The amazing and beautiful Lisa reminded me that it’s been a few days since I wrote anything, and her post this evening brought some thoughts to the forefront that I’d like to share with you.
A few Sundays ago, my daughter and I joined my best friend, Bear, in celebrating his sobriety. Bear, you see, is an alcoholic.
He and I have known each other for almost twenty-five years, since we stood a very cold midwatch together as pier sentries on Pier 12 at the Naval Operating Base in Norfolk, Virginia. We made each other laugh, and to tell you the truth, I’ve always considered him to be the funny one.
And because he and I have been friends for so long, he wouldn’t hesitate at all to agree with me on that point.
If you’ve never been to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, and you’re invited to attend one, don’t turn it down. Don’t worry if you’re not an alcoholic, they’ll love you anyway, because that’s what they do.
All through our pre-deployment work-ups in 1981, Bear and I hung out together. We’d keep each other laughing at General Quarters, because our stations were right next to each other. We’d make each other laugh when he was doing that whole backwards writing thing that you can only see in old movies, now. (He once wrote my sister a letter that way, which she thought was the coolest thing.) And because we were always laughing, we were always getting in trouble for laughing at inappropriate times. Think Monty Python meets “We’re No Angels”…I was the De Niro to his Penn, the Cleese to his Idle.
Being young sailors, it was inevitable that we would drink. I’d never had so much booze. He had more experience overseas than I did, and he suggested (wisely, as it turned out), that we take turns being reasonably sober, so that one of us would always be able to get us both back to the ship.
We had us some adventures, we did.
Now, most guys who’ve been friends as long as we have would probably look back on their drunken youth with a degree of fondness that simply isn’t there when he and I reminisce about those days.
Not us. When we talk about it, it’s at an AA meeting, because what it represents for us is the beginning of ten years worth of fuzzy memories for him, ten years of things he’s worked to make amends for throughout the last fifteen years. He’s lived through a motorcycle accident and a car accident and a thousand more agonies neither you nor I will ever fully understand, and I made it easy for him to start down that path.
To me, the divergence in the roads we took from that inebriated season is the most incomprehensible difference between us. When he stands up at a meeting and talks about taking turns getting shit-faced, it feels like an indictment. In that hall, I will forever be “the sober one”, the one who had control and for a time, didn’t help his best friend.
In spite of my failing, and because of it, the men and women in that meeting nod respectfully as Bear introduces me, and they accept me. They understand what it is to let a friend down, and my fear that they will judge me for what I didn’t do is unfounded.
They understand the truth: that nothing and no one could have kept him from walking that foggy road. Alcoholics understand powerlessness.
When I talk with the man Bear is today, I am astounded at the changes in him. It isn’t simply the absence of alcohol in his life, it’s the depth of character that has grown out of his quest for Sobriety. He is worthy of it.
In writing that last paragraph, it dawned on me why there is no judgment for me when Bear speaks of trading nights of drunkenness: If we are all powerless ourselves, how can we control the actions of others?
Friday, January 27, 2006
Monday, January 23, 2006
The Kind of Balance We Seek
Edit: It's been pointed out that the sign isn't really readable. It says: "Meet the Blogger, 1-3 am"
Saturday, January 21, 2006
The Tribe Has Spoken
It often happens that Sherri writes something that seems worthy of contributing to on a grander scale than what can be contained in a two-inch comment box. In this case, she wrote about the stupidity of certain television shows.
It probably comes as no surprise that I eschew television shows that are not intelligently written. True, I got hooked on the first season of “The Apprentice”, but that was before I learned that “reality” television shows are scripted, too. Yes, they are. Not in the conventional sense of actors being handed pages to read. “Reality” shows are scripted backwards, sort of the same way that China designs airplanes: by reverse engineering. The actors are put into situations that pose the potential for conflict, and then filmed from multiple angles simultaneously. The writing staff then takes the raw video footage and pieces it together in a way that makes a story that can be told in 46 minutes. The story must have incident, which is to say that there must be an event that can stand on its own without explanation. The purpose of incident is to offer an advertising hook, to get people to watch the show, and to keep people tuned in through the commercials. Incidents happen within a minute of each commercial break…and the Trademark Incident happens at the end of the show: “You’re fired.” “The tribe has spoken.”
The problem with this is that it’s an unnatural act trying to pass itself off as a natural act. There’s an old scientific principle which states that, “The observer cannot avoid changing that which is being observed.” The presence of (multiple) cameras removes all reality from the situations being filmed for the “reality” show. Or, as Adam Savage says on “Mythbusters”, “I reject your reality and substitute my own.”
So, basically, those shows are nothing more than badly-written fiction. They are the Robert James Waller novels of television. (And yes, I know, every woman on the planet swoons at the mere mention of The Bridges of Madison County. It’s still dreck.)
