Yearly Archives: 2013

Write that down. Did you write it? Use that for the article, that’s a good one.

I’m reading the newspaper, all of these articles where the writer is interviewing someone, a politician, a business owner, maybe some guy on the street in order to get a sense of how the public feels. Whenever I see those quotation marks, I’m always trying to imagine myself as if I were there, a guy on the sidewalk watching a journalist hold up a mini tape recorder to a person’s face, getting that quotation.

It’s got to be a tough job, listening to people, letting them get their side of the story out. Even if you aren’t the most opinionated person in the world, I imagine that, if you have a microphone thrust in your face, you’re going to have something to say. If you’re writing an article for a newspaper, you’re supposed to get a bunch of different viewpoints, right? So that means going through all of those clips and trying to piece together a sentence here and a comment there that’ll make sense in terms of what you’re trying to put down on paper.

And maybe you are the most opinionated person in the world. Maybe a reporter is asking your take on a story and you’ve got a lot to say about it. “Write that down,” I can hear someone telling a reporter, sprinkling it in every few sentences, “Make sure you write that down too,” after an especially poignant insight, “Did you get that down? Put that in the article.”

I wrote for my newspaper in college, but only opinion pieces. I’ve always felt like the whole process of researching something, then calling people up to talk about it, then doing all of that fact-checking and everything … it’s just way too much like schoolwork, that is, too many separate little things that I’d have to somehow edit and coalesce to make a finished product.

Why go through all of that trouble when I could just run my mouth, pull words straight out of my ass, give it a very quick read through to make sure I haven’t made any egregious grammatical errors or contradicted myself several times throughout the course of a piece, and then call it a day?

But toward the end of my senior year I wanted to branch out a little. I wrote an article for the sports section about the water polo team. I felt like I needed to write a news article. The news editor gave me a story, I don’t remember the details, but I know I had to call up the head of campus security. When the phone rang, I was really surprised that he actually answered it. I had really only prepared to leave a voicemail message, to get one in return, and then to use that as the quote for what I’d put down in the article.

I think it was maybe about safety? I can’t remember. The only thing I do recall is not really having much to say, and this guy knew it, but he was nice enough to play along with the wannabe journalist. I got home, the whole interview process left me a little less than confident about my credentials to write a news piece, and so instead of finding random students on campus to continue the investigative process, I just made a bunch of fake quotes and attributed them to my friends and roommates.

And so yeah, part of me wishes that I had started with the news pieces earlier, like maybe instead of bailing after one awkward article, I could have stuck it out, learned how to do it for real. Because whenever I read a quote, from the mayor, from a homeless person, I always have their voices in my head, I’m always piecing together the ninety percent of the interview that didn’t make it to the finished product. The “write that down,” and, “Ooh, ooh, make you sure you get that, make you use that in the article. That was a really good one. You’re going to use that, right?” But I don’t know, because I never bothered, and now I’m just stuck sitting here imagining how everything goes down in real life.

Movie Review: Riddick

I remember seeing Pitch Black when I was a sophomore in high school. I had never heard of Vin Diesel before. In fact, I don’t even think I knew what the movie was about when I bought my ticket. But it was amazing, a sci-fi thriller, a prison transport ship goes down on an isolated planet overrun with alien monsters that rule the night.

Diesel starred as Richard Riddick, a convict with special eyes that could see in the dark. His exploits gave way to a sequel, or a prequel, The Chronicles of Riddick, I’m not sure about the specifics, because I never saw the film. But Riddick’s at it again this time in Riddick, which, without ever having seen part two, it feels like almost a direct sequel to Pitch Black.

There’s no f’n around. Right from the beginning we find what appears to be a corpse’s wrist sticking out of the ground. Diesel’s monotone voiceover explains that, “This isn’t the first time I’ve been counted out,” as the hand springs to life, strangling an alien vulture that got a little too bitey with Riddick’s fingers.

And that choke scene, as the lizard/bird thing squirmed and died in Riddick’s blood-caked hand, it was obvious that whoever financed this picture didn’t really care about springing for the premium package with the CGI studio. It’s kind of a thing throughout the film. For a movie that relies so heavily on computer generated effects, I’m surprised that the quality was so shoddy.

It’s a superficial complaint, but it’s the backdrop for most of the movie. At one point Riddick and some other guy are on space motorcycles riding through the desert, and I barely had to use any imagination to picture the green screen taking up a majority of the shot.

