Elemental Developmental

Stunts. Fighting. Falling. Deserts. Forests. Snow. Waterfalls. Saloons. Dames. Kissing. Guns. Tanks. Biplanes. Napoleon. George Washington. The Spanish Armada. Radioactivity. Monkeys. Torches. Underground dungeons. Mad scientists. Beautiful lab assistants. Vampires. The Brooklyn Bridge. Punching. Orson Welles. Icebergs. Fencing. 18-year old Scotch. Fires. Duels. Aristocracy. Cotton plantations. Machetes. Sideways glances. Smirking.

What do all of these things have in common? They all comprise elements of the single greatest movie ever made (as soon as someone makes it). Will someone out there make it? Please? I would but I'm busy with a thing...you know. Start by coming up with a title.

For example: 10 Days to Ticino

Oh, and put this guy somewhere in it! He looks about to cause some trouble, with a capital T!

It's a dollar twenty-five.

Vending machine meals. I've had plenty of these over the years. Sometimes you aren't in the mood to walk to a restaurant, or get out in traffic and find something, but you don't know what. It is easier to go down the hall, gaze into a glass and metal box at a small - but diverse - selection of prepackaged foods that are meant to be tasty. I fully understand that they are not "good for you." There are probably lots of scientific reasons that they will actively kill you, but just not right now. It's not like they are a poisoned apple from which you will fall into a coma and never awake. They'll just destroy your body a day at a time, which is why I try not to make that a daily routine.

I might be the only person in the world who suffers from this, but I doubt it: a lot of times when it is necessary to put food stuffs into my body to sustain my existence, I have no clear idea of what I want to shove in my mouth. I'm at a loss. It's like my mind becomes blank and I can't remember my address or the abc's. At these times I would be a horrible $25,000 Pyramid contestant. It's on a bun! You put cheese on it sometimes! You grill it! You eat it with french fries! Uh, I dunno. A pickle? I swear it's like horrible disease of the brain. Which is why vending machines are such a nice backup. I don't have to think; I just peer through a pane of glass and see what is most appealing according to my baser instincts. If the swiss cake rolls had a picture of a busty woman on them, you'd better believe I get them over the animal crackers.

I do have a semblance of rationality when I make a selection. It might only make sense to the most childish part of my brain, but it's something. If this is replacing a meal, then I must have the requisite amount of calories to sustain my active lifestyle. Fortunately, my metabolism is still high enough to keep me from gaining lots of pounds as I consume way more than my healthy share of calories, according to the FDA. So, I get whatever I can, depending on how much money I'm willing to spend, which is usually as much as I have on me - I can't resist the lure of certain things, like gummy bears or Mrs. Freshley's Creamy Curls. And of course, I always feel physically sick afterwards. It's just not good for your body to consume a thousand calories of prepackaged sugary treats. But I don't regret it at all. It's quite a thing to sit in your chair at work with an upset stomach, knowing full well you did it to yourself, yet also knowing full well that you'll do it again with glee. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week.

I will say that I wish they put more healthy options in those things. I mean, the point of the vending machine for me isn't that it's junk food, but rather that it's there food. It's convenience and selection without having to think. It's glorious instant gratification. It's push a button, get a prize. So it wouldn't matter to me if it was a Snickers or a fresh giant apple. But I guess the candy bars last longer. However, for all of the healthy posturing I put forth, no amount of preservative-free, nutritious foods will take the place of a Big Texas Cinnamon Roll or any kind of iced honey bun. Those things have my vote any day! In fact, from now on, in any election in which I don't like either candidate, I'm gonna write in "Mrs. Freshley."

VRONK!*

I like watching action movies. I like watching martial-arts movies, which could be a subset of the former or its own unique genre, depending on how you look at it. I think about fighting all of the time when I daydream. However, I have the ability to realize the difference between real life and make believe. I would like to say I learned this the hard way, but I didn't. I've never really been in a fight. Not really.

