Twice or so yearly, I document my current stable of consistently watched television shows.
Here you go.....
Game Of Thrones: Epic, very adult take on the fantasy element. It's like somebody took Lord Of The Rings and added more Old Testament grit to it, unreliable protagonists , incest, decapitations and...well...dragons. I finished the first season in about three days. It's worth the time spent online matching characters with their names. Watch it expecting to be shocked....and impressed.
Madmen: I never tire of Don Drapers slow, agonizing descent into misery. This show is so consistent, so well written and acted, it sort of becomes an extension of your life...except everyone on the show has less shame than the people in your own life whom you thought shameless. If The Sopranos is the best show in television history, Madmen just may be the smartest.
True Blood: It's trashy, surface level emotive...and me and my wife have been addicted from episode one. It's mindless entertainment written very well by the great Alan Ball (Six Feet Under, American Beauty). There's blood, pretty people and....more blood. Leave your brain at the door.
The Big Bang Theory: My wife recently convinced me to start watching this. I begrudgingly sat down, awaiting the onset of yawns and eye rolls to come. Instead, I found myself laughing like hell. It's genuinely one of the funniest sitcom's since Seinfeld. It's glorious. Sheldon is probably the second or third greatest cable television character ever dreamed up.
Swamp People: There's something about ass backwards Cajun people shooting alligators and speaking mumbo jumbo for an hour that keeps me glued to the screen. I don't have a reason why. I just wind up watching the entire episode, wondering quietly if the alligators are ever going to win.
Mob Wives: I generally hate reality shows. Reality shows about women are even worse. Nothing annoys me worse than a room full of obnoxious, self obsessed chicks. This little hellion, though, is a different entity altogether. These girls are connected...by blood, by marriage to the mafia. Needless to say, my years as a fan of gangster movies and extensive useless research into the history of the mob persuaded me to check it out. It's vile, its ugly, its ruthless...and its awesome. There's no scripted drama here. These chicks are hot bloodied tigers, full of vitriole and angst. They scratch, claw and cuss their way into your home. The best part is the fact that I loathe all of them. I can watch the show laughing at their stupidity and their botched plastic surgery because, truth be told.....they're horrible human beings.
Deep Space Nine: I like Star Trek. I had never seen Deep Space Nine. So far, so good.
Batman: The Animated Series: Bought the box set, took me back to being eight years old on Tuesday nights. The animation, dark storylines and epic soundtrack made this, in my book, the best animated series of all time.
Charlie Rose: Great interviews.
Bill Dance's Fishing Show: It has a strange likability. Plus, he's such a jackass.
The Daily Show: They don't think Obama's doing so hot....neither do I. It works.
Diners, Drive Ins And Dives: Guy's pretty rad. It sucks to watch him eat all that good food when all you have at the house is Colby Cheeze Its.
Time Lifes Disco Classics Infomercial: Every night, I can pass out to this without fear of needing to watch it.
Saturday, May 5, 2012
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
What Does It Mean.....
Don't ask questions....just read the following...and interpret.
Theres this man, pushing eighty and looking it. He's been a citizen, a patron, a father, a husband and a believer. Those roles are all he has, all he will leave behind, definitions of external worth as seen by his society. His life, the endless string of disappointments, successes, close calls and what ifs, stands to be over quite soon, assuming his pack a day habit has been quietly whittling away at the lungs behind his rib cage. Who knows? Who rightly cares?
Tomorrow, nothing is happening, nothing of definition. For him, if something must occur, it need be worthy of defining as monumental, even in a fractional way. Considering today's events, which amounted to nothing, it is safe to assume tomorrows happenings will follow similar structure. He's quite alright with that. It means he doesn't have to put his shoes on..or his pants. He can keep his Notre Dame boxers on, as well as the wife beater he hasn't changed in two days.
Comfort, for a man in his twilight hour, is key. The routine is what keeps hims sane. There's a wonderful succession of television shows to view from sun up to all hours of the deep night. He'll sleep in waves, stirring at the same times to catch the tail end of Law And Order or half of 60 Minutes. The idea is to sleep, watch TV and remember to eat some of the cereal he sends his neighbor out for once a week. It's some generic stuff, a store brand flake of banal description. It's not that he likes it. It's that he just doesn't care.
