I've been really boring. There's really no other way to put it. I work, I sleep, I eat, I play video games and watch movies in my free time, and I read a bit. Not much of the above is really blog-worthy. I think I'm in a sort of a funk, which happens periodically. No idea why it happens, but it's often followed by a surge of creative energy, so I look forward to that. In the interim, though, I probably won't blog much because I won't be doing much.
I've starting reading American Gods by Neil Gaiman. I'm not far into it, but it's really good so far. A co-worker recommended it to me. That's one of the perks of working at a bookstore- I get to hear about all kinds of good books and music.
Monday, April 26, 2004
Tuesday, April 20, 2004
I saw the movie The Punisher yesterday. It's a good thing I like the character and Garth Ennis's comic writing that was the basis for much of the action, because otherwise this could be a hard movie to sit through. It clocks in at a full two hours and change, and it seems that much of the movie could be edited and pared down to about 90 minutes. The test market screenings must have been really interesting, because I get the impression that the audiences weren't familiar with the comic book. Some genius along the way must have complained long and loud about a lack of nice, sympathetic characters. As a result, Garth Ennis's three neighbor characters (who were little more than scenery in the comic) are given more attention. With three social misfits and a psychotic loner all sharing a rathole apartment building it sometimes seems like Andrew Vachss directing a very special episode of Friends.
The script and visual design were peculiar as well. Some tinkering with the character's origin was perfectly acceptable, some of the changes were incomprehensible. Glaring foibles aside, though, there were some subtle touches added in that showed real intelligence and regard for the character's cinematic roots. The title sequence was inspired by the animated introductions to Sergio Leone's westerns. There are other great Leone scenes, too. One scene in a diner with an assassin who plays a guitar to Frank before attacking him is strikingly similar to the scene in Once Upon a Time in the West where the mystery protagonist "Harmonica" plays his trademark instrument to the men he intends to kill. Other more obvious elements are the high-noon style standoff in the bank lobby (guess who wins), and the way that all the nameless thugs are given a certain amount of individuality. There are even intentionally added nods to Othello. This could have been a better movie, but I'm satisfied with what I saw.
In other brutal-revenge-by-bloody-killing-spree news, I've just discovered that Sweeny Todd is now available on DVD. I don't buy very many movies, but I may end up owning this one before too long.
The script and visual design were peculiar as well. Some tinkering with the character's origin was perfectly acceptable, some of the changes were incomprehensible. Glaring foibles aside, though, there were some subtle touches added in that showed real intelligence and regard for the character's cinematic roots. The title sequence was inspired by the animated introductions to Sergio Leone's westerns. There are other great Leone scenes, too. One scene in a diner with an assassin who plays a guitar to Frank before attacking him is strikingly similar to the scene in Once Upon a Time in the West where the mystery protagonist "Harmonica" plays his trademark instrument to the men he intends to kill. Other more obvious elements are the high-noon style standoff in the bank lobby (guess who wins), and the way that all the nameless thugs are given a certain amount of individuality. There are even intentionally added nods to Othello. This could have been a better movie, but I'm satisfied with what I saw.
In other brutal-revenge-by-bloody-killing-spree news, I've just discovered that Sweeny Todd is now available on DVD. I don't buy very many movies, but I may end up owning this one before too long.
Wednesday, April 14, 2004
I'm in. First and foremost, I must post the good news that I have been accepted to the Ball State University Graduate School; to the Digital Storytelling program. This is thanks in no small part to the knowledge, support, and unwavering encouragement from Gerry. He's a one of a kind fool.
Now that that's out, let me back up a ways. I woke up unnaturally early this morning (sin-against-nature early) in order to tag along with Gerry and his family to BSU. We were going to peruse apartments, as Gerry has imminent need for a place to live while working at the college during the summer. I went along to get some idea of what I might be paying, assuming that I would be accepted for the fall. The van ride down to BSU was pretty much what I expected. Gerry and I sat in the back seat like a couple of eight year olds while the adults drove. Appropriately enough, we discussed comic books and cartoons, gazed out of the windows into the vast expanses of Hoosier corn and soybean wasteland, and lazily counted the exits until the iconic figure of Big Jack loomed on the horizon, marking the turnoff to go to Muncie.
Pulling into Muncie, Indiana is sort of like flipping through Dante's Inferno like a flip book animation in reverse. You start with nothing but more fields, then eventually come up on the fringes of the town marked by a Meijer and a Menards near the highway; two of the huge corporate megastores responsible for squashing and supporting almost every small town in the America. Within minutes, the remaining semi-independent businesses are revealed- a greasy steakhouse and a see-it-to-believe-it Goodwill store. Across the street lies a Wal-Mart Supercenter that is equal parts John Steinbeck and Steven King. Further on and a few turns later, at last, is Ball State. A misfit collection of drunkards and scholars, dullards and geniuses, and a diverse enough minority population to repopulate Epcot five times over. Everyone seems really friendly, though. It's the kind of mix of people that every good college should have.
The apartments we looked at were pretty much what one would expect for off-campus housing. Some were too large, some were too small, but one or two were just right. I'm not sure where I'll live, but I have time to talk to a few people I know to find out what the best deal for me will be.
After a morning spent exploring living options, we convened to the atrium dining area on the ground floor of the Journalism building. I had a grilled cheese sandwich, a familiar staple item from my previous college experience. While I was waiting in line, a young woman was talking to Gerry about something or other. Then, seemingly in mid-sentence, she turned to me and started telling me about how she uses Softimage (3D program) and how they're merged with Avid and how [sic] like everybody in the industry are using Softimage. She told me about a new 3D class in the architecture school that is trying to attract art students. It sounds like something I might get a kick out of if it fits my schedule. I also got to meet the legendary Moses, the Robin to Gerry's Batman for many a Halloween party. I feel like I should've prepared a little something to say for when I met him, but a hearty handshake seemed to suffice.
After lunch the whole group went on a little walking tour of the building, and on the way we encountered the very professor I needed to talk to in regard to grad school. He told me that he had everything that he needed from me and that I was accepted as far as he knew. Perplexed, I ventured off to the grad school office with Gerry as my Cardinal sherpa to find out what the heck was going on. I found the right office and explained my situation as best I could to the person on the other side of the desk. I failed to make any kind of sense, so she entered my social security number and figured out what the hell I was trying to say by looking at four different variables. All that was needed was written confirmation from the aforementioned professor. A ten second phone call later he had e-mailed an affirmative that I was accepted into the program. In less time than it takes to beat world 1-1 in Super Mario Brothers I went from confused to elated.
We departed for home after taking a nostalgic look at Gerry's old apartment complex. Not much to say there, really. We got back in town and made a spur of the moment decision to go buy comic books. Crazy fun indeed. Then I went out to a celebratory dinner at Biaggi's and stuffed my face with torteloni al forno.
In summary, today I got a new purpose in life, comic books, and good food. w00t.
Now that that's out, let me back up a ways. I woke up unnaturally early this morning (sin-against-nature early) in order to tag along with Gerry and his family to BSU. We were going to peruse apartments, as Gerry has imminent need for a place to live while working at the college during the summer. I went along to get some idea of what I might be paying, assuming that I would be accepted for the fall. The van ride down to BSU was pretty much what I expected. Gerry and I sat in the back seat like a couple of eight year olds while the adults drove. Appropriately enough, we discussed comic books and cartoons, gazed out of the windows into the vast expanses of Hoosier corn and soybean wasteland, and lazily counted the exits until the iconic figure of Big Jack loomed on the horizon, marking the turnoff to go to Muncie.
Pulling into Muncie, Indiana is sort of like flipping through Dante's Inferno like a flip book animation in reverse. You start with nothing but more fields, then eventually come up on the fringes of the town marked by a Meijer and a Menards near the highway; two of the huge corporate megastores responsible for squashing and supporting almost every small town in the America. Within minutes, the remaining semi-independent businesses are revealed- a greasy steakhouse and a see-it-to-believe-it Goodwill store. Across the street lies a Wal-Mart Supercenter that is equal parts John Steinbeck and Steven King. Further on and a few turns later, at last, is Ball State. A misfit collection of drunkards and scholars, dullards and geniuses, and a diverse enough minority population to repopulate Epcot five times over. Everyone seems really friendly, though. It's the kind of mix of people that every good college should have.
The apartments we looked at were pretty much what one would expect for off-campus housing. Some were too large, some were too small, but one or two were just right. I'm not sure where I'll live, but I have time to talk to a few people I know to find out what the best deal for me will be.
After a morning spent exploring living options, we convened to the atrium dining area on the ground floor of the Journalism building. I had a grilled cheese sandwich, a familiar staple item from my previous college experience. While I was waiting in line, a young woman was talking to Gerry about something or other. Then, seemingly in mid-sentence, she turned to me and started telling me about how she uses Softimage (3D program) and how they're merged with Avid and how [sic] like everybody in the industry are using Softimage. She told me about a new 3D class in the architecture school that is trying to attract art students. It sounds like something I might get a kick out of if it fits my schedule. I also got to meet the legendary Moses, the Robin to Gerry's Batman for many a Halloween party. I feel like I should've prepared a little something to say for when I met him, but a hearty handshake seemed to suffice.
