EEEEEEE!!!!

Transformers comes out today on DVD! EEEEEE!!!!

Deleted scenes where we get to see more of Starscream! EEEEEEE!!!!

Commentary track where we get to here Michael Bay explain the beauty of the 360- degree shot! EEEEEEE!

BUY IT NOW! RENT IT NOW! WATCH IT!

Peace!*


*Oh, I know smart ass. It is funny that I rave about Transformers the day after I got on my soapbox about sustainability. I'm keeping it real, nerd and environmentalist and all.

World Blog Action Day

In celebration of World Blog Day, here is my little essay on the issues surrounding the "new school" vs. "old school" debate of sustainability. I need to add one cavaet. I realize we are all striving for the same goal and that sustainability is an attempt to market environmental concerns to a new group of people, but I have meet many a person who treat sustainability as some sort of avant garde thinking. Environmentalism, believing in systems beyond just yourself, was pretty avant garde back in the 60's and still is today. The essay is more a response to the sustainability groupies then the actual concept itself, no matter how much of a tongue twister it is.

Enjoy!

_________________________________________

Here’s an idea! Here is how we will reclaim the environment; the whole environment! Forget sustainability! Throw away all it’s derivatives as well: sustainable style, sustainable design, sustainable art, etc. Revert to the actual word environment, realizing it already encompasses everything. You don’t need a Venn Diagram to see that. Both proponents and detractors of environmentalism pigeon hole the concept of environmentalism as something in the exclusive realm of nature. That is where the slur “tree hugger” comes from and why we call our movement as “green” movement.

"Hey, meet the new boss!Same as the old boss!"

Such stereotypes make the movement seem like it never left Walden Pond. That while everything around us falls apart and ecological services go to the way of Woolworth’s, we slap on Birkenstocks and skitter up and down the Adirondack trail. We did leave Walden Pond and we never lived there. The environment in environmentalism means home and, looking at the bigger picture, my home includes the material in my walls and decisions of my politicians. Not just the cries of songbirds in the backyard. Sustainability wants us to think that this is all new and grand. “We killed old-school environmentalism and replaced it with this new concept you will all love!” However, what is so new about looking at the big picture? Even flawed concepts like Malthus and the 60’s Population Bomb viewed environmental degradation beyond how many trees would be bulldozed to make room. They talked about food production and potential conflict over limited resources. The concepts of agriculture productivity and land availability are wide ranging. Americans talked about energy issues and conflict about them back in the 70’s. The English enclosure movement didn’t just fragment ecosystems, but also brought all the issues of feudalism and serfdom. The environmentalist movement has cast the net wide for years, only now realizing that this is the real way to go!

There is power in the word “environmentalism” It conjures up images and whether those images are stereotypical or dynamic, its effect is instantaneous. Sustainability is a conceptual curveball. What is the exact definition of sustainability? I have heard many and they all require a good four to five sentences, or a Herman Melville-esque sequence of punctuation. However, here is a nice definition of environmentalism.

It’s caring about where you live. That’s planet Earth.

Here is another example of imagery and word play. Think about the word “attorney.” What comes to mind? Maybe an empowered Atticus Finch? Johhny Cochran? Stuffy English magistrates with white wigs? Now imagine the word “legal.” Well, what does the hell does that really mean. Sheets of paper that are 11” by 17?” Just like you can’t imagine a legal system without the players in it, you can’t imagine sustainability with the life support systems it means to help. Environment is a powerful word. So is the word environmentalist. That word has done innumerable things. It has pissed off powerful people, created powerful people, cost jobs, found new jobs, asked questions, protested, bombed, sung, cried, voted, chanted, rioted, and had a good time trying to save the world. What do the hell do you even call someone all about sustainability? A sustainability advocate? A sustainabilitizer? Sustainability groupie? Many consider Rachel Carson, author of Silent Spring, a mother of traditional environmentalism. But did anyone call her a tree hugger back in 1962? Chemical companies attacked her on the fact that she was a woman and that she wrote a book in common vernacular for the masses. Save the birds is a big message in her book, but another big message is “Don’t trust big business.” Environmentalism had dynamic though before the recent surge in sustainability.