I need something smart, something that engages my mind on more than one level. Something that isn’t focused entirely on impossibly good-looking people. (I’ll buy the idea that you can have a PhD in Marine Biology by the time you’re 26, but you won’t also have had time to make yourself look that good in a wet suit. There has to be some evidence of all that cold pizza you habitually ate in the lab at two AM while you were working on your dissertation. Also, am I the only one who thinks that the question of how these new marine creatures make the water warm could be answered with a trip to the nearest public pool?)
I watch “The Gilmore Girls”, because the show is about smart people who seem to be okay with the fact that they don’t have it all figured out. The dialogue is full of cultural references both pop and not-so-pop, and often has more than one reference in a single line, as with this exchange between Lorelai and Rory discussing the new waiter at their favorite diner:
Rory: Ew!
Lorelai: He doesn’t look that bad.
Rory: He’s the boy who dissected a frog, didn’t wash his hands, and then ate a sandwich.
Lorelai: Ew!
Rory: He’s like the lost Farrelly brother. He’s so stupid. He watched “The Breakfast Club” and decided to tape his own butt cheeks together.
Granted, it’s not “The West Wing”, but then not much is. “The West Wing” makes me very glad I have TiVo. I don’t expect the show to last much longer, though – they had “A Very Special Wedding Episode” a few weeks ago, which means the bell is tolling. It was great run while it lasted.
“Lost” is, of course, one of the best shows on television, though I’m a little disturbed about what I’ll call character churn on the show. Character churn is when characters are written off the show and new characters replace them. This is happening too often, I think. And of course, it’s an island, so the only way to write characters off the show is to kill them. It’s pretty obvious that the 2021 season on ABC will not include a Lost Reunion, nor will we ever be subjected to A Very Lost Christmas. The other disturbing thing about the show is the morality of it: the first female character to get laid since the crash became the first female character to be killed, later in the same show. I can set that aside, though, because it’s still great theatre.
Smart, funny, original shows often disappear too quickly. “Sports Night” lasted a season and a half before it got kicked off the Fox island.
Thanks to my daughter, I’ve discovered another show that met a premature demise: “Firefly”. Part space opera, part western, this show was smart, funny, and corny all at once. The characters were stereotypes (a Hero, a hooker-with-a-heart-of-gold, a preacher, a doctor, a crazy girl on the run from the law…), but the dialogue was fast-paced, witty, and exotic. It had the two qualities that made the first three Star Wars movies (episodes IV through VI, for those of you born after 1975): witty banter and a refusal to take itself too seriously.
Actually, I’m glad that “Firefly” didn’t last longer than it did. Like “Buffy, The Vampire Slayer”, it might have lost its edgy wit after a few seasons, and left us with the dark shell of a once-great show.
So what will I be watching next week?
It probably comes as no surprise that I eschew television shows that are not intelligently written. True, I got hooked on the first season of “The Apprentice”, but that was before I learned that “reality” television shows are scripted, too. Yes, they are. Not in the conventional sense of actors being handed pages to read. “Reality” shows are scripted backwards, sort of the same way that China designs airplanes: by reverse engineering. The actors are put into situations that pose the potential for conflict, and then filmed from multiple angles simultaneously. The writing staff then takes the raw video footage and pieces it together in a way that makes a story that can be told in 46 minutes. The story must have incident, which is to say that there must be an event that can stand on its own without explanation. The purpose of incident is to offer an advertising hook, to get people to watch the show, and to keep people tuned in through the commercials. Incidents happen within a minute of each commercial break…and the Trademark Incident happens at the end of the show: “You’re fired.” “The tribe has spoken.”
The problem with this is that it’s an unnatural act trying to pass itself off as a natural act. There’s an old scientific principle which states that, “The observer cannot avoid changing that which is being observed.” The presence of (multiple) cameras removes all reality from the situations being filmed for the “reality” show. Or, as Adam Savage says on “Mythbusters”, “I reject your reality and substitute my own.”
So, basically, those shows are nothing more than badly-written fiction. They are the Robert James Waller novels of television. (And yes, I know, every woman on the planet swoons at the mere mention of The Bridges of Madison County. It’s still dreck.)
I need something smart, something that engages my mind on more than one level. Something that isn’t focused entirely on impossibly good-looking people. (I’ll buy the idea that you can have a PhD in Marine Biology by the time you’re 26, but you won’t also have had time to make yourself look that good in a wet suit. There has to be some evidence of all that cold pizza you habitually ate in the lab at two AM while you were working on your dissertation. Also, am I the only one who thinks that the question of how these new marine creatures make the water warm could be answered with a trip to the nearest public pool?)
I watch “The Gilmore Girls”, because the show is about smart people who seem to be okay with the fact that they don’t have it all figured out. The dialogue is full of cultural references both pop and not-so-pop, and often has more than one reference in a single line, as with this exchange between Lorelai and Rory discussing the new waiter at their favorite diner:
Rory: Ew!
Lorelai: He doesn’t look that bad.
Rory: He’s the boy who dissected a frog, didn’t wash his hands, and then ate a sandwich.
Lorelai: Ew!
Rory: He’s like the lost Farrelly brother. He’s so stupid. He watched “The Breakfast Club” and decided to tape his own butt cheeks together.
