Well, the holiday season be upon us once again, and the year is about to draw to a close. Normally, I’d wrap up the year with a few standard issue posts (Christmas List for Celebs, Top 10 Albums of the Year, etc.). But it seems everyone has their own little take on end-of-the-year awards. VH1, Comedy Central, shit, I’m sure fuckin’ PAX has a year-end special. Still, I started a tradition last year with the first ever "Jump The Landshark" Awards, and I feel obligated to at least keep that tradition in season.
However, instead of handing out multiple honors as I did this year, I have one massive clusterfuck of an award I like to call the Universal Jump the Landshark Award.
And this prestigious honor I bestow upon…
Everyone.
Because every single man, woman, and child on the face of the earth jumped the Landshark in some way, shape or form, this calendar year.
You did it, your mom did it, your lover did it, your sibling(s) did it, even I did it.
My ex made me watch the MTV VMA pre-show. I still feel contaminated.
In all seriousness, though, 2004 was the year from hell. Superficiality overtook substance. Intelligence became a major liability that no one seemed to shell out extra for. Style became a language in and of itself, and altogether eclipsed the importance of talent. Ignorance was bliss to millions of humans. Media dulled the senses and dictated what we needed to know. Logic took a backseat to just about everything. Our culture continued to be dulled by massively stupid public figures. We got a taste of human sacrifice, dogs and cats living together, and mass hysteria. And most troubling of all, people never seemed to want to question the “truth.”
In truth, I found 2004 to be the most frustrating and disappointing year I have waltzed through in some time. Now I’m not trying to bring anyone down, nor am I trying to bear an oversized and much-unneeded cross on my shoulders. However, those of you who know me well know that I underwent a great deal of personal and professional hardship throughout the year. To be fair, there were some highlights, no question about it. And I would like to think that in the end, the positive experiences outweigh the negative. But I can’t shake the fact that the negative were far more numerous, and much too frequent for my liking. For me, the three best things about the year were completing and receiving my MBA, being elected to the Sons of Pericles Supreme Lodge, and the Red Sox winning the Series. Aside from a few weddings I attended and thoroughly enjoyed, the rest of the year kind of blew koalas.
And when I wasn’t encountering death of friends and family, unemployment, or failed relationships, all around me it seemed the rest of the world was just heading nuts-first into a tailspin and not really giving much of a shit. Maybe it’s me (but then again, it’s my blog, so I’m allowed to be me, and fuck you if you don’t like it), but it just seems like all the principles of logic, reason, common sense, and progression have fallen tragically by the wayside with a resounding thud. I don’t know who or what to blame, but I know that it makes me excruciatingly sad. I just feel like people, in this nation and around the world, don’t seem to care about anything anymore. More and more, it seems we the people of the planet Earth are growing more resigned to just putz around like a tribe of hopeless lemmings.
And folks, believe me, I am not limiting this to political outlooks. I’m talking in very broad, general terms. It’s just that… I don’t feel the rules seem to apply to folks all that much anymore. It’s like I meandered directly into this bizarre Wonderwasteland where everything is ass-backwards and no one really seems to care al that much. Let’s just be complacent with the feces that’s forked over to us at the buffet and sport a big shit-eatin’ grin while we devour it.
See, I can’t do that. I learned a long time ago not to remain complacent with myself, or the events around me. I learned that if I feel something is wrong, it’s my duty to speak up about it. It’s one of the reasons I started this stupid blog in the first place, and this mass realization is no different for me. There is something horribly wrong with the world today, and while I cannot put my finger on it precisely, while I cannot look to one lone source and say, “there it is,” I can sense, in very broad terms, that things are way too far left of center.
I feel that, in short, narrow-mindedness has overtaken our nation. To me, that’s frightening. As a child, I was always taught to ask questions when curious, or doubtful, or unsure. And I do to this day. I question everything. Beliefs, leaders, actions, authorities, everything. And that is not to say that I am looking at this through purely biased eyes, ladies and germs. I may not agree with everything that goes on around me, and I shouldn’t have to. The world should not have to suit my needs at all times. However, I can’t shake the feeling that there’s a major bug in the system that is somehow reproducing in brain matter across the globe.
Perfect example. I saw someone at the local pharmacy purchasing the Clapper today. The fuckin’ Clapper. I didn’t even know they still made those damn things.
I think the one moment that hit home the most for me this year was Jon Stewart’s appearance on Crossfire. Stewart commented (and I’m paraphrasing) that there is “something very wrong with the nation right now.” He went on to say that the host, who touts himself as a serious reporter, really isn’t doing anything about it.
I agree with Jon, and I think we should all be allowed to point the finger at the masses and ourselves and say that we’re not doing anything about it. And those of us who at least are cognizant of the problems at hand don’t know where to start.
Admittedly, I don’t know where to start myself.
But I, for one, fully intend to fight the battle with the greatest weapon I have at my disposal. When armed with it and fully loaded, I am slightly invincible against literal and figurative slings and arrows. When wielding it, I can cut through the thickest slab of idiocy, inconsistency, and dishonesty possible. And when using it on others, I can at times influence them to join the good fight.
It’s called my brain. I invite you all to lock and load along with me, and raise the roof in the ’05.
Farewell to this horribly sad and tragic year. All honesty, I won’t miss it a bit.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant whatever.
12/21/2004
12/11/2004
go oBefore you go any further, I’d suggest you bring yourself up to speed with what happened in Columbus, Ohio this past Wednesday night.
Now, I’m not one to typically comment on major losses in the entertainment industry, save my praise for the late Johnny Cash last year in lieu of MTV’s petty disregard for him.
But Dime… Dime hits close to home, for some reason. Part of that unidentifiable reason may be the fact that if you were a fan and knew anything about the man, he seemed like family to you. And to hear that he was cut down without the slightest hint of provocation is downright heartbreaking.
To put it bluntly, this entire thing makes no sense. It’s all so damn surreal, it seems like a horribly bad episode of Law & Order. Sadly enough, odds are that this scenario will be “ripped from the headlines” and projected onto the small screen.
And in truth, that probable homage would give this incident more coverage than mainstream music media has bothered to grant the situation. I mean, it received major news coverage, no doubt. CNN, MSNBC, all the major outlets carried the story. But you’d think that major music outlets, i.e., MTV, VH1, and radio would pay more attention to this. Y’know, since it’s relative to the industry.
But per usual, said outlets have given this situation nothing more than a small blurb on their websites or between-program news briefs. Even most rock radio stations didn’t carry the story for more than a few hours.
I remember back in 2002 when Layne Staley died, and his passing received a modicum of coverage. One week after his body was discovered, Lisa Lopes was killed in a car crash, and MTV treated her like Princess Diana.
Y’wanna know why? I’m gonna throw political correctness by the wayside and say it’s ‘cause Dime and Layne were slaves to the white man!
Oh, wrong prejudicial preference. Sorry. It’s really ‘cause they’re of the hard rock/metal genre. See, ‘cause rock in general is considered passé by MTV and VH1 (unless you’re in one of those horrendously overrated indie college bands like Modest Mouse, Franz Ferdinand or Bard’s Ballsack). I wish these fucking narrow-minded twits would call a spade a spade, and a loss a loss.
And believe me… Dime is a loss. The guy was a fucking phenomenal guitarist. I had the privilege of seeing him play with Pantera once in New Haven, and they were amazing. Dime was especially impressive. I’m something of a guitar aficionado (which means I love guitar-based music, but am not good enough to play myself), and I can just tell when a guy is playing with everything he has. I’ve seen it with Joe Perry, Zakk Wylde, Eric Clapton, Steve Vai, and yes. I saw it with Dime, too. The guy was so innovative, and really helped to put a new spin on the world of thrash, which was waning at the time.
That’s one reason why Far Beyond Driven debuted at No. 1 on the Billboard charts in 1994. These guys built their following the old-fashioned way: working their asses off from dusk ‘til dawn in front of live audiences. C’mon, you really think most rock stations would play Pantera at any point in time? Trust me, it’s a very rare thing. That’s why the band was so special to a lot of people. They were the workingman’s metal band when Metallica and Megadeth were going down more commercially gainful roads, musically speaking.
I never had the pleasure to see Dime and Vinnie play in Damageplan. I missed the opportunity by a hair’s inch on December 4th of this year, when they tackled the Webster Theatre in Hartford. Unfortunately, I could not make it. I just figured that they’d be around again in no time.
And to me, it’s sad to know that such a return is never going to happen. And I’m not the only one feeling it. The hard rock community has banded together, forsaken all feuds and beefs with one another in Dime’s name. Zakk Wylde, Ozzy Osbourne, Lars Ulrich, Dave Mustaine, Scott Ian, Rob Zombie, Jerry Cantrell, even Dime’s former bandmate turned apparent rival Phil Anselmo has offered up a tribute whilst still grieving.
That speaks highly of the individual, to me. Here was a guy who seemed to get along with practically everyone he met. That’s what makes this senseless death even worse. Dime did nothing to hurt anyone. He never did anything to deserve this. Neither did the three other innocents who were gunned down by a flat-out psychopath.
No one deserves to die because their band broke up. It’s that simple. And make no mistake about it… Dime may have been a long-haired, tattooed, cursin’, cussin’, dirty ol’ boozehound of a metalhead. But this is still a tragedy.
I’d say something touching like, “keep shredding, Dime,” or, “it’s gonna be real quiet without ya, Dime.” But I didn’t know the man. So instead, I’m gonna fix myself a couple of black-toothed grins in honor of the man.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
11/27/2004
So we’re onto two years, huh? Two honkin’ years I’ve been swimming these dreaded Landshark-infested waters. Wow. That’s longer than most of my relationships. That’s longer than the lifespan of some babies. In third worl—I’m sorry. Developing countries.
Well, I wish I could say I have something special planned, but, the truth is, I really don’t. It has been a brutal couple of months for me, although to be perfectly honest, it’s not fair of me to bitch about my world-class troubles to you folks.
I would much prefer to bitch about far more petty things.
That being said, there is something I would like to touch on. We rely on a lot of proverbs in our society, but many of them are untrue or simply don’t make sense. For example…
“A rolling stone gathers no moss.” Well what if it rolls through a very mossy valley? Wouldn’t it gather a little moss then?
“Don’t spit/piss in the wind.” Somehow, spitting and pissing got lumped together in the same basic action simply because they’re both bodily fluids. Well I’m sorry, but I don’t concur with said categorization. You never hear about someone being spat off. No guy ever claims that someone pissed in his face. Weird. Anyway, the assumption here is that the gust of wind will cause the spit/piss to blow back toward you, thereby soiling your person. But what if you make an attempt at testing the wind direction? Y’know, stick your finger in your mouth and hold your hand upward. If the wind is blowing to the northeast, point your lips/shlong to the northeast and unleash the fury. Odds are you’ll get some extra mileage out of the release.
“A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.” First off, this makes no sense at all. There’s no real logic behind it. How can one bird be worth more than two birds? If you have one apple in your hand, unless it’s really, really big, it’s not going to be worth more than two apples on a tree. This one needs to be scrapped.
“A man is known by the company he keeps.” What if he’s known by his sixth finger? I bet you wouldn’t care about the company he keeps then.
“A stitch in time saves nine.” How do you stitch time? Time is not a tangible fabric. And why nine? What is so important about nine stitches? You know what this one ought to say? “A stitch in your gash prevents some excessive blood loss, but nine stitches will prevent more.”
“A man’s home is his castle.” Unless his home is a cardboard box.
“All is fair in love and war.” Well that’s good to know. Next time a girl breaks my heart, I’ll stab her with a bayonet. Hey, if it’s fair in war, what’s the problem, judge?
“Barking dogs seldom bite.” Does that include dogs that are rabid? I mean, I don’t know how accurate Cujo was, but I’d assume that rabid dogs bark and bite on pretty equal scales.
“Better to die with honor than live with shame.” This is stupid. I’d rather live than die, period. Whoever came up with this was obviously suicidal, hence it needs to be scrapped entirely.
“Crime does not pay.” Unless you get away with it, right O.J.?
“Cleanliness is next to godliness.” I bet Jesus would really take offense to this. Think about it; He lived, for the most part, in filth and poverty, and hung out with fishermen and prostitutes. I’m sure they all enjoyed a good scrubbing as much as the next concubine, but rarely had the opportunity to do so. But that didn’t stop J.C. from hangin’ with ‘em. But I guess that’s the kind of cat He was. Class act, we need more people like Him.
“Don’t count your chickens before they’ve hatched.” Whoever came up with this one must’ve owned a farm near Chernobyl. Because unless you get a lotta mutant chickens with multiple heads, you can pretty damn well count the number of chickens you can expect before the break the shell.
“A picture is worth a thousand words.” Well what if it’s a picture of a chair? Or a wall? Or just some grass? How many words is it worth then? Honestly, how many words could you generate from a picture of a chair? “Um… sit… um… legs, err… wood… um… how many do I have to go? Shit.”
“Great minds think alike.” Well not always. Theoretically, Hitler and Einstein were great minds. I highly doubt they thought alike.
“Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.” It sounds like good advice, but then they nail ya with “He who hesitates is lost.” Well if I don’t hesitate, then I must be rushing in. But then I go where angels fear to tread. So I must hesitate. But then I’m lost. I’m so torn. What do I do? Maybe I shouldn’t hesitate or rush, maybe I’ll just walk. Unless it’s over thin ice. Then I have to tread lightly. God, there are so many rules. That Superman is a prick, he gets to fly wherever he pleases. I have to choose from options, none of which are appealing.
“Life is just a bowl of cherries.” Except when you’re getting boned by the company.
“Many hands make light work.” Well what if the many hands belong to many midgets? I don’t think they’ll get it done any quicker, do you? Or what if the hands belong to children? Hey, that shit flies in some third worl—developing countries. Then you’d need many, many hands. And that is not specified in this proverb.
“Nothing is certain in life but death and taxes.” Unless you’re homeless. Then you’re pretty much going to have to settle on death alone. Sorry.
Lastly, this is a favorite of mind. “The pot calls the kettle black.” I take issue with this one. I’ll bet you sometimes the pot calls the kettle “Murray.”
Now apologize to the Landshark for forgetting his birthday. You made him cry. You filthy whores.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
Well, I wish I could say I have something special planned, but, the truth is, I really don’t. It has been a brutal couple of months for me, although to be perfectly honest, it’s not fair of me to bitch about my world-class troubles to you folks.
I would much prefer to bitch about far more petty things.
That being said, there is something I would like to touch on. We rely on a lot of proverbs in our society, but many of them are untrue or simply don’t make sense. For example…
“A rolling stone gathers no moss.” Well what if it rolls through a very mossy valley? Wouldn’t it gather a little moss then?
“Don’t spit/piss in the wind.” Somehow, spitting and pissing got lumped together in the same basic action simply because they’re both bodily fluids. Well I’m sorry, but I don’t concur with said categorization. You never hear about someone being spat off. No guy ever claims that someone pissed in his face. Weird. Anyway, the assumption here is that the gust of wind will cause the spit/piss to blow back toward you, thereby soiling your person. But what if you make an attempt at testing the wind direction? Y’know, stick your finger in your mouth and hold your hand upward. If the wind is blowing to the northeast, point your lips/shlong to the northeast and unleash the fury. Odds are you’ll get some extra mileage out of the release.
“A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.” First off, this makes no sense at all. There’s no real logic behind it. How can one bird be worth more than two birds? If you have one apple in your hand, unless it’s really, really big, it’s not going to be worth more than two apples on a tree. This one needs to be scrapped.
“A man is known by the company he keeps.” What if he’s known by his sixth finger? I bet you wouldn’t care about the company he keeps then.
“A stitch in time saves nine.” How do you stitch time? Time is not a tangible fabric. And why nine? What is so important about nine stitches? You know what this one ought to say? “A stitch in your gash prevents some excessive blood loss, but nine stitches will prevent more.”
“A man’s home is his castle.” Unless his home is a cardboard box.
“All is fair in love and war.” Well that’s good to know. Next time a girl breaks my heart, I’ll stab her with a bayonet. Hey, if it’s fair in war, what’s the problem, judge?
“Barking dogs seldom bite.” Does that include dogs that are rabid? I mean, I don’t know how accurate Cujo was, but I’d assume that rabid dogs bark and bite on pretty equal scales.
“Better to die with honor than live with shame.” This is stupid. I’d rather live than die, period. Whoever came up with this was obviously suicidal, hence it needs to be scrapped entirely.
“Crime does not pay.” Unless you get away with it, right O.J.?
“Cleanliness is next to godliness.” I bet Jesus would really take offense to this. Think about it; He lived, for the most part, in filth and poverty, and hung out with fishermen and prostitutes. I’m sure they all enjoyed a good scrubbing as much as the next concubine, but rarely had the opportunity to do so. But that didn’t stop J.C. from hangin’ with ‘em. But I guess that’s the kind of cat He was. Class act, we need more people like Him.
“Don’t count your chickens before they’ve hatched.” Whoever came up with this one must’ve owned a farm near Chernobyl. Because unless you get a lotta mutant chickens with multiple heads, you can pretty damn well count the number of chickens you can expect before the break the shell.
“A picture is worth a thousand words.” Well what if it’s a picture of a chair? Or a wall? Or just some grass? How many words is it worth then? Honestly, how many words could you generate from a picture of a chair? “Um… sit… um… legs, err… wood… um… how many do I have to go? Shit.”
“Great minds think alike.” Well not always. Theoretically, Hitler and Einstein were great minds. I highly doubt they thought alike.
“Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.” It sounds like good advice, but then they nail ya with “He who hesitates is lost.” Well if I don’t hesitate, then I must be rushing in. But then I go where angels fear to tread. So I must hesitate. But then I’m lost. I’m so torn. What do I do? Maybe I shouldn’t hesitate or rush, maybe I’ll just walk. Unless it’s over thin ice. Then I have to tread lightly. God, there are so many rules. That Superman is a prick, he gets to fly wherever he pleases. I have to choose from options, none of which are appealing.
“Life is just a bowl of cherries.” Except when you’re getting boned by the company.
“Many hands make light work.” Well what if the many hands belong to many midgets? I don’t think they’ll get it done any quicker, do you? Or what if the hands belong to children? Hey, that shit flies in some third worl—developing countries. Then you’d need many, many hands. And that is not specified in this proverb.