After lunch the whole group went on a little walking tour of the building, and on the way we encountered the very professor I needed to talk to in regard to grad school. He told me that he had everything that he needed from me and that I was accepted as far as he knew. Perplexed, I ventured off to the grad school office with Gerry as my Cardinal sherpa to find out what the heck was going on. I found the right office and explained my situation as best I could to the person on the other side of the desk. I failed to make any kind of sense, so she entered my social security number and figured out what the hell I was trying to say by looking at four different variables. All that was needed was written confirmation from the aforementioned professor. A ten second phone call later he had e-mailed an affirmative that I was accepted into the program. In less time than it takes to beat world 1-1 in Super Mario Brothers I went from confused to elated.
We departed for home after taking a nostalgic look at Gerry's old apartment complex. Not much to say there, really. We got back in town and made a spur of the moment decision to go buy comic books. Crazy fun indeed. Then I went out to a celebratory dinner at Biaggi's and stuffed my face with torteloni al forno.
In summary, today I got a new purpose in life, comic books, and good food. w00t.
Friday, April 09, 2004
If you're like me (which isn't likely) you've often wondered "how big is an Imperial Star Destroyer compared to, say, a 747, or the Stay-Puff Marshmallow Man?" Even if the thought had never crossed your mind, this is still a good and valid question. I've been to the top of the Eiffel Tower, and now I know the relative size of the big ship in Close Encounters. Check out this site for the comparative sizes of all sorts of sci-fi craft and Earthly structures.
Thursday, April 08, 2004
Wednesday, April 07, 2004
Movies, movies, movies. That's been a theme for me this week. I watched Scarface and Vanilla Sky over the past few days, and I enjoyed both. I won't say anything about Vanilla Sky, just in case there are people in my small audience who haven't seen it.
I would like to say a little about Scarface, though. This movie is over the top; excessive. The whole movie is about excess. The colors are bright and garish, the music is loud, the profanity and the blood are equally flowing, and even quiet dialogue is delivered with gusto and force. My personal favorite line: "All I have in this world is my balls, and my word. And I don't break them for no one." The movie is all about the rise and fall of Tony Montana, whose final scene involves a mountain of cocaine, a Heston-class assault rifle, and the phrase "Say hello to my little friend!" As the credits roll, I got to thinking about how rich he was, and how I live at home under a mountain of student loan debt, and how diametrically opposed I am from this character. I'm kind of glad that I'm so boring now, given the alternative.
Tonight I went to the Cinema Center to see The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari. It's an old German silent film with some of the craziest and creepiest visuals ever committed to celluloid. The set design has a cool cubist style, and you can actually see the brush strokes in many of the scenery pieces, so the whole film is like a painting. The really cool part about the movie tonight, though, was the music. All of the music in the movie was performed live by three musicians. They had keyboards, guitars, drums, almost anything that would make a cool sound. The violin would play a sinister little tune every time the mysterious Caligari would come on screen, the sound effects were all instrumental, and everything fit the action perfectly. Apparently this is a touring company, and tomorrow they'll be in Chicago doing this show and a silent western too.
It's back to work for me tomorrow. It's been a little weird for me lately. I've befriended a Gap employee who comes into the store a lot. The other night we talked about Hellboy for a couple minutes. She likes my name and asks intelligent questions about good books, thus completely disrupting my hard and fast reasoning for not liking the Gap. Elsewhere in the mall, Victoria's Secret is offering a free Bob Dylan CD single. I'm not a huge Dylan fan, but it would be cool to get the free CD. This is foreign territory for me, though; a complete no-fly zone. When I walk past the store I always feel like a South Korean staring across the 38th parallel, not fully knowing what lies on the other side. If I could figure out a way to retrieve the item with a fishing pole, a la Wile E. Coyote, I'd be set.
Still no reply from Ball State.
I would like to say a little about Scarface, though. This movie is over the top; excessive. The whole movie is about excess. The colors are bright and garish, the music is loud, the profanity and the blood are equally flowing, and even quiet dialogue is delivered with gusto and force. My personal favorite line: "All I have in this world is my balls, and my word. And I don't break them for no one." The movie is all about the rise and fall of Tony Montana, whose final scene involves a mountain of cocaine, a Heston-class assault rifle, and the phrase "Say hello to my little friend!" As the credits roll, I got to thinking about how rich he was, and how I live at home under a mountain of student loan debt, and how diametrically opposed I am from this character. I'm kind of glad that I'm so boring now, given the alternative.
Tonight I went to the Cinema Center to see The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari. It's an old German silent film with some of the craziest and creepiest visuals ever committed to celluloid. The set design has a cool cubist style, and you can actually see the brush strokes in many of the scenery pieces, so the whole film is like a painting. The really cool part about the movie tonight, though, was the music. All of the music in the movie was performed live by three musicians. They had keyboards, guitars, drums, almost anything that would make a cool sound. The violin would play a sinister little tune every time the mysterious Caligari would come on screen, the sound effects were all instrumental, and everything fit the action perfectly. Apparently this is a touring company, and tomorrow they'll be in Chicago doing this show and a silent western too.
It's back to work for me tomorrow. It's been a little weird for me lately. I've befriended a Gap employee who comes into the store a lot. The other night we talked about Hellboy for a couple minutes. She likes my name and asks intelligent questions about good books, thus completely disrupting my hard and fast reasoning for not liking the Gap. Elsewhere in the mall, Victoria's Secret
Still no reply from Ball State.
Monday, April 05, 2004
Not every movie I watch is light-hearted, you know. For every happy action movie I see, I try to ballance with a less than jubilant selection, like Once Upon a Time in the West, or The Seventh Seal. I love having a comm minor- I get to be a card-carrying film snob whenever I want.
I'd like to recommend the movie I watched last night, The Man Who Wasn't There. It's the Cohen brothers take on film noir. The whole thing is black and white and the lighting is amazing. It also has almost every cool actor currently working- Billy-Bob Thornton, James Gandolfini, Scarlett Johanssen, and Tony Shaloub, just to name a few. Without giving too much away, the movie reminded me of The Stranger by Albert Camus. My brother would get that, but I don't know about anyone else.
I'd like to recommend the movie I watched last night, The Man Who Wasn't There. It's the Cohen brothers take on film noir. The whole thing is black and white and the lighting is amazing. It also has almost every cool actor currently working- Billy-Bob Thornton, James Gandolfini, Scarlett Johanssen, and Tony Shaloub, just to name a few. Without giving too much away, the movie reminded me of The Stranger by Albert Camus. My brother would get that, but I don't know about anyone else.
Friday, April 02, 2004
The following is a joint blog post from Gerry and I. I can't guarantee that it will make any kind of sense, but it was a labor of love.
------------------------------------------------------
Your two favorite bloggers, in one entry together!
It's been a little while since we hyped our joint blog…okay, it's been more than a little while. But at last, get ready for Gerry and Loyal's summer comic book movie preview of "The Punisher" and "Spider-Man 2" a.k.a. "Sony makes a hell of a lot more money."
For the past few years, Hollywood has maintained a precarious grip on the fervent and profitable fanboy audience with a series of comic book and literature adaptations. The most successful movies are the ones that stay true to the author's original vision. The Lord of the Rings movies, both Harry Potter movies, and most of the Marvel comics movies have been faithful and high quality. With such an unnaturally high rate of success, there is an unnerving feeling of waiting for the other shoe to drop. History shows that any time a genre enjoys a boom in its early years; it often crashes hard in the waning years. The American western, the old Hollywood musical, and other popular styles have bitten the dust in a significant way. Bearing this in mind, what does the future hold for the comic book genre? This summer will be the litmus test for the future direction of science fiction cinema.
So, enough screwing around playing in the street. It's time to preview two films that will capture America's attention and become water-cooler fodder—okay, maybe not. But work with us here.
Gerry: Actually, if Spider-Man 2 is anything like its predecessor, it will claim America's undivided attention. The original Wall Crawler flick not only generated more money than the national debt, it also received rave reviews and spawned a new era of Spidey merchandise. The new film features another baddy from the comic books, Doctor Otto Octavious, affectionately known as Doctor Octopus, or Doc Ock. Unlike the Green Goblin's Power Ranger costume in the last film, Doc Ock looks very sharp in his moody trench coat and four metal prosthetic arms, which would no doubt make him a great bartender. Of course, Doc Ock won't be serving up drinks, he will be serving up a healthy dose of mayhem, evil, and all-around annoyance for Peter Parker.
Peter has more to worry about than just the supervillain of the week—ol' redhead Mary Jane is causing our hero all sorts of romantic problems. It appears MJ is moving on to J. Jonah Jamison's son, who is an astronaut. Gee, I don't know why a girl would rather date an astronaut than a journalist. What a crazy way to go.
Loyal: Ah, Peter Parker, when will you learn? The double life is surely a rough one. Is it worse to be thrown off of a building with a bomb strapped to your head, or to discover that your camera will be in the shop for a week? Either livelihood is fraught with difficulty.
Gerry: You know, my computer, not camera, has been in the shop for about a week, and I can't scale buildings to burn off steam.
Loyal: Yeah, life is hard that way. Of course, there are worse ways to deal with problems. You could always forsake your current identity and go on a mad homicidal rampage against anyone with even a slight criminal bent. This would be the theme behind The Punisher, another comic book coming to the movie screen this summer. The title character is a grim fellow with every reason in the world to be angry, but no real moral justification for his methods. The Punisher movie will be loosely based on the recent comic book run written by Garth Ennis. I haven't read too much in the way of the movie plot, but I do expect a cool movie.
