It's nearing the time of year when all over the country, fresh-faced young high school graduates are off to their first year at college. I am aware of this not because I am a creep, but because I work in higher ed. This will also be the first year at college for my little cousin Chris Rudedawg (the Rudedawg boys, you may remember, are the closest people I have in my life to younger brothers). So, this of course puts me in mind of my own first year at college and the various entertaining and sometimes bizarre things that occurred.
Freshman year I lived on an honors floor in Bulkie Hall (name changed, duh), a building with a dining hall on the ground floor and two 6-floor towers of dorm rooms. I was in Bulkie 2 south. Our floor, well, it kinda ruled. There was a large cast of characters, both resident and visiting, who collectively made up the Bulkie Boys (and Girls), as became the simplest way to refer to the Bulkie 2S folks. As I go through the stories from the days back in the Bulk (oh, hence the title. See what I did there?), I'll introduce the various players as they become relevant. It would just be too confusing to introduce everyone at once.
This story has as central characters Ben Stantz, John "P.J." Reaver, Trevor Cloak (our R.A.), and me. Of tangential importance are Brendan Tourney and Jon "L.J." Seabiscuit. They don't actually participate in the story, they merely enabled it to occur. You see, Brendan and L.J. were roommates. Like most college students, these two (and most of us) didn't always follow every little rule and restriction about dorm life. They possessed contraband. I'm not referring to the study lounge couch they stole and hid under a sheet (successfully! for months!), I'm referring to the equipment for that lovely old pastime, darts. They had a dartboard and darts, strictly forbidden in dormitory life. Trevor more or less turned a blind eye, since really there was no harm in playing darts in the dorm room, and we were careful to not be obnoxious and obvious about it. Well, for a while anyway.
I mean, you can only throw darts at the board the same way over and over so many times before you want to get more creative. It was really inevitable that we'd develop the Ninja Throw eventually. This is what we named taking three darts, gripping them by their points at the base of the fingers, one dart between each pair of fingers (so they look like Wolverine's claws but idiotic), and then swiftly launching all three simultaneously in the direction of the board with a backhanded motion. It is super fun. It also is not particularly accurate. Brendan and L.J.'s door caught the brunt of the ninja assaults a bit more than the actual board. We needed to find a more suitable location to practice.
Most dorm floors have a bulletin board where useful information, entertaining pictures or statements, or um, other types of paper (I don't know, what else would go up?) can be posted for the floor. Bulkie 2S was no exception. Now, a bulletin board, really, is just a massive rectangular dartboard if you think about it (it's best not to think about it). So we tried to practice our dart skills on the bulletin board. But it was too narrow a hall to be any use or fun, we were throwing from like a foot away. We needed a place to back up more. We needed the elevator.
Really, we can only blame for what is about to occur whoever thought it was a good idea to put a giant rectangular dartboard (still best not to think about it) directly across from an elevator door. P.J. and I had to take things to the next level (oh man, elevator humor. That is awful.) and we tried to convince Ben to join us in doing so. Ben is more sensible than either P.J. or myself, and refused to ride the elevator to the basement, ride it back up to the 2nd floor, wait for the doors to open, then ninja throw a bunch of darts at the board as quickly as safely possible. We were able to negotiate him into being our Director of Security. His entire job was to stay near the elevator and make sure that come hell or high water, nobody stood in front of the door.
So, the first round of elevator darts began. P.J. and I rode to the basement, rode back up, the doors open, and TH-TH-THWACK! three darts flew from my hand and stuck in the board. And *plup* *plup* *plup* John gently, carefully, throws each of his darts in the standard dart-throwing method. I looked at him disdainfully as he protested he didn't know we were ninja-throwing. Clearly we needed a do-over. Ben agreed to remain our Director of Security. Round two began.
At this point, I'm never sure whose part of the story to tell. I guess I'll stick with John and I, then come back and fill in Ben's part after. This elevator trip took longer. We rode to the basement. Someone got on. They took the elevator ONE FLOOR UP to the first floor (pet peeve) and finally we were back on our way, having taken twice as long as we should've to get back to the 2nd floor. The doors opened. Six darts fly out and stick perfectly in the bulletin board TH-TH-TH-TH-TH-THWACK! like something out of a ninja movie. It ruled. For about half a second. Then came the resounding "WHAT THE HELL!?!?"
While John and I were taking our sweet-ass time on this elevator ride, Ben had problems of his own. The second the elevator doors closed for this ride, out of his room comes Trevor. Trevor is/was a very tall, athletic, popular black man. At first, we thought he only had one rule for our floor, which was don't break the exit signs, because they cost "damn near a hundred dollars" to replace (We broke them. By accident. More than once. We fixed them most of the time). This event, elevator darts, may have been the turning point in Trevor deciding to become more strict with us. Trevor approached Ben, who, not knowing exactly how to handle the situation just said "Uh, Trevor, you're not going to want to stand in front of this door."
Trevor, of course, was curious what was going on, and repeatedly called for an explanation, which Ben repeatedly ducked, only repeating his enigmatic warning. Luckily, Trevor did in fact listen to Ben and stayed just out of the line of sight of the elevator door as he questioned him. As they went back and forth for what seemed like an eternity to Ben, FINALLY the elevator arrived on the floor. Trevor, unable to see into the elevator from his angle, only saw 6 darts fly past him at his neck and chest level and embed themselves in his bulletin board. Cue "WHAT THE HELL!?!?"
That exclamation was the rumbling thunder for the 6'4" African-American lightning bolt that was about to strike. We had nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. He descended on us and began (possibly rightfully) yelling at us, asking rhetorical questions like "WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?" and the like. P.J. is a big dude. I'm not small, but he dwarfed me in both height and weight. I did my best to stay behind him, much to his annoyance, during Trevor's tirade. It helped (me) that Trevor and John had a tumultuous relationship marked by humorous antagonism. John caught the brunt of the anger. He got written up, I think. Somehow I didn't. Nor did Ben. Nor did Brendan and L.J. (who were merely asked to get rid of the darts and dartboard). The storm blew over and all was right-ish on the floor.
Until Blind Ninja Attack.
Uh. Kids. Don't try this stuff at home. Err, school. Whatever.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Thursday, August 05, 2010
You damnable, twisted, partisan hacks.
Let's not mince words. My personal reaction to nearly every action the Republican Party has taken in the past decade or so has fallen somewhere between "confused" and "aghast". My own views are fairly staunchly to the left, and I know that on certain issues, neither I nor those I disagree with will budge because the differences come down to sincere but deeply personal beliefs about the proper way to govern the nation. Fair enough. However, sometimes politicians (on both sides and everywhere between, but you can guess who I tend to be angrier at) take actions that, for lack of nuance I'd like to refer to as "evil", "stupid", or some ratio of the two for no reason other than politics itself. This is an atrocious betrayal of the trust of the citizenry.
Americans from every walk of political ideology all came together to some extent following the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001. Say what you will about the way the tragedy was subsequently exploited by politics and media to gain viewers or voters or push agendas, but for a brief time during and immediately following the attacks, we were all Americans, united in the face of a shared horror.
While we all felt the fear, the anger, the uncertainty of that day, for some individuals the tragedy was profoundly personal. For them, it happened in their very city - in their home. And to the great credit of the citizens of New York City and surrounding areas, they turned out in droves to do the backbreaking, emotionally-toxic work of digging through the rubble, providing aid, comfort and safety where ever they could. I challenge anyone to say that the rescue workers who turned out on that day and in the days to follow are anything other than heroes. (On an aside, I want to give some notable credit to Steve Buscemi, who worked tirelessly and anonymously that day as a volunteer firefighter, because he knew that they needed all the help they could get out there. I love you, Steve Buscemi.)
Of course, being a first responder to this tragedy was dangerous, and many of those who helped that day now struggle with lasting health issues as a direct result of their heroism that day. The US House of Representatives has spent the past nine years or so working on, re-working, and fighting over a bill to provide those first responders with the health care necessary to treat the health problems they incurred working in the ashes and rubble. There really could be no more appropriate, reasonable, and merited cost than to provide this care for the people who were literally our American heroes.
The. Bill. Failed.
How did it fail? How could it fail? Well, you can blame some of it on anti-tax rhetoric. Some opponents simply didn't think we should foot the bill. They'd favor the bill if the health care was magically paid for by nobody ever. Because, you know, that's realistic. Now, some tiny selfish part of even you, my kind and intelligent readers, might be saying deep in your brain "well yeah, I'd support it too if I didn't have to pay for it, money is tight lately and I don't really want to pay more taxes, even if it'd just be a tiny increase," and of course the rest of your compassionate and values-governed brain is chiding that tiny selfish part, but the fact is, you can relate just a tiny bit to not wanting to place the tax burden on the average citizen.
The funding for the bill was to come from closing the loophole that allows people to use overseas tax havens to avoid paying the taxes they rightfully owe. It wasn't going to burden anyone unduly, and would only in fact make those who are currently evading paying their fair share through a legal loophole of dubious ethical premise actually start to pitch in. So, the anti-tax crowd is either factually ignorant on this one, aware but trying to score political points, or is just so vehemently anti-tax that they believe nobody should ever pay taxes for anything, no matter what it is. In fact, the third option is really the only way to oppose this bill on principles related to taxation and not be a shill or an asshole. Just an unrealistic prick.
