In another (failed) attempt to determine why no person I know (and especially no professionals) are capable of acting as my film umpire...I began—on the winter solstice of last year—to screen about one film a day and to rate every one I watched. Four months and more than 100 films later...I've learned that the five-star rating system doesn't work (and little else).
The Never Listen to a Jaw-less Critic Truism: Back when he could talk, Roger Ebert's "default" was solidly in the center, and he normally called them like he saw them. Now, his default is 'thumbs up.' It's as if every forgettable film gets a one-point bump because he's glad he still isn't dead. And then there are his inexcusable exceptions. He gave his lowest rating to 'Kick Ass' not because the film contained flawed editing or poor acting or a terrible script...but because he didn't find humor when an 11-year-old girl cussed and slaughtered baddies.
I entered a large, empty, quiet, pizza place I’d never been to before, read the menu, ordered, sat in a corner and—for the next twenty minutes—ate a salad from the salad bar, drank a liter of unfiltered wheat beer, listened to soft music and read my book. There were no other customers.This is not how people act after a miscommunication, although they are—like mistakes—common to everyone. We rarely empathize when someone else’s brain doesn’t send or receive the communication the way we wanted it sent or received. We always think our own brain is not at fault. When miscommunication roars its ugly maw in our face, one's first impulse is to defend our brain's portion of the communication: “That’s not what I said.” “That’s not what was meant.” “You didn’t say.” “You know what I mean when I say.” “I’m not a mind reader.”
The cook came out of the kitchen, placed a pizza box on the counter and said, “Number 86!”
I stood, walked to the counter, picked up the box, thanked the cook, declined additional spices and cheese, took the box back to my table, opened it, and looked at the pizza for all of ten seconds before I began eating a slice. In my defense—it was the correct size, smelled correct, and the toppings appeared to be of a texture, quantity, and color conforming to my order (simply put: there were no slices of pineapple, no odor of green peppers or red chilies, and it wasn’t cheese-only).
Out of a rift in the fabric of the universe (or maybe even the bathroom) a big fucker with gravel in his voice and forty-four years of beers poorly hidden under a 3XL shirt appeared at the counter and said, “I think you called my number a minute ago?”
Fuck. Me.
I profusely apologized and offered to buy him a beer. He accepted my apology, declined the beer, and waited 15 more minutes for my pizza. And, of course, neither of us will ever eat there again (imagine how many years it must take to get food when there are a hundred people on a Saturday night).
I sat and talked with a dozen friends, co-workers, and family members at Oktoberfest. Many of us were drinking unfiltered wheat beer and (as a group) it was decided we’d walk a circuit of the festival area to see the food booths as well as identify what types of music were being played and, once everyone returned to the table, we’d drink some more and come to a consensus on eats and music venue (at the time, that was the understanding my brain concluded had been decided for it).Every time I enter a location where becoming separated in the crowd is even remotely possible, I ask the question of all in attendance, “Where’s the rock?”
Twelve brains—even sober ones—can never make a decision and act as a unit, and within three minutes a couple wanted to stand in line to get some food, five minutes later someone else wanted to shop at the craft booths and her husband decided to sit and wait for her, ten minutes later and another couple wanted to stay in the polka tent. After less than an hour, the group was down to six.
As we walked past a tent with a band playing a cover of Prince’s 1999, I said, “This is the best tent because they’re playing Rock.” I was hoping to sway the rest of the group. (I thought I heard affirmative responses. I thought my wife agreed.)
As we strolled through a little, grassy, shaded, park-like area one of the last couples decided to go get food but (because they didn’t want to lose the group) asked if we would wait five minutes for them. We agreed. And then almost immediately the last two people disappeared and it was just my wife and I.
Five minutes became ten. We were sitting on a large boulder in the little park-area and we both needed to empty our bladders as well as refill our beer mugs. We stood up, began walking and I said, “None of them are coming back. Why don’t we go to the WC and after that...” At this point, she began to nod and our paths began to diverge as she turned toward the women's WC, so she looked at me over her shoulder as I completed the sentence (with a rise in my voice to insure I was heard over the festival volume): “ ...I’ll meet you at the Rock Tent.”
Over the next three hours I listened to music, purchased more beers, went to the WC a few more times, walked back to the original table twice, scanned the crowds on and off (admittedly, my care-factor decreased as my intoxication increased) but I never ran into my wife. Eventually I spoke with one of the other members of the group and he told me she was way beyond supernova angry in the little park-area.
“You goddamn fucking asshole!”
“Why are you waiting here? I’ve been looking for you for hours.”
“Because the last words out of your mouth were, I’ll meet you at the rock!”
“The Rock? I said, I’ll meet you at the Rock Tent. Why would we meet at this...?”
“I don’t fuckin know! I thought it was a stupid place, but that’s what you said!”
“But it wasn’t. I’ve been waiting for you in the Rock Tent.”
“You just said you’ve been looking for me for hours!”
“Yea, well. When you didn’t show up after enough time, I began looking for you...but I always returned back to the Rock Tent.”
For the last year my paramour has become quite a fantastic belly dancer as well as a pretty great choreographer of group/troupe dances. I've now entered the fray. Today, I began to learn how to accompany her on the doumbek drum. After she shared a new (to me) genre: middle-eastern influenced gypsy-electronica punk, we attended a concert by Balkan Beat Box, and this genre has grown on me like a transplanted Caribbean bamboo forest in a Turkish bathhouse (one fucked-up simile, that). I stumbled on this almost-hour example: Diaspora Electronica - Balkan Beats by Markabre (from the above soundcloud, track 4 [at the 7.25 mark] is best—but, isn't track 4 always best?) If you are able to sit still with any of these tracks at full-volume then...check your pulse, you might be dead. 
