Well, That Makes Sense...

This photo, while hilarious, is not from a real church. Fake, I'm afraid. I cribbed it from Hollywood Elsewhere (check my links list). Made me laugh tho'!

For more fun go to the guys who made this possible... Church Sign Generator.

Thrift Store Madness

Sometimes friends or people I don't know send me fun e-mail questionaires. You know the type. What song do you sing in the shower? If you had three wishes, what would they be? and my favorite: When are you going to pay off your student loans? (Side note: probably when I get my three wishes.) Anyways, the point of this intro is to segue seamlessly into the question that I always find it a cinch to answer: What are your favorite things? And right at the top of the list would have to be Thrift Stores. Yeah, you heard me right. Thrift Stores.

The winning concept behind thrift stores is so simple and endlessly rewarding. They sell anything. For next to nothing. You can't go into a thrift store expecting to get a specific item. This isn't like going into Target. It's shopping as a Zen experience. The merchandise is what it is and you never know what it is until you find it. (There are exceptions to this as there are certain perennial thrift store favorites. For example, I'm betting if you want a copy of Gail Sheeney's Passages, any thrift store in America could accomodate you. Plus, if you're not picky about specific titles, I know that there are at least 4 or 5 different John Grisham thrillers at any given thrift store. There also seems to be an abundance of Susan Powter merchandise.)

I go in mostly for books, being the shameless bibliophile that I am. It thrills me, makes me giddy even, when I go into a thrift store and find classic titles by my favorite authors. Steinbeck, Hemingway, Angelou, Marquez, all to be had for pocket change! It's a beautiful thing to think that the greatest books ever written are this accessible. A truly wonderful find is a book that has been endlessly careworn with notes and scribbles and underlined favorite passages. Some people hate this as they like to make their own notes. While I understand this, I believe that this is why they made different colored highlighters. I love not only taking the journey that reading affords, but to take it parallel to someone else, to have a fellow traveller to share insights with. It's incredibly intimate to read Walden through someone else's eyes, discovering what passages moved them, what lines deserved an empathetic double-underline.

Sometimes I get the bonus of finding old pieces of paper with writing on them, tucked inside as bookmarks, or even the original reciepts. Reciepts are precious because, if they're not too faded, they reveal the time and place it was purchased. Who was this person who bought this old paperback of The Mayor of Castorbridge at a place called Book Sellers in Redding, California on Oct. 19, 1996 at 14:56?

And therein lies the germ of the thrift store experience... The experience is a shared one, between you and the person that, for whatever reason, has parted with their stuff. It's not just the books that fascinate me, either. I love the idea of a store devoted to stuff that nobody wants anymore. One of my most prized possessions is a mug that says "I Shot J.R." There's something kitschy about it now, so anachronistic. I get a thrill drinking coffee out of it, knowing it's weird and rare and interesting, and that no one else could probably appreciate it as much as I do.

One of my favorite parts of the store are the aisles with the discarded trophies. Every kind of trophy litters the shelves: Baseball, golf, billiards, and, of course, bowling. I imagine each one at some point being the utter focus of pride and well-being... now abandonded. People move on, it's true, which makes me ponder an even greater mystery. Who would buy someone else's icon of accomplishment? Well, who else, besides me? I've often thought of buying a whole series and trying to convince people of my sporting prowess. "Why yes, I was on the 1973 Scranton Women's Bowling League. We came in third that year. But that was just a warm-up for my softball success in 1979..."

When I travel to a new city, the first thing I do is scout out the thrift stores. (Utah thrift stores kick ass, especially for their selection of hideous Mormon mommy clothes. Ye gods, they should charge admission.) The more run-down the better... you get a flavor for the community by taking in their thrift stores. And really, to me, that's the whole point of travel... to experience something other than what you are used to... and what better place than a thrift store... In one specific, intentional space, you absorb experience, history, culture, art, society, and adventure. Because each trip is a loosely arranged contract... Your tour guide is incredibly hands-off... It's up to you to discover what's out there.

Musical Language

I've just started to become addicted to podcasts via iTunes and I discovered one of the most fascinating programs. My discovery of cool podcasts is a pretty random affair; I'll just click on stuff that looks interesting and then listen to them later either on walks or at the gym (did you know that gym means naked? LOL, just a random aside.) I was on a walk (fully clothed, thank you very much) and began to play a podcast originally broadcast on WNYC public radio. I'm a big public radio fan, so this seemed like a good choice for blind downloading. The particular segment was from their RadioLab program, entitled "Musical Language." It's fascinating... I was mesmerized listening to it, and I kept walking further than I was going to go because I was so lost in it. I won't go into too much detail cause it's best you listen to it yourself, but essentially they discuss how music is related to language and why music makes you feel. Great stuff.

Check out RadioLab. They have their downloadable podcasts available there. It's a trip.

Don't You Forget About Me

You might not recognize the name Paul Gleason. But I bet that if you grew up in the '80's you'd remember the face and voice. Gleason was the guy who played the scary principal from hell in "The Breakfast Club." He died on Saturday, at 67, of lung cancer. As I read the news at the Internet Movie Data Base, I kept on thinking of his movies and how much I always loved that guy who was so good at playing an a-hole. And yes, that's a compliment. Acting is not *being* and it requires a certain skillful observation. For whatever reason, Gleason was adept at playing smarmy, but funny authority figures-- guys determined to be right at the expense of our heroes. He tapped into something there that has almost become a character type, the authority figure who does not deserve his authority, and abuses it. (Remember Paul Reiser's oily executive in Aliens? Same thing.) It is a credit to Gleason's talent that he was able to identify those traits-- the misplaced confidence, the self-assurance, and utter lack of empathy mixed with delusions of grandeur-- that resonated when viewers saw his villains. We knew those characters... we've had to put up with guys like that. Gleason gave us an outlet, a way to recognize those everyday types of villains, and laugh at them.