During the summer between 8th and 9th grade, I was welcomed into the unjust world of mistaken identity. I was walking along the sidewalk across from our small town's Junior High during the long, arduous trek of less than one mile from my mom's house to my dad's house. Actually, it was the middle of the day so I was going over to my friend's house who lived across the street from my dad. But there I was, without a care in the world, yet with my wits about me.

I sensed an unease as I heard a vehicle pull up behind me. To be honest, it wasn't really my powerful sensing ability, but rather the fact that the pickup truck screeched to a halt as its driver belatedly realized that his unsuspecting victim was ripe for an engagement with the bully fairy. Can a high school-aged boy be called a bully? Or is he simply a dick-face? What happened next is clear in my mind, even now, sixteen years later. But it probably only lasted about sixteen seconds.

The compact pickup truck screeched to a halt. Two youths popped out of the bed onto the sidewalk behind me. The driver and a passenger also exited with haste and came up on my side. At this point I was still walking, but turning to my left to face the road and gather my situation. When the girl who was riding in the middle seat screamed, "No, [someone's name I couldn't make out], NO!" I began to realize the gravity of this little scenario. They weren't poor, lost travelers looking for directions. They were ruffians looking for someone to rough up. The fact that three out of the four were shirtless nailed the case shut. [Shirtless guys in trucks=bad news.]

When I halted and tried my best to act like, Hey guys, what's up? You need something?, the leader of the pack actually looked kind of nice. He said in a charming, but rushed, tone, "Yo Tim, we need to talk with you." Before I could protest that I wasn't this Tim fellow, one of the guys from behind let fly one of his fists, which, due to its position at my six, connected on the back side of my right jaw. I felt it coming even though I couldn't see it.

Immediately, I fell to the ground and curled up like a roly poly. I was sure they were going to kick the shit out of me, so I used my two arms to protect my head and my belly. As clear as this all is in my head, I can't remember if they did any kicking or not. If they did, it was quick and half-hearted. Because a second or two after I hit the deck they were jumping for their truck and took off with a screeching of tires. As soon as that happened, I popped up and hauled ass back to my mom's house, which was only two blocks away. I smoked down that street. I'm not sure I've ran as hard in my life, and I wasn't winded at all.

From the moment I sensed something amiss to the moment I hit my mom's front porch, I felt very little. The punch, the ground, the running; they were all far in the background, as my adrenaline was thickly coursing through my veins. It is here that my memory stops. I can't remember if I made it to my friend's house later that day. I'm sure that I regaled him and my mom the story. I'm sure my mom was super hot and wanted to hire a bodyguard for me. But I was fine. Nothing had actually happened.

This was the smallest scuff with a rough crowd that anyone encountered as a child. It wasn't a fight. It wasn't an attack. It was just some hooligans who wanted to scare a smaller kid. I still think that they mistook me for another kid in my class named Tim Cox. I mentioned it to him when school started up. He laughed and said, "Sorry about that." He wasn't surprised that such kids might want to visit harm upon him, but he certainly wasn't worried about it. Maybe they just saw an opportunity to bully and Tim was the first name that popped into the driver's head.

Because I don't really count that as a fight, I don't really know what a real scrape feels like. I've been to parties, heard some stories, and they all sound like scary messes that I would just as likely avoid. Most people end up unnecessarily hurt. I've done some thinking over the years as to the honor of the situation. Should I have stood and fought back? Should I not have run home but continued on my way? I really can't answer those questions because I wasn't thinking about it at the time. My reactions were completely involuntary. Maybe my mind consciously acted, but if so, it was instinct.

I've heard some stories about trained fighters who have been in a situation or two. They talk about instinct and training, too. They mention that all of these things escalate and happen so quickly that a person doesn't have time to think it through. It usually just happens, and then you are left with the consequences. One person told me that in his mind a fight is to the death, that he must be prepared to defend his life up to and including taking someone else's, because you never know what someone else knows or can do or is willing to do. Which is why he said he has never gotten in a fight. He has always walked away before something could happen.