That's not all he doesn't care about. If you were to visit him, and you never would, you'd notice the dining room table, which he doesn't use, is covered in unopened mail. None of its bills or coupons. His bills get paid by the military. Coupons are for queers, or so he says. No, this mail is from people who love him, who miss him. They write notes, send Christmas cards, birthday gifts, invitations to weddings. He always pulls the envelopes from his mail box and carefully alphabetizes them by each childs name...Ron, Sue, Jill and Jane. The boy is a soldier. The girls are all hairdressers.
He doesn't like salons. He gets buzz cuts from barber shops that still advertise a "close shave". The men who cut his hair are near his age, all a tad heavier and more jovial than he. They watch Fox News on a muted screen and chew tooth picks as they lather shaving cream on the necks of other aging, disheveled American men. The conversations he has with them, when he goes every two weeks, are narrowed to football, politics and car engines. Outside of these talking points, the only semi-breached subject is wives. His is dead, so he doesn't have to say a thing...which pleases him.
His day is something of a revelation. If he times it right, the shows on his flat screen segue into one another ever so gently, meaning he doesn't have to be alone with his thoughts. That's what its all about...keeping the thoughts out of his head.
When he dies, no one will find him for a week. He'll be stiff. They'll close the casket for sure. Some people will cry, a eulogy built on hyperbole will be read. Then people will crowd into the church hall and eat fried chicken with green beans and mashed potatoes. Amongst them, a couple with hold hands, knowing they've created life..and soon...very soon...it will begin again.
Theres this man, pushing eighty and looking it. He's been a citizen, a patron, a father, a husband and a believer. Those roles are all he has, all he will leave behind, definitions of external worth as seen by his society. His life, the endless string of disappointments, successes, close calls and what ifs, stands to be over quite soon, assuming his pack a day habit has been quietly whittling away at the lungs behind his rib cage. Who knows? Who rightly cares?
Tomorrow, nothing is happening, nothing of definition. For him, if something must occur, it need be worthy of defining as monumental, even in a fractional way. Considering today's events, which amounted to nothing, it is safe to assume tomorrows happenings will follow similar structure. He's quite alright with that. It means he doesn't have to put his shoes on..or his pants. He can keep his Notre Dame boxers on, as well as the wife beater he hasn't changed in two days.
Comfort, for a man in his twilight hour, is key. The routine is what keeps hims sane. There's a wonderful succession of television shows to view from sun up to all hours of the deep night. He'll sleep in waves, stirring at the same times to catch the tail end of Law And Order or half of 60 Minutes. The idea is to sleep, watch TV and remember to eat some of the cereal he sends his neighbor out for once a week. It's some generic stuff, a store brand flake of banal description. It's not that he likes it. It's that he just doesn't care.
That's not all he doesn't care about. If you were to visit him, and you never would, you'd notice the dining room table, which he doesn't use, is covered in unopened mail. None of its bills or coupons. His bills get paid by the military. Coupons are for queers, or so he says. No, this mail is from people who love him, who miss him. They write notes, send Christmas cards, birthday gifts, invitations to weddings. He always pulls the envelopes from his mail box and carefully alphabetizes them by each childs name...Ron, Sue, Jill and Jane. The boy is a soldier. The girls are all hairdressers.
He doesn't like salons. He gets buzz cuts from barber shops that still advertise a "close shave". The men who cut his hair are near his age, all a tad heavier and more jovial than he. They watch Fox News on a muted screen and chew tooth picks as they lather shaving cream on the necks of other aging, disheveled American men. The conversations he has with them, when he goes every two weeks, are narrowed to football, politics and car engines. Outside of these talking points, the only semi-breached subject is wives. His is dead, so he doesn't have to say a thing...which pleases him.
His day is something of a revelation. If he times it right, the shows on his flat screen segue into one another ever so gently, meaning he doesn't have to be alone with his thoughts. That's what its all about...keeping the thoughts out of his head.
