The following statements have been made by me today (though they’ve been revised a little).
Picking up a chocolate chip cookie: Oh boy! Pizza!
I don’t know what I was thinking. Thank God I don’t have a lot of human contact.
To myself: This cheese is a little meaty.
In reference to a Tom Waits song: It’s like eating lunch in David Lynch’s nightmares!
In reference to a friend getting a piano:
Learn Nick Cave songs. There is no better way to get rid of your neighbors who come over for a sing-along than playing a nice piano figure and belting out:
Was it an act of contrition or some awful premonition
As if she saw into the heart of her final blood-soaked night
Those lunatic eyes, that hungry kitchen knife
Ah, I see sir, that I have your attention!
Addendum: It’s much funnier when sung as Ethel Merman.
To someone on the phone: Where is Oregon State University?
In my defense, I meant what city. But it’s still a stupid comment nonetheless.
To my wife: I’m sorry I urinated during your time of need.
I have no response to that.
So, to anyone who I’ve talked today, I heartily apologize. I’m kind of stupid today and I hope I haven’t offended thee.
On a positive note I have decided to drop my “hip” speak on the blog. It was unbecoming. I just have to come to grips with the fact that I am terminally white.
Discuss My Moronic Comments
Monday, June 30, 2003
Sunday, June 29, 2003
Friday, June 27, 2003
Random Thought Theater
It has occurred to me that I don’t get the level of traffic on the site that I had hoped for because I am not speaking to my audience as I should be. Therefore, I am going to change the style of my blog from this moment on.
I will now use words like “hella” and phrases like “get your (blank) on.” This way I can get a younger audience to my page. I’ll also pick up a few of the better Rapisms that exist. Like adding a “z” and in “l” to words.
So, instead of seeing the usual posts, you will see:
“Yo my peeps! This weekend I went to the movizzles and saw the schnizzlin’ Hulkafizzle. It was hella good! The Hulkafizzle really makes you want to get your green on. He’s got it going awwwwn! That Hulk is a mad sick freak! A freakavizzle mutantizzle! Word.”
Essentially I said, “I saw the Hulk this weekend and I liked it” (I did neither). However, the simple statement doesn’t really hit it up with the Ganstas, Sk8rs, Hip Hoppers, the Emo kids, Grunge Core, Rap Metal or Club kids.
The danger of doing this, of course, is getting the kids all up in my grill about being a faker.
To those kids I want to say, in all seriousness, “You got me bent, I ain't no faka.”
All of this begs the question : Is there a Hip Hop spell checker? Because I don’t know how to spell the lingo. What would my new-improved-now-with-more-youth-factor Blog be if I had poor spelling. Those kids would see that I wasn’t “for real” if I misspelled things.
Earlier this week my lovely wife made a “Better than Sex” cake for a co-worker’s birthday party. The cake was a big hit with the chocolate loving women in her office (read: all of them). It had roughly 8,000 calories and 332 grams of fat per bite. But, admittedly, it was good.
However, I doubt the name. I mean, the cake really was good. Better than sex? Well . . . I doubt it. Clearly the people who invented the recipe had never experienced sex. Either that, or they were bitter house-bound curmudgeons who can’t actually get what the title implies and they are compensating.
Of course, depending upon the person, the cake and sex do have two things in common: Nuts and Cool Whip.
Give Me a Shout Out!
I will now use words like “hella” and phrases like “get your (blank) on.” This way I can get a younger audience to my page. I’ll also pick up a few of the better Rapisms that exist. Like adding a “z” and in “l” to words.
So, instead of seeing the usual posts, you will see:
“Yo my peeps! This weekend I went to the movizzles and saw the schnizzlin’ Hulkafizzle. It was hella good! The Hulkafizzle really makes you want to get your green on. He’s got it going awwwwn! That Hulk is a mad sick freak! A freakavizzle mutantizzle! Word.”
Essentially I said, “I saw the Hulk this weekend and I liked it” (I did neither). However, the simple statement doesn’t really hit it up with the Ganstas, Sk8rs, Hip Hoppers, the Emo kids, Grunge Core, Rap Metal or Club kids.
The danger of doing this, of course, is getting the kids all up in my grill about being a faker.
To those kids I want to say, in all seriousness, “You got me bent, I ain't no faka.”
All of this begs the question : Is there a Hip Hop spell checker? Because I don’t know how to spell the lingo. What would my new-improved-now-with-more-youth-factor Blog be if I had poor spelling. Those kids would see that I wasn’t “for real” if I misspelled things.
Earlier this week my lovely wife made a “Better than Sex” cake for a co-worker’s birthday party. The cake was a big hit with the chocolate loving women in her office (read: all of them). It had roughly 8,000 calories and 332 grams of fat per bite. But, admittedly, it was good.
However, I doubt the name. I mean, the cake really was good. Better than sex? Well . . . I doubt it. Clearly the people who invented the recipe had never experienced sex. Either that, or they were bitter house-bound curmudgeons who can’t actually get what the title implies and they are compensating.
Of course, depending upon the person, the cake and sex do have two things in common: Nuts and Cool Whip.
Give Me a Shout Out!
Thursday, June 26, 2003
Dirac Sings The Muons
I’m in a rotten, stinking mood today. A festering, angry, bitterness-fest fueled only by my own paranoia and inability to just shrug and say, “Screw it.”
The fact that I’m inexplicably listening to Johnny Cash today doesn’t help much. I’ll wait for everyone to get off the floor after reading that sentence.
I’ll even repeat it. I’m listening to Johnny Cash today. Yes, me. I am listening to Johnny Cash. Country music. You can call it that if you want. I call it really bitter, angry music by a scary man with a scary voice. It’s dark, angry and has bad words like “Son of a bitch.” Yeah.
Lately I’ve lost my sense of musical boundaries. Which I think is good, I suppose. I’m no longer limiting my choices to some sort of arbitrary division based on my demographic, haircut or what kind of underwear I wear. Rather, I’m matching my mood based on the tonal content of the songs.
Lately, though, I’ve lost my musical identity. Or perhaps interest. Or passion. I can’t find something consistent that I enjoy to guide me through my day. I flit from song to song, style to style. I’m a musical chameleon. If I could, I’d listen to physics music. It doesn’t exist, though. Physics can’t be recorded. Everyone sing along now!
Oh yeah!
I'm going to rock out to some Feynman, Paulie and Bohrs! Of course, their best work was done with the wandering minstrel Dirac. Man, I love it when they sing "I Got My Gluon Workin' (It Just Don’t Work in the Corrected Correlation Function $C(n_{2},n_{3})$ as a Function of the Smallest Jet Multiplicity $n_3$ for Different Values of the Jet Multiplicity $n_2$)". But, for sheer complexity, I think Feynman's work with the fifties supergroup Dyson, Feynman, Schwinger and Tomonaga. Those guys were rocking like a cyclotron!
This just proves it. I need new music to make me feel good.
Give me music.
The fact that I’m inexplicably listening to Johnny Cash today doesn’t help much. I’ll wait for everyone to get off the floor after reading that sentence.
I’ll even repeat it. I’m listening to Johnny Cash today. Yes, me. I am listening to Johnny Cash. Country music. You can call it that if you want. I call it really bitter, angry music by a scary man with a scary voice. It’s dark, angry and has bad words like “Son of a bitch.” Yeah.
Lately I’ve lost my sense of musical boundaries. Which I think is good, I suppose. I’m no longer limiting my choices to some sort of arbitrary division based on my demographic, haircut or what kind of underwear I wear. Rather, I’m matching my mood based on the tonal content of the songs.
Lately, though, I’ve lost my musical identity. Or perhaps interest. Or passion. I can’t find something consistent that I enjoy to guide me through my day. I flit from song to song, style to style. I’m a musical chameleon. If I could, I’d listen to physics music. It doesn’t exist, though. Physics can’t be recorded. Everyone sing along now!
Oh yeah!
I'm going to rock out to some Feynman, Paulie and Bohrs! Of course, their best work was done with the wandering minstrel Dirac. Man, I love it when they sing "I Got My Gluon Workin' (It Just Don’t Work in the Corrected Correlation Function $C(n_{2},n_{3})$ as a Function of the Smallest Jet Multiplicity $n_3$ for Different Values of the Jet Multiplicity $n_2$)". But, for sheer complexity, I think Feynman's work with the fifties supergroup Dyson, Feynman, Schwinger and Tomonaga. Those guys were rocking like a cyclotron!
This just proves it. I need new music to make me feel good.
Give me music.
Wednesday, June 25, 2003
If You're Smart You'll Read This
My brilliant and beautiful wife wrote something brilliant and beautiful yesterday:
"And her mother is simply background in her life, hopefully as unremarkable and constant as her own skin, and as comforting as the soft blanket she curls up with at the window during a rainstorm."