Gerry: Screw the Punisher. I wanna talk about Spider-Man. Is that okay with you?
Loyal: Of course, proceed. The world waits on pins and needles for your opinion of Spider-Man.
Gerry: Pins and needles? Sounds painful. Speaking of pain, I'm in agony waiting for Spider-Man 2 to be released. This flick is going to rock. The first film set up the characters nicely, and this will allow Spidey 2 to hit the ground running. Director Sam Raimi tells us to expect more humor, drama, and action, and I believe him. Doc Ock looks incredible, and everyone is anxious to see what develops between Peter and MJ. One just gets a sense this film is going to top the original.
Loyal: I'm looking forward to seeing a superhero movie without an origin story. The pacing of the movie will be better without having to explain everything to the audience. I've been looking forward to this movie since the representative from Sony Digital Imaging at the Siggraph convention two years ago promised more web-slinging action like the finale of the first movie. Spider-Man 2 will be one of the highlights of the summer.
Gerry: I can't say with confidence that The Punisher will be a summer highlight. I still have bad memories of the straight-to-video Punisher flick--
Loyal: La-la-la! Not listening! Never happened!
Gerry: --and John Travolta as a villain? Come on. The Punisher's popularity in the comic books tends to rise and fall. I don't know, something makes me nervous about this film. Maybe it's shipping our favorite black-clad gun-toting vigilante to Miami. What's he gonna do there, attend Marlins games?
Loyal: Agreed, it's never a good thing to monkey with continuity. It might work in this particular instance, but I'm afraid of what this could mean for comic book movies as a whole. As a genre, each summer's batch of releases lives and dies by the previous summer's successes and failures. With a questionable Catwoman title on the horizon—
Gerry: Questionable?! Questionable?! Catwoman will be terrible and you know it! Warner Bros. should be fined for making a mockery of the character, and…
Loyal: Yes, yes, I know. I reserve judgment until it comes out and I don't see it. Anyway, speculation aside, this summer is looking good for geek entertainment.
Gerry: And geeked out, we are. I am giddy with anticipation for Spider-Man 2, and I suppose I'll give The Punisher a shot. Until next time, make sure your utility belts are tight and your capes are pressed.
------------------------------------------------------
Your two favorite bloggers, in one entry together!
It's been a little while since we hyped our joint blog…okay, it's been more than a little while. But at last, get ready for Gerry and Loyal's summer comic book movie preview of "The Punisher" and "Spider-Man 2" a.k.a. "Sony makes a hell of a lot more money."
For the past few years, Hollywood has maintained a precarious grip on the fervent and profitable fanboy audience with a series of comic book and literature adaptations. The most successful movies are the ones that stay true to the author's original vision. The Lord of the Rings movies, both Harry Potter movies, and most of the Marvel comics movies have been faithful and high quality. With such an unnaturally high rate of success, there is an unnerving feeling of waiting for the other shoe to drop. History shows that any time a genre enjoys a boom in its early years; it often crashes hard in the waning years. The American western, the old Hollywood musical, and other popular styles have bitten the dust in a significant way. Bearing this in mind, what does the future hold for the comic book genre? This summer will be the litmus test for the future direction of science fiction cinema.
So, enough screwing around playing in the street. It's time to preview two films that will capture America's attention and become water-cooler fodder—okay, maybe not. But work with us here.
Gerry: Actually, if Spider-Man 2 is anything like its predecessor, it will claim America's undivided attention. The original Wall Crawler flick not only generated more money than the national debt, it also received rave reviews and spawned a new era of Spidey merchandise. The new film features another baddy from the comic books, Doctor Otto Octavious, affectionately known as Doctor Octopus, or Doc Ock. Unlike the Green Goblin's Power Ranger costume in the last film, Doc Ock looks very sharp in his moody trench coat and four metal prosthetic arms, which would no doubt make him a great bartender. Of course, Doc Ock won't be serving up drinks, he will be serving up a healthy dose of mayhem, evil, and all-around annoyance for Peter Parker.
Peter has more to worry about than just the supervillain of the week—ol' redhead Mary Jane is causing our hero all sorts of romantic problems. It appears MJ is moving on to J. Jonah Jamison's son, who is an astronaut. Gee, I don't know why a girl would rather date an astronaut than a journalist. What a crazy way to go.
Loyal: Ah, Peter Parker, when will you learn? The double life is surely a rough one. Is it worse to be thrown off of a building with a bomb strapped to your head, or to discover that your camera will be in the shop for a week? Either livelihood is fraught with difficulty.
Gerry: You know, my computer, not camera, has been in the shop for about a week, and I can't scale buildings to burn off steam.
Loyal: Yeah, life is hard that way. Of course, there are worse ways to deal with problems. You could always forsake your current identity and go on a mad homicidal rampage against anyone with even a slight criminal bent. This would be the theme behind The Punisher, another comic book coming to the movie screen this summer. The title character is a grim fellow with every reason in the world to be angry, but no real moral justification for his methods. The Punisher movie will be loosely based on the recent comic book run written by Garth Ennis. I haven't read too much in the way of the movie plot, but I do expect a cool movie.
Gerry: Screw the Punisher. I wanna talk about Spider-Man. Is that okay with you?
Loyal: Of course, proceed. The world waits on pins and needles for your opinion of Spider-Man.
Gerry: Pins and needles? Sounds painful. Speaking of pain, I'm in agony waiting for Spider-Man 2 to be released. This flick is going to rock. The first film set up the characters nicely, and this will allow Spidey 2 to hit the ground running. Director Sam Raimi tells us to expect more humor, drama, and action, and I believe him. Doc Ock looks incredible, and everyone is anxious to see what develops between Peter and MJ. One just gets a sense this film is going to top the original.
Loyal: I'm looking forward to seeing a superhero movie without an origin story. The pacing of the movie will be better without having to explain everything to the audience. I've been looking forward to this movie since the representative from Sony Digital Imaging at the Siggraph convention two years ago promised more web-slinging action like the finale of the first movie. Spider-Man 2 will be one of the highlights of the summer.
Gerry: I can't say with confidence that The Punisher will be a summer highlight. I still have bad memories of the straight-to-video Punisher flick--
Loyal: La-la-la! Not listening! Never happened!
Gerry: --and John Travolta as a villain? Come on. The Punisher's popularity in the comic books tends to rise and fall. I don't know, something makes me nervous about this film. Maybe it's shipping our favorite black-clad gun-toting vigilante to Miami. What's he gonna do there, attend Marlins games?
Loyal: Agreed, it's never a good thing to monkey with continuity. It might work in this particular instance, but I'm afraid of what this could mean for comic book movies as a whole. As a genre, each summer's batch of releases lives and dies by the previous summer's successes and failures. With a questionable Catwoman title on the horizon—
Gerry: Questionable?! Questionable?! Catwoman will be terrible and you know it! Warner Bros. should be fined for making a mockery of the character, and…
Loyal: Yes, yes, I know. I reserve judgment until it comes out and I don't see it. Anyway, speculation aside, this summer is looking good for geek entertainment.
Gerry: And geeked out, we are. I am giddy with anticipation for Spider-Man 2, and I suppose I'll give The Punisher a shot. Until next time, make sure your utility belts are tight and your capes are pressed.
I discovered a couple of mildly interesting tidbits about the internet recently. One: my blog is finally a blip on the google radar. I tested this out of curiosity and found that there's even a cached version from a few months ago. Two: some photographs I took almost a year ago are up on a promotional website for the SACS music booster carwash.
A little follow-up from the other day's pants post. I decided to scratch my apparel buying itch and venture into the Buckle to look for something good. It turns out that there was a sale rack in the back, so my preternatural spider-sense for clothing sales wasn't just misfiring. I found a pair of pants that didn't look good on me at all, but I did find a shirt that I like, and I got it for %25 off. It wasn't the greatest deal I've ever gotten, but it was the only thing in the store I could see myself wearing with an ounce of self respect.
I'm still waiting for word from BSU. I know it will take awhile, and everybody tells me not to worry, but I'm getting a bit nervous.
A little follow-up from the other day's pants post. I decided to scratch my apparel buying itch and venture into the Buckle to look for something good. It turns out that there was a sale rack in the back, so my preternatural spider-sense for clothing sales wasn't just misfiring. I found a pair of pants that didn't look good on me at all, but I did find a shirt that I like, and I got it for %25 off. It wasn't the greatest deal I've ever gotten, but it was the only thing in the store I could see myself wearing with an ounce of self respect.
I'm still waiting for word from BSU. I know it will take awhile, and everybody tells me not to worry, but I'm getting a bit nervous.
Wednesday, March 31, 2004
I found this on Gerry's blog and I felt the burning need to pass it on to the portion of my audience that doesn't read his blog.
Superman and Jerry Seinfeld -It's cool on par with the Super Mario Brothers animation I linked to a while back.
Superman and Jerry Seinfeld -It's cool on par with the Super Mario Brothers animation I linked to a while back.
Sunday, March 28, 2004
I had the strangest feeling today; completely out of character for me. I was walking through the mall on my lunch break with my just-purchased bowl of soup in my hand and my earphones playing Tom Waits. Nothing out of the ordinary, just me blocking out the people and advertisements around me with a happy bubble of sound. My normal routine is to take a short outdoor constitutional to get some fresh air and clear my head. I traipse about with my Entish legs in full stride, and I sometimes check certain windows. I glance in EBgames to see what's new on the demo machines and to check if the token (and, incidentally, cute) female employee is working, I look at the Gap for as long as it takes me to renew my bloated sense of intellectual superiority, and I look at the sky to remind myself somehow that I'm really truly on a break so I can relax.