When he dies, no one will find him for a week. He'll be stiff. They'll close the casket for sure. Some people will cry, a eulogy built on hyperbole will be read. Then people will crowd into the church hall and eat fried chicken with green beans and mashed potatoes. Amongst them, a couple with hold hands, knowing they've created life..and soon...very soon...it will begin again.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Marriage Vows
A few friends who attended my recent wedding suggested I post my wife and I's personal vows. Here they are....
Kat, we read in Genesis, "Therefore shall a man leave his father and mother and cleave unto his wife," and in Proverbs "Who so findeth a wife findeth a good thing." In you, I have found the best thing, a strong, independent woman who loves me unconditionally, supports my ambitions and dreams and knows me in way no one can pretend to. For nearly eight years, I have had the pleasure of growing up with you, loving you more still each day. You have been my solace, my strength, my source of joy and laughter. You are truly the best thing about me. When I think of us, I think of Johnny Cash and June Carter, a love unchanged by time and built on a trust that knows no limits. As we stand here, surrounded by people we love, family and our dear friends, I am so honored to take you as my wife...and so thrilled that we get to take this journey together. I love you.
Max, On this April afternoon , I am reminded of the verse James 1:17 which says, "Every good thing bestowed and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of Lights with whom there is no variation or shifting shadow." With a gift such as you, I believe that with all my heart and soul. I was sixteen when I fell in love with you. You changed how I thought, how I dreamed. You made me feel such hope. Your love and dedication to me have never faltered. There is no one I trust in and care for more than you. For close to eight years, I have laughed with you, cried with you and all the while felt at home in your arms. I am so very excited to take you as my husband and so very ready for the next chapter in our lives. I love you.
Kat, we read in Genesis, "Therefore shall a man leave his father and mother and cleave unto his wife," and in Proverbs "Who so findeth a wife findeth a good thing." In you, I have found the best thing, a strong, independent woman who loves me unconditionally, supports my ambitions and dreams and knows me in way no one can pretend to. For nearly eight years, I have had the pleasure of growing up with you, loving you more still each day. You have been my solace, my strength, my source of joy and laughter. You are truly the best thing about me. When I think of us, I think of Johnny Cash and June Carter, a love unchanged by time and built on a trust that knows no limits. As we stand here, surrounded by people we love, family and our dear friends, I am so honored to take you as my wife...and so thrilled that we get to take this journey together. I love you.
Max, On this April afternoon , I am reminded of the verse James 1:17 which says, "Every good thing bestowed and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of Lights with whom there is no variation or shifting shadow." With a gift such as you, I believe that with all my heart and soul. I was sixteen when I fell in love with you. You changed how I thought, how I dreamed. You made me feel such hope. Your love and dedication to me have never faltered. There is no one I trust in and care for more than you. For close to eight years, I have laughed with you, cried with you and all the while felt at home in your arms. I am so very excited to take you as my husband and so very ready for the next chapter in our lives. I love you.
Monday, April 9, 2012
Writing A Screenplay
There's nothing more or less rewarding than screenwriting. It's a constant "how does this sound" vs "how will this transfer to screen" debate. There's the never ending self esteem issues that come with writing alone, as in you never know how good or bad something is until you let people take a gander.
I've been blessed thus far with good reviews on the occasion when someone sits down and takes it in. That gives me the courage and where with all to keep going, keep bettering my style and pace. I love it. I hate it. It has become as natural as rain. I miss it when I take a day or five off. I loathe it when I write for too long. There's no comparison to the feeling when it all comes together, when your characters stop being characters and take on their own personalities. That's the sweet spot every writer craves. There's no other rage like when you remember you're writing and everything comes out contrived. It's a great contrast of emotions.
I think with independent screenplays, with any script really, the idea is to convey a group of ideas that may or may not be your own. That's where a lot of patience, some imagination and the will to go out of ones comfort zone play a huge role. You have to lose all sense of self in order to construct a fictional world full of fictional people. Distance is key to that sort of process, distance from your own opinions, distance from your convictions and ideals. It's imperative that your story become an entirely separate life force, complete with a heart beat and a mindset all its own. At the core of your message, there must, I think, exist a universal element central to all humanity, something each person can take and make their own.
