Sucks-Ass

So I finally got around to seeing Kick-Ass. You know, the "daring, subversive" movie from earlier this year that turned the superhero genre on its head? No? With the brilliant deconstruction of the superhuman do-gooder psyche, exploring the question, "What if REAL PEOPLE became superheroes?" Still nothing? How about the one with the 10-year-old purple-haired girl who dices thugs to bits after calling them fuckin' cunts?

Yeah, that's the one.

I'll admit, for roughly the first half of Kick-Ass, I was enjoying myself. It appeared to be a comedic take on Watchmen, a satire exposing the inherent ridiculous nature of the superhero fantasy. It totally lacked Watchmen's intellectual conceits, mature characterizations, and overall sense of hopelessness, appropriately enough for a comedy. When Nicolas Cage shoots his daughter point blank as a lesson in taking a bullet, it was so absurd that I genuinely laughed. At this point, the film worked. Nothing great, per se, but certainly entertaining.

But when director Matthew Vaughn forces us to endure watching two of our heroes being tortured to death, the laughs stopped. Now, as Hit Girl is blasting viscera all over the place, we're not to root for her out of a sense of wild abandon but rather genuine empathy. What was once satire is now a dark, bloody revenge flick; what was once reversing genre tropes was now stooping to their use. The film had lost me in its final hour, a constant "You have got to be kidding me!" buzzing around in my brain.

There's nothing original about Kick-Ass. It's superhero thematics are well-worn territory between the aforementioned Watchmen, The Incredibles, and probably a billion other properties that I'm not even aware of; the public has had the genre jammed down its collective throat over the past decade. There's nothing brilliant about it either; a couple of cracks about teen heroic fantasies, superheroes on MySpace, a thug obsessed with a bazooka -- enough comedy to sustain a decent SNL sketch or two, perhaps, but not to justify an entire motion picture's existence. And Hit-Girl? I suppose it is subversive in this day and age of oversensitivity to feature a 10-year-old sociopath swearing up a storm and blowing people to bits, but it certainly isn't brilliant. It's CHEAP. Shock humor, plain and simple, with all the substance of an awkward fart joke.

As someone who considers himself a nerd, it shames me that so many others in my demographic believe this to be a masterful work of art. It's pandering crap, the celluloid "geek" equivalent to a crusty tissue discarded in a garbage bin. What little promise it held was squandered the instant the film revealed it had nothing of substance to offer, falling back on the genre standards that it had promised to upend with a calculated dose of cheap controversy. Perhaps it is a sad state of affairs that this was far from the worst film I've seen this year, but I am truly ashamed that apparently I am supposed to enjoy something as crass and shallow as that which Kick-Ass devolves into during its second half.

You want ultra-violence? Watch Kill Bill Vol. 1. You want a worthwhile deconstruction of superhero tropes? See (or better yet, read) Watchmen, or, for a comedic bent, James Gunn's The Specials. Kids behaving badly? Stand By Me. But don't praise something as crude and shallow as Kick-Ass and then, when it underperforms, declare that its brilliance went above the heads of the general public, because I assure you that it didn't. There's no more brilliance here than in your average rom-com. Kick-Ass didn't kick ass because, well, it sucked.

Some Kind of Star Trek

I realize that this list probably seems ill-timed; it would have been more relevant a little over a year ago when J.J. Abrams' reboot was released. However, up until the past couple of weeks I had yet to see four of these films. Now, having watched Insurrection, I have watched all of the canon Star Trek films and feel mildly compelled to share a few thoughts on each. Below, I have ranked all of the films in qualitative order from best to worst (IMHO, of course):

1) Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan -- "I have been, and always shall be, your friend."
The crown jewel, to which standard all other Trek movies will be judged. Despite some poorly aged production design -- honestly, who thought oval-shaped screens on square boxes was a good idea? -- no other film in the series achieves such an effective synthesis of theme, tension, and character. From the early CG animation depicting the Genesis project to Ricardo Montalban's operatic performance, from Shatner's immortal cry of "KHAAAAAAAN!" to the battle in the magenta hues of the Mutara Nebula, the peppering of quotes from Shakespeare and Melville to what is easily the most emotional of all Trek finales, the film is littered with memorable moments. The best-realized story by far.

2) Star Trek: First Contact -- "The line must be drawn HEAH!"
Not quite up to Khan's standard, but it's the best TNG-era film by far and a damn fine action/adventure film in its own right. The script is engaging on an emotional level, the key elements being Picard's desire for revenge against the Borg and Zefram Cochrane's reluctance to accept the mantle of history, allowing the audience to overlook several logic issues regarding the time travel plot device. This is also the only TNG film that truly feels like a film in direction and production values, beginning with the very first epic pullback within the Borg cube -- very impressive from first-time feature helmer Jonathan Frakes. Also notable for introducing S&M to children across the world via the Borg Queen.

3) Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country -- "You have not experienced Shakespeare until you have read him in the original Klingon."
The final film to feature the entire original cast, and a pretty good one at that. Reflecting the end of the Cold War, Undiscovered Country's story of political conspiracy carries a darker tone than perhaps any other Trek film besides First Contact. There are several moments of hokum -- mainly during the Rura Penthe sequence -- but overall the script is quite solid. The opening explosion of the Praxis moon and the zero-gravity assassination sequence feature effects that were groundbreaking for their time, and Christopher Plummer really hams it up as nefarious Klingon General Chang. Neither as technically polished as First Contact nor as well-written as Khan, this is nonetheless in the upper ranks of the Trek series.

4) Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home -- "Double dumb-ass on you!"
I avoided watching this quirky film for the longest time because, despite being well-received and the highest-grossing film of the series, the story sounds incredibly stupid -- the Enterprise crew travels back in time to 1986 to rescue humpback whales and save the future from a destructive probe. Yet, ultimately, I found it surprisingly enjoyable. Watching it right after its somber predecessor, Voyage Home is a refreshing change of pace for the films in that it is almost purely a fish-out-of-water comedy. It mines for humor by affirming just how different the world of Trek is from our contemporary reality, yet because these juxtapositions remain true to the characters the audience has grown to love over the course of the series and films, it works. In terms of artistry and ambition, this is a bit of a downward step from the series' heights, and it is overall a consistent and entertaining effort.

5) Star Trek III: The Search for Spock -- "I... have had... enough of... you!"
Now we've entered a new territory for the series -- the interesting but seriously-flawed middle-ground. The most satisfying of this lot has to be Search for Spock, in no small part due to its resolution of the cliffhanger(s) from Wrath of Khan and the destruction of an icon. The crew's theft of the Enterprise from spacedock and Kirk's reaction to suffering another devastating loss are great moments, worthy of the best of Trek. Despite these admirable efforts, however, the film has some serious hang-ups: the scenes on the Genesis planet look cheap to the point of breaking the suspension of disbelief; the Spock-child subplot, while interesting in concept, was poorly executed (namely experiencing Vulcan puberty); the Star Wars cantina rip-off didn't mesh with the Trek universe; and (admittedly, this is a personal hang-up) while his performance was fine, I couldn't stop thinking of Christopher Lloyd as Doc Brown instead of Kruge. All in all, Search for Spock is still an enjoyable watch, but it isn't good enough to transcend its flaws.

6) Star Trek: Insurrection -- "Have you noticed how your boobs have started to firm up?"
This is another film I had been avoiding due to its reputation and was, in fact, the last of these films I had never seen until quite recently. Like Spock, it's not a bad film but it suffers from several serious problems. The foremost of these is one of scope -- Insurrection feels like a television episode, and coming after the particularly cinematic First Contact, it is especially grating. After repelling an all-out assault on the Federation in both space and time by the Borg in the last movie, now the TNG crew is going to fight for the right of 600 people to stay in their homes. Whoopie. It also doesn't help that the villain, played by F. Murray Abraham of Amadeus fame, is constantly whining and is about as intimidating as a grouchy cat lady. Furthermore, despite the weighty moral implications of the story, forced moments of humor are interspersed throughout the film, no doubt the worst of which is when Picard and Worf start singing "HMS Pinafore" to placate a malfunctioning Data. Still, the morality play at work is mildly intriguing. It's a shame that the entire production seems so inconsequential.

7) Star Trek: The Motion Picture -- "An answer? I don't know the question."
The first film, the post-Star Wars resurrection of the property that launched the film franchise, and a major disappointment. Directed by veteran director Robert Wise, The Motion Picture wanted to be a grandiose, philosophical sci-fi epic in the tradition of 2001. Unfortunately, this ambition came at the expense of character and storytelling. While the film is beautiful to look at and asks interesting questions regarding the nature of intelligence and evolution, it is mind-numbingly dull to endure for its full length. Other than First Contact, it is probably the most cinematic of the series and Jerry Goldsmith undoubtedly composed the series' best score for this film. The Motion Picture is worth an occasional viewing for the grandeur of the music and visuals, but has very little other than its high production values to recommend it.

8) Star Trek V: The Final Frontier -- "What does God need with a starship?"
Ah, the most infamous Trek of them all, nick-named "Shatner's folly." Indeed, Final Frontier isn't a great or even a good film, but there are a few diamond moments to be found in the mud. Giving Spock an emotionally-uninhibited, religious-fanatic brother was undoubtedly an unwise move, and many of the attempts at humor are misguided at best (60-year-old Uhura dancing naked atop sand dunes was jaw-droppingly miscalculated); due to the success of Voyage Home, Paramount insisted that as much humor be inserted into this film as possible, despite the fact that Shatner intended it to be a profound examination of spirituality. The film is also hampered by the befuddling decision, rather than use tried-and-true ILM, to go with a start-up SFX company that produced some less-than-spectacular results. Still, at least amongst our three leads, the characterizations are stronger than ever and keep the film from becoming unwatchable; the Yosemite scenes (minus "Row, Row, Row Your Boat") and McCoy's "pain scene" are all highlights. Make no mistake: Final Frontier is a seriously-flawed film, but it is a far cry from the worst in the series and is certainly worth a watch.