Granted, it’s not “The West Wing”, but then not much is. “The West Wing” makes me very glad I have TiVo. I don’t expect the show to last much longer, though – they had “A Very Special Wedding Episode” a few weeks ago, which means the bell is tolling. It was great run while it lasted.
“Lost” is, of course, one of the best shows on television, though I’m a little disturbed about what I’ll call character churn on the show. Character churn is when characters are written off the show and new characters replace them. This is happening too often, I think. And of course, it’s an island, so the only way to write characters off the show is to kill them. It’s pretty obvious that the 2021 season on ABC will not include a Lost Reunion, nor will we ever be subjected to A Very Lost Christmas. The other disturbing thing about the show is the morality of it: the first female character to get laid since the crash became the first female character to be killed, later in the same show. I can set that aside, though, because it’s still great theatre.
Smart, funny, original shows often disappear too quickly. “Sports Night” lasted a season and a half before it got kicked off the Fox island.
Thanks to my daughter, I’ve discovered another show that met a premature demise: “Firefly”. Part space opera, part western, this show was smart, funny, and corny all at once. The characters were stereotypes (a Hero, a hooker-with-a-heart-of-gold, a preacher, a doctor, a crazy girl on the run from the law…), but the dialogue was fast-paced, witty, and exotic. It had the two qualities that made the first three Star Wars movies (episodes IV through VI, for those of you born after 1975): witty banter and a refusal to take itself too seriously.
Actually, I’m glad that “Firefly” didn’t last longer than it did. Like “Buffy, The Vampire Slayer”, it might have lost its edgy wit after a few seasons, and left us with the dark shell of a once-great show.
So what will I be watching next week?
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Traveling Thoughts
There is a new quote hanging over my writing space today:
“What are we but our stories?” – James Patterson
Yes.
Okay, as I write this, it’s not hanging there yet, but it will be as soon as I can get home and fire up the printer. And find the tape. Because having a teenager in the house means that you can never find the tape. Or the scissors.
At the moment, I am sitting in the Houston International Airport terminal at six in the evening. Four hours ago, I asked for a different seat on my flight back to San Diego, and they gave me one. On an entirely different airplane. Leaving seven hours later than my original flight.
I’m not complaining. They also bought me dinner and gave me a $500 travel voucher.
So at the moment, I am feeling a little bit like Tom Hanks in “The Terminal”, except that I will probably not have time to build a fountain and I will absolutely not be romancing any flight attendants, particularly ones that look like Catherine Zeta Jones.
I did buy a book at Borders, though.
It’s an interesting experience, spending a day at the airport. I like the atmosphere, though I have to admit that I’m not too fond of the lack of any quiet places. Nine hours of CNN will drive anyone bonkers. And, of course, there are those people who will sit next to you in an otherwise empty waiting area so that they can use their cell phones. Quick shout out to the guy who keeps pacing back and forth by my chair: Thank you for finding the one thing that’s more annoying than simply sitting near me and shouting into your phone.
It’s wise to have some things lined up to do if you’re spending a day in the airport. Now, to be fair, I spent the afternoon in the airport at Pensacola on Monday, waiting for my travel partner…and didn’t need anything to keep me busy. There’s an observation area in the terminal, and I spent the afternoon watching airplanes take off and land…something I hadn’t done since I was a kid. It brought back some terrific memories of weekend afternoons with my dad, pointing up into the sky and learning to recognize airplanes by their shape and sound.
This afternoon, however, I stopped by the video store (yes, they have one in the Houston airport), and purchased a copy of “Must Love Dogs”.
First, I’d like to point out that this is not a good movie for a single guy to watch. That said, it’s still better than reading James Patterson’s Sam’s Letters to Jennifer. Wonderful book, but not to be attempted without a box of Kleenex at the ready. (If you can read this book without getting misty-eyed, you are made of iron. Not just your heart. Your entire being.)
Because the Houston airport isn’t well suited for plane-watching, I’ve been spending a bit of the afternoon people watching. Let me paint a mental image for you: I am seated with my back to the windows, facing the waiting area and the concourse beyond, because people are more interesting to watch than parked airplanes To my left is an aluminum-shrouded pillar, which has the electrical outlet needed to juice my laptop. To my right is a row of chairs, and suspended from the ceiling 10 yards away is the HDTV screen showing CNN nonstop. Non-frigging-stop. (How nonstop? I am able to monitor Ariel Sharon’s condition more closely than his own doctors are.) I am alternating moments of furious tapping at my keyboard with peering over the top of my glasses at the people around me and passing by. Some of these people go by several times, and have been going by for hours. I am apparently not alone; there is unquestionably a whole community of Airport Lifers here today. Some of them I am particularly curious about: the pretty blonde in the purple sweater who has, in the last ten minutes, twice gone by on the moving walkway in both directions and just went by on the courtesy cart twice, once in each direction. What is that about? Perhaps she is triplets.