I suggest you read it.
"And her mother is simply background in her life, hopefully as unremarkable and constant as her own skin, and as comforting as the soft blanket she curls up with at the window during a rainstorm."
I suggest you read it.
Congratulations! You’re Going to Die!
Being a new homeowner carries risks. I’ve been aware of theses risks since the day I signed the papers. It was a difficult day. Be the end of the day, I had signed 3000 pieces of paper, two of which I’m pretty sure promised my kidneys to a cult in Utah within the next year.
There are risks. I know. I could mow my foot, electrocute myself, fall down the stairs, nail my hand to a wall. In fact, these nearly happen to me on a daily basis.
But I think I’m getting threats through the mail.
I work alone at home. Human contact is at a minimum. I have files saved on my computer that tell me I did a good job when I complete a task because there’s no one here to tell me that otherwise.
So, in the natural course of the day, two things make me happy. The first is my music collection. I have 14 gigs of music that I can play in varied play lists throughout the day. Right now I’m listening to Ben Folds and will switch to Radiohead later. In fact, I hope to have my whole music collection digitized onto an external hard drive by year’s end. Since have several hundred CDs (I refuse to say how many . . . it’s more than 500 less than 1000) that will take up a dedicated drive. I just have to purchase said drive.
The second thing that makes me happy is getting the mail. In fact, getting the mail is THE highlight of my day. I love getting the mail. It’s a little kiss from the outside world that is decidedly NOT email. I’ve never gotten a letter that has promised that I could increase my breast size by thirty percent through fully natural ways. (Though I have a feeling I will now.)
The mail is special. Sometimes it’s a DVD from Netflix. I know they love me (I have to pay them though). Sometimes it’s a check from a client. That’s special. Sometimes it’s a card from a nephew or niece. Others it’s a magazine. And the Victoria’s Secret catalogue is always a welcome sight for the whole family. Sometimes I get care packages from friends from around the country. The last care package contained cool CDs and coffee. A dangerous combination.
But yesterday I think I was threatened.
All of them started out with “Congratulations on your new home!” Then it went down hill.
“Protect yourself and your family,” it said, “from an untimely death. Have your mortgage taken care of with our mortgage life insurance.”
The first one was okay. Really. I thought, you know that does make sense. I’d hate to die and leave my wife with the mortgage payments.
But by the third one I was getting paranoid. I was expecting phone calls this morning. “It would be a shame if something happened to that pretty little wife of yours.”
To make matters worse, this morning I woke to an open garage door and trash strewn throughout the garage. That our garage door opener has a short and that a raccoon could have torn apart our trash can were beside the point.
In my mind I saw Tony Soprano.
I took out a $3 million life insurance policy today. It covers my mortgage and that of every family member I have, including all 40 some odd cousins.
Every time I think I’m out . . .
There are risks. I know. I could mow my foot, electrocute myself, fall down the stairs, nail my hand to a wall. In fact, these nearly happen to me on a daily basis.
But I think I’m getting threats through the mail.
I work alone at home. Human contact is at a minimum. I have files saved on my computer that tell me I did a good job when I complete a task because there’s no one here to tell me that otherwise.
So, in the natural course of the day, two things make me happy. The first is my music collection. I have 14 gigs of music that I can play in varied play lists throughout the day. Right now I’m listening to Ben Folds and will switch to Radiohead later. In fact, I hope to have my whole music collection digitized onto an external hard drive by year’s end. Since have several hundred CDs (I refuse to say how many . . . it’s more than 500 less than 1000) that will take up a dedicated drive. I just have to purchase said drive.
The second thing that makes me happy is getting the mail. In fact, getting the mail is THE highlight of my day. I love getting the mail. It’s a little kiss from the outside world that is decidedly NOT email. I’ve never gotten a letter that has promised that I could increase my breast size by thirty percent through fully natural ways. (Though I have a feeling I will now.)
The mail is special. Sometimes it’s a DVD from Netflix. I know they love me (I have to pay them though). Sometimes it’s a check from a client. That’s special. Sometimes it’s a card from a nephew or niece. Others it’s a magazine. And the Victoria’s Secret catalogue is always a welcome sight for the whole family. Sometimes I get care packages from friends from around the country. The last care package contained cool CDs and coffee. A dangerous combination.
But yesterday I think I was threatened.
All of them started out with “Congratulations on your new home!” Then it went down hill.
“Protect yourself and your family,” it said, “from an untimely death. Have your mortgage taken care of with our mortgage life insurance.”
The first one was okay. Really. I thought, you know that does make sense. I’d hate to die and leave my wife with the mortgage payments.
But by the third one I was getting paranoid. I was expecting phone calls this morning. “It would be a shame if something happened to that pretty little wife of yours.”
To make matters worse, this morning I woke to an open garage door and trash strewn throughout the garage. That our garage door opener has a short and that a raccoon could have torn apart our trash can were beside the point.
In my mind I saw Tony Soprano.
I took out a $3 million life insurance policy today. It covers my mortgage and that of every family member I have, including all 40 some odd cousins.
Every time I think I’m out . . .
Tuesday, June 24, 2003
Warning:
Never play Monopoly with my eldest daughter. She looks cute and sweet, but at heart she’s a ruthless land baron and quite a convincing real estate agent.
“You could have beautiful Baltic Avenue, located in the convenient “Just Pass Go” section of town, just around the corner from the swanky Boardwalk address. Close to both utilities and a railroad, this sunny and bright location is a must see! Priced to sell!”
I bought. Then she cleared out all my available cash.
I’ve been hoodwinked! Bamboozled!
“You could have beautiful Baltic Avenue, located in the convenient “Just Pass Go” section of town, just around the corner from the swanky Boardwalk address. Close to both utilities and a railroad, this sunny and bright location is a must see! Priced to sell!”
I bought. Then she cleared out all my available cash.
I’ve been hoodwinked! Bamboozled!
Monday, June 23, 2003
The Weekend and a Princess Turns 8
Ah . . . the weekend! Tis a lovely way to not work. Except the weekends are usually more exhausting than a work day, aren’t they?
As Goofy would say, “Gawrsh!” (I wonder if Disney has that copyrighted. I did properly site the source . . . )
Let’s see, we woke up on Saturday, went to Borders, waited in line for three hundred hours to pick up our reserved copy of Harry Potter, dropped off Matilda at a friends, cleaned the domicile, visited with the Pudding family and marveled over the cuteness of their infant, got Matilda back, read the first chapter of Harry Potter, watched a few episodes of The Office on BBC America and collapsed. Then, Sunday started . . . We went to Target, washed the cars, paid bills, put together my new grill, went grocery shopping, attached the gas tank to the grill, seared some animal flesh on the open flame, drank beer, read another chapter of Harry Potter and collapsed again.
That’s in a nutshell. Though it did feel that hectic. And I have my first sunburn of the year. At least my pale Irish flesh is no longer translucent. And I didn’t even mention fixing a leaking pipe on Friday night with the help of a brother-in-law.
But the most important thing is that today is Matilda’s eighth birthday. It’s almost impossible to believe that when I started dating her mother she was only two! My how she’s grown from an inquisitive, impossibly bright toddler to an emotionally tight-lipped, quiet, yet inquisitive, impossibly bright adolescent. That she’s bitter, suspicious and witty is icing on the cake.
Oh yes, cake! To provide a princess with a proper birthday celebration requires strict preparation.
I woke her up this morning and presented her with her first gift. My farmer’s tan from cleaning the cars. She was thrilled.
Mom made her a special birthday breakfast because, “I don’t want cereal on my birthday!” She then complained, as a proper princess should, that she didn’t know that we had Fruity Pebbles! That’s a proper princess birthday breakfast cereal!
She asked when she was getting her present. I told her she could have one right now and presented her with her very own portable lawn chair, complete with arm rests and cup holders. I was shocked that she was excited about it. It really was for her, but it’s not her real birthday present. Alas, she really did think it was cool. Tis now known as “The Throne”. Loyal subjects on bended knee acting as ottomans sold separately.
She began to get suspicious about her real present though. When will she get it? What is it?
Ah, worry not little one. Mommy and Daddy have taken good care of you. I told her that we have purchased a whole roomful of presents for her. Which is true. We got her one of these.
Still, it takes a lot of work to prepare a princess’ birthday. The visiting dignitaries from continent, representing all the cultures of the world are due to arrive any second. The elephants have already arrived and are in the back yard. Cirque du Soleil is setting up their tent in the front yard (and the bastards only speak French . . . I have no idea what they are saying). The 72 dancers and singers are practicing in the living room. And do you have any idea how hard it was to reunite the two surviving Beatles to sing “Birthday” for her? It was no small feat and I fear selling my soul was, perhaps, too high a price for an eighth birthday. What will I have left to sell for her sweet sixteen?