From there, its this emotional process of investing some aspect of who you are into the characters, maybe just something simple. You have to relate to their guilt, their decision in some manner. If you can't, you won't be able to make them come off the page and into focus. That last ingredient of self is vital to the final product. When that piece is added to the puzzle, all things unclear become transparent.
My original attempt at screenwriting was awful, a fifty page mountain of cliches and overwrought monologues. To this day, I cringe when I pull it out. The characters talk too much and they have no real arch's. It's all flat and pretentious and overlong. But I keep it, as a reminder that we all start somewhere. It helps me keep my head up, knowing I'm able to grow as a writer, that stagnation has not yet kept me back.
The highs make up for the lows, though, and I'm fairly confident in my ability to deliver. My first full length project was a script for one of my last college classes, an advanced writing course. I had no idea what to expect going in. I was nervous as I could be. I wound up reading the script, which had some rough language based on it being a long conversation between two Army vets, with my professor, who was a woman. Hearing her lady like voice reading such harsh dialogue made me feel sort of honored, like she let her guard down to play the character I created. When it was all said and done, I got a standing ovation. That was my first clue I wasn't delusional. One of the tougher hombres in my class took me aside and told me "you need to do this for the rest of your life". He was a veteran himself and he felt I'd nailed the dialects and the verbage well. He also liked the rather morbid ending.
The truth is, you have to find a voice you can call your own. You can read scripts you like, watch movies you dig and quote people you like all day...in the end, its up to you to make a difference, take some chances and get it done. That's where I'm at...and its an interesting place to be.
I've been blessed thus far with good reviews on the occasion when someone sits down and takes it in. That gives me the courage and where with all to keep going, keep bettering my style and pace. I love it. I hate it. It has become as natural as rain. I miss it when I take a day or five off. I loathe it when I write for too long. There's no comparison to the feeling when it all comes together, when your characters stop being characters and take on their own personalities. That's the sweet spot every writer craves. There's no other rage like when you remember you're writing and everything comes out contrived. It's a great contrast of emotions.
I think with independent screenplays, with any script really, the idea is to convey a group of ideas that may or may not be your own. That's where a lot of patience, some imagination and the will to go out of ones comfort zone play a huge role. You have to lose all sense of self in order to construct a fictional world full of fictional people. Distance is key to that sort of process, distance from your own opinions, distance from your convictions and ideals. It's imperative that your story become an entirely separate life force, complete with a heart beat and a mindset all its own. At the core of your message, there must, I think, exist a universal element central to all humanity, something each person can take and make their own.
From there, its this emotional process of investing some aspect of who you are into the characters, maybe just something simple. You have to relate to their guilt, their decision in some manner. If you can't, you won't be able to make them come off the page and into focus. That last ingredient of self is vital to the final product. When that piece is added to the puzzle, all things unclear become transparent.
My original attempt at screenwriting was awful, a fifty page mountain of cliches and overwrought monologues. To this day, I cringe when I pull it out. The characters talk too much and they have no real arch's. It's all flat and pretentious and overlong. But I keep it, as a reminder that we all start somewhere. It helps me keep my head up, knowing I'm able to grow as a writer, that stagnation has not yet kept me back.
The highs make up for the lows, though, and I'm fairly confident in my ability to deliver. My first full length project was a script for one of my last college classes, an advanced writing course. I had no idea what to expect going in. I was nervous as I could be. I wound up reading the script, which had some rough language based on it being a long conversation between two Army vets, with my professor, who was a woman. Hearing her lady like voice reading such harsh dialogue made me feel sort of honored, like she let her guard down to play the character I created. When it was all said and done, I got a standing ovation. That was my first clue I wasn't delusional. One of the tougher hombres in my class took me aside and told me "you need to do this for the rest of your life". He was a veteran himself and he felt I'd nailed the dialects and the verbage well. He also liked the rather morbid ending.
The truth is, you have to find a voice you can call your own. You can read scripts you like, watch movies you dig and quote people you like all day...in the end, its up to you to make a difference, take some chances and get it done. That's where I'm at...and its an interesting place to be.