9) Star Trek: Generations -- "They say time is the fire in which we burn."
We've now reached the bottom rungs where the films are so flawed that they become unwatchable; unfortunately, they're both TNG-era films. Generations was doomed from the start with a rushed pre-production and studio demands that a) Kirk must be in the film to pass the baton and b) the Enterprise-D from TNG must be destroyed to make way for a new ship in the following film. These story demands led to the creation of a limitlessly powerful plot device, the Nexus, which the characters only ever attempt to use in the most lazy way possible; i.e. with the ability to return to any point in time or space to stop Malcolm McDowell's madman, Picard chooses to return with Kirk to the last possible two minutes as opposed to, say, the first time he talked with McDowell in Ten Forward and having the two captains dump the bastard out an airlock. The story problems are too many to enumerate here and would require their own blog entry, but there are numerous production concerns as well; Nimoy and DeForest Kelley were unwilling to return for the beginning, so Scotty and Chekov are used instead which feels unnatural, especially since it is painfully obvious that their dialogue was written for Spock and McCoy; the TNG-series uniforms look awful on screen, and the constant swapping between TNG and DS9 uniforms seems unprofessional and annoys throughout; and the music score is as bland and uninspired as they come. With plot holes large enough to accommodate a starship and uneven production quality, Generations is a rushed mess. While some of the ideas within are solid, the execution is so poor that the film is difficult to sit through and isn't one to often be revisited.

10) Star Trek: Nemesis -- "Just when I thought this couldn't get any worse."
And here we splash down into the sewer. While Generations is a mess, it at least tried to be its own animal. Nemesis is a pathetic, shameless rip-off of Wrath of Khan, copying plot points (and even production methods) in a stupefyingly incompetant attempt to revitalize the franchise. From Khan: villain motivated by personal vendetta against the Captain, check; death of the beloved fan-favorite, check; weapon of unspeakable power, check; director hired from outside the franchise to invigorate with new life, check. The problems are that Picard's clone, Shinzon, is poorly conceived and motivated; Data already had an identical twin in Lore, but this was ignored so they could rehash old gags about androids employing childish behavior; the uneducated Reman underclass would have lacked the knowledge and resources to construct such a large, advanced weapon; and Stuart Baird is not Nicholas Meyer. It's obvious that the executives in charge had run out of ideas in the blatant recycling that occurred here, and it's insulting to the audience that they believed this lazy rehash was worth making. Perhaps these flaws are more forgivable to those more unfamiliar with the franchise, but anyone who has seen Wrath of Khan will know every twist and turn of the Nemesis story; there is nothing original here. It is a terrible shame that the TNG crew, the crew that I grew up watching on television, went out on such a sour note, but it is little wonder that between Insurrection's ambivalence and Nemesis' incompetence that the franchise was rebooted. The lack of imagination and refinement evidenced within this tenth Star Trek film is appalling; if you haven't seen it, do yourself a favor and don't. Anything within has been done better at an earlier point in the franchise, believe me.

Of course, you may be wondering why I haven't mentioned J.J. Abrams' 2009 reboot. Simply put, I don't view it as a part of this series, but rather the start of a new one. It is far more action-oriented and, while it got the character dynamics correct, much of Star Trek's thematic resonance was lost in the translation. Don't get me wrong; I greatly enjoyed Star Trek. But it's space opera, not science-fiction. And as such, it is separate from these ten films. For curiosity's sake, in terms of pure enjoyment, I would rank it approximately equal with First Contact.

And that's it. Almost a decade in the making, I have finally seen every Star Trek film and ranked them accordingly. I feel like I've earned some sort of merit badge...

An exerpt from "Dandelion Wine" by Ray Bradbury

[I had to type this passage for another purpose and, well, considering the length, I figured I would share it. If anyone is unfamiliar with the oeuvre of Mr. Bradbury and is unwilling to commit to reading an entire book, perhaps this will entice you further.]

The facts about John Huff, aged twelve, are simple and soon stated. He could pathfind more trails than any Choctaw or Cherokee since time began, could leap from the sky like a chimpanzee from a vine, could live underwater two minutes and slide fifty yards downstream from where you last saw him. The baseballs you pitched him he hit in the apple tree, knocking down harvests. He could jump six-foot orchard walls, swing up branches faster and come down, fat with peaches, quicker than anyone else in the gang. He ran laughing. He sat easy. He was not a bully. He was kind. His hair was dark and curly and his teeth were white as cream. He remembered the words to all the cowboy songs and would teach you if you asked. He knew the names of all the wild flowers and when the moon would rise and set and when the tides came in or out. He was, in fact, the only god living in the whole of Green Town, Illinois, during the twentieth century that Douglas Spaulding knew of.