I mean, besides my dignity, sanity, and last shred of common sense?
Oh. Gotta go. The Cirque ringmaster and Macca are arguing who gets top billing. I’m afraid Paul’s one-legged wife is about to beat the living hell out of Cirque’s aerialist.
And where the hell is Ringo?
Discuss The Right Good Highness's Perfect Celebration of the Eighth Anniversary of Her Birth
As Goofy would say, “Gawrsh!” (I wonder if Disney has that copyrighted. I did properly site the source . . . )
Let’s see, we woke up on Saturday, went to Borders, waited in line for three hundred hours to pick up our reserved copy of Harry Potter, dropped off Matilda at a friends, cleaned the domicile, visited with the Pudding family and marveled over the cuteness of their infant, got Matilda back, read the first chapter of Harry Potter, watched a few episodes of The Office on BBC America and collapsed. Then, Sunday started . . . We went to Target, washed the cars, paid bills, put together my new grill, went grocery shopping, attached the gas tank to the grill, seared some animal flesh on the open flame, drank beer, read another chapter of Harry Potter and collapsed again.
That’s in a nutshell. Though it did feel that hectic. And I have my first sunburn of the year. At least my pale Irish flesh is no longer translucent. And I didn’t even mention fixing a leaking pipe on Friday night with the help of a brother-in-law.
But the most important thing is that today is Matilda’s eighth birthday. It’s almost impossible to believe that when I started dating her mother she was only two! My how she’s grown from an inquisitive, impossibly bright toddler to an emotionally tight-lipped, quiet, yet inquisitive, impossibly bright adolescent. That she’s bitter, suspicious and witty is icing on the cake.
Oh yes, cake! To provide a princess with a proper birthday celebration requires strict preparation.
I woke her up this morning and presented her with her first gift. My farmer’s tan from cleaning the cars. She was thrilled.
Mom made her a special birthday breakfast because, “I don’t want cereal on my birthday!” She then complained, as a proper princess should, that she didn’t know that we had Fruity Pebbles! That’s a proper princess birthday breakfast cereal!
She asked when she was getting her present. I told her she could have one right now and presented her with her very own portable lawn chair, complete with arm rests and cup holders. I was shocked that she was excited about it. It really was for her, but it’s not her real birthday present. Alas, she really did think it was cool. Tis now known as “The Throne”. Loyal subjects on bended knee acting as ottomans sold separately.
She began to get suspicious about her real present though. When will she get it? What is it?
Ah, worry not little one. Mommy and Daddy have taken good care of you. I told her that we have purchased a whole roomful of presents for her. Which is true. We got her one of these.
Still, it takes a lot of work to prepare a princess’ birthday. The visiting dignitaries from continent, representing all the cultures of the world are due to arrive any second. The elephants have already arrived and are in the back yard. Cirque du Soleil is setting up their tent in the front yard (and the bastards only speak French . . . I have no idea what they are saying). The 72 dancers and singers are practicing in the living room. And do you have any idea how hard it was to reunite the two surviving Beatles to sing “Birthday” for her? It was no small feat and I fear selling my soul was, perhaps, too high a price for an eighth birthday. What will I have left to sell for her sweet sixteen?
I mean, besides my dignity, sanity, and last shred of common sense?
Oh. Gotta go. The Cirque ringmaster and Macca are arguing who gets top billing. I’m afraid Paul’s one-legged wife is about to beat the living hell out of Cirque’s aerialist.
And where the hell is Ringo?
Discuss The Right Good Highness's Perfect Celebration of the Eighth Anniversary of Her Birth
Thursday, June 19, 2003
Catching Up Pt. 2
I warn you. I am about to use a superlative you may not agree with. I welcome your disagreement so long as you understand that you are dead wrong.
Are you ready? Here’s the superlative:
Wings of Desire is the most beautiful, if not the best, film ever made.
There. Have you recovered? Okay, let me defend myself before you hurt me, okay?
Made in 1987 by German director Wim Wenders, Wings of Desire tells the story of a divided Germany watched over by angels who are powerless to affect the world. They are observers, messengers. We follow two angels, Damiel and Cassiel. They’ve been here a long, long time. Before the river even took to its banks. They’ve been watching, listening and taking notes. Sharing their favorite moments. Each day they come back together and talk about what they’ve seen. Most often their observations are of moments that we humans see every day, but fail to recognize their beauty. A troubled child and his troubled parents. A holocaust survivor. A trapeze aerialist. A hooker. A dying man. A suicide. Each moment is recorded, observed and does not pass without regret, longing, sadness or happiness on the part of the angels. They revel in our lives, no matter how minute and boring we may thing they are.
But Damiel dreams of so much more. He has fallen in love with the aerialist, who seems to be able to sense him. Or sense that somewhere there is a man who loves her the way she needs to be loved. But Damiel wants so much more than just love. He wants a cat. He wants to feel a newspaper in his hands. To wipe off the ink that smudges his hands. To smell the air.
Damiel has a decision to make. Shall he shuffle off his immortal coil, his ability to see and hear all in order to feel? Is he willing to take the chance of love knowing that the ultimate price is his old age and death? As an angel he neither ages nor is at risk for death. But as a human . . .
His decision seems to be supported by a stranger at a coffee shop one cold evening. Damiel sits and watches and this man comes up to him and extends his hand.
“I can’t see you, but I know that you’re there” he says. He tells of life’s simple pleasures. Rubbing his hands together, describing the warmth. “To smoke, and have coffee--and if you do it together, it's fantastic.”
The man? Peter Falk, playing himself. Seemingly, Falk is an angel who has taken the plunge. And his face seems to betray this fact. It’s weathered, but happy. Smiling but knowing and inquisitive. And generous.
Damiel takes the fall and starts his quest to find the aerialist.
Wings of Desire is not a religious film. Nor is it not a religious film. It’s just a beautiful film. From the point of view of the angels, the world is a gorgeous, blue-tinged black and white. The camera floats and soars through their world. As they move among us they hear our thoughts, our troubles, our observations. They listen, they learn, but they cannot change. A man sits contemplating suicide as an angel clutches him, trying to change his mind. Our world, that is, the “real” world, is filmed in a muted color palate.
Wenders moves the film slowly, not trying to rush it. He simply follows his characters paths, rather them pushing them along. Everything floats and wanders. It’s a film of exploration, discovery, sadness, happiness and observation.
Each time I watch this film (and I hope to do so more often as it finally comes to DVD next month) I find myself inspired to write something. To write something important. Though anything I try pales in comparison to the lilting prose of the film. “Why am I me and why not you? Why am I here and why not there? When did time begin and where does space end?" These are the questions the film asks. But it does not answer. It only asks, probes and observes.
No other film I have ever seen has filled me with such a simple joy of being who I am. Being alive. Being in love. Tears stream as I’m overtaken with the sheer beauty of this film. The visuals, the words, the faces, the sounds. It all works. (Unlike the lifeless, soulless American version “City of Angels”.)
You may agree or disagree. You may complain that the film is in three languages. That it is obtuse and nothing really happens.
But you wouldn’t be looking close enough. You’re missing the moments. The simple moments.
A man ties a boy’s shoe.
A woman sings to a record.
A man tromps around in sawdust.
Click Here to Argue With Me
Are you ready? Here’s the superlative:
Wings of Desire is the most beautiful, if not the best, film ever made.
There. Have you recovered? Okay, let me defend myself before you hurt me, okay?
Made in 1987 by German director Wim Wenders, Wings of Desire tells the story of a divided Germany watched over by angels who are powerless to affect the world. They are observers, messengers. We follow two angels, Damiel and Cassiel. They’ve been here a long, long time. Before the river even took to its banks. They’ve been watching, listening and taking notes. Sharing their favorite moments. Each day they come back together and talk about what they’ve seen. Most often their observations are of moments that we humans see every day, but fail to recognize their beauty. A troubled child and his troubled parents. A holocaust survivor. A trapeze aerialist. A hooker. A dying man. A suicide. Each moment is recorded, observed and does not pass without regret, longing, sadness or happiness on the part of the angels. They revel in our lives, no matter how minute and boring we may thing they are.
But Damiel dreams of so much more. He has fallen in love with the aerialist, who seems to be able to sense him. Or sense that somewhere there is a man who loves her the way she needs to be loved. But Damiel wants so much more than just love. He wants a cat. He wants to feel a newspaper in his hands. To wipe off the ink that smudges his hands. To smell the air.
Damiel has a decision to make. Shall he shuffle off his immortal coil, his ability to see and hear all in order to feel? Is he willing to take the chance of love knowing that the ultimate price is his old age and death? As an angel he neither ages nor is at risk for death. But as a human . . .