But I’m getting way ahead of myself. For a while, it’s just Riddick. He’s in bad shape, first unburying himself, then setting his own broken bones. There’s a pack of wild space dogs looking to turn him into a quick lunch, but not only does he successfully fight them off, he then adopts one of their pups and raises it to be his trusty sidekick.

After setting off a beacon at a mercenary supply station, he attracts the attention of two rival space gangs, each looking to cash in on the outstanding reward for Riddick’s head. These dopes are no match for Riddick, but as our protagonist lets everyone know, “It ain’t me you’ve got to worry about.”

No, just like in Pitch Black, this planet has its own alien monsters that only attack during specific conditions, in this case, rain. And guess what? There’s a storm coming. And that’s basically where we get left off at the end of the trailer. It’s a race to get off the planet.

For all of its cheesiness, its lame special effects and two-dimensional plot, I really enjoyed Riddick. The pacing of the action was pretty smooth, and they kept the story simple. They could have riddled the secondary characters with pointless subplots and bad dialogue, but for the most part, everything was strictly business.

I like movies like this, these epic space operas, because there really aren’t too many out there. There were occasional allusions to what must have gone down in the second movie, something about an intergalactic empire, betrayal, some villain with scars on his face whose presence was never explained at all. But that’s what made everything compelling, those little tastes that reminded me that this layover on a hostile planet was but a minor stop along an interstellar epic. This is the type of actual sci-fi that Stephen Colbert pokes fun at with his Tek Jansen cartoons.

I’ve got to say, I always underestimate Vin Diesel. Every time I go to see one of his movies, I walk in the theater expecting to be disappointed. But the Fast and Furious franchise, XXX, and now Riddick, I’m impressed. There’s an unpretentiousness about his acting and his movies. He knows what he’s supposed to give and he delivers.

Riddick will probably be on the SyFy channel in a couple of weeks, so I guess there’s no rush. Still, I really enjoyed it, I loved watching it on a big screen. I hope they keep making Riddick movies, forever, cruising through space, getting stranded on planets, battling mercenaries and leading empires. It’s all so f’n cool.

We’ll take the cheapest bottle of white wine, please

I’m not really into writing about my day job, or my night job really, about waiting tables. I do it sometimes, but it’s just something that I want to keep separate from the rest of my life. Because when I do venture into stories about something that happened in the restaurant, it tends to be negative, something that bothered me so badly that I couldn’t help but come home and write it out. And then I start out with a big disclaimer, an “I don’t like writing about the restaurant,” opening paragraph, like this is somehow a justification for some complaint I’m going to air about a customer that asked for too many ketchups or a couple that sat in my section for too long.

But here it is: the other night I had a table of three women. And yeah, I’m a few days removed from the situation, and so it’s not bothering me as much as it did that night. I came home fuming, trying to keep a lid on the rage inside. Why did I let myself get so angry? I fantasized about how I’d tell this whole horror story, a “Can you believe it?” play-by-play.

But now that I’m sitting down in front of my computer, now that I’m trying to piece back the sequence of events, everything feels so petty, the women, me. Mostly me. Mostly the fact that I got so upset, that I gave these three strangers so much power over me, to let them direct my emotions, my thoughts. And over what?

They ordered a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. They ordered the cheapest bottle. Whatever, I mean, that’s what it’s there for, right? I did the whole waiter-opens-up-a-bottle-of-wine routine, the presenting of the bottle, the pouring of the little taste. Where most people are like, “fine,” especially with the cheap stuff, this woman made a face, a scrunched up mouth face.

And she held it for a minute, all the while twirling the glass in her fingers. Finally she was like, “I don’t know. I don’t know. I just … I just … I don’t … I just,” before making her friends try. In my head, I’m thinking, come on ladies, it’s the cheapest bottle of white wine on the menu. What are you really expecting?

But the other friends got stuck in the same feedback loop, “Well,” they said while sniffing the inside of their empty glasses, “I can’t … it’s just … we don’t,” and I cut them off, I was going crazy, I reached for the bottle and very graciously offered them something else. “We’re really sorry,” they said, to which I replied, “Don’t be sorry, I’m happy to bring you something you’ll enjoy.”

And I did. They ordered the second cheapest bottle of wine. “Much better,” the first woman told me after tasting it. The relief on her face, in her voice, it was like she had just received the antidote to a poison that had been causing her visible distress. “We’re so sorry,” she continued, “it’s just … we’re just … this is much better.”

Fine. Terrific. They ordered three veggie burgers, they ordered three sides of avocado, and they sat in my section for the rest of the night, picking at their food, and then engaging in what I can only assume was a spirited game of “let’s see who can drink our wine the slowest.” But this was the end of the night, I had been working there since eleven in the morning, I had absolutely no fight in me, I couldn’t have gotten annoyed simply because I was too tired. So what if I was losing out on another turn of that table? That would have been even more energy that I would have had to expend, gas that I didn’t have left in the tank.