And right now he and Douglas were hiking out beyond town on another warm and marble-round day, the sky blue blown-glass reaching high, the creeks bright with mirror waters fanning over white stones. It was a day as perfect as the flame of a candle.

Douglas walked through it thinking it would go on this way forever. The perfection, the roundness, the grass smell traveled on out ahead as far and fast as the speed of light. The sound of a good friend whistling like an oriole, pegging the softball, as you horse-danced, key-jingled the dusty paths, all of it was complete, everything could be touched; things stayed near, things were at hand and would remain.

It was such a fine day and then suddenly a cloud crossed the sky, covered the sun, and did not move again.

John Huff had been speaking quietly for several minutes. Now Douglas stopped on the path and looked over at him.

"John, say that again."

"You heard me the first time, Doug."

"Did you say you were -- going away?"

"Got my train ticket here in my pocket. Whoo-whoo, clang! Shush-shush-shush-shush. Whooooooooo..."

His voice faded.

John took the yellow and green train ticket solemnly from his pocket and they both looked at it.

"Tonight!" said Douglas. "My gosh! Tonight we were going to play Red Light, Green Light and Statues! How come, all of a sudden? You been here in Green Town all my life. You just don't pick up and leave!"

"It's my father," said John. "He's got a job in Milwaukee. We weren't sure until today."

"My gosh, here it is with the Baptist picnic next week and the big carnival Labor Day and Halloween -- can't your dad wait till then?"

John shook his head.

"Good grief!" said Douglas. "Let me sit down!"

They sat under an old oak tree on the side of the hill looking back at town, and the sun made large trembling shadows around them; it was cool as a cave in under the tree. Out beyond, in sunlight, the town was painted with heat, the windows all gaping. Douglas wanted to run back in there where the town, by its very weight, its houses, their bulk, might enclose and prevent John's ever getting up and running off.

"But we're friends," Douglas said helplessly.

"We always will be," said John.

"You'll come back to visit every week or so, won't you?"

"Dad says only once or twice a year. It's eighty miles."

"Eighty miles ain't far!" shouted Douglas.

"No, it's not far at all," said John.

"My grandma's got a phone. I'll call you. Or maybe we'll all visit up your way, too. That'd be great!"

John said nothing for a long while.

"Well," said Douglas, "let's talk about something."

"What?"

"My gosh, if you're going away, we got a million things to talk about! All the things we would've talked about next month, the month after! Praying mantises, zeppelins, acrobats, sword swallowers! Go on like you was back there, grasshoppers spitting tobacco!"

"Funny thing is I don't feel like talking about grasshoppers."

"You always did!"

"Sure." John looked steadily at the town. "But I guess this just ain't the time."

"John, what's wrong? You look funny...."

John had closed his eyes and screwed up his face. "Doug, the Terle house, upstairs, you know?"

"Sure."

"The colored windowpanes on the little round windows, have they always been there?"

"Sure."

"You positive?"

"Darned old windows been there since before we were born. Why?"

"I never saw them before today," said John. "On the way walking through town I looked up and there they were. Doug, what was I doing all these years I didn't see them?"

"You had other things to do."

"Did I?" John turned and looked in a kind of panic at Douglas. "Gosh, Doug, why should those darn windows scare me? I mean, that's nothing to be scared of, is it? It's just..." He floundered. "It's just, if I didn't see those windows until today, what else did I miss? And what about all the things I did see here in town? Will I be able to remember them when I go away?"

"Anything you want to remember, you remember. I went to camp two summers ago. Up there I remembered."

"No, you didn't! You told me. You woke nights and couldn't remember your mother's face."

"No!"

"Some nights it happens to me in my own house; scares heck out of me. I got to go in my folks' room and look at their faces while they sleep, to be sure! And I go back to my room and lose it again. Gosh, Doug, oh gosh!" He held onto his knees tight. "Promise me just one thing, Doug. Promise you'll remember me, promise you'll remember my face and everything. Will you promise?"

"Easy as pie. Got a motion-picture machine in my head. Lying in bed nights I can just turn on a light in my head and out it comes on the wall, clear as heck, and there you'll be, yelling and waving at me."

"Shut your eyes, Doug. Now, tell me, what color eyes I got? Don't peek. What color eyes I got?"

Douglas began to sweat. His eyelids twitched nervously. "Aw heck, John, that's not fair."

"Tell me!"

"Brown!"

John turned away. "No, sir."

"What you mean, no?"

"You're not even close!" John closed his eyes.

"Turn around here," said Douglas. "Open up, let me see."

"It's no use," said John. "You forgot already. Just the way I said."

"Turn around here!" Douglas grabbed him by the hair and turned him slowly.

"Okay, Doug."

John opened his eyes.