What does the average, American third grade class, 4H club, or Lion’s Club do on Earth day? They probably go and pick up litter from a scenic vista. Sustainability sneers at this as too “old school.” It’s a very Western, particularly American, thing to do. Go pick up litter to save all the fishies and birdies. Impoverished people in the slums of Mexico City view those rubbish heaps as treasure troves. And, yes, it is a very American thing to do. The rest of the world better understand the “Big E” environmentalism I subscribe to. But just think about that spot. Maybe it used to be a real nice pond filled with fish that Gramps used to catch. An idyllic pond with fish a jumpin’ and frogs’ a croakin.’ All that garbage on the pond makes Gramps say, “Ah, back in my day that used to be a pond. I wish I could take little Billy there to fish, but, alas, the pond is filthy.” Then, however, that third grade class shows up with their limited view of the environment and we got a nice pond. Now Gramps can take little Billy down to the pond so that he and his grandson can bond. Maybe little Billy won’t spend so much time in front of the Xbox since he will really like to fish. And he will lose a couple of pounds because it takes a while to walk to the pond. And maybe little Billy will want to stay and raise his own family in said town because he wants to share these memories with his own son. Thanks third graders!

I realize this argument is silly and oversimplified. But isn’t it grand how a piece of land can fight obesity and gentrification, while strengthening family bonds? Don’t dismiss the power of a nice piece of a land or a nice community because it will have ripple effects. If a group of inner-city kids cleans up a vacant lot and turns it into a community park, then maybe kids will stay safe and not join gangs. Again, that is an oversimplified example, but it happens and myriad groups strive for such stability. Maybe the people building a community park in the city aren’t thinking about the Redwood trees in California, but being able to walk to a park right in your neighborhood is better for the whole biosphere then everyone driving to a community park.

Sustainability groupies point out their “new” model emphasizes the economic and social issues that environmentalists always forget. Sustainability freaks think about people, profits, prosperity, and planet. However, did our financial decisions only now begin to effect other things besides our wallets. If I buy from a store that treats its employees like crap then that is an environmental decision. Maybe those employees are my neighbors and those neighbors make up my environment. Maybe the store pays people nothing and my neighbor has to pull a double on Election Day. No one wins elections by just one vote, but maybe my neighbor’s vote would have helped get a politician in power who support renewable energy. Maybe the hard working neighbor doesn’t have the time to go to the community clean-up or try to help the poor, who have to go live in the woods at the city limits, because he has to work all day. Maybe that business forces Nicaraguan women to sew sweaters for nine cents a day so that they have even less time to get their community and countries out of the profiteer’s stranglehold. Those women live in my environment, the whole planet, and we will need their help to save the entire biosphere. Maybe I should stop supporting that business.

Just one more maybe. Maybe a sustainability hard liner reads this and says, “Stupid Garik! That is exactly what we are saying.” I know that, but I feel I already had inklings about this when I was just a kid reading 50 Things You Can Do To Save The Earth. It isn’t to say that I was some sort of prodigy, but just that I realized environment where I lived. Why would I want to drink dirty water from the river? Yeah, that makes the birds sick, but it would also make me sick and eight year old Garik pretty much looked out for number one!

The environmental movement has always had room for the bankers, bureaucrats, and, impoverished. The biggest flaw the movement made wasn’t in picking too narrow a viewpoint, but in failing to vocalize how wide ranging the inherent movement was. Sustainability isn’t something new; it is just a reaction to environmentalism earlier misstep. If there were kings and queens of sustainability then they were just environmentalists realizing there were just too many people who thought negatively about the word “environment.” They made up a new word. I don’t think environmentalism needs to die. The power in that word and concept needs to go back to its roots. It’s roots as an idea that everyone wants a good place to live. Some of us already have a comfortable place to start from and others need to get out from poverty or desperation. Environmentalism’s roots as a conceptually American idea born of Muir, Thoreau, Leopold, and even Nixon* and given to the world to adapt and change to every community and ecosystem This is “Big E” environmentalism. The environmentalism we always needed, before detractors said it was just bunch of hippies in the woods, and supporters made it actually a bunch of hippies in the woods. Preaching sustainability as something that will blow environmentalism away only makes a bunch of good-hearted and caring people circle the wagons and shoot in. It makes it easier for those that fail or just don’t want to look at the big picture to profit in the long term. Only a fool would say “I only care about the trees! Fuck everything else!” And we have had such fools (i.e., hippies), but we have always had intelligent people waiting to make a difference for the entire biosphere that includes all of nature’s creations, and those of humanity.

Peace!


Picture source originally UNESCO.

Actual Posts!

Monday October 15th is the first ever Blog Action Day and the lowly Fear of the Blank Page will join a digital global voice on the environment. As of this posts, there are 11,867 blogs registered with the action day. I will be rocking the blog-o-sphere with my soap box speech on "Big E" environmentalism.

I have embedded a YouTube promo video created by the Blog day organizers. I hope you check it out and tell any of your blogging friends to join up. Even if you don't think of yourself as green, the environment is too broad a term to be claimed by any one belief or group*. What do you think of all the issues surrounding the environment? If you think global warming isn't that big of a deal then say why? If you feel powerless as to do anything, then why? If you feel empowered to do something then tell everyone what made you empowered! SPEAK! DO SOMETHING!



