The Decade's Best Horror Films

Spanning the sub-genres of monster, boogie man, vampire, slasher, and zombie—these are my ten-best horror films of the 2000's. (Actually, they are all monster films, aren't they?)

What for you bury me in the cold, cold ground? — The Tasmanian Devil

The Decade's Best Animated Films

Covering the techniques stop-motion, rotoscoping, traditional, and CGI—these are my ten-best animated films of the 2000's.  The film genres represented are:  Fantasy, Superhero, SF, Documentary, Action/Adventure, Mystery, and Comedy.

We cartoon characters can have a wonderful life if we only take advantage of it. — Heckle (or Jeckle)

gameboard

                                                1. Begin in the proximity of the birth square.
                                                2. Move according to the pips on your die.
                                                3. Avoid as many bad spaces as possible.
                                                4. Stop when you land on a death spot.

— Pogo Possum

 

evaluate the artist by comparing this 2010 artwork to:

2021 January artwork

2021 March artwork

 

Zonk Won't Hike Frozen Ground

I gotta have a bird! I'm weak, but I don't care! I can't help it! After all, I am a pus-thy cat. — Sylvester the cat

Byzantine Bullshit

I slowed my pace from march to stroll about a half-block from the Washington Square train stop because the status board read Blue Line to Hillsboro 9 min.  Downshifting from stroll to meander, I began listening to the-already-waiting’s conversations.  I paused near three college-age girls.

“...to fuck on Saturday and I’s like, ‘He is so fetch.  Maybe I should, you know?’ But then, I dunno.”

I meandered on when I didn’t hear the obligatory reply: ‘Gretchen stop trying to make fetch happen it's not going to happen.’  I’m not bothered by cute people's colloquial use of fuck, or even their inane overuse of like—but mishandle fetch and I decline to participate...even as a skulking eavesdropper.

“...only that’s never sufficient is it?  Always needs the next.  The brightest.  The mostest.  You’ve heard of champagne taste but beer budget?  Well, chauffeur taste and bus budget is how I...”

He could have been using the almost invisible Bluetooth, (and I’m not adverse to listening-in on one end of a wireless conversation; I sometimes get myself giggling imagining the other half) but this grimy guy didn’t have the posture or the requisite disconnect with the other members of the train stop to be loud-talking on a phone.  I think he was preaching to himself about himself.  I shuffled my feet along the sidewalk and—even though I had my sunglasses on—I became conscious of where my face was pointed and insured it remained away from him.

“...too early in the damn morning for that byzantine bullshit.”

Whoa, this could be a good one.  Two tallish scruffs of indeterminable age—taking up waaay more space than their backpacks and hats-worn-askance should be able to fill—would, normally, never catch my ear.  But byzantine bullshit?  That’s a keeper.

I climbed the steps of the westbound Max-train behind them and stood in the isle near them.

“Tell me Scrait...do parasites like dat qualify for your program?”

“Naw.  Dude’s a mosquito.  No sense in swatting em when you can use repellant.”

“Mosquito hover round me...try to land (snap—I hear the sharp sound of a finger-click) I mash it, even if I am wearin Deet.”

“Deet?  You wear you some Deet?”  (This was spoken through a big smile.)

“Fuckyou....whatchou wear?”  (Also, through a smile.)

“It’s an anology.”

“For reals?  Here my dumb ass was thinkin it was a metaphor all dis time.  Glad you here to set me scrait.”

Up to this point I’d thought scrait was the name of the one who used byzantine in a sentence.  We all shuffled as seats emptied.  Byzantine and Scrait ended up in a bench behind me as I took an isle seat next to a gray pantsuit with a gold duffle-purse too big for her body-frame.

“A metaphor is a type of analogy; a sub-set.” replied Byzantine.

Scrait said, “I was bein ironic....which is a type of sarcasm...a sub-set.”

The soft sound of clothing-against-clothing punctuated their snickers, and I imagined the exchange of elbow-nudges.  I had hopes of gleaning more about Byzantine’s program, which (I assumed) Scrait had brought up after Grimy-bus-budget-guy asked one or both of them for money, but their conversation had travelled too far from the Washington Park train stop and I suspected I’d never hear more.