His decision seems to be supported by a stranger at a coffee shop one cold evening. Damiel sits and watches and this man comes up to him and extends his hand.
“I can’t see you, but I know that you’re there” he says. He tells of life’s simple pleasures. Rubbing his hands together, describing the warmth. “To smoke, and have coffee--and if you do it together, it's fantastic.”
The man? Peter Falk, playing himself. Seemingly, Falk is an angel who has taken the plunge. And his face seems to betray this fact. It’s weathered, but happy. Smiling but knowing and inquisitive. And generous.
Damiel takes the fall and starts his quest to find the aerialist.
Wings of Desire is not a religious film. Nor is it not a religious film. It’s just a beautiful film. From the point of view of the angels, the world is a gorgeous, blue-tinged black and white. The camera floats and soars through their world. As they move among us they hear our thoughts, our troubles, our observations. They listen, they learn, but they cannot change. A man sits contemplating suicide as an angel clutches him, trying to change his mind. Our world, that is, the “real” world, is filmed in a muted color palate.
Wenders moves the film slowly, not trying to rush it. He simply follows his characters paths, rather them pushing them along. Everything floats and wanders. It’s a film of exploration, discovery, sadness, happiness and observation.
Each time I watch this film (and I hope to do so more often as it finally comes to DVD next month) I find myself inspired to write something. To write something important. Though anything I try pales in comparison to the lilting prose of the film. “Why am I me and why not you? Why am I here and why not there? When did time begin and where does space end?" These are the questions the film asks. But it does not answer. It only asks, probes and observes.
No other film I have ever seen has filled me with such a simple joy of being who I am. Being alive. Being in love. Tears stream as I’m overtaken with the sheer beauty of this film. The visuals, the words, the faces, the sounds. It all works. (Unlike the lifeless, soulless American version “City of Angels”.)
You may agree or disagree. You may complain that the film is in three languages. That it is obtuse and nothing really happens.
But you wouldn’t be looking close enough. You’re missing the moments. The simple moments.
A man ties a boy’s shoe.
A woman sings to a record.
A man tromps around in sawdust.
Click Here to Argue With Me
Catching Up Pt. 1
Matilda has developed a wonderfully wry sense of humor in the last week or so. She’s deadpan, dry and witty. Where did she get this?
Last night we were searching desperately to find her school buzz book to get her friends’ addresses. You see, she’s having a slumber party and I . . . I am terrified.
But that’s beside the point.
We knew we had seen the buzz book recently. Quite recently. But, it was nowhere to be found.
“Is it in your room Matilda?”
“No. I haven’t seen it.”
“Are you sure,” I ask, interjecting my fatherly doubt about her feeble nearly eight-year-old memory.
“Yep.”
“Can I look in your room?”
“Uh. Okay. It’s not there though.”
So I looked through her room. She was right, it wasn’t there. Damn my paternal doubt!
But as I was looking through her desk (gently I might add) she walks over to her mother and deadpans, “Dad’s tearing apart my room. Sigh.”
For the record, I was not “tearing apart her room”. It’s already torn apart through the use of seven-year-old logic and organization.
But this morning is what killed me. I was talking to my lovely wife about some TV show or something and I said, “Any of those girls would be better.”
Matilda comes in from the next room. “What girls? Are you getting rid of us.”
Not missing a beat I said, “Yeah, we’re getting updated models.”
With a thin smile cracking her otherwise stoic veneer she says, “I guess I’ll go get my things then.” And she leaves the room.
But I could tell she was proud of that performance. Of all the funny and strange things she’s done lately, this was the tops. Pure comic brilliance.
It’s weird though. She was supposed to be home from summer school by now . . .
Discuss
Last night we were searching desperately to find her school buzz book to get her friends’ addresses. You see, she’s having a slumber party and I . . . I am terrified.
But that’s beside the point.
We knew we had seen the buzz book recently. Quite recently. But, it was nowhere to be found.
“Is it in your room Matilda?”
“No. I haven’t seen it.”
“Are you sure,” I ask, interjecting my fatherly doubt about her feeble nearly eight-year-old memory.
“Yep.”
“Can I look in your room?”
“Uh. Okay. It’s not there though.”
So I looked through her room. She was right, it wasn’t there. Damn my paternal doubt!
But as I was looking through her desk (gently I might add) she walks over to her mother and deadpans, “Dad’s tearing apart my room. Sigh.”
For the record, I was not “tearing apart her room”. It’s already torn apart through the use of seven-year-old logic and organization.
But this morning is what killed me. I was talking to my lovely wife about some TV show or something and I said, “Any of those girls would be better.”
Matilda comes in from the next room. “What girls? Are you getting rid of us.”
Not missing a beat I said, “Yeah, we’re getting updated models.”
With a thin smile cracking her otherwise stoic veneer she says, “I guess I’ll go get my things then.” And she leaves the room.
But I could tell she was proud of that performance. Of all the funny and strange things she’s done lately, this was the tops. Pure comic brilliance.
It’s weird though. She was supposed to be home from summer school by now . . .
Discuss
Wednesday, June 18, 2003
Tuesday, June 17, 2003
My Brain Hurts (Update)
It still hurts. But I went to the doctor.
I have severe sinusitus. Which means my sinuses are inflamed. They feel outright enraged.
Irony: Your sinuses are bothering you. You are congested. Your doctor gives you something to shoot up your nose.
This makes sense? Isn't my problem that I have too much crap in my nose?
I have severe sinusitus. Which means my sinuses are inflamed. They feel outright enraged.
Irony: Your sinuses are bothering you. You are congested. Your doctor gives you something to shoot up your nose.
This makes sense? Isn't my problem that I have too much crap in my nose?
Monday, June 16, 2003
Als das Kind Kind war,
Song of Childhood
By Peter Handke
When the child was a child
It walked with its arms swinging,
wanted the brook to be a river,
the river to be a torrent,
and this puddle to be the sea.
When the child was a child,
it didn’t know that it was a child,
everything was soulful,
and all souls were one.
When the child was a child,
it had no opinion about anything,
had no habits,
it often sat cross-legged,
took off running,
had a cowlick in its hair,
and made no faces when photographed.
When the child was a child,
It was the time for these questions:
Why am I me, and why not you?
Why am I here, and why not there?
When did time begin, and where does space end?
Is life under the sun not just a dream?
Is what I see and hear and smell
not just an illusion of a world before the world?
Given the facts of evil and people.
does evil really exist?
How can it be that I, who I am,
didn’t exist before I came to be,
and that, someday, I, who I am,
will no longer be who I am?
When the child was a child,
It choked on spinach, on peas, on rice pudding,
and on steamed cauliflower,
and eats all of those now, and not just because it has to.
When the child was a child,
it awoke once in a strange bed,
and now does so again and again.
Many people, then, seemed beautiful,
and now only a few do, by sheer luck.
It had visualized a clear image of Paradise,
and now can at most guess,
could not conceive of nothingness,
and shudders today at the thought.
When the child was a child,
It played with enthusiasm,
and, now, has just as much excitement as then,
but only when it concerns its work.
When the child was a child,
It was enough for it to eat an apple, . . .bread,
And so it is even now.
When the child was a child,
Berries filled its hand as only berries do,
and do even now,
Fresh walnuts made its tongue raw,
and do even now,
it had, on every mountaintop,
the longing for a higher mountain yet,
and in every city,
the longing for an even greater city,
and that is still so,
It reached for cherries in topmost branches of trees
with an elation it still has today,
has a shyness in front of strangers,
and has that even now.
It awaited the first snow,
And waits that way even now.
When the child was a child,
It threw a stick like a lance against a tree,
And it quivers there still today.
By Peter Handke
When the child was a child
It walked with its arms swinging,
wanted the brook to be a river,
the river to be a torrent,
and this puddle to be the sea.
When the child was a child,
it didn’t know that it was a child,
everything was soulful,
and all souls were one.
When the child was a child,
it had no opinion about anything,
had no habits,
it often sat cross-legged,
took off running,
had a cowlick in its hair,
and made no faces when photographed.
When the child was a child,
It was the time for these questions:
Why am I me, and why not you?
Why am I here, and why not there?
When did time begin, and where does space end?
Is life under the sun not just a dream?
Is what I see and hear and smell
not just an illusion of a world before the world?
Given the facts of evil and people.
does evil really exist?
How can it be that I, who I am,
didn’t exist before I came to be,
and that, someday, I, who I am,
will no longer be who I am?
When the child was a child,
It choked on spinach, on peas, on rice pudding,
and on steamed cauliflower,
and eats all of those now, and not just because it has to.
When the child was a child,
it awoke once in a strange bed,
and now does so again and again.