Gleason perfected that arrogant bluster, standing out in movies like Die Hard and Trading Places. Remember his a-hole detective character who spitted out classic rude lines of perfection like: "We're going to need more F.B.I. guys"? Or how about in The Breakfast Club where he exerts his authority by warning the kids: "The next time I have to come in here, I'm cracking skulls!" It was a funny line because it was so overblown... I mean who hasn't had a tough-talking authority figure try to use bluster and swagger to intimidate? I remember laughing at Gleason's line, and yet... I could see him doing it too. There was something laughable and something to be feared in his Principal Vernon character and Gleason found both the humor and seriousness.

I don't think I'll ever forget those characters, and I certainly won't forget that Paul Gleason is the guy that brought them to us. Paul, I raise my glass to ye.

Books: I Got 'Em.

And they're on the shelf. And the floor. In the bathroom. On the desk. In boxes. In bags. Some of them are weathered and worn from multiple readings. Some of them are forgotten and lonely, effusively purchased, then quickly buried under something else deemed more relevant or captivating. Some have multiple, utilitarian uses, like the massive dictionary that also serves alternately as a doorstop and a weapon with which to destroy spiders in an apocalyptic fashion. (Whoever said 'Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me,' has obviously never had a ten-pound dictionary land on their head. The English language can be such a blunt instrument.) Some books that I've had I no longer can find... They've vanished... lent to friends of a different era, no forwarding address or phone numbers to track them down. (What does it say about me that my primary concern is the reunion with a particular book and not a person?) Some have been donated to thrift stores to make way for other books purchased at thrift stores. And some... well, some simply aren't there and I have no explanation for it. Book fairies, no doubt, exercising their right to flitter away with my long-vanished copy of Invisible Man. (Fairies have a sense of humor, I'm told.) But, in a way, those books are still around, taking up space on the shelf found in the dream corridor of my mind. To wit, I don't own these books... they own me.

These thoughts were going through my head as I was lazily drifting over the somewhat bizzare hodgepodge of titles cramming my book shelf. I wondered what a stranger might think looking over this eclectic assortment. A pristine hard-back edition of Swann's Way was spooning next to a beat-up, withered, coverless copy of Stephen King's The Stand. Ascetic tomes relegated to academia, such as Freud's The Interpretation of Dreams, leaned up against immediate pop art thrills, such as The Green Lantern Archives. The odd coupling of old TV Guides and Wilkie Collins' The Woman in White mystifies even me on occasion.

It is with that in mind, that I'd like to do a new feature on the blog, entitled: Dave Looks at His Books. I'm going to pull a few books out at random and write about them. Not in a lit crit kinda way, but just in a weird, first impression kinda way. I fully anticipate this becoming a hot new party game...The next time you're at a party, find out what books the host has and use that to launch conversations. This should be better than charades! (Note: this game requires at least two to three shots of tequila before the "fun" actually begins.)

Okay, tequila ready? Here goes. My first book is The Green Lantern Archives, in particular, Volume 3. This book collects issues 14-21 of the original silver age Green Lantern series, one of the most fondly remembered silver age comic books. These were originally published in 1962-3. For those of you who have no knowledge of Hal Jordan, Earth's Green Lantern, let me enlighten you. The mysterious Guardians from the planet Oa bestow a green, magic "power ring" upon the bravest individual in a particular sector. Once this individual accepts the mantle of a Green Lantern, they use its power to fight evil, both mundane and cosmic. Our hero, Hal Jordan, is a cocky test pilot who is chosen by the Guardians to be Earth's Green Lantern. The ring's powers seemed to have changed over the years, depending on the author's interpretations. The ring's energy is driven by will power and imagination, making it a vague, ephememral kind of super-power. In one panel Hal might use it to make a green cage to trap his foes. In others, it's simply a blunt energy beam that knocks his evil counterpart, Sinestro, back into space. In one sequence, Hal actually uses it to shrink Sinestro and put him in a minature cube, so he can carry him around in his pocket. Freaky, I know, but back in the 50's and early 60's there seemed to be a lot of stories that involved shrinking.


My favorite issue is #16, "The Secret Life of Star Sapphire." Most DC comics of the time were quite often based on the Superman formula of relationship conflict and nowhere was this more apparent in the idea of a super-hero trying to maintain a double life. Hal Jordan's love interest was Carol Ferris, a Lois Lane type. She's in love with Hal, but also strangely attracted to Green Lantern. As she's engaging in a test flight, she thinks to herself: "It's really too bad I can't make up my mind to marry him! But the trouble is there's somebody else! If I really loved Hal, I wouldn't feel the way I do toward this other person!" Namely, Green Lantern. This sexual confusion would be a long-running motif in the comic.