As I mentioned before, though, today was different. It was a beautiful sunny day (the type I normally avoid), and I was in an almost chipper mood (the type I normally avoid). As I made my way across the sunlit valley of suburban fetish peddlers I happened to look into a store called the Buckle. I can only assume they sell belts and or shoes, though all that is visible from outside is shirts and pants. For whatever reason, my eye fixed briefly on the "Lucky" clothing logo. I have a shirt from this particular label, one of many black shirts I own, and I rather like it. It's a good skinny guy shirt that makes a harsh contrast against the many lumbering fleshpiles that populate this state. So, while I don't usually care about labels, I do kind of like Lucky, as they make nice looking clothes that are perfect for art galleries and semi-classy restaurants. I thought about this as I walked away from the store window, and I suddenly thought that I needed a nice pair of pants.
Normally, this is not the sort of thing that will cross my mind. If my head were Wrigley Field, the thought of buying pants when I don't absolutely need them would be represented by a seagull perched on the edge of Navy Pier. I have plenty of pants. I have enough jeans and khakis to last me for weeks at a time in between laundry loads without getting dirty and funky. Why would I get the urge to buy pants, especially if I don't see a sale sign? Is this one of those maturity things where I'm supposed to want to dress well in order to feel confident? If so, then I must be regressing to some earlier age when this sort of feeling would normally afflict me, or I'm still a late bloomer. I have my work pants and my regular pants, and even a pair of pants as part of my suit. Also, I'm trying to save as much money as possible for this fall when I will be a student again. I'm not even sure why I want new pants, as I don't even know if they come in my funhouse mirror size or not. Perhaps I've been mall employee for long enough that the conditioning is starting to sink in. Perhaps I feel the need to assert myself as a vibrant twenty-something who is every bit as hip and cool as the characters on my favorite TV shows, even if only while wearing an as-yet-unseen pair of pants.
I don't know. I've rambled on about this for long enough. I do apologize to my faithful readers for the long ramble on the single subject without any kind of payoff at the end. Unless of course you're really fascinated by prospective pants purchase diatribes.
As I mentioned before, though, today was different. It was a beautiful sunny day (the type I normally avoid), and I was in an almost chipper mood (the type I normally avoid). As I made my way across the sunlit valley of suburban fetish peddlers I happened to look into a store called the Buckle. I can only assume they sell belts and or shoes, though all that is visible from outside is shirts and pants. For whatever reason, my eye fixed briefly on the "Lucky" clothing logo. I have a shirt from this particular label, one of many black shirts I own, and I rather like it. It's a good skinny guy shirt that makes a harsh contrast against the many lumbering fleshpiles that populate this state. So, while I don't usually care about labels, I do kind of like Lucky, as they make nice looking clothes that are perfect for art galleries and semi-classy restaurants. I thought about this as I walked away from the store window, and I suddenly thought that I needed a nice pair of pants.
Normally, this is not the sort of thing that will cross my mind. If my head were Wrigley Field, the thought of buying pants when I don't absolutely need them would be represented by a seagull perched on the edge of Navy Pier. I have plenty of pants. I have enough jeans and khakis to last me for weeks at a time in between laundry loads without getting dirty and funky. Why would I get the urge to buy pants, especially if I don't see a sale sign? Is this one of those maturity things where I'm supposed to want to dress well in order to feel confident? If so, then I must be regressing to some earlier age when this sort of feeling would normally afflict me, or I'm still a late bloomer. I have my work pants and my regular pants, and even a pair of pants as part of my suit. Also, I'm trying to save as much money as possible for this fall when I will be a student again. I'm not even sure why I want new pants, as I don't even know if they come in my funhouse mirror size or not. Perhaps I've been mall employee for long enough that the conditioning is starting to sink in. Perhaps I feel the need to assert myself as a vibrant twenty-something who is every bit as hip and cool as the characters on my favorite TV shows, even if only while wearing an as-yet-unseen pair of pants.
I don't know. I've rambled on about this for long enough. I do apologize to my faithful readers for the long ramble on the single subject without any kind of payoff at the end. Unless of course you're really fascinated by prospective pants purchase diatribes.
Thursday, March 25, 2004
If you use an electric toothbrush while listening to an iPod it makes anything sound like White Zombie. Strange but true.
I've worked a ton over the last week or so, hence I've been neglecting the blog. I devoted last night to watching Sergio Leone's Once Upon a Time in the West, yet another starkly unhappy tale of vengeance and greed in the old west. I love those movies. Tonight I'm going to go see the Triplets of Belleville. Tomorrow I'll go see Jersey Girl. None of this makes good blogfodder, but I thought I ought to mention it for posterity or something.
I'm trying to get back into art somehow. Being marginally employed and dressing like a bum is only chic if you can back it up with some kind of art or philosophy degree. Also, I'm getting over the art school mind-fuxor that I was in for so long. I had the idea that much of what I would produce would be inconsequential and amateurish if I didn't devote every waking moment to art, eschewing all television and video games, most movies, and any form of fun that didn't involve recreational drugs. It has occurred to me that even if I had paid attention in my art history, graphic design, and sociology classes I would still be working retail. So, if fine art isn't for me, then I don't need to adhere to any sort of dogmatic standard of what an artist is, and I can focus on any sort of creative outlet I want. And it will be inconsequential and amateurish, but it doesn't matter. The point of my going to grad school is to develop myself as an individual, not as a cookie-cutter artist in the dubious tradition of thousands of Warhol devotees.
I just learned that my brother is going to a concert with Howard Shore directing his Lord of the Rings music. Live. For fifteen dollars. Needless to say, I am insanely jealous. He'd better blog about it in an overly-verbose and scantly-edited way when he gets back.
One last thing that I felt I should put here. In Lewis Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland there is a riddle that, at the time of the original publication, there was no answer for. The Mad Hatter's riddle; "how is a raven like a writing desk?" I was thumbing through a copy of the book the other night, and I found that Carroll had later responded to the many fan inquiries with this answer: "Because it can produce a few notes, though they are very flat; and it is never put with the wrong end in front." There you have it, the answer to the riddle with no answer from the man who first posed the question. I now carry it in my wallet for the giddy esoteric value of having such a thing.
I've worked a ton over the last week or so, hence I've been neglecting the blog. I devoted last night to watching Sergio Leone's Once Upon a Time in the West, yet another starkly unhappy tale of vengeance and greed in the old west. I love those movies. Tonight I'm going to go see the Triplets of Belleville. Tomorrow I'll go see Jersey Girl. None of this makes good blogfodder, but I thought I ought to mention it for posterity or something.
I'm trying to get back into art somehow. Being marginally employed and dressing like a bum is only chic if you can back it up with some kind of art or philosophy degree. Also, I'm getting over the art school mind-fuxor that I was in for so long. I had the idea that much of what I would produce would be inconsequential and amateurish if I didn't devote every waking moment to art, eschewing all television and video games, most movies, and any form of fun that didn't involve recreational drugs. It has occurred to me that even if I had paid attention in my art history, graphic design, and sociology classes I would still be working retail. So, if fine art isn't for me, then I don't need to adhere to any sort of dogmatic standard of what an artist is, and I can focus on any sort of creative outlet I want. And it will be inconsequential and amateurish, but it doesn't matter. The point of my going to grad school is to develop myself as an individual, not as a cookie-cutter artist in the dubious tradition of thousands of Warhol devotees.
I just learned that my brother is going to a concert with Howard Shore directing his Lord of the Rings music. Live. For fifteen dollars. Needless to say, I am insanely jealous. He'd better blog about it in an overly-verbose and scantly-edited way when he gets back.
One last thing that I felt I should put here. In Lewis Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland there is a riddle that, at the time of the original publication, there was no answer for. The Mad Hatter's riddle; "how is a raven like a writing desk?" I was thumbing through a copy of the book the other night, and I found that Carroll had later responded to the many fan inquiries with this answer: "Because it can produce a few notes, though they are very flat; and it is never put with the wrong end in front." There you have it, the answer to the riddle with no answer from the man who first posed the question. I now carry it in my wallet for the giddy esoteric value of having such a thing.
Monday, March 15, 2004
I haven't updated in awhile, which always means I've been busy. I sold books, played video games, and went to the dentist. Those are the sort of things that aren't worth elaborating on, though, save for that I'm happy to have clean teeth. Here are the things that are worth extrapolating on.
The heater did get installed, and it works really well. I felt I should mention that after my last post, even if only to give myself some closure.
I sent my portfolio to BSU, and as soon as I know anything I'll post it here. Of course, almost everybody who will read this is near enough for me to tell in person, but I'll still post. This site is the DVD-commentary to my life.