Many people, then, seemed beautiful,
and now only a few do, by sheer luck.
It had visualized a clear image of Paradise,
and now can at most guess,
could not conceive of nothingness,
and shudders today at the thought.
When the child was a child,
It played with enthusiasm,
and, now, has just as much excitement as then,
but only when it concerns its work.
When the child was a child,
It was enough for it to eat an apple, . . .bread,
And so it is even now.
When the child was a child,
Berries filled its hand as only berries do,
and do even now,
Fresh walnuts made its tongue raw,
and do even now,
it had, on every mountaintop,
the longing for a higher mountain yet,
and in every city,
the longing for an even greater city,
and that is still so,
It reached for cherries in topmost branches of trees
with an elation it still has today,
has a shyness in front of strangers,
and has that even now.
It awaited the first snow,
And waits that way even now.
When the child was a child,
It threw a stick like a lance against a tree,
And it quivers there still today.
Friday, June 13, 2003
Whoops
Man vs. Machine. The eternal struggle. Being president doesn't make you immune to its dangers.
Thursday, June 12, 2003
Attention all bloggers!
Stop what you are doing and look at your keyboard. On the second row from the bottom do you see keys on either side that are rectangles instead of squares?
They are called “shift keys”. When you hold one down and press a letter at the same time it makes the little letters big letters. This comes in very handy for starting out sentences. USE THEM. I don’t know when the memo went out, I must have missed it, but it seems you’ve collectively decided that capitalization is no longer required. I didn’t spend all that time in school diagramming sentences and being yelled at over comma splices for you to come in and arbitrarily eliminate one of grammar’s most basic rules.
Stop!
And, for the record, an ellipsis has only three dots. Not eight, not two and certainly not random numbers. It is not Morse Code.
They are called “shift keys”. When you hold one down and press a letter at the same time it makes the little letters big letters. This comes in very handy for starting out sentences. USE THEM. I don’t know when the memo went out, I must have missed it, but it seems you’ve collectively decided that capitalization is no longer required. I didn’t spend all that time in school diagramming sentences and being yelled at over comma splices for you to come in and arbitrarily eliminate one of grammar’s most basic rules.
Stop!
And, for the record, an ellipsis has only three dots. Not eight, not two and certainly not random numbers. It is not Morse Code.
Wednesday, June 11, 2003
Talent Shows
Although you could really trace everything back to the seminal 80s television show, “Real People” (and some would argue “The Gong Show”), reality talent shows are all the rage.
Last night we watched a show about comedians competing for a show on Comedy Central and an exclusive contract with NBC (translation: We’ll give you bit gimmick parts on shitty shows and not pay you.) The surprising thing was how funny these guys actually were. I laughed harder at them that I do at most “established” comics outside of George Carlin. These amateurs could kick Carrot Top’s ass and leave him dead behind the comedy club. In fact, I almost wish they would . . .
American Idol set the stage. Part car wreck, part High School talent show, every episode is filled with suspense. Who will be voted off? Will they cry? What songs will they butcher this week? Oh good, it’s a Rick Ashley songbook tonight. Yay! That’s a short episode. I do like to watch the show to see what Simon will say to people. The man is cruel and I love it. (Anyone who thinks he’s too cruel to the “talent” has obviously never been involved in a writer’s workshop in any way, shape or form.)
In fact, I’m a little upset that there is no talent show for writers. We have singers, comedians, gold diggers, survivors and even pet stars. Why not writers? We can call it “American Novelist” and invite 10 writers to compete for a publishing contract and a good ranking on Amazon.
Each week the writers would submit a short story to the panel and have portions read live on the air. Then the panel of judges, Kurt Vonnegut, Alice Walker, David Sedaris and George Plimpton tear their work apart and make them cry.
Again, if you’ve never been involved in a workshop, you have no idea how humiliating and funny this would be. It would be great!
Our first contestant, John Wheeler, reads a passage from his work “Poet.”
John reads: “The window hung over his head like the dust in a dying poet’s apartment.”*
Vonnegut: “Stop. What the hell is that?”
John: “It’s my opening line.”
Plimpton: “What exactly are you trying to say?”
John: “That he was looking out the window.”
Sedaris: “Then say that.”
Vonnegut: “That’s not writing. That’s not even a story. That’s bad poetry. Say what you mean. Don’t give me this shit about dying poets and dust. If you want someone to read your work then make it interesting. You don’t win. Next!”
Cynthia Johnson then reads her story about a woman who lives in the scary house at the end of the road. The woman, who somehow lives in the city and the country at the same time because she not only lives at the end of the block but also has a corn field, is named Thelma Wildthong.**
Walker: “Wait, what’s her name?”
Cynthia: “Thelma Wildthong.”
Sedaris: “And this is comedy?”
Cynthia: “No, this is a drama about how this woman was misunderstood and the children in the neighborhood can actually learn a lot from her experiences and eccentricities.”
Plimpton: “I didn’t get that.”
Cynthia: “It’s a coming of age story.”
Vonnegut: “I thought it was about an old woman named Thelma Wildfart.”
Cynthia: “Thong. Wildthong.”
Vonnegut: “Who cares. It’s bad writing that’s not even suitable for an ABC After School Special. Get off my stage and sell your computer. You may never write again.”
Cynthia: Cries.
Next up is Simon Watercress who reads a convoluted story about vampires who are really responsible for the assassination of JFK.**
Plimpton: “Go away.”
Sedaris: “I’m gay and even I don’t want to be like Anne Rice. Your story made me want to kill myself with a knitting needle, a cheese grater and a garlic press.”
Vonnegut: “If all my years of smoking had been successful and I had died on schedule I would have been spared this pain. Being a prisoner of war in World War II was more pleasant than that.”
The best part would be the final interviews with the losers.
Cynthia: “Clearly these so-called authors don’t understand what I was trying to do. They wouldn’t know good symbolism or narrative if it landed in their laps like a dead pigeon.”
Simon: “I don’t want to be Anne Rice. I want to better her work. I want to take it up a notch and invent a new form of politically tinged horror. I’ll keep writing. I don’t value their opinions at all. What’s a few honors from the Pulitzer Prize and the American Society of Arts and Letters. They just don’t get me. I’ve been drinking as much as possible, just like any good writer. I have to go home and beat my girlfriend just like Faulkner did.”
John: “I’m a sensitive soul and they have to understand that. Words are like daggers that tear through my flesh, which is like rice paper that has Chinese calligraphy written in the blood of thousands of starving children. Perhaps they didn’t understand my dénouement.”
On second thought . . . it would never make it to a second episode because half the authors would kill themselves after being rejected. It’s a shame too, because I’d love to see it. You’d see more people crying than during the elimination round of Miss America. Sweet.
*Taken from an actual story I heard critiqued in a workshop in which Kurt Vonnegut participated.
**Taken from an actual story I read in a workshop.
Discuss
Last night we watched a show about comedians competing for a show on Comedy Central and an exclusive contract with NBC (translation: We’ll give you bit gimmick parts on shitty shows and not pay you.) The surprising thing was how funny these guys actually were. I laughed harder at them that I do at most “established” comics outside of George Carlin. These amateurs could kick Carrot Top’s ass and leave him dead behind the comedy club. In fact, I almost wish they would . . .
American Idol set the stage. Part car wreck, part High School talent show, every episode is filled with suspense. Who will be voted off? Will they cry? What songs will they butcher this week? Oh good, it’s a Rick Ashley songbook tonight. Yay! That’s a short episode. I do like to watch the show to see what Simon will say to people. The man is cruel and I love it. (Anyone who thinks he’s too cruel to the “talent” has obviously never been involved in a writer’s workshop in any way, shape or form.)
In fact, I’m a little upset that there is no talent show for writers. We have singers, comedians, gold diggers, survivors and even pet stars. Why not writers? We can call it “American Novelist” and invite 10 writers to compete for a publishing contract and a good ranking on Amazon.
Each week the writers would submit a short story to the panel and have portions read live on the air. Then the panel of judges, Kurt Vonnegut, Alice Walker, David Sedaris and George Plimpton tear their work apart and make them cry.
Again, if you’ve never been involved in a workshop, you have no idea how humiliating and funny this would be. It would be great!
Our first contestant, John Wheeler, reads a passage from his work “Poet.”
John reads: “The window hung over his head like the dust in a dying poet’s apartment.”*
Vonnegut: “Stop. What the hell is that?”
John: “It’s my opening line.”
Plimpton: “What exactly are you trying to say?”
John: “That he was looking out the window.”
Sedaris: “Then say that.”
Vonnegut: “That’s not writing. That’s not even a story. That’s bad poetry. Say what you mean. Don’t give me this shit about dying poets and dust. If you want someone to read your work then make it interesting. You don’t win. Next!”