Saturday, April 7, 2012
Titanic 3D: My Thoughts
My pretentious nature with film is probably extremely annoying to the average Joe. My angst and vitriol for the Transformers films alone is worth at least ten volumes of written dissection. I hated them, not as much as George Lucas god awful prequels to the best fantasy film trilogy ever created. I reserve a sort of otherworldly hate for Episodes 1-3, not unlike that of Hitler for the Jews (please, no hate mail...take a joke). The point is, I'm serious about what I like and what I don't. And sometimes I'm the only guy defending what I like (Waterworld anyone?). Sometimes I'm the only guy downing films I hate (Avatar). I am a polarizing critic. I'm the guy who trashes your favorite movie so well that you might end up hating it by the time I'm done. I take pride in that.
I say that to say this...I have always enjoyed and defended James Cameron's Titanic. For all its shortcomings, cheesy dialogue, actors finding their way, virtually no character development beyond the two leads..and a very underused Cathy Bates, I found the film to be on par stylistically and thematically with other bloated epics (Gone With The Wind, Ben Hur, Spartacus, Cleopatra). By bloated, I don't many any disrespect. Big stories require a grand scale, lush visions of the grandiose, dramatic lighting, etc. That's what Cameron set out to do, make a sweeping dramatic love story with the Titanic as the back ground. Don't kid yourself, because that's what the movie is.
Titanic is not a biopic about the ships maiden/final voyage. It's really just a throwback early 1900's love story, written with the same sensibility that any Cary Grant or Jimmy Stewart film of yore would have been, cheesy dialogue included. Cameron was smart enough to realize that the only way you get both chicks and dudes crammed into a movie theater is to cross breed ideas. Guys want to see a movie about a ship that crashes into an iceberg and kills thousands of people. Women want to see a forbidden love story that winds up tragically unfulfilled. Cameron divided the movie up nicely, with the first and second half equally giving the opposite sexes their desired experience.
The magic was how the romantic half wound up affecting dudes. Guys suddenly found Kate Winslet reminded them of their wife or girlfriend. The script, tightly arranged, managed to pull them into this world of forbidden romance. The longer they watched this love blossom, the more they quit thinking about the big crash silently looming. They began to forget about the momentary teen idol fandom of Leo Dicaprio and started rooting for the character of Jack, who's underdog status appealed to the every mans working class nature. This movie stopped being about that damn ship.
When the time came for what they originally wanted to see, the guys in the audience suddenly didn't want it to happen. That's the sheer talent of James Cameron. Every other movie he'd ever made was a total dude movie..Terminator, Aliens, Terminator 2, True Lies, etc. He took everything he knew about the male mind and applied it to the Jack and Rose love story. Somehow, with one frozen Leo Dicaprio, Kate Winslet hoarsely weeping and that door she was floating on bobbing her up and down like a red headed buoy, James Cameron made just about every heterosexual guy in America, machismo aside, shed at least one tear. And this was not the "man tear", that solitary, epic tear reserved for Gladiator or Braveheart. This was the "why, God, why" tear, the tear/tears usually cried by a woman.
For these reasons, and the fact that I don't mind crying the "why God, why" tears (you wanna call me out, I'll kick your ass), I love the movie to death. No, its not a brilliant piece of work on any esoteric level. Yes, the dialogue is about as original as the latest nu-metal rock group. No, I don't place it in my top ten. BUT, I place it on equal footing with Gone With The Wind...making it number eighteen on my list of best movies ever made.
What can I say? It's a great movie.
How did I like the 3D version? I loved it, save for the fact that I totally forgot I was watching it in 3D very early on. It still holds up after 15 YEARS. I feel old now.
I say that to say this...I have always enjoyed and defended James Cameron's Titanic. For all its shortcomings, cheesy dialogue, actors finding their way, virtually no character development beyond the two leads..and a very underused Cathy Bates, I found the film to be on par stylistically and thematically with other bloated epics (Gone With The Wind, Ben Hur, Spartacus, Cleopatra). By bloated, I don't many any disrespect. Big stories require a grand scale, lush visions of the grandiose, dramatic lighting, etc. That's what Cameron set out to do, make a sweeping dramatic love story with the Titanic as the back ground. Don't kid yourself, because that's what the movie is.