Just before I stood for my stop, Scrait asked, “So... what kinda insect qualifies?”

After such a lengthy pause I was afraid I wouldn't hear Byzantine's answer before I got off—he said, with his face toward the window so his voice sounded much lower than it really was, “brown recluses and black widows.”

As I walked to my car, I wondered if he was still speaking metaphorically.

(...) — The Pink Panther

Santa and Easter Bunny

Everybody was a baby once, Arthur.   Oh, sure—maybe not today or even yesterday—but once.   Babies, chum:  tiny, dimpled, fleshy mirrors of our us-ness, that parents hurl into the future, like leathery footballs of hope.   And you've got to get a good spiral on that baby or evil will make an interception. — The Tick

Sneaky Low-Down Persistent Ellipses

I'm a bit slightly amazed at the Chinese.  Not all 1.3+ Billion, just the one-too-many who wants to put their ad-porn-link in my comments—and not be immediately introduced to.  Her most recent ploy, (I choose to imagine a woman whose every feature conjures the word pert) is to use some innocuous cliché followed by dot dot dot times five...with each dot a link to their site.

Yesterday's post was blessed by: A bird in hand is worth two in the bush................

I chose, rather than resort to Captchas, to create.  Thanks pertness!

There are three things in life that people like to stare at: a flowing stream, a crackling fire and a Zamboni clearing the ice. — Charlie Brown

Mixed Meta For Stewed Mackerel

In criminal investigation, sometimes you tackle the guy, sometimes you swing-and-miss, and—once-in-a-clue-loon—the guy takes a high dive (when it should've been obvious there's no diving in ice fishing).  This was one of those times.  I recall the strange details of this case as if they unfolded yesterday instead of over a decade ago.  I feel slightly guilty (still) about the dreadful outcome.  It also still makes me giggle a little bit.

1:  While badger hunting, we are gifted with a mackerel stew recipe.

I had three on-the-job-trainee interns: Hughie, Dewy, and Louie.  I tasked Hughie with locating a suspect, Mr Ecks, who did not want to be found.  After two days of flailing, Hughie said he didn't think it was possible to locate Mr Ecks's address without a warrant.

"We can't get a warrant without probable cause, Hughie.  You have to find him first.  Then we talk to him."  I said.

"Everyone I called told me either they didn't have any information on him, or that I needed a warrant before they could give me his information.  I'm no good at this."  He said.

I looked over the agencies he'd contacted.  The local cable provider was the least significant company on his list who said they needed a warrant.  I said, "Call the cable company back.  Ask for the same lady you spoke with the first time.  Once you get her on the phone, explain everything to her.  One hundred percent truth.  Tell her what you know he did and why you know it; also tell her how this suspicion isn't enough for a judge to grant a warrant.  Tell her all you need is his address.  That this guy is going to get away with it if someone doesn't help us catch him.  If she sticks to the warrant-bit, give her your name and number and ask her to call you if she changes her mind and thank her.  Be overly nice to her.  It can't hurt."

An hour later he came back to my office.  "She says if we go down there and show her a badge, she'll give us Mr Ecks's address."

"All that time on the phone!  What the fuck Hughie?  Are you goin steady with her yet?"

"Very funny.  Actually, she and I kinda hit it off and she ... well, she had this complaint.  Kind-of.  Mostly, she wants it to be anonymous cause she's scared as greased hell that the info will point back at her.  But if what she says is real, I think she just gave us a pretty big economic crime case."

As we drove downtown to show her my badge, Hughie explained how, before her divorce, Mrs Cable was the sole bookkeeper for her ex-husband's business.  Mr Cable's company installed large overhead, hinged, and sliding garage doors.  For the last four or five years Mr Cable met about every month or two with Mr Mackerel, who provided assistance in obtaining government contracts.  Although Mrs Cable suspected Mr Cable paid his friend for the inside information, she never witnessed any actual graft.

2.  I compile the stew ingredients.

To provide a smoke-screen, over a period of a few weeks I "conducted a review" of hundreds of various government contracts:  plumbing, electrical, new construction, old construction-repair, siding, windows, roofing, and garage doors.  I learned Mr Cable's company had been awarded 92.5% of all the garage door contracts on the military installation; 37 of 40 in the prior 4½ years.