“Nothing is certain in life but death and taxes.” Unless you’re homeless. Then you’re pretty much going to have to settle on death alone. Sorry.
Lastly, this is a favorite of mind. “The pot calls the kettle black.” I take issue with this one. I’ll bet you sometimes the pot calls the kettle “Murray.”
Now apologize to the Landshark for forgetting his birthday. You made him cry. You filthy whores.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
11/11/2004
Ever occur to you how medicated this nation is? Just stop for a second and think about it. How many people do you know personally who are on some type of drug to help them get through the day? How many drugs are you on for the same purpose? Can you count on your hand how many times a year you go to the pharmacy to drop off a prescription?
When did we lose 100% ownership of our bodies to 100mg of whatever the doc scribbled on that little ticket?
I gotta tell you, I’ve been mulling over this subject a lot. And I’ll tell you why: because from September of last year up until just last month, I’ve been on a daily dosage of Zoloft. The reasons why aren’t really relevant, let’s just say I felt the need to go to therapy for my well being, and my doctor, in turn, laid pen to paper and told me to go get help in the form of a tiny pill to be taken once every morning on a full stomach.
I was hesitant at first. I told him that I wanted to do this without the inclusion of drugs into the mix, but I decided to give him a chance. So I went on the prescribed dosage, and after a while, I began to feel better about things, functioning at my normal level per usual. So I figured, “hey, it must be the prescription, right?”
Now to those of you who know me personally, you can attest that I’ve had a lot of mounting frustration over the past several months regarding the stagnant job market, and the effect on my person has been significant, to say the least. Truthfully, from August up until last month, I was in a serious rut. I would come home after working a paltry 5-hour day and yearn for a lengthy nap when I did next to nothing at the office. I barely had energy to go to the gym after 7-8 hours of sleep each night. My involvement with the job hunt was tepid at best, and my typical lust for life needed a hefty dose of Viagra to ignite the old flames. The strain took a toll on my relationship, which, for the record, is now over, and it also caused a lot of friction between my parents and I.
Now, I was still on my prescription at this point. The thought did cross my mind that if I was this bad about things, maybe it was time to up the prescription grade. Maybe it was time for Prozac or heavier. But then I paused, and thought to myself, “What has my doctor really done for me the last ten months other than refill my prescription every 4-6 weeks? At what point did we discontinue the therapy itself? Do I even remember? Did I even care?”
So, with things looking as down as they could get in the belfry, I made a conscious decision, in an effort to repair myself and the relationships with my girlfriend, my parents, and my friends. The first step in doing so was to discontinue sessions with my shrink, and also slowly take myself off of Zoloft. I think I knew that unconsciously, it would have to come to this, because I requested he cut back the dosage nearly a month before I took a sharp left turn at the fork in the road. I finally severed all ties from my so-called doctor last week with the intent to find someone new. Someone who doesn’t just abide by keeping his or her patients in check through some pills.
Now, before this meeting, I had already taken myself off of Zoloft. And I mean completely off. No morning dose, no half dose, no quarter dose, none of the above. Moreover, I went through no withdrawal symptoms whatsoever.
I have a new mantra regarding medication: unless I am formally diagnosed with any type of illness or disorder, I want to go about my life as pure as possible. In short, I want to keep my system clean. I find that for me, it’s the best way to approach the gamut, and I operate at my peak under such conditions. To boot, I'm still feeling better than ever despite the fact that my girlfriend and I ultimately broke up. That's gotta stand for something, no?
That’s not to say that all medication is bad. I’m fully aware that there are a lot of physical and psychological disorders that cannot be approached without the application of certain prescription drugs. Be that as it may, I do believe that at least 50% of the prescription-taking populous probably doesn’t even need medication to function properly. Sure, the pills make for nice training wheels, and maybe get you off to a good start on improvement. But they should not evolve into eternal crutches for us to lean on just to get through one 24-hour session. A lot can be accomplished with therapy, be it of a physical or psychological nature.
Moreover, as silly as it may sound to the skeptics out there, I truly believe that we need to heavily consider hypnotherapy as a viable alternative to swallowing a couple hundred milligrams a week. Remember that we humanoids only use a mere 10% of our brain on a daily basis. There’s still a great deal of untapped potential for self-healing capabilities. We have not even begun to scratch the surface of what the human brain can do for us, and I honestly feel that it’s high time we began to look into the matter with more open-minded peepers.
Of course, serious consideration of the above methods would throw a sharp left hook toward the pharmaceutical industry, and they can’t have that. I hate to get all uber-liberal-fuck-corporate-America-and-everyone-entrenched-within-it, but it’s true. The pharmaceutical industry is big business in this nation, and a lot of people have gotten very wealthy by researching and manufacturing drugs to assist people with problems. It’s a known fact. Bayer, Pfizer, Bristol-Myers Squibb, etc. Big business, big money, big plans. You need look no further than stock market to realize that these companies are raking in major funds as a result of the work they do. And I’m sure that they’ll chalk it all up to “working for the greater good.” Well, yeah, you do help a lot of people. But that’s not to say that those people weren’t already able to help themselves, at least on an esoteric level.
And that is why we will never see hypnotherapy considered a fully viable, acknowledged and legitimized practice in the eyes of the scientific community. Too many people in that upper 1% have a lot of money tied up in these companies, and they simply will not allow for such methods to break through into the mainstream. Call me a conspiracy theorist if you like, but I’m just following a long chain of common sense.
Think about it. In a way, we are conditioned, from the time we’re kids, to take pills to help us improve. How quickly did you go from Flintstone’s Vitamins to Tylenol?
At this time, I’d like to pass the mic over to Master George Carlin. The following is a verbatim transcript of an excerpt from his 1971 album FM & AM. I listened to this again recently, albeit after I had already made my decision to come off Zoloft. Still, listening to the wise pundit that Carlin was (and still is more than 30 years following this particular routine), the reasoning behind his typically biting comedy is really quite thorough and wonderfully sage. Of course, I could write a whole book on the brilliance in Carlin’s routines, but I want to stay on one topic right now. So, with that said, I invite you to read on, true believer…
“No big thing, we’re just kinda dopey folks, and we have all these drugs available to us. Y’know, that’s why there’s a drug problem, man. There’s all those drug stores, right? Every three, four blocks, there’s a big sign: Drugs… ‘Open All Night - Drugs,’ ‘We Deliver Drugs,’ ‘Cut Rate Drugs.’ It’s the biggest thing on their sign! ‘Cosmetics, Sundries, Drugs.’
“And the pharmacist is always stoned, you ever notice that? Check his eyes, he’s experimenting with something, man. How come he can never fill a prescription right, y’know? He always gives you that, ‘Better come back in an hour, man… I can’t even read the bastard.’
“It’s no accident that we’re drug-oriented, really. The drug companies got us that way, and they’d like to keep us that way, y’know? I mean, that’s a simple thing. They start you early with the oral habit. Little orange-flavored aspirin for children… Pop! Pop! ‘Two in the mouth, son. Something wrong with your head? Pop! Pop! Two in the mouth. Remember that. Head. Mouth. These are orange, there’ll be other colors later.’ They even name it after a saint to throw you off, y’know? ‘S’alright, son, two in the mouth. St. Joseph.’ Pop! Pop! Remember ‘pop a chalk?’ ‘Pop a chalk!’ Pop! Pop! Guy goes to a dance when he’s 13, ‘How’s your head?’ Pop! Pop! ‘Two in the mouth, man.’
Carlin also mentions coffee, alcohol, and amphetamines as other heavily abused, rarely mentioned drugs, but this particular selection really kind of crystallizes the point I want to make about pharmaceutical drugs and the adolescent pre-conditioning to pill-popping. The examples may be a little dated, I grant you, but they still serve their purpose.
But there is an interesting point to be made here. And we’re only at the tip of the RX Iceberg, folks. Painkillers are another world unto themselves. You wanna talk about a real drug problem? How about all these celebrities and professional/college athletes that get hooked into these things? I can remember clear as a bell one interaction I heard during my senior year in college between two members of the lacrosse team:
“I’m sore as fuck. Got any PK’s?”
“Painkillers? Yeah, I got some back at my apartment.”
That, my friends, is a clear-cut case of how one doctor’s poor penmanship can lead to a whole world of trouble. You need look no further than the Betty Ford Center or something as seemingly absurd as the world of professional wrestling to see what kind of problems can be caused by prescription painkillers. There’s no question that these things can work miracles when it comes to handling pain, but by that same token, it’s also plain to see the resultant hazards that almost always seem to materialize. Look, I feel for athletes, after all, with the advances in medical healing, they are being pushed harder and more dangerously than ever before by their coaches, managers, team owners, teammates, fans, and God knows whom else. Again, this is off topic, and an entirely different post altogether, but over-reliance on these things will take you off the field and just put you in the ground, case closed.
Put it this way: you know these things are unavoidable in our culture when even a fat, lazy blowhard like Rush Limbaugh gets hooked.
Hey, I’m just calling it like I see it. I’ve already made my choice, and I know that, for some reason, there are lotsa folks in the Internet community who experience some form of depression or other psychological disorders, and as a result they do have to take medication. I’m not trying to influence anyone’s decision, all I can say is that for me, right now and forevermore, I feel a pure system is the way to go. And as far as said psychological problems go, there are other methods of dealing with them that don’t necessarily come in little orange bottles.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
When did we lose 100% ownership of our bodies to 100mg of whatever the doc scribbled on that little ticket?
I gotta tell you, I’ve been mulling over this subject a lot. And I’ll tell you why: because from September of last year up until just last month, I’ve been on a daily dosage of Zoloft. The reasons why aren’t really relevant, let’s just say I felt the need to go to therapy for my well being, and my doctor, in turn, laid pen to paper and told me to go get help in the form of a tiny pill to be taken once every morning on a full stomach.
I was hesitant at first. I told him that I wanted to do this without the inclusion of drugs into the mix, but I decided to give him a chance. So I went on the prescribed dosage, and after a while, I began to feel better about things, functioning at my normal level per usual. So I figured, “hey, it must be the prescription, right?”
Now to those of you who know me personally, you can attest that I’ve had a lot of mounting frustration over the past several months regarding the stagnant job market, and the effect on my person has been significant, to say the least. Truthfully, from August up until last month, I was in a serious rut. I would come home after working a paltry 5-hour day and yearn for a lengthy nap when I did next to nothing at the office. I barely had energy to go to the gym after 7-8 hours of sleep each night. My involvement with the job hunt was tepid at best, and my typical lust for life needed a hefty dose of Viagra to ignite the old flames. The strain took a toll on my relationship, which, for the record, is now over, and it also caused a lot of friction between my parents and I.
Now, I was still on my prescription at this point. The thought did cross my mind that if I was this bad about things, maybe it was time to up the prescription grade. Maybe it was time for Prozac or heavier. But then I paused, and thought to myself, “What has my doctor really done for me the last ten months other than refill my prescription every 4-6 weeks? At what point did we discontinue the therapy itself? Do I even remember? Did I even care?”
So, with things looking as down as they could get in the belfry, I made a conscious decision, in an effort to repair myself and the relationships with my girlfriend, my parents, and my friends. The first step in doing so was to discontinue sessions with my shrink, and also slowly take myself off of Zoloft. I think I knew that unconsciously, it would have to come to this, because I requested he cut back the dosage nearly a month before I took a sharp left turn at the fork in the road. I finally severed all ties from my so-called doctor last week with the intent to find someone new. Someone who doesn’t just abide by keeping his or her patients in check through some pills.
Now, before this meeting, I had already taken myself off of Zoloft. And I mean completely off. No morning dose, no half dose, no quarter dose, none of the above. Moreover, I went through no withdrawal symptoms whatsoever.
I have a new mantra regarding medication: unless I am formally diagnosed with any type of illness or disorder, I want to go about my life as pure as possible. In short, I want to keep my system clean. I find that for me, it’s the best way to approach the gamut, and I operate at my peak under such conditions. To boot, I'm still feeling better than ever despite the fact that my girlfriend and I ultimately broke up. That's gotta stand for something, no?
That’s not to say that all medication is bad. I’m fully aware that there are a lot of physical and psychological disorders that cannot be approached without the application of certain prescription drugs. Be that as it may, I do believe that at least 50% of the prescription-taking populous probably doesn’t even need medication to function properly. Sure, the pills make for nice training wheels, and maybe get you off to a good start on improvement. But they should not evolve into eternal crutches for us to lean on just to get through one 24-hour session. A lot can be accomplished with therapy, be it of a physical or psychological nature.
Moreover, as silly as it may sound to the skeptics out there, I truly believe that we need to heavily consider hypnotherapy as a viable alternative to swallowing a couple hundred milligrams a week. Remember that we humanoids only use a mere 10% of our brain on a daily basis. There’s still a great deal of untapped potential for self-healing capabilities. We have not even begun to scratch the surface of what the human brain can do for us, and I honestly feel that it’s high time we began to look into the matter with more open-minded peepers.
Of course, serious consideration of the above methods would throw a sharp left hook toward the pharmaceutical industry, and they can’t have that. I hate to get all uber-liberal-fuck-corporate-America-and-everyone-entrenched-within-it, but it’s true. The pharmaceutical industry is big business in this nation, and a lot of people have gotten very wealthy by researching and manufacturing drugs to assist people with problems. It’s a known fact. Bayer, Pfizer, Bristol-Myers Squibb, etc. Big business, big money, big plans. You need look no further than stock market to realize that these companies are raking in major funds as a result of the work they do. And I’m sure that they’ll chalk it all up to “working for the greater good.” Well, yeah, you do help a lot of people. But that’s not to say that those people weren’t already able to help themselves, at least on an esoteric level.
And that is why we will never see hypnotherapy considered a fully viable, acknowledged and legitimized practice in the eyes of the scientific community. Too many people in that upper 1% have a lot of money tied up in these companies, and they simply will not allow for such methods to break through into the mainstream. Call me a conspiracy theorist if you like, but I’m just following a long chain of common sense.
Think about it. In a way, we are conditioned, from the time we’re kids, to take pills to help us improve. How quickly did you go from Flintstone’s Vitamins to Tylenol?
At this time, I’d like to pass the mic over to Master George Carlin. The following is a verbatim transcript of an excerpt from his 1971 album FM & AM. I listened to this again recently, albeit after I had already made my decision to come off Zoloft. Still, listening to the wise pundit that Carlin was (and still is more than 30 years following this particular routine), the reasoning behind his typically biting comedy is really quite thorough and wonderfully sage. Of course, I could write a whole book on the brilliance in Carlin’s routines, but I want to stay on one topic right now. So, with that said, I invite you to read on, true believer…
“No big thing, we’re just kinda dopey folks, and we have all these drugs available to us. Y’know, that’s why there’s a drug problem, man. There’s all those drug stores, right? Every three, four blocks, there’s a big sign: Drugs… ‘Open All Night - Drugs,’ ‘We Deliver Drugs,’ ‘Cut Rate Drugs.’ It’s the biggest thing on their sign! ‘Cosmetics, Sundries, Drugs.’
“And the pharmacist is always stoned, you ever notice that? Check his eyes, he’s experimenting with something, man. How come he can never fill a prescription right, y’know? He always gives you that, ‘Better come back in an hour, man… I can’t even read the bastard.’
“It’s no accident that we’re drug-oriented, really. The drug companies got us that way, and they’d like to keep us that way, y’know? I mean, that’s a simple thing. They start you early with the oral habit. Little orange-flavored aspirin for children… Pop! Pop! ‘Two in the mouth, son. Something wrong with your head? Pop! Pop! Two in the mouth. Remember that. Head. Mouth. These are orange, there’ll be other colors later.’ They even name it after a saint to throw you off, y’know? ‘S’alright, son, two in the mouth. St. Joseph.’ Pop! Pop! Remember ‘pop a chalk?’ ‘Pop a chalk!’ Pop! Pop! Guy goes to a dance when he’s 13, ‘How’s your head?’ Pop! Pop! ‘Two in the mouth, man.’
Carlin also mentions coffee, alcohol, and amphetamines as other heavily abused, rarely mentioned drugs, but this particular selection really kind of crystallizes the point I want to make about pharmaceutical drugs and the adolescent pre-conditioning to pill-popping. The examples may be a little dated, I grant you, but they still serve their purpose.
But there is an interesting point to be made here. And we’re only at the tip of the RX Iceberg, folks. Painkillers are another world unto themselves. You wanna talk about a real drug problem? How about all these celebrities and professional/college athletes that get hooked into these things? I can remember clear as a bell one interaction I heard during my senior year in college between two members of the lacrosse team:
“I’m sore as fuck. Got any PK’s?”
“Painkillers? Yeah, I got some back at my apartment.”
That, my friends, is a clear-cut case of how one doctor’s poor penmanship can lead to a whole world of trouble. You need look no further than the Betty Ford Center or something as seemingly absurd as the world of professional wrestling to see what kind of problems can be caused by prescription painkillers. There’s no question that these things can work miracles when it comes to handling pain, but by that same token, it’s also plain to see the resultant hazards that almost always seem to materialize. Look, I feel for athletes, after all, with the advances in medical healing, they are being pushed harder and more dangerously than ever before by their coaches, managers, team owners, teammates, fans, and God knows whom else. Again, this is off topic, and an entirely different post altogether, but over-reliance on these things will take you off the field and just put you in the ground, case closed.
Put it this way: you know these things are unavoidable in our culture when even a fat, lazy blowhard like Rush Limbaugh gets hooked.
Hey, I’m just calling it like I see it. I’ve already made my choice, and I know that, for some reason, there are lotsa folks in the Internet community who experience some form of depression or other psychological disorders, and as a result they do have to take medication. I’m not trying to influence anyone’s decision, all I can say is that for me, right now and forevermore, I feel a pure system is the way to go. And as far as said psychological problems go, there are other methods of dealing with them that don’t necessarily come in little orange bottles.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
11/01/2004
Perhaps it’s fitting that the day after Halloween, I saw a ghost.
But not your typical-run-of-the mill-I-died-40-years-ago-in-a-freak-welding-accident-at-the-old-steel-mill-and-now-I’m-forced-to-haunt-this-popcorn-stand-for-the-rest-of-eternity-type of ghost.
No, true believers. I encountered a ghost from the past.
Tony Lemons.