Titanic is not a biopic about the ships maiden/final voyage. It's really just a throwback early 1900's love story, written with the same sensibility that any Cary Grant or Jimmy Stewart film of yore would have been, cheesy dialogue included. Cameron was smart enough to realize that the only way you get both chicks and dudes crammed into a movie theater is to cross breed ideas. Guys want to see a movie about a ship that crashes into an iceberg and kills thousands of people. Women want to see a forbidden love story that winds up tragically unfulfilled. Cameron divided the movie up nicely, with the first and second half equally giving the opposite sexes their desired experience.
The magic was how the romantic half wound up affecting dudes. Guys suddenly found Kate Winslet reminded them of their wife or girlfriend. The script, tightly arranged, managed to pull them into this world of forbidden romance. The longer they watched this love blossom, the more they quit thinking about the big crash silently looming. They began to forget about the momentary teen idol fandom of Leo Dicaprio and started rooting for the character of Jack, who's underdog status appealed to the every mans working class nature. This movie stopped being about that damn ship.
When the time came for what they originally wanted to see, the guys in the audience suddenly didn't want it to happen. That's the sheer talent of James Cameron. Every other movie he'd ever made was a total dude movie..Terminator, Aliens, Terminator 2, True Lies, etc. He took everything he knew about the male mind and applied it to the Jack and Rose love story. Somehow, with one frozen Leo Dicaprio, Kate Winslet hoarsely weeping and that door she was floating on bobbing her up and down like a red headed buoy, James Cameron made just about every heterosexual guy in America, machismo aside, shed at least one tear. And this was not the "man tear", that solitary, epic tear reserved for Gladiator or Braveheart. This was the "why, God, why" tear, the tear/tears usually cried by a woman.
For these reasons, and the fact that I don't mind crying the "why God, why" tears (you wanna call me out, I'll kick your ass), I love the movie to death. No, its not a brilliant piece of work on any esoteric level. Yes, the dialogue is about as original as the latest nu-metal rock group. No, I don't place it in my top ten. BUT, I place it on equal footing with Gone With The Wind...making it number eighteen on my list of best movies ever made.
What can I say? It's a great movie.
How did I like the 3D version? I loved it, save for the fact that I totally forgot I was watching it in 3D very early on. It still holds up after 15 YEARS. I feel old now.
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Watching The World Burn....From A Pontoon Boat With A Line In The Water
I think the greatest sin a person can commit is to lose ones sense of irony. There's something tangible, unifying even, about a sort of very distinct love of the ironic. Some people really dog sarcasm and dark, depth perception empowered humor. People, those especially obsessed with some utopian illusion, they like their world all wrapped in this exquisite bow. Their whole niche in the universe is to put more make up on the corpse, shove sunshine so far up your butt that you start to believe their hype yourself. That's where I think you have to put on the brakes, slap a few faces red and say "laugh at your disposition".
I can't, in good conscience, be a positive person. One look at two dysfunctional political parties, a long line of self serving world leaders and two minutes of the evening news, you start looking for a knife that'll hit the vein clean. It's dire. And if I was some dim witted, happy go lucky type, my mojo would be dying out like the AIDS crisis. I just don't feel the need to have hope for humanity. I think we're beyond hope as a people. We're just too jaded and too selfish and too out of touch with any sense of duty or humanity ourselves, it sort of seems like we're begging for a meteor to end it all.
My remedy to that is irony, pure unadulterated irony. And with that comes the dead baby jokes and the endless string of other inappropriate things I say to combat the rigors of a mentally polluted world. It's not meant to be pretty or to improve the situation, declining in quality as I type. It's meant to be a last middle finger to the tight wads, a defining stance against complacency and legislated moral culture. It's something trends can't filter into mainstream acceptance. No, its the vital enemy of all that, a machine of lacking character and growing clarity. It's all resolute with me, simple and clean and not at all arbitrary. The best part is it comes from the nebula of good will. It's there so you can laugh at the dogmatic enema that is our governmental system. It's there so you can shake your head, drink your coffee and pick up the dog shit off the sidewalk...with defiance.