One person was responsible for representing the government in these contracts: Mr Mackerel.

4¾ years earlier, Mr Mackerel had been promoted to the contracting position.

These contracts were required to be open to the lowest bidder.  The bidding process was always conducted with sealed envelopes.  Between two and five other contracting companies routinely bid.  Mr Cable's bid was the lowest by $10 to $50 on all but three contracts. 

3.  I put the ingredients I found in a pot.

I called Mr Cable and asked him to come to my office.  The day he came for his interview, I sent Dewey and Lewie to go pick-up Mr Mackerel from his office.  I advised both Cable and Mackerel—separately—of their legal rights for the crimes of:  Conspiracy to Commit Fraud, Graft, Theft of Government Funds in Excess of $100,000.00, False Official Statements, and Bribery.

Neither of them said anything incriminating.  Both claimed they only knew each other professionally.

I did not interrogate either of them.

I told Mr Cable that I didn't need a confession because I had a source who'd already provided all the information I needed, and concluded with, "...on the basis of that information, a judge will undoubtedly find you guilty.  And—from my experience with white-collar crimes of this nature—you can look forward to a huge fine, being banned from all government contracts for 3 to 5 years, and probably probation."  I then told Dewy to take his mug-shots and fingerprints.

I told Mr Mackerel that I didn't need a confession because I had a source who'd already provided all the information I needed, and concluded with, "...on the basis of that information, a judge will undoubtedly find you guilty.  And—from my experience with white-collar crimes of this nature—you can look forward to a huge fine, losing your job, being banned from all future government employment and pension, and probably probation."  I then told Louie to take his mug-shots and fingerprints.

4.  I turn on the heat and stir.

Hughie was sent to interview some government co-workers of Mr Mackerel:  Mr Ahe, Miss Bee, Mr Cee and Mrs Dee.

Louie was sent to interview a handful of construction employees of Mr Cable:  Mr Eff, Mr Gee, Mr Ache and Mr Eye.

Dewy was sent to interview other owners of garage door installation companies:   Mr Jay, Mr Kay and Mr Elle.

They were given a small list of questions to ask, like:  Did you ever see Mr Cable and Mr Mackerel together outside of a professional setting?  Did either Cable or Mackerel ever confide their fraudulent activities to you or anyone you know?  None of the interviewees provided any information.

I met with the Director of Contracting.  I briefed him on the facts of the case and recommended that he remove Mackerel from all duties involving contracts.  He concurred, immediately suspended Mackerel and turned him into a high-paid receptionist.

5.  I put a lid on the pot.

Mrs Cable called me.

"You are going to get me killed!" She said, "My ex was just here and he is going ape-poop-crazy.  He accused me of turning them in and told me that if he finds out I turned him in he would kill me an bury me in the woods where nobody would ever find me!  You said they would never know it was me.  But I told you they would suspect me and now look, I don't know..."

"Mrs Cable.  MRS CABLE!  Calm down.  Caaaalmmm dooowwwnn."

"Okay, sorry."

"What did you tell him?"

"I told him it wasn't me.  That I had no reason to turn him in.  I told him that we'd been divorced for over a year, so why would I turn him in now?  Which did calm him a bit; but then he just got more worked up and he pointed outside at a dark sedan and said they were following him.  Are you following him everywhere?"

"No. No, we don't have any reason to conduct surveillance on him.  But I'm glad he's upset.  That's a good thing.  If he gets in touch with you again, just continue to deny, okay?"

6.  The pot begins to boil. 

"Hello, Mrs Cable?"  I said, "Have you heard from your ex-husband since I spoke with you last week?"

"No."

"Good.  I want you to call him and tell him you just got a phone call from the cops.  That we asked to schedule an interview with you, but you told us that you couldn't until Saturday because of work.  Then I need you to convince him that you are in a panic, that you don't know what to say or do.  That you need his help.  You need to convince him to come to your house on Saturday before noon and wait in the next room when we come to interview you at 1230.  We'll act like it's the first time we've spoken; we'll ask all about your work as the company bookkeeper. . . you'll deny any knowledge.  He'll overhear.  Can you do it?"