I dropped the check and left them to figure out the bill. A few minutes later, all three of them had their hands in the air, trying to get my attention. “Yes?” I was trying to figure out what could have been the problem. Did I forget to take the first bottle of wine off the bill? Had I handed them someone else’s check?

“Can you go ahead and take these avocado charges off? We never pay for avocado.” And I didn’t know what to say. Everyone pays for avocado. There’s an avocado button on the computer. In fact, there’s no way for anybody to get avocado in this restaurant without paying, so I told them all of this, that there wasn’t really anything that I could do. They started to turn on me, fast, “Listen,” they told me, “Two dollars isn’t going to make a dent in our wallets. But we never pay for avocado.”

They made a loaded statement like that, basically saying, listen asshole, we have tons of money. You think we give a shit about two dollars? No, we don’t. But we don’t want to pay for this. And framed in that light, I took another look at my guests, I noticed their expensive bags, the Merrill Lynch corporate credit cards they had on the tray to pay for their meals.

This wasn’t about two dollars at all. Neither was the wine service. The whole night for them was an exercise in power, in going out and flexing a little muscle. Take this bottle away. Make this two-dollar charge disappear. You, come over here and do as we say.

And when I refused, I knew they’d probably tip less. They started laughing a little. I walked away and when I came back, they handed me the bill. They totally tipped less, thirteen percent each. And that’s when that rage started. I would have never let them see it, that would have been giving them exactly what they wanted. But I took that anger home with me. I brought it into my house when I started “venting” to my wife about how I can’t stand this and that.

Only a few days later, after I’ve had a minute to cool off, can I see how ridiculous the whole situation was. Stuff like that is going to happen and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. I did what I had to do and that’s that. Why am I getting so pissed off? It’s all about what I said earlier, that by allowing myself to be angry at these three strangers, I’m giving them the power that they’re seeking, over me, over my emotions, over my mental well-being.

Fuck that shit. I don’t need their two dollars each either. Is that going to make a dent in my overall financial security? Hardly. I just have to remind myself of all of this, the next time I’m dealing with unpleasant customers, the next table that I’m serving that I can’t seem to satisfy. I’m just doing my job, doing the best I can, and if someone else isn’t happy, then that’s on them. I’ve got to be better about not letting random people dictate the terms of how I feel.

Whenever I think about Ben Affleck as the new Batman, I can’t stop that episode of South Park from playing in my head, the one where his long-lost biological parents have butts for faces

Everybody’s talking about Ben Affleck being cast as Batman in the new Superman movies. Well, almost everybody. I doubt the Dalai Llama is talking about it. But you know what, that’s not really fair of me, just assuming that His Holiness isn’t a fan of superhero movies. So I’ll rephrase it: a lot of people are talking about Ben Affleck taking over as Batman.

My immediate reaction was pure disbelief. And while I don’t want to let my instinctual, “You’ve got to be kidding me!” prevent me from giving Affleck a fair shake, it’s really pretty tough to imagine him as the Caped Crusader. Do we have to get into Daredevil?

All right, let’s get into Daredevil. Superhero movies were just beginning to breach the mainstream. The X-Men and Spider-Man franchises were such undeniable hits that Hollywood decided to dip into the Marvel canon to see which other costumed crime fighters might make for successful big screen blockbusters.

And that’s how we got Daredevil. It was a cheesy movie. And I’m being nice here. Go ahead and search the Internet for other opinions or reviews about Daredevil. Some point to it as the reason why Hollywood should be out of the comic book movie business all together. And fair or not, Ben Affleck is the lead. Draped in his red leather jumpsuit, Ben Affleck is Daredevil.

Affleck should feel lucky that Daredevil didn’t derail his career in the same way that Catwoman destroyed Halle Berry’s. And we as an audience should feel fortunate that Daredevil didn’t prevent the studios from going ahead and green lighting future superhero projects. Just imagine what could have went down if the exec who approved Batman Begins had happened to catch a few minutes of Dardevil playing on FX right before he was scheduled to sit down with Christopher Nolan. I shudder to think of a world absent of The Dark Knight.

Which is why casting Affleck as the new Batman amounts to six steps backward after three monumental steps in the right direction. I kind of understand where DC is coming from. Marvel Comics clearly holds the advantage in terms of its ability to turn even its tertiary characters into big screen behemoths, and after The Dark Knight Rises wrapped up one of the most successful trilogies in movie history, everybody was eager to maintain the momentum.