"Green." Douglas, dismayed, let his hand drop. "Your eyes are green.... Well, that's close to brown. Almost hazel!"

"Doug, don't lie to me."

"All right," said Doug quietly. "I won't."

They sat there listening to the other boys running up the hill, shrieking and yelling at them.

---

They raced along the railroad tracks, opened their lunch in brown-paper sacks, and sniffed deeply of the wax-wrapped deviled-ham sandwiches and green-sea pickles and colored peppermints. They ran and ran again and Douglas bent to scorch his ear on the hot steel rails, hearing trains so far away they were unseen voyagings in other lands, sending Morse-code messages to him here under the killing sun. Douglas stood up, stunned.

"John!"

For John was running, and this was terrible. Because if you ran, time ran. You yelled and screamed and raced and rolled and tumbled and all of a sudden the sun was gone and the whistle was blowing and you were on your long way home to supper. When you weren't looking, the sun got around behind you! The only way to keep things slow was to watch everything and do nothing! You could stretch a day to three days, sure, just by watching!

"John!"

There was no way to get him to help now, save by a trick.

"John, ditch, ditch the others!"

Yelling, Douglas and John sprinted off, kiting the wind downhill, letting gravity work for them, over meadows, around barns until at last the sound of the pursuers faded.

John and Douglas climbed into a haystack which was like a great bonfire crisping under them.

"Let's not do anything," said John.

"Just what I was going to say," said Douglas.

They sat quietly, getting their breath.

There was a small sound like an insect in the hay.

They both heard it, but they didn't look at the sound. When Douglas moved his wrist the sound ticked in another part of the haystack. When he brought his arm around on his lap the sound ticked in his lap. He let his eyes fall in a brief flicker. The watch said three o'clock.

Douglas moved his right hand stealthily to the ticking, pulled out the watch stem. He set the hands back.

Now they had all the time they would ever need to look long and close at the world, feel the sun move like a fiery wind over the sky.

But at last John must have felt the bodiless weight of their shadows shift and lean, and he spoke.

"Doug, what time is it?"

"Two-thirty."

John looked at the sky.

Don't! thought Douglas.

"Looks more like three-thirty, four," said John. "Boy Scout. You learn them things."

Douglas sighed and slowly turned the watch ahead.

John watched him do this, silently. Douglas looked up. John punched him, not hard at all, in the arm.

---

With a swift stroke, a plunge, a train came and went so quickly the boys all leaped aside, yelling, shaking their fists after it, Douglas and John with them. The train roared down the track, two hundred people in it, gone. The dust followed it a little way toward the south, then settled in the golden silence among the blue rails.

The boys were walking home.

"I'm going to Cincinnati when I'm seventeen and be a railroad fireman," said Charlie Woodman.

"I got an uncle in New York," said Jim. "I'll go there and be a printer."

Doug did not ask the others. Already the trains were chanting and he saw their faces drifting off on back observation platforms, or pressed to windows. One by one they slid away. And then the empty track and the summer sky and himself on another train run in another direction.

Douglas felt the earth move under his feet and saw their shadows move off the grass and color the air.

He swallowed hard, then gave a screaming yell, pulled back his fist, shot the indoor ball whistling in the sky. "Last one's home's a rhino's behind!"

They pounded down the tracks, laughing, flailing the air. There went John Huff, not touching the ground at all. And here came Douglas, touching it all the time.

---

It was seven o'clock, supper over, and the boys gathering one by one from the sound of their house doors slammed and their parents crying to them not to slam the doors. Douglas and Tom and Charlie and John stood among half a dozen others and it was time for hide-and-seek and Statues.

"Just one game," said John. "Then I got to go home. The train leaves at nine. Who's going to be it?"

"Me," said Douglas.

"That's the first time I ever heard of anybody volunteering to be 'it,'" said Tom.

Douglas looked at John for a long moment. "Start running," he cried.

The boys scattered, yelling. John backed away, then turned and began to lope. Douglas counted slowly. He let them run far, spread out, separate each to this own small world. When they had got their momentum up and were almost out of sight he took a deep breath.

"Statues!"

Everyone froze.

Very quietly Douglas moved across the lawn to where John Huff stood like an iron deer in the twilight.

Far away, the other boys stood hands up, faces grimaced, eyes bright as stuffed squirrels.

But here was John, alone and motionless and no one rushing or making a great outcry to spoil this moment.

Douglas walked around the statue one way, walked around the statue the other way. The statue did not move. It did not speak. It looked at the horizon, its mouth half smiling.