Gerry and I went to the mall on Saturday night for all the usual reasons. We wandered around grousing about kids today and speculating about geek summer movies yet to come. I rarely if ever buy anything at the mall, but I still like to go and walk around for some reason. I used to use the mall as a one-hour escape from the responsibilities of college. Anyway, the highlight of the night (aside from hanging out with Gerry) was dinner at TGI Fridays. I talked to guy I knew from USF since my freshman year (happy to hear he might be getting a really good job soon) and Gerry somehow managed to make friends with everyone within earshot. This included not only our server, but also the lady at the table next to us. Not directly next to us, as there was a plant on top of a partition to act as a Les Nessman-esque wall. Unhindered by this honor-system divider, the woman overheard us discussing what we might order and handed us a little menu with some kind of a discount deal. We had the same thing on our table, but she really wanted us to see this. She also wanted to tell us about the cooking demonstration at the home expo that she and her taciturn husband had been to earlier at the Coliseum. So, instead of Gerry and I having our usual discussions about media ethics or the sociological nuances of sports, we got to hear all about over-priced cookware and a demonstration by those dogs that jump really far and land in a pool of water. The woman left after a while, but not before informing us with wide-eyed head-nodding conviction that we should go to the home expo cooking demo because we get to try everything the chef prepares and we even get a free salad at the beginning. We continued eating and Gerry struck up a conversation with our server, a delightful young woman with a penchant for movie references and a need to rest her feet after a long day. After a satisfying meal we bid adieu to the mall, heading back to the suburbs where people respect the botanical confines dictated by homogeneous chain restaurants.
The heater did get installed, and it works really well. I felt I should mention that after my last post, even if only to give myself some closure.
I sent my portfolio to BSU, and as soon as I know anything I'll post it here. Of course, almost everybody who will read this is near enough for me to tell in person, but I'll still post. This site is the DVD-commentary to my life.
Gerry and I went to the mall on Saturday night for all the usual reasons. We wandered around grousing about kids today and speculating about geek summer movies yet to come. I rarely if ever buy anything at the mall, but I still like to go and walk around for some reason. I used to use the mall as a one-hour escape from the responsibilities of college. Anyway, the highlight of the night (aside from hanging out with Gerry) was dinner at TGI Fridays. I talked to guy I knew from USF since my freshman year (happy to hear he might be getting a really good job soon) and Gerry somehow managed to make friends with everyone within earshot. This included not only our server, but also the lady at the table next to us. Not directly next to us, as there was a plant on top of a partition to act as a Les Nessman-esque wall. Unhindered by this honor-system divider, the woman overheard us discussing what we might order and handed us a little menu with some kind of a discount deal. We had the same thing on our table, but she really wanted us to see this. She also wanted to tell us about the cooking demonstration at the home expo that she and her taciturn husband had been to earlier at the Coliseum. So, instead of Gerry and I having our usual discussions about media ethics or the sociological nuances of sports, we got to hear all about over-priced cookware and a demonstration by those dogs that jump really far and land in a pool of water. The woman left after a while, but not before informing us with wide-eyed head-nodding conviction that we should go to the home expo cooking demo because we get to try everything the chef prepares and we even get a free salad at the beginning. We continued eating and Gerry struck up a conversation with our server, a delightful young woman with a penchant for movie references and a need to rest her feet after a long day. After a satisfying meal we bid adieu to the mall, heading back to the suburbs where people respect the botanical confines dictated by homogeneous chain restaurants.
Wednesday, March 10, 2004
I'm up well before noon for the second day in a row. If you listen closely, you can hear the world's smallest violin playing a lament for me, having to wake up. The thing is, I'm not up because I have to go to work. I'm out of bed before my mid-Pacific sleep schedule usually dictates because I've been charged with greeting the guy who is installing a new furnace in the basement. For the second day in a row. I really don't know anything about furnaces; I've never read anything about them, so all that I know is that they sit in the basement and create heat. The old one didn't create heat, though, at least not enough to fill a standard size suburban house. The old heater produced the fine black sooty substance that, if left unchecked, would eventually build up somewhere in the heating system to the point that heat wouldn't get through anymore. That, and carbon monoxide. Apparently, the threat of cee-oh-one is credible enough to warrant concern. I think it causes brain damage, or something. This might explain the quality of some of my past bloggings. Soot and carbon monoxide- welcome to flavor country.
I feel kind of like Laura in Tennessee Williams's The Glass Menagerie, waiting for the geltleman caller. I suppose the big difference in my case would be that I've already had two cups of coffee and watched a rerun of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. And I've never had pleurosis. And I'm not preordained by the divine hand of the playwrite to fail dismally and remain alone with no company but a shelf full of glass animals and an aging southern debutante.
Here's an article that I found interesting the other day. The psychology of headphones. It's a quick read, for those of you with precious little time on your hands.
I feel kind of like Laura in Tennessee Williams's The Glass Menagerie, waiting for the geltleman caller. I suppose the big difference in my case would be that I've already had two cups of coffee and watched a rerun of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. And I've never had pleurosis. And I'm not preordained by the divine hand of the playwrite to fail dismally and remain alone with no company but a shelf full of glass animals and an aging southern debutante.
Here's an article that I found interesting the other day. The psychology of headphones. It's a quick read, for those of you with precious little time on your hands.
Sunday, March 07, 2004
I treated my illness with a week of medicinal Starcraft and all kinds of cold-fighting beverages. I'm feeling better now, and life moves inexorably onward for me. My portfolio is coming together nicely and I should have it in the mail to BSU this next week. I'm also back to selling books at BN, so w00t for me.
In my geek opinion, it's been an up-and-down month for geek shows. My big three are Angel, Smallville, and West Wing. One is building to a giant climax, one is spinning it's wheels, and one is meandering aimlessly, respectively.
As Angel gears up for a series finale that might just be The End in a big way, there were several excellent episodes this past month. We got a goofy mystical puppet episode written by the Tick creator Ben Edlund, a cool flashback episode on a WWII submarine, and even a sort of a "beginning of the end" episode written and directed by Joss Whedon himself. There has been a real sense of urgency and suspense in the show, and more than one main character has died. I would even go so far as to opine that this has been better so far than most of the last season of Buffy.
Smallville is either running out of ideas to take from other shows and movies, or the producers have some huge idea cooking on the back burner for the last few episodes of the season. I'm not quite sure what's going on. There was a surprisingly nice episode about a girl who could teleport, hence she didn't really have any sense of personal boundaries and this leads to certain trouble for our hero. Then there was the usual plotting about bombs with kryptonite, cars with kryptonite, and everything else that has already been done to death on the show. It's getting sad. Aside from that, though, the characters other than Clark and Lana have been given more important roles. There have been two different explanations about Pete's whereabouts during the first half of the season. The last episode was mostly a dud, save for a wordless scene at the end that puts nearly three years of mystery in perspective and left my jaw on the floor. If the writers can manage to avoid any more gaping plot holes and stop being so grossly negligent with Clark's secret, then the season's last six episodes will be very cool indeed.
Then, there's West Wing. Insert labored sigh here. It's only too clear how smart a writer Aaron Sorkin is now that he isn't heading the show anymore. It's almost as if the writers are locked in separate offices with nothing but word processors and muted televisions on CNN. There hasn't been any thought given to the characters themselves, the people behind the official titles. The original intent of the show was to put a human face on politics. I missed a couple of episodes due to work, but so far this season has been sort of an echo of the previous four years.
I watch more TV than I used to, but I try to limit myself to shows I'm actually interested in. I'll be cutting way back next fall, I know that. Until then, I can anticipate Wonderfalls, a promising new show for the clods at Fox to run into the ground, and an eventual second season of Dead Like Me.
In my geek opinion, it's been an up-and-down month for geek shows. My big three are Angel, Smallville, and West Wing. One is building to a giant climax, one is spinning it's wheels, and one is meandering aimlessly, respectively.
As Angel gears up for a series finale that might just be The End in a big way, there were several excellent episodes this past month. We got a goofy mystical puppet episode written by the Tick creator Ben Edlund, a cool flashback episode on a WWII submarine, and even a sort of a "beginning of the end" episode written and directed by Joss Whedon himself. There has been a real sense of urgency and suspense in the show, and more than one main character has died. I would even go so far as to opine that this has been better so far than most of the last season of Buffy.
Smallville is either running out of ideas to take from other shows and movies, or the producers have some huge idea cooking on the back burner for the last few episodes of the season. I'm not quite sure what's going on. There was a surprisingly nice episode about a girl who could teleport, hence she didn't really have any sense of personal boundaries and this leads to certain trouble for our hero. Then there was the usual plotting about bombs with kryptonite, cars with kryptonite, and everything else that has already been done to death on the show. It's getting sad. Aside from that, though, the characters other than Clark and Lana have been given more important roles. There have been two different explanations about Pete's whereabouts during the first half of the season. The last episode was mostly a dud, save for a wordless scene at the end that puts nearly three years of mystery in perspective and left my jaw on the floor. If the writers can manage to avoid any more gaping plot holes and stop being so grossly negligent with Clark's secret, then the season's last six episodes will be very cool indeed.
Then, there's West Wing. Insert labored sigh here. It's only too clear how smart a writer Aaron Sorkin is now that he isn't heading the show anymore. It's almost as if the writers are locked in separate offices with nothing but word processors and muted televisions on CNN. There hasn't been any thought given to the characters themselves, the people behind the official titles. The original intent of the show was to put a human face on politics. I missed a couple of episodes due to work, but so far this season has been sort of an echo of the previous four years.
I watch more TV than I used to, but I try to limit myself to shows I'm actually interested in. I'll be cutting way back next fall, I know that. Until then, I can anticipate Wonderfalls, a promising new show for the clods at Fox to run into the ground, and an eventual second season of Dead Like Me.