The sourpuss embittered guido from my Market Research class at UNH. The same Tony Lemons who apparently had not matured past sophomore year in high school, and still tried to get his work done through the smart kid.
That’d be me.
Mr. Lemons was fixing his coffee next to me at the Mobil On-The-Run. He didn’t seem to recognize me, but I recognized him. That high stack of Dragonball Z-inspired oil slick he calls a head of hair… that permanently etched scowl on his ugly mug… those club-trash pants and shoes that he so proudly adorned.
I never forget an asshole.
Of course, I didn’t bother to chat, since I have nothing to say to him. Except maybe, “did you manage to graduate without swan-necking over someone else’s exam during finals?” Or, “did you ever consider giving a buck to every person who brought your GPA up a hundredth of a point?” Or, “goddamn, you still look like your mom inserted a quarter-pound of quick drying cement into her cooch just hours before you came out of the oven.”
And then we parted company. He paid for his coffee while I was still fixing mine. By the time I arrived at the register, he was long gone.
So what’s the point to this tale? The point is I feel I deserve to be commended for not only biting my tongue, but also for repressing the urge to tackle him between the automotive products and snacks and bludgeon him with a bottle of Castrol GTX for being the asshole he is.
‘Cause you see, my friends, while I never forget an asshole, I never forgive an asshole, either.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
But not your typical-run-of-the mill-I-died-40-years-ago-in-a-freak-welding-accident-at-the-old-steel-mill-and-now-I’m-forced-to-haunt-this-popcorn-stand-for-the-rest-of-eternity-type of ghost.
No, true believers. I encountered a ghost from the past.
Tony Lemons.
The sourpuss embittered guido from my Market Research class at UNH. The same Tony Lemons who apparently had not matured past sophomore year in high school, and still tried to get his work done through the smart kid.
That’d be me.
Mr. Lemons was fixing his coffee next to me at the Mobil On-The-Run. He didn’t seem to recognize me, but I recognized him. That high stack of Dragonball Z-inspired oil slick he calls a head of hair… that permanently etched scowl on his ugly mug… those club-trash pants and shoes that he so proudly adorned.
I never forget an asshole.
Of course, I didn’t bother to chat, since I have nothing to say to him. Except maybe, “did you manage to graduate without swan-necking over someone else’s exam during finals?” Or, “did you ever consider giving a buck to every person who brought your GPA up a hundredth of a point?” Or, “goddamn, you still look like your mom inserted a quarter-pound of quick drying cement into her cooch just hours before you came out of the oven.”
And then we parted company. He paid for his coffee while I was still fixing mine. By the time I arrived at the register, he was long gone.
So what’s the point to this tale? The point is I feel I deserve to be commended for not only biting my tongue, but also for repressing the urge to tackle him between the automotive products and snacks and bludgeon him with a bottle of Castrol GTX for being the asshole he is.
‘Cause you see, my friends, while I never forget an asshole, I never forgive an asshole, either.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
10/29/2004
As much as I respect him, I do not envy Bryan Singer right now. The man has a daunting task ahead of him… in an age where comic book movies are not only plentiful, but for the most part accurate and entertaining translations, Singer has opted to tackle the most well-known superhero ever. Not only must he uphold the character of the Man of Steel as told through the comics, but he must also follow in what has become, to many, the definitive comic book-inspired film legacy.
No sir, I would not want to be Bryan Singer right now, because I do not think I would be able to handle the pressure and still provide the masses with a faithful adaptation.
But just as I know I could not do such a thing, I also know that he can. And will.
For those of you oblivious to my ramblings, let me bring you up to speed: Singer, whose writing/directing credits include The Usual Suspects, X-Men, and X-2: X-Men United, has taken the reigns as director for the latest film in the Superman canon. This comes after a long list of directors, including Tim Burton, Kevin Smith, and McG. It also comes after an even longer list of potential Supermen: Nicolas Cage, Jim Caviezel, Jude Law, Ashton Kutcher, Josh Hartnett, etc., etc., ad infinitum.
But after nearly a decade of tossing, turning, cast and crew changes, rewrites, edits, and a mountain of speculation, the foundation has been set. Bryan Singer is your storyteller, and Brandon Routh is your hero.
First off, kudos to Singer for staying true to his word and casting a complete unknown as Superman. He did the smart thing and went for the most capable person for the job, not the most well known. Thank God he knows the difference. If directors were always to cast the most well known actors for big projects, Ryan O’Neal would’ve been playing Michael Corleone instead of Al Pacino. And that’s a known fact.
Though not knowing what Routh is capable of, if Singer cast him as Supes, then I have complete faith in him. Let’s not forget that Singer is the same guy who thought Hugh Jackman, despite standing 6’ tall, would make a good Wolverine. So needless to say, I trust the man’s judgment.
Moreover, look at Singer’s credentials that I listed just a few paragraphs above. The man is exceptionally talented when it comes to telling a cohesive, thought provoking story on film. Dare I say he’s a master at said skill. He gets what good filmmaking is all about. It’s not about the over-the-top explosion-happy action that Jerry Bruckheimer thrives on and Team America lampoons. It’s about genuine, convincing characters that the audience is able to connect to. Or at the very least believe.
Now I know that back in May, I heavily criticized the character of Superman, claiming that it was hard to connect to. Let me clarify something: Christopher Reeve managed to do something that 99% of the writers at DC Comics couldn’t. He made Superman believable. He brought a certain level of nobility and earnestness to the role that made you want to root for him, even if he was a big blue boy scout. Reeve saw something in the character of Superman (and equally as much in the character of Clark Kent) that had slipped through the cracks over time, and he managed to crystallize that nicely in his role. Which is why to this day, no one has been able to come close to Reeve’s portrayal. Dean Cain and Tom Welling never could and never will reach the level of believability that Reeve brought to the table, which is why Smallville, while surely entertaining, was unable to spawn the new Superman. It’s also why Lois & Clark, with the exception of Teri Hatcher’s cleavage, sucked hard.
Now for the record, I don’t think that Brandon Routh, no matter how talented, will trump Reeve’s performance. No matter how good he is, he will always be second in line on principle. However, he may just be the next best thing. And all things considered, who can complain, right?
Routh has his work cut out for him, and I sure hope he’s up to the task. It’s difficult for an actor to “own” a previously established role. Sure, Pacino will always be Tony Montana. Because it took Pacino to bring Tony to life. But when dealing with comic books, or literature in general, the character already has a life. It has a look, it has a voice, it has an aura. It’s not easy to claim that for yourself. That’s why Hollywood has been through four Batmen (going on five) since the 1960’s. Not a one of them has been able to nail it dead on.
Similarly, it’s also why Tobey Maguire is Spider-Man. He captures Spidey perfectly, just as Reeve captured Supes. It’s highly unlikely anyone will ever nail that.
But it’s not just the actor, it’s the person pulling the strings. Sam Raimi gets what Spider-Man is all about. Tim Burton got what Batman should be about. And if you thing Bryan Singer got what the X-Men are all about, you’d better believe he gets what Superman is all about.
Bryan Singer is an amazing storyteller. In fact, I’ll go so far as to say that he’s a better director than either Richard Donner or Richard Lester. Despite his youth, he is a visionary in the world of film, and his résumé should more than speak for itself. He is able to put ideas on concepts onscreen and have them actually make sense.
I’ll refrain from the obvious off-color remark on how hard that is to do in Hollywood, especially nowadays.
Even though there’s still a great deal of casting that remains, Singer has an uncanny eye for genuine talent, and he’s proven that he’s an ace when it comes to working with ensemble casts. Because ultimately, it’s not just Clark Kent/Superman that makes the movie. There’s Lois Lane, Lex Luthor, Jimmy Olsen, Perry White, Lana Lang, and other popular Metropolites. And if they don’t show up in the first flick, odds are we’ll be seeing the likes of General Zod, Brainiac, and Doomsday down the line. And one of the things that always anchored Superman was the supporting cast of characters. That’s what makes any good comic book. Without the Mary Janes and Alfreds of the comic universe, all we have are one-dimensional characters with no real connection to the outside world; the humanity which they are now a step above.
Why do you think Image Comics collapsed (zing!)?
So, the foundation is in place, and the wheels are in motion. Whether or not this film will trump its predecessors remains to be seen. Still, I remain extremely optimistic that Bryan Singer and Brandon Routh will make us all believe once again that a man can fly…
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
No sir, I would not want to be Bryan Singer right now, because I do not think I would be able to handle the pressure and still provide the masses with a faithful adaptation.
But just as I know I could not do such a thing, I also know that he can. And will.
For those of you oblivious to my ramblings, let me bring you up to speed: Singer, whose writing/directing credits include The Usual Suspects, X-Men, and X-2: X-Men United, has taken the reigns as director for the latest film in the Superman canon. This comes after a long list of directors, including Tim Burton, Kevin Smith, and McG. It also comes after an even longer list of potential Supermen: Nicolas Cage, Jim Caviezel, Jude Law, Ashton Kutcher, Josh Hartnett, etc., etc., ad infinitum.
But after nearly a decade of tossing, turning, cast and crew changes, rewrites, edits, and a mountain of speculation, the foundation has been set. Bryan Singer is your storyteller, and Brandon Routh is your hero.
First off, kudos to Singer for staying true to his word and casting a complete unknown as Superman. He did the smart thing and went for the most capable person for the job, not the most well known. Thank God he knows the difference. If directors were always to cast the most well known actors for big projects, Ryan O’Neal would’ve been playing Michael Corleone instead of Al Pacino. And that’s a known fact.
Though not knowing what Routh is capable of, if Singer cast him as Supes, then I have complete faith in him. Let’s not forget that Singer is the same guy who thought Hugh Jackman, despite standing 6’ tall, would make a good Wolverine. So needless to say, I trust the man’s judgment.
Moreover, look at Singer’s credentials that I listed just a few paragraphs above. The man is exceptionally talented when it comes to telling a cohesive, thought provoking story on film. Dare I say he’s a master at said skill. He gets what good filmmaking is all about. It’s not about the over-the-top explosion-happy action that Jerry Bruckheimer thrives on and Team America lampoons. It’s about genuine, convincing characters that the audience is able to connect to. Or at the very least believe.
Now I know that back in May, I heavily criticized the character of Superman, claiming that it was hard to connect to. Let me clarify something: Christopher Reeve managed to do something that 99% of the writers at DC Comics couldn’t. He made Superman believable. He brought a certain level of nobility and earnestness to the role that made you want to root for him, even if he was a big blue boy scout. Reeve saw something in the character of Superman (and equally as much in the character of Clark Kent) that had slipped through the cracks over time, and he managed to crystallize that nicely in his role. Which is why to this day, no one has been able to come close to Reeve’s portrayal. Dean Cain and Tom Welling never could and never will reach the level of believability that Reeve brought to the table, which is why Smallville, while surely entertaining, was unable to spawn the new Superman. It’s also why Lois & Clark, with the exception of Teri Hatcher’s cleavage, sucked hard.
Now for the record, I don’t think that Brandon Routh, no matter how talented, will trump Reeve’s performance. No matter how good he is, he will always be second in line on principle. However, he may just be the next best thing. And all things considered, who can complain, right?
Routh has his work cut out for him, and I sure hope he’s up to the task. It’s difficult for an actor to “own” a previously established role. Sure, Pacino will always be Tony Montana. Because it took Pacino to bring Tony to life. But when dealing with comic books, or literature in general, the character already has a life. It has a look, it has a voice, it has an aura. It’s not easy to claim that for yourself. That’s why Hollywood has been through four Batmen (going on five) since the 1960’s. Not a one of them has been able to nail it dead on.
Similarly, it’s also why Tobey Maguire is Spider-Man. He captures Spidey perfectly, just as Reeve captured Supes. It’s highly unlikely anyone will ever nail that.
But it’s not just the actor, it’s the person pulling the strings. Sam Raimi gets what Spider-Man is all about. Tim Burton got what Batman should be about. And if you thing Bryan Singer got what the X-Men are all about, you’d better believe he gets what Superman is all about.
Bryan Singer is an amazing storyteller. In fact, I’ll go so far as to say that he’s a better director than either Richard Donner or Richard Lester. Despite his youth, he is a visionary in the world of film, and his résumé should more than speak for itself. He is able to put ideas on concepts onscreen and have them actually make sense.
I’ll refrain from the obvious off-color remark on how hard that is to do in Hollywood, especially nowadays.
Even though there’s still a great deal of casting that remains, Singer has an uncanny eye for genuine talent, and he’s proven that he’s an ace when it comes to working with ensemble casts. Because ultimately, it’s not just Clark Kent/Superman that makes the movie. There’s Lois Lane, Lex Luthor, Jimmy Olsen, Perry White, Lana Lang, and other popular Metropolites. And if they don’t show up in the first flick, odds are we’ll be seeing the likes of General Zod, Brainiac, and Doomsday down the line. And one of the things that always anchored Superman was the supporting cast of characters. That’s what makes any good comic book. Without the Mary Janes and Alfreds of the comic universe, all we have are one-dimensional characters with no real connection to the outside world; the humanity which they are now a step above.
Why do you think Image Comics collapsed (zing!)?
So, the foundation is in place, and the wheels are in motion. Whether or not this film will trump its predecessors remains to be seen. Still, I remain extremely optimistic that Bryan Singer and Brandon Routh will make us all believe once again that a man can fly…
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
10/28/2004
Listen…
Last night may very well have been the single most important event in the history of professional sports. To be truthful, the only other moment I can think of, in recent memory at least, may have been the 1980 U.S. hockey team winning the gold medal in the Olympics. The question uttered that night that has since echoed in the minds of sports fans everywhere, now legendary in the annals of history…
“Do you believe in miracles?”
I’m a Red Sox fan. What do you think?
Last night marked the end of a dark era, and with this kind of momentum, the beginning of a new one. The Sox have been inching closer and closer to the World Series over the past five years, and it was only a matter of time before they succeeded in qualifying for the first time since 1986.
’86… 86 years since their last World Series win. And last night, the 86’d the curse. Plain and simple.
Last night, the longest tale of woe in sports history came to a blissful end when the ultimate underdogs of the baseball world made history once again.
First team to ever come from behind a 3-0 game deficit in the postseason. First team to ever win 8 consecutive games in the postseason. And finally, the first Red Sox line up to win the World Series in four score and six years. That, my friends, deserves commendation, regardless of who you root for.
Yankees fans, sit down. We need to talk. You played well at first, and I would be hard-pressed to ever take away anything from the talent your team possesses. I will never cheer them, but I do appreciate the skill the players exhibit, particularly Derek Jeter. I am not ashamed to admit that. Doesn’t mean he’s on my Christmas list.
And you know, that is how it should be. That is what a true rivalry should be about: equal parts disdain and respect. I may hate the Yankees with a passion, but I will always respect what they have accomplished. To the more arrogant Yanks fans, I would hope you can do the same for the Red Sox. All week long, I’ve been hearing the Cardinals had the Sox number, that the ghost of the Bambino would rise by All Hallows’ Eve. That the Sox would never win, ever.
I now invite you all to collectively pull your foot from your mouth that you may feast upon your own vindictive words.
Listen…
The “curse,” if there ever was one, is over. Admit it. Lose your pride for one minute and just give credit where credit is due, rather than fester in your self-made pool of envy and hatred. Don’t tell us that we don’t deserve this. Don’t tell us that it’ll be another 80-some-odd years before it happens again. Don’t deal with our victory by trying to stir the pot of loathing even more. I already detailed about this time last year how you have no inkling of what pain as a sports fan really is. Please don’t prove in your words and deeds that you are also devoid of dignity and sportsmanship.
I heard one person tell me the Red Sox have now lost their baseball identity. What identity, pray tell, is that? Eternal underdog? The team doomed to come within a hair’s inch of victory just before having it dashed away? Let me ask you something, why would we be proud of that identity? Why would we cherish that identity? Just because you are proud of the fact that Big George packs on the superstar pounds each year by shelling out tons of money for baseball’s luminaries (this is true, don’t you dare deny it) doesn’t mean we have to be proud of the fact that we have had the worst bad luck streak as fans in the history of the sport.
So if we have lost this identity, I am glad. In fact, I’m frickin’ ecstatic.
The lease is up on Ruth’s curse. Deal with it. In fact, for all you know, he may have had a change of heart after befriending Ted Williams in Heaven. Maybe the curse has reversed toward your team now. Just maybe. Maybe you’re doomed to another 86 years before you reach the pinnacle again. Maybe it’s our time to shine.
Then again, maybe not. Who are we to predict the future with such gross arrogance, just for the sake of provoking our rivals? Why must we be so venomous? I have long abandoned those ways, and it’s high time that many on both sides of the coin do the same. Why must we forsake sportsmanship in the name of competition? The answer is now clear: we shouldn’t.
One friend put it perfectly in his away message this morning: “Congratulations to all the true Red Sox fans, you deserve it. To all you bandwagon jumpers… you know who you are.”
And this is coming from one of the purest, most loyal Yankees fans I know. His entire family is from New York, he goes to as many of the Yanks’ postseason games as he can each year (and that’s a hike, considering he goes to Villanova), he was even at Game 7 last week when the Sox topped the Yanks to advance. That is dedication. And even then, he was offering words of congratulations to us enthused Sox fans. That is respect. It is OK to have both. It won’t kill you. It won’t make you less of a fan or less of a person. In fact, it will up your stock in both departments. You should give it a try; it’s very refreshing.
Listen…
Let me tell you a story. I knew a man in my youth who was perhaps the biggest Red Sox fan you could ever hope to meet. We used to go on church trips to Yankee stadium, and it would seem he was the only one wearing his Boston hat. He wore it proudly. Bravely. Unashamedly. I remember one year, the Yanks won after some little kids ran out in the field in the bottom of the ninth. This caused a freeze on the game, despite Boston’s would-be game-winning fly ball out. He was infuriated, and rightfully so. The Yanks came from behind and won, all because of the actions of a few very obnoxious fans.
The next week, we had our annual church tag sale. Danny came across a tall Yankees glass. The irritation still fresh in his memory, he bought it, took it in the kitchen in back, tossed it into an empty trashcan, and shattered it with a broomstick. He left it on a paper plate under a paper towel with a note to my father to look underneath.