7.  I take the lid off the pot.

"How did everything go?"  I asked Mrs Cable.

"Fantastic.  He coached me on how to act and what to say.  Then when your guys left he came out and I could see immediately that he no longer suspected me.  He thought of me, more, as a co-conspirator at that point."

"So you don't feel in danger any more?"

"Nope.  Not at all."

8.  Mackerel stew is served.

"Special Agent Glines?"

"Speaking."

"This is Lieutenant Colombo from the Downtown Police Department.  I've got a guy who confessed to shooting and killing your confidential informant in a case you're investigating where ... ummm, he ... they ... were doing some kind of contracting fraud?"

"Ahhh... umm, this is the first I've heard.  I ... I'm ... sorry lieutenant—yes, I have an investigation of that nature.  Who is the suspect?  Can you tell me the name of the man who confessed to the shooting?"

"Yes, it's a Mister Mackerel.  He says the guy he killed last night, around 2am, was your informant and I..."

"Is he sitting within earshot?"

"No.  He's in another office."

"Well I can tell you he didn't murder my informant, because my informant is not a he.  Obviously, Mackerel can't learn about this."

"Right."

"What was the name of the victim?"  I asked.

"Ahhh....Mister Gee.  He was a sub-contractor of his friend's, a Mr Cable.  Mr Gee supposedly worked with them installing doors and, supposedly, knew all about their under-the-table stuff.  Mackerel said he followed Gee to a Waffle House after a night of drinking and as Gee exited the restaurant Mackerel pointed a .22 caliber pistol at him, threatened him, and then shot him four times.  Mr Gee was dead at the scene."

Leave us not jump to seclusions. — Popeye the Sailor

2009 Charted

I would never let a woman kick my ass. If she tried something, I'd be like, HEY! You get your bitch ass back in the kitchen and make me some pie! — Eric Cartman

4 minutes of Art (x 2)

And now, here's something we hope you'll really like! — Rocket "Rocky" J. Squirrel

Oscar for Best Supporting:

Do you recall how good The Dark Knight was...with Heath Ledger's Joker?  That level of rare disturbingly-wondrous performance is, this year, Mo'Nique in Precious.  The film has a well written script, fine acting, and good pacing—however—Mo'Nique's performance, as the noxiously vile woman who gave birth to Precious, is beyond amazing and turns an otherwise good film into a fantastic one.

Sanitized violence in movies has been accepted for years. What seems to upset everybody now is the showing of the consequences of violence. — Stanley Kubrick

Naiveté Scene

You're an idealist, and I pity you as I would the village idiot. — Stanley Kubrick

The Decade's Best SF Films

Covering the sub-genres Apocalyptic, Military, Social, Time Travel, and Space Western—through those of Hard and Soft SF, as well as Cyberpunk and Steampunk—these are my ten-best SF films of the 2000's.  For clarity-of-list purposes:  Fantasy, Superhero, Animation, and Horror were considered stand-alone genres.

I keep seeing lousy films and saying to myself, 'I don't know anything about movie-making, but I couldn't do any worse than this'. — Stanley Kubrick

My E.M. Crumpler Interview

Elizabeth M. Crumpler—a 25-year-old, Sarah Palin-lovin-republican, who recently lost two-stone and got married; and is a conservative-christian resident of Oklahoma, who owns a Scoodle—is my interviewee.  Neil from Citizen of the Month wrote this about his Great Interview Experiment: "...In my mind, I visualize a permanent interview site where ... a liberal would interview a conservative, and a religious fundamentalist would interview a feminist lesbian.   It wouldn’t matter if you liked or agreed with other person.  We would still be neighbors, in a Mister Rogers sense."  I think he was envisioning this:

Me:  When Oklahoma City is mentioned, most (of the citizens of the world) recall the Oklahoma City Bombing in April of 1995. You were 10½ years old at the time. Please describe your memories surrounding the incident, and how growing up with an act of hatred of this magnitude, on your doorstep, caused you to be the adult you are today.

EMC:  Some people say that they could hear the sound 50 miles away. I don't remember that clearly, but it's possible.

I was in Mrs. Keller's 4th grade class and sometime in the middle of the morning I do remember the tone changing. The administration had made the decision not to reveal what had happened to the elementary school children and to let our parents handle it when we got home.

