Zooey D.). And X-Men Origins: Wolverine was jam-pack phull of banality.

Of course there were those I knew ahead of time were going to only deliver phair-to-middling entertainment, and they lived up to those expectations: Adventureland; Drag Me To Hell; Observe and Report; Land of the Lost and Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince. Although I don't regret spending the money to see them, I feel slightly guilty recalling my pre-awareness of their empty calories.

Some philms, which may have attracted my phunds (directed-by/acted-in by someone I like, or contained a story/plot-type I normally enjoy) but—because their trailers made me suspect bad-to-ugly—I did not see were: The Time Travelers Wife; Brüno; The Brothers Bloom; Terminator Salvation; Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen; Angels & Demons; and Ice Age: Dawn of the Dinosaurs. I still don't regret not seeing these.

There were a few I chose not to see, but suspect were good—alas, their trailers phailed to hook me: Thirst; In the Loop; Tetro; Ponyo; Battle for Terra; and Rudo y Cursi. I will put these on my see-on-dvd list.

And then there were the good few: Inglorious Basterds; Departures; Moon; Is Anybody There?; The Hurt Locker; and the four I mentioned here.

*As In: Mirror mirror on the door, make my dick touch the floor ... and his legs fell off.

These capitalists generally act harmoniously, and in concert, to fleece the people. — Abraham Lincoln (Not referring to the makers of film-trailers, only because films were, as yet, uninvented.)

The World Is Supposed To End Anyway

How many legs does a dog have if you call the tail a leg? Four. Calling a tail a leg doesn't make it a leg. — Abraham Lincoln

Certifiably Orbital

That 1 Guy - Mustaches

I'm a slow walker, but I never walk back. — Abraham Lincoln

Hiking Housecats Batman!

Last week, a couple bikers and compatriots-on-the-path complimented me on my hiking cat.  They asked: How do you keep him with you? - and - What does he do when he meets dogs on the trail?

So, here's a brief "how-to" about hiking house-cats.

I've hiked with a cat for seven-and-a-half years.  My first hiking cat, a fox-point Siamese named Gus, hiked for six years—through forest, desert, meadow, and trail—in both Arizona and Utah.  I, briefly, hiked with a black-on-white kitten named Powell before he died of FIP.  And now, Cecil O. Zonkey, a lynx-point Siamese, hikes with me.  We have another cat in my household, an all-gray female named Aggie; she also hikes, (but is reluctant to cover much terrain).

The first step in determining if you can successfully hike with your house-cat is to quantify the amount of attached-to-you he has in him.  A way to measure this (without going on a preliminary hike) is ask, does your cat:

• come when called?
• display interest in what you are doing, especially when it's something new?
• follow you when you walk around the house?
• enjoy human proximity (sleep at your feet / in your chair / your lap)?

The ASPCA has a survey, to place your cat within a nine-category personality matrix, which they call Feline-ality.  This test ranks cat's socialization and energy levels.  I think the top five "most social/most energy" felines may have what it takes to become good hikers.   On the other paw: aloof cats, very lazy cats, or those who are overly timid or easily frightened will become poor-to-terrible hikers.

I think indoor-only, neutered, males who have strongly imprinted on—and are possessive of—their owners, make the best hikers.  Outdoor cats may follow you for a walk, but they are not only dis-inclined to leave "their territory" but will quickly rely on instinctual survival skills, rather than you, in a crisis (which means they will run far away when a dog shows up to your hiking party).

Once you've determined your house-cat has enough attached-to-you in him, you'll need to [1] obtain and compile some specialized hiking gear and [2] find a good location to take your first test-hike (which may mean scouting it out, without your cat, ahead of time).  Obtain these items:

• pet backpack
• bottle of water
• small container of cat food
• hiking staff or walking stick
• brightly colored cat-collar
• large towel
• training "clicker" or whistle
• small flashlight
• optional safety items (map, compass, cellphone, first aid pack, etc.)

Place the towel at the bottom of the backpack. Put the water and food in a pocket of the pack or under the towel.  Insure the cat collar has a break-away snap and your phone number written inside; put it on when you start each hike and take it off when finished—your cat will learn to associate this collar with hiking and know when you're finished by its removal.

The reason you need a hiking staff is not about: balancing on uneven terrain, removing spiderwebs from your path, poking into hollows (for snakes) before your cat does, or having something to waive over your head if you need to appear larger to a predator (all valuable, sound, reasons to have a walking-staff between shoulder and head high).  It's more about appearance.  Walking with a staff signals: hiker.  Your cat will associate your use of it with "hiking-time" and he will quickly learn that a hike—different from a rambling walk or stroll—is reasonably-paced, mostly trail-based, and that navigation is decided by you.

For your first house-cat hike, locate a place with as many of the following as possible:

• dirt or sand trails (cats will naturally stick to a trail, but gravel can hurt paws)
• mostly shady (or pick an overcast day)
• nothing man-made nearby (no cars, tents, campfire pits, etc.)
• no roads with vehicle-traffic within 200 meters (carry your pet in the pack until then)
• a low pedestrian-traffic area (the less other hikers and dogs the better)
• moderate temperature and weather (not raining, not too hot or cold)
• a long, clear, distance of visibility is best (to see other hikers coming)
  

Plan on your first hike being a slow one, of no more than 1/2 mile to 1 mile (but he may surprise you with the energy to hike longer).  Your cat will need to get used to the new smells and sounds, and will need to be corrected (when he heads the wrong direction) by carrying him until he sees the direction you want to walk.

Be attentive to what your cat hears or smells; pick him up and/or put him in the backpack if you: suspect another animal is close, get too near to dwellings or roads, or your cat begins to display a belligerent I-don't-want-to-walk-in-that-direction streak.

Occasionally use the 'clicker' or whistle to get, and maintain, his attention (not to get him to come to you) there may come a time when you lose sight of each other (more-so as trust builds) and then a loud, familiar, noise will tell him where to find you.

The flashlight may never be needed, but it's better to be prepared.  At least once a hike: lay out the towel and teach him that when the towel is down and you're sitting he is not to explore beyond a comfortable distance (25 feet/8 meters or closer, depending on terrain and visibility).  As with anything, the more hikes you take together, the more comfortable/familiar you will become with communicating with each other, and the more challenges you can attempt together.

The answers to the questions from the beginning of this article: He stays with me because he's been trained to follow me on the path.  When dogs approach I pick him up.

Always bear in mind that your own resolution to succeed is more important than any other one thing. — Abraham Lincoln (President of America 1861-1865)