Her flight is abruptly aborted as she is abducted by a race of otherworldly amazons. Or as they are called in the comic, Zamarons! The Zamarons explain to Carol that they are a race solely of women who have chosen her as their queen. She demures, not wanting to leave Earth because it would mean a life without Hal or Green Lantern. The Zamarons, seemingly a race of pro-active lesbians, are, understandly, put out with Carol's devotion. "Then it is because of a man-creature that you do not wish to come with us?" a Zamaron exclaims, exasperated. Finally, they strike upon what seems like a good resolution. They will give Carol super-powers, like Green Lantern. She'll go back to Earth, defeat and humilate him. Then she'll realize what a waste of time it would be to invest so much loyalty and affection to this impotent and ineffective man-creature. They begin the power-transference ceremony by playing a magical pipe organ. (No, really.) As the power flows to Carol, she murmurs, "Energy from the organ... streaming through my body..." I don't have to channel Freud on the Ouija board to figure out that something else is going on, perhaps unconsciously, but definitely symbolically as the Zamarons manipulate their mystical organ to infuse Carol with their energy. When the process is complete her normal, conservative attire is replaced with a skimpy swimsuit-like sapphire costume, complete with face mask and knee-high boots. She is now called Star Sapphire. (I suppose nicknaming her Sappho would be going to far.) ;) The Zamarons give her a mystical jewel similar to Hal's magic ring. Her energy color is sapphire, opposed to Hal's green. She doesn't want to fight Hal, but because of the Zamaron's magical organ device, she feels strangely compelled to adhere to their wishes.

Newly empowered, she is transported back to Earth to do battle with the Emerald Avenger. She engages him in a series of battles, drawing him out in one instance by robbing an art museuem. All the while, she remains conflicted by her suppressed sexual confusion. Before she met the Zamarons, she was already confused between her longing for Hal and Green Lantern, not realizing that they were one and the same. Now, with the energy of the sapphire coursing through her, she is divided by her devotion to Green Lantern/Hal and the new-found desire to fulfil her destiny as a Zamaron.

When GL inevitably finds a way to defeat her, Carol thinks to herself, "I'm defeated! How terrible... No! How wonderful!" Even in the end, her feelings have shifted. She is left irrevocably altered by her encounter with the Zamarons. Her burgeoning sexuality, left confused by the duality of GL/Hal, is given another outlet, that of Star Sapphire, who, as queen of the Zamarons, could live among them, enjoying the benefits that came with being their supreme ruler. Star Sapphire is inarguably a more sexualized version of Carol, made evident by the skin-tight fantasy costume that she wears. Her power, a sapphire beam, is used in several instances to attack Green Lantern, and, you could argue that this release has, in effect, become a sort of sexual frustration made manifest. She's not only confused, she's pissed at the various barriers between her and her goals.

I love this story because while I sincerely doubt that the ideas of sexual identity were deliberately interwoven in the text, I have no doubt that the comic was tapping into a kind of sexual subconcious that was roiling just underneath the surface of America circa 1962. These adolescents who were reading these comics would, by the late sixties, overtly attempt to answer these questions. From the hippie culture to free love to issues of sexual identity, gay pride, and feminism, these ideas were there as a subtext and, "The Secret Life of Star Sapphire" could possibly hold, within its text, pre-indicators of a changing zeitgeist.

And if you don't agree with me, you obviously haven't had enough tequila.

Previews: Superman Returns & Click

Attached to MI:3 were a few trailers of note. Those who know me, know I'm a rabid comic book junkie dating back to pre-colonial times and I've been eagerly awaiting both X-Men: The Last Stand and Superman Returns. The X-trailer looked pretty spiffy, but I've been wary because this latest (and supposedly final) installment featured a new director, Brett Ratner (the Rush Hour movies), taking over for the previous one, Bryan Singer. Singer passed on X-3 to do, you guessed it, Superman Returns. X-Men: TLS was actually released today, and the current critical consensus is: not bad, but not as good as the first two. Lots of slick action, but none of the heart of the first two films. Being a dutiful X-Men fan I'll check it out, but most likely will wait for a cheapie theater to do so.

I geeked out over the Superman Returns trailer. The new guy Brandon Routh not only looks like Superman, he does a decent Clark as well... which to me means that the filmmakers get the duality of the character. (Much of the success of Batman Begins, imo, is that the filmmakers understood what Bruce Wayne was about as well as Batman.) If you don't understand what makes the character work, you have no business working on the character. All the iconography is dead-on from the Daily Planet to the Fortress of Solitude. And Kevin Spacey as Lex Luthor? Casting doesn't get any more perfect than that. What really sold me was when I heard the familiar strains of that powerful John Williams theme. Yup, they used the same music that worked so well in the 1978 Superman film. In fact, director Bryan Singer has stated that he means this to be a direct sequel to Superman I and II, just forgetting 3 and 4 all together. Smart guy.

The trailer for Click both intrigued and appalled me. It definitely looks like one of those awful high-concept, lowest common denominator comedies. Adam Sandler has a magic remote control that allows him to control his universe. You would think he would use it to reverse time to stop the filming of "Little Nicky," but alas, no. Instead he uses it in ways that only people in movies would use it for. For example, he uses it to pause his boss so he can slap him around. (It's not that inspired of a joke, but it does win points for hiring David Hassellhoff as the boss in question, thus fulfilling a common fantasy of many viewers.) It's definitely tailored to Sandler's core audience, sports lovin', bear-drinkin' GUYS. Sandler, not totally oblivious to marketing demographics, knows who his audience is, (exhibit a: The Longest Yard), but even this seems a bit obvious. I can imagine the script development... "What do guys like... They sure do like the remote! What if it was a...magic... remote!?" This type of shameless pandering reminds you that the majority of mainstream films have become market-driven and creatively bankrupt affairs. I understand, profits are goooooood and Hollywood is merely being reactive to the kinds of things people pay money to see. But this type of thing appears particularly manipulative and condescending in a way. The joke is, of course, that the target viewer would never realize that he was being condescended to.