My parents picked me and my 2 younger brothers up from school that day. Both of them, in Dad's work vehicle. I knew there was something wrong. On the way home, they explained that something very bad had happened in Oklahoma City and that a lot of people had died. At the time, our local evening news had a "family-friendly" broadcast at 5pm. It was the one we watched generally. Whenever the theme music played that evening and the anchors began speaking, the first thing they said was, "Tonight's broadcast will not be our regular family-friendly show. Please be advised that there will be a number of graphic images shown tonight." That stuck with me. They never had another "family-friendly" newscast.

I cannot say how it changed the adult I would become. Probably the same as those who were children or not yet born on 9/11. It just is. As a child at that time, my world was still faerie tales, tree-houses, and the books I had my nose stuck in. Living in the country, OKC was a different world. I think if I had lived in The City (as we call it here), The Bombing might have left lingering scars on me. The truth is that I'd experienced tragedy much closer to home just 2 years before, when a family member was murdered. I carry those scars. That changed me. Turned a mama's girl into a whimpering, crying mess because I was scared that if I left my home I would return to find her dead...like my family member that had been killed. I think I owe it to my parents that I made it past The Bombing without further damage. They were proactive in explaining things and taking us to the site before the implosion. Letting us see that it was real. Sometimes the things that you can see and touch are so much less frightening than the image you may create in your mind.

Me:  The decade’s end is fast approaching. I’d like your list of the ten best films made in the last ten years.

EMC:  This is very difficult for me. I don't watch a lot of new things. In no particular order:

• il Mare (Siworae)
• Jeux d'enfants (Love Me if You Dare)
• Away from Her
• Things You Can Tell Just By Looking At Her
• Ten Tiny Love Stories
• 13 Conversations About One Thing
• Nine Lives
• Dancer in the Dark
• About a Boy
• La vie en rose

Me:  You bought a new novel by an author you have never read before. You are on page 50 and firmly decide you absolutely do not enjoy the way this author writes. What do you do? If you decide to finish the remaining 250 pages, why? If you decide to stop reading, why? If there are variables (you may finish one author, but stop reading another) please explain the differences.

EMC:  If I feel I've been misled, then, yes, I'll toss the book. I think I may have done this once in the past. I have a very awful problem though. No matter how hard I try I can not seem to give up a book. If I am 50 pages in, I'm going to stick it out until the end.

Me:  I think 21 DEC 2012, will be a day no different than today (well, maybe colder). But what do you tell a fanatic who seems to continually bemoan the “pending apocalypse” and steers your every routine conversation in the direction of what the end of the world means to them and how it should be taken more seriously by you (assume this person is related to you close enough that stopping all communications is not an option)?

EMC:  Funny, I dealt with a situation not unlike this for about a year. I had a deskmate and she was a blathering idiot. Her obsessions varied from week to week, but I have no doubt that if we were still working together this would be making its way into conversation.

In a situation like this I ask for facts. What do you have to back up what you're telling me? I ask questions to try and understand where they are coming from and why they believe this. If there is no concrete basis for your worry, tell me why you believe it is real? Is there any way that this event can be stopped? Do you believe we should even try.

It may be boring, but I would probably let it go. Having dealt with the ramblings of the insane for lengthy periods, I've become adept at sitting back, taking a deep breath, and going to my happy place.

Me:  I’m an artist. Please look at some of my renderings, select one and explain any-and-all emotions, thoughts, or feelings it engenders—no matter good, bad, or ugly—I’m very interested in your opinion.

EMC:  Finate — Acceptance, newness, life, calm, embrace, welcoming, peace, nostalgia, need.

Me:  You and I share something in common: we are both the oldest of three. Tell me about how that biological-timing-fact made you into someone different than if you had been the middle sibling, or the youngest of the three.

EMC:  In both of my siblings I see how my parents had to approach them differently than they did me. I was incredibly independent. My spirit was quiet and even, I was imaginative and my speech was bubbly. I feel very lucky to have been born first and even more so that I was the only female. I will be the first to say that it earned me some preferential treatment in certain cases.