Having described my little incident during my youth, I don't want anyone to think that my town was a hot bed of lawless thugs. That's just the west side.

* For more onomatopeyas

Confession of a Gummy Bear Addict

I'm what most people would call an uninformed voter. I lay claim to this description because a.) I don't watch TV, b.) I don't read the newspaper, and c.) I rarely vote for anyone unless I have heard of them (which isn't often). I realize this is an important right and duty of a citizen of this fine country, and that I should take it seriously. But I've got so many more pressing things to do. Like trying to decide which record to play.

The government seems like an extremely complicated thing. I've tried reading articles online about this issue or that issue, but they all require A LOT of background knowledge of both the issue and the "system" that created the issue. This could be the legal system, the criminal system, the economic system (is that a real term?), etc. Local politics are the worst. I have no idea what people are talking about, mostly because city governments sometimes don't look anything like the federal government (which gets the most press and which I know the most about - from high school civics).

So, mostly I'm just running through life without a clue as to how it is run by the wheels of society and its laws. For example, the price of gas. Most people are really frustrated and a little ticked off because it's getting more and more expensive each day. I have no idea what is causing this, but I did come across this post that attempts to explain it in terms I can understand. If I think about this in non-emotional terms, I understand that the world changes and that isn't under my control.

I suppose if I vote for this person or that person, then it will all be better or worse. One thing is certain, though, it won't remain the same. Since I'm a librarian, I suppose I should be able to find some news sources to scour and start to think critically about the points of view they are representing. This might require some background reading on one of those systems I referred to earlier. Then I could spend some time and read up on political candidates and see what they promise and compare it to their earlier efforts. After doing that I could cast a confident vote based on my well-researched opinion and judgment of those vying for employment by me and everyone else. Or I could go re-read The Prisoner of Zenda, instead, and marvel at all of the swordfights and escapism.

I have a few friends who work directly in the field of politics and I mean no disrespect to them. I'm not encouraging laziness or ignoring our responsibilities to society by meaningfully participating in it. Most days, though, I'd rather go running or watch a movie than spend time thinking about why everything is the way it is. I have a tough enough time trying to resist the call of the gummy bear.

Unidentified Creatures in Hawaiian Shirts

I saw two movies this weekend about aliens. One was good and the other was so-so. I won't name the titles, lest I ruin them for anyone. But aliens make for some good speculative fiction, even if it isn't well told. I find that our fascination with other-worldly beings is an expression of hope that we aren't alone in the universe, and that we aren't the worst.

Think about it. The majority of aliens are monsters who try to eat us up. Rarely are they cool beings who want to be our friend or give us hugs, take pictures, and then keep going to their vacation spot on Rigel 4. It must be our predisposition to fear what we don't understand. And we all know that fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, and hate leads to the dark side. So we make our space friends out to be baddies who probably don't have souls and just want to blow us up like some kind of faceless Mongol horde. Their motives are reduced to animalistic instincts for survival and territorial superiority.

If beings contact Earth by direct means, such as flying near it in saucers or whathaveyou, then I wonder if they are bent on evil. We could prepare for the worst. But if another species has perfected interstellar travel, which we haven't (yet), then would they be so predisposed to malevolence? What would NASA do? If we found life on another planet, would we want to just stop and say, "Hey dudes, what's up? We're from Earth; do you like playing cards?" Or would we discover if they posed any kind of credible threat and try to set up shop and figure out some sort of trading scheme that would ultimately benefit us at their expense? That's what the 17th century Dutch would have done.

So, I wonder if those little dudes that came from the skies and found in New Mexico were sinister or not. Did they deserve such bad treatment from us? I bet they were just lost as hell and the dad didn't want to ask for directions, and you know how that goes. Then they find themselves all crashed and dissected. I guess the moral of my story is: always ask for directions when you get the chance!