My father is an interesting creature. He appreciates baseball for what it is, and while he follows the Yankees and the Red Sox, he does not lean toward either team. In an age of such fierce emotions, he comes across as a bipartisan enigma, though at this time in the story, he was poking fun at Danny over the loss. Needless to say, he got a laugh when he pulled up the towel and saw the shattered remnants of that drinking glass.
Danny truly bled everything Bosox. He passed away eight years ago last month of a sudden heart attack. He was buried with a Red Sox hat by his head. All I can think of his how much he would’ve loved to see this moment, and how much I wish he were here to share it with us all. Of course, where he is now, he can celebrate this momentous occasion with Ted Williams himself, so I think he may be one up on us all.
Listen…
I know another friend who turned 17 in the wee hours of October 21st, the day the Sox won game seven over the Yanks in the ALCS. He was born in 1987, and had never even seen the 1986 Sox-Mets Series. He had only heard the legends. For him, this is a treat of immeasurable magnitude. Sunday night, he is going out for Halloween dressed as Johnny Damon. His friend is taking a cue from Team America and painting his face brown and applying fake facial hair so he can be Manny Ramirez. For them, this is a dream come true.
It is a dream come true for all of the faithful. You have to be raised in New England to understand what this means. Generations have gone by without seeing this. My late grandfather was a mere four years old the last time this happened. There are two generations in my house who have never seen it.
This is a time to rejoice. This is a time to celebrate. This is a time to soak up the victory that has for so very long eluded the faithful. It finally happened, and no naysayer will ever be able to take this away from us.
The Boston Red Sox are the 2004 World Series Champions. The best team in baseball today. This is Red October. And it feels oh-so wonderful.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow… I know I will.
Last night may very well have been the single most important event in the history of professional sports. To be truthful, the only other moment I can think of, in recent memory at least, may have been the 1980 U.S. hockey team winning the gold medal in the Olympics. The question uttered that night that has since echoed in the minds of sports fans everywhere, now legendary in the annals of history…
“Do you believe in miracles?”
I’m a Red Sox fan. What do you think?
Last night marked the end of a dark era, and with this kind of momentum, the beginning of a new one. The Sox have been inching closer and closer to the World Series over the past five years, and it was only a matter of time before they succeeded in qualifying for the first time since 1986.
’86… 86 years since their last World Series win. And last night, the 86’d the curse. Plain and simple.
Last night, the longest tale of woe in sports history came to a blissful end when the ultimate underdogs of the baseball world made history once again.
First team to ever come from behind a 3-0 game deficit in the postseason. First team to ever win 8 consecutive games in the postseason. And finally, the first Red Sox line up to win the World Series in four score and six years. That, my friends, deserves commendation, regardless of who you root for.
Yankees fans, sit down. We need to talk. You played well at first, and I would be hard-pressed to ever take away anything from the talent your team possesses. I will never cheer them, but I do appreciate the skill the players exhibit, particularly Derek Jeter. I am not ashamed to admit that. Doesn’t mean he’s on my Christmas list.
And you know, that is how it should be. That is what a true rivalry should be about: equal parts disdain and respect. I may hate the Yankees with a passion, but I will always respect what they have accomplished. To the more arrogant Yanks fans, I would hope you can do the same for the Red Sox. All week long, I’ve been hearing the Cardinals had the Sox number, that the ghost of the Bambino would rise by All Hallows’ Eve. That the Sox would never win, ever.
I now invite you all to collectively pull your foot from your mouth that you may feast upon your own vindictive words.
Listen…
The “curse,” if there ever was one, is over. Admit it. Lose your pride for one minute and just give credit where credit is due, rather than fester in your self-made pool of envy and hatred. Don’t tell us that we don’t deserve this. Don’t tell us that it’ll be another 80-some-odd years before it happens again. Don’t deal with our victory by trying to stir the pot of loathing even more. I already detailed about this time last year how you have no inkling of what pain as a sports fan really is. Please don’t prove in your words and deeds that you are also devoid of dignity and sportsmanship.
I heard one person tell me the Red Sox have now lost their baseball identity. What identity, pray tell, is that? Eternal underdog? The team doomed to come within a hair’s inch of victory just before having it dashed away? Let me ask you something, why would we be proud of that identity? Why would we cherish that identity? Just because you are proud of the fact that Big George packs on the superstar pounds each year by shelling out tons of money for baseball’s luminaries (this is true, don’t you dare deny it) doesn’t mean we have to be proud of the fact that we have had the worst bad luck streak as fans in the history of the sport.
So if we have lost this identity, I am glad. In fact, I’m frickin’ ecstatic.
The lease is up on Ruth’s curse. Deal with it. In fact, for all you know, he may have had a change of heart after befriending Ted Williams in Heaven. Maybe the curse has reversed toward your team now. Just maybe. Maybe you’re doomed to another 86 years before you reach the pinnacle again. Maybe it’s our time to shine.
Then again, maybe not. Who are we to predict the future with such gross arrogance, just for the sake of provoking our rivals? Why must we be so venomous? I have long abandoned those ways, and it’s high time that many on both sides of the coin do the same. Why must we forsake sportsmanship in the name of competition? The answer is now clear: we shouldn’t.
One friend put it perfectly in his away message this morning: “Congratulations to all the true Red Sox fans, you deserve it. To all you bandwagon jumpers… you know who you are.”
And this is coming from one of the purest, most loyal Yankees fans I know. His entire family is from New York, he goes to as many of the Yanks’ postseason games as he can each year (and that’s a hike, considering he goes to Villanova), he was even at Game 7 last week when the Sox topped the Yanks to advance. That is dedication. And even then, he was offering words of congratulations to us enthused Sox fans. That is respect. It is OK to have both. It won’t kill you. It won’t make you less of a fan or less of a person. In fact, it will up your stock in both departments. You should give it a try; it’s very refreshing.
Listen…
Let me tell you a story. I knew a man in my youth who was perhaps the biggest Red Sox fan you could ever hope to meet. We used to go on church trips to Yankee stadium, and it would seem he was the only one wearing his Boston hat. He wore it proudly. Bravely. Unashamedly. I remember one year, the Yanks won after some little kids ran out in the field in the bottom of the ninth. This caused a freeze on the game, despite Boston’s would-be game-winning fly ball out. He was infuriated, and rightfully so. The Yanks came from behind and won, all because of the actions of a few very obnoxious fans.
The next week, we had our annual church tag sale. Danny came across a tall Yankees glass. The irritation still fresh in his memory, he bought it, took it in the kitchen in back, tossed it into an empty trashcan, and shattered it with a broomstick. He left it on a paper plate under a paper towel with a note to my father to look underneath.
My father is an interesting creature. He appreciates baseball for what it is, and while he follows the Yankees and the Red Sox, he does not lean toward either team. In an age of such fierce emotions, he comes across as a bipartisan enigma, though at this time in the story, he was poking fun at Danny over the loss. Needless to say, he got a laugh when he pulled up the towel and saw the shattered remnants of that drinking glass.
Danny truly bled everything Bosox. He passed away eight years ago last month of a sudden heart attack. He was buried with a Red Sox hat by his head. All I can think of his how much he would’ve loved to see this moment, and how much I wish he were here to share it with us all. Of course, where he is now, he can celebrate this momentous occasion with Ted Williams himself, so I think he may be one up on us all.
Listen…
I know another friend who turned 17 in the wee hours of October 21st, the day the Sox won game seven over the Yanks in the ALCS. He was born in 1987, and had never even seen the 1986 Sox-Mets Series. He had only heard the legends. For him, this is a treat of immeasurable magnitude. Sunday night, he is going out for Halloween dressed as Johnny Damon. His friend is taking a cue from Team America and painting his face brown and applying fake facial hair so he can be Manny Ramirez. For them, this is a dream come true.
It is a dream come true for all of the faithful. You have to be raised in New England to understand what this means. Generations have gone by without seeing this. My late grandfather was a mere four years old the last time this happened. There are two generations in my house who have never seen it.
This is a time to rejoice. This is a time to celebrate. This is a time to soak up the victory that has for so very long eluded the faithful. It finally happened, and no naysayer will ever be able to take this away from us.
The Boston Red Sox are the 2004 World Series Champions. The best team in baseball today. This is Red October. And it feels oh-so wonderful.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow… I know I will.
10/27/2004
Why is the whole world up in arms about this Ashlee Simpson/SNL “fiasco?” Why do we care? Why do we give one tenth of one shit why this untalented, mantis-like starlet fucked up?
Quite frankly, this situation isn’t even deserving of the mocking title of “Ashlee-Gate.” Since when was Ashlee Simpson a big enough celebrity to deserve her own “gate?” I wouldn’t even give her a “coup,” for crying out loud.
A brief aside: for those of you who saw that clip… what was up with that “dance?” Dear God… I thought Britney Spears was the least talented poptart out there, but Ashlee is about to make me eat my words. Or toss my cookies. Haven’t figured that out yet.
Back on topic… Why do we mere mortals zero in on these stupid little celebrity moments so much? When did our lives become so empty that we had to live through the actions of some dim-witted shit-for-brains? Ashlee’s song screw up, Janet Jackson’s breast, Björk’s weird-ass swan dress, Jennifer Lopez’s “barely there” (God, I hate that phrase) dress at the Oscars…
People… who… gives… a… fuck?
Seriously, I’m not a pessimistic or hateful person by any means, but the more these people do stupid shit, the more I want to bomb Hollywood.
Except when they’re filming comic book movies. Or anything with Keira Knightley.
And the reason I opt to bomb celebrities instead of the people who obsess about celebrities is because the former is a far smaller, more concentrated population than the latter. My hope in doing so would be that the elimination of said celebrities would allow these would-be stalkers to wake up and smell the oxygen for once. Read a book, go for a walk, it’s Autumn for Chrissakes! Enjoy the foliage. Do something other than reading US Weekly in between airings of Entertainment Tonight and The Simple Life.
Celebrities are not that important. Most of them are not even that talented. Therefore, there’s no reason we should go apeshit if they fuck up. We all fuck up. It’s part of life. Only difference is most of us aren’t on camera when it happens. Ultimately, the more we buzz about their strange behavior and shortcomings, the more ammunition we’re supplying them to straight-out suck ass.
And I, for one, will not allow that to happen. So, in summation, I have this to say about Ashlee-Gate:
Don’t care, don’t care, and, um… don’t care.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
Quite frankly, this situation isn’t even deserving of the mocking title of “Ashlee-Gate.” Since when was Ashlee Simpson a big enough celebrity to deserve her own “gate?” I wouldn’t even give her a “coup,” for crying out loud.
A brief aside: for those of you who saw that clip… what was up with that “dance?” Dear God… I thought Britney Spears was the least talented poptart out there, but Ashlee is about to make me eat my words. Or toss my cookies. Haven’t figured that out yet.
Back on topic… Why do we mere mortals zero in on these stupid little celebrity moments so much? When did our lives become so empty that we had to live through the actions of some dim-witted shit-for-brains? Ashlee’s song screw up, Janet Jackson’s breast, Björk’s weird-ass swan dress, Jennifer Lopez’s “barely there” (God, I hate that phrase) dress at the Oscars…
People… who… gives… a… fuck?
Seriously, I’m not a pessimistic or hateful person by any means, but the more these people do stupid shit, the more I want to bomb Hollywood.
Except when they’re filming comic book movies. Or anything with Keira Knightley.
And the reason I opt to bomb celebrities instead of the people who obsess about celebrities is because the former is a far smaller, more concentrated population than the latter. My hope in doing so would be that the elimination of said celebrities would allow these would-be stalkers to wake up and smell the oxygen for once. Read a book, go for a walk, it’s Autumn for Chrissakes! Enjoy the foliage. Do something other than reading US Weekly in between airings of Entertainment Tonight and The Simple Life.
Celebrities are not that important. Most of them are not even that talented. Therefore, there’s no reason we should go apeshit if they fuck up. We all fuck up. It’s part of life. Only difference is most of us aren’t on camera when it happens. Ultimately, the more we buzz about their strange behavior and shortcomings, the more ammunition we’re supplying them to straight-out suck ass.
And I, for one, will not allow that to happen. So, in summation, I have this to say about Ashlee-Gate:
Don’t care, don’t care, and, um… don’t care.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
10/25/2004
Those who have been fishing in these Landshark-infested waters for some time are probably well aware of the fact that I am very quick to shoot someone down in a fiery blaze due to their rampant idiocy. It probably should come as no surprise then when I say that I do not dish out compliments on intelligence freely. Truthfully, I am always hard-pressed to call anyone a genius. But I think I can say freely and without reservation…
Trey Parker and Matt Stone are fuckin’ geniuses.
If you need to be convinced of my proclamation, I urge you to drop whoever or whatever you are doing right now and go see Team America: World Police. Now. No, I mean it. Go now. No, I’m really not doing this for effect. I want you to see this movie. You will be a better person for it.
You still haven’t gotten off your ass to see it, have you? OK, let me spell it out for you… if you do not immediately close this window and go view this fine piece of cinematic wonder, I will personally give Beelzebub your home address so that he may sodomize you with his flaming pitchfork.
I knew that would work. Damn good movie, wasn’t it? Now you can see what I mean by geniuses.
The thing about Trey and Matt is this: they don’t give a shit who they offend. Everyone is a target, everyone is fair game, no one is safe. It doesn’t matter what walk of life you come from, if you put your stupidity out there, they will malign your not-so-good name.
For those of you who didn’t take my advice, let me lay down the skinny while Lucifer cornholes you.
Team America is the ultimate wake-up call to everyone. Like I said, everyone gets it. The uptight, right wing conservatives are portrayed as gung-ho, gun toting, overly patriotic, “shoot first, fuck the questions” war birds who blow up terrorists and pretty much everything else in a 50-mile radius (including historic landmarks and wonders of the world) while proudly proclaiming that they are protecting the freedom of the world. Meanwhile, free-spirited, left wing liberals are portrayed as whiny, pissy, anti-corporate, self-righteous actors who think that their opinions determine how everyone else should think. Y’know, ‘cause as Hollywood actors, they’re just that enlightened.
And y’know something? It’s just what the country needs right now. We are so caught up in this election, and emotions are running so high (believe me, I know… ‘cause I’m one of the people who’s caught up in it), we need to decompress, look at ourselves, and realize how wonderfully insipid we can be at times. The film serves as a means for us to laugh at others and ourselves while offering up gut-busting violence, graphic sex, and language so coarse it could be used as sandpaper.
All with puppets.
That’s part of what makes Team America so great. The fact that everything that’s going down involves demented little marionettes, much in the same way South Park involves rabid little construction paper cutout kids. Parker and Stone have managed to breathe life into these inanimate objects and make us believe that they really are legitimate characters. And for the record, the puppet performances in Team America are easily ten times as entertaining as 90% of the rot that makes it to the silver screen nowadays.
And as always, Parker and Stone make sure to insert their twisted musical talents, including great songs like “America, Fuck Yeah!,” “Everyone Has AIDS,” “Ronery” (Kim Jong Il’s song), and “Freedom Isn’t Free” (apparently it costs a buck-o-five).
Let me lay it on the line for you: Team America is easily one of the two best films I've seen this year (the other happens to involve a guy web-slinging around New York). And I can say that with a straight face, a clear conscience, and a split in my sides. And to anyone who thinks this film is too extreme, please grow the fuck up. They're puppets. It's meant to be farcical. The nation really needs to ease off the serious button for just two minutes. Actually, make it 106 minutes. Because that's roughly how long the film is.
Y’know, at night, I can rest easily knowing that as long as there is rampant, insipid stupidity in this nation, no matter how aggravating it may be to me, Trey Parker and Matt Stone will always have a job to do.
Putting the stupid in their place.
Coming soon, a commentary on why Bryan Singer will make us believe once again that a man can fly.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
Trey Parker and Matt Stone are fuckin’ geniuses.
If you need to be convinced of my proclamation, I urge you to drop whoever or whatever you are doing right now and go see Team America: World Police. Now. No, I mean it. Go now. No, I’m really not doing this for effect. I want you to see this movie. You will be a better person for it.
You still haven’t gotten off your ass to see it, have you? OK, let me spell it out for you… if you do not immediately close this window and go view this fine piece of cinematic wonder, I will personally give Beelzebub your home address so that he may sodomize you with his flaming pitchfork.
I knew that would work. Damn good movie, wasn’t it? Now you can see what I mean by geniuses.
The thing about Trey and Matt is this: they don’t give a shit who they offend. Everyone is a target, everyone is fair game, no one is safe. It doesn’t matter what walk of life you come from, if you put your stupidity out there, they will malign your not-so-good name.
For those of you who didn’t take my advice, let me lay down the skinny while Lucifer cornholes you.
Team America is the ultimate wake-up call to everyone. Like I said, everyone gets it. The uptight, right wing conservatives are portrayed as gung-ho, gun toting, overly patriotic, “shoot first, fuck the questions” war birds who blow up terrorists and pretty much everything else in a 50-mile radius (including historic landmarks and wonders of the world) while proudly proclaiming that they are protecting the freedom of the world. Meanwhile, free-spirited, left wing liberals are portrayed as whiny, pissy, anti-corporate, self-righteous actors who think that their opinions determine how everyone else should think. Y’know, ‘cause as Hollywood actors, they’re just that enlightened.
And y’know something? It’s just what the country needs right now. We are so caught up in this election, and emotions are running so high (believe me, I know… ‘cause I’m one of the people who’s caught up in it), we need to decompress, look at ourselves, and realize how wonderfully insipid we can be at times. The film serves as a means for us to laugh at others and ourselves while offering up gut-busting violence, graphic sex, and language so coarse it could be used as sandpaper.
All with puppets.
That’s part of what makes Team America so great. The fact that everything that’s going down involves demented little marionettes, much in the same way South Park involves rabid little construction paper cutout kids. Parker and Stone have managed to breathe life into these inanimate objects and make us believe that they really are legitimate characters. And for the record, the puppet performances in Team America are easily ten times as entertaining as 90% of the rot that makes it to the silver screen nowadays.
And as always, Parker and Stone make sure to insert their twisted musical talents, including great songs like “America, Fuck Yeah!,” “Everyone Has AIDS,” “Ronery” (Kim Jong Il’s song), and “Freedom Isn’t Free” (apparently it costs a buck-o-five).