The bad thing was: I was the oldest and the only girl. I know, I just said I thought I was lucky. But there is something that comes with being the oldest. You are the first. They don't want to mess up. I felt like a guinea pig. Their default answer to anything I wanted to do was, "NO." Better safe than sorry, right? Being the only girl made it worse. I lived in a house full of men, outside of my mom, and there was this intense need to protect me. In some ways I appreciate it, but there are a lot of things I would have liked to do.

Being the oldest prepared me for life alone. My autonomy helped me make it through college at times when I thought I would just give it up. I always knew what I wanted, had established goals, and worked to achieve them on my own. However, it also instilled in me a need to be "the best" and constantly try to please others. Whenever someone seems just the least bit upset or unpleased with me, I freak out and try to fix it.

I think Nabokov may have had the right approach to interviews. He would only agree to write down the answers and then send them on to the interviewer who would then write the questions. — Stanley Kubrick

Life-Mission: Possible

          My parent's living room on Tanglewood Drive had two regular-size bedroom windows instead of a picture window.  When Mom closed the big curtain over the wall, I could pretend it covered a picture window (like every living room was supposed to have).  In the corner was a gray plastic Zenith black-and-white television with a gray plastic briefcase-handle on top.  It sat on a little, flimsy, aluminum, TV-cart.  The antenna, mounted on a forty-foot metal mast in our back yard, looked like an old-timey outdoor clothes line.

          When my sister and I played safe-cracker, I'd turn the volume knob down to where if turned any more it would shut off; then I'd set the top dial to "U" (between the 13 and the 2) and ratchet the bottom dial, cranking it around and through its hundreds of channels with my ear pressed to the “safe.” Whenever my peripheral-view caught some hint of reception breaking into the static, I'd whisper the next digit of the “combination” for her to write down.

          One day, Mom interrupted before I could get to the jewels.  She shouted from the kitchen, “What are you two doing?  Stop that, you’ll break it!  Go to your room until you can learn to take care of other people’s property as if it was your own.  Some day, after you decide what you are going to be when you grow up, you’ll have to buy a television with your own money and THEN you’ll appreciate it!”

          Sitting on my twin bed, watching my hamster—Spooky II—running on his little wire-metal wheel in his little wire-metal cage, I contemplated my punishment as she demanded: In the couple-hundred times I’d been in a room with a TV and a grown-up, channel U was never used and the bottom dial was never turned.  If I broke the dial pretending to be IMF Agent Jim Phelps from Mission: Impossible would anyone ever know?

          Sitting on my single bed, watching my hamster—Spooky V—jogging in his little plastic wheel-room attached to his extensive yellow plastic warren of tubes and compartments, I contemplated my young-adult life to date.  Three years and three drastically different college majors, from Pre-Veterinary Medicine (too stupid in science) to Landscape Architecture (stupid waste of tuition) to Architecture (too stupid in math).  I needed to re-aim my sights for a fourth time...what was I not too stupid for and was not a waste of my money?  What did I enjoy (besides watching Captain William “Buck” Rodgers of the 25th Century and his robot Twiki)?

          Sitting on my mattress, watching my first cat, Popcorn, trail around behind my new hamster, Spooky VI, as he rolled around on the floor of my studio apartment in his plastic ball, I contemplated my so-called preparation for life.  Two years of Fine Art school, on top of the three years that I was “measuring my stupid” and I was no more ready to earn a living than when I was watching Spooky in his wire cage!  The artistic kids on Fame were happy and scrappy in their leg-warmers and spiky hair. They didn’t need money, why did I?

          Sitting on my queen-bed, watching my first son, Bram, play with Popcorn on an area rug, I contemplated the life I found myself inhabiting.  A Private in the Army earned just enough to afford a microwave oven.  Mine had a dial which you turned to the number of minutes.  It “dinged” when it was done (just like the counter-bell at the dry cleaners where I had my uniforms extra starched).  Am I Wembley, on Fraggle Rock?  Shouldn’t I be more like Drillbit Dozer?