While I’m thinking about it, I’d like to honor the high point of my trip today: as I passed through security in Pensacola, the TSA agent checking IDs looked at my retired military ID card and thanked me like this: “Have a great trip today, Kurt, and thank you for everything you’ve done.”
A week later: I came away from the day at the airport with an overwhelming sense of goodwill toward my fellow travelers, and people in general. I know this is not as curmudgeonly as I’m sure most of you prefer me to be…but it is a fact; most of the people I encountered were, like me, just trying to get where they were going without too much trouble.
That feeling was undoubtedly influenced by the fact that the seat they finally gave me was a window seat in First Class. This was a first for me, and let me tell you...I wouldn’t mind travel at all if I could do it that way every time. It was worth the extra seven hours in the terminal to sit where I didn’t have to ask the guy in front of me to take pity on my knees.
It was a good trip.
“What are we but our stories?” – James Patterson
Yes.
Okay, as I write this, it’s not hanging there yet, but it will be as soon as I can get home and fire up the printer. And find the tape. Because having a teenager in the house means that you can never find the tape. Or the scissors.
At the moment, I am sitting in the Houston International Airport terminal at six in the evening. Four hours ago, I asked for a different seat on my flight back to San Diego, and they gave me one. On an entirely different airplane. Leaving seven hours later than my original flight.
I’m not complaining. They also bought me dinner and gave me a $500 travel voucher.
So at the moment, I am feeling a little bit like Tom Hanks in “The Terminal”, except that I will probably not have time to build a fountain and I will absolutely not be romancing any flight attendants, particularly ones that look like Catherine Zeta Jones.
I did buy a book at Borders, though.
It’s an interesting experience, spending a day at the airport. I like the atmosphere, though I have to admit that I’m not too fond of the lack of any quiet places. Nine hours of CNN will drive anyone bonkers. And, of course, there are those people who will sit next to you in an otherwise empty waiting area so that they can use their cell phones. Quick shout out to the guy who keeps pacing back and forth by my chair: Thank you for finding the one thing that’s more annoying than simply sitting near me and shouting into your phone.
It’s wise to have some things lined up to do if you’re spending a day in the airport. Now, to be fair, I spent the afternoon in the airport at Pensacola on Monday, waiting for my travel partner…and didn’t need anything to keep me busy. There’s an observation area in the terminal, and I spent the afternoon watching airplanes take off and land…something I hadn’t done since I was a kid. It brought back some terrific memories of weekend afternoons with my dad, pointing up into the sky and learning to recognize airplanes by their shape and sound.
This afternoon, however, I stopped by the video store (yes, they have one in the Houston airport), and purchased a copy of “Must Love Dogs”.
First, I’d like to point out that this is not a good movie for a single guy to watch. That said, it’s still better than reading James Patterson’s Sam’s Letters to Jennifer. Wonderful book, but not to be attempted without a box of Kleenex at the ready. (If you can read this book without getting misty-eyed, you are made of iron. Not just your heart. Your entire being.)
Because the Houston airport isn’t well suited for plane-watching, I’ve been spending a bit of the afternoon people watching. Let me paint a mental image for you: I am seated with my back to the windows, facing the waiting area and the concourse beyond, because people are more interesting to watch than parked airplanes To my left is an aluminum-shrouded pillar, which has the electrical outlet needed to juice my laptop. To my right is a row of chairs, and suspended from the ceiling 10 yards away is the HDTV screen showing CNN nonstop. Non-frigging-stop. (How nonstop? I am able to monitor Ariel Sharon’s condition more closely than his own doctors are.) I am alternating moments of furious tapping at my keyboard with peering over the top of my glasses at the people around me and passing by. Some of these people go by several times, and have been going by for hours. I am apparently not alone; there is unquestionably a whole community of Airport Lifers here today. Some of them I am particularly curious about: the pretty blonde in the purple sweater who has, in the last ten minutes, twice gone by on the moving walkway in both directions and just went by on the courtesy cart twice, once in each direction. What is that about? Perhaps she is triplets.
While I’m thinking about it, I’d like to honor the high point of my trip today: as I passed through security in Pensacola, the TSA agent checking IDs looked at my retired military ID card and thanked me like this: “Have a great trip today, Kurt, and thank you for everything you’ve done.”
A week later: I came away from the day at the airport with an overwhelming sense of goodwill toward my fellow travelers, and people in general. I know this is not as curmudgeonly as I’m sure most of you prefer me to be…but it is a fact; most of the people I encountered were, like me, just trying to get where they were going without too much trouble.
That feeling was undoubtedly influenced by the fact that the seat they finally gave me was a window seat in First Class. This was a first for me, and let me tell you...I wouldn’t mind travel at all if I could do it that way every time. It was worth the extra seven hours in the terminal to sit where I didn’t have to ask the guy in front of me to take pity on my knees.
It was a good trip.
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
Hope
Just a quick follow-up on my sister’s baby.
She could not possibly have chosen better parents.
I wrote a note to them yesterday, just to say a) I love them and b) that they’re being prayed for more than they know. (Thank you all!)