Cynthia Johnson then reads her story about a woman who lives in the scary house at the end of the road. The woman, who somehow lives in the city and the country at the same time because she not only lives at the end of the block but also has a corn field, is named Thelma Wildthong.**
Walker: “Wait, what’s her name?”
Cynthia: “Thelma Wildthong.”
Sedaris: “And this is comedy?”
Cynthia: “No, this is a drama about how this woman was misunderstood and the children in the neighborhood can actually learn a lot from her experiences and eccentricities.”
Plimpton: “I didn’t get that.”
Cynthia: “It’s a coming of age story.”
Vonnegut: “I thought it was about an old woman named Thelma Wildfart.”
Cynthia: “Thong. Wildthong.”
Vonnegut: “Who cares. It’s bad writing that’s not even suitable for an ABC After School Special. Get off my stage and sell your computer. You may never write again.”
Cynthia: Cries.
Next up is Simon Watercress who reads a convoluted story about vampires who are really responsible for the assassination of JFK.**
Plimpton: “Go away.”
Sedaris: “I’m gay and even I don’t want to be like Anne Rice. Your story made me want to kill myself with a knitting needle, a cheese grater and a garlic press.”
Vonnegut: “If all my years of smoking had been successful and I had died on schedule I would have been spared this pain. Being a prisoner of war in World War II was more pleasant than that.”
The best part would be the final interviews with the losers.
Cynthia: “Clearly these so-called authors don’t understand what I was trying to do. They wouldn’t know good symbolism or narrative if it landed in their laps like a dead pigeon.”
Simon: “I don’t want to be Anne Rice. I want to better her work. I want to take it up a notch and invent a new form of politically tinged horror. I’ll keep writing. I don’t value their opinions at all. What’s a few honors from the Pulitzer Prize and the American Society of Arts and Letters. They just don’t get me. I’ve been drinking as much as possible, just like any good writer. I have to go home and beat my girlfriend just like Faulkner did.”
John: “I’m a sensitive soul and they have to understand that. Words are like daggers that tear through my flesh, which is like rice paper that has Chinese calligraphy written in the blood of thousands of starving children. Perhaps they didn’t understand my dénouement.”
On second thought . . . it would never make it to a second episode because half the authors would kill themselves after being rejected. It’s a shame too, because I’d love to see it. You’d see more people crying than during the elimination round of Miss America. Sweet.
*Taken from an actual story I heard critiqued in a workshop in which Kurt Vonnegut participated.
**Taken from an actual story I read in a workshop.
Discuss
Tuesday, June 10, 2003
Yeah, I Actually Am Busy . . .
But screw it. I need to write. Everyone who is clamoring for my time can just sit tight. Why? Because I’m doing nothing of my own. Not a damn thing. I’ve got novels that have to be written. Yes, actual novels. But by the time I’m done working, doing my other stuff, getting the kids in bed and reminding my wife that I still can recognize her by sight and, quite possibly, by name, there’s no time for my stuff.
I guess I fancy myself a writer, though it’s hard to tell by the dreck I publish here. I have actual ideas and things to say. One of my unwritten novels deals with technology and religion. I’d like to write that. Another deals with political unrest and business. I’d like to write that too. Another one deals with the mere concept of what human life actually is. Guess what? I wouldn’t mind writing that as well.
But, instead, I spend my days working on other people’s projects. I don’t have one of my own damn it. I’d like to spend some part of my time actually doing something that benefits me.
Perhaps I’m being selfish. Maybe I am selfish, I don’t know. But I keep signing on to more and more projects that are the brainchild of other people. Nothing that comes from my own head.
What really hurt was when I wrote about animation last week. At the heart of that little piece was something about creativity. Something that I fancy that I have. But I don’t use it. Not in the least.
I’m tired, I guess. Tired and restless. Or something.
The highlight of my day today? Seeing Cory Doctorow on The Screen Savers talking about privacy. Oooh. Exciting. But, one of my favorite authors and Cyberactivitsts talking to Leo Laporte is pretty cool, I guess.
But even my wife is starting to worry about my TechTV watching. She told me the other day that I talk as if the hosts of the shows are my friends. That’s not a good sign is it? I mean, they don’t talk directly to me. That would be silly. Besides, it’s not my fault that the only shows on TV that talk about what I’m interested in are on TechTV. It’s not like there’s MTV: Indie Pop. The world isn’t exactly beating down Robert Schneider to do his own TV show.
So I watch TechTV. Only because DirecTV doesn’t carry NASA. I watch that on the web.
Even my life hasn’t been that exciting. At least, not exciting enough to write about. The kids are as cute as ever. But, really, writing about how Matilda read 320 minutes on her summer reading program yesterday isn’t all that interesting to the rest of the world. True, every morning Gertrude refuses to eat her breakfast only to run and get a spoon, climb on my lap and then eat my cereal. That’s damn cute. But not worth a page of writing.
I need to get out of this creative rut I’m in. Or, the lack of creative rut I’m in. I’m just in a rut. I need a mental tow truck.
But, instead, I’m going to rewrite someone else’s case studies. I quiver with excitement.
Maybe my buddy Leo Laporte will come over and help.
Crap. TechTV hosts are not my friends. TechTV hosts are not my friends*
*DISCLAIMER: Gary O’Brien fully understands that TechTV hosts are not his friends. He is in no way deluded or dangerous. His wife made this comment in jest because he has been trying to get caught up on all the TechTV he hasn’t gotten to see since Todd moved back to Oregon. Gary would, however, like everyone to know that Quickdraw McGraw and Hong Kong Fuey are his friends and that they are coming over for dinner tonight.
I guess I fancy myself a writer, though it’s hard to tell by the dreck I publish here. I have actual ideas and things to say. One of my unwritten novels deals with technology and religion. I’d like to write that. Another deals with political unrest and business. I’d like to write that too. Another one deals with the mere concept of what human life actually is. Guess what? I wouldn’t mind writing that as well.
But, instead, I spend my days working on other people’s projects. I don’t have one of my own damn it. I’d like to spend some part of my time actually doing something that benefits me.
Perhaps I’m being selfish. Maybe I am selfish, I don’t know. But I keep signing on to more and more projects that are the brainchild of other people. Nothing that comes from my own head.
What really hurt was when I wrote about animation last week. At the heart of that little piece was something about creativity. Something that I fancy that I have. But I don’t use it. Not in the least.
I’m tired, I guess. Tired and restless. Or something.
The highlight of my day today? Seeing Cory Doctorow on The Screen Savers talking about privacy. Oooh. Exciting. But, one of my favorite authors and Cyberactivitsts talking to Leo Laporte is pretty cool, I guess.
But even my wife is starting to worry about my TechTV watching. She told me the other day that I talk as if the hosts of the shows are my friends. That’s not a good sign is it? I mean, they don’t talk directly to me. That would be silly. Besides, it’s not my fault that the only shows on TV that talk about what I’m interested in are on TechTV. It’s not like there’s MTV: Indie Pop. The world isn’t exactly beating down Robert Schneider to do his own TV show.
So I watch TechTV. Only because DirecTV doesn’t carry NASA. I watch that on the web.
Even my life hasn’t been that exciting. At least, not exciting enough to write about. The kids are as cute as ever. But, really, writing about how Matilda read 320 minutes on her summer reading program yesterday isn’t all that interesting to the rest of the world. True, every morning Gertrude refuses to eat her breakfast only to run and get a spoon, climb on my lap and then eat my cereal. That’s damn cute. But not worth a page of writing.
I need to get out of this creative rut I’m in. Or, the lack of creative rut I’m in. I’m just in a rut. I need a mental tow truck.
But, instead, I’m going to rewrite someone else’s case studies. I quiver with excitement.
Maybe my buddy Leo Laporte will come over and help.
Crap. TechTV hosts are not my friends. TechTV hosts are not my friends*
*DISCLAIMER: Gary O’Brien fully understands that TechTV hosts are not his friends. He is in no way deluded or dangerous. His wife made this comment in jest because he has been trying to get caught up on all the TechTV he hasn’t gotten to see since Todd moved back to Oregon. Gary would, however, like everyone to know that Quickdraw McGraw and Hong Kong Fuey are his friends and that they are coming over for dinner tonight.
Still Busy Today . . .
I ask all of you to support The Gnome Liberation Front. They do good work in the name of humane treatment for those who are inanimate.
Monday, June 09, 2003
Thursday, June 05, 2003
What’s The World Got In Store? (Apologies to Wilco)
These are my sincere hopes.
That you never experience pain as I have.
That you grow as beautiful inside as you are outside.
That you are smarter than me.
That you never know real fear.
That you remain strong, in every sense of the word.