That’s why we had Man of Steel earlier this year. And I get it, in terms of its money making ability, the new Superman was an undisputed success. But was it a good movie? I didn’t think so. It was too serious, and once the fight scene that comprised the entire second half of the movie got underway, it was too boring.

Still, numbers don’t lie, and adding a rebooted Batman to the equation, especially in light of The Avengers super-group success, it was the next logical decision. What doesn’t make sense is Ben Affleck. With moviegoers around the world more than willing to pay upwards of twenty dollars to see a movie that hasn’t even begun filming, why risk spoiling the fun with a man whose talents clearly belong behind the camera rather than in front?

I realize that I’m not even giving Ben Affleck a chance to prove me wrong, but he just doesn’t make sense as Bruce Wayne. I don’t see pain, I don’t see a lifetime of training to fight crime, I just see Ben Affleck, I see Daredevil, I see the guy in the Runner Runner commercials screaming over-the-top obscenities at Justin Timberlake.

I hope that I’m wrong. Nobody wants to see a successful Batman/Superman movie more than me. Well that’s probably not true, there are probably other people who want to see it succeed more than I do, like people who have a vested interest in its performing well. Like Ben Affleck, I’m sure he wants it to succeed more than I do, to prove everybody wrong, to give the Bruce Wayne performance of a lifetime. If I see it, and it bombs, I’ll just be like, well, that was a bad movie. If he makes it and it’s no good … well, I guess he’ll still be OK. He got past Daredevil. Right? Yeah, Ben Affleck’s going to be OK either way.

I always get anxiety when I think about summer being over

Summer went by way too fast. It always does. This is what summer feels like, like it’s over, like it never really had a chance to get going. When I’m freezing my ass off in February or early March, I imagine what May is going to feel like, those first full days of warm weather. And then I blink and it’s late August, it’s September, it’s right now.

I was standing around talking to someone about the weather, about the change of seasons. Lately I’ve been seeing all of the school buses out during midday, I guess doing their practice runs or whatever they do to ensure a smooth first day of classes. And even though I don’t go to school anymore, I still have those sense memories, like something is ending and something else is right around the corner.

“I can’t believe summer’s over already,” I say it and I’m already tired of saying it. It’s unoriginal. There’s nothing that I’m adding to any conversation. It’s kind of like I’m just throwing these words at people, hoping that someone might make something with them that I can’t. Before I even give the other person a chance to respond, I’m already spitting out more, “But I love the fall. I just love the fall. Yep. Fall. What a great season.”

This one guy said to me, “Yeah, I guess fall’s OK. But I always have such anxiety about the summer actually being over.” And that was already better articulated than anything I could have hoped to have said. I keep having to remind myself that we still nice weather, summer weather, and yet I’m already writing it off as if it doesn’t exist. I don’t want to see the summer go, so I pretend like it’s already gone, like what I’m actually wanting is to be somewhere else.

But I heard this other person tell me about his reservations, and it cut through whatever it was that I was telling myself to make me feel better about the passing of time, the changing of the seasons, the inevitable drop in temperature followed by holidays followed by a long winter followed by, what, another August?

And while, yes, there is something real to the seasons, a lot of what we’ve constructed as these four periods of equal time is artificial, just another way that we try with varying degrees of success to force the natural world to fit into our preconceived notions of how things should be. Maybe it’ll be hot until November. It’s not totally out of the question to have a really warm stretch of weather lasting all the way until the beginning of winter.

I can’t talk about the weather anymore. But I do have a definite anxiety about the end of summer. Once it’s fall, once I have my feet firmly planted in September, October, or November, I know that I’ll be OK. With summer in the rearview mirror, I’ll be free to really enjoy the colder weather, and when that weather gets to be too much, once that winter chill finally works its way deep into my bones, I’ll be able to start longing for the warmer temperatures of spring.

But whenever I think about the summer, whenever I try to take stock of my existence in any of these seasons, it’s never June or July, it’s always late August. The good months fly by without so much as a blip on my consciousness, but the final weeks stretch out forever, all characterized by that anxiety, the stress of losing something that’s not really there in the first place. Because what is an ideal summer day? Is it really just the temperature or my own physical comfort? Or am I longing for something else, being together with friends and family, maybe just slowing down a good moment for a while, delaying the inevitable end. In constantly skipping ahead, I’m losing track of what I’m enjoying right now. I’ve got to stop prematurely mourning what I haven’t yet lost.