Let me lay it on the line for you: Team America is easily one of the two best films I've seen this year (the other happens to involve a guy web-slinging around New York). And I can say that with a straight face, a clear conscience, and a split in my sides. And to anyone who thinks this film is too extreme, please grow the fuck up. They're puppets. It's meant to be farcical. The nation really needs to ease off the serious button for just two minutes. Actually, make it 106 minutes. Because that's roughly how long the film is.
Y’know, at night, I can rest easily knowing that as long as there is rampant, insipid stupidity in this nation, no matter how aggravating it may be to me, Trey Parker and Matt Stone will always have a job to do.
Putting the stupid in their place.
Coming soon, a commentary on why Bryan Singer will make us believe once again that a man can fly.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
10/02/2004
I have a beef. Of course, when I start Landsharking, I normally have some sort of a beef. So I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. And neither should you.
I love movies. So much of my commentary focuses on the media in our world that it pretty much goes without saying. One of my first real memories was going to see The Black Cauldron in the theater with my parents. Since then, I’ve amassed a pretty sizeable collection of flicks.
And if you’ve been reading this baby for a reasonable period of time, you should know that I have a fond respect for originality in all forms of art and entertainment. There’s just something beautiful about an original idea that takes shape and develops into a full-fledged medium. I truly love that process.
Having said that, it should be duly noted (and quite obvious) that I have a deep-seated loathing for unoriginality. Especially in the form of plagiarism.
Now let’s not get plagiarism confused with inspiration. There is a difference. When George Lucas borrows the opening title sequence to every Star Wars movie from a sci-fi serial he used to watch as a kid, that’s inspiration. When Paul Auster makes references to William Wilson in The New York Trilogy, that’s an homage to Edgar Allen Poe’s character of the same name. And when Bruce Campbell is given the magic words “klaatu, barada, nikto” in Army Of Darkness, that’s a sly reference to the words used to control Gort in The Day The Earth Stood Still.
That, my friends, is a kindly tip of the hat to one’s predecessors. Nothing more.
However, plagiarism, outright copying a film’s core premise is, to me, an inexcusable crime.
A crime that Dreamworks SKG has violated for the last time, in my eyes.
Why, you ask? OK, here are four films released by Dreamworks in the last six years. All film descriptions are courtesy of the Internet Movie Database.
Deep Impact. Original Release Date: May 8, 1998. Unless a comet can be destroyed before colliding with Earth, only those allowed into shelters will survive. Which people will survive?
Saving Private Ryan. Original Release Date: July 24, 1998. Based on a World War II drama. US soldiers try to save their comrade, paratrooper Private Ryan, who's stationed behind enemy lines.
Antz. Original Release Date: October 2, 1998. A rather neurotic ant tries to break from his totalitarian society while trying to win the affection of the princess he loves.
Shark Tale. Original Release Date: October 1, 2004. The sea underworld is shaken up when the son of the shark mob boss is found dead and a young fish named Oscar is found at the scene...
Now, compare the above to the following four films, all released by different production companies…
Armageddon. Original Release Date: July 1, 1998 (released by Touchstone Pictures). When an asteroid the size of Texas is headed for Earth the world's best deep core drilling team is sent to nuke the rock from the inside.
The Thin Red Line. Original Release Date: December 25, 1998 (released by Twentieth Century Fox). Director Terrence Malick's adaptation of James Jones' autobiographical 1962 novel, focusing on the conflict at Guadalcanal during the second World War.
A Bug’s Life. Original Release Date: November 25, 1998 (released by Walt Disney Pictures). A misfit ant, looking for warriors to save his colony from grasshoppers, recruits a group of bugs that turn out to be an inept circus troupe.
Finding Nemo. Original Release Date: May 30, 2004 (released by Walt Disney/Pixar). A father-son underwater adventure featuring Nemo, a boy clownfish, stolen from his coral reef home. His timid father must then search the ocean to find him.
Now, just stop and think for a second. Here we have four films by Dreamworks: a disaster movie, a war epic, a CGI kids’ film about bugs, and a CGI kids’ film about fish.
The remaining four films are: a disaster movie, a war epic, a CGI kids’ film about bugs, and a CGI kids’ film about fish.
Notice a pattern, here?
Before you jump to conclusions, yes, I am accusing Dreamworks SKG of stealing general ideas and pillaging them into their own creations. You’ll notice that in all the cases except for the Nemo/Sharksituation, Dreamworks has trumped the competition by releasing their film as much as six months earlier. And even with the 18-month hiatus between Nemo and Shark, Nemo was such a huge hit that the memory still lingers fresh in the minds of most children.
I could excuse Saving Private Ryan, as war epics are plentiful. Besides, Ryan was a much better film than Line, and with Spielberg at the helm, you’d be hard-pressed to question his standard genius.
Well, except for A.I. We’d like to forget that. Forever.
But then we have two disaster movies. Well, even that may be a coincidence. Hell, Universal and Fox released Dante’s Peak and Volcano respectively within months of each other. Competition is hot amongst production companies, and disaster films are typically strong box office draws.
But now you have two kids movies that, in the general premise and atmosphere, are practically identical. This really pisses me off.
What pisses me off more than how blatantly Dreamworks has ripped off Disney and Pixar in this instance is the fact that these two films pretty much confirm the nasty truth that everyone in Hollywood is in it for the money. Why? Because these films are guaranteed to be modest to huge hits and they will draw kids in by the droves.
And what really irks me is the fact that this company was founded by three very prolific, creative guys in entertainment. Spielberg, Jeffrey Katzenberg, and David Geffen. You would think that with those founding fathers, the firm would have more innovative material coming out of the woodwork.
But no. What we get is just some very generic rehash. And that may really be the saddest part of all of this.
Creative juices wasted on someone else’s pre-existing ideas.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
I love movies. So much of my commentary focuses on the media in our world that it pretty much goes without saying. One of my first real memories was going to see The Black Cauldron in the theater with my parents. Since then, I’ve amassed a pretty sizeable collection of flicks.
And if you’ve been reading this baby for a reasonable period of time, you should know that I have a fond respect for originality in all forms of art and entertainment. There’s just something beautiful about an original idea that takes shape and develops into a full-fledged medium. I truly love that process.
Having said that, it should be duly noted (and quite obvious) that I have a deep-seated loathing for unoriginality. Especially in the form of plagiarism.
Now let’s not get plagiarism confused with inspiration. There is a difference. When George Lucas borrows the opening title sequence to every Star Wars movie from a sci-fi serial he used to watch as a kid, that’s inspiration. When Paul Auster makes references to William Wilson in The New York Trilogy, that’s an homage to Edgar Allen Poe’s character of the same name. And when Bruce Campbell is given the magic words “klaatu, barada, nikto” in Army Of Darkness, that’s a sly reference to the words used to control Gort in The Day The Earth Stood Still.
That, my friends, is a kindly tip of the hat to one’s predecessors. Nothing more.
However, plagiarism, outright copying a film’s core premise is, to me, an inexcusable crime.
A crime that Dreamworks SKG has violated for the last time, in my eyes.
Why, you ask? OK, here are four films released by Dreamworks in the last six years. All film descriptions are courtesy of the Internet Movie Database.
Deep Impact. Original Release Date: May 8, 1998. Unless a comet can be destroyed before colliding with Earth, only those allowed into shelters will survive. Which people will survive?
Saving Private Ryan. Original Release Date: July 24, 1998. Based on a World War II drama. US soldiers try to save their comrade, paratrooper Private Ryan, who's stationed behind enemy lines.
Antz. Original Release Date: October 2, 1998. A rather neurotic ant tries to break from his totalitarian society while trying to win the affection of the princess he loves.
Shark Tale. Original Release Date: October 1, 2004. The sea underworld is shaken up when the son of the shark mob boss is found dead and a young fish named Oscar is found at the scene...
Now, compare the above to the following four films, all released by different production companies…
Armageddon. Original Release Date: July 1, 1998 (released by Touchstone Pictures). When an asteroid the size of Texas is headed for Earth the world's best deep core drilling team is sent to nuke the rock from the inside.
The Thin Red Line. Original Release Date: December 25, 1998 (released by Twentieth Century Fox). Director Terrence Malick's adaptation of James Jones' autobiographical 1962 novel, focusing on the conflict at Guadalcanal during the second World War.
A Bug’s Life. Original Release Date: November 25, 1998 (released by Walt Disney Pictures). A misfit ant, looking for warriors to save his colony from grasshoppers, recruits a group of bugs that turn out to be an inept circus troupe.
Finding Nemo. Original Release Date: May 30, 2004 (released by Walt Disney/Pixar). A father-son underwater adventure featuring Nemo, a boy clownfish, stolen from his coral reef home. His timid father must then search the ocean to find him.
Now, just stop and think for a second. Here we have four films by Dreamworks: a disaster movie, a war epic, a CGI kids’ film about bugs, and a CGI kids’ film about fish.
The remaining four films are: a disaster movie, a war epic, a CGI kids’ film about bugs, and a CGI kids’ film about fish.
Notice a pattern, here?
Before you jump to conclusions, yes, I am accusing Dreamworks SKG of stealing general ideas and pillaging them into their own creations. You’ll notice that in all the cases except for the Nemo/Shark
I could excuse Saving Private Ryan, as war epics are plentiful. Besides, Ryan was a much better film than Line, and with Spielberg at the helm, you’d be hard-pressed to question his standard genius.
Well, except for A.I. We’d like to forget that. Forever.
But then we have two disaster movies. Well, even that may be a coincidence. Hell, Universal and Fox released Dante’s Peak and Volcano respectively within months of each other. Competition is hot amongst production companies, and disaster films are typically strong box office draws.
But now you have two kids movies that, in the general premise and atmosphere, are practically identical. This really pisses me off.
What pisses me off more than how blatantly Dreamworks has ripped off Disney and Pixar in this instance is the fact that these two films pretty much confirm the nasty truth that everyone in Hollywood is in it for the money. Why? Because these films are guaranteed to be modest to huge hits and they will draw kids in by the droves.
And what really irks me is the fact that this company was founded by three very prolific, creative guys in entertainment. Spielberg, Jeffrey Katzenberg, and David Geffen. You would think that with those founding fathers, the firm would have more innovative material coming out of the woodwork.
But no. What we get is just some very generic rehash. And that may really be the saddest part of all of this.
Creative juices wasted on someone else’s pre-existing ideas.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
9/14/2004
With all my recent frustrations and rants over the state of the nation and the FCC have led me to write beyond the scope of my beloved blog. I'm still not 100% sure where I'm going with this, but I have a general layout (and purpose) with the root of the following excerpt. I hope to complete it sometime within the next couple of years, and I intend on making it a full novel. Not just a short story or novella this time. Any feedback would be greatly appreciated, and if you're good little seamonkeys, I might just put some more snippets up here for you.
Bon apetit...
After getting out of college, I was anxious to try and bring the Morning Wood Experience to another outlet. It was relatively easy to get a radio show back at old Dormsike, you just had to be persistent. Sooner or later they were gonna have to acknowledge you unless you were batting a double digit IQ and/or had rotten musical taste. And even then your odds were decent.
At any rate, I wanted to test the waters, see what I was worth. So when I made the trip from college to grad school, I made a beeline for station tryouts. Due to my class schedule, I could only stay in training classes for half the allotted time, but I did make a connection with the station manager, Gil Loeb. I’ll never be sure how impressed he was, if at all, since his expression never changed. He was an older fella, probably in his mid 50s, with a full head of white and a sizeable paunch. He never removed his sport coat, not once, even during the residual summer humidity of early September. Had he ever peeled that second skin of a jacket from his torso, you would’ve seen a button-down shirt that was unable to hide his belly jutting over his beltline.
Herein laid the key difference between WCCH and New Haven College’s WNHC. My old stomping grounds had been run by the students. This strange new world was also run by the students.
But supervised by the faculty. Even a eunuch would’ve wound up in the fetal position after this boot to the junk.
So here I am, trying to play down my beloved A.M. antics to Gargantuan Gil Loeb. I felt like I was about to spar with a boxing champion. It was a feeling I would become very familiar with after grad school, when going on job interviews.
“So,” he started. “You obviously have a great deal of experience, having done four years at college. To be truthful, we don’t often get grad students trying out for the station… We like to reserve on-air slots for undergraduates.”
“I assumed that was the typical scenario, but I figured it couldn’t hurt to give it a shot.”
“You’re going for your MBA in… what was it now, finance?” Not even close.
“Marketing, actually.”
“Oh, right. Marketing. And you’re a full time student, correct?”
“Yep, three classes a week from 5:30 to 8:30 at night.”
“And you commute from Waterbury? What is that, about a half-hour drive?”
“Forty-five minutes with evening traffic.”
“Hmm.” Gil had this way of analyzing and contemplating every response you offered. “Hmm” would’ve been his response if I answered a question on what color my socks were.
They were white, for the record.
“Quite a hike to do a radio show, isn’t it?” he pried. This made me uncomfortable. The question was borderline accusatory, and I felt like this went from a purportedly casual chat to an interrogation. I realized it sounded a little outlandish, driving nearly an hour to do a simple radio show, but Gil made me feel like I was bound for Bellevue, padded cell and all. I did my best to hide the sinking feeling in my gut and just shrugged with a grin.
“I loved doing radio. It’s something I want to keep up with, if possible.”
“Hmm.” This particular monosyllabic pondering segued into Gil reviewing my show proposal. Every instinct was telling me that this was now officially a lost cause and I should bolt to the door. A word of advice, true believer: in any interview situation, whenever someone pauses from a line of questioning to review anything written on paper, it is not a good sign. Proceed with caution. “Your show was pretty risqué, no?” My mental Magic 8-Ball was reading “Outlook Not Good” by now. I could offer Gil the Holy Grail at this point and it wouldn’t have made a different.
“It was harmless fun. College students like a good laugh or two while getting ready for an 8:00 AM class.” This comment didn’t even warrant the requisite “Hmm.” Gil went right for the jugular.
“You are familiar with station policy in compliance with FCC regulations, correct?” The FCC. This was my first run-in with those three cursed consonants. While WCCH was legally bound to their regulations, it was still easy to get away with murder on the air (especially between 10:00 PM and 6:00 AM; safe harbor hours). Every new DJ viewed those letters while skimming the station rules, but no one at the station ever made a fuss over it. Why would a great white like the FCC bother with a guppy like WCCH? Or WNHC for that matter? To Gil’s query, I simply nodded. “Because of the prevalence of so-called ‘shock jocks,’ the FCC has strict laws regarding on-air content, and we make it a point to abide by these laws. I am very concerned about what is broadcast on my station. I don’t even want to hear the word ‘sucks’ on my station.”
I bit my tongue, trying to keep my jaw in place and not hit the floor. How in the hell do you ban such a timid word? I mean, don’t misunderstand me, I know full well the origin of the word. To say “this sucks” is an abbreviation of the derogatory phrase “this sucks dick.” Or “cock,” whichever tickles your fancy. But I mean, despite where the term derives from, we are talking about 2002 here. The twenty-first century, new millennium and all that. By this point in time, hell by the mid 90’s, “sucks’ had become so distilled through extensive use that its suggestive origins had been all but forgotten by the general public. In fact, the phrase had pretty much been fully assimilated by the vernacular lexicon of our culture.
To this day, I wonder if Gil ever felt that Prohibition was still a good idea.
I also wonder if he knew the fact that the word “jerk” was originally used to describe someone who masturbated too much. Or that a “geek” really meant someone who bit the heads off of chickens. That was where the words started, but where they finished was an altogether different story, much like “sucks.” Kurtz and I had had several discussions over the English language, and how sooner or later, there would be no such thing as a truly taboo word. By this time, “damn,” “hell,” “ass,” and “bitch” had already become acceptable on most television and radio broadcasts, which were the two mediums that were and still are largely unregulated in terms of content. After all, a 12-year-old can get turned away at an R-rated movie, but there’s no authority figure with the exception of parents to bar them from turning the channel to a program that’s rated TV-MA. And by the turn of the century, anything rated TV-MA got a little extra dose of freedom in terms of content. Shows like “Playmakers” and “NYPD Blue” were freely exposing bare bottoms and dropping the word “shit” freely. In fact, “South Park” got away with saying “shit” more than 150 times in one episode without a single bleep. Granted, the geniuses that Trey Parker and Matt Stone are, they did so to prove a point. But nonetheless, it was evident that the reigns of censorship were being gradually loosened by this time in history.
“Words are just words,” Kurtz once said to me. “They mean different things to different people and always will. For you, ‘happiness’ might mean a good job, a loving wife, a nice house and two kids. For me, ‘happiness’ might be a good porno movie that inspires a round of wondrous masturbatory antics. It’s all relative. One day swears will be relative, too. They’re halfway there already. ‘Shit’ could mean a pile of feces or a mere synonym for ‘stuff.’ Trust me when I tell you there will come a point in time where they just won’t be regarded as forbidden.”
“Fuckin’ A,” I remember responding. But as much as I agreed with the good Colonel’s reasoning, I very quickly realized that there would be no convincing Gil that “sucks” was perfectly kosher. Because no matter how much the public had accepted the term, it wasn’t the public’s station. It was Gil’s. If he didn’t want to hear it, he didn’t want to hear it, end of story. He was sitting before me, leaning forward as much as his hefty frame would allow him to without his gut being restricted by his desk. I nodded, fingers in a steeple following his restrictive edict. “Well Gil, it’s your station.” What passed for a smile crossed his face. I had acknowledged his illusion of power, and that had made him happy. It was an in. Maybe not a big one, but an in nonetheless. I could use that to my advantage if I wanted to. I could kiss his ass until a tube of Chapstick the size of Ron Jeremy’s legendary penis would be needed to cure my parched lips. I could still get to do a toned down version of my show, despite the traffic and invisible watchdogs keeping an eye on me at all times. I could swing it.
“Well, then,” Gil began. “Would you be interested in recording a demo?” His entire demeanor had changed. He was no longer hunched forward. He had leaned back, seeming very comfortable and proud of himself as his weight caused the seat to creak loudly. My in grew larger; there was an offer on the table.
“Hmm,” I said as I now leaned back. I rested my elbows on the armrests and folded my hands, looking down at the cluttered desk and nodding to myself. After a few seconds I got up from the chair, shook Gil’s hand, and turned promptly around toward the door. Standing in the doorway, I looked over my shoulder and uttered what have got to be the greatest lie and the greatest truth I have ever told consecutively: “You’re a nice guy Gil, but your policy sucks.”