I had hoped to do a weekly series of posts about the environment leading up to the day, but I forgot. Instead, you got Huckleberry Piggy and Carson Rabbit Sawyer.

Peace!



*I am looking at you, hippies! Remember folks, hippies don't do anything. Environmentalists do!

Great Works Defiled

Huckleberry Piggy!

I'm a picaresque, conflicted American hero! Maybe I am a nascent racist that can't escape the social norms of my 19th century ante-bellum South! Or maybe I will rise up an do the right thing? In the words of the great George Saunders, I ask, "How can anyone be truly free in a country as violent and stupid as ours?" I represent an America where one follows their moral conscience, even though it might not be what society expect or want of us Oh, and I wear a straw hat.


Rabbit Sawyer !


I show up at the end of Piggy's book and take much of the human drama out of it. I only care about what you can gain from others, whether from adventure novels, river grifters, or just bamboozling Aunt Kate. I represent an America where you look out for number one. Don't trust me to paint your fence. I wear a straw hat too, because it's kind of what we did during the Antebellum period.

"Wait, what the hell, why does Piggy get more text than me!?"

"Because, I'm a complex character! You're one-sided and lack depth!"

"Whatever, at least kids don't try to blast out 11th English grade papers about me. Most just read the Cliff Notes anyway."

"Hemingway said all American literature comes from my book and he can beat you up!"

"Damn old man. Forget him and that fish. And those Hills Like White Elephants!"

Peace!*


*Actual posts to come soon, folks. World Environmental Blog Day on October 15th and the second installment of Books I Should Have Already Read!"

Windows

I have this thing about windows. While I was crafting the post about the local Ithaca monsters I realized I had very vivid images about looking through and at windows. First, the more anecdotal ones before I try to make something creative out of memory.

Like I said in the previous post, around the mid 90's I had a fear that an escape gorilla from the zoo was stalking our neighborhood. We had a laundry room in our old house which was nothing more than a sort of big mud room off the backyard porch. Being Puerto Rico, all the windows were of the shuttered variety,except these were just panes of glass that folded over one another. My mom always made me go to the laundry room at night and close that window. I don't know exactly why. Maybe to keep bugs out? Whenever I did look at that window, I expected a pair of red glowing eyes to be looking back at me. Our had a sort of living fence made of wild ginger plants. They were tall, stalky plants, almost like corn, that could hide any sort of creature in them. And I thought this creature was a gorilla. The first Chupacabra sighting in PR was in 1994 and I believe I inserted the gorilla as some sort of proxy for the creature. The monster lived about six counties over in the outskirts of the rain forest. We didn't have any rabbits or chickens for it to feed one and, besides, it wasn't even real! Was it? I knew gorillas didn't have red eyes, but the Chupacabra did and that is why I believe I just substituted the crazy (scaly blood sucking beast) to the sitcom-esque (Oh no! Escape gorilla!).

Speaking of eyes, after first learning about Mothman* in the wonderful Big Book of the Unexplained, I am even more frazzled by looking through windows. Especially at night. I can't sleep with the curtains up. Not because of ambient light coming through the windows, but because last thing I want to see is a pair of hypnotic eyes rise up from below the windowsill and stare at me! At least with curtains, I have some time to prepare myself for terror!

My last window memory isn't that scary, even though a storm can certainly be characterized as scary. The context is that during 1989's Hurricane Hugo, I watched the lemon tree in my backyard fall because of the winds. It was all from a bathroom window and rather physical, as well as visual. This window didn't have any glass. It was some metal shutters placed in the wall behind some metal grating and a screen panel. Here is a little something about it.

___________________________________

My cousins lived out by the bay and after many phone calls and a threat from the police they eventually decided to evacuate. But not to a community shelter. But to our house, which was on a hill and made of the appropriate concrete. "That is what family is for," said my uncle as he came through the front gate. "Yes, family," said my father as he welcomed everyone in.

Hurricanes are notoriously boring. You can only watch the local channels that come in over the air and then they are just running the news. When the power goes out, we need to save the batteries for flashlights, not that portable TV. I hardly read, something I usually enjoy, because it is hard to read by candlelight. To get any decent light, you almost have to burn your book.

My cousins are all younger; six, eight, and nine. But, because I'm bored, I play their games too. We run through all the potted plants that mom brought in from the terrace. It's a jungle in there and we hoard some of the food from the pantry in case the hurricane takes the adults away. Most of our rations are potted meat and water crackers. One cousin, Tuto, tries to eat a palm frond, swearing he saw someone at school do it. He later vomited it up on the backyard porch, right as the first rain storms came through.