It was like that time years ago in Chicago when they had visited a big place where the carved marble figures were, and his walking around them in the silence. So here was John Huff with grass stains on his knees and the seat of his pants, and cuts on his fingers and scabs on his elbows. Here was John Huff with the quiet tennis shoes, his feet sheathed in silence. There was the mouth that had chewed many an apricot pie come summer, and said many a quiet thing or two about life and the lay of the land. And there were the eyes, not blind like statues' eyes, but filled with molten green-gold. And there the dark hair blowing now north now south or any direction in the little breeze there was. And there the hands with all the town on them, dirt from roads and bark-slivers from trees, the fingers that smelled of hemp and vine and green apple, old coins or pickle-green frogs. There were the ears with the sunlight shining through them like bright warm peach wax and here, invisible, his spearmint-breath upon the air.

"John, now," said Douglas, "don't you move so much as an eyelash. I absolutely command you to stay here and not move at all for the next three hours!"

"Doug..."

John's lips moved.

"Freeze!" said Douglas.

John went back to looking at the sky, but he was not smiling now.

"I got to go," he whispered.

"Not a muscle, it's the game!"

"I just got to get home now," said John.

Now the statue moved, took its hands down out of the air and turned its head to look at Douglas. They stood looking at each other. The other kids were putting their arms down, too.

"We'll play one more round," said John, "except, this time, I'm 'it.' Run!"

The boys ran.

"Freeze!"

The boys froze, Douglas with them.

"Not a muscle!" shouted John. "Not a hair!"

He came and stood by Douglas.

"Boy, this is the only way to do it," he said.

Douglas looked off at the twilight sky.

"Frozen statues, every single one of you, the next three minutes," said John.

Douglas felt John walking around him even as he had walked around John a moment ago. He felt John sock him on the arm once, not too hard. "So long," he said.

Then there was a rushing sound and he knew without looking that there was nobody behind him now.

Far away, a train whistle sounded.

Douglas stood that way for a full minute, waiting for the sound of the running to fade, but it did not stop. He's still running away, but he doesn't sound any further off, thought Douglas. Why doesn't he stop running?

And then he realized it was only the sound of his heart in his body.

Stop! He jerked his hand to his chest. Stop running! I don't like that sound!

And then he felt himself walking across the lawns among all the other statues now, and whether they, too, were coming to life he did not know. They did not seem to be moving at all. For that matter he himself was only moving from the knees down. The rest of him was cold stone, and very heavy.

Going up the front porch of his house, he turned suddenly to look at the lawns behind him.

The lawns were empty.

A series of rifle shots. Screen doors banged one after the other, a sunset volley, along the street.

Statues are best, he thought. They're the only things you can keep on your lawn. Don't ever let them move. Once you do, you can't do a thing with them.

Suddenly his fist shot out like a piston from his side and it shook itself hard at the lawns and the street and the gathering dusk. His face was choked with blood, his eyes were blazing.

"John!" he cried. "You, John! John, you're my enemy, you hear? You're no friend of mine! Don't come back now, ever! Get away, you! Enemy, you hear? That's what you are! It's all off between us, you're dirt, that's all, dirt! John, you hear me, John!"

As if a wick had been turned a little lower in a great clear lamp beyond the town, the sky darkened still more. He stood on the porch, his mouth gasping and working. His fist still thrust straight out at that house across the street and down the way. He looked at the fist and it dissolved, the world dissolved beyond it.

Going upstairs, in the dark, where he could only feel his face but see nothing of himself, not even his fists, he told himself over and over, I'm mad, I'm angry, I hate him, I'm mad, I'm angry, I hate him!

Ten minutes later, slowly he reached the top of the stairs, in the dark...

---

"Tom," said Douglas, "just promise me one thing, okay?"

"It's a promise. What?"

"You may be my brother and maybe I hate you sometimes, but stick around, all right?"

"You mean you'll let me follow you and the older guys when you go on hikes?"

"Well... sure... even that. What I mean is, don't go away, huh? Don't let any cars run over you or fall off a cliff."

"I should say not! Whatta you think I am, anyway?"

"'Cause if worst comes to worst, and both of us are real old -- say forty or forty-five some day -- we can own a gold mine out West and sit there smoking corn silk and growing beards."

"Growing beards! Boy!"

"Like I say, you stick around and don't let nothing happen."

"You can depend on me," said Tom.

"It's not you I worry about," said Douglas. "It's the way God runs the world."

Tom thought about this for a moment.

"He's all right, Doug," said Tom. "He tries."

FAT BOY SLIM, or: How I Stopped Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the PS3

Most people who know me may remember my initial skepticism regarding Sony's console this generation.  They marketed it as the crème de la crème, selling it at the seemingly ridiculous price of $599, and while Sony was indeed the market leader by a vast margin at the time, their corporate attitude stunk horribly of hubris.  I even made a documentary short on the subject, poking fun at Sony while trumpeting Nintendo's Wii as the undiscovered country of gaming.  Blu-ray was a waste of money, the outcome of its war with HD-DVD still in heavy dispute, and the majority of consumers would be satisfied with their upscaled DVDs for years to come as they only finally managed to get the full worth of even those discs as they upgraded to their 16:9 digital displays.

That was then; this is now.  And boy, have times changed.