Bon apetit...
After getting out of college, I was anxious to try and bring the Morning Wood Experience to another outlet. It was relatively easy to get a radio show back at old Dormsike, you just had to be persistent. Sooner or later they were gonna have to acknowledge you unless you were batting a double digit IQ and/or had rotten musical taste. And even then your odds were decent.
At any rate, I wanted to test the waters, see what I was worth. So when I made the trip from college to grad school, I made a beeline for station tryouts. Due to my class schedule, I could only stay in training classes for half the allotted time, but I did make a connection with the station manager, Gil Loeb. I’ll never be sure how impressed he was, if at all, since his expression never changed. He was an older fella, probably in his mid 50s, with a full head of white and a sizeable paunch. He never removed his sport coat, not once, even during the residual summer humidity of early September. Had he ever peeled that second skin of a jacket from his torso, you would’ve seen a button-down shirt that was unable to hide his belly jutting over his beltline.
Herein laid the key difference between WCCH and New Haven College’s WNHC. My old stomping grounds had been run by the students. This strange new world was also run by the students.
But supervised by the faculty. Even a eunuch would’ve wound up in the fetal position after this boot to the junk.
So here I am, trying to play down my beloved A.M. antics to Gargantuan Gil Loeb. I felt like I was about to spar with a boxing champion. It was a feeling I would become very familiar with after grad school, when going on job interviews.
“So,” he started. “You obviously have a great deal of experience, having done four years at college. To be truthful, we don’t often get grad students trying out for the station… We like to reserve on-air slots for undergraduates.”
“I assumed that was the typical scenario, but I figured it couldn’t hurt to give it a shot.”
“You’re going for your MBA in… what was it now, finance?” Not even close.
“Marketing, actually.”
“Oh, right. Marketing. And you’re a full time student, correct?”
“Yep, three classes a week from 5:30 to 8:30 at night.”
“And you commute from Waterbury? What is that, about a half-hour drive?”
“Forty-five minutes with evening traffic.”
“Hmm.” Gil had this way of analyzing and contemplating every response you offered. “Hmm” would’ve been his response if I answered a question on what color my socks were.
They were white, for the record.
“Quite a hike to do a radio show, isn’t it?” he pried. This made me uncomfortable. The question was borderline accusatory, and I felt like this went from a purportedly casual chat to an interrogation. I realized it sounded a little outlandish, driving nearly an hour to do a simple radio show, but Gil made me feel like I was bound for Bellevue, padded cell and all. I did my best to hide the sinking feeling in my gut and just shrugged with a grin.
“I loved doing radio. It’s something I want to keep up with, if possible.”
“Hmm.” This particular monosyllabic pondering segued into Gil reviewing my show proposal. Every instinct was telling me that this was now officially a lost cause and I should bolt to the door. A word of advice, true believer: in any interview situation, whenever someone pauses from a line of questioning to review anything written on paper, it is not a good sign. Proceed with caution. “Your show was pretty risqué, no?” My mental Magic 8-Ball was reading “Outlook Not Good” by now. I could offer Gil the Holy Grail at this point and it wouldn’t have made a different.
“It was harmless fun. College students like a good laugh or two while getting ready for an 8:00 AM class.” This comment didn’t even warrant the requisite “Hmm.” Gil went right for the jugular.
“You are familiar with station policy in compliance with FCC regulations, correct?” The FCC. This was my first run-in with those three cursed consonants. While WCCH was legally bound to their regulations, it was still easy to get away with murder on the air (especially between 10:00 PM and 6:00 AM; safe harbor hours). Every new DJ viewed those letters while skimming the station rules, but no one at the station ever made a fuss over it. Why would a great white like the FCC bother with a guppy like WCCH? Or WNHC for that matter? To Gil’s query, I simply nodded. “Because of the prevalence of so-called ‘shock jocks,’ the FCC has strict laws regarding on-air content, and we make it a point to abide by these laws. I am very concerned about what is broadcast on my station. I don’t even want to hear the word ‘sucks’ on my station.”
I bit my tongue, trying to keep my jaw in place and not hit the floor. How in the hell do you ban such a timid word? I mean, don’t misunderstand me, I know full well the origin of the word. To say “this sucks” is an abbreviation of the derogatory phrase “this sucks dick.” Or “cock,” whichever tickles your fancy. But I mean, despite where the term derives from, we are talking about 2002 here. The twenty-first century, new millennium and all that. By this point in time, hell by the mid 90’s, “sucks’ had become so distilled through extensive use that its suggestive origins had been all but forgotten by the general public. In fact, the phrase had pretty much been fully assimilated by the vernacular lexicon of our culture.
To this day, I wonder if Gil ever felt that Prohibition was still a good idea.
I also wonder if he knew the fact that the word “jerk” was originally used to describe someone who masturbated too much. Or that a “geek” really meant someone who bit the heads off of chickens. That was where the words started, but where they finished was an altogether different story, much like “sucks.” Kurtz and I had had several discussions over the English language, and how sooner or later, there would be no such thing as a truly taboo word. By this time, “damn,” “hell,” “ass,” and “bitch” had already become acceptable on most television and radio broadcasts, which were the two mediums that were and still are largely unregulated in terms of content. After all, a 12-year-old can get turned away at an R-rated movie, but there’s no authority figure with the exception of parents to bar them from turning the channel to a program that’s rated TV-MA. And by the turn of the century, anything rated TV-MA got a little extra dose of freedom in terms of content. Shows like “Playmakers” and “NYPD Blue” were freely exposing bare bottoms and dropping the word “shit” freely. In fact, “South Park” got away with saying “shit” more than 150 times in one episode without a single bleep. Granted, the geniuses that Trey Parker and Matt Stone are, they did so to prove a point. But nonetheless, it was evident that the reigns of censorship were being gradually loosened by this time in history.
“Words are just words,” Kurtz once said to me. “They mean different things to different people and always will. For you, ‘happiness’ might mean a good job, a loving wife, a nice house and two kids. For me, ‘happiness’ might be a good porno movie that inspires a round of wondrous masturbatory antics. It’s all relative. One day swears will be relative, too. They’re halfway there already. ‘Shit’ could mean a pile of feces or a mere synonym for ‘stuff.’ Trust me when I tell you there will come a point in time where they just won’t be regarded as forbidden.”
“Fuckin’ A,” I remember responding. But as much as I agreed with the good Colonel’s reasoning, I very quickly realized that there would be no convincing Gil that “sucks” was perfectly kosher. Because no matter how much the public had accepted the term, it wasn’t the public’s station. It was Gil’s. If he didn’t want to hear it, he didn’t want to hear it, end of story. He was sitting before me, leaning forward as much as his hefty frame would allow him to without his gut being restricted by his desk. I nodded, fingers in a steeple following his restrictive edict. “Well Gil, it’s your station.” What passed for a smile crossed his face. I had acknowledged his illusion of power, and that had made him happy. It was an in. Maybe not a big one, but an in nonetheless. I could use that to my advantage if I wanted to. I could kiss his ass until a tube of Chapstick the size of Ron Jeremy’s legendary penis would be needed to cure my parched lips. I could still get to do a toned down version of my show, despite the traffic and invisible watchdogs keeping an eye on me at all times. I could swing it.
“Well, then,” Gil began. “Would you be interested in recording a demo?” His entire demeanor had changed. He was no longer hunched forward. He had leaned back, seeming very comfortable and proud of himself as his weight caused the seat to creak loudly. My in grew larger; there was an offer on the table.
“Hmm,” I said as I now leaned back. I rested my elbows on the armrests and folded my hands, looking down at the cluttered desk and nodding to myself. After a few seconds I got up from the chair, shook Gil’s hand, and turned promptly around toward the door. Standing in the doorway, I looked over my shoulder and uttered what have got to be the greatest lie and the greatest truth I have ever told consecutively: “You’re a nice guy Gil, but your policy sucks.”
9/09/2004
I’m going on damn near two years I’ve been ranting on this thing, and I think everyone can agree that one common theme throughout the bulk of my writings would be the general stupidity of people. I mean, it never ceases to fascinate me how truly idiotic most humanoids actually are. In one respect, I suppose it’s amusing in a sad, bizarre way. But in another respect, it is freakin’ heart breaking to realize that the overwhelming majority of us hairless apes out there are batting double digit IQs.
And I’m talking beyond everyday stupidity. I’m talking beyond the feeling you get when you’re killing time at the office by playing checkers online and the cat you’re sparring with leaves such a blatantly obvious triple-jump/”king me” situation open, your jaw can’t help but drop in sheer disbelief.
OK, so maybe I take my in-office procrastination habits a little too seriously (and believe me, you would too if you had my job), but you get the picture. Sometimes people just don’t make any apologies for their idiocy. It’s like playing Texas Hold’Em with a rounder and grinning when you’re dealt a pair of bullets. You don’t leave yourself open! You put your best poker face on and let him scratch his head.
OK, I’ve already churned out two tangential analogies, so you’re probably wondering where I’m going. Well, in this instance, I’m going to Wichita. No, wait… I meant Florida. ‘Cause I cannot fathom the sheer incompetence of people who decide, “Yeah, Florida seems like a good place to set up camp.”
You dolts.
Now, let’s clear the air right now. I’m not bashing America’s geographical shlong because of old people, obscene humidity, the cost of living, crappy drivers, rednecks, recounts, or even Bubba the Love Sponge.
You people get too many fuckin’ hurricanes.
When are you simpletons gonna finally realize that your house has been without a roof for the last two weeks because you’ve been double-teamed by Category 4s. Sakes. I mean, let’s be practical, kids. When two major storms nail your home state in as many weeks, and a third is on the way, you really should consider getting the fuck outta there. Charley, Frances and Ivan just don’t make great neighbors, so doesn’t it make sense to book before they move into that condo you call Miami and tear the place a new one?
And I don’t know about the rest of my fellow bipeds, but I am getting sick and tired of all the support that is going to you people just because you’re too simple to pack a friggin’ suitcase. For the love of Bruce Campbell, show some common sense for once. Evacuate the area permanently and take an express flight to Vermont or something. I have never condoned the concept of rewarding people for their shortcomings, especially when they make the same mistake over and over despite always obtaining an identical end result.
So, in conclusion, while Charley, Frances, Ivan, and Mother Nature all take turns playing with the nation’s wang, I am more than content to be resting comfortably in the nipple region, relatively safe from any and all such masturbatory catastrophes. You really should join me.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
And I’m talking beyond everyday stupidity. I’m talking beyond the feeling you get when you’re killing time at the office by playing checkers online and the cat you’re sparring with leaves such a blatantly obvious triple-jump/”king me” situation open, your jaw can’t help but drop in sheer disbelief.
OK, so maybe I take my in-office procrastination habits a little too seriously (and believe me, you would too if you had my job), but you get the picture. Sometimes people just don’t make any apologies for their idiocy. It’s like playing Texas Hold’Em with a rounder and grinning when you’re dealt a pair of bullets. You don’t leave yourself open! You put your best poker face on and let him scratch his head.
OK, I’ve already churned out two tangential analogies, so you’re probably wondering where I’m going. Well, in this instance, I’m going to Wichita. No, wait… I meant Florida. ‘Cause I cannot fathom the sheer incompetence of people who decide, “Yeah, Florida seems like a good place to set up camp.”
You dolts.
Now, let’s clear the air right now. I’m not bashing America’s geographical shlong because of old people, obscene humidity, the cost of living, crappy drivers, rednecks, recounts, or even Bubba the Love Sponge.
You people get too many fuckin’ hurricanes.
When are you simpletons gonna finally realize that your house has been without a roof for the last two weeks because you’ve been double-teamed by Category 4s. Sakes. I mean, let’s be practical, kids. When two major storms nail your home state in as many weeks, and a third is on the way, you really should consider getting the fuck outta there. Charley, Frances and Ivan just don’t make great neighbors, so doesn’t it make sense to book before they move into that condo you call Miami and tear the place a new one?
And I don’t know about the rest of my fellow bipeds, but I am getting sick and tired of all the support that is going to you people just because you’re too simple to pack a friggin’ suitcase. For the love of Bruce Campbell, show some common sense for once. Evacuate the area permanently and take an express flight to Vermont or something. I have never condoned the concept of rewarding people for their shortcomings, especially when they make the same mistake over and over despite always obtaining an identical end result.
So, in conclusion, while Charley, Frances, Ivan, and Mother Nature all take turns playing with the nation’s wang, I am more than content to be resting comfortably in the nipple region, relatively safe from any and all such masturbatory catastrophes. You really should join me.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
9/03/2004
I’m well aware that I’ve been out of the loop with ye olde blog, and with good reason, I might add. Before you get all huffy puffy with li’l ol’ moi, I’d just like to say in my defense that I have been in and out of jobs, continually on the prowl for employment.
Baby, it’s a friggin’ jungle out there. I hate to resort to clichés, but it’s the damned truth. I didn’t believe it either until I jumped in headfirst to start swimming with the sharks. Of course, when you’re constantly dog-paddling, trying to get adjusted to the water, those big-ass great whites are either A) waiting to devour your ass, or B) disregarding you because you’re way too miniscule for their time.
The job market is desperate right now. I could go on and on about who’s to blame, but I would just be spinning my wheels. The bottom line is that it’s ugly right now. Any of you who have just recently graduated know this. Hell, some of you who graduated a couple years ago (like myself) know this as well. And I’m one of the select that has gone on to pursue a postgraduate education. I have a Bachelor of Arts in English with a focus in Creative Writing and a minor in Business, and a Masters in Business Administration in Marketing.
And I’m only working part time.
I haven’t been here for that long. Just shy of a month, in fact. My first job out of the box was essentially a sales position (although the company was billed as a “promotional marketing firm”). Long story short, I was driving 45 minutes from Waterbury to Hartford to be in the office by 7:30 AM, and then after an hour and a half of meetings, workshops, and the like, it was off to Greenfield, MA; more than an hour northward of the office. I was doing this five days a week. I trained for one week, and then did it by myself for one week. At the end of that fortnight stint, I called it quits. I wasn’t even paid for my training, which I was lied to about.
So why did I take this job? Well, chalk it up to naïve optimism, as I was promised everything from a six-figure income in six months to running my own business in a year. I am not exaggerating, that is what was set on the table in only my second interview. When you’re 23, fresh out of school and having never worked a full time job before, that sounds pretty tempting. Well, needless to say I took the bait, and boy, did I pay for it. I never claimed to know it all, and I am more than willing to admit my shortcomings and mistakes. This, needless to say, was a big one. One that, in all honesty, I have yet to get over.
I won’t go into the gory details of my two-week-stint, but I will say that it set me back about a month for various reasons. And in the weeks that followed that month, I began to realize how bone dry the well is.
Now when I went for my MBA, I was fully aware of the difficulties in the job market, and the contemporary economic state. I figured that by the time I finished my studies, the market would have shown some significant signs of improvement. I wish I could have a definitive yes or no to my presumption, but all I can say is that if it has improved, it’s been by baby steps rather than the leaps and bounds I’d prayed for.
At the rate things are going in this nation, the amount of education a young person will have to have in order to get a reasonable entry level job will take the individual well into his or her early 30’s. I simply can’t fathom that. We put so much pressure on ourselves as a nation and as a people to succeed that we feel the need to push one another and ourselves to the furthest imaginable limits in order attain that level of accomplishment. And personally, I think it’s getting more than a little bit out of control. My cousin and I are the only two in the family that have our MBAs, and we have had several conversations about how nowadays, such a degree is being regarded as the bare minimum one needs to get a decent job. In another fifteen or twenty years, the bar will be raised up to a Ph. D.
I feel like we just push ourselves, and our children way too hard. I mean, my old grammar school has computers now. Shee-it, back in the early 80s, we did it with a pencil and paper. What are these schools trying to do? Ensure that all of our future doctors will have crappy writing by never making them use a writing utensil? Kids should be kids. Let them roam free and have fun, the rest will come in due time.
Perfect example: I have a cousin living in the Dominican Republic with his wife and one-year-old son. The kid isn’t even out of diapers yet and he’s already being tossed headfirst into school. He already has language and music lessons lined up for him on a weekly basis. Language and music lessons at a year old? Whatever happened to playtime, naptime, recess, that stuff? Did that just get tossed out the window? At what point did we say, “Our children don’t deserve to appreciate their childhood like we did, so let’s deprive them of fun and shove them straight into school”?
My parents often bust my stones for being a big kid at heart, but I can’t help it. I wish I could go back to my youth. That’s why I write about so much “kiddy” stuff here. That’s why I still watch cartoons, read comic books and play video games. I really don’t think that’s a crime.
Look, I’m all for education, don’t get me wrong, but there’s a fine line that is very slowly being crossed. There’s another aspect to life. It’s called “living.” You should try it, and you should encourage your kids to try it, too. There is plenty of time for education, work, and all that business, trust me. Let them enjoy their childhood, for Pete’s sake. It’s only fair to them.
Personally, I like George Carlin’s philosophy on children: “I think that every child should be allowed three hours a day of daydreaming. That’s all, just daydreaming. And you could probably use some, yourself. Just turn off the video games, the TV, the stereo, and just sit and look at a fucking tree for a little while.”
And on that note, I’m gonna neglect the rest of my duties at the office for the remainder of the day so I can stare out the window.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
Baby, it’s a friggin’ jungle out there. I hate to resort to clichés, but it’s the damned truth. I didn’t believe it either until I jumped in headfirst to start swimming with the sharks. Of course, when you’re constantly dog-paddling, trying to get adjusted to the water, those big-ass great whites are either A) waiting to devour your ass, or B) disregarding you because you’re way too miniscule for their time.
The job market is desperate right now. I could go on and on about who’s to blame, but I would just be spinning my wheels. The bottom line is that it’s ugly right now. Any of you who have just recently graduated know this. Hell, some of you who graduated a couple years ago (like myself) know this as well. And I’m one of the select that has gone on to pursue a postgraduate education. I have a Bachelor of Arts in English with a focus in Creative Writing and a minor in Business, and a Masters in Business Administration in Marketing.
And I’m only working part time.