"Hey, come look at this!" It was my father's voice and we all blasted out from the jungle to find him in the master bedroom. "Here, in the bathroom!" The rest of the adults were behind us now. My uncle, mother, and aunt pushed us into the bathroom. Through the metal grating over the actual shutters, we all saw the lemon tree sway in the winds. Father explained that he though the neighborhood houses were capturing the wind and bouncing it off the sides of the house. The tree did seem to circle around, with the weaker branches snapping off and twirling down the grass. We heard the soft tuft of a lemon hitting the side of our house. It must have been close to the actual window, since the wind was so strong, that the metal shutters creaked.

"There it goes!" My uncle jabbed out a finger and pressed his nail into the screen grate before the shutters. A sort of cross wind must have caught the tree and sent the top branches in opposite directions. The force ran down each of the main branches and into the base. The tree wasn't very old or strong. The base trunk was as thick as a softball and the wood split down the middle. Each side cam down on separate side of the lawns, held together by splinters of wood at the base. Father let out a swear and mother said good riddance. "It was dying anyway. Did you see that black soot on its leaves."
"Ah, yes," said my aunt. "A fungus."
The fallen branches still moved in the wind, almost twitching with every gust. Though it rained hard and I imagined they were heavy with all the water, the movements were springy as if each branch wanted to crawl away from the wreck. I pressed m had against the spot where my uncle had jabbed the screen. I felt the divot and the squirts of water coming in from the outside. The rain squeezed itself through the metal squares. It was also broken during the hurricane.

_______________________________

Peace!

*If you want to learn more about how terrorizing the Mothman is, I suggest you stay away from the lackluster Richard Gere movie. The Big Book story (presented in comic book form) just really highlights the creepiness with lots of single panels of those eyes.

Local Legends

Local blogger Ez over at Ithaca Sucks recently spoke about a blogging gap. Kids with every damn MySpace widget and poll always get more hits than people who try to put up actual content. Well, here is something in solidarity with Ez and all of us "third tier" bloggers that just keep trying for the hell of it.

Local issues, away!

After just seeing an episode of The X-Files, I realized that what Ithaca really needs* is some sort of local monster. And not some silly lake monsters, because that would be too easy. A serious monster. One that walks up all those scenic gorges that criss-cross the Cornell campus and eats college kids whole! He would make those kids really scramble for those blue light phones. A hairy beast that would skitter across the rooftops like the crack heads in a Dave Chapelle routine, commiserating with the other scraggly denizens of the Bernie Milton Pavilion. We started our own money and patrol the streets in Yellow VW bugs. We are up to this. We're Ithaca and we are going to make ten committees, keep to a modified consensus, cue up some buzzwords, and get our monster, dammnit!

Imagine the hilarity that would ensue! You would have vigilante hunting squads up in the rural areas ("I don't care what it is. It's probably a transplant and I hate it!"), while the folks at EcoVillage still couldn't reach a consensus about what they think about it ("Sorry to sound so Republican, but I just have to say it. I am not feeling the monster Zephyr. ") Frat kids at Cornell would be trying to get it drunk ("The dude totally loves Stones, bro.") and those people from the Twelve Tribes would try to recruit it. ("Want some Mate, friend?"). The skater punks on the Commons would ask it for money ("Got any spare change? You most with that sweet hair.") and Common Council would be trying to slap solar panels on the side of it ("If we could only just move all this hair!"). We could all agree that everyone would ask why taxes are so hign.

Where have all the monsters gone? Replaced by exotic invasive monster species introduced in the ballast tanks of ocean freighters? Out competed for human flesh by zombies? Those meddling kids?!

I am surprised that CNY doesn't hold some sort of monster myth. Maybe it does and I have jut not heard of it. I am dreaded transplant. Any longtime residents know of any? Even my crude grasp on local history can draft up some starting points. An old Haudenosaunee legend? Pent up frustrations from the Sullivan campaign? An angel that Joseph Smith didn't talk to?

And what would the creature look like? Of course, it would have to be bipedal. That is just how it has to be. A something shaggy, so it can handle the winters. Scaly guys like the homegrown Chupacabra can stay in the tropics. And since I am creating the thing, I say let us give it some sweet spines, sharp claws, and a knowledge of all things CNY. He's a Rust Belt mean motherfucker with a hankering for apples and a resistance to cold. We would call him the Ithaca Hill Beast. Igby for short.

HOLY SHIT! THERE HE IS NOW!