Further troubles for the bill came when the GOP wanted to introduce an unrelated amendment dealing with illegal immigration. Now, I know that's a hot button issue with a lot of people. As I understand it, specifically the Republicans wanted to make sure that nobody in the country illegally could claim benefit from the bill. Now, I don't know about you, but in my book, if somebody bravely responded to the tragedy on 9/11, I don't care where they're from. They're heroes. They deserve our gratitude, our respect, and yes, their directly-related ailments treated. So I would oppose this amendment, both because I disagree with it, and because I think it's either evil or stupid to propose it in the first place. You have to be obsessed with illegal immigration (or just think your voters are) to have your brain go there when this is the bill before you. Seriously! We want to reward people for their rescue work, and all you can think is "YEAH BUT DID THEY COME FROM MEX-EE-CO? AHYUCK!" You're an ass-faced animal if this is some variant on your response.
So the Democrats, not wanting to actually deal with this amendment because it could be costly to their political image when they could've just killed the amendment, eaten the flack for it, and helped our American heroes, tried to pass the bill in a way that requires a 2/3 majority instead of a simple majority. The rest is (recent) history. The bill had over 50% of the House in support, but not 2/3.
And so, a chance to do some very tangible, very reasonable good for eminently deserving individuals in the nation who acted selflessly on behalf of their neighbors is killed. Because of a lunatic fringe, a party that courts that fringe, and another party that won't face the first party head-on out of fear. If you voted no on this bill, you are morally bankrupt, or a ludicrous ideologue. At the very least, you've learned to shove whatever conscience you had into some deep corner of yourself and act without regard to it, maybe only taking it out on weekends and holidays. Your petty political one-upsmanship has cost those who not only deserve our aid but have flat-out EARNED it very real assistance. I hope you're happy, you damnable, twisted, partisan hacks.
Americans from every walk of political ideology all came together to some extent following the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001. Say what you will about the way the tragedy was subsequently exploited by politics and media to gain viewers or voters or push agendas, but for a brief time during and immediately following the attacks, we were all Americans, united in the face of a shared horror.
While we all felt the fear, the anger, the uncertainty of that day, for some individuals the tragedy was profoundly personal. For them, it happened in their very city - in their home. And to the great credit of the citizens of New York City and surrounding areas, they turned out in droves to do the backbreaking, emotionally-toxic work of digging through the rubble, providing aid, comfort and safety where ever they could. I challenge anyone to say that the rescue workers who turned out on that day and in the days to follow are anything other than heroes. (On an aside, I want to give some notable credit to Steve Buscemi, who worked tirelessly and anonymously that day as a volunteer firefighter, because he knew that they needed all the help they could get out there. I love you, Steve Buscemi.)
Of course, being a first responder to this tragedy was dangerous, and many of those who helped that day now struggle with lasting health issues as a direct result of their heroism that day. The US House of Representatives has spent the past nine years or so working on, re-working, and fighting over a bill to provide those first responders with the health care necessary to treat the health problems they incurred working in the ashes and rubble. There really could be no more appropriate, reasonable, and merited cost than to provide this care for the people who were literally our American heroes.
The. Bill. Failed.
How did it fail? How could it fail? Well, you can blame some of it on anti-tax rhetoric. Some opponents simply didn't think we should foot the bill. They'd favor the bill if the health care was magically paid for by nobody ever. Because, you know, that's realistic. Now, some tiny selfish part of even you, my kind and intelligent readers, might be saying deep in your brain "well yeah, I'd support it too if I didn't have to pay for it, money is tight lately and I don't really want to pay more taxes, even if it'd just be a tiny increase," and of course the rest of your compassionate and values-governed brain is chiding that tiny selfish part, but the fact is, you can relate just a tiny bit to not wanting to place the tax burden on the average citizen.
The funding for the bill was to come from closing the loophole that allows people to use overseas tax havens to avoid paying the taxes they rightfully owe. It wasn't going to burden anyone unduly, and would only in fact make those who are currently evading paying their fair share through a legal loophole of dubious ethical premise actually start to pitch in. So, the anti-tax crowd is either factually ignorant on this one, aware but trying to score political points, or is just so vehemently anti-tax that they believe nobody should ever pay taxes for anything, no matter what it is. In fact, the third option is really the only way to oppose this bill on principles related to taxation and not be a shill or an asshole. Just an unrealistic prick.
Further troubles for the bill came when the GOP wanted to introduce an unrelated amendment dealing with illegal immigration. Now, I know that's a hot button issue with a lot of people. As I understand it, specifically the Republicans wanted to make sure that nobody in the country illegally could claim benefit from the bill. Now, I don't know about you, but in my book, if somebody bravely responded to the tragedy on 9/11, I don't care where they're from. They're heroes. They deserve our gratitude, our respect, and yes, their directly-related ailments treated. So I would oppose this amendment, both because I disagree with it, and because I think it's either evil or stupid to propose it in the first place. You have to be obsessed with illegal immigration (or just think your voters are) to have your brain go there when this is the bill before you. Seriously! We want to reward people for their rescue work, and all you can think is "YEAH BUT DID THEY COME FROM MEX-EE-CO? AHYUCK!" You're an ass-faced animal if this is some variant on your response.
So the Democrats, not wanting to actually deal with this amendment because it could be costly to their political image when they could've just killed the amendment, eaten the flack for it, and helped our American heroes, tried to pass the bill in a way that requires a 2/3 majority instead of a simple majority. The rest is (recent) history. The bill had over 50% of the House in support, but not 2/3.
And so, a chance to do some very tangible, very reasonable good for eminently deserving individuals in the nation who acted selflessly on behalf of their neighbors is killed. Because of a lunatic fringe, a party that courts that fringe, and another party that won't face the first party head-on out of fear. If you voted no on this bill, you are morally bankrupt, or a ludicrous ideologue. At the very least, you've learned to shove whatever conscience you had into some deep corner of yourself and act without regard to it, maybe only taking it out on weekends and holidays. Your petty political one-upsmanship has cost those who not only deserve our aid but have flat-out EARNED it very real assistance. I hope you're happy, you damnable, twisted, partisan hacks.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Tales From The Lebowskis - Mornings at Hulka & Holly's
Growing up, I always wanted a brother. I had a sister, which has turned out to be nice in the long run, but growing up we fought miserably. Meghan and I really couldn't stand each other as kids, because we really weren't at all the partner-in-crime the other wanted. I wanted a sibling who would be interested in things like Ninja Turtles and robots and video games. She wanted a sibling who would be interested in things like American Girl dolls and sports. It was a bit of a mismatch, and neither of us were mature enough to be adults about it (WE WERE CHILDREN, LITERALLY).
Now, eventually, I did join a fraternity. I have lots of brothers now, which is awesome. But long before that, the closest thing I had to brothers was cousins. I have four cousins which were/are like brothers to me growing up. Chris and Kyle Rudedawg are like my younger brothers. Jimmy and Charlie Easterbreak were like my older brothers. Jimmy and Charlie weren't always my cousins. They are my Aunt Holly's sons from her first marriage. Hulka is now their stepfather, but when I first met them, Holly was still his girlfriend. The night I met them, at a Pizza Hut, I somehow erroneously believed at first that Jimmy was named Charlie and Charlie was named Jimmy. I absolutely refused to believe them when they corrected me, and I think I wound up in tears over it. This small hiccup did nothing to stand in the way of future awesome times for us three.
Jimmy was the oldest of us, then Charlie, then me. Jimmy was also the best behaved when we were together, and Charlie and I resented the fact that he would get in trouble the least, so we would periodically plot against him in minor ways. It was nothing personal, we loved Jimmy, we just resented his higher status. It was pretty standard.
We got to do all the dumb, fun stuff that brothers do (well, they were actually brothers, but I got to be part of it). We had burping contests, played war games outside, did stupid voices to make each other laugh, stuff like that. Actually, making Jimmy laugh was something Charlie and I liked to do a little too much sometimes. Jimmy has asthma, and we were too young to really fully understand how bad it was for him to have an attack. We would just consider laughing himself into an asthma attack as proof that we were being REALLY funny. Like a compliment. If we really knew what we were doing, we would've been the biggest assholes.
A major league bonus of hanging out with Jimmy and Charlie was the fact that they and Hulka had tons of video games. I LOVED video games as a kid. I still like them a lot, but obviously with appropriate moderation. Not back then, I was like an addict. And they had so damn many, we could play for hours. We would team up on hard games and try to beat them, we would replay our favorites, we would sing funny songs to the tune of the game songs, really it was a fun social thing, it just happened to be video games.
I was such a wired kid though. I would get excited and just be a total spaz. So nights when I got to sleep over, I would regularly wake up pre-dawn and want to start playing video games with Jimmy and Charlie again. I would just be too excited to keep sleeping. This wouldn't have been so bad, since they tended to be fairly excited to get up and keep playing too (although not always, sometimes they told me to go back to sleep). The problem was, when I got excited like that, I tended to have trouble regulating my volume. This caused problems for Hulka and Holly.
They liked to sleep in on weekend mornings, as do most people. The shrill sound of a child's laughter at 4 AM isn't the most welcome sound in the world. Nor is it at 5 AM. Nor 6. You get the idea. Holly was very kind in her reminders to try to be quiet in the morning. Hulka had slightly less patience, and would try to establish iron-clad rules. For example, I was not allowed to get out of bed before I could actually see the sun out of the window. Once I could see the sun, I could go into the kitchen to check what time it was, and if it was before a certain time (7, maybe?) I had to go back to bed again. No noise before 8 or 9, I can't remember which. That was the hardest for me. I would wake up and fully intend to be silent and keep Hulka happy this time, but nope, inevitably I'd get excited and make noise and incur Hulka's wrath.