The Wii and I had a short and somewhat bitter marriage, with the smooth promise of "Super Mario Galaxy" somewhat undermined by the annoying shake controls of "Twilight Princess," the imprecision of "Okami," and most of all by the blurry 480p graphics.  "Galaxy" was beautiful, no doubt, but it was painful to consider just how much more beautiful it would have been had it been rendered on tech that wasn't nearly a decade old.  When the most satisfying experience on your console is bowling, you have problems.  The Wii has migrated to other lands than mine.

My 360, my first investment in this generation, rests atop a small table, an improvised stand in the tiny bedroom, practically unused.  I fear to play it, having gotten the dreaded RROD once already, and am annoyed that because I was an early adopter, I am forced to live with using the outdated VGA cable for my video connection rather than the more simple and reliable HDMI that came with the later Elite and Zephyr boards.  Inserting a disc is equally a scary proposition as the drive has clearly begun to wear and the DVD upscaler leaves much to be desired.  The media player is, like its Windows counterpart, clunky and dysfunctional.  Our relationship is on the skids, hanging on by the threads of "Symphony of the Night," "Arkham Asylum," and "The Orange Box," as I have little desire to repurchase these titles again for the small influx of cash that disposing of the system would bring.

By contrast, the relationship with my new sleek black mistress is thriving, primarily due to a single factor:  the once-dreaded Blu-ray.  Having conquered HD-DVD, and with the ugly spectre of locking discs to specific players seemingly discarded (so far), it appears that my initial reluctance was somewhat misplaced.  Granted, at the time I had a television only capable of 720p, but now, having benefited from a defect-related refund, I have a 1080p set and am capable of receiving the full benefits of the format's resolution.  Indeed, while I had thought that quite a few of my upscaled DVDs looked excellent, Blu-rays -- at least on spectacle films stuffed with comprehension-defying detail -- are absolutely superb.  The Planet Earth series features perhaps the greatest picture I have ever seen; it is truly awe-inspiring, with vibrant colors and a three-dimensional POP! that is wholly lacking from the six-times reduced DVD image.  Honestly, I've still yet to be impressed by the "added functionality" that the Blu-ray profile and BD-Java brings to the bonus features, but I whole-heartedly confess that I was mistaken about the benefit in regards to image.  With the right material, it is a TREMENDOUS leap forward.

Additionally, with the new Slim models, the PS3 is little more expensive than a fully-featured stand-alone player with the added substantial benefit of game functionality.  I can still get my "God of War" fix, and I've found a surprising wealth in rediscovering "Final Fantasy VII."  Media streaming works splendidly through TVersity with a slick interface and a gorgeous visualization of the earth from orbit.  While I've not taken full advantage yet, it's nice that I don't have to pay a subscription fee to access multiplayer or to use my Netflix account over PSN.  Not to mention that the design of the system itself, from the curvy onyx surface to the liquid smooth XMB interface, oozes class.  The sound of a tuning orchestra gives me chills every time I start up the machine; it's pretentious, perhaps, but also far more pleasant to the ear than the annoying strobe sound effect on the 360 (along with the painful memories of the console freezing half the times it was started).

No one is more surprised than I at how far my opinions have changed.  I've no doubt that watching the gripes in my doc would seem quaint (for a whole host of reasons).  I regretted and rectified my purchase of a Wii, and I still regret receiving an Xbox 360; if I knew four years ago what I know now, undoubtedly I'd have simply waited for a PS3 -- there's still no way in hell I'd have paid $599, even if the damn Xbox ended up costing a considerable amount higher due to Microsoft's nickel-and-diming.

In the future, I'll maintain greater respect for my Tokyo overlords.

La Cucaracha

It is with no small amount of pleasure that I bask in the knowledge that soon I will be out of this infested hive of an apartment in three days' time.  I have killed two roaches in The Room That Formally Was Neil's, both disturbingly close to where my mattress is resting on the floor.  The first one was tiny, likely a tiny roach baby.  That makes me Aaron, the roach baby-killer.  Perhaps Roach O'Reilly will invoke the lunatic roach right-wing to assassinate me... but their window of opportunity draws to an end.  The second was an adult and left an adult-sized smear of goo on the floor from where I stomped its head and its stomach into gooey roach paste.  More than likely, I am a roach-baby-mama-killer as well.

In three days, I will be moving to Van Nuys to share David's studio until I can get an income and properly support my own damn self.  I visited last weekend and was very pleasantly surprised.  The living space will be roughly equal to when we shared Conquest's supposed "one-bedroom" in Tropicana, but with an infinitely superior location and more closet space to boot.  I was even surprised that I enjoyed the Valley, which is tantamount to sacrilege, I know.  But I'm still a suburban midwesterner deep inside, and that means that on some deep dark dirty psychological level, I find large strip malls and open wide parking lots -- the So Cal prairie lands -- comforting.  That of course is with the full knowledge that the full urban culture experience is only a half-hour drive away, should I so choose to escape the inanity of it all.