(Eyewitness rendition of monster as seen emerging from the pine barrens of Ithaca's West Hill. Sorry for the quality, but the witness was running for his life!)

Well, there you have it folks. Move over Jersey Devil because there is a new East Coast bigfoot!

Old School

Bah! Now I have gone and creeped myself out with all those pictures of the actual Jersey Devil. I used this one because it came from an actual NJ State website! You can download the print and color him in! For some strange reason I have a vivid childhood memory of fearing that an escape gorrilla from the zoo stalked our neighborhood. I grew up during the initial Chupacabra media hype in PR and maybe that is just a cultural memory from then. I will blog about that later, in an actual prose piece. Until then, Igby lives!

Peace!


* Actually Ithaca needs a lot of things more important than a monster. Lowering taxes, fighting racism in the school district, strip development, and town-gown relations all are those things voters care about. Puny voters. Igby eats civilly engaged fools like you!

Triple Sized Installment!

This will certainly make up for all the inactivity on the blog of late. Here is a TRIPLE-SIZED Movies I Should Have Already Seen for you! DAMN!

Movies I Should Have Already Seen Vol 3., #4, 5, & 6

Close Encounters of the Third Kind

Bleh, I must say that I didn't like this movie very much. I believe it is definitely something that you had to have been there to truly appreciate. Imagine being in the summer of 1977 and going to see this while you were still on your Star Wars high? Pretty sweet, eh? However, we all live in a post Encounters world and all I could think of during that scene where the aliens take Barry is the similar scene in Signs. Time has ruined me and also ruins this review. I must also admit that I am biased. I am TERRIFIED of alien greys. Real or not, those little skinny, almond-eyes bastards give me the creeps. They will always be a menacing figure to me and that is why I reciprocate with movies like Signs and Alien. I realize this was the whole point of Encounters, to challenge the monster from space motif, but alien greys are just creepy. Encounters does the creepy part well. The scene where the crablike ship flies over those corn fields, and all we see is its shadow, really shook me up. So did Barry's toys coming to life at the very beginning.

It's not a bad movie at all, but unlike other 70s science fiction classics (Star Wars and Alien) I don't understand why it endures except for the very point that it was amazing when it premiered. Laser gun fights will always be exciting and some big slimy thing coming at you will always be scary. That is what carried those two classics into today! But, Encounters? Spielberg, maybe? Many artistic works suffer this same fate. You ever wonder why we have to read what we do in literature class? However, I have never struggled so hard to appreciate something as I have with Encounters. I feel like I should like it, but I don't.

However, in the end, Richard Dreyfuss does get that bigger boat!

Fargo

This is one of those movies where I have to quote Jim Gaffigan:

"Hey guys! I just saw Fargo!"

"Fargo!? That movie came out like ten years ago!"

"Yeah, I know! Let's talk about it!"

"No."

"Oh, but I want to talk about it now!"

And, I will damn-it!

I loved Fargo! I loved it, eleven years late, but I still loved it. Ya, hear that the 90's! The prodigal son has come home! Now, I just need to watch Reality Bites.

First, I am sucker for atmosphere. The cold plains and all those wide shots really reeled me in. The location helped framed the movie. Who could imagine all this could happen up in the icy flatlands of northern Minnesota? And the scenes with Frances McDormand all seem just so homey. I couldn't help but smile throughout the entire movie even during those scenes that you really shouldn't. Like the kidnapping scene or where they shoot the state trooper. It was the accent. The Coen brother played off the "Nice Minnesota" stereotype well to add to each characters pluck and/or villany. Imagine the scene between McDormand and Macy, before he flees the car dealership, in anything else but that accent. They even threw in some "darn tootins!" EEEE! Minnesota can do no wrong in my book. It gave us the Coen brothers, Mystery Science Theater 3000, and has a lot of lakes, which if you read this blog, get me waxing all nature writer like.

Transformers: The Movie

Because Amanda and I still can't stop talking about the live action version, I saw this movie. I must admit that I was never a big Transformers fan. I was too young, in some instances not even born, to watch their first time TV adventures. When it came to reruns of 1980's cartoons, I was more of a GI Joe kid. Hell, my sister was apparently a huge He-Man fan, so that means our household missed one part of this animated trinity.
People get all nostalgic about this movie, but since I never saw it in the first place, most of its appeal is lost on me.

In retrospect, these were some horrible shows. Lackluster animation designed to make us buy the latest toys. This movie gets some regards for being a bit "heavy." Many characters do die on-screen including Optimus Prime. Before Aeris died, there was Optimus Prime's death. It was pretty well done for a cartoon. The creators strengthened his death by countering it with his previous invincibility. If we expect the movie version of TV shows to do bigger and bolder things then we got it with his death.