Monday, March 01, 2004
I'm not in blogging condition today, so this isn't going to be a huge long post. I worked a full eight hour shift in the cafe yesterday with a 103F degree fever, so I'm letting myself recuperate today. Forcing, actually, as I'm eager to spend my day off doing things I enjoy, like visiting the library and, well, checking out books at the library. Also, The Tripplets of Bellville is playing locally, but I want to wait and see it with my brother next week.
So, while I've been playing Jimmy Stewart* cooped up indoors looking longingly at the outside world, I found this brilliant flash animation that you all need to see. Trust me. Super Mario Brothers. Even in 2-D it manages to outdo the near-forgotten live action Super Mario movie. There are three parts, so watch them all and geek out.
*In the movie Rear Window, if you didn't get it.
So, while I've been playing Jimmy Stewart* cooped up indoors looking longingly at the outside world, I found this brilliant flash animation that you all need to see. Trust me. Super Mario Brothers. Even in 2-D it manages to outdo the near-forgotten live action Super Mario movie. There are three parts, so watch them all and geek out.
*In the movie Rear Window, if you didn't get it.
Friday, February 27, 2004
Here we go, the nearly full description of my weekend. Some of the more mundane details were omitted, but most of the really mundane details are all there in exacting detail. Enjoy.
I pulled into the parking lot on the residential side of the University of Saint Francis with some trepidation. Since graduation almost two years ago, I hadn't been back to the school much. Usually I only go back to the school whenever I have good reason, like an art show. It feels odd to go back, to have to look the students in the eye and pretend that their optimism for the future after graduation isn't in vain. Another problem is that I only know a handful of people on campus, and most of them will be graduating soon. The parking lot hadn't changed much in five years. The uneven black surface still collects water and a thin persistent layer of gasoline that never drains properly so much as it evaporates and clings to the nearby residence halls.
I parked my car in the same place I always did for three years, way out away from anybody else and away from the speeding meatheads who would be careening around drunkenly later that Friday night after I had left for the weekend. The path to the student center between two antique single classroom buildings and a clump of overgrown bushes was also unchanged, still uneven and slippery, still the perfect place to slip and fall and lay for hours where no one can see you. The exterior of the student center was cleaner than I remember it, the bushes and trees having been pruned and cleared at some point. Familiarity ended, however, when I gave an unsuccessful tug on the back door handle that I always used when I was a student. Instead of the familiar latch click squeaking door and rush of old building/ new paint musk I had grown accustomed to, I got the resistance of a locked door. Peering through the window, I saw the strange shapes of office furniture instead of a collection of waiting room style couches facing the temperamental big screen TV that my friends and I used to commandeer as out own personal movie theater. Sad, really, as I have many fond memories of that room.
So, nostalgia aside, I ventured up and around to the front entrance to the student center, formerly a horse stable to the Bass family a century ago. Students were already gathered in wait for the drawing of the destination. I felt a little old among them, out of place on a campus where everybody knows everybody else and nobody remembers me. Nobody but a select few who I've always liked. Brooke, who I've known since my first class my freshman year, who now teaches at the college. Rachel, who I know through forensics and art, making ours a friendship borne by educational masochism. Brady, brother of Brooke and former co-worker at Fort Fun. And Don, a great guy who I met very late in my college career. They would be my primary travel companions, the Samwise Gamgees and Neal Cassadys and the Virgils on the Ultimate Road Trip (tm).
I signed a release form and an emergency form, ate some pizza, and mingled with the few people I knew. At this point, I found out that the school had sprung for a charter bus, so I wouldn't be driving, but I was still welcome to come along. My weekend was clear, so I figured I would go. The Dean of Students drew the city from her coat pocket, and the verdict was Dallas, Texas.
Prior to this, my only experience with Dallas was the Dallas/ Fort Worth airport, DFW. The abbreviation is appropriate, as it covered my knowledge of the city pretty well. It's far and wide known as being a bit of a pit, a series of dirty food courts and magazine stands between overstuffed terminals. Our destination was outside of DFW, though.
There was a light rain as I boarded the bus alongside the fellow who normally dresses as Johnny Cougar, the USF mascot. I had already learned this much about a total stranger in the distance of a parking lot: I was traveling with a guy who dresses up as an endangered wildcat wearing a blue jersey.
The bus was the standard long-distance people hauler, complete with overhead bins and coach class seating all the way back. I sat next to Brady and near the rest of my aforementioned friends and resigned myself to sitting for the next several hours through several states. We ended up waiting in the parking lot for almost an hour for some late person rumored to have been in a minor car accident. She showed up looking no worse for the wear, and we departed.
The first two hours, marked as the distance from Fort Wayne to Indianapolis, passed uneventfully for me. Everyone was excited, talking about school and other things. I plugged myself into my iPod and read a few chapters in Cory Doctorow's Down and Out in the Magic Kingdom. Around the time we passed the Indianapolis skyline I turned to talk to Brooke and Don, discussing music and movie soundtracks, and how good Wes Anderson is at picking music for his films. It's funny because those two are right out of a Wes Anderson movie.
The first rest stop we used (in the most impolite sense) was in southern Illinois. It set the standard for the following succession of roadside loos, each one oddly removed from society but yet in no way artsy or avant-garde. Roadside rest stops have always been very alien to me, as if each one sits on land that doesn't belong to America. The routine is always the same: exit the bus, locate the men's room logo door, take care of business, decipher the meth-addled drifter graffiti, wash hands, wipe hands on pants, and try not to touch anything on the way out to check the roadmap and board the bus.
Back on the road someone put on a movie on the bus's video system, Bowling for Columbine. Not the sort of movie you usually watch in this situation, but it passed the time through most of Illinois. It was maybe an hour after the movie ended that the bus stopped for gas and my friends and I purchased candy from the truck stop store. It was a full five minutes before I knew for a fact we were in southern Missouri, nearing some sort of a halfway point.
The time between stops and notable events on the road passed in a sort of hypnotic reverie. The large metal frame of the bus rattled with every divot in the road, and wavered from side to side on it's suspension as the wind buffeted it. Most people tried to sleep, while some talked or listened to music. I sat in my seat alternating my weight from side to side, trying in vain to find a comfortable and stable position. A cross section of the bus would reveal a passenger arrangement similar to Picasso's Guernica, each person differently contorted in sleep depending on body type and tolerance for pain. This is the sort of thing that finances home remodeling for chiropractors.
We rolled into Arkansas in the wee hours of the morning. Outside it was pitch black, with only a vague horizon line in the distance to prove we weren't in an infinite void. I tried to sleep for awhile, and almost succeeded in nodding off when the bus pulled off of the freeway and into a roadside parking lot motel. The lights came on, the driver got off, and a fresh driver got on. I was a little disappointed that they didn't exchange a secret handshake or a retinal scan. The only ID the new driver had was his uniform black tie, an item that could be purchased anywhere. Our only real security is that nobody would ever willingly hijack a bus full of bleary-eyed Catholics bound for Texas. It just isn't profitable.
In the middle of Arkansas we passed through Little Rock. Even with nobody in the city at that hour, it still looks impressive. The city looks to have grown and revitalized in the last decade, and I wouldn't mind having to go there on business some day. Little Rock is home to the TCBY headquarters, which probably has an impressive array of candy in the executive lounge parfait bar. After passing the city and entering the southwestern part of the state I tried to sleep again, but the roads turned bumpy, dashing any hope of quality REM sleep. Instead, I stared out the window on the road between Little Rock and Hope, Clinton's home town, imagining the state, campaign, and national decisions that had been discussed on that stretch of road in the last twenty years.
The sun rose in the east, gradually lighting the lax faces around me with pale blue light. The rural landscape still stretched out for miles in every direction, populated by roadside trees and signs to places with foreign and meaningless names. I watched and waited for a green highway sign that would feature the white Rorschach outline that would tell me what state we were in. Aside from idle curiosity, I wanted to know what highway numbers we would be passing in order to gauge our distance. As I understand, the state highway numbers increased as we moved away from the capitol in the center of the state, so the higher the numbers the closer to Texas. It was still Arkansas, so I plugged into my iPod and sat quietly, the music filling the vision of the wasteland outside.
I think I slept at some point. I remember opening my eyes later and seeing more variation in the land. There were buildings and cars around us. The Texas border was near and people were waking up groaning, massaging sore necks and shoulders and applying deodorant. We pulled into a truckstop gas station for breakfast, where someone spotted the first mullet of the trip walking past the starboard side of the bus. The diner was the harsh side of Americana, a thick mixture of smoke and bacon fat air contained in circa 1982 wood paneled walls. The wizened customers had the collective age of the fossil fuel in the tanks under their feet. They eyed us with suspicion as we passed through to the bathrooms and back again. I kept moving and didn't make eye contact. Outside, I brushed my teeth with a travel toothbrush and a bottle of water, spitting in the grass. It felt good to have a clean mouth, though the rest of me needed some hygiene that wouldn't be available for quite some time. I was able to shave, though, so I felt good from the neck up.
Two hours later the city of Dallas loomed on the horizon. The road into the city was lined with churches and rib joints, bolstering a series of stereotypes. The actual city, however, was gleaming. The first street we tried was lined with all kinds of clubs, bars, and entertainment venues ranging from expensive to seedy. Nothing was open at that time of day, though, so we moved on to the downtown area. Rachel moved to the front of the bus to give the driver directions, relying on a preternatural knowledge of all things Texas.
