It happened as I was walking home from school yesterday afternoon, or at least it seems like yesterday at this particular moment. It's funny how the human brain can bring back, with crystal clarity, such superfluous recollections in the black of night. There are times when I can't remember something that was said to me 30 seconds ago by my very best of friends. But then there are times, such as now, when I can remember something said nearly 20 years ago, by someone I never knew, on a crosswalk in West Valley. Why is that? I wonder.
I was walking home from school. It was a Friday afternoon. I had just bolted, like a roach suddenly exposed to the light of day, from out of my fifth grade classroom, which was one of those portable classrooms that exists completely exterior to the regular school building, on the outskirts where a hasty retreat is possible. Therefore, I was slightly ahead of the prepubescent horde. There were few children on the street yet. I came up to a crosswalk where I was stopped by the safety patrol person who was stationed there. As I waited for my turn to safely cross the street, one girl stepped up beside me. I did not know her. We had never before spoken. I did not know her name. We were total strangers in every way. She looked over at me with complete disgust and said, "God, you're freakin' ugly!"
"Uhhh.....hmmm?" I said, rather eloquently.
"You are the ugliest person I have ever seen."
I looked at my feet, wondering how things had turned out this way. I could think of no proper retort under the circumstances. I was caught completely off guard, exposed for my crimes against nature. There was to be no escaping from this final judgement. I tried to pretend it wasn't happening. I looked to the safety patrol person for some sign of assurance. He seemed to glare back at me in pure contempt. I looked to the sky in search of some divine clemency. The clouds were grey and heavy. It felt like rain.
Finally, after what seemed like many hours of painful introspection, we were allowed to cross. When we got to the other side the girl turned to me once more and said, "I hate you!" I quickened my pace and hurried off ahead, leaving her behind to forever haunt me on these weird, dark nights.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Monday, August 9, 2010
Adventures In Real Estate
When you have lived alone in a place for a while you get a sort of sixth sense for when someone else has been in it. Strangers should only be in your home without you under very specific circumstances. We do live in a society where a certain level of privacy is still valued.
Unfortunately, for me, I find myself in one of those bizarre circumstances. I am trying to sell my condo. So every now and then somebody needs to come and look at the place so that they can decide not to buy it. At some point in history it was decided that it is better for people to make this decision if you are not in any way involved. Therefore the etiquette of real estate sales requires you to not be there while these strangers come to visit. All the better for them to have some time to sift through all your dirty drawers.
The way it works is a real-estate agent calls you up and asks if they can bring some clients over. They usually do this with very short notice. Although sometimes they kindly give you several days to prepare yourself for the violation. So you clean up all your messes, and hide all the stuff that is You, and basically try to make the place look as generic as possible. Sometimes the people actually show up. Sometimes they don't, and you cleaned it all up for nothing. In theory you shouldn't be able to tell the difference.
The agents always say they will leave a card behind or something. Although in my experience they never do. Or maybe they hide it somewhere. Maybe one day I will open up a cookie jar I forgot I have, and hundreds of business cards will come spilling out much to my surprise. But I have yet to find any of these promised cards.
However, I do know when these people have come. They always leave their mark. They almost always leave a light on. I could have left the living room light on myself, but then I can sense that things are somehow out of place. I am known to leave cabinet doors askew. But I leave them specifically askew. When others have looked through them I find them wrongly askew, if that makes sense. Sometimes the people will open every single cabinet, and drawer in my kitchen and leave them all agape.
I have found bottles moved around in my refrigerator, or my clothes all pushed over to the wrong side of my closet. The bathroom door is always left open. I always leave it closed because there is a fishbowl that sits in there, and my evil roommates have conspired against that poor creature since day one.
The strangers seem to take a perverse satisfaction in pulling the chains on my ceiling fans random times so that they are both turning at the wrong speed, and in the wrong direction, when I return. When I see that I become convinced that they are just taunting me. They may as well write, "I was here", on the wall in blood. It's very creepy to a guy who has devoted a great deal of effort to getting all of his fans to function together in a synchronized air flow. I can not understate the importance of getting your ceiling fans set to the correct speed. And then these people just walk in and funk it up.
The whole thing can be rather disconcerting. I feel as though archaeologists from some other world have entered my domain with a microscope and scrutinized every detail. They must know everything about me now, and yet I know nothing about them except that they were born in a barn and never learned how to shut doors and cabinets. They probably return to an office somewhere and file reports on all of my antiquated customs, and eating habits.