I've got an interview at the Arclight after years of swearing that I would never work again in a movie theater.  Granted, there's a large difference between the cheap theater in an Ohio suburb overrun with over-caffeinated pre-teens and the Arclight, but its not exactly the halcyon days of my youth we're talking about here.  Still, in an economy this shitty, a job is a job, and I'm sure I won't mind taking full advantage of the employee discount.  Hopefully, if I do start working there, it won't be too long before Amotz and Echo Lake can find something more substantial (or something good happens on the writing front, but finding a good job is more likely to happen first, I would imagine).  And if the Arclight doesn't work, I still have the possibility of joining the hipsters at Amoeba.  And other jobs worthy of my brand-spanking-new $160,000 degree.

The night is dark and hot as hell.  It is no doubt warmer in Van Nuys, and yet it in no way deters my desire to get out of the proverbial Dodge.  Three days.  A few more to possibly landing a job.  And if more roaches get in my way, I may give Hans Landa a run for his money as the most vicious mass-murder this summer.

La cucaracha, la cucaracha,

ya no puede caminar

porque no tiene, porque le falta

las dos patitas de atrás.

Northern Lights

Dark stillness hovers in sky above
Void of man’s wisdom and his love
Only emptiness and longing
Glinting pinpricks of faded light
Distant echoes of lost memories.

But softly shimmering you appear
Magnificent ribbon amongst the stars
Nature’s magic, igniting dreams
What wonders yet remain unseen?
The heavens harmonize to your song.

Endless night once spurned must stay
Your glories radiant expand my sight
Would ever I possess titanic strength
For the dreaded daylight to restrain
And in your glow forever basking
To remain.

"Never Underestimate the Power of Stupid People in Large Groups"

Today, I read this article and some of the comments surrounding it, and I have to say that it riles me up.

Changing "Sci-Fi" to "Syfy" is quite possibly the most ridiculous change in branding I have come across in my 23 years of existence. Supposedly, their focus group says that it is similar to how the channel would "text," but honestly, it makes me think of syphilis. Not exactly an appealing notion to market your network on. It's also clearly a step in "broadening" the appeal of the network for a "more mainstream" audience.

What happened to the concept of loyalty in this country? To fidelity? To fit into a niche and supporting a small but very loyal following? Why is every product dumbed down to the lowest common denominator (ECW Wrestling, reality TV, etc.)? The entire purpose of cable TV was to create content for these niche audiences, content that wouldn't be found on the networks, but now, in the midst of a conglomerated culture that has sought to be all things to all people in an effort to post the most profit in the least amount of time, diversity is considered nothing more than an impediment to dividends. They want babys and grandmas (but most especially those Generation X-ers in-between) to watch everything at every time for maximum revenue generation. It's not about long-term loyalty and all about short-term profit margins -- the same bullshit mentality that has brought this country's economy to its knees.

Personally, I have a hard time believing that "Syfy" was rigorously vetted through focus groups. Sure, you can trademark it, but that doesn't make it intelligent or appealing. I see only syphilis.

It should be a hit for the kids.

The other mass stupidity on my mind today is this constant scapegoating of the media. No matter if you're a lefty-loony or a righty-tighty, the media is always biased to the other side if what they report doesn't subscribe to your viewpoint. Right now, if Obama is praised or defended, it's the liberal elite media. If he's criticized or if Bush is defended, it's the corporate shill mainstream media. I'm not saying that there's no validity to such complaints, but to simply dismiss all the media because one article or reporter apparently takes a stand different that your own is sophomoric at best and schizophrenic at worst.

To my mind, the fact that both sides can complain suggests that SOMETHING must be right; if one side were always ignored, there might be some validity, but everyday the media is presented as both; even the same network can be accused of being "Obamabots" or "rethuglicans" at the SAME TIME. If anything, the problem is that the media is incompetant, having lost sight of reporting the truth and is instead more interested in "gets" and generating maximum ratings -- another casualty of the modern corporate culture. It is perfectly natural to disagree with the media's spin, perhaps even preferable. We shouldn't resort to namecalling and generalization simply due to disagreements. Calling out a specific person or article, that's fair, but a blanket dismissal is intellectually lazy.

We've got to end this entire "more is more" corporate stupidity in this country, wanting all with us now and forgetting about the long haul. Whether it's crushing a niche market or devaluing alternative points-of-view, this mentality is undermining the fabric of America. We were meant to disagree, to listen to varied opinions, and to enjoy different leisures. These differences are what keeps our society dynamic and in balance; without them, we will become stagnant and "drown" in our own filth. We can break off into smaller, more concentrated groups, whether it be the Green Party or a gang of geeks settling down for a Star Trek marathon. That way, when we all mingle at work or the neighborhood barbecue, the interactions will be all the richer for it.

Smarter, smaller, more diverse trains of thought for all!