The bus stopped in the middle of the city and the group set out to see the nearby shops and restaurants. I ate with my friends at a touristy steakhouse, then we all went down the street to a little shopping center full of the usual tourist-trap items, Texas t-shirts and the like, almost identical to every similar store I've ever seen in from Arizona to Italy. In truth, I usually avoid these types of stores after seeing what one or two of them have to offer. The local merchants always hide better merchandise off the beaten path.
After walking a few blocks we came upon the infamous plaza where President Kennedy was assassinated in 1963. I think I got the complete tour, in a way. The whole plaza is filled with signs and plaques signifying everything, recreating the whole ordeal in detail. We walked down the path of the motorcade, where the window in the former book depository is visible from the ground. Around a bend in the road there are two X marks in the road about 25 feet apart where the two shots hit the president, one from the window and one from elsewhere, ostensibly the fence nearby. Standing by the fence, I got to see a presentation-cum-sales-pitch from a guy selling picture books about the shooting and conspiracy. Several street vendors were also selling photobooks. There were even kids and families standing in the street on the unceremonious faded X marks for vacation photos. Crass American bloodlust meets selective historical fascination.
A short time later we all gathered to pose for a group picture as required by law, and then boarded the bus to go to the Dallas Galleria mall. The Galleria is a colossal place, but very few of the stores are worthwhile to me. I can say that I've been into a Versace store now, and all of the lights in the store are powered by cables connected to Sam Houston spinning in his grave at the prospect of a Versace on Texas soil. I followed my friends amiably from store to store, perusing things I don't need and fighting sleep deprivation. In the window display at the Gucci store there were large signs that said "ever get the feeling you're being lied to?" My stomach turned when I saw this, and for good reason. These were the last words Johnny Rotten said to the crowd at the last Sex Pistols concert ever. To see this as marketing for effing Gucci is a travesty.
Elsewhere in the mall, things were better for me. I split from the group before dinner to go to Macy's where I had seen racks of men's clothes on sale. I'm not all that fashion conscious, but I do like to look good for art shows and social events. This is accomplished by scouring clearance racks for cheap clothes that fit me. The best place to do this is in major cities, where the clearance items are much more stylish than the full priced items in Fort Wayne. After foraging through racks of pants sized for circus freaks and shirts that not even the designer's mother would wear, I came upon a jacket that I liked. Right size, easy cleaning, good color, and marked down from $85.00 to $20.00, give or take. For some reason, I only find good things on vacation when I'm alone.
At 9:00, about the time I was ready to collapse, we all boarded the bus to return home. The return trip was much less eventful, as I could sleep comfortably. Brady gave up trying to sleep sitting up and laid down in the center aisle for the night. I took advantage of my newfound space and slept soundly on both seats as we made our way out of Texas.
I woke up to a chilly Missouri morning, dimly aware of where I was. A few other people were awake, and those who were were treated to a beautiful sunrise as we crossed the Mississippi river. It made the whole ride worthwhile, it was amazing. The rest of the time was passed talking to my friends until we rolled into Fort Wayne in the middle of the afternoon.
It was a long weekend, and obviously I didn't recover for a while, as this post has taken a long time. There it is, though, my magnum opus blog post in all of it's glory. Now blink your eyes and refocus them on something further away. I don't want you going blind.
I pulled into the parking lot on the residential side of the University of Saint Francis with some trepidation. Since graduation almost two years ago, I hadn't been back to the school much. Usually I only go back to the school whenever I have good reason, like an art show. It feels odd to go back, to have to look the students in the eye and pretend that their optimism for the future after graduation isn't in vain. Another problem is that I only know a handful of people on campus, and most of them will be graduating soon. The parking lot hadn't changed much in five years. The uneven black surface still collects water and a thin persistent layer of gasoline that never drains properly so much as it evaporates and clings to the nearby residence halls.
I parked my car in the same place I always did for three years, way out away from anybody else and away from the speeding meatheads who would be careening around drunkenly later that Friday night after I had left for the weekend. The path to the student center between two antique single classroom buildings and a clump of overgrown bushes was also unchanged, still uneven and slippery, still the perfect place to slip and fall and lay for hours where no one can see you. The exterior of the student center was cleaner than I remember it, the bushes and trees having been pruned and cleared at some point. Familiarity ended, however, when I gave an unsuccessful tug on the back door handle that I always used when I was a student. Instead of the familiar latch click squeaking door and rush of old building/ new paint musk I had grown accustomed to, I got the resistance of a locked door. Peering through the window, I saw the strange shapes of office furniture instead of a collection of waiting room style couches facing the temperamental big screen TV that my friends and I used to commandeer as out own personal movie theater. Sad, really, as I have many fond memories of that room.
So, nostalgia aside, I ventured up and around to the front entrance to the student center, formerly a horse stable to the Bass family a century ago. Students were already gathered in wait for the drawing of the destination. I felt a little old among them, out of place on a campus where everybody knows everybody else and nobody remembers me. Nobody but a select few who I've always liked. Brooke, who I've known since my first class my freshman year, who now teaches at the college. Rachel, who I know through forensics and art, making ours a friendship borne by educational masochism. Brady, brother of Brooke and former co-worker at Fort Fun. And Don, a great guy who I met very late in my college career. They would be my primary travel companions, the Samwise Gamgees and Neal Cassadys and the Virgils on the Ultimate Road Trip (tm).
I signed a release form and an emergency form, ate some pizza, and mingled with the few people I knew. At this point, I found out that the school had sprung for a charter bus, so I wouldn't be driving, but I was still welcome to come along. My weekend was clear, so I figured I would go. The Dean of Students drew the city from her coat pocket, and the verdict was Dallas, Texas.
Prior to this, my only experience with Dallas was the Dallas/ Fort Worth airport, DFW. The abbreviation is appropriate, as it covered my knowledge of the city pretty well. It's far and wide known as being a bit of a pit, a series of dirty food courts and magazine stands between overstuffed terminals. Our destination was outside of DFW, though.
There was a light rain as I boarded the bus alongside the fellow who normally dresses as Johnny Cougar, the USF mascot. I had already learned this much about a total stranger in the distance of a parking lot: I was traveling with a guy who dresses up as an endangered wildcat wearing a blue jersey.
The bus was the standard long-distance people hauler, complete with overhead bins and coach class seating all the way back. I sat next to Brady and near the rest of my aforementioned friends and resigned myself to sitting for the next several hours through several states. We ended up waiting in the parking lot for almost an hour for some late person rumored to have been in a minor car accident. She showed up looking no worse for the wear, and we departed.
The first two hours, marked as the distance from Fort Wayne to Indianapolis, passed uneventfully for me. Everyone was excited, talking about school and other things. I plugged myself into my iPod and read a few chapters in Cory Doctorow's Down and Out in the Magic Kingdom. Around the time we passed the Indianapolis skyline I turned to talk to Brooke and Don, discussing music and movie soundtracks, and how good Wes Anderson is at picking music for his films. It's funny because those two are right out of a Wes Anderson movie.
The first rest stop we used (in the most impolite sense) was in southern Illinois. It set the standard for the following succession of roadside loos, each one oddly removed from society but yet in no way artsy or avant-garde. Roadside rest stops have always been very alien to me, as if each one sits on land that doesn't belong to America. The routine is always the same: exit the bus, locate the men's room logo door, take care of business, decipher the meth-addled drifter graffiti, wash hands, wipe hands on pants, and try not to touch anything on the way out to check the roadmap and board the bus.
Back on the road someone put on a movie on the bus's video system, Bowling for Columbine. Not the sort of movie you usually watch in this situation, but it passed the time through most of Illinois. It was maybe an hour after the movie ended that the bus stopped for gas and my friends and I purchased candy from the truck stop store. It was a full five minutes before I knew for a fact we were in southern Missouri, nearing some sort of a halfway point.
The time between stops and notable events on the road passed in a sort of hypnotic reverie. The large metal frame of the bus rattled with every divot in the road, and wavered from side to side on it's suspension as the wind buffeted it. Most people tried to sleep, while some talked or listened to music. I sat in my seat alternating my weight from side to side, trying in vain to find a comfortable and stable position. A cross section of the bus would reveal a passenger arrangement similar to Picasso's Guernica, each person differently contorted in sleep depending on body type and tolerance for pain. This is the sort of thing that finances home remodeling for chiropractors.
We rolled into Arkansas in the wee hours of the morning. Outside it was pitch black, with only a vague horizon line in the distance to prove we weren't in an infinite void. I tried to sleep for awhile, and almost succeeded in nodding off when the bus pulled off of the freeway and into a roadside parking lot motel. The lights came on, the driver got off, and a fresh driver got on. I was a little disappointed that they didn't exchange a secret handshake or a retinal scan. The only ID the new driver had was his uniform black tie, an item that could be purchased anywhere. Our only real security is that nobody would ever willingly hijack a bus full of bleary-eyed Catholics bound for Texas. It just isn't profitable.
In the middle of Arkansas we passed through Little Rock. Even with nobody in the city at that hour, it still looks impressive. The city looks to have grown and revitalized in the last decade, and I wouldn't mind having to go there on business some day. Little Rock is home to the TCBY headquarters, which probably has an impressive array of candy in the executive lounge parfait bar. After passing the city and entering the southwestern part of the state I tried to sleep again, but the roads turned bumpy, dashing any hope of quality REM sleep. Instead, I stared out the window on the road between Little Rock and Hope, Clinton's home town, imagining the state, campaign, and national decisions that had been discussed on that stretch of road in the last twenty years.