Hulka's wrath pretty much consisted of him shouting my name, telling me to get my ass into his and Holly's room, then telling me very sternly to keep the noise down for a while longer, then sending me back out. This would frequently be repeated a few times per morning. It would work temporarily each time, you don't argue with a big angry man in his underwear. It's just that I would forget to be quiet again shortly thereafter. Oops.
Something Jimmy, Charlie and I liked to do was make funny tapes. They had an old boombox with a record function and we had a couple of cassette tapes we would pop in, then record ourselves being jackasses. Some classic moments included a skit involving a mystical "Geeenieee Bear!", Charlie singing INXS in the bathroom, and Charlie and I ruining Jimmy's well planned out sketches with fart sounds. That last one was pretty common. Being the oldest, Jimmy would actually come up with lines of dialogue for us to learn and make a funny tape. We'd usually go along with this for a minute or two, mess up a line somehow, and when he'd get upset at us, we'd just make fart noises on tape. One time in particular he decided to get his revenge on me for being a brat in his skit by narrating gross things to happen to me. I got poop on my face, he claimed. Somewhere there exists a recording of me angrily shouting that "If I get poop on my face one more time, you're gonna have poop in your stomach!" A comeback for the ages.
The greatest recording we ever made, though, happened early (although not ungodly early) one morning. It was probably 7:30 AM or so. The three of us were awake and ready to make another classic tape. This time, Jimmy thought we could use musical backup, so he was going to play the old, out-of-tune piano along as we recorded. I wish I had the audio recording to post here, but it's lost to the sands of time. I will try to transcribe it from memory.
The skit begins. Jimmy narrates while Charlie and I call comments from the peanut gallery. Jimmy begins playing the piano to enhance the mood of the story. Suddenly, although it's coming from an entirely different room, you can hear Hulka's voice on tape, clear as a bell. "REMUS! GET YOUR ASS IN HERE!" For a few moments, you can only hear Jimmy and Charlie whispering to each other. Then, in the most shit-eating, smug, childish, sing-songy voice you can imagine: "Jiiiiimm-myyyyyyyy, he's mad at YOOOO-OOOUUUUUU!" and then immediately, "REMUS! GET YOUR ASS BACK IN HERE!!"
For once, for fucking once, it actually was Jimmy who pissed off Hulka. It wasn't me spazzing out and making noise early in the morning. It WAS Jimmy! This never fucking happened, it was a one-time shot! I felt so goddamn vindicated when I went in there the first time for a tongue-lashing and could legitimately insist that I was innocent, and it was Jimmy who was to blame. Jimmy, who never got in trouble while Charlie (sometimes) and I (nearly always) took the fall (usually deservedly). I just couldn't contain my satisfaction at this stunning upset, and ruined it all by being a smug little shit. There's a moral in here somewhere. I flew far too close to the sun on wings of wax, my friends. Pride goeth before a fall.
Now, eventually, I did join a fraternity. I have lots of brothers now, which is awesome. But long before that, the closest thing I had to brothers was cousins. I have four cousins which were/are like brothers to me growing up. Chris and Kyle Rudedawg are like my younger brothers. Jimmy and Charlie Easterbreak were like my older brothers. Jimmy and Charlie weren't always my cousins. They are my Aunt Holly's sons from her first marriage. Hulka is now their stepfather, but when I first met them, Holly was still his girlfriend. The night I met them, at a Pizza Hut, I somehow erroneously believed at first that Jimmy was named Charlie and Charlie was named Jimmy. I absolutely refused to believe them when they corrected me, and I think I wound up in tears over it. This small hiccup did nothing to stand in the way of future awesome times for us three.
Jimmy was the oldest of us, then Charlie, then me. Jimmy was also the best behaved when we were together, and Charlie and I resented the fact that he would get in trouble the least, so we would periodically plot against him in minor ways. It was nothing personal, we loved Jimmy, we just resented his higher status. It was pretty standard.
We got to do all the dumb, fun stuff that brothers do (well, they were actually brothers, but I got to be part of it). We had burping contests, played war games outside, did stupid voices to make each other laugh, stuff like that. Actually, making Jimmy laugh was something Charlie and I liked to do a little too much sometimes. Jimmy has asthma, and we were too young to really fully understand how bad it was for him to have an attack. We would just consider laughing himself into an asthma attack as proof that we were being REALLY funny. Like a compliment. If we really knew what we were doing, we would've been the biggest assholes.
A major league bonus of hanging out with Jimmy and Charlie was the fact that they and Hulka had tons of video games. I LOVED video games as a kid. I still like them a lot, but obviously with appropriate moderation. Not back then, I was like an addict. And they had so damn many, we could play for hours. We would team up on hard games and try to beat them, we would replay our favorites, we would sing funny songs to the tune of the game songs, really it was a fun social thing, it just happened to be video games.
I was such a wired kid though. I would get excited and just be a total spaz. So nights when I got to sleep over, I would regularly wake up pre-dawn and want to start playing video games with Jimmy and Charlie again. I would just be too excited to keep sleeping. This wouldn't have been so bad, since they tended to be fairly excited to get up and keep playing too (although not always, sometimes they told me to go back to sleep). The problem was, when I got excited like that, I tended to have trouble regulating my volume. This caused problems for Hulka and Holly.
They liked to sleep in on weekend mornings, as do most people. The shrill sound of a child's laughter at 4 AM isn't the most welcome sound in the world. Nor is it at 5 AM. Nor 6. You get the idea. Holly was very kind in her reminders to try to be quiet in the morning. Hulka had slightly less patience, and would try to establish iron-clad rules. For example, I was not allowed to get out of bed before I could actually see the sun out of the window. Once I could see the sun, I could go into the kitchen to check what time it was, and if it was before a certain time (7, maybe?) I had to go back to bed again. No noise before 8 or 9, I can't remember which. That was the hardest for me. I would wake up and fully intend to be silent and keep Hulka happy this time, but nope, inevitably I'd get excited and make noise and incur Hulka's wrath.
Hulka's wrath pretty much consisted of him shouting my name, telling me to get my ass into his and Holly's room, then telling me very sternly to keep the noise down for a while longer, then sending me back out. This would frequently be repeated a few times per morning. It would work temporarily each time, you don't argue with a big angry man in his underwear. It's just that I would forget to be quiet again shortly thereafter. Oops.
Something Jimmy, Charlie and I liked to do was make funny tapes. They had an old boombox with a record function and we had a couple of cassette tapes we would pop in, then record ourselves being jackasses. Some classic moments included a skit involving a mystical "Geeenieee Bear!", Charlie singing INXS in the bathroom, and Charlie and I ruining Jimmy's well planned out sketches with fart sounds. That last one was pretty common. Being the oldest, Jimmy would actually come up with lines of dialogue for us to learn and make a funny tape. We'd usually go along with this for a minute or two, mess up a line somehow, and when he'd get upset at us, we'd just make fart noises on tape. One time in particular he decided to get his revenge on me for being a brat in his skit by narrating gross things to happen to me. I got poop on my face, he claimed. Somewhere there exists a recording of me angrily shouting that "If I get poop on my face one more time, you're gonna have poop in your stomach!" A comeback for the ages.
The greatest recording we ever made, though, happened early (although not ungodly early) one morning. It was probably 7:30 AM or so. The three of us were awake and ready to make another classic tape. This time, Jimmy thought we could use musical backup, so he was going to play the old, out-of-tune piano along as we recorded. I wish I had the audio recording to post here, but it's lost to the sands of time. I will try to transcribe it from memory.
The skit begins. Jimmy narrates while Charlie and I call comments from the peanut gallery. Jimmy begins playing the piano to enhance the mood of the story. Suddenly, although it's coming from an entirely different room, you can hear Hulka's voice on tape, clear as a bell. "REMUS! GET YOUR ASS IN HERE!" For a few moments, you can only hear Jimmy and Charlie whispering to each other. Then, in the most shit-eating, smug, childish, sing-songy voice you can imagine: "Jiiiiimm-myyyyyyyy, he's mad at YOOOO-OOOUUUUUU!" and then immediately, "REMUS! GET YOUR ASS BACK IN HERE!!"
For once, for fucking once, it actually was Jimmy who pissed off Hulka. It wasn't me spazzing out and making noise early in the morning. It WAS Jimmy! This never fucking happened, it was a one-time shot! I felt so goddamn vindicated when I went in there the first time for a tongue-lashing and could legitimately insist that I was innocent, and it was Jimmy who was to blame. Jimmy, who never got in trouble while Charlie (sometimes) and I (nearly always) took the fall (usually deservedly). I just couldn't contain my satisfaction at this stunning upset, and ruined it all by being a smug little shit. There's a moral in here somewhere. I flew far too close to the sun on wings of wax, my friends. Pride goeth before a fall.
Wednesday, July 07, 2010
Formative Years Fiction - The Crazy War
I don't remember what year it was. It was definitely 1st, 2nd, or 3rd grade. I wish I could recall more clearly the year, but alas, no luck. I also am a little hazy on exactly the nature of the assignment. It may have been to choose a book and write our own version of it, or maybe it had to specifically be a Dr. Seuss book, or maybe it had to specifically be The Butter Battle Book. I'm not sure. All I have record of is the result.