BUT, I hold out hope. We'll see how it fares with critics when it is released. Part of the trailer shows Sandler with his remote, using it to fast-forward through parts of his life that he doesn't like (i.e. arguments with his wife, again, fullfilling a typical male fantasy). Then, somehow, the remote starts freaking out and fast-forwarding on its own, causing Sandler to miss parts of his life that he doesn't want to miss out on. This led me to believe that Click could somehow be some sort of existential comedy in the vein of Groundhog Day, examining how the bad moments and the good moments are connected to create a full life. Maybe that's what this movie is about.

Probably not.

Writing Preview (Work In Progress)

Here's the (very rough) beginning of a story that came out of my writing workshop. More to come, swear... :)

Just Like You
by David Scott




Malcolm Landry, nervous at all times except when he was hiding behind a podium, reached into his pocket, feverishly, sweat forming on his brow, between his fingers, and God knows where else, and fingered his pocketknife. He thought about using it, wanted to use it, but, being surrounded by the throng he couldn’t. That was one of those inappropriate activities. In-appro-pri-ate, a voice sing-songed inside his head. “Shut up, already,” he whispered underneath his breath.

“Excuse me?” the girl asked, her smile an infuriating mixture of sweetness and intractability. She didn’t walk up to him, she glided, her hand outstretched. She actually zeroed in on him like a Scud, wanting to shake his hand. Everything about her seemed to be a portrait of symmetry. Malcolm sized her up. She looked old enough to drink (just barely), but she didn’t look like some college-age kegger enthusiast. Oh, no, that would be too easy. Her hair was blonde, smooth, and shoulder-length—a real shampoo commercial. She wore these nutty black granny glasses complete with a nylon cord from one end to the other. Her skin was unblemished and she wore minimal make-up. It was a testament to her awareness of her aesthetic charms. Too much make-up would just be showing off. Contacts, or God forbid, normal frames, would be pushing it. Artsy, ironic frames proclaimed to the world that yes, she was much more than her stunning good looks. Her ecru blouse featured a pink ribbon pinned just above her right breast, which infuriated Malcolm because he was sure it was some sort of feminist trap to draw his attention to her chest. Her skirt was a black and white checkerboard print that reached to her knees. She wore stylish black boots with a modest heel. And somehow she glided in them. All to shake hands with *him*. To prove what? That she wasn’t some Banana Republic mannequin? That she believed in charity and good works? Malcolm recoiled, his heart pounding. It was just too much. He wished she didn’t look so nice, so well-adjusted. Then at the very least, it’d be easy to dismiss her as yet another stuck-up sorority bimbo.

“I’m sorry, did you say something?” she asked, finally releasing her smile. Malcolm waited a few seconds and looked impulsively at his watch. Her hand was still outstretched. He shook it limply and quickly released it.

“I, uh,” he said, looking at her earrings. They looked like little wind chimes. Little turquoise wind chimes. They so did not go with the outfit. They looked horribly tacky, actually. Must of have been a gift. He smiled, feeling more comfortable that he had found a weakness. She was human after all. “I like your earrings,” he managed.

“Oh, thank you,” she smiled, her thin fingers brushing up against them. “My boyfriend—I mean, my fiancé—bought them for me. I got to get used to saying that. Fiancé!” Her eyes drifted shyly away from Malcolm as she realized she was offering too much personal information to a man she did not know. He surely didn’t care about her upcoming nuptials.

He did care. It sickened him, in fact. He realized that a pretty girl could not possibly have any interest in him; he realized that and accepted that. Still, did females have to approach him and remind him of how happy they were doing in their personal relationships, dating, fornicating, getting married, popping out children, etc? What kind of sick bitch would go around, finding lonely, insecure nobodies, and harangue them… torture them, remind them of how singularly alone they were. “I exist for other peoples’ amusement,” Malcolm thought dispiritedly.

“Congratulations,” Malcolm said, managing a smile. It pleased him to be ironic. It was the only way to salvage the situation.

She smiled, almost like a little girl, unaware of Malcolm’s insincerity. “Thanks. We’re so excited.” She stopped, afraid of being boring. “I just wanted to thank you. For the speech. I’m totally against war, especially this one, as we are there under false pretenses… And dissent nowadays is being portrayed as disloyalty… So when someone is brave enough to not only speak out, to organize this rally—“She waved her hand across the modest meeting room, which was now empty except for her and Malcolm. “And then… your vow… I mean, wow, I couldn’t believe it. I mean, I couldn’t do that.”

Malcolm swallowed. Praise made him uneasy. He was sure that it would take very little to reverse a positive opinion concerning him. And while he was proud of his vow, it was uncomfortable to talk about on a one-on-one basis. In front of a crowd seemed safer… depersonalized… He was safe behind the podium. He could say the things he really wanted to say.

He absent-mindedly took a few steps back. “Thank you. It hasn’t been easy. There’s been a lot of ridicule—“

“I know,” the girl responded, sympathy in her voice. “People can be so mean. And we live in such a sexualized society, anyways… that’s got to make it tough.”