I haven’t been here for that long. Just shy of a month, in fact. My first job out of the box was essentially a sales position (although the company was billed as a “promotional marketing firm”). Long story short, I was driving 45 minutes from Waterbury to Hartford to be in the office by 7:30 AM, and then after an hour and a half of meetings, workshops, and the like, it was off to Greenfield, MA; more than an hour northward of the office. I was doing this five days a week. I trained for one week, and then did it by myself for one week. At the end of that fortnight stint, I called it quits. I wasn’t even paid for my training, which I was lied to about.
So why did I take this job? Well, chalk it up to naïve optimism, as I was promised everything from a six-figure income in six months to running my own business in a year. I am not exaggerating, that is what was set on the table in only my second interview. When you’re 23, fresh out of school and having never worked a full time job before, that sounds pretty tempting. Well, needless to say I took the bait, and boy, did I pay for it. I never claimed to know it all, and I am more than willing to admit my shortcomings and mistakes. This, needless to say, was a big one. One that, in all honesty, I have yet to get over.
I won’t go into the gory details of my two-week-stint, but I will say that it set me back about a month for various reasons. And in the weeks that followed that month, I began to realize how bone dry the well is.
Now when I went for my MBA, I was fully aware of the difficulties in the job market, and the contemporary economic state. I figured that by the time I finished my studies, the market would have shown some significant signs of improvement. I wish I could have a definitive yes or no to my presumption, but all I can say is that if it has improved, it’s been by baby steps rather than the leaps and bounds I’d prayed for.
At the rate things are going in this nation, the amount of education a young person will have to have in order to get a reasonable entry level job will take the individual well into his or her early 30’s. I simply can’t fathom that. We put so much pressure on ourselves as a nation and as a people to succeed that we feel the need to push one another and ourselves to the furthest imaginable limits in order attain that level of accomplishment. And personally, I think it’s getting more than a little bit out of control. My cousin and I are the only two in the family that have our MBAs, and we have had several conversations about how nowadays, such a degree is being regarded as the bare minimum one needs to get a decent job. In another fifteen or twenty years, the bar will be raised up to a Ph. D.
I feel like we just push ourselves, and our children way too hard. I mean, my old grammar school has computers now. Shee-it, back in the early 80s, we did it with a pencil and paper. What are these schools trying to do? Ensure that all of our future doctors will have crappy writing by never making them use a writing utensil? Kids should be kids. Let them roam free and have fun, the rest will come in due time.
Perfect example: I have a cousin living in the Dominican Republic with his wife and one-year-old son. The kid isn’t even out of diapers yet and he’s already being tossed headfirst into school. He already has language and music lessons lined up for him on a weekly basis. Language and music lessons at a year old? Whatever happened to playtime, naptime, recess, that stuff? Did that just get tossed out the window? At what point did we say, “Our children don’t deserve to appreciate their childhood like we did, so let’s deprive them of fun and shove them straight into school”?
My parents often bust my stones for being a big kid at heart, but I can’t help it. I wish I could go back to my youth. That’s why I write about so much “kiddy” stuff here. That’s why I still watch cartoons, read comic books and play video games. I really don’t think that’s a crime.
Look, I’m all for education, don’t get me wrong, but there’s a fine line that is very slowly being crossed. There’s another aspect to life. It’s called “living.” You should try it, and you should encourage your kids to try it, too. There is plenty of time for education, work, and all that business, trust me. Let them enjoy their childhood, for Pete’s sake. It’s only fair to them.
Personally, I like George Carlin’s philosophy on children: “I think that every child should be allowed three hours a day of daydreaming. That’s all, just daydreaming. And you could probably use some, yourself. Just turn off the video games, the TV, the stereo, and just sit and look at a fucking tree for a little while.”
And on that note, I’m gonna neglect the rest of my duties at the office for the remainder of the day so I can stare out the window.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
8/06/2004
Y’know, believe it or not, sci-fi once referred to potentially thought-provoking sociopolitical commentary layered under an imaginary high-tech blanket. There used to be pretty serious points to these films, often of a controversial nature. In fact, one of the reasons that Rod Serling opted to make The Twilight Zone as weird as he did was the fact that he would be able to cloak his Aesop-esque messages in a veil of the unknown. It worked astonishingly well, and serves as a perfect example of how the genre can actually offer quite a bit in terms of serious filmmaking.
But alas, it would seem that the intentions of writers and pioneers like Phillip K. Dick and Isaac Asimov have been tragically lost in a sea of John Woos and Jerry Bruckheimers. Like just about anything else, science fiction has been engulfed, digested, and crapped out by Hollywood.
I recently read an article claiming that nowadays it’s nigh impossible to actually make an intensely thoughtful sci-fi flick. Meaning that unless there’s about half a dozen explosions in the first fifteen minutes, replete with the latest, greatest state of the art CGI aliens, it’s simply not good enough for Hollywood.
I’ll give you a perfect example: I recently took in a viewing of I, Robot, which was, for all intents and purposes, fair at best. I’ve seen better, I’ve seen worse. The effects were solid, but y’know something? After seeing utterly mind-blowing special effects in literally every other movie at the box office (thank God for M. Night Shyamalan), I’ve become more than jaded to Hollywood’s high tech muscles, regardless of how often they are blatantly flaunted.
The film makes an attempt at conveying a serious message. It’s pretty much the same woe that’s illustrated in at least half of all sci-fi romps these days: the threat of man’s over-reliance on technology. Yeah, the robots, while subservient for half the movie, ultimately develop a conscience and go hunting us humans. Been there, done that, Cameron did it better in The Terminator. Fact of the matter is that Asimov’s original book I, Robot, which was a series of short stories (none of which bared any close resemblance to the film’s storylines), was actually a commentary on mankind’s inhumanity. Asimov achieved this by providing us with humans so sleazy and distrustful, that the robots come off as being more civil than us carbon-based life forms. Simple, but effective. But for whatever reason, Hollywood decided to reverse this plot point and doll it up with some big time effects. The end result is another typically “eh” movie that leaves the moviegoer feeling as if the $5 bag of popcorn is half empty as opposed to half full.
Now granted, sometimes even the most sophisticated connoisseur of sci-fi craves a balls-to-the-wall action flick. I mean, hey, I’m totally psyched about Alien Vs. Predator, and the damn thing’s not even rated R. But what I’m trying to say is that the film industry has methodically distilled the genre into a subdivision of action movies, whereas it should stand on its own unique pedestal.
I guess it was inevitable. I mean, in a genre where there are few limits, it only make sense that a lot of people would want to make it larger than life. Things really took a swerve in the 80s following the end of the Star Wars Trilogy (which, for the record, is more science fantasy than science fiction). From there, the public was inundated with big budget sci-fi flicks in rapid succession. The Terminator, Aliens, Predator, Robocop. And those four movies are in just a three year timeframe from ’84 to ’87. And of course, we can’t forget the inevitable sequels, only one of which managed to match if not surpass its predecessor (Terminator 2: Judgment Day). But the rest were made solely to nab a profit, and it’s pretty obvious.
In fact, the concept of sequels is perhaps the worst thing that could ever happen to science fiction. I mean, how can you duplicate something special? It’s not easy to do. Take Escape From New York, for example. At the time (1981), a very original plot with solid action and a definite anti-government undertone. A well-done flick. But it’s sequel, Escape From L.A., might as well have been a carbon copy of the original. In fact, with the exception of the setting, characters, and obvious advances in special effects, it’s the exact same film, I shit you not. And that’s pretty unfortunate.
And if you think sequels are bad enough, remakes are even more stomach churning. Only in Hollywood could the original Planet Of The Apes, which was a surprisingly heavy commentary on all of mankind’s cornerstones: social status, politics, religion, race, nothing was safe. And it was well acted to boot. At the end of the film you felt both proud and guilty to be human. The remake was standard issue schlock, completely devoid of any real purpose other than to showcase Mark Whalberg’s six pack. Over the top, erratic, and sloppy. And don’t even get me started on The Stepford Wives. What was originally a creepily paranoid sci-fi thriller somehow wound up becoming a dark comedy. Huh? Even worse, the plot twist from the original movie (the fact that wives are being replicated into clean cut cookie cutter versions of themselves who are practically perfect in every depraved husband’s eye) is given away in the goddamned commercials! In the original film, all the audience knew was that something was dreadfully amiss in Stepford, and that was it. This would be the equivalent of Alfred Hitchcock letting everyone know that Norman Bates is actually “Mother.” Who greenlighted this project and what are Oscar winners doing in it? I swear, Paramount Pictures must have sprung its collective brain to think this was a good idea. I guess I should be happy that Logan’s Run is being remade by an intelligent and competent filmmaker in Bryan Singer. I guess.
And forget trying to translate a book into film. That’s a tough enough process as it is, but when you’re trying to turn sci-fi literature into sci-fi film, that’s an even bigger gauntlet to tackle. This is why Dune is a literary classic and not a film classic. Sometimes you just can’t make that transition. And when filmmakers do try to make the transition, the end result is, more often than not, so different from the original source that the filmmakers will actually say that the movie was inspired by the book, rather than adapted. Aside from I, Robot, another good example of this is Blade Runner. Now this is one of those funky cases where the movie maintains a certain intellectual charm, as it raises major questions of being (is Deckard a replicant?) and humanity (Roy Batty’s final monologue to Deckard). However, there is so much more in the original source, Dick’s Do Androids Dream Of Electric Sheep?, that to make a truly accurate recreation of the book would be to make an entirely different movie. In addition to the above questions, racism and religion are also among the many, many topics touched upon in this fine book. It’s downright astounding that some of the dialogue in the film is actually taken word-for-word from the book. Some treatments are even triter in their “inspiration.” For example, The Time Machine may as well have been a quasi-original creation that was merely influenced by a prior work (kind of in the way that Apocalypse, Now draws brief, modernized parallels with Conrad’s Heart Of Darkness). Taking all this into account, it’s no surprise that Michael Crichton’s Jurassic Park went from a case study in chaos theory to a Spielberg extravaganza.
So where does this leave sci-fi in the world of big budget blockbusters? To be truthful, I’m not sure. I’m not so sure that a movie like 2001: A Space Odyssey could be made nowadays without completely flopping. I mean, recent films that have actually offered the spice of classic sci-fi, replete with serious underlying messages and thought-provoking plotlines (Contact, Minority Report) have been met with lukewarm reactions by both audiences and critics alike. I would like to think that there is still hope for the genre. As I said, it offers so much freedom. The limits are only as strong as the writer allows them to be… In many cases, the creator may even feel free to tamper with the linearity of the world he or she creates. It’s things like this that make pure science fiction a truly marvelous genre. It’s just a pity that Hollywood can’t see that point.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
But alas, it would seem that the intentions of writers and pioneers like Phillip K. Dick and Isaac Asimov have been tragically lost in a sea of John Woos and Jerry Bruckheimers. Like just about anything else, science fiction has been engulfed, digested, and crapped out by Hollywood.
I recently read an article claiming that nowadays it’s nigh impossible to actually make an intensely thoughtful sci-fi flick. Meaning that unless there’s about half a dozen explosions in the first fifteen minutes, replete with the latest, greatest state of the art CGI aliens, it’s simply not good enough for Hollywood.
I’ll give you a perfect example: I recently took in a viewing of I, Robot, which was, for all intents and purposes, fair at best. I’ve seen better, I’ve seen worse. The effects were solid, but y’know something? After seeing utterly mind-blowing special effects in literally every other movie at the box office (thank God for M. Night Shyamalan), I’ve become more than jaded to Hollywood’s high tech muscles, regardless of how often they are blatantly flaunted.
The film makes an attempt at conveying a serious message. It’s pretty much the same woe that’s illustrated in at least half of all sci-fi romps these days: the threat of man’s over-reliance on technology. Yeah, the robots, while subservient for half the movie, ultimately develop a conscience and go hunting us humans. Been there, done that, Cameron did it better in The Terminator. Fact of the matter is that Asimov’s original book I, Robot, which was a series of short stories (none of which bared any close resemblance to the film’s storylines), was actually a commentary on mankind’s inhumanity. Asimov achieved this by providing us with humans so sleazy and distrustful, that the robots come off as being more civil than us carbon-based life forms. Simple, but effective. But for whatever reason, Hollywood decided to reverse this plot point and doll it up with some big time effects. The end result is another typically “eh” movie that leaves the moviegoer feeling as if the $5 bag of popcorn is half empty as opposed to half full.
Now granted, sometimes even the most sophisticated connoisseur of sci-fi craves a balls-to-the-wall action flick. I mean, hey, I’m totally psyched about Alien Vs. Predator, and the damn thing’s not even rated R. But what I’m trying to say is that the film industry has methodically distilled the genre into a subdivision of action movies, whereas it should stand on its own unique pedestal.
I guess it was inevitable. I mean, in a genre where there are few limits, it only make sense that a lot of people would want to make it larger than life. Things really took a swerve in the 80s following the end of the Star Wars Trilogy (which, for the record, is more science fantasy than science fiction). From there, the public was inundated with big budget sci-fi flicks in rapid succession. The Terminator, Aliens, Predator, Robocop. And those four movies are in just a three year timeframe from ’84 to ’87. And of course, we can’t forget the inevitable sequels, only one of which managed to match if not surpass its predecessor (Terminator 2: Judgment Day). But the rest were made solely to nab a profit, and it’s pretty obvious.
In fact, the concept of sequels is perhaps the worst thing that could ever happen to science fiction. I mean, how can you duplicate something special? It’s not easy to do. Take Escape From New York, for example. At the time (1981), a very original plot with solid action and a definite anti-government undertone. A well-done flick. But it’s sequel, Escape From L.A., might as well have been a carbon copy of the original. In fact, with the exception of the setting, characters, and obvious advances in special effects, it’s the exact same film, I shit you not. And that’s pretty unfortunate.
And if you think sequels are bad enough, remakes are even more stomach churning. Only in Hollywood could the original Planet Of The Apes, which was a surprisingly heavy commentary on all of mankind’s cornerstones: social status, politics, religion, race, nothing was safe. And it was well acted to boot. At the end of the film you felt both proud and guilty to be human. The remake was standard issue schlock, completely devoid of any real purpose other than to showcase Mark Whalberg’s six pack. Over the top, erratic, and sloppy. And don’t even get me started on The Stepford Wives. What was originally a creepily paranoid sci-fi thriller somehow wound up becoming a dark comedy. Huh? Even worse, the plot twist from the original movie (the fact that wives are being replicated into clean cut cookie cutter versions of themselves who are practically perfect in every depraved husband’s eye) is given away in the goddamned commercials! In the original film, all the audience knew was that something was dreadfully amiss in Stepford, and that was it. This would be the equivalent of Alfred Hitchcock letting everyone know that Norman Bates is actually “Mother.” Who greenlighted this project and what are Oscar winners doing in it? I swear, Paramount Pictures must have sprung its collective brain to think this was a good idea. I guess I should be happy that Logan’s Run is being remade by an intelligent and competent filmmaker in Bryan Singer. I guess.
And forget trying to translate a book into film. That’s a tough enough process as it is, but when you’re trying to turn sci-fi literature into sci-fi film, that’s an even bigger gauntlet to tackle. This is why Dune is a literary classic and not a film classic. Sometimes you just can’t make that transition. And when filmmakers do try to make the transition, the end result is, more often than not, so different from the original source that the filmmakers will actually say that the movie was inspired by the book, rather than adapted. Aside from I, Robot, another good example of this is Blade Runner. Now this is one of those funky cases where the movie maintains a certain intellectual charm, as it raises major questions of being (is Deckard a replicant?) and humanity (Roy Batty’s final monologue to Deckard). However, there is so much more in the original source, Dick’s Do Androids Dream Of Electric Sheep?, that to make a truly accurate recreation of the book would be to make an entirely different movie. In addition to the above questions, racism and religion are also among the many, many topics touched upon in this fine book. It’s downright astounding that some of the dialogue in the film is actually taken word-for-word from the book. Some treatments are even triter in their “inspiration.” For example, The Time Machine may as well have been a quasi-original creation that was merely influenced by a prior work (kind of in the way that Apocalypse, Now draws brief, modernized parallels with Conrad’s Heart Of Darkness). Taking all this into account, it’s no surprise that Michael Crichton’s Jurassic Park went from a case study in chaos theory to a Spielberg extravaganza.
So where does this leave sci-fi in the world of big budget blockbusters? To be truthful, I’m not sure. I’m not so sure that a movie like 2001: A Space Odyssey could be made nowadays without completely flopping. I mean, recent films that have actually offered the spice of classic sci-fi, replete with serious underlying messages and thought-provoking plotlines (Contact, Minority Report) have been met with lukewarm reactions by both audiences and critics alike. I would like to think that there is still hope for the genre. As I said, it offers so much freedom. The limits are only as strong as the writer allows them to be… In many cases, the creator may even feel free to tamper with the linearity of the world he or she creates. It’s things like this that make pure science fiction a truly marvelous genre. It’s just a pity that Hollywood can’t see that point.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
7/06/2004
Where has all the originality gone? I mean, really. Could it be that this post-Janet-Jackson-breast-flash-FCC-gone-Orwell nation of ours has, in its grotesque zeal, made originality the eighth deadly sin?
So much of what the general public is exposed to these days in terms of mass media is tiresome, feeble-minded crapola dolled up with big names, bells and whistles, and a side of heavy-duty-so-thick-you-can-choke-on-it-cliché.
Case in point:
Recently, my ladylove and I took in a showing of Van Helsing. Now without question, the action was impressive, and the special effects were not to go unnoticed.
However, the plot is a different story entirely.
What could’ve been an impressive storyline laced with sly literary, mythical, and biblical references was trumped by your standard issue over-the-top Hollywood flash. In a bizarre amalgamation of both highbrow and lowbrow, Van Helsing stands as a baffling anomaly of a movie. To put it simply, the film’s plot, which was just a hair’s inch away from being intellectually stimulating for the well-read and learned masses, was more or less defecated on for the sake of banal Hollywood action.
I mean, they could’ve really gone against the grain and tried to put out a reasonably intelligent fantasy movie. But instead, they followed the typical norms…
Dark, mysterious hero must defeat nigh-impossible nemesis with whom he has an apparent past. Meanwhile, finds himself falling in love with extremely gorgeous, deceptively skillful, and incredibly foreign female protagonist who initially butts heads with him. Naturally, she has a loved one who has fallen prey to the main villain, and there is also a meek sidekick who serves up equal parts comedy relief, surprising intellect, and flights of true bravery. By the end, the hero’s past is revealed to a degree, and he succeeds in killing his nemesis, but fails to save the woman he loves. By film’s end, he sails off into the sunset, and we, the audience, are left with the impression that the hero fully intends to continue his quest and go on fighting the supernatural forces of evil.