          Sitting on my bunk, watching a Betamax video of my two sons, Ian and Bram, play with my ex-wife/their mother in an unfamiliar backyard, I contemplated the selfish existence I was dragging around behind me like a rotting-shadow.  An Army Spec-Four earned enough to replace the microwave oven he lost in the divorce.  Now, mine had two dials: one for time, one for power.  But as far as I knew, if I broke the power dial (which never got turned from its 100% setting) while pretending to be the still safe-cracking but older Agent Jim Phelps on The New Mission: Impossible my roommate would never know.

          Sitting on my futon, looking out the open window at my cats, Budroe P. Wilson and Louie, playing on my next-door neighbor’s tile roof, I contemplated the resilient person I’d chosen to become: A Sergeant earned enough to replace the microwave oven that had been damaged in the move to Korea.  My new one had buttons and a LED information display window.  Occasionally, if my Korean wife used it (she thought they were dangerous) she’d exit the kitchen until it beeped.  It was rare.  That she left the kitchen, that is.  Johnny Carson—a familiar-constant in all my previous decades—is retiring.  His last show is tonight!  But that doesn’t mean much to you, does it?

          Sitting on my thrift-store-mattress, watching my new kittens—the brothers Spencer and Lloyd—grooming in the patch of sun at the foot of the bed, I contemplated 'resiliency' being just another word for wishy-washy.  A Staff Sergeant earned enough to buy a new microwave after giving the last one to his last-ex (who'd learned all about convenience).  My new ones had turntables and Probes—the microwave’s was a revolving tray and a heat-sensor; the wife’s was a Zenith record player and a Ford.  Hey, Mission: Impossible with Tom Cruise is on HBO tonight.  Wanna watch it together?

          Sitting on my sleigh-bed, watching my dog, Cody, and new cats—Lloyd, Missy, and Moe—all trying to draw some warmth from the electric blanket, I contemplated the dichotomy of my perceptions with my past performances.  A Warrant Officer earned enough to buy a new microwave if the old one was gifted to his step-daughter when she moved out.  My new space-efficient microwave attached under the counter.  Wait a minute...you don’t want to see Mission: Impossible II in the theater, because it means two hours without a cigarette?  When did this happen?

          Sitting on my air mattress, watching my Siamese cat, Gus, stalking a fly through my 5th wheel trailer, I contemplated the end of my career and third marriage, as well as the beginning of an old-new me.  A retired Chief Warrant Officer still could afford a new microwave to replace the broken one.  My new one was a combination convection-microwave with racks and scrolling data.  The built-in remote-controlled Zenith over my bed (the size of my first Spooky's metal cage) was playing an old Mission: Impossible on Cinemax 3 or Showtime Extreme.  I didn’t care.  Why didn’t I care?  Should I pretend to care?

          Sitting on my king-mattress, watching older and maybe not wiser Gus stalking our new cat, Aggie, I contemplated happiness.  This artist still received enough pension to buy another microwave when the one that came with our new apartment needed to be trashed because it smelled like ten years of grease and curry.  The new one was just as good as the one in my 5th wheel. Sure I’ll go see Mission: Impossible III with you tonight...even though we’re both positive it will suck balls, we don’t care.  We.  Don’t.  Care!

          Sitting on my Temperpedic, watching my new kitten, Cecil O. Zonky, and Aggie frolicking with each other up, over, under, and around the bed, I contemplated aging.  My girlfriend and I each have enough to be comfortable (love, money, time, common sense, history, patience).  The house we moved into didn’t have a microwave; so I got a cheap one (for less than a night at the movie theater) and installed it myself.  Hey, I hear they're going to make a Mission: Impossible IV in a few years.  You’ll go with me? Great, it’s a date.  Even though J.J. Abrams is doing it...do you think it’ll still suck balls?  Yea, me too.

          Did the day come?  Was it the day I was able to afford my first one...maybe it was the day that I appreciated the expense of replacing that-which shouldn't have needed replacement so many times...maybe it will be the day I decide what I'm going to be when I grow up.  May.  Be.  Never.
   
I've got a peculiar weakness for criminals and artists—neither takes life as it is.  Any tragic story has to be in conflict with things as they are. — Stanley Kubrick

Juana Molina

A film is—or should be—more like music than like fiction. It should be a progression of moods and feelings. The theme, what's behind the emotion, the meaning, all that comes later. — Stanley Kubrick

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.)