The response they sent was hilarious, as they played off each other’s e-mails. Yes, they’re shocked, and worried, and saddened…but they are meeting this new challenge with grace and humor and love (and six hours of Internet research).
As my brother-in-law put it, “I love my daughter. I love my wife. I love this family. We’ll get through this.”
And apparently, we’ll laugh, while we’re doing it.
She could not possibly have chosen better parents.
I wrote a note to them yesterday, just to say a) I love them and b) that they’re being prayed for more than they know. (Thank you all!)
The response they sent was hilarious, as they played off each other’s e-mails. Yes, they’re shocked, and worried, and saddened…but they are meeting this new challenge with grace and humor and love (and six hours of Internet research).
As my brother-in-law put it, “I love my daughter. I love my wife. I love this family. We’ll get through this.”
And apparently, we’ll laugh, while we’re doing it.
Monday, January 16, 2006
Please Pray
My sister called this morning. While looking at the ultrasound during her monthly prenatal visit, the doctor found a number of tumors growing on her baby’s heart.
They were not there last month.
There is no way of knowing if they are malignant, but even if they are benign, the problems they could cause include brain damage. (As of this morning, the word benign has been redefined for me, and if I had my way, doctors would be required to deliver the news of a benign tumor with a healthy dose of sarcasm, and an exaggerated wink. Or maybe a facial tic.)
Your prayers will help.
They were not there last month.
There is no way of knowing if they are malignant, but even if they are benign, the problems they could cause include brain damage. (As of this morning, the word benign has been redefined for me, and if I had my way, doctors would be required to deliver the news of a benign tumor with a healthy dose of sarcasm, and an exaggerated wink. Or maybe a facial tic.)
Your prayers will help.
The Chickens Were Oblivious
Having bludgeoned classic literature beyond recognition, Hollywood is taking its cudgel to the great legends.
I do not want my King Arthur demystified, thank you. When I was growing up, I loved the idea of having a wizard for a teacher, and I loved that there could be wizards. I never related to Arthur, but I worshipped Merlin. As I grew older, my understanding of Merlin’s character deepened, and I love the thought of someone so insightful that he could teach a boy (and then advise a man) how to create peace and unity that would last a thousand years, yet be so completely clueless about women. (Now, in my forties, I find it’s a delicious piece of Truth that it’s easier to build a country than it is to understand a woman.) The story is a good one by itself, but it loses something without its magic.
Now, Hollywood has taken the mystery out of the story of Tristan and Isolde, reducing it to a story about two young people so good looking that they couldn’t resist each other. All the way through, I kept asking myself, “Why?” I can understand why he’d fall for the pretty girl who nurtures him back to health with skills only she possesses. But wouldn’t a woman so caring and talented and wise look for reasonably equal depth in the man she chooses? The deepest conversation they had was when she read poetry to him, poetry he admitted he didn’t understand. And then, suddenly, they’re naked.
That was when the movie lost me.
Now, in the legend, Tristan plays the harp, and wins Isolde’s heart with his music. Also, he kills a dragon, proving to everyone that he’s not a harping nancy-boy. (He has also killed Morholt, the giant, poison-blade-wielding knight, which proves that his killing the dragon was not an accident.) I mean, there’s something a woman-of-depth can sink her metaphoric teeth into: a guy who can slay giants and knights and play the harp has got to be a keeper.
Now, as if the music and the prowess with the sword (there’s some symbolism for you, a thousand years before David Lynch), in the legend, it turns out that Isolde’s mother (also named Isolde…as is the woman Tristan eventually marries…and we think The OC is hard to follow?) is quite the whiz with a potion, and Tristan and Isolde accidentally drink some of the stuff. They, uh, drank the kool aid.
By the time Tristan returns to his family, and they’re amazed that he’s not dead, I was ready to walk out, but the movie reeled me back in. Here’s how it happened: There is a wide shot as Lord Marke (Rufus Sewell) greets the returning/resurrected Tristan, and in the foreground…there are a pair of chickens pecking at the ground. Why were they in the shot, I wondered. They didn’t add anything to the story. Or did they?
I began to look for other hidden clues. More symbolic poultry, perhaps. A horse that winks knowingly at the camera.
You see, those chickens in the foreground represent us. You and me. Those chickens are Hollywood’s audience, pecking at the ground for bits of nutritious entertainment, because that’s what we’re reduced to.
I want my dragons back.
I do not want my King Arthur demystified, thank you. When I was growing up, I loved the idea of having a wizard for a teacher, and I loved that there could be wizards. I never related to Arthur, but I worshipped Merlin. As I grew older, my understanding of Merlin’s character deepened, and I love the thought of someone so insightful that he could teach a boy (and then advise a man) how to create peace and unity that would last a thousand years, yet be so completely clueless about women. (Now, in my forties, I find it’s a delicious piece of Truth that it’s easier to build a country than it is to understand a woman.) The story is a good one by itself, but it loses something without its magic.