I knew that Orson Welles was in this movie, but I flipped out at some of the other notables in the voice work. Robert Stack of Unsolved Mysteries fame! Leonard Nimoy! Judd Nelson! Eric Idle of Monty Python! SWEET!

I must comment on how much 80s there is in the movie. You got the power ballads ("You got the touch!") and the Weird Al Song "Dare to Be Stupid!" along with neon. Lots and lots of neon.
You also have endless marketing potential. Every robot is joining the fray and every planet hold something else that transforms into something. I can give the movie that Cybertron is full of transforming robots, but every other freaking planet!

And for some weird reason, the entire movie reminded me too much of anime.* At the risk of being flamed off the blog-o-sphere, I don't like anime. At all. I used to. Oh boy. I used to. There was there a time (ages 13-18) where I was a mindless "otaku" but, now I say forget anime. I can get all nostalgic about Robotech and old school Gundam and still have a weak spot for Digimon** , but most of it (Especially the ones kids are all crazy about now. I am looking at you Naruto! Fucking ninjas.) makes a bit queasy. Before this develops into a a seperate post, my big issue with anime is that there are so many people here in the US that assume because it is anime it must be good. No, not good, but AMAZING! If art exists everywhere, then so does crappy art. Including anime.

Peace!




* I can only guess here, but shows like Gundam and Robotech might have influenced the Japanese origins of Transformers. And all those animation studios, where they do the tedious work, are overseas in Asia. Oh, and the movie had a brief scence that reminded me too much of a "tentacle scene." Google that term at your own risk.


** It is superior to Pokemon.

Powers

It had to happen. I had to try and talk about superpowers. Here are some snippets.

_______________________________

I think of the first beads of water to bubble up at the bottom of a boiling pot. Imagine that trembling, anxious fear all over your skin. The feeling comes from every pore, pouring out from the surface. Not a deep, gut feeling you feel inside your stomach. But, the pins and needles of blood rushing back to your limbs. Except this is all on fire. I am focusing energy and it is working!

I shaved my arms before trying this. The little ad at the back of Atomic Stories didn't say anything about shaving, but I thought it would help. This book was aimed at kids anyway. I don't remember my own arms from childhood, but they are certainly hairy now. Or used too, before I shaved. I read the rest of the ad for "Enchanted Defense for the Modern Age," but the little preview exercise doesn't tell you what to do with all this energy at the end of my fist. I hear my father in my head who was a technical writer that wrote, mostly, VCR manuals. "Instructions should never assume, son." I wonder what he would have to say about this. About how his pulp magazine actually worked and what to do with this missing information. I imagine lots of blown holes in the wall in mid 60's.

Unlike in the comics, the lights doesn't bulge out from my fist. Instead my arm shines in a shimmering iridescence, a peridot green that gets deeper at my fist. The ad never said anything about colors. There are no pictures at all! "Images are always helpful, son." My dad would rip this ad to shreds.

Neither does it say anything about my arm feeling heavy. Or that the joints of my elbow and knuckles tickle. I press my arm against a desk, it feels that cumbersome. The gypsum boars boils when my arm touches the top. The first layer bubbles up and peels away, exposing the sandy compressed particles of the interior. These then turn molten, burning and glowing like charcoal briquettes. I pull my arm away, but I don't remember the weight.

I drop to the floor and put my fist against the concrete of the basement floor. I hear a tiny "phoom" noise and then the crackle of splinters. The glow is gone, but under my fist I left a concrete divot in the floor. I am tired. Not just the arm, but my whole body. This feels like a gut feeling. Grabbing a softball from some scattered boxes I nestle it in the divot. A snug fit.
"All done, son."

__________________________

Recycling superhero! He exists! R3 gives the vilians something to watch out for. I saw him chasing a purse snatcher downtown. The snatcher had a good head start and R3 wears this sort-of armor made from bottle caps. It looked like the perp would get away, until R3 whipped out today's newspaper and touched it. Then, he somehow brought back all the recycled pulp that went into that. He reversed-recycled an entire paper just by touching it! And considering the Courier is printed on thin newsprint , the issue multiplied ten fold! A column of paper flew out from R3's fist. It shot down Second Street, each sheet leap frogging over the next and rammed straight into the back of the thief! Then R3 grabbed a soda can from his belt and turned into six little throwing stars! They flew fast and pinned the perp to the wooden scaffolding outside the Blue Street bus stop renovation. The local cops were then all over the perp. R3 dissappeared, riding his stack of paper up towards the rooftops. I tell my neighbors to recycle because it keeps our city safe.