I can't let them know too much, so I try to throw them a few curve balls. What might they think, for instance, of the one green dress hanging in my closet, or the stuffed Richard Nixon toy laying on my bed? What sort of person reads National Geographic, and Vanity Fair, and has 5 copies of The Road by Cormac McCarthy? My random furniture probably leads them to believe that I am a senile old man, but then they must wonder about the bizarre, and mystifying photographs of hobos and misfits that are randomly strewn about; the ridiculously expensive mountain bike hiding in the closet, the curious, and atavistic film cameras. These are not the telltale signs of your average grandpa. They must know that they are dealing with a very hardcore, unusual person. Surely they must know that I am dangerous; a rare, and exotic homo sapien that has seen things both wondrous and terrible, and lacked the wisdom to know the difference. And so maybe they just left quickly. Fleeing the place with no time to waste on setting things back in their proper order. I guess I can forgive them for that. I would probably do the same thing.
Nevertheless, all is still well in my mind. The right person is still out there who will see the mystical beauty of the Central Park Condos as I once did. And they will buy that place out from under me and I will take that stuff that is Me and I will move on down the road to newer places, to live a different life, and commune with different spirits.
Unfortunately, for me, I find myself in one of those bizarre circumstances. I am trying to sell my condo. So every now and then somebody needs to come and look at the place so that they can decide not to buy it. At some point in history it was decided that it is better for people to make this decision if you are not in any way involved. Therefore the etiquette of real estate sales requires you to not be there while these strangers come to visit. All the better for them to have some time to sift through all your dirty drawers.
The way it works is a real-estate agent calls you up and asks if they can bring some clients over. They usually do this with very short notice. Although sometimes they kindly give you several days to prepare yourself for the violation. So you clean up all your messes, and hide all the stuff that is You, and basically try to make the place look as generic as possible. Sometimes the people actually show up. Sometimes they don't, and you cleaned it all up for nothing. In theory you shouldn't be able to tell the difference.
The agents always say they will leave a card behind or something. Although in my experience they never do. Or maybe they hide it somewhere. Maybe one day I will open up a cookie jar I forgot I have, and hundreds of business cards will come spilling out much to my surprise. But I have yet to find any of these promised cards.
However, I do know when these people have come. They always leave their mark. They almost always leave a light on. I could have left the living room light on myself, but then I can sense that things are somehow out of place. I am known to leave cabinet doors askew. But I leave them specifically askew. When others have looked through them I find them wrongly askew, if that makes sense. Sometimes the people will open every single cabinet, and drawer in my kitchen and leave them all agape.
I have found bottles moved around in my refrigerator, or my clothes all pushed over to the wrong side of my closet. The bathroom door is always left open. I always leave it closed because there is a fishbowl that sits in there, and my evil roommates have conspired against that poor creature since day one.
The strangers seem to take a perverse satisfaction in pulling the chains on my ceiling fans random times so that they are both turning at the wrong speed, and in the wrong direction, when I return. When I see that I become convinced that they are just taunting me. They may as well write, "I was here", on the wall in blood. It's very creepy to a guy who has devoted a great deal of effort to getting all of his fans to function together in a synchronized air flow. I can not understate the importance of getting your ceiling fans set to the correct speed. And then these people just walk in and funk it up.
The whole thing can be rather disconcerting. I feel as though archaeologists from some other world have entered my domain with a microscope and scrutinized every detail. They must know everything about me now, and yet I know nothing about them except that they were born in a barn and never learned how to shut doors and cabinets. They probably return to an office somewhere and file reports on all of my antiquated customs, and eating habits.
I can't let them know too much, so I try to throw them a few curve balls. What might they think, for instance, of the one green dress hanging in my closet, or the stuffed Richard Nixon toy laying on my bed? What sort of person reads National Geographic, and Vanity Fair, and has 5 copies of The Road by Cormac McCarthy? My random furniture probably leads them to believe that I am a senile old man, but then they must wonder about the bizarre, and mystifying photographs of hobos and misfits that are randomly strewn about; the ridiculously expensive mountain bike hiding in the closet, the curious, and atavistic film cameras. These are not the telltale signs of your average grandpa. They must know that they are dealing with a very hardcore, unusual person. Surely they must know that I am dangerous; a rare, and exotic homo sapien that has seen things both wondrous and terrible, and lacked the wisdom to know the difference. And so maybe they just left quickly. Fleeing the place with no time to waste on setting things back in their proper order. I guess I can forgive them for that. I would probably do the same thing.