5½ years ago—
With a hat-tip and head-nod to Mary Whitsell and her Resident Alien post, A Case of Mistaken Identity...I share:
Evolution is the change in the inherited traits of organisms through successive generations. Anyone who wants to see proof of ongoing 'forced' human evolution should tune their television to any American Sports Network.
It's a safe bet you think kidnapping for the purpose of slavery is way more than just a reprehensible series of acts, and—even though there are about 27 million people still working unfree today—it's also a safe bet you think there should be no slavery anywhere in the world.
" ...please where can I buy a unicorn? " 
This was not just flippancy on my part—this was me saying "Marco!" About a buck three eighty was a term coined by a forgotten comedian-of-yesterday. When my friends and I wanted to imply something was cheap or worthless we would say it was "worth about a buck 3.80" (it rolled off our late '80s early '90s tongues in a funny ha-ha way). Twenty years ago it was a broadly-understood inside joke (like quoting some catchy phrase from Robot Chicken today). 
I chose not to introduce this comment to 
but, instead, to reply as if she were the unicorn-guy...so I wrote: " De Nada. I'm still lookin fer yer one horned horse. I'll get back to ya when I find one, kay? " 
Three days ago I wrote: " You unicorn hunters are definitely the loonies. And anonymous status guarantees that your opinion doesn't count. "Sneaky Low Down Persistant Ellipsis
I received an email from a good friend which contained the following giggle-ditty: ...the John Hughes montage from the Oscars last night made me feel all warm and nostalgic inside.
For every good film that came out of John Hughes's head, he wrote four absofuckinlutely terrible movies. He got by with a 15% good to 85% terrible ratio. And don't forget...he was so ashamed of the dreck he was generating towards the end, that he wrote under the pseudonym Edmond Dantes (and yes, I think he was trying to send a message of some sort by using the character's name from The Count of Monte Christo, but I don't care enough about him to hypothesize what that might've been).
Davecat, a long-term 
Man has communicated with himself in many ways. To name a few: Wax tablets (very etch-a-sketch meets twitter); papyrus (fantastic in the desert, but rots in the rain-forest); quipu (where messages were knotted and worn); and now—the new paradigm—digitally communicating with Squire.
As I was writing this Echo, I came up with a question which is related-in-a-abstruse-sort-of-way: How long will the world's governments continue to subsidize socialized communication? The postal service is being used less and less. Squire is being used more and more. Eventually (in as soon as ten years?) won't corporate shipping companies completely replace government postal services and if not, why not? When was the last time you wrote a letter with pen and paper? Will your children's children think of postage stamps the way we think of sealing wax? 
A video game for film lovers, Heavy Rain is a unique detective and revenge thriller that will keep you entertained for 12-15 hours the first time (I'm almost finished with my second go-round).
I have heard, and read, strong criticism about the unique character controls. I think it's important to understand that the uniqueness of the controls is crucial to enjoying the game. If the controls were simple or similar to other games the challenge of moving your characters in a stress situation would be non-existent. As your character gets excited, it translates to his thoughts and to the controller, then you make mistaken statements or take clumsy movements which adds to your fear for your characters safety...and that empathy drives your desire for a win-finish. It wouldn't be a thrill if you could rely upon muscle memory to control your characters, so...floating a "button/movement" on the screen when specific actions are needed lends a spontaneous immediacy that could not be attained in any other manner. 
Last year I was unfriended by my last, outspoken conservative-christian-republican (ccr) friend. I've written about him before. I did not learn of our no-longer-friendship in the Facebook-way (I don't book) but rather in the protracted, adult, manner of heterosexual men."...because I'm a man and men have needs. Even though my job takes me on the road for long periods, I still need it daily. Hell...three or more times a day! But because of those needs—that I, as a good christian and a good husband wouldn't allow to be met by anyone but my wife—I rely on porn even though I hate doing it." He said, nodding in the direction of his laptop.At this point he shifted the conversation directly to religion and god. His god. He touched on his belief in the bible...his being saved from an afterlife in hell (and my lack thereof)...how homosexuals were terrible sinners...and then said he didn't vote for Obama because he was a Muslim.
"You...I don't understand. You're saying you hate porn, but it's a necessary evil?" I asked.
"Porn is...yea. It's bad. Horrible." He said. "It can...it sucks you in. Like dope's a gateway drug— pornography's a gateway perversion. You can get addicted to it. It...there's so much out there...it's too available."
"I disagree." I said. "It's more like guns than marijuana. To call it a gateway means that once you start whatever you're 'headed-down-a-slippery-slope'. Porn doesn't do that. The adage: 'guns don't kill—people do' is more appropriate, I think. If you follow a link from a porn site to a chat site to a webcam site and eventually end up driving to a prostitute you found on craig's list...you can't blame the porn, only yourself."
For three months after that, our communication was one-directional, then I stopped trying. It's been a year. I no longer have any more ccr friends to alienate. There are some extended family members and a few acquaintances who are ccr, but they (unfortunately) know not to discuss their prejudices, flaunt their superstitions, talk about their imaginary friends, or embrace their ignorance around me. 
I honestly despise every bit and byte of the most recent revelations from the sunset stained stucco-and-concrete hued neurons in y...