Don’t blame me for ruining this movie, because you’ve already seen it.
And what kills me is that you’re dealing with so much potential here! I mean, you’ve got characters rich in film and literary history. Dracula, the Wolfman, Frankenstein’s monster, and Van Helsing the monster hunter himself. There is no reason that the screenwriters couldn’t have done some thoughtful research into the characters and really woven a story unique unto itself. With such a rich tapestry of characters, they really ought to be ashamed of the end product.
And the funny thing is, despite topping the box office for a week or two, the inevitable drop-off will tell the true story of just how “engaging” these big-budget films are to the general public. Nowadays, most filmmakers are just content to put out a lukewarm, moderately viewable film that will pull in modest numbers from the theater box office, but break even in DVD sales.
Now to be fair, just because something isn’t original doesn’t necessarily mean it’s bad. Even something as painfully cliché as Van Helsing managed to offer up some entertaining moments. I mean, if that were really the case, I’m pretty sure something like Dawn Of The Dead wouldn’t have wound up making as much scratch as it did at the box office.
Before we go any further, I’ll prove my point. I actually liked The Punisher.
Shut up.
Nevertheless, I do wish that today’s modern films could offer up just a little bit more originality, just a little something extra to capture the imagination and really demonstrate a will to push the envelope an inch further.
Which brings me to today’s subject. About a month ago, I rented an independent film called Bubba Ho-Tep. The film is a diamond in the rough of modern day cinema, simply so unique and bizarre that it is beyond description.
The main character of the film is an elderly Elvis Presley, played by the one and only chingod Bruce Campbell, who is confined to an old folks’ home in Texas. Apparently, some thirty years ago, Elvis decided he no longer wanted the life of a superstar, and switched places with a superb Elvis impersonator named Sebastian Haff. So Haff became Elvis, and Elvis became Sebastian Haff, working club circuits impersonating a man that impersonated himself.
Right out the gate, y’know this one’s a gem.
But it gets better. See, Haff had a severe heart condition, so he wound up dying of a heart attack, explaining the “Elvis is alive” phenomenon. Elvis, meanwhile, continued to make a living impersonating himself, until he broke his hip while performing onstage in the 1980’s. From there, he wound up in a convalescent home with a bad hip and a growth on his penis.
Genius.
His only human contact in the home is a condescending aid who “lubes his crankshaft,” according to the former King, and an elderly black man named Jack, played by Ossie Davis, who claims to be former president John F. Kennedy. See, Jack claims that half his brain has been replaced with a small sandbag, and the other half is kept functioning in a lab in the Pentagon, which explains how he can be alive after being shot in the head. As far as his skin color, Jack elaborates, “That’s how clever they are! They dyed me this color!”
I know what you’re thinking. How can this thing get any better/stranger?
Brace yourselves.
A mummy is on the loose in the nursing home, killing the residents by sucking their souls through their assholes.
Brilliant.
So Elvis and Jack, being the cultural heroes they are, team up to take out this ass-sucking, soul-eating mummy.
Awesomeness.
Now, aside from being completely original, this film is great for several reasons. It has that quirky, offbeat humor typical of a Bruce Campbell outing. It endears you to the characters, as you real feel for Elvis and Jack. Despite their apparent craziness, you develop a connection to them and want them to win. Moreover, it’s also a fairly somber film, as it does offer a commentary on society’s treatment of the elderly. Point in case: Elvis’s roommate Bull passes away in the first five minutes of the film, and his daughter visits the nursing home pretty much for the first time since old Bull was admitted. Little things like that strike a chord with the viewer, and you really appreciate the film for being such a creative endeavor.
I admit, not all independent films are this clever. Many of them are pompous, overblown clichés of art culture and the supposedly nouveau riche. It doesn’t take long for the viewer to realize that he or she is actually just watching a basic love story that has been transplanted far away from the mainstream, at which point the viewer feels cheated out of a couple hours of life.
Well, at least that’s how I feel.
What I’m getting at folks, is that you could go to the theater and blow $8.50 on your generic Jerry Bruckheimer action schlock starring Nicolas Cage, you could waste 90 minutes of your life watching Kate Hudson throw her once-promising career away on a piss-poor romantic comedy with all the trimmings, or you could kill time by taking in the latest teen-gross out comedy that so blatantly steals its flavor from Porky’s.
Or you could take a chance on the unusual and really test yourself as a filmgoer. Just hit up the Internet Movie Database, scour around and see what looks interesting to you. You might find something original and wonderfully different.
And if that doesn’t work, just go see Spider-Man 2.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
So much of what the general public is exposed to these days in terms of mass media is tiresome, feeble-minded crapola dolled up with big names, bells and whistles, and a side of heavy-duty-so-thick-you-can-choke-on-it-cliché.
Case in point:
Recently, my ladylove and I took in a showing of Van Helsing. Now without question, the action was impressive, and the special effects were not to go unnoticed.
However, the plot is a different story entirely.
What could’ve been an impressive storyline laced with sly literary, mythical, and biblical references was trumped by your standard issue over-the-top Hollywood flash. In a bizarre amalgamation of both highbrow and lowbrow, Van Helsing stands as a baffling anomaly of a movie. To put it simply, the film’s plot, which was just a hair’s inch away from being intellectually stimulating for the well-read and learned masses, was more or less defecated on for the sake of banal Hollywood action.
I mean, they could’ve really gone against the grain and tried to put out a reasonably intelligent fantasy movie. But instead, they followed the typical norms…
Dark, mysterious hero must defeat nigh-impossible nemesis with whom he has an apparent past. Meanwhile, finds himself falling in love with extremely gorgeous, deceptively skillful, and incredibly foreign female protagonist who initially butts heads with him. Naturally, she has a loved one who has fallen prey to the main villain, and there is also a meek sidekick who serves up equal parts comedy relief, surprising intellect, and flights of true bravery. By the end, the hero’s past is revealed to a degree, and he succeeds in killing his nemesis, but fails to save the woman he loves. By film’s end, he sails off into the sunset, and we, the audience, are left with the impression that the hero fully intends to continue his quest and go on fighting the supernatural forces of evil.
Don’t blame me for ruining this movie, because you’ve already seen it.
And what kills me is that you’re dealing with so much potential here! I mean, you’ve got characters rich in film and literary history. Dracula, the Wolfman, Frankenstein’s monster, and Van Helsing the monster hunter himself. There is no reason that the screenwriters couldn’t have done some thoughtful research into the characters and really woven a story unique unto itself. With such a rich tapestry of characters, they really ought to be ashamed of the end product.
And the funny thing is, despite topping the box office for a week or two, the inevitable drop-off will tell the true story of just how “engaging” these big-budget films are to the general public. Nowadays, most filmmakers are just content to put out a lukewarm, moderately viewable film that will pull in modest numbers from the theater box office, but break even in DVD sales.
Now to be fair, just because something isn’t original doesn’t necessarily mean it’s bad. Even something as painfully cliché as Van Helsing managed to offer up some entertaining moments. I mean, if that were really the case, I’m pretty sure something like Dawn Of The Dead wouldn’t have wound up making as much scratch as it did at the box office.
Before we go any further, I’ll prove my point. I actually liked The Punisher.
Shut up.
Nevertheless, I do wish that today’s modern films could offer up just a little bit more originality, just a little something extra to capture the imagination and really demonstrate a will to push the envelope an inch further.
Which brings me to today’s subject. About a month ago, I rented an independent film called Bubba Ho-Tep. The film is a diamond in the rough of modern day cinema, simply so unique and bizarre that it is beyond description.
The main character of the film is an elderly Elvis Presley, played by the one and only chingod Bruce Campbell, who is confined to an old folks’ home in Texas. Apparently, some thirty years ago, Elvis decided he no longer wanted the life of a superstar, and switched places with a superb Elvis impersonator named Sebastian Haff. So Haff became Elvis, and Elvis became Sebastian Haff, working club circuits impersonating a man that impersonated himself.
Right out the gate, y’know this one’s a gem.
But it gets better. See, Haff had a severe heart condition, so he wound up dying of a heart attack, explaining the “Elvis is alive” phenomenon. Elvis, meanwhile, continued to make a living impersonating himself, until he broke his hip while performing onstage in the 1980’s. From there, he wound up in a convalescent home with a bad hip and a growth on his penis.
Genius.
His only human contact in the home is a condescending aid who “lubes his crankshaft,” according to the former King, and an elderly black man named Jack, played by Ossie Davis, who claims to be former president John F. Kennedy. See, Jack claims that half his brain has been replaced with a small sandbag, and the other half is kept functioning in a lab in the Pentagon, which explains how he can be alive after being shot in the head. As far as his skin color, Jack elaborates, “That’s how clever they are! They dyed me this color!”
I know what you’re thinking. How can this thing get any better/stranger?
Brace yourselves.
A mummy is on the loose in the nursing home, killing the residents by sucking their souls through their assholes.
Brilliant.
So Elvis and Jack, being the cultural heroes they are, team up to take out this ass-sucking, soul-eating mummy.
Awesomeness.
Now, aside from being completely original, this film is great for several reasons. It has that quirky, offbeat humor typical of a Bruce Campbell outing. It endears you to the characters, as you real feel for Elvis and Jack. Despite their apparent craziness, you develop a connection to them and want them to win. Moreover, it’s also a fairly somber film, as it does offer a commentary on society’s treatment of the elderly. Point in case: Elvis’s roommate Bull passes away in the first five minutes of the film, and his daughter visits the nursing home pretty much for the first time since old Bull was admitted. Little things like that strike a chord with the viewer, and you really appreciate the film for being such a creative endeavor.
I admit, not all independent films are this clever. Many of them are pompous, overblown clichés of art culture and the supposedly nouveau riche. It doesn’t take long for the viewer to realize that he or she is actually just watching a basic love story that has been transplanted far away from the mainstream, at which point the viewer feels cheated out of a couple hours of life.
Well, at least that’s how I feel.
What I’m getting at folks, is that you could go to the theater and blow $8.50 on your generic Jerry Bruckheimer action schlock starring Nicolas Cage, you could waste 90 minutes of your life watching Kate Hudson throw her once-promising career away on a piss-poor romantic comedy with all the trimmings, or you could kill time by taking in the latest teen-gross out comedy that so blatantly steals its flavor from Porky’s.
Or you could take a chance on the unusual and really test yourself as a filmgoer. Just hit up the Internet Movie Database, scour around and see what looks interesting to you. You might find something original and wonderfully different.
And if that doesn’t work, just go see Spider-Man 2.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
6/09/2004
OK, I’m struggling to figure this one out… Ronald Reagan dies at the age of 93, leaving behind an undoubtedly long and eventful life, and people everywhere are suddenly praising his memory as if he were eligible for sainthood. In fact, the only person who isn’t ejaculating over Ronald Reagan is Jennifer Lopez. Why? ‘Cause he had the gall to die the same day she got married, thereby stealing her headlines. Seriously, how dare he croak on her wedding day? But I digress…
Look, nothing against the man, I’m sure he was a pleasant fella and all that, but c’mon, let us not sugarcoat the obvious, people.
Reagan was a B-level actor in Hollywood, and comparatively a B-level politician as well. He fell ass-backwards into the presidency and just happened to be in the right place at the right time. The world at that time was going through a period of massive change, and Reagan just happened to latch onto the most powerful position in the world and an opportune time.
We all know that his contributions were minimal at best. At the end of the day, no matter how many of these post mortem brownnosers gush, Reagan will still be remembered most for selling weapons to our enemies. Period.
Just the other day I heard some fuckknuckle radio commentator going on about how Reagan ran for office in four different elections, and one them all. The guy chalked it up to his charisma.
Hey, dipstick, he was an actor. It was his job to be charismatic, to be able to draw people’s attention and make them like him. That’s what he did for a living, that’s what he trained for the better part of his life up to that point. This might also account for Arnold Schwarzenegger, Jesse Ventura, even Sonny Bono. They’re all entertainers, of course they have to lay claim to a certain degree of charisma. Sakes.
Anyway, what am I getting at? Well, this isn’t anti-Republican sentiment in any way shape or form, so you can dispel that notion immediately. What I’m getting at is the fact that it just irritates me that when somebody famous dies, it takes about a third of a millisecond for every so-called “colleague” (translation: a person who met the deceased at a cocktail party once) to come out of the woodwork and gush over the poor sonuvabitch in the oak box.
Yeah, that’s really what’s gettin’ me right now.
I am fairly certain that O.J. Simpson could kick the bucket tomorrow, and a whole slew of closet “Juicers” would come out in public and praise his amazing football career, his Heisman trophy, and his amazing portrayal of Nordberg in the Naked Gun series.
By that same token, I’m fairly certain that only a handful if any would make mention the double homicide he stood trial for. And by the way, if you still think he didn’t do it, just walk into a piranha-filled kiddy pool this very instant. Please, just do yourself a favor.
Just once, I would like to see someone give an honest eulogy. Wouldn’t that be great? A little bit of honesty, just once!
”Edgar was a quiet man. I say that because he had his tongue ripped out in a quibble over a gambling debt. That’s what he got for dealing with La Cosa Nostra. He never could get his gambling under control. That’s why his first son isn’t here with us today. Not because he is appalled by his father’s vices, but because Edgar lost him in a Super Bowl bet. He never should’ve rooted for the Bills. But despite his shortcomings, Edgar really did love his wife with all his heart… at least that’s what he told me one night after performing oral sex on me. Oh yeah. Edgar smoked pole. You didn’t know? He graduated from CSU, Cocksucker University. He had a 4.0 GPA; no gag reflex. That man could suck a watermelon through a drinking straw. Before his tongue was cut out of his mouth, anyway. He never did reconcile with those mobsters, which is probably why he was castrated just before being tossed into that thresher. At least that’s what the authorities say. They also say he shouldn’t have been high on PCP while driving the don’s daughter home from the club. It’s quite probable that he shouldn’t have gotten wet before getting behind the wheel, ‘cause if he stayed clean, he might still be here today to sodomize livestock with the rest of us. But at the end of the day, we should not be too sad for him, because I know that he is in a better place right now. He is at peace, and has been reunited with his tongue. And if he’s lucky, he just might be able to use that tongue to tickle St. Peter’s grundle in hopes of actually making it through the Pearly Gates. Edgar, we hardly knew ye, and we’ll miss ya at the methadone clinic.”
Man, I wish people were that honest about the deceased. And I guarandamntee ya if they were, Sinatra’s funeral wouldn’t have been so somber.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
Look, nothing against the man, I’m sure he was a pleasant fella and all that, but c’mon, let us not sugarcoat the obvious, people.
Reagan was a B-level actor in Hollywood, and comparatively a B-level politician as well. He fell ass-backwards into the presidency and just happened to be in the right place at the right time. The world at that time was going through a period of massive change, and Reagan just happened to latch onto the most powerful position in the world and an opportune time.
We all know that his contributions were minimal at best. At the end of the day, no matter how many of these post mortem brownnosers gush, Reagan will still be remembered most for selling weapons to our enemies. Period.
Just the other day I heard some fuckknuckle radio commentator going on about how Reagan ran for office in four different elections, and one them all. The guy chalked it up to his charisma.
Hey, dipstick, he was an actor. It was his job to be charismatic, to be able to draw people’s attention and make them like him. That’s what he did for a living, that’s what he trained for the better part of his life up to that point. This might also account for Arnold Schwarzenegger, Jesse Ventura, even Sonny Bono. They’re all entertainers, of course they have to lay claim to a certain degree of charisma. Sakes.
Anyway, what am I getting at? Well, this isn’t anti-Republican sentiment in any way shape or form, so you can dispel that notion immediately. What I’m getting at is the fact that it just irritates me that when somebody famous dies, it takes about a third of a millisecond for every so-called “colleague” (translation: a person who met the deceased at a cocktail party once) to come out of the woodwork and gush over the poor sonuvabitch in the oak box.
Yeah, that’s really what’s gettin’ me right now.
I am fairly certain that O.J. Simpson could kick the bucket tomorrow, and a whole slew of closet “Juicers” would come out in public and praise his amazing football career, his Heisman trophy, and his amazing portrayal of Nordberg in the Naked Gun series.
By that same token, I’m fairly certain that only a handful if any would make mention the double homicide he stood trial for. And by the way, if you still think he didn’t do it, just walk into a piranha-filled kiddy pool this very instant. Please, just do yourself a favor.
Just once, I would like to see someone give an honest eulogy. Wouldn’t that be great? A little bit of honesty, just once!
”Edgar was a quiet man. I say that because he had his tongue ripped out in a quibble over a gambling debt. That’s what he got for dealing with La Cosa Nostra. He never could get his gambling under control. That’s why his first son isn’t here with us today. Not because he is appalled by his father’s vices, but because Edgar lost him in a Super Bowl bet. He never should’ve rooted for the Bills. But despite his shortcomings, Edgar really did love his wife with all his heart… at least that’s what he told me one night after performing oral sex on me. Oh yeah. Edgar smoked pole. You didn’t know? He graduated from CSU, Cocksucker University. He had a 4.0 GPA; no gag reflex. That man could suck a watermelon through a drinking straw. Before his tongue was cut out of his mouth, anyway. He never did reconcile with those mobsters, which is probably why he was castrated just before being tossed into that thresher. At least that’s what the authorities say. They also say he shouldn’t have been high on PCP while driving the don’s daughter home from the club. It’s quite probable that he shouldn’t have gotten wet before getting behind the wheel, ‘cause if he stayed clean, he might still be here today to sodomize livestock with the rest of us. But at the end of the day, we should not be too sad for him, because I know that he is in a better place right now. He is at peace, and has been reunited with his tongue. And if he’s lucky, he just might be able to use that tongue to tickle St. Peter’s grundle in hopes of actually making it through the Pearly Gates. Edgar, we hardly knew ye, and we’ll miss ya at the methadone clinic.”
Man, I wish people were that honest about the deceased. And I guarandamntee ya if they were, Sinatra’s funeral wouldn’t have been so somber.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
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