That you never lose hope, even when hope can’t be found.
That you make perfectly horrible mistakes.
That those perfectly horrible mistakes forge your character.
That your dreams come true.
That you never fear to speak your mind.
That you stand for what you believe in.
That discovery never ends.
That you never lose your curiosity or wonder.
That the universe is good to you.
That you never want for what you need.
That you’re never afraid to sing and dance.
That you’ll see the beauty in what can’t be seen with the human eye.
That science is a field of discovery and not destruction.
That you grow up to appreciate human movement.
That you find love.
That you give love.
That the stars represent possibility and significance.
That it’s never your fault.
That you grow wiser, but never old.
That you never experience pain as I have.
That you grow as beautiful inside as you are outside.
That you are smarter than me.
That you never know real fear.
That you remain strong, in every sense of the word.
That you never lose hope, even when hope can’t be found.
That you make perfectly horrible mistakes.
That those perfectly horrible mistakes forge your character.
That your dreams come true.
That you never fear to speak your mind.
That you stand for what you believe in.
That discovery never ends.
That you never lose your curiosity or wonder.
That the universe is good to you.
That you never want for what you need.
That you’re never afraid to sing and dance.
That you’ll see the beauty in what can’t be seen with the human eye.
That science is a field of discovery and not destruction.
That you grow up to appreciate human movement.
That you find love.
That you give love.
That the stars represent possibility and significance.
That it’s never your fault.
That you grow wiser, but never old.
Eviction
It was sad to watch. Their belongings piled on the curb. The sadness on their faces as they tried to cram what they could into an old, beat up car. Presently there seemed to be no hope. And, in their eyes, I could see that the future was a frightening blank.
I'm Going Back . . . to the Future!
That there is a Baseball Research Center surprises me. But that’s beside the point. Not that anything I ever post here is actually on the point. If there is even such a thing.
Recently I was putting together a CD for a friend to listen to with his young daughter when I was struck with a sudden sense of nostalgia.
The reason behind the CD is inconsequential, but I’ll tell you anyway. I’ve been listening to a lot of Wilco lately. Don’t know why, just seemed to hit the spot I guess. However, I kept listening to two particular songs, “My Darling” and “What’s the World Got in Store” and was marveling at how lullabye-ish they sound. So, that led me to find a bootleg of Jeff Tweedy singing “Be Not So Fearful” and then an entire CD was born. I wanted my friend to be able to find songs that he could sing to, with or dance to with his daughter.
Music is a constant in our home and I think the girls are better for it. They listen to a variety of styles and genres and often pick up good things from them. Gertrude will dance when the song she needs comes on and will fall asleep almost on command when we sing “God Only Knows.” Matilda is incredibly musically aware and often will request songs (sadly, the most recent was “Token Irish Drinking Song” by The Pogues) and can sing along to Wilco, The Wondermints, Beach Boys, Apples in Stereo, Flaming Lips and more. She’s a cool kid.
On any given day you can hear a mix of rock, jazz, latin, electronic, folk and classical ringing through our halls, thanks to some great investigation, generous friends and general curiosity.
I’m sure my friend’s home is much the same, but leaning more toward a certain avante garde flair that he has. So, I wanted to add a little of my personality to his rotation. Plus, there are some really great songs on there by a variety of great performers spanning the last 70 years of music. Fun!
Whilst I was preparing the disc I came across a song I hadn’t listened to in quite a while and suddenly I was transported to a parking spot outside of a friend’s apartment circa 1997 listening to a tape in my slowly deteriorating Toyota Corolla. Honestly, I can’t remember the songs on the tape nor where the tape is. However, I do know that I listened to two songs repeatedly. Fountains of Wayne’s “Radiation Vibe” and Jellyfish’s “Sebrina, Paste and Plato.”
It’s the Jellyfish song that sent me back in time. It’s amazing how a song can have such a sense of place, such power over memory. It’s amazing and wonderful. I was thankful for that sudden flashback (despite the fact that it was a relatively shitty time in my life . . . but this tape made by a friend was a high point during that time).
So, by means of memory I want to say a hearty hello and thanks to Angie. To thank her for the tape, sparking my affair with these to bands, let her know I visited her past self recently and to apologize for spilling the lemonade in my musical reverie. I didn’t actually spill lemonade in real-life, but in my memory of that evening at the Smoking Monkey Theater, I do believe I spilled something.
And I didn’t win the Smoking Monkey. Damn it. But I did eat pancakes at Uncle Bill’s. There’s always an upside.
Discuss
Recently I was putting together a CD for a friend to listen to with his young daughter when I was struck with a sudden sense of nostalgia.
The reason behind the CD is inconsequential, but I’ll tell you anyway. I’ve been listening to a lot of Wilco lately. Don’t know why, just seemed to hit the spot I guess. However, I kept listening to two particular songs, “My Darling” and “What’s the World Got in Store” and was marveling at how lullabye-ish they sound. So, that led me to find a bootleg of Jeff Tweedy singing “Be Not So Fearful” and then an entire CD was born. I wanted my friend to be able to find songs that he could sing to, with or dance to with his daughter.
Music is a constant in our home and I think the girls are better for it. They listen to a variety of styles and genres and often pick up good things from them. Gertrude will dance when the song she needs comes on and will fall asleep almost on command when we sing “God Only Knows.” Matilda is incredibly musically aware and often will request songs (sadly, the most recent was “Token Irish Drinking Song” by The Pogues) and can sing along to Wilco, The Wondermints, Beach Boys, Apples in Stereo, Flaming Lips and more. She’s a cool kid.
On any given day you can hear a mix of rock, jazz, latin, electronic, folk and classical ringing through our halls, thanks to some great investigation, generous friends and general curiosity.
I’m sure my friend’s home is much the same, but leaning more toward a certain avante garde flair that he has. So, I wanted to add a little of my personality to his rotation. Plus, there are some really great songs on there by a variety of great performers spanning the last 70 years of music. Fun!
Whilst I was preparing the disc I came across a song I hadn’t listened to in quite a while and suddenly I was transported to a parking spot outside of a friend’s apartment circa 1997 listening to a tape in my slowly deteriorating Toyota Corolla. Honestly, I can’t remember the songs on the tape nor where the tape is. However, I do know that I listened to two songs repeatedly. Fountains of Wayne’s “Radiation Vibe” and Jellyfish’s “Sebrina, Paste and Plato.”
It’s the Jellyfish song that sent me back in time. It’s amazing how a song can have such a sense of place, such power over memory. It’s amazing and wonderful. I was thankful for that sudden flashback (despite the fact that it was a relatively shitty time in my life . . . but this tape made by a friend was a high point during that time).
So, by means of memory I want to say a hearty hello and thanks to Angie. To thank her for the tape, sparking my affair with these to bands, let her know I visited her past self recently and to apologize for spilling the lemonade in my musical reverie. I didn’t actually spill lemonade in real-life, but in my memory of that evening at the Smoking Monkey Theater, I do believe I spilled something.
And I didn’t win the Smoking Monkey. Damn it. But I did eat pancakes at Uncle Bill’s. There’s always an upside.
Discuss
Wednesday, June 04, 2003
Animate
This is what life is all about.
Right now some of you are saying, “That’s just a stupid cartoon. And I don’t get it. I suppose it’s kind of funny, sure. But it’s not Shrek funny. And why does the character look so weird?”
To those comments and questions I reply: you’re stupid.
Though animation has not traditionally been an American industry, it certainly has been a benchmark of American art. From Fleischer to Disney to Warner’s to Pixar, America has always led the way as far as breakthrough animation. American artists have taken the chances, destroyed the boundaries and created beautiful, living pictures. Let me say that again: Living Pictures.
Film maker David Lynch once said the reason why he started making films was because he wanted to see his paintings move. “I looked at one, and heard a wind. Then I started making films.”
To most people, pictures are just that: Pictures. However, to an animator, a picture is the prelude to a moment. Any given painting shows that moment, but a great painting implies the next moment and fills it with mystery.
I’ll use Edward Hopper as an example: his painting “Chop Suey” shows two dapper women sitting and enjoying a mid-day meal. And you could enjoy it merely for that moment. But looking closer, you notice that the woman facing you isn’t looking at her companion. And the woman with her back to you looks slumped down, tired. You want this painting to move, to give you a clue as to what happens next.
Artists can also give life to inanimate objects. Again, using Hopper, his ”House by a Railroad” shows a simple, turn-of-the-century home sitting behind a railway. But look at the house closely. What’s wrong with it? It looks sad. As if it is sighing. As if the simple act of staying standing may be too much effort for it. It’s a lonely, sad building.
The greatest moment Hopper has ever shown was in his painting “New York Movie”. There’s no reason to describe this one. The image itself screams with a story. A wonderful story. This painting almost begs to move. You want to know what happens next. It tells you an incomplete story, which is part of its mastery.