The sun rose in the east, gradually lighting the lax faces around me with pale blue light. The rural landscape still stretched out for miles in every direction, populated by roadside trees and signs to places with foreign and meaningless names. I watched and waited for a green highway sign that would feature the white Rorschach outline that would tell me what state we were in. Aside from idle curiosity, I wanted to know what highway numbers we would be passing in order to gauge our distance. As I understand, the state highway numbers increased as we moved away from the capitol in the center of the state, so the higher the numbers the closer to Texas. It was still Arkansas, so I plugged into my iPod and sat quietly, the music filling the vision of the wasteland outside.
I think I slept at some point. I remember opening my eyes later and seeing more variation in the land. There were buildings and cars around us. The Texas border was near and people were waking up groaning, massaging sore necks and shoulders and applying deodorant. We pulled into a truckstop gas station for breakfast, where someone spotted the first mullet of the trip walking past the starboard side of the bus. The diner was the harsh side of Americana, a thick mixture of smoke and bacon fat air contained in circa 1982 wood paneled walls. The wizened customers had the collective age of the fossil fuel in the tanks under their feet. They eyed us with suspicion as we passed through to the bathrooms and back again. I kept moving and didn't make eye contact. Outside, I brushed my teeth with a travel toothbrush and a bottle of water, spitting in the grass. It felt good to have a clean mouth, though the rest of me needed some hygiene that wouldn't be available for quite some time. I was able to shave, though, so I felt good from the neck up.
Two hours later the city of Dallas loomed on the horizon. The road into the city was lined with churches and rib joints, bolstering a series of stereotypes. The actual city, however, was gleaming. The first street we tried was lined with all kinds of clubs, bars, and entertainment venues ranging from expensive to seedy. Nothing was open at that time of day, though, so we moved on to the downtown area. Rachel moved to the front of the bus to give the driver directions, relying on a preternatural knowledge of all things Texas.
The bus stopped in the middle of the city and the group set out to see the nearby shops and restaurants. I ate with my friends at a touristy steakhouse, then we all went down the street to a little shopping center full of the usual tourist-trap items, Texas t-shirts and the like, almost identical to every similar store I've ever seen in from Arizona to Italy. In truth, I usually avoid these types of stores after seeing what one or two of them have to offer. The local merchants always hide better merchandise off the beaten path.
After walking a few blocks we came upon the infamous plaza where President Kennedy was assassinated in 1963. I think I got the complete tour, in a way. The whole plaza is filled with signs and plaques signifying everything, recreating the whole ordeal in detail. We walked down the path of the motorcade, where the window in the former book depository is visible from the ground. Around a bend in the road there are two X marks in the road about 25 feet apart where the two shots hit the president, one from the window and one from elsewhere, ostensibly the fence nearby. Standing by the fence, I got to see a presentation-cum-sales-pitch from a guy selling picture books about the shooting and conspiracy. Several street vendors were also selling photobooks. There were even kids and families standing in the street on the unceremonious faded X marks for vacation photos. Crass American bloodlust meets selective historical fascination.
A short time later we all gathered to pose for a group picture as required by law, and then boarded the bus to go to the Dallas Galleria mall. The Galleria is a colossal place, but very few of the stores are worthwhile to me. I can say that I've been into a Versace store now, and all of the lights in the store are powered by cables connected to Sam Houston spinning in his grave at the prospect of a Versace on Texas soil. I followed my friends amiably from store to store, perusing things I don't need and fighting sleep deprivation. In the window display at the Gucci store there were large signs that said "ever get the feeling you're being lied to?" My stomach turned when I saw this, and for good reason. These were the last words Johnny Rotten said to the crowd at the last Sex Pistols concert ever. To see this as marketing for effing Gucci is a travesty.
Elsewhere in the mall, things were better for me. I split from the group before dinner to go to Macy's where I had seen racks of men's clothes on sale. I'm not all that fashion conscious, but I do like to look good for art shows and social events. This is accomplished by scouring clearance racks for cheap clothes that fit me. The best place to do this is in major cities, where the clearance items are much more stylish than the full priced items in Fort Wayne. After foraging through racks of pants sized for circus freaks and shirts that not even the designer's mother would wear, I came upon a jacket that I liked. Right size, easy cleaning, good color, and marked down from $85.00 to $20.00, give or take. For some reason, I only find good things on vacation when I'm alone.
At 9:00, about the time I was ready to collapse, we all boarded the bus to return home. The return trip was much less eventful, as I could sleep comfortably. Brady gave up trying to sleep sitting up and laid down in the center aisle for the night. I took advantage of my newfound space and slept soundly on both seats as we made our way out of Texas.
I woke up to a chilly Missouri morning, dimly aware of where I was. A few other people were awake, and those who were were treated to a beautiful sunrise as we crossed the Mississippi river. It made the whole ride worthwhile, it was amazing. The rest of the time was passed talking to my friends until we rolled into Fort Wayne in the middle of the afternoon.
It was a long weekend, and obviously I didn't recover for a while, as this post has taken a long time. There it is, though, my magnum opus blog post in all of it's glory. Now blink your eyes and refocus them on something further away. I don't want you going blind.
Friday, February 20, 2004
First off, go check out Making Fiends. It's some funny stuff.
It's February, a TV sweeps month, so I feel the need to do something to do something in (dubious?) honor of this. Faithful readers may remember when I made noodles with peanut sauce for my last sweeps stunt, blogging live from the kitchen as I prepared the dish. This time around, though, I'm going to leave off with a cliffhanger. A non-ending or sorts. I'm leaving for a little weekend jaunt to who knows where as a driver on the annual USF road trip. The official title of the trip is the "ultimate road trip", but this is erroneous.
The idea is to set out on the open road to whatever destination on Friday night and be back by Sunday morning, so it really isn't that large of a trip; nor is this the last trip that will ever be taken, hence there isn't anything "ultimate" about it. I was part of the inaugural trip a couple of years ago. We started towards Colorado Springs, Co. but ended up stuck in some small town in Kansas during a particularly heavy blizzard. I got the whole thing on tape, though, and edited it into a documentary of the whole affair.
I'll make mental notes and report back on either Sunday night or Monday sometime, depending on when I return. If I return...
It's February, a TV sweeps month, so I feel the need to do something to do something in (dubious?) honor of this. Faithful readers may remember when I made noodles with peanut sauce for my last sweeps stunt, blogging live from the kitchen as I prepared the dish. This time around, though, I'm going to leave off with a cliffhanger. A non-ending or sorts. I'm leaving for a little weekend jaunt to who knows where as a driver on the annual USF road trip. The official title of the trip is the "ultimate road trip", but this is erroneous.
The idea is to set out on the open road to whatever destination on Friday night and be back by Sunday morning, so it really isn't that large of a trip; nor is this the last trip that will ever be taken, hence there isn't anything "ultimate" about it. I was part of the inaugural trip a couple of years ago. We started towards Colorado Springs, Co. but ended up stuck in some small town in Kansas during a particularly heavy blizzard. I got the whole thing on tape, though, and edited it into a documentary of the whole affair.
I'll make mental notes and report back on either Sunday night or Monday sometime, depending on when I return. If I return...
Tuesday, February 17, 2004
I learned something tonight. Possums don't especially like being photographed. There was another one in the yard earlier, smaller this time, but no less angry at the sight of me. I was armed with a digital camera this time, though, and I got a couple of pictures. These pictures prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that "playing possum" isn't pretending to be dead. "Playing possum" shall now be defined as looking like Bruce Lee in the climactic battle of Enter the Dragon: supremely pissed and coiled like a spring, ready to strike screaming and tear asunder anything that comes near.
Not a whole lot else going on here. I'm waiting for a CD I ordered to come in at Barnes and Noble before I quit, so I can get my discount. I'll try one last time to get a book floor job back, but if not, I'll be leaving.
It would be nice to find something without customer interaction. If I had to, though, Wendy's restaurant has an opening for someone to portray Wendy herself. If they'd settle for a surly, hairy legged Wendy with a deep voice who refuses to eat the burgers, I can oblige them. Just don't go lifting the trademark skirt, kids. You won't like it.
I have plans in the interim, though. This weekend I'm going to be driving a van full of college students to an as-yet-undecided location. Maybe Colorado, maybe Boston, maybe Dallas. I have no idea. That's the fun of it, you see. It's a semi-spontaneous road trip. This will provide a wealth of blogfodder if I make it back.
Not a whole lot else going on here. I'm waiting for a CD I ordered to come in at Barnes and Noble before I quit, so I can get my discount. I'll try one last time to get a book floor job back, but if not, I'll be leaving.
It would be nice to find something without customer interaction. If I had to, though, Wendy's restaurant has an opening for someone to portray Wendy herself. If they'd settle for a surly, hairy legged Wendy with a deep voice who refuses to eat the burgers, I can oblige them. Just don't go lifting the trademark skirt, kids. You won't like it.
I have plans in the interim, though. This weekend I'm going to be driving a van full of college students to an as-yet-undecided location. Maybe Colorado, maybe Boston, maybe Dallas. I have no idea. That's the fun of it, you see. It's a semi-spontaneous road trip. This will provide a wealth of blogfodder if I make it back.
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