___________________

Eh? Just playing. Peace!

Proto-meme

Thanks to Dave's Long Box, I have now participated in my (sort of) first blog meme*! To those not familiar with the blog-o-sphere, memes are little blogging trends that people start and try to spread. It is if I told all my readers to list their five favorite foods on their next post and everyone did it. Then their readers did it and so forth!

Here is my very own Atari 2600 game made with another picture from Sapsucker Woods.


Eat up those phosphorus molecules! Watch those dissolved oxygen levels fall. Goodbye commercial fisheries! WOO!

Peace!

Low-Impact Hike

Last Sunday, Amanda and I went for a sort of walk in the woods at Sapsucker Woods. Most people know Sapsucker woods as the site of the Cornell Lab of Ornithology. I had an internship there once and I was not very good at all. But, I can still enjoy the woods. This whole Finger Lakes area rocks for hiking and we hope that we can do some more before winter comes. Here are some pictures we took and then some musings.
Pollination continues life. We eat pollination and I like to think of the whole process as a sort of visual photosynthesis. There are no complex organelles to understand and formulas to memorize. In fact, the whole process is so inspiring that people condense it into trite little sayings and snippets

"The birds and the bees." and, "The pollen count is high."

I, like anyone who eats, appreciates pollination. However, I can't help but think of it as something much more visceral than sharing. Without knowing about convergent evolution and symbiosis, one might classify it as outright theft. Even rape! You can't see it well in that picture of the honeybee on the golden rod, but those insects often appear covered in the stuff. Their six legs and striped bodies sprinkled with pollen after they have raved in the flowers. Imagine Scrooge McDuck swimming in his money pit and you can see what I am saying.

We like to anthropomorphize bees. We label them busy, industrious, and productive. They are little workers in a factory working for the rarely-seen big boss. We admire their biological work ethic, but does anyone ever think that maybe they outstrip the flowers they harvest. Is their a federal department of pollen conservation amongst hives. A Bee Bureau of Pollen Management? A Bee National Flower Service? Anything?! Vicious little bees! Outstripping the pollen!

Lovely little butterfly. Maybe it's a Monarch, but it could also be a Viceroy Butterfly. We didn't get close enough to see it as it feed on this Joe-Pye Weed flower. Nice blend of colors in this one. The pink-purple of the flower. The living Halloween scheme on the butterfly's wings. And the golden rod nestled in the greenery. I anthropomorphize butterflies to be flitting samplers. The kind of people that go to the mega-supermarket on Saturday afternoon because that is when they give out all the free samples. If they outstrip the pollen then it is more a "tragedy of the commons" situation. One butterfly taking as much because the other one did. Lacking a hive situation, I don't imagine they talk much. They don't have that little "figure eight" dance the bees do to continue their pollen manifest destiny.

Wow, my voice changed a lot during that little set. I write these musings posts in real-time so what starts off serious goes into fable-like characterizations. There might be more of these if we stick to that hiking promise. Peace!

On Second Thought...

I should use Helium with caution. I read the fine print of the user agreement and they keep everything you write. Forever. I (the writer) still retain rights and ownership to whatever I put up there, but by putting anything up on Helium I give them the ability to do pretty much whatever they want with it, except sell. But, if somehow I do make it to the big time then Helium can flood the market with free, electronic copies of my pieces! NOOOOOOO! Of course, that is one HUGE if.

So I think I am going to put up stuff I would eventually want published/further explored up on the blog and anything else up on Helium. I will also continue the usual blog features and any post that needs some pictures. Helium is really a great sight and lots of fun, but got to read that fine print. I never read Blogger's fine print either, so who knows what they can do with such classics as the Co-Op of Justice!

Peace!

Some Updates

Just a quick note. After ignoring about a dozen tempting Google G-Mail ads, I decided to sign up for Helium, the online write and review site. I linked to it in my newly organized links section for future reference as well.

So far, the site has proven to be plenty of fun! It's great to see other people rating your stuff and see your writing climb up the rating ladder in each category. You write about anything and post it to specific channels. So, an example of one channel breakdown is: "Creative Writing>Short Story>Meeting Someone On the Bus." Some of the categories are broad "Mourning" or "Life." Others are damn specific like "Contemporary Britain" or "Talking politics and religion in bars." Some have lots of articles/pieces that mean yours has to really shine to get all the way to the top. Others only have two or three pieces, so you can be the big fish in the small pond. And you can make money, too! Helium gives everyone on the site a cut of their advertising profits (VERY SLOOOOOWLY I must admit. So far I have made one cent.) and you can also try to sell articles to the small publishers that host portals there!