Something

It's late and I'm tired. But I have an afterthought post.

This evening one of my colleagues and I had a pleasant philosophical discussion about the woes of today's society. It makes me feel like a crusty old curmudgeon when I talk about things these days, as if I've lived many decades of mistakes-filled years leading to a wise, old beard full of white hairs. The truth is that I'm just as dumb as the next twenty-something, but I still calls it like I sees it.

We talked about civilization and how we, as a society today, may not entirely think of others when springing into action. This goes beyond mere selfishness, which we all can agree includes taking forever to get around and making the rest of us miss the previews, but involves people living for themselves. I'm very guilty of this, too.

One of these ideas is making money verses making something of yourself. A lot of decisions made by people, young and old, are made on the account of money and how much we can gain by doing something. It is an end to justify all means. I need to make dolla-dolla bills, y'all, so I can buy my sweet laptop, so I can get online wherever I want, so I can look for the second job I need to score so mo' money, because I needs that HD TV. Well, I don't want to make this into an anti-capitalist rant, or sound like we all need to stop being such consumers. I'm a proud American, after all, and I love the hundred different brands of bottled root beer that our society has made.

However, the idea of making something of ourselves struck me as old-fashioned. My colleague was referring to gaining skills, a trade, wisdom, life, and compassion, through the important institutions of education and service to society. Once we learn how to do something, we are obliged to put it in use for the service of everyone else. We also must learn what's important to do in relation to others and what we like best out of all of that. It's one thing to charge people money, and tons of it, to fix their leaky faucets or represent them in court, it's another to feed off of their misunderstandings and ignorance like greedy extortionists (you hear me credit card companies!). I mean, no one says when they are a little kid, "I want to grow up and profit by exploiting college kids and the elderly with their lack of knowledge of compound interest and global economics."

Life sure isn't as simple as my current beef with Bank of America, but I think we would all be in better shape if we asked ourselves from time to time, how am I making something of myself for me and for others?

The Stage of Death

Has this ever happened to you? You watch a movie and, depending on the subject matter, want to be just like the protaganist. Or you're simply in the mood for whatever has been going on.

For example, Don Juan DeMarco; after watching that, I just want to be a ladies man extraordinaire. Or when I finish watching Singing in the Rain, I want to be a dancer like Gene Kelly. And when bullets stop flying, cars stop smashing and fists stop punching in the Bourne series, I want to tour the world whilst evading the US government.

So, what's it like when I watch something like The Phantom of the Opera? You can bet I want to travel around the catacombs beneath Paris, raising all kinds of hell! Which brings me to the main subject of this post: creepy old theatres.

What's the deal with old theatres and creepiness? They seem to go hand in hand, like peanut butter and bananas, or pretzels and milk. Old theatres have a kind of depressing, lost-innocence, other-worldly, historical mustiness about them. If they haven't been constantly renovated, then at some point they will have been officially forgotten by time and left to the ravages of dust and mildew and paint chips. When it happens, it happens quickly. The elements all break down - the lightbulbs become more dim, the metal finishes fade, the carpet wears thin, and the pictures look evil. It's like some goth kid's dream.

Also, I'm talking about stage theatres, which might have shown some films in their day, but had lots of dramatic or comedic acting played upon them, too. Actors are a notorious profession for having exciting (read: morally questionable) lives. Lots of drama involving the sexes and high principles must have plagued their ranks inside and outside of the theatres. Egos, girlfriends, and money all took part in duels of ambition, lust and greed. There can be no doubt that ghosts often frequent these stages, back rooms and, hopefully, cellars. And those ghosts couldn't have died in a good mood.

So the next time you and some chums are wondering what to do on a cold, dark Saturday night, why not make some cookies and go exploring an old theatre with some flashlights and six hours of horror movies fresh in your brain?

Man, all of those people sure give me the creeps!