Now, Hollywood has taken the mystery out of the story of Tristan and Isolde, reducing it to a story about two young people so good looking that they couldn’t resist each other. All the way through, I kept asking myself, “Why?” I can understand why he’d fall for the pretty girl who nurtures him back to health with skills only she possesses. But wouldn’t a woman so caring and talented and wise look for reasonably equal depth in the man she chooses? The deepest conversation they had was when she read poetry to him, poetry he admitted he didn’t understand. And then, suddenly, they’re naked.
That was when the movie lost me.
Now, in the legend, Tristan plays the harp, and wins Isolde’s heart with his music. Also, he kills a dragon, proving to everyone that he’s not a harping nancy-boy. (He has also killed Morholt, the giant, poison-blade-wielding knight, which proves that his killing the dragon was not an accident.) I mean, there’s something a woman-of-depth can sink her metaphoric teeth into: a guy who can slay giants and knights and play the harp has got to be a keeper.
Now, as if the music and the prowess with the sword (there’s some symbolism for you, a thousand years before David Lynch), in the legend, it turns out that Isolde’s mother (also named Isolde…as is the woman Tristan eventually marries…and we think The OC is hard to follow?) is quite the whiz with a potion, and Tristan and Isolde accidentally drink some of the stuff. They, uh, drank the kool aid.
By the time Tristan returns to his family, and they’re amazed that he’s not dead, I was ready to walk out, but the movie reeled me back in. Here’s how it happened: There is a wide shot as Lord Marke (Rufus Sewell) greets the returning/resurrected Tristan, and in the foreground…there are a pair of chickens pecking at the ground. Why were they in the shot, I wondered. They didn’t add anything to the story. Or did they?
I began to look for other hidden clues. More symbolic poultry, perhaps. A horse that winks knowingly at the camera.
You see, those chickens in the foreground represent us. You and me. Those chickens are Hollywood’s audience, pecking at the ground for bits of nutritious entertainment, because that’s what we’re reduced to.
I want my dragons back.
Sunday, January 08, 2006
Oh, I'm Sorry...
This has been a damned short weekend, and I’m spending most of the rest of it getting ready to travel on business. I hate the whole concept of traveling on business, much less the term “traveling on business”. The implication is that I’ve somehow grown up and become one of those guys carrying a lap top case stuffed with too much crap as they shuffle down the center aisle toward a seat in Coach.
I used to travel on orders. “On orders” made it clear that I didn’t have a choice about my travel: I was ordered to shuffle down this aircraft aisle and settle into my Coach-class seat. I could delude myself with the thought, It’s all part of the sacrifice I’m making for the rest of you. As if that made flying in Seat 44F somehow noble. I have friends in Falujah, making their sacrifices, and I’m here on Delta making mine.
But now, I seem to have grown up, and I’m one of those guys with the laptop and the ass-too-wide-for-a-Coach-class seat. My legs have always been too long for Coach, and now the discomfort extends to my hips.
Not that I had any choice about this travel, either. My military boss felt I should go, so I go. He’s going, too, so I can’t even complain, really.
Last week was one of those when things just backed up and didn’t get done. The holiday on Monday screwed it all up, and even with the short week, I managed to put in an extra day and a half of work.
And I still left things undone. When I left at 3 on Saturday afternoon.
There’s an edge to this post I really didn’t intend. I’m choosing to be unapologetic; I am tired and my back is tight and I will spend my day traveling tomorrow, beginning at 4:30 am.
Aside from all the hours I worked last week, it was a great week. It was as though the Blue Fairy came through the window and tapped my work with her wand. Bing! I can see things becoming meaningful again.
I know others also often feel as though their efforts go unnoticed, unacknowledged, unrewarded, unheeded. We seem to have lost the ability to take pride in our own knowledge that we’ve done our best, and continually seek the recognition of others. We want the glory we see given to others on television or in the media, even if it is on a small scale.
You see it in the popularity of “reality” television. It occurred to me just now that the reason so many people love those shows is that the protagonists are no different from the people watching the shows. They want something better than the job they have, they’re not always perfectly articulate, they face situations they don’t like without unshakable calm, they have bad habits and blemishes and embarrassing secrets. (Sort of the same things that explained Rosie O’Donnell’s popularity.) And they are angry. Watchably angry.
People watch because of one thought: That could be me. And people do watch. And they learn.
They learn that it’s okay to be angry and aggressively defensive.
Now, there are myriad other places where we learn that behavior, so please don’t take me for one of those folks who thumps a Bible and focuses indignation on whatever happens to strike me as the Source of Society’s Decay today. I’m just saying that those shows work because they appeal to the desire we all have to be part of something, before they turn it around and make it something no one can look away from, like a multi-car pileup or a child in a wheelchair.
Anger is everywhere these days. (Even in this post.) A guy drives a car through the glass front of a restaurant. A woman drives for miles against traffic on the freeway and finally sits ranting in her car for hours. Another guy walks into a fast-food restaurant and shoots two dozen people.
Where does that come from?
When I was learning to drive, my dad taught me that if you came up behind significantly slower traffic on the freeway, you flashed your lights a couple times as a way of requesting a clear lane. These days, that’s a good way to provoke a psychotic game of bumper tag. (Tailgating is apparently considered acceptably less aggressive, but not by me.)
Toot your horn at someone who has just narrowly missed causing an accident, and you’re going to get the Bird at a minimum, and more if you happen to be going the same direction.
Even while walking, people are inclined to step into your path without regard for the consequences, and then bluster at the person they cut off. Shopping carts will only stop if they’re blocking the aisle. (Go to any Wal-Mart or Target and you’ll see what I mean.) Now that I think about it, strollers work the same way, especially the expensive ones.
It all adds up. I used to be considered a very patient man, but even I spend most of my time with a good head of steam going, and one of these days, I’m going to treat some idiot who rolls his suitcase over my foot to a verbal explosion:
WHY THE FUCK DON’T YOU LOOK WHERE YOU’RE GOING?
But, then, I’d only be contributing to the problem.
It’s a nice fantasy, though, and if you happen to see me in the airport tomorrow, wearing a smile on my face, you’ll know exactly what I’m thinking.
A couple of generations ago, people dealt with disappointment and criticism better. They accepted the blame when they were at fault, and sometimes when they weren’t. They responded politely. It’s a lost art, accepting responsibility.
Speaking of accepting responsibility, I’m going to take the blame for this meandering post. Not terribly coherent tonight.
Good night, all. I gotta go finish packing.
I used to travel on orders. “On orders” made it clear that I didn’t have a choice about my travel: I was ordered to shuffle down this aircraft aisle and settle into my Coach-class seat. I could delude myself with the thought, It’s all part of the sacrifice I’m making for the rest of you. As if that made flying in Seat 44F somehow noble. I have friends in Falujah, making their sacrifices, and I’m here on Delta making mine.
But now, I seem to have grown up, and I’m one of those guys with the laptop and the ass-too-wide-for-a-Coach-class seat. My legs have always been too long for Coach, and now the discomfort extends to my hips.
Not that I had any choice about this travel, either. My military boss felt I should go, so I go. He’s going, too, so I can’t even complain, really.
Last week was one of those when things just backed up and didn’t get done. The holiday on Monday screwed it all up, and even with the short week, I managed to put in an extra day and a half of work.
And I still left things undone. When I left at 3 on Saturday afternoon.
There’s an edge to this post I really didn’t intend. I’m choosing to be unapologetic; I am tired and my back is tight and I will spend my day traveling tomorrow, beginning at 4:30 am.
Aside from all the hours I worked last week, it was a great week. It was as though the Blue Fairy came through the window and tapped my work with her wand. Bing! I can see things becoming meaningful again.
I know others also often feel as though their efforts go unnoticed, unacknowledged, unrewarded, unheeded. We seem to have lost the ability to take pride in our own knowledge that we’ve done our best, and continually seek the recognition of others. We want the glory we see given to others on television or in the media, even if it is on a small scale.
You see it in the popularity of “reality” television. It occurred to me just now that the reason so many people love those shows is that the protagonists are no different from the people watching the shows. They want something better than the job they have, they’re not always perfectly articulate, they face situations they don’t like without unshakable calm, they have bad habits and blemishes and embarrassing secrets. (Sort of the same things that explained Rosie O’Donnell’s popularity.) And they are angry. Watchably angry.
People watch because of one thought: That could be me. And people do watch. And they learn.
They learn that it’s okay to be angry and aggressively defensive.
Now, there are myriad other places where we learn that behavior, so please don’t take me for one of those folks who thumps a Bible and focuses indignation on whatever happens to strike me as the Source of Society’s Decay today. I’m just saying that those shows work because they appeal to the desire we all have to be part of something, before they turn it around and make it something no one can look away from, like a multi-car pileup or a child in a wheelchair.
Anger is everywhere these days. (Even in this post.) A guy drives a car through the glass front of a restaurant. A woman drives for miles against traffic on the freeway and finally sits ranting in her car for hours. Another guy walks into a fast-food restaurant and shoots two dozen people.
Where does that come from?
When I was learning to drive, my dad taught me that if you came up behind significantly slower traffic on the freeway, you flashed your lights a couple times as a way of requesting a clear lane. These days, that’s a good way to provoke a psychotic game of bumper tag. (Tailgating is apparently considered acceptably less aggressive, but not by me.)
Toot your horn at someone who has just narrowly missed causing an accident, and you’re going to get the Bird at a minimum, and more if you happen to be going the same direction.
Even while walking, people are inclined to step into your path without regard for the consequences, and then bluster at the person they cut off. Shopping carts will only stop if they’re blocking the aisle. (Go to any Wal-Mart or Target and you’ll see what I mean.) Now that I think about it, strollers work the same way, especially the expensive ones.
It all adds up. I used to be considered a very patient man, but even I spend most of my time with a good head of steam going, and one of these days, I’m going to treat some idiot who rolls his suitcase over my foot to a verbal explosion:
WHY THE FUCK DON’T YOU LOOK WHERE YOU’RE GOING?
But, then, I’d only be contributing to the problem.
It’s a nice fantasy, though, and if you happen to see me in the airport tomorrow, wearing a smile on my face, you’ll know exactly what I’m thinking.
A couple of generations ago, people dealt with disappointment and criticism better. They accepted the blame when they were at fault, and sometimes when they weren’t. They responded politely. It’s a lost art, accepting responsibility.
Speaking of accepting responsibility, I’m going to take the blame for this meandering post. Not terribly coherent tonight.
Good night, all. I gotta go finish packing.
Thursday, January 05, 2006
Please?
We hung out, completely at ease with each other. Before we even got to dinner, she asked me to the movies this weekend.
We had dinner at Outback Steak House, followed by shopping for music and DVDs.
I cracked her up with a story about going on Fly Safari in the basement of Farr’s Sporting Goods when I was high school. (I was a crack shot with a rubber band, stalking the Wild Late Summer Housefly through the aisles of the Camping Goods Department.) She regaled me with war stories from behind the counter at McDonald’s.
We shared a hot fudge sundae for dessert.
When I took her home, she hugged me, unabashedly.
Lord, I know she’s got to grow up, but is it too much to ask that this year, the year she’s seventeen, drag its feet? Just a little?
We had dinner at Outback Steak House, followed by shopping for music and DVDs.
I cracked her up with a story about going on Fly Safari in the basement of Farr’s Sporting Goods when I was high school. (I was a crack shot with a rubber band, stalking the Wild Late Summer Housefly through the aisles of the Camping Goods Department.) She regaled me with war stories from behind the counter at McDonald’s.
We shared a hot fudge sundae for dessert.
When I took her home, she hugged me, unabashedly.
Lord, I know she’s got to grow up, but is it too much to ask that this year, the year she’s seventeen, drag its feet? Just a little?
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
Belated Holiday Greetings
I know that it’s been a while since I posted, but I have been on a quest of sorts, searching for just the perfect greeting for the New Year (and, in fact, the Entire Holiday Season, whatever you conceive it to be). I cannot claim to have written this, but it’s worth putting up here, anyhow.
Here it is, my New Year’s Greeting to you all:
Dear All (not to imply that you should also hold me dear),
Please accept with no obligation, implied or expressed, our best wishes for an environmentally conscious, socially responsible, low stress, non-addictive, gender neutral celebration of the winter solstice holiday, practiced within the most enjoyable traditions of the religious persuasion of your choice, or secular practices of your choice, with respect for the religious/secular persuasions and/or traditions of others, or their choice not to practice religious or secular traditions at all.
Here’s to a fiscally successful, personally fulfilling, and medically uncomplicated recognition of the onset of the generally accepted calendar year 2006, but not without due respect for the calendars of choice of other cultures whose contributions to society have helped make our country great, (not to imply that our country is necessarily greater than any other country), and without regard to the race, creed, color, age, physical ability, religious faith, or sexual preference of the wishee.
By accepting this greeting, you are accepting the following terms: This greeting is subject to clarification or withdrawal. It is freely transferable with no alteration to the original greeting. It implies no promise by the wisher to actually implement any of the wishes for her/himself or others, and is revocable at the sole discretion of the wisher. This wish is warranted to perform as expected within the usual application of good tidings for a period of one year, or until the issuance of a subsequent holiday greeting, whichever comes first, and warranty is limited to replacement of this wish or issuance of a new wish at the sole discretion of the wisher.
And, as always, the above greeting is void where prohibited by law.
With Platonic Love (and Non-sexual Affection),
Kurt
Here it is, my New Year’s Greeting to you all:
Dear All (not to imply that you should also hold me dear),
Please accept with no obligation, implied or expressed, our best wishes for an environmentally conscious, socially responsible, low stress, non-addictive, gender neutral celebration of the winter solstice holiday, practiced within the most enjoyable traditions of the religious persuasion of your choice, or secular practices of your choice, with respect for the religious/secular persuasions and/or traditions of others, or their choice not to practice religious or secular traditions at all.
Here’s to a fiscally successful, personally fulfilling, and medically uncomplicated recognition of the onset of the generally accepted calendar year 2006, but not without due respect for the calendars of choice of other cultures whose contributions to society have helped make our country great, (not to imply that our country is necessarily greater than any other country), and without regard to the race, creed, color, age, physical ability, religious faith, or sexual preference of the wishee.
By accepting this greeting, you are accepting the following terms: This greeting is subject to clarification or withdrawal. It is freely transferable with no alteration to the original greeting. It implies no promise by the wisher to actually implement any of the wishes for her/himself or others, and is revocable at the sole discretion of the wisher. This wish is warranted to perform as expected within the usual application of good tidings for a period of one year, or until the issuance of a subsequent holiday greeting, whichever comes first, and warranty is limited to replacement of this wish or issuance of a new wish at the sole discretion of the wisher.
And, as always, the above greeting is void where prohibited by law.
With Platonic Love (and Non-sexual Affection),
Kurt
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)