I have put up a lot of the stuff that I already have on the blog up there. Just to get the Helium machine going. But I hope to write a lot more over the next few weeks, both online and in print at the local newspaper. I made it on the front page this week! And above the fold, too! WOO!

Peace!

The (fictional) spice

As I promised, before I went off on my sociological soapbox, here are my thoughts on the final Dune book, written 40-plus years after the original Dune hit the science fiction scene...

But before that, a rap from the guinea pig!
ROLL SPOILERS! ROLL SPOILERS! ROLL SPOILERS!
WE GOT BAD SPOILERS LIKE YOUR MOM!
WE GOT BAD SPOILERS LIKE CARCINOGENS!

Thanks, Dante!

The Dune books played a big role during my first summer in Ithaca. I lived in a basement apartment I rented from this kid and that apartment complex happened to be a creek about one hundred yard from the front door. Of course, it being Ithaca, the creek was just after a sheer drop-off, but some local folks had beat a path down the hill to the river. I would read the Dune books there, usually as close to the creek as possible. Being so close to the water really brought the whole aspect of a desert planet off the page and into my mind.

And there were so many books to read! Six Dune books by the original Frank Herbert and about four used-book venues in town! WOOO!
This was just as Brian Herbert and Kevin J. Anderson started writing their prequel novels, but since I hadn't heard about those yet, I devoured the originals. Like many fans, I felt the original "oomph" of Dune had whittled away by the time Frank Herbert wrote his last book, "Chapterhouse Dune." A cliffhanger ending that seemed to break the fourth wall with having the last page dominated by "the old man" and "the old woman." Weird, but the book still had the original touch of depth and layering.

Many years later, Frank Herbert's son Brian and fellow author Kevin J. Anderson did the now required and created prequels. Then they said they had found secret notes from Frank Herbert and an outline for Dune 7! *

I liked B. Herbert and Anderson's Dune books, but they lacked the multiple layers of the originals. They featured much more action than Frank's versions, but it all seemed too whiz-bang for me. They moved incredibly fast, covering thousands of years in mere pages. One reviewer on Amazon. com said that, "The prequels always felt more like outlines of novels than true novels." That is a smart observation. I remember sitting on that log by the creek and felt as if I were taking forever to read the original Dune books. However, I slammed out this prequel in three days. As a wanna-be writer, I understand how excited one can get to just make a point or show a scene., but it feels like the prequels were written to appeal based not on their inherent themes, but their stylistic choices. I don't consider the original Dune books to be very "hard" science fiction. Herbert rarely explains anything, instead just dazzles us and hints at answers. He was obviously creating books you wanted to fall in love with, something you need to review multiple times for the full effect. The prequels, on the other hand seem to run towards the finish at full speed. The reward isn't that it makes you think, but that it has done the thinking for you and now you better understand the Dune universe. Not through epiphany or Spica Agony, but through plenty of exposition. And when I think something has too much exposition, then you know the narrative has gotten out of hand!

To be fair, I liked that the prequels explained the Butlerian Jihad, where the Fremen came from, where all the Great Houses began and so forth. The prequels have driven "original" fans crazy, but have brought in tons of new readers. Brian Herbert and Kevin J. Anderson should feel proud they continued a legendary series that could have easily been hijacked by vicious nerds ("No, you can't read my Dune book, n00b!**") looking to keep it for themselves. Following in the footsteps of Frank Herbert must prove difficult and they have bravely chosen to inject their own style and thought into the mix, instead of just copying. However, continuing is one thing. Honoring is another.

However, like with every science fiction prequel series (I am looking at you Star Wars!), I don't see fans clamoring for it. Instead our fandom hurts us because we love the series so much that we just have to have those answers in the prequels, even if we weren't asking the questions. The prequels also sandwiched the essential six "core" books between bookends of the entire series being a war against robots. It dilutes the original majesty of Dune when you realize all that drama doesn't matter.

As for Sandworms of Dune II died thousands of years ago because here they are washing away all their , it exemplifies one of the reasons I never resonated with the prequels. Everything inherent about Dune, Arrakis, the sandworms, and the desert only appears here in name. I felt the book literally jumped the shark when the worms ended up on an ocean world! WTF?! Spice making sea-worms! Like my mom would say, "How can they have the SPICE *juts out hip* when they live in the cold ocean!? *swings to salsa music*" I feel that is something B. Herbert and Anderson threw in themselves. I can see the touch of Frank Herbert when Duncan Idaho becomes the ultimate and final Kwisatz Haderach. That explains all his deaths and rebirths through the series, something I felt the original Herbert did on an almost cartoonish level. As for all those other