Animators take painting to the next level. They are artists who truly do give life. They take a motionless object and give it motion. Fluid grace and movement. The swinging of a pony tail, the brush of an arm against the dress, an embrace, touching of a cheek.
But more so than simply giving life where there once was no life, animators show us things that we can only imagine. Dancing trees and skeletons, water dancing to music, talking animals, living toys . . . They give life to whole worlds that seem to be just around the corner. And it is the part of the imagination that drives these projects that gets them pigeonholed as children’s projects.
Animators are one of the lucky few have never lost a child’s sense of glee with how the universe works. An animator will look at a dandelion blowing in the wind and stare for hours at its movement. He’ll blow the seeds into the wind and watch how they fly through the air.
Unlike a child, an animator can show us what he sees. Just because animated fare generally appeals to children (for obvious reasons: children like invented worlds, they like the color palettes and they like the stories they tell . . . that an adult cannot dive into the part of their imagination that animation requires is not the fault of the artist, but of the audience).
Pixar, the maker of the above clip, understands us better than anyone. They know that the only difference between children and adults is that many adults have forgotten how to be a kid. They’ve forgotten how to play. Pixar shows us great and wondrous worlds that we heartily wish existed.
They paint beautiful pictures that move with a grace; fluidity and humanity that make us laugh and cry. They can show a wind blow through the grass, a current rip through the ocean, with such a stunning beauty that we are astounded.
Better yet, Pixar doesn’t strive for hyper reality like some animated studios do. True, they aim to get their characters to move realistically, they try to get textures just right, etc. But they do not try to replicate the real world. They imitate our world for the benefit of their world.
Pixar is the last great animation, if not film, studio. And I hope they continue to delight and challenge us, and themselves.
And I hope they never forget how to be a kid. And I hope they never stop reminding me.
Plus they have really cool ugly shirts.
Discuss
Right now some of you are saying, “That’s just a stupid cartoon. And I don’t get it. I suppose it’s kind of funny, sure. But it’s not Shrek funny. And why does the character look so weird?”
To those comments and questions I reply: you’re stupid.
Though animation has not traditionally been an American industry, it certainly has been a benchmark of American art. From Fleischer to Disney to Warner’s to Pixar, America has always led the way as far as breakthrough animation. American artists have taken the chances, destroyed the boundaries and created beautiful, living pictures. Let me say that again: Living Pictures.
Film maker David Lynch once said the reason why he started making films was because he wanted to see his paintings move. “I looked at one, and heard a wind. Then I started making films.”
To most people, pictures are just that: Pictures. However, to an animator, a picture is the prelude to a moment. Any given painting shows that moment, but a great painting implies the next moment and fills it with mystery.
I’ll use Edward Hopper as an example: his painting “Chop Suey” shows two dapper women sitting and enjoying a mid-day meal. And you could enjoy it merely for that moment. But looking closer, you notice that the woman facing you isn’t looking at her companion. And the woman with her back to you looks slumped down, tired. You want this painting to move, to give you a clue as to what happens next.
Artists can also give life to inanimate objects. Again, using Hopper, his ”House by a Railroad” shows a simple, turn-of-the-century home sitting behind a railway. But look at the house closely. What’s wrong with it? It looks sad. As if it is sighing. As if the simple act of staying standing may be too much effort for it. It’s a lonely, sad building.
The greatest moment Hopper has ever shown was in his painting “New York Movie”. There’s no reason to describe this one. The image itself screams with a story. A wonderful story. This painting almost begs to move. You want to know what happens next. It tells you an incomplete story, which is part of its mastery.
Animators take painting to the next level. They are artists who truly do give life. They take a motionless object and give it motion. Fluid grace and movement. The swinging of a pony tail, the brush of an arm against the dress, an embrace, touching of a cheek.
But more so than simply giving life where there once was no life, animators show us things that we can only imagine. Dancing trees and skeletons, water dancing to music, talking animals, living toys . . . They give life to whole worlds that seem to be just around the corner. And it is the part of the imagination that drives these projects that gets them pigeonholed as children’s projects.
Animators are one of the lucky few have never lost a child’s sense of glee with how the universe works. An animator will look at a dandelion blowing in the wind and stare for hours at its movement. He’ll blow the seeds into the wind and watch how they fly through the air.
Unlike a child, an animator can show us what he sees. Just because animated fare generally appeals to children (for obvious reasons: children like invented worlds, they like the color palettes and they like the stories they tell . . . that an adult cannot dive into the part of their imagination that animation requires is not the fault of the artist, but of the audience).
Pixar, the maker of the above clip, understands us better than anyone. They know that the only difference between children and adults is that many adults have forgotten how to be a kid. They’ve forgotten how to play. Pixar shows us great and wondrous worlds that we heartily wish existed.
They paint beautiful pictures that move with a grace; fluidity and humanity that make us laugh and cry. They can show a wind blow through the grass, a current rip through the ocean, with such a stunning beauty that we are astounded.
Better yet, Pixar doesn’t strive for hyper reality like some animated studios do. True, they aim to get their characters to move realistically, they try to get textures just right, etc. But they do not try to replicate the real world. They imitate our world for the benefit of their world.
Pixar is the last great animation, if not film, studio. And I hope they continue to delight and challenge us, and themselves.
And I hope they never forget how to be a kid. And I hope they never stop reminding me.
Plus they have really cool ugly shirts.
Discuss
Tuesday, June 03, 2003
Happy Birthday Mom
She would have been 73 today and is still profoundly missed by us all.
The Beauty Of A Woman
The beauty of a woman,
isn't in the clothes she wears,
the figure that she carries,
or the way she combs her hair.
The beauty of a woman must be seen in her eyes
because that's the doorway to her heart,
the place where love resides.
The beauty of a woman, isn't in a facial mole,
but true beauty in a woman
is reflected by her soul.
It's the caring that she cares to give,
the passion that she shows,
and the beauty of a woman,
with passing years, only grows.
--Maya Angelou
The Beauty Of A Woman
The beauty of a woman,
isn't in the clothes she wears,
the figure that she carries,
or the way she combs her hair.
The beauty of a woman must be seen in her eyes
because that's the doorway to her heart,
the place where love resides.
The beauty of a woman, isn't in a facial mole,
but true beauty in a woman
is reflected by her soul.
It's the caring that she cares to give,
the passion that she shows,
and the beauty of a woman,
with passing years, only grows.
--Maya Angelou
Monday, June 02, 2003
I Had a Dream, Crazy Dream
I had the strangest damn dream last night. Nay, it wasn’t strange. It was irritating in the same way as when someone sits behind you and spits into your hair. It was irksome in the way that a dog who just licked his own butt keeps licking your hands. It pissed me off in the same way as when a clerk in a store is a complete jerk. Heh. Jerk and clerk rhyme. I am Stephen Sondheim.
I woke up around 5:45 to the baby crying and I went to the bathroom. When I returned, I found the baby sitting in the bed drinking the largest glass of water I have ever seen. She could actually fit her head inside the glass.
She smiled at me and said “Hi!”
I nuzzled back down in bed, knowing I had another 45 minutes.
Then, in my dreams, I turned off the alarm got up, took a shower, brushed my teeth, had breakfast, took out the trash and drove Matilda to School.
Then I woke up. I was pissed off. Not only did I have to go through the whole routine again, for real this time, I had wasted those final moments of sleep in a mad, dream-dash to the finish line.
I blame the baby. Because she’s an easy target and I can’t get mad at her because she’s cute.
I can’t blame Matilda because she was already awake and working on a secret project at her desk.
I can’t blame my wife because she’ll go Kung Fu on me.
So it’s the baby’s fault. She can’t hurt me.
Can she?
Seriously, can she?
Discuss
I woke up around 5:45 to the baby crying and I went to the bathroom. When I returned, I found the baby sitting in the bed drinking the largest glass of water I have ever seen. She could actually fit her head inside the glass.
She smiled at me and said “Hi!”
I nuzzled back down in bed, knowing I had another 45 minutes.
Then, in my dreams, I turned off the alarm got up, took a shower, brushed my teeth, had breakfast, took out the trash and drove Matilda to School.
Then I woke up. I was pissed off. Not only did I have to go through the whole routine again, for real this time, I had wasted those final moments of sleep in a mad, dream-dash to the finish line.
I blame the baby. Because she’s an easy target and I can’t get mad at her because she’s cute.
I can’t blame Matilda because she was already awake and working on a secret project at her desk.
I can’t blame my wife because she’ll go Kung Fu on me.
So it’s the baby’s fault. She can’t hurt me.
Can she?
Seriously, can she?
Discuss
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