Malcolm did not look at her breast cancer awareness ribbon, but he thought about it as he looked at a pink balloon lazily hovering by the exit. “Yes,” he said, clearing his throat. That’s how I got on Good Morning America—“

“I saw that!”

Malcolm felt embarrassed. “It’s not everyday you end up telling Diane Sawyer and the rest of suburban America that you’re a 26 year old virgin who refuses to have sex until U.S. forces are completely withdrawn from Iraq.”

The girl started to laugh, mistaking Malcolm’s forwardness with humor. He stared at her stoically, used to such reactions. “Yeah, you’re right there,” she added. Her face switched to activist mode. “But I admire that, Malcolm.”

“Thank you,” he said dryly, trailing off.

“Karen… my name is Karen.”

I have to say her name now. This is what people do in polite conversation. Then I get to leave and replay this horrible scene over and over in my mind until the day I die. “Karen… thank you for the kind words, Karen.”

To be continued...

Writing Workshop

I was thumbing through the newspaper this morning and I caught a blurb advertising a drop-in writing workshop at the Log Cabin Literary Center in Boise. (Yup, it's an actual log cabin.) I haven't done much creative writing lately, but I felt the whim hit me and decided to take the description to heart and just drop-in. I'm so glad I did.

It was headed up by Tamara Shores, a local author who was as sweet as pie. I confess I had never heard about her before, but she's a BSU graduate who went on to have a play produced at the Kennedy Center, and then later adapted as a short film that got some play on Starz and Encore. What mattered to me, however, was that she was super-supportive, friendly, and a great instructor.

The objective was fairly simple. She gave us a writing prompt, starting with a list of character-types (biologist, realtor, virgin, etc.) We picked two. Then we picked a common interest that the two characters would share (from a list of common interests.) Then we were given a conflict idea. The two characters want to be like each other... Find the conflict inherent in such a situation.

I picked the realtor and the virgin. They both share a love of musicals, especially Phantom of the Opera. Then, after that, I couldn't believe how quickly the details started to gel. At the end of our two hour session, I had a whole story plotted out. (I ain't gonna tell you any more cause I want to write it and I don't want to spoil it.)

Suffice to say, it was an incredibly rewarding workshop... Everyone there was very cool and had great ideas. I'm so glad I listened to impulse and just went in.

Today's Workout Tips

Watch what you eat. When you get up in the morning you may be tempted to eat a donut with chocolate frosting on top. This would be a mistake. You need protein. Spread a thick layer of peanut butter on top of the donut. Now that's breakfast.

Sometimes it's hard to get motivated to exercise. I know I can't do the treadmill unless I got my tunes. Make sure the tunes are upbeat. Bryan Adams's "Everything I Do (I Do it for You)" is not especially conducive to speed-walking. Boxing, yes. Aeorobics, sure, why not. Speed-walking, hell no. Upbeat. Upbeat songs. However, there is a great temptation to sing along with that peppy pop tune. Do not give in. Nobody in the gym particularly wants to hear you wail at the top of your lungs "KARMA-KARMA-KARMA-Karma Chameeeeeeleooonnnnnnnn---You come and goooooo! You come and gooooo-wah-oh!" Speed-walking is the silent sport, my friend. Let's be good neighbors.

If a volleyball slams into your head, chances are it was an accident. Don't get angry. Do not seek revenge. (Note: If you were singing Karma Chameleon, it wasn't an accident. In which case, you're out of luck, buddy.)

Alias Season Finale/ MI: III

J.J. Abrams' Alias, which has had a decent run of five seasons, finished up with its last episode ever tonight. A relatively recent convert, I ended up devouring seasons 1-4 in a quick succession, checking them out through Netflix. Seasons 1-2 were exemplary and groundbreaking. The characters were strongly defined and complex, two features that rarely go together in network television. Season 3 was mezzo-mezzo... Not as well-defined, a bit scattershot in quality, but still fun. Season 4, creatively, was nothing short of a train wreck. Still, the first two seasons were so good, I'll always look back fondly on Sydney, Jack, Marshall, and the other rich characters created by J. J. Abrams.

It was with a high degree of curiosity mixed with nostalgia that I tuned into tonight's season finale. Would the Rambaldi mystery finally be unraveled? Would we some closure regarding Sydney's ties with her mother? Would Quentin Tarantino make a surprise appearance? Ummmm, that would be kinda, sorta, and absolutely not. Now I have a high degree of sympathy for long-running shows trying to create a pitch-perfect season finale to end on. It's damn near impossible to craft something that is going to please everyone. Still, even with the diminished expectations, I have to confess, the very last episode of Alias doesn't have much to recommend it.

Perhaps it's best if I describe what made the first two seasons of Alias so wonderful. Alias started out as the story of Sydney Bristow, a college student with college friends and college-type problems, who, oh yeah, just happened to work as a secret agent for a shadowy (are there any other kind) government agency known as SD-6. After her boyfriend proposes to her, she feels like she has to reveal the true nature of her work... SD-6, very sensitive to such breaches of information, has him killed. Sydney's father, the distant and cagey Jack, reveals to Sydney that SD-6 is not only a shadowy covert agency, but that they are not OUR shadowy covert agency. Sydney has been working for a nameless enemy. The setup for the 1st and part of the 2nd season showcases Sydney working as a double-agent, pretending to work for SD-6, then reporting back with inside info for the CIA. All the while trying to maintain a life of normalcy with her friends, who are unaware of her super-spy status.