'
And all it takes is the raising of an eye brow, a knowing glance....the sense to be ever present among the lemmings, the drones of televised instruction. It doesn't mean the meteor doesn't cook the skin off your bones and reduce you to dust particles not unlike those hanging mid air in your double wide. It means while every other loser on the planet is crying, screaming and cursing God for what they perceive to be an unjust ending, you'll be laughing your ass off, winking up at Him, and quietly saying "I totally understand".
"When our kids are grown
With kids of their own
They'll send us away
To a little home in Florida
We'll play checkers all day
Until we pass away"-Randy Newman
I can't, in good conscience, be a positive person. One look at two dysfunctional political parties, a long line of self serving world leaders and two minutes of the evening news, you start looking for a knife that'll hit the vein clean. It's dire. And if I was some dim witted, happy go lucky type, my mojo would be dying out like the AIDS crisis. I just don't feel the need to have hope for humanity. I think we're beyond hope as a people. We're just too jaded and too selfish and too out of touch with any sense of duty or humanity ourselves, it sort of seems like we're begging for a meteor to end it all.
My remedy to that is irony, pure unadulterated irony. And with that comes the dead baby jokes and the endless string of other inappropriate things I say to combat the rigors of a mentally polluted world. It's not meant to be pretty or to improve the situation, declining in quality as I type. It's meant to be a last middle finger to the tight wads, a defining stance against complacency and legislated moral culture. It's something trends can't filter into mainstream acceptance. No, its the vital enemy of all that, a machine of lacking character and growing clarity. It's all resolute with me, simple and clean and not at all arbitrary. The best part is it comes from the nebula of good will. It's there so you can laugh at the dogmatic enema that is our governmental system. It's there so you can shake your head, drink your coffee and pick up the dog shit off the sidewalk...with defiance.
'
And all it takes is the raising of an eye brow, a knowing glance....the sense to be ever present among the lemmings, the drones of televised instruction. It doesn't mean the meteor doesn't cook the skin off your bones and reduce you to dust particles not unlike those hanging mid air in your double wide. It means while every other loser on the planet is crying, screaming and cursing God for what they perceive to be an unjust ending, you'll be laughing your ass off, winking up at Him, and quietly saying "I totally understand".
"When our kids are grown
With kids of their own
They'll send us away
To a little home in Florida
We'll play checkers all day
Until we pass away"-Randy Newman
Friday, March 9, 2012
Writers Who Inspire Me
I am a veracious reader of books, articles, and blogs. I love to soak up information. Through the broad medium of literature, I have found a great many people who inspire me. Some of them I could say I agree with and others I have nothing in common with at all. What inspires me about people I agree with is their dedication to their beliefs and their pursuit of the truth, whether in real life or inside their fiction. What inspires me about people I don't agree with is their dedication to their beliefs and their pursuit of the truth. Inspiration, for me, can come from unlikely and unsettling places. You'll notice some of these people are polar opposites. If you know me, you know my faith and my politics, so you can surmise who in the list I do and don't agree with on a personal level. Forget that for a second and try to understand why they are influential in a general sense....
Flannery O'Conner
CS Lewis
Donald Miller
Johnny Cash
Emma Goldman
Ernest Hemingway
Cormack MCarthy
David Foster Wallace
Stephen King
JRR Tolkien
Sylvia Plath
Micheal Crighton
Claudio Sanchez
Kim Neely
Mickey Spillane
Dee Brown
Ray Bradbury
Steve Earle
Tolstoy
Herman Melville
Jonathan Franzen
Karl Marx
Joseph Conrad
John Cheever
Flannery O'Conner
CS Lewis
Donald Miller
Johnny Cash
Emma Goldman
Ernest Hemingway
Cormack MCarthy
David Foster Wallace
Stephen King
JRR Tolkien
Sylvia Plath
Micheal Crighton
Claudio Sanchez
Kim Neely
Mickey Spillane
Dee Brown
Ray Bradbury
Steve Earle
Tolstoy
Herman Melville
Jonathan Franzen
Karl Marx
Joseph Conrad
John Cheever
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