Nevertheless, all is still well in my mind. The right person is still out there who will see the mystical beauty of the Central Park Condos as I once did. And they will buy that place out from under me and I will take that stuff that is Me and I will move on down the road to newer places, to live a different life, and commune with different spirits.
M.Y.O.D.B.
I have always lived my life under a certain belief that there are some truths which will always remain out there. Not because the answer can not be found, but because there are simply some questions you should not ask. You simply don't need to know, and should leave it at that, no matter how curious you may be.
Nevertheless, we live in an increasingly broadband world. Thanks to such narcissistic outlets as Facebook, Twitter, etc, etc, millions of people are devoting major parts of their lives to sharing each and every thought that may cross their busy, little minds throughout their day. Therefore a lot of people have started to become accustomed to knowing everything about everyone, and therefore we as a society are beginning to lose a certain sense of tact.
Now, when a question crosses a person's mind, they are highly likely to just go ahead and ask it. Even if the question is one that should only be asked in the privacy of your doctor's office. Even if they are a complete stranger to you for that matter.
Since becoming engaged I have found myself increasingly targeted by such questions that I rarely feel compelled to address. I do not feel even slightly guilty if I do not divulge every detail of my intimate life in public. But, as a sort of public service, I will now list to you some of the weird, and some downright inappropriate questions I have been asked by people ranging from casual acquaintances to perfect strangers since I became engaged. I swear to God. Every one of these questions has been asked at least once by someone who just found out I was engaged:
1. How much did the ring cost?
2. Is it real?
3. How much are you spending on the wedding?
4. How much are you spending on the honeymoon?
5. Where are you going on your honeymoon?
6. What hotel are you staying at?
7. Do you live together?
8. Are you having sex?
9. Have you ever had sex?
10. Has she ever had sex?
11. Do you ever cheat?
12. Is She on birth control?
13. Do you have condoms?
14. Do you have any kids?
15. Are you going to have kids?
16. Where are you going to live?
17. How much money do you make?
18. How much money does she make?
19. How much money do you have in the bank?
20. Are you Mormon?
Some of those questions are only mildly annoying, like "Are you Mormon?" I don't understand what that has to do with anything. If you are close enough to me that you need to know my religious affiliation then you should already know it. But other questions, like "Do you have sex?" blow my mind every time. I would never ask anybody that. And yet that question has been asked more than any other question on the list. I fail every time to understand the reason why it is asked. My personal favorite is, "Is it real?" That has been asked in regards to the ring, and I'm not sure whether to be offended or flattered by that. It kind of depends on my mood. Other questions like, "Where are you going on the honeymoon?" Are not necessarily secret facts, and I can't see any reason why I shouldn't tell everybody, but I just simply don't want to talk about it sometimes.
Fortunately, because I am old-school, and do not feel compelled to express myself to just anybody, almost all of these questions can be answered with one stock response: "None of your damn business. Now go to hell!"
Nevertheless, we live in an increasingly broadband world. Thanks to such narcissistic outlets as Facebook, Twitter, etc, etc, millions of people are devoting major parts of their lives to sharing each and every thought that may cross their busy, little minds throughout their day. Therefore a lot of people have started to become accustomed to knowing everything about everyone, and therefore we as a society are beginning to lose a certain sense of tact.
Now, when a question crosses a person's mind, they are highly likely to just go ahead and ask it. Even if the question is one that should only be asked in the privacy of your doctor's office. Even if they are a complete stranger to you for that matter.
Since becoming engaged I have found myself increasingly targeted by such questions that I rarely feel compelled to address. I do not feel even slightly guilty if I do not divulge every detail of my intimate life in public. But, as a sort of public service, I will now list to you some of the weird, and some downright inappropriate questions I have been asked by people ranging from casual acquaintances to perfect strangers since I became engaged. I swear to God. Every one of these questions has been asked at least once by someone who just found out I was engaged:
1. How much did the ring cost?
2. Is it real?
3. How much are you spending on the wedding?
4. How much are you spending on the honeymoon?
5. Where are you going on your honeymoon?
6. What hotel are you staying at?
7. Do you live together?
8. Are you having sex?
9. Have you ever had sex?
10. Has she ever had sex?
11. Do you ever cheat?
12. Is She on birth control?
13. Do you have condoms?
14. Do you have any kids?
15. Are you going to have kids?
16. Where are you going to live?
17. How much money do you make?
18. How much money does she make?
19. How much money do you have in the bank?
20. Are you Mormon?
Some of those questions are only mildly annoying, like "Are you Mormon?" I don't understand what that has to do with anything. If you are close enough to me that you need to know my religious affiliation then you should already know it. But other questions, like "Do you have sex?" blow my mind every time. I would never ask anybody that. And yet that question has been asked more than any other question on the list. I fail every time to understand the reason why it is asked. My personal favorite is, "Is it real?" That has been asked in regards to the ring, and I'm not sure whether to be offended or flattered by that. It kind of depends on my mood. Other questions like, "Where are you going on the honeymoon?" Are not necessarily secret facts, and I can't see any reason why I shouldn't tell everybody, but I just simply don't want to talk about it sometimes.
Fortunately, because I am old-school, and do not feel compelled to express myself to just anybody, almost all of these questions can be answered with one stock response: "None of your damn business. Now go to hell!"
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Just a Couple of Obscure, Under-Used Quotations From Some Righteous Dudes
"Christianity neither is, nor ever was a part of the common law." --- Thomas Jefferson
"The government of the United States is not in any sense founded on the Christian Religion." --- George Washington
"The government of the United States is not in any sense founded on the Christian Religion." --- George Washington
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Predators!
So, what do you suppose would happen if a giant weirdo like Robert Rodriguez decided to produce an alternative sequel to the 1987 film "Predator"? I know I was already intrigued, but then it got even weirder. Pretty soon he had hired on a promising director, Nimrod Antal, along with his Hungarian cinematographer, Gyula Pados, and Academy Award winner Adrien Brody.
Really? Adrien Brody? I wasn't sure at all how to feel about that. My movie snobbery was tearing me in all sorts of directions at this point. But never mind. I was headed down to see this movie at the soonest possible convenience. After all, it has been an incredibly bad year for movies, quite possibly the worst year in my movie viewing life. So perhaps, I thought, an over-produced Predator movie is exactly what we need.
Things took a slight turn to the surreal when I was carded at the box-office. I do have a young face. But seriously? It took me right back to the nineties when my friends and I would watch movies like this in dinghy rooms, always afraid we would be caught by our moms at any moment and severely chastised for succumbing to the temptations of rated 'R' cinema. I felt like I was being bad. I actually laughed perversely at the poor woman who asked me if I was old enough. I thought I was rather too old to be watching this sort of trashy popcorn. After all, I've seen Felini films.
Nevertheless, I was there. My money was spent, and I was deemed old enough to watch an Academy Award winning actor do battle against the dreaded alien bastards.
The film opens with our Academy Award winner falling from the sky. He doesn't know what's going on. We know because we saw the trailers. (Damned movie trailers, but that's a rant for another day.) Pretty soon he crashes down into a tropical paradise of some sort, and a whole bunch of scary bad-asses, including Danny Trejo, Alice Braga, and Topher Grace (WTF? Topher F*****g Grace? What is up with this movie?), continue to crash down around him. There is some confusion as they begin trying to beat each other up. And I was already having the best time I had had watching a movie since "The Book of Eli" in January.
There are a lot of directors in Hollywood who think that if you are chosen to make a sci-fi/horror/thriller, the proper thing to do is to film it in the ugliest place you can find, desaturate everything to a cold blue-green-grey color, and then drench everything in thick, pulpy, fake blood. My friend Nimrod, director of one of my absolute favorite weird movies (Kontroll), is much wiser than this. Predators is filmed in Hawaii, with georgeous cinematography, and ironically subtle camera work. There were a couple of moments where I was so overwhelmed by the visual wonders before my eyes that I started to believe I was watching a serious movie. But then...
"OMFG! Did you see that predator rip out that guys spinal chord? That was freakin' sic! Aaaaghhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!"....
But then, this movie did have an awful lot of dialogue too. I was completely enthralled by the glorious badness of it. It proves that a movie can still be bad in all the good old ways. If you watch it, please take note not of what the movie does but of what it doesn't do, and you will understand why this movie is a masterpiece of calculated restraint. It gives the audience just enough for your $8.50. I highly recommend it to all geeks and movie snobs who think that every other movie this year would have been improved if somebody's spinal chord had been ripped out by an alien.
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