If Alias was simply a spy show (and indeed, it eventually became one), it would have still been fun, but there would have been little emotional pull. What made the early Alias special was watching Syd try desperately to hang onto her normal life, and try to make sense of her dysfunctional mom and pop, Irina and Jack. The Alias writers and Jennifer Garner managed to convey the emotional sacrifices that involve constantly lying to everyone around you. It's something that network tv rarely attempts, let alone in the context of a spy show.

The season finale was pretty much a joyless affair that paid little attention to such things. In fact, it had that last day of school type feel. They're all there, it's been fun, but man, when will that bell ring and let us out? (SPOILER ALERT) Not having watched any of the other episodes from season five, I found it to be an odd mismatch of new characters (some guy played by Baltazar Getty--who dies much like Terry O'Quinn did in the X-Files movie) and old plotlines that are marked only by their staleness. Marshall gets some nice scenes to shine, but Dixon and Vaughn are completely marginalized. In a painful scene Syd and Vaughn kiss and it's incredibly apparent that there is absolutely no chemistry left between them. They're not even trying. Of course, this probably has a lot to do with the fact that Jennifer Garner and Michael Vartan had been an item in real life, for awhile. Now... well, I felt awkward for watching. Jack is killed and while, admittably, it's a fine send-off, it was also completely unnecessary. (Again, I think there is some rule that in season finales some key character has to buy it. This is a complete mistake, as the potential for an Alias movie is there, but who wants to see that without Jack?) Perennial favorite baddie Sark is back, and completely wasted much like Krycek in the X-Files. Oh, and in another X-files-esque moment, Sydney actually asks Vaughn "how can you say that after everything you've seen"... in response to Vaughn's disbelief in Rambaldi lore.

Actually, it's quite easy to disbelieve that anything could make sense when Rambaldi is concerned. I don't think it was ever supposed to make sense... They just needed stuff for Sydney to go find. Still, the writers keep bringing it up as if to say, no really, we've got a plan. Well, the most I could get out of this last episode was that the ultimate Rambaldi device was a kind of immortality device. Very anti-climatic and it does nothing to explain all the funky prophecy crap that they've been throwing in over the years.

As I watched the credits, I scanned for J.J. Abrams name, or at least the names of some of his better writing partners, Roberto Orci and Alex Kurtzman. No such luck, except Abrams did have a producing credit. Where were these guys? Directing and writing Mission: Impossible III, of course. One of the most recurrent accolades of Alias was that it was like watching a great spy movie every week. It made perfect sense to co-opt their talents for the service of a big budget franchise.

So how'd they do? Great, it turns out. MI:III plays out exactly how you would expect it would: like a top-notch episode of Alias. The opening scene is vintage Alias. We see Tom Cruise and someone he loves tied up, facing the villain who is prepared to torture them both to get what he wants. And just as the bad guy gets ready to do something reallllly horrible, the camera cuts away to opening credits and the Mission Impossible theme music. Then, we flashback to the events that led us up to that moment.

But it's not only a matter of narrative style that unites MI: III with Alias. Thematically too, J.J. and crew, revist the idea of a secret agent having a normal home life. Ethan Hunt, in the space between part 2 and 3, has managed to settle down and is on the verge of getting hitched. Of course, his new bride-to-be and his new circle of friends and family have NO idea he is a super-spy. Sound familiar? Or familial, to be more specific. These humanizing elements which made Alias stand out work wonders for the Mission Impossible franchise, making Ethan much more relatable (and watchable). We care about this guy. Like we cared about Syd. The action is top-notch, hellzapoppin' fun, too... We would expect no less from J.J. Abrams. But it's the humanity transfusion that makes MI: III worth watching. I only wish Alias could have held onto it for a little while longer.

Illegal Immigration

Ever wonder why you're not hearing from politicians about those law-breaking individuals involved in illegal immigration? No, I'm not talking about the actual immigrants. I've seen plenty of them on the news being rounded up. I'm talking about the ones *hiring* them, and consequently profitting off of them. This op-ed piece explains it a lot better than I could...

Yahoo News Article

Brokebrick Mountain

No, that's not a typo. It's Brokeback Mountain redone in the glorious medium of Legos. C'mon, it was inevitable.

Brokebrick Mountain

Dave Uses Words

In a startling, but useful companinon piece to Dave Looks Up Words, I decided to actually put them into sentences. In essence, we're movin' to the next level, muthafuckers.

arabesque.

My, but that complex and ornate design of intertwined floral, foliate, and geometrical figures sure is arabesque.

ascetic.

Being an ascetic sure ain't easy, thought Larry Flynt.

apothegm.

Hey, let's buy the latest issue of Apothegem, cried Carl. It's got pictures of Jessica Alba in it!

How dehumanization is necessary

...for killing. It's interesting that I was recently talking about moral relativism and how most mainstream Christians nearly bust a gasket when you bring it up. And yet, those same gatekeepers of morality (I'm being sarcastic, but you know people who are like this), will have no problem with the idea of killing "those who deserve it." In today's political climate, that would be the "evil-doers."

Moral relativism was in the back of my mind when I picked up the paper today. The headline read "With aid cut off, Palestinians bater, borrow or do without" (Washington Post). The Palestinians are feeling the effects of the January legislative elections that saw a known terrorist group, Hammas, being legitmately elected into office. The United States government, fighting off a potential whopper of a head-ache, led the international community in cutting off international aid to the strapped Palestinian Authority. Consequently, the Palestinian people are paying for their political actions by facing starvation and loss of other essential services.