Also, as I've warned in the past, I'm probably going to wind up cursing at some point in here. The disclaimer is getting redundant, but you never know who might be reading.
Unlike the other childhood works I've shared here and will share here in the future, this one was a collaboration. My friend Mike Palazzo and I worked together on this one, and I have to give him half of the credit (blame?) for the story you're about to read. Let me preface, though, by talking a little bit about The Butter Battle Book. This Dr. Seuss classic is a send-up of the Cold War. Two nations, the Yooks and the Zooks, who differ only in their preference of which side to butter their bread on, are locked in perpetual conflict. They have an arms race of wacky Dr. Seuss weaponry that culminates in the simultaneous development of two tiny, horrifically destructive red bombs. The book ends on a cliffhanger, with both sides ready to detonate their bombs, waiting to see what the other will do. Mutually assured destruction.
Mike and I, well, didn't quite get the allusion. This is not Dr. Seuss's fault, he basically beat us over the head with the message with the subtlety of a sledgehammer (but the charm and style of a renowned children's author). No, this was just a case of the minds of children caring more about what would be AWESOME than what makes for a poignant story with a moral. Without further ado, let's take a look at The Crazy War. As always, click the pictures to see them embiggened, much like a noble spirit embiggens the smallest man.
I guess we actually did use some symbolism, although unintentionally. I'm pretty sure the grandson is representative of our non-existent attention spans. You'll see. Also, FYI? We never once see another member of this "army" besides a guy in a window and a dog. Read on if you don't believe me.
The grandson is just as bored with exposition as Mike and I are. Poor Gen. Grandpa. He looks spry for a grandparent though, doesn't he?
"What should we draw?" "What does this page say?" "Well, it says something about eating toast with the butter-side up." "OK, draw that. Draw him eating toast."
Man, that wall does not look good. Also, the general grew a beard for this page. Also, the text on this page is really as close as we're going to get to the actual message of the original Butter Battle Book. The general would prefer not to fight, because the war is silly. So he claims.
OK, so last page, the general didn't want to fight a silly war. Now as soon as he sees Van Itch in the distance, it's switchin' time. Whatever that means. WAY TO STICK TO YOUR PRINCIPLES, ASSHAT!
How convenient, the wall collapsed. Also, poor grandkid, he is totally the punching bag of the story. Have fun in a pile of rocks, junior. How did they ALL fall on him, no matter how far along the wall they were?
"What about this page, what should I draw here?" "Again, what does the page say?" "Umm, we put in some stupid rhyme about singing a terrible song to make the rhyme we needed." "Draw it." At least it's accurate, that song sounds terrible even on paper.
Child humor logic precept #28: Things that are oversized are funnier. Check the enormous slingshot rock (the laws of physics would prevent it from even firing!) and the enormous lump on the kid's head. Also, nice reaction time, shorty. You started getting conked on the dome-piece like three pages ago and you just say "OUCH!" now?
Ah, inside the military base. With bizarrely close doors, weird stairs, a table and... wait. What the? On the table, all the way to the right, the purple thing. Is that... what the fuck is a bong doing in this story? Seriously, I'm pretty sure neither Mike nor I knew what a bong was at that age. Oh purple mystery bong, you are a metaphor for this entire ridiculous story.
FUCK YEAH!
Well doesn't that figure. Why the general decided to bring the dog along for a ride in the Bomberoo is beyond me. Except maybe Child Humor Logic Precept #8 got invoked: Misfortune is funnier if animals are responsible.
Wait, what's that? Is that any point whatsoever this story might have had exploding in your face? We really went the opposite direction from Dr. Seuss's intentional non-ending here, instead opting for absolute sudden closure. Yooks win, because they had a bomb. Kids are fascists. Also, don't go hating on the erroneous spelling of Alpha Centauri. And yes, it's a star, not a planet. Whatever, asshole, it's not like we had Wikipedia in 1993.
Now, something this book was lacking was a cover. I mean, it had a cover in that our teacher had us bind our books in like, oak tag and wallpaper or something, but it didn't have cover art. So, here for your viewing pleasure is a present-day mock-up of a cover for the epic team-up of Remus Thirty and Mike Palazzo. That was a lot of hyphens in that last sentence.
That's all folks! See ya next time!
Also, as I've warned in the past, I'm probably going to wind up cursing at some point in here. The disclaimer is getting redundant, but you never know who might be reading.
Unlike the other childhood works I've shared here and will share here in the future, this one was a collaboration. My friend Mike Palazzo and I worked together on this one, and I have to give him half of the credit (blame?) for the story you're about to read. Let me preface, though, by talking a little bit about The Butter Battle Book. This Dr. Seuss classic is a send-up of the Cold War. Two nations, the Yooks and the Zooks, who differ only in their preference of which side to butter their bread on, are locked in perpetual conflict. They have an arms race of wacky Dr. Seuss weaponry that culminates in the simultaneous development of two tiny, horrifically destructive red bombs. The book ends on a cliffhanger, with both sides ready to detonate their bombs, waiting to see what the other will do. Mutually assured destruction.
Mike and I, well, didn't quite get the allusion. This is not Dr. Seuss's fault, he basically beat us over the head with the message with the subtlety of a sledgehammer (but the charm and style of a renowned children's author). No, this was just a case of the minds of children caring more about what would be AWESOME than what makes for a poignant story with a moral. Without further ado, let's take a look at The Crazy War. As always, click the pictures to see them embiggened, much like a noble spirit embiggens the smallest man.
I guess we actually did use some symbolism, although unintentionally. I'm pretty sure the grandson is representative of our non-existent attention spans. You'll see. Also, FYI? We never once see another member of this "army" besides a guy in a window and a dog. Read on if you don't believe me.
The grandson is just as bored with exposition as Mike and I are. Poor Gen. Grandpa. He looks spry for a grandparent though, doesn't he?
"What should we draw?" "What does this page say?" "Well, it says something about eating toast with the butter-side up." "OK, draw that. Draw him eating toast."
Man, that wall does not look good. Also, the general grew a beard for this page. Also, the text on this page is really as close as we're going to get to the actual message of the original Butter Battle Book. The general would prefer not to fight, because the war is silly. So he claims.
OK, so last page, the general didn't want to fight a silly war. Now as soon as he sees Van Itch in the distance, it's switchin' time. Whatever that means. WAY TO STICK TO YOUR PRINCIPLES, ASSHAT!
How convenient, the wall collapsed. Also, poor grandkid, he is totally the punching bag of the story. Have fun in a pile of rocks, junior. How did they ALL fall on him, no matter how far along the wall they were?
"What about this page, what should I draw here?" "Again, what does the page say?" "Umm, we put in some stupid rhyme about singing a terrible song to make the rhyme we needed." "Draw it." At least it's accurate, that song sounds terrible even on paper.
Child humor logic precept #28: Things that are oversized are funnier. Check the enormous slingshot rock (the laws of physics would prevent it from even firing!) and the enormous lump on the kid's head. Also, nice reaction time, shorty. You started getting conked on the dome-piece like three pages ago and you just say "OUCH!" now?
Ah, inside the military base. With bizarrely close doors, weird stairs, a table and... wait. What the? On the table, all the way to the right, the purple thing. Is that... what the fuck is a bong doing in this story? Seriously, I'm pretty sure neither Mike nor I knew what a bong was at that age. Oh purple mystery bong, you are a metaphor for this entire ridiculous story.
FUCK YEAH!
Well doesn't that figure. Why the general decided to bring the dog along for a ride in the Bomberoo is beyond me. Except maybe Child Humor Logic Precept #8 got invoked: Misfortune is funnier if animals are responsible.
Wait, what's that? Is that any point whatsoever this story might have had exploding in your face? We really went the opposite direction from Dr. Seuss's intentional non-ending here, instead opting for absolute sudden closure. Yooks win, because they had a bomb. Kids are fascists. Also, don't go hating on the erroneous spelling of Alpha Centauri. And yes, it's a star, not a planet. Whatever, asshole, it's not like we had Wikipedia in 1993.
Now, something this book was lacking was a cover. I mean, it had a cover in that our teacher had us bind our books in like, oak tag and wallpaper or something, but it didn't have cover art. So, here for your viewing pleasure is a present-day mock-up of a cover for the epic team-up of Remus Thirty and Mike Palazzo. That was a lot of hyphens in that last sentence.
That's all folks! See ya next time!
Monday, June 28, 2010
Tales From The Lebowskis - Their House (In The Middle of Their Street)
From the mid-1960's to the mid-1970's, the Lebowski family lived in a great big house (3 stories, 6 bed, 8 bath) that I've never seen the inside of. Seven people (two parents, five children) is a big family, and a large house would be reasonable for a large family, but this house also doubled as a care facility for several adult patients that my grandmother, Mary Lebowski was responsible for (she was an RN who basically ran a mini-rest home in her own home for a few wards of the state). It is a constant sadness to me that I never got the chance to visit this house (it is now occupied by a privately owned business, although my aunt Pappy does visit sometimes for her work, which is nice for her). It sounds like a fun place where lots of interesting things occurred. I'd like to walk you through some of the highlights.
The living arrangements were as follows. The basement was a basement, and had laundry machines. The first floor was the main living area with kitchen, dining room, etc. The 2nd floor had bedrooms for Nonnie, Jaja, their two sons David and Stephen (Hulka), and the patients. The third floor, accessed via a flight of stairs with each step painted a different bright color, housed my mother, Diane, and her two sisters, Susan and Patty (Pappy). The bulk of the third floor was Patty and Susan's room, which was enormous. My mother's room (she desperately wanted her own room, being the oldest) was tiny, like a broom closet. Because it was her VERY OWN ROOM, she got to paint it any color she liked. She chose lavender. Apparently this tiny room was extremely lavender. It was once described by David as "so damn purple, Prince and Barney would spew."
Having the patients live in the house provided Nonnie and Jaja with convenient watchful eyes when they wanted or needed to get out of the house. If you think about this, though, the patients living there were wards of the state. Hulka likes to point out that they were, "frequently left in the care of individuals the state deemed unfit to care for themselves." One patient's entire babysitting strategy was slap a box of cigarettes in his hand and demand that the children "get off my floor!" should they venture to play on the 2nd floor.
The first floor of the house, as stated earlier, was where the daily living took place. With 5 kids and 4 or so patients, Nonnie and Jaja thought it economical to invest in a milk machine, the type you might see in a college dining hall. They'd buy enormous bags of milk, load them in, and then the milk would freely dispense from it's tube when the lever was pressed. Susan perfected a trick she would demonstrate for Hulka where she would milk the milk machine. She would grip the pouring tube as if it were a cow's udder and use the "milking" motion to nudge the lever with her elbow. Classic misdirection. Hulka's use of the milk machine was more direct: he liked to wrap his lips around the tube and hit the lever.
The outside of the house was apparently full of memories too. It featured a built-in pool, for one thing. However, Nonnie lived in perpetual fear that young Hulka would have dangerous mishaps given any chances (this was a somewhat justified fear, given little Hulka's fearlessness, which is probably better described as obliviousness to danger rather than "bravery" per se. He once, at age 3 or so, held a Vietnam protest parade which consisted of walking the median line of the busy street the house was on holding a flower. Tractor trailers honked their support, he assures me.). As a result, the pool was not allowed to be filled beyond a couple of inches of water. Poor innocent Hulka might've drowned otherwise.
In addition to a pool, the yard also had a fountain. This fountain, like the pool, had much less water in it than it should, by design, have held. It held zero water. I do not know if this was another deliberate Hulka-proofing on my grandmother's part or not, but I do know that according to my mother, aunts, and uncles, an empty fountain has some great hide-and-seek possibilities.
Another outdoor highlight was a very tall evergreen tree. This tree was not a highlight on it's own, it was rather the site of an escapade involving my mother's cousin Jimmy Sownd. Young Jimmy was apparently an expert climber and a bit of a little shit. On this particular occasion, he managed to climb all the way to the very top of the tree, clinging not to a branch but to the central tree trunk, at that height so thin and flexible that he was reportedly swinging from side to side, rocking the top of the tree, shouting not with fear, but with glee. His father, George "Gorilla" Sownd demanded he climb down, a demand which was summarily dismissed. Uncle George was nicknamed Gorilla for a reason: he was built like one. The man called Gorilla was FULLY displeased at having to climb two full stories up a tree to haul his monkey-swinging son down. I'm pretty sure Jimmy's ass got beaten to hell and back for that one (it was a different time).
As if these weren't enough outdoor items of note, the backyard also featured a life-sized statue of the Madonna (the religious figure, not the singer), and an enormous D.O.T.-orange trash barrel. This barrel was notable for moonlighting as a swimming pool for the kids (since the real pool could not be filled, as mentioned above) and as a vehicle of sorts. A favorite game of the Lebowski children was to load a child or two into the barrel, turned on it's side, and send it rolling down the hill, most frequently to come to a sudden and clanging stop at the propane tank. This may sound dangerous, but the kids were sure to run a series of tests before attempting this. The tests consisted of getting their neighbor and friend, Sally Bigalow to do exactly this dangerous thing first. This was a valid strategy for a number of potentially hazardous outdoor activities, I hear.
My favorite detail about the Lebowski house of those days, saved for last, is the fact that it had a laundry chute. I always thought laundry chutes were really cool when I was younger, because it was a legitimate excuse to drop things from a fair height, usually a no-no. But this laundry chute was special. It ran from the 2nd floor to the basement ceiling, with an opening on the first floor as well. In about 1970 or so, the Lebowski children needed to find out just how valid a shortcut from the 2nd floor to the basement the laundry chute would be. Sally Bigalow must not have been available, because the test pilot for this mission was none other than Hulka, 6 or 7 years old at the time.
The four assistants made sure there was plenty of laundry at the bottom of the chute to cushion the landing. A few bedsheets and a pair of underwear was probably enough, right? The intrepid young sailor of gravity gave his thumbs up and he was hoisted into the chute to make his rapid headfirst descent. What the kids didn't realize was that about halfway down the chute, it narrowed. Hulka did not. Firmly lodged upside down in the chute, Hulka awaited rescue by his siblings. They tried valiantly to free him, eventually resorting to using a broom to try to push him through the narrow segment to freedom. Hulka reports that he wishes they'd used the other end of the broom, and that the handle didn't even buy him dinner or call him after the time they had together.
Eventually, Hulka was freed, relatively none the worse for wear. But it's a pretty unique family of five kids that sends the youngest brother down a laundry chute just to see what would happen. Or maybe not so unique. You should ask my dad's brother Sean Thirty about that.
The living arrangements were as follows. The basement was a basement, and had laundry machines. The first floor was the main living area with kitchen, dining room, etc. The 2nd floor had bedrooms for Nonnie, Jaja, their two sons David and Stephen (Hulka), and the patients. The third floor, accessed via a flight of stairs with each step painted a different bright color, housed my mother, Diane, and her two sisters, Susan and Patty (Pappy). The bulk of the third floor was Patty and Susan's room, which was enormous. My mother's room (she desperately wanted her own room, being the oldest) was tiny, like a broom closet. Because it was her VERY OWN ROOM, she got to paint it any color she liked. She chose lavender. Apparently this tiny room was extremely lavender. It was once described by David as "so damn purple, Prince and Barney would spew."
Having the patients live in the house provided Nonnie and Jaja with convenient watchful eyes when they wanted or needed to get out of the house. If you think about this, though, the patients living there were wards of the state. Hulka likes to point out that they were, "frequently left in the care of individuals the state deemed unfit to care for themselves." One patient's entire babysitting strategy was slap a box of cigarettes in his hand and demand that the children "get off my floor!" should they venture to play on the 2nd floor.
The first floor of the house, as stated earlier, was where the daily living took place. With 5 kids and 4 or so patients, Nonnie and Jaja thought it economical to invest in a milk machine, the type you might see in a college dining hall. They'd buy enormous bags of milk, load them in, and then the milk would freely dispense from it's tube when the lever was pressed. Susan perfected a trick she would demonstrate for Hulka where she would milk the milk machine. She would grip the pouring tube as if it were a cow's udder and use the "milking" motion to nudge the lever with her elbow. Classic misdirection. Hulka's use of the milk machine was more direct: he liked to wrap his lips around the tube and hit the lever.
The outside of the house was apparently full of memories too. It featured a built-in pool, for one thing. However, Nonnie lived in perpetual fear that young Hulka would have dangerous mishaps given any chances (this was a somewhat justified fear, given little Hulka's fearlessness, which is probably better described as obliviousness to danger rather than "bravery" per se. He once, at age 3 or so, held a Vietnam protest parade which consisted of walking the median line of the busy street the house was on holding a flower. Tractor trailers honked their support, he assures me.). As a result, the pool was not allowed to be filled beyond a couple of inches of water. Poor innocent Hulka might've drowned otherwise.
In addition to a pool, the yard also had a fountain. This fountain, like the pool, had much less water in it than it should, by design, have held. It held zero water. I do not know if this was another deliberate Hulka-proofing on my grandmother's part or not, but I do know that according to my mother, aunts, and uncles, an empty fountain has some great hide-and-seek possibilities.
Another outdoor highlight was a very tall evergreen tree. This tree was not a highlight on it's own, it was rather the site of an escapade involving my mother's cousin Jimmy Sownd. Young Jimmy was apparently an expert climber and a bit of a little shit. On this particular occasion, he managed to climb all the way to the very top of the tree, clinging not to a branch but to the central tree trunk, at that height so thin and flexible that he was reportedly swinging from side to side, rocking the top of the tree, shouting not with fear, but with glee. His father, George "Gorilla" Sownd demanded he climb down, a demand which was summarily dismissed. Uncle George was nicknamed Gorilla for a reason: he was built like one. The man called Gorilla was FULLY displeased at having to climb two full stories up a tree to haul his monkey-swinging son down. I'm pretty sure Jimmy's ass got beaten to hell and back for that one (it was a different time).
As if these weren't enough outdoor items of note, the backyard also featured a life-sized statue of the Madonna (the religious figure, not the singer), and an enormous D.O.T.-orange trash barrel. This barrel was notable for moonlighting as a swimming pool for the kids (since the real pool could not be filled, as mentioned above) and as a vehicle of sorts. A favorite game of the Lebowski children was to load a child or two into the barrel, turned on it's side, and send it rolling down the hill, most frequently to come to a sudden and clanging stop at the propane tank. This may sound dangerous, but the kids were sure to run a series of tests before attempting this. The tests consisted of getting their neighbor and friend, Sally Bigalow to do exactly this dangerous thing first. This was a valid strategy for a number of potentially hazardous outdoor activities, I hear.
My favorite detail about the Lebowski house of those days, saved for last, is the fact that it had a laundry chute. I always thought laundry chutes were really cool when I was younger, because it was a legitimate excuse to drop things from a fair height, usually a no-no. But this laundry chute was special. It ran from the 2nd floor to the basement ceiling, with an opening on the first floor as well. In about 1970 or so, the Lebowski children needed to find out just how valid a shortcut from the 2nd floor to the basement the laundry chute would be. Sally Bigalow must not have been available, because the test pilot for this mission was none other than Hulka, 6 or 7 years old at the time.
The four assistants made sure there was plenty of laundry at the bottom of the chute to cushion the landing. A few bedsheets and a pair of underwear was probably enough, right? The intrepid young sailor of gravity gave his thumbs up and he was hoisted into the chute to make his rapid headfirst descent. What the kids didn't realize was that about halfway down the chute, it narrowed. Hulka did not. Firmly lodged upside down in the chute, Hulka awaited rescue by his siblings. They tried valiantly to free him, eventually resorting to using a broom to try to push him through the narrow segment to freedom. Hulka reports that he wishes they'd used the other end of the broom, and that the handle didn't even buy him dinner or call him after the time they had together.
Eventually, Hulka was freed, relatively none the worse for wear. But it's a pretty unique family of five kids that sends the youngest brother down a laundry chute just to see what would happen. Or maybe not so unique. You should ask my dad's brother Sean Thirty about that.
Monday, June 21, 2010
The Superhero Films I Would've Made Instead
SPOILERS WILL ABOUND, AND SO MIGHT PROFANITY. YOU ARE WARNED.
So, let's get right out in front of it. I love geeky things. Always have, always will. I don't love geeky things exclusively, I love lots of things, but that "lots of things" always has and always will include lots of geeky things. One of the geeky things I've loved since childhood is the world of comic books and superheroes. I watched the cartoons, I collected the comic books, I had action figures, a few trading cards, posters, a subscription to Wizard magazine. I would draw my heroes in all sorts of notebooks, existing ones and ones of my own creation. I think of superheroes as the mythology of our culture, just like the Greeks, the Romans, the Egyptians, the Vikings all had their own tales of heroes and villains with powers far beyond those of normal mortals. Hell, comic books even co-opted some of those very characters and they fit right in (off the top of my head, Thor, Loki, Hercules, and Count Dracula [I know, he's not ancient mythology, but based off of Slavic folklore] have all played at least somewhat major roles in the Marvel universe).
You can imagine my delight at the explosion of the superhero movie genre starting with about the turn of the 21st century. It helped immensely that my favorite superheroes, the X-Men, were the ones that really kicked off this trend. X-Men was a solid comic book movie. X2: X-Men United was even better. Spider-Man was a good comic book movie. Spider-Man 2 was even better. Sure there were some shitty movies mixed in (what up, Ang Lee's Hulk? Oh sorry, is that you, Fantastic Four?) but on the whole, superhero movies were on the rise. Some were incredible. Sin City, Batman Begins and The Dark Knight, Iron Man... and yes, I'm jumping all over the place chronologically, deal with it.
Not all the superhero movies have been wholly satisfying for me though. Some, while not being outright piles of crap, are not what they should've been either. Let's chat for a minute about two films I wish I could turn back time on and make a different movie instead, and two films that don't yet exist, but that I have ideas for.
X-Men: The Last Stand was garbage. It did have moments, aspects I enjoyed, absolutely. But compare Brett Ratner's foray into the world of the merry mutants (who am I talking like here, Stan frickin' Lee?) with Bryan Singer's two entries. Night and day. This is, of course, barring the fact that Halle Berry, while a gifted actress, is a terrible Storm in all of them. But I'm not here to run down my list of complaints with this movie, I'm here to say what I would do differently.
For one thing, I would've slowed the events down. OK, Jean "dies" at the end of 2. Perfect. We're building up to the Phoenix stuff. So in 3, let's bring her back already so quickly we barely missed her, fly right through Phoenix and go straight to Dark Phoenix. If we're lucky, we'll hardly feel anything at all. Contracts be damned, I would've had Jean Grey stay dead for the entirety of the third movie. How will we miss her if she's never gone? I would've brought her back in a fourth film as Phoenix (and I'm not being a canon fanboy, let's find a way to do this that works in a live action film and doesn't seem comic book-y and schlocky) and let her spend that entire film as Phoenix. Maybe hint at the fact that she has a little bit of issues controlling the power, but keep that to foreshadowing for a fifth film, wherein Dark Phoenix is THE plotline. Not a subthread of Magneto taking over Alcatraz.
I would've also focused less on Wolverine. I know he's the cash cow of the X-Men franchise and I wouldn't write him out, but let's work with an ensemble a little here, folks. We had 3 Wolverine movies, and then a Wolverine movie, because we might not have gotten enough Wolverine (don't get me wrong, great character and Hugh Jackman is great in the role). Could we give Storm an actual character please (and maybe a different actress while we're at it)? Could we not kill Cyclops off screen, a death to which nobody particularly reacts? The strength of the X-Men media has been the fact that they're a team and the personalities play off each other and it's not just one person in the spotlight. I love Wolverine but let's build up the others a bit and give them more to do in my imagined movie.
So what WOULD I have done for a plotline? Sentinels. Not necessarily the hulking purple tin soldiers of the comics and the cartoon, probably smaller and sleeker. More human sized. Hell, have them be modified humans like the Sentinels in the Operation: Zero Tolerance plotline. If we need to give Magneto something villainous to do because he's getting too likable after teaming up with the X-Men in the second film, have him hijack the Sentinels partway through for his own purposes. We can even keep the mutant cure plotline maybe, because nothing is going to make you want to cure your mutancy like robots designed to capture or kill you unless you're a normal human. Adds a whole new level of urgency to the decision, no? The thing I like about the Sentinels is it would build on the themes of prejudice vs. acceptance from the first two films. Humans create the Sentinels because they fear the mutants. The mutants are forced to fight for their lives, which reinforces the idea that they're dangerous, etc. etc. And I would've waited for Byran Singer to finish his other commitment then direct the movie LIKE HE WANTED TO DO rather than get impatient and bring that hack Ratner on board.
Spider-Man 3 was a mediocre film. What would I do differently? Not that much actually, except ask Sam Raimi to make two awesome Spider-Man movies instead of one rushed, jumbled Spider-Man movie. Did we really need the New Goblin, the Sandman, and Venom all in the same film? My complaints about the way it went down are summed up best in the movie scene when Sandman and Venom's teaming up is established with a 15-second scene in an alley where they meet by chance and basically go "Hey, you hate Spider-Man too, right?" Come on, guys. So yes, introduce the black symbiote suit and let that be the major plot here. Give me Sandman. Sure, maybe even New Goblin. And yes, give me Eddie Brock. But DO NOT MAKE HIM VENOM YET. Let this movie establish his rivalry and jealousy towards Peter. Let this movie establish the black symbiote costume. Let the final scene of the film be the embittered, angry Eddie Brock encountering the symbiote for the first time and set up for Spider-Man 4, the Venom one.
They're working on a Captain America movie. I don't know a whole lot about it other than I saw some pretty decent concept art for Cap's costume. I don't think they're going the way I envision for this movie (although maybe they are and they'll surprise me), but what I wanted, to really stand out amongst a crowded field of superhero movies, was a period piece. Captain America works best in World War II. His nationalist get-up screams pro-American forces propaganda (I'm using propaganda here without negative connotations, I'm very much on the side of the Allies in WWII). So let's make a superhero period piece. And go for broke, go for historical accuracy in costuming, set design, vernacular. Make it a legit WWII movie and let's have Cap struggle with having to be the perfect super soldier not just to win in combat but to serve as a symbol for the US to rally around.
OK, last one. There will be a third Batman in the Nolan reboot franchise, of course. Here's my thing: you're not going to get bigger than the mayhem the Joker wreaks in Dark Knight without losing some of the gritty realism of the new franchise. Buildings were collapsing and burning, Batman had sonar-vision, the city was a wreck. Going bigger means getting ridiculous. So how do you raise the stakes without going bigger? Make the threat more intimate. I present to you a revamp of the Mad Hatter. No longer is the Alice in Wonderland stuff just a cute gimmick, this Mad Hatter is a child (pre-teen?) abductor, rapist, and murderer. He is looking for his Alice. He finds candidates, takes them, and ultimately casts them aside, unsatisfied. It's sickening, it's upsetting, and it's how you raise the stakes without going bigger. But Batman's not a 12-year-old girl, you say. How is the threat more intimate? Commissioner Gordon is established as having a son and a daughter. Guess who gets kidnapped to raise the stakes for Batman, already frustrated by failing to catch the Mad Hatter yet. There we go.
So there we go, four film franchises and where I would've taken them or would like to see them go. Please post comments! Tell me what you think! Tell me your own ideas!
So, let's get right out in front of it. I love geeky things. Always have, always will. I don't love geeky things exclusively, I love lots of things, but that "lots of things" always has and always will include lots of geeky things. One of the geeky things I've loved since childhood is the world of comic books and superheroes. I watched the cartoons, I collected the comic books, I had action figures, a few trading cards, posters, a subscription to Wizard magazine. I would draw my heroes in all sorts of notebooks, existing ones and ones of my own creation. I think of superheroes as the mythology of our culture, just like the Greeks, the Romans, the Egyptians, the Vikings all had their own tales of heroes and villains with powers far beyond those of normal mortals. Hell, comic books even co-opted some of those very characters and they fit right in (off the top of my head, Thor, Loki, Hercules, and Count Dracula [I know, he's not ancient mythology, but based off of Slavic folklore] have all played at least somewhat major roles in the Marvel universe).
You can imagine my delight at the explosion of the superhero movie genre starting with about the turn of the 21st century. It helped immensely that my favorite superheroes, the X-Men, were the ones that really kicked off this trend. X-Men was a solid comic book movie. X2: X-Men United was even better. Spider-Man was a good comic book movie. Spider-Man 2 was even better. Sure there were some shitty movies mixed in (what up, Ang Lee's Hulk? Oh sorry, is that you, Fantastic Four?) but on the whole, superhero movies were on the rise. Some were incredible. Sin City, Batman Begins and The Dark Knight, Iron Man... and yes, I'm jumping all over the place chronologically, deal with it.
Not all the superhero movies have been wholly satisfying for me though. Some, while not being outright piles of crap, are not what they should've been either. Let's chat for a minute about two films I wish I could turn back time on and make a different movie instead, and two films that don't yet exist, but that I have ideas for.
X-Men: The Last Stand was garbage. It did have moments, aspects I enjoyed, absolutely. But compare Brett Ratner's foray into the world of the merry mutants (who am I talking like here, Stan frickin' Lee?) with Bryan Singer's two entries. Night and day. This is, of course, barring the fact that Halle Berry, while a gifted actress, is a terrible Storm in all of them. But I'm not here to run down my list of complaints with this movie, I'm here to say what I would do differently.
For one thing, I would've slowed the events down. OK, Jean "dies" at the end of 2. Perfect. We're building up to the Phoenix stuff. So in 3, let's bring her back already so quickly we barely missed her, fly right through Phoenix and go straight to Dark Phoenix. If we're lucky, we'll hardly feel anything at all. Contracts be damned, I would've had Jean Grey stay dead for the entirety of the third movie. How will we miss her if she's never gone? I would've brought her back in a fourth film as Phoenix (and I'm not being a canon fanboy, let's find a way to do this that works in a live action film and doesn't seem comic book-y and schlocky) and let her spend that entire film as Phoenix. Maybe hint at the fact that she has a little bit of issues controlling the power, but keep that to foreshadowing for a fifth film, wherein Dark Phoenix is THE plotline. Not a subthread of Magneto taking over Alcatraz.
I would've also focused less on Wolverine. I know he's the cash cow of the X-Men franchise and I wouldn't write him out, but let's work with an ensemble a little here, folks. We had 3 Wolverine movies, and then a Wolverine movie, because we might not have gotten enough Wolverine (don't get me wrong, great character and Hugh Jackman is great in the role). Could we give Storm an actual character please (and maybe a different actress while we're at it)? Could we not kill Cyclops off screen, a death to which nobody particularly reacts? The strength of the X-Men media has been the fact that they're a team and the personalities play off each other and it's not just one person in the spotlight. I love Wolverine but let's build up the others a bit and give them more to do in my imagined movie.
So what WOULD I have done for a plotline? Sentinels. Not necessarily the hulking purple tin soldiers of the comics and the cartoon, probably smaller and sleeker. More human sized. Hell, have them be modified humans like the Sentinels in the Operation: Zero Tolerance plotline. If we need to give Magneto something villainous to do because he's getting too likable after teaming up with the X-Men in the second film, have him hijack the Sentinels partway through for his own purposes. We can even keep the mutant cure plotline maybe, because nothing is going to make you want to cure your mutancy like robots designed to capture or kill you unless you're a normal human. Adds a whole new level of urgency to the decision, no? The thing I like about the Sentinels is it would build on the themes of prejudice vs. acceptance from the first two films. Humans create the Sentinels because they fear the mutants. The mutants are forced to fight for their lives, which reinforces the idea that they're dangerous, etc. etc. And I would've waited for Byran Singer to finish his other commitment then direct the movie LIKE HE WANTED TO DO rather than get impatient and bring that hack Ratner on board.
Spider-Man 3 was a mediocre film. What would I do differently? Not that much actually, except ask Sam Raimi to make two awesome Spider-Man movies instead of one rushed, jumbled Spider-Man movie. Did we really need the New Goblin, the Sandman, and Venom all in the same film? My complaints about the way it went down are summed up best in the movie scene when Sandman and Venom's teaming up is established with a 15-second scene in an alley where they meet by chance and basically go "Hey, you hate Spider-Man too, right?" Come on, guys. So yes, introduce the black symbiote suit and let that be the major plot here. Give me Sandman. Sure, maybe even New Goblin. And yes, give me Eddie Brock. But DO NOT MAKE HIM VENOM YET. Let this movie establish his rivalry and jealousy towards Peter. Let this movie establish the black symbiote costume. Let the final scene of the film be the embittered, angry Eddie Brock encountering the symbiote for the first time and set up for Spider-Man 4, the Venom one.
They're working on a Captain America movie. I don't know a whole lot about it other than I saw some pretty decent concept art for Cap's costume. I don't think they're going the way I envision for this movie (although maybe they are and they'll surprise me), but what I wanted, to really stand out amongst a crowded field of superhero movies, was a period piece. Captain America works best in World War II. His nationalist get-up screams pro-American forces propaganda (I'm using propaganda here without negative connotations, I'm very much on the side of the Allies in WWII). So let's make a superhero period piece. And go for broke, go for historical accuracy in costuming, set design, vernacular. Make it a legit WWII movie and let's have Cap struggle with having to be the perfect super soldier not just to win in combat but to serve as a symbol for the US to rally around.
OK, last one. There will be a third Batman in the Nolan reboot franchise, of course. Here's my thing: you're not going to get bigger than the mayhem the Joker wreaks in Dark Knight without losing some of the gritty realism of the new franchise. Buildings were collapsing and burning, Batman had sonar-vision, the city was a wreck. Going bigger means getting ridiculous. So how do you raise the stakes without going bigger? Make the threat more intimate. I present to you a revamp of the Mad Hatter. No longer is the Alice in Wonderland stuff just a cute gimmick, this Mad Hatter is a child (pre-teen?) abductor, rapist, and murderer. He is looking for his Alice. He finds candidates, takes them, and ultimately casts them aside, unsatisfied. It's sickening, it's upsetting, and it's how you raise the stakes without going bigger. But Batman's not a 12-year-old girl, you say. How is the threat more intimate? Commissioner Gordon is established as having a son and a daughter. Guess who gets kidnapped to raise the stakes for Batman, already frustrated by failing to catch the Mad Hatter yet. There we go.
So there we go, four film franchises and where I would've taken them or would like to see them go. Please post comments! Tell me what you think! Tell me your own ideas!
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Tales from High School X - Mr. Montecarlo 2: Congressional Oversights
Mr. Montecarlo, whom we met last time, was not just a teacher at St. Francis High, he was also the faculty advisor to the Model Congress club at the school. Oh, and profanity spoiler alert on this one. There be some cursing. Read something else if that's a problem.
Being a super duper cool kid (irony), I was in the Model Congress club. Let me take just a moment here and address the fact that Model Congress is not considered a "cool" high school activity. St. Francis was an all-male Catholic school. Br. Willard, the principal, worked tirelessly to keep us out of contact with members of the opposite sex. Model Congress meant getting to go on a weekend trip to other cities and stay in a hotel with not only your own friends from school, but other high school students from lots of other schools, many of whom were girls. Have fun on the basketball court with the other guys, "cool" dudes.
Anyway, Mr. Montecarlo (or Monty, as he was often called) was constantly full of sage advice for his young charges. We already covered some of that advice in the previous post. A piece of advice that didn't get mentioned yet involved dicks. Yes, that's right, dicks. Like, slang for the penis. You see, Monty was very concerned that we practice, practice, practice for the Model Congress sessions (no, they were not held at Carnegie Hall). He wanted us to make sure we knew our stuff backwards and front. Why?
"So you don't wind up sitting in front of the room with your dick in your hands."
Oh. Good advice. Do not hold your dick. But later, Monty congratulated a very successful Model Congress weekend (Best Delegation award, what?) with the following summary:
"You guys walked out of that room with your dicks held high!"
Oh. OK. So holding your dick is good, as long as it's held high. Thanks for clarifying. So there you have it. Anyone reading this with a dick, or with ready access to one, do not hold it unless you hold it high.
Speaking of dicks, nearly everyone on the Model Congress trips got a little closer to a full view of Monty's Carlo each conference. The reason for this is not sketchy, just kinda gross. You see, Monty was a runner. On Model Congress weekends, he would volunteer to wake any delegates up early that wanted to go running with him bright and early, before our morning meet-ups. Monty and whoever else would go off for a run and the rest of us would wake up and stumble to the hotel room that the club officers were staying in to meet and touch base for the day. (We also had similar meetings to these at night to recount the day's events). Monty and his dedicated running fanatics would then show up fresh from their run to chat.
Monty, when running, dressed appropriately for running. His appropriate running attire consisted of a t-shirt and unbearably small short-shorts. When standing, they were short. When he would prop one leg up on the TV while talking to us all, they were beyond short. They were obscene. Perhaps it was a clever ruse to make sure we were paying attention to him and not looking at the TV, which was too close to the danger zone. This would make sense.
This would make sense because at the nighttime meetings, usually the TV would be on while we were talking, although muted. Here are some facts about hotel TVs, at least the ones at the hotels we stayed at. Hotel TVs carry HBO and other premium channels (at least they did at the turn of the 21st century). Here is a fact about HBO and other premium channels. Sometimes at night they carry soft porn. More than one meeting consisted of a clever Model Congress officer manning the remote so every time Monty wondered just what was so interesting on the TV behind him, he would look and see something innocuous like a muted Simpsons episode, not muted boobs.
All good things must come to an end, and the days of Monty getting to run the Model Congress show all by himself was no exception. A history teacher who started my sophomore year that most of us found annoying as all hell, Mr. Haystack, wanted in on the action. So he did what he needed to do to make himself the assistant faculty advisor or whatever for the club. Monty tolerated this. He gave Mr. Haystack zero responsibilities and basically just had him sit around and feel important. When we went to a Model Congress conference in a relatively nearby city, Mr. Montecarlo didn't even care that Mr. Haystack wouldn't be able to travel along with the group and would instead meet up late that night. The plan, by all accounts, was for Mr. Haystack to show up, head up to Mr. Montecarlo's room, knock, and crash there for the evening.
Around midnight, Mr. Haystack walked down the hotel hall and knocked on Monty's door. Several ear-witnesses confirm that Mr. Haystack repeatedly knocked and asked to be let in, only to be repeatedly turned away by a muffled "GO AWAY!" or "GO THE FUCK AWAY!" My good friend Graham Robot opened his door to see what the commotion was all about. Mr. Haystack saw him and said "Oh! Graham! Let me-" but was cut off by Graham closing his door without a word. Mr. Haystack had to end up paying for his own separate room. Also, his car was broken into and his radio stolen, I believe that very night. If he was less of an asshat, I would've felt really bad for him.
Mr. Montecarlo hated most people. He hated some people especially more. But there were a very select few people that he adored. One of them was a student a few years older than me, and at one time the President of the Model Congress Club: Zack Cherry. Monty LOVED Zack. Like, mancrush loved. Zack could pretty much do no wrong whatsoever in Monty's eyes. To Zack's credit, other than getting kind of an inflated ego sometimes, he was usually a pretty cool guy who took younger Model Congress delegates under his wing and taught them how to be good delegates and act cool at the same time. Zack is important to the very end of my Model Congress experience.
At the end of my senior year, Monty had an end-of-year goodbye party at his home for his Model Congress students. Zack had graduated two or so years ago at this point. My friends and I came to the party. Graham Robot was there, Dan Hellion was there, Bill Alias... a bunch of good guys. We sat in roughly a circle in Monty's screened in porch room. Each time a new person would arrive, Monty would tell them about how Zack Cherry said he might stop by for the party. Most conversation with Monty returned to this point eventually that day. Time passed, we ate, and Monty seemed more and more distant and dejected. Finally, realizing Zack Cherry would not be showing up, Monty abruptly kicked us all out of his house.
"Well, you all probably want to get going now. Bye."
So ended our Model Congress careers and our time with that delightfully bitter fellow, Mr. Montecarlo.
PS - One time he bought an air rifle from a student to kill squirrels with and when a school staff member found out she put a stuffed squirrel in his mailbox with a note that said "don't hurt me!". The next day he brought an actual dead squirrel to school in a plastic bag and returned the favor in her mailbox. Not really sure how to have fit that one into the narrative. Probably the most fucked up thing I've ever heard of a teacher doing, barring, you know, actual abuse of a student or something.
Being a super duper cool kid (irony), I was in the Model Congress club. Let me take just a moment here and address the fact that Model Congress is not considered a "cool" high school activity. St. Francis was an all-male Catholic school. Br. Willard, the principal, worked tirelessly to keep us out of contact with members of the opposite sex. Model Congress meant getting to go on a weekend trip to other cities and stay in a hotel with not only your own friends from school, but other high school students from lots of other schools, many of whom were girls. Have fun on the basketball court with the other guys, "cool" dudes.
Anyway, Mr. Montecarlo (or Monty, as he was often called) was constantly full of sage advice for his young charges. We already covered some of that advice in the previous post. A piece of advice that didn't get mentioned yet involved dicks. Yes, that's right, dicks. Like, slang for the penis. You see, Monty was very concerned that we practice, practice, practice for the Model Congress sessions (no, they were not held at Carnegie Hall). He wanted us to make sure we knew our stuff backwards and front. Why?
"So you don't wind up sitting in front of the room with your dick in your hands."
Oh. Good advice. Do not hold your dick. But later, Monty congratulated a very successful Model Congress weekend (Best Delegation award, what?) with the following summary:
"You guys walked out of that room with your dicks held high!"
Oh. OK. So holding your dick is good, as long as it's held high. Thanks for clarifying. So there you have it. Anyone reading this with a dick, or with ready access to one, do not hold it unless you hold it high.
Speaking of dicks, nearly everyone on the Model Congress trips got a little closer to a full view of Monty's Carlo each conference. The reason for this is not sketchy, just kinda gross. You see, Monty was a runner. On Model Congress weekends, he would volunteer to wake any delegates up early that wanted to go running with him bright and early, before our morning meet-ups. Monty and whoever else would go off for a run and the rest of us would wake up and stumble to the hotel room that the club officers were staying in to meet and touch base for the day. (We also had similar meetings to these at night to recount the day's events). Monty and his dedicated running fanatics would then show up fresh from their run to chat.
Monty, when running, dressed appropriately for running. His appropriate running attire consisted of a t-shirt and unbearably small short-shorts. When standing, they were short. When he would prop one leg up on the TV while talking to us all, they were beyond short. They were obscene. Perhaps it was a clever ruse to make sure we were paying attention to him and not looking at the TV, which was too close to the danger zone. This would make sense.
This would make sense because at the nighttime meetings, usually the TV would be on while we were talking, although muted. Here are some facts about hotel TVs, at least the ones at the hotels we stayed at. Hotel TVs carry HBO and other premium channels (at least they did at the turn of the 21st century). Here is a fact about HBO and other premium channels. Sometimes at night they carry soft porn. More than one meeting consisted of a clever Model Congress officer manning the remote so every time Monty wondered just what was so interesting on the TV behind him, he would look and see something innocuous like a muted Simpsons episode, not muted boobs.
All good things must come to an end, and the days of Monty getting to run the Model Congress show all by himself was no exception. A history teacher who started my sophomore year that most of us found annoying as all hell, Mr. Haystack, wanted in on the action. So he did what he needed to do to make himself the assistant faculty advisor or whatever for the club. Monty tolerated this. He gave Mr. Haystack zero responsibilities and basically just had him sit around and feel important. When we went to a Model Congress conference in a relatively nearby city, Mr. Montecarlo didn't even care that Mr. Haystack wouldn't be able to travel along with the group and would instead meet up late that night. The plan, by all accounts, was for Mr. Haystack to show up, head up to Mr. Montecarlo's room, knock, and crash there for the evening.
Around midnight, Mr. Haystack walked down the hotel hall and knocked on Monty's door. Several ear-witnesses confirm that Mr. Haystack repeatedly knocked and asked to be let in, only to be repeatedly turned away by a muffled "GO AWAY!" or "GO THE FUCK AWAY!" My good friend Graham Robot opened his door to see what the commotion was all about. Mr. Haystack saw him and said "Oh! Graham! Let me-" but was cut off by Graham closing his door without a word. Mr. Haystack had to end up paying for his own separate room. Also, his car was broken into and his radio stolen, I believe that very night. If he was less of an asshat, I would've felt really bad for him.
Mr. Montecarlo hated most people. He hated some people especially more. But there were a very select few people that he adored. One of them was a student a few years older than me, and at one time the President of the Model Congress Club: Zack Cherry. Monty LOVED Zack. Like, mancrush loved. Zack could pretty much do no wrong whatsoever in Monty's eyes. To Zack's credit, other than getting kind of an inflated ego sometimes, he was usually a pretty cool guy who took younger Model Congress delegates under his wing and taught them how to be good delegates and act cool at the same time. Zack is important to the very end of my Model Congress experience.
At the end of my senior year, Monty had an end-of-year goodbye party at his home for his Model Congress students. Zack had graduated two or so years ago at this point. My friends and I came to the party. Graham Robot was there, Dan Hellion was there, Bill Alias... a bunch of good guys. We sat in roughly a circle in Monty's screened in porch room. Each time a new person would arrive, Monty would tell them about how Zack Cherry said he might stop by for the party. Most conversation with Monty returned to this point eventually that day. Time passed, we ate, and Monty seemed more and more distant and dejected. Finally, realizing Zack Cherry would not be showing up, Monty abruptly kicked us all out of his house.
"Well, you all probably want to get going now. Bye."
So ended our Model Congress careers and our time with that delightfully bitter fellow, Mr. Montecarlo.
PS - One time he bought an air rifle from a student to kill squirrels with and when a school staff member found out she put a stuffed squirrel in his mailbox with a note that said "don't hurt me!". The next day he brought an actual dead squirrel to school in a plastic bag and returned the favor in her mailbox. Not really sure how to have fit that one into the narrative. Probably the most fucked up thing I've ever heard of a teacher doing, barring, you know, actual abuse of a student or something.
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