As images of hungry Palestinian children start to be published in Time, Newsweek, and such, the rhetoric will surely be driven up a notch or two. Israeli Prime Minister Olmert has pledged that Israel would help to ensure Palestinians would have access to medical supplies, all the while never forgetting to mention that the Palestinians brought it on themselves. To be fair to the Prime Minister, it's an almost impossible situation to be in, trying to please all sides.

And so the question remains: Is it Palestine's fault? They did elect a known terrorist group to office. A hard-line terrorist group, no less. Despite what you think of either side, it's a move that couldn't have possibly helped the already tense situation. Perhaps part of the problem is rooted in that... Palestine must resolve the internal factions within before it can come to the table. And it has to be done in the interest of preservation of all human life.

Of course, none of this answers the previous question. Humbly, in my opinion, the real question should be: does placing blame advance anyone? Removing the humanity from Palestine is necessary to eradicate them. If they are just terrorists, than the justification is there for their elimination. Why are there terrorists in Palestine? I don't pretend to know the ins and outs of the conflict, but I'm willing to bet that it's a lot more complex than "good vs. evil" or "Zionism vs. Islam." So to label the enemy as "evil" is a complete cop-out that allows for killing with a clean conscience. At the root of this current wrinkle, the lack of aid, we have to realize that the willful starving of a group of people, yes, people!-- says more about us than it does them. And it is not morally justifiable under any circumstances.

There are real problems here... you don't need me to tell you that. But this is not the answer. I'm hoping that Palestinian Chairman Abbas meets with Olmert and that they are able to put aside differences and embrace the common humanity that binds us. I pray for peace and I pray for ourselves, to do the right thing, and love our enemies.

Family Values

Found this on another blog, but lost the link. Here's the gist: a couple with three kids in Missouri are facing eviction. Why? Is it a case of conservatives attacking a gay couple? Nope, they're straight. But they're unmarried. Yup, trickle-down morality has hit the heartland. Hopefully this will enlighten those who have convinced themselves that "gay issues" don't affect them. It does, brother. You're just a little further on down the list, that's all.


Story on Yahoo News

Dave Looks Up Words

This is a new feature of the blog that I optimistically hope will pop up from time to time. In anticipation of the GRE, I decided to strengthen my vocabulary. I have to admit that usually when I come across a word I don't know I just skim right over it and plow on through. At most I'll look at the dictionary that's sitting just out of reach, contemplating looking it up. And that's about as far as it goes. But not anymore!!! While reading "Wicked" I came across quite a few fancy-pants words that author Gregory Maguire used to construct his tale. And that's where we begin. (Note: If anyone stumbling across this blog would like me to Look Up Words for them, I do take requests. It's kinda like dictionary karoke.

Words of the Day:

(taken from the American Heritage Dictionary)

arabesque- a complex and ornate design of intertwined floral, foliate, and geometrical figures.

ascetic- a person who renounces the comforts of society and leads a life of austere self-discipline, especially as an act of religious devotion.

apothegm- a terse and witty instructive saying; maxim; proverb.

Go forth gentle reader and sprinkle these words into everyday conversations. Your friends and family will look at you funny.

Malcolm X & bio-pics in general

I recently saw Spike Lee's "Inside Man," and loved it so much I decided to track down other Spike movies. For some reason, I had missed Malcolm X, which was released in 1992. So I've had a lot of time to catch it, but just never did. There were a couple of things that have kept me away... First, the running time is 201 minutes, which, typically, is wayyy too much time to spend with one movie, imo. There are some films which benefit from a longer running time, but more often than not, that extra 45 minutes or hour is there in because the director does not have the discipline to pare down the work in editing. (Minority Report should have been 90 minutes, for example.) Another reason I avoided Malcolm X is because I'm not a big fan of biopics. We are aware of historical figures for their contributions to society. (And in the case of the rare villain bio-pic, such as the occassional movie about Hitler, we see the detrimental effects that they had on society--the bio-pic as cautionary tale.) While these, on the surface, seem like easy subjects to build a movie around, quite often the filmmaker struggles with the process of encapsulating the subject within the context of a compelling narrative. The questions the filmmaker must answer: where is the story? What is the story arc? Is there one that will satisfy viewers? Quite often the answer is not easy to find. Milos Forman, the man who directed two of the finest biopics ever, Amadeus and The People Vs. Larry Flynt, struggled with Man in the Moon, the biopic of Andy Kaufman. Forman ably conveyed highlights of Andy Kaufman's life, complete with his bizzaro career success, his eccentricities, and even his struggle with cancer. When the movie finished, however, the true character of Andy Kaufman remained inscrutable. Maybe that has to do with the complexitity and mystery of that particular subject. However, I couldn't help feeling that the film was unsatisfying because of it. Which brings us to Malcolm X. I read the Autobiography of Malcolm X a couple of years back and I was immediately struck by the complexity of the man. At times I found it odd that in his early time with Elijah Mohammad, his main concept echoed many white supremacists: namely, segregation. Later, after his trip to Mecca, and his opening up to accepting the assistance of all races to engender healing and advancement, he showed a flexibility that was truly heartening to see. Only when I had finished the book did I see how intractibility and flexibility did not necessairly have to be at odds with each other. You could move from one to the next as needed. I was left curious with how the movie would present these different facets of Malcolm. The film starts out much like another acclaimed biopic, Patton. The first image you see across the screen is an American flag. Of course, viewing Malcolm X, the differences become rapidly apparent as we hear Denzel Washington's voice approximating Malcolm's impassioned tones... "We did not land on Plymouth Rock... Plymouth Rock landed on us!" As the words are spoken the edges of the American flag begin to burn, and they continue to burn until all that is left of the flag is a charred red, white and blue X. It's an audacious beginning and one worthy of Malcolm's rhetoric. There's a lot to cover in Malcolm's life, however, and I still had my doubts if it could be done. The most interesting aspect of his life is his conversion to Islam and his public identity as a racial firebrand. But how did he get to that point? What was his childhood like? His relationships with women? The omniprescent racism that shaped his views and experience? Somehow, Spike gets it all in, and manges to craft it into a solid, forward-moving narrative. There is an easy "story arc" to his life, it's true, as Malcolm goes through his younger days as "Detroit Red," a callow hustler on the make to inevitable incarceration, and conversion to spiritual and political leader. Even the film's ending, a coda featuring a speech by Nelson Mandela, followed by a chorus of children, each one proudly stating "I AM MALCOLM X!" works beautifully, showing us the relevancy of the man and his desire for a better world. In the end, I don't begrudge Spike Lee one minute of running time. He earned each and every one.

Miscellany: Good -n- Evil, comic books, etc.

Now that finals are over and the spring semester is put to bed, I can concentrate on the work of doing as little as possible. Well, there are always books to read. I have a List of Books that I've Been Meaning to Get To. It's so long you can see it from space. School has been out five days and I've already devoured the first one: Wicked, by Greogry Maguire. It's an absolutely addictive, clever read about the *real* story of the Wicked Witch of the West. Y'know... from The Wizard of Oz. It reads like J.K. Rowling got together with Wally Lamb to write Wizard of Oz fanfic. When all is said and done, you will care for Elphaeba. (That's the Witch's real name.)

I've been writing on Unified, the comic book project me and my friend Aaron have been putting together. The first issue is written and Aaron is pencilling and lettering it. It's coming together quite nicely. I've started on the script for issue two, which has been somewhat of a bear. Comic books seem simple, but they have a basic structure or format that is quite tricky to master. How many panels go on a page? How much dialogue should you have? What actions do you leave out, letting the reader get the implication? It's been a learning experience, but I think I'm getting it down.

One of the themes of the book is the nature of good and evil, a classic theme for a super-hero adventure book if ever there was one. The protagonist, Arestia, is in a cosmic struggle with her brother, Gregor, the antagonist. It was important for me to ascribe motivations to both that would go beyond good and evil (apologies to Nietszche). Wicked really started me thinking on that particular subject. Maguire teases reader expectation by taking the antagonist of The Wizard of Oz and transforming her into the protagonist. Her struggle to overcome circumstance and fate is clearly something that everyone can identify with. Are we locked into predetermined roles? And more importantly, is there good and evil?

I've got friends and family who are at various ends of the religious spectrum, and inevitably discussions will hit on absolute values vs. moral relativism. My mom listens to James Dobson, a conservative christian talk-show host/activist, and one of his favorite rallying points is to shrilly cry out against moral relativism. The liberal college professors are teaching our kids that there is no God and that there is no good and evil, he warns. Well, he's probably misinterpreting a philosophy class (which, by all acounts, should have a variety of philosophies, not just one.) His main error, as I see it, is that he is vilifing all college professors as godless and amoral. In my experience I have yet to see a professor who advocated one specific way of seeing the world. Yes, I've had a professor assign me Nietszche. I've also had to read Samuel Huntington, noted conservative. I've read everything from Thomas Paine to C. S. Lewis. I'm not sure what ultra-liberal school James Dobson went to, but he seems quite scarred by it.
But what about moral relativism? Is there good or evil? Dobson bristles at the question. In my experience the only time you do not like the question is when you fear the answer. Are there absolute values?
For the sake of argument, let's discuss the big sin: killing. A solid majority will state that killing is wrong. A more ephemeral grouping might state that killing is wrong, except in certain circumstances. I'm not looking at statistics here, I'm just typing outloud. But talk to three or four people you know and I believe my statements will prove correct. What are some possibilities? It's okay to kill in self-defense. As punishment for people who kill. In times of war. etc. This to me smacks of moral relativism. I mean, if it's an absolute sin to kill, than NO justification should be able to absolve anyone. None of this, it was wartime crap. If you subscribe to that, that's all I'm saying. Which many Christians vehemently say they do. This is a big argument, the battle between absolutes and relativism. And most Christians' faith is intertwined with a solid notion of good and evil... and yet, while they decry relativism, quite casually, they quite often *practice* it by supporting war, the death penalty, etc. So, the idea seems to be: there are absolutes, but they are unattainable or inconvienent to adhere to.
My point being, if we can't be consistent on killing, what's going to happen with other sins, such as lying or stealing?
This is not an invitation to kill or steal or whatever. It is an invitation for those who dislike the idea of moral relativism to start first by holding themselves to a higher standard. I find that the most useful bit of advice is "Do unto others what you would have done unto you." So much of Chrisitianity becomes dogmatic, a Pharisee's dream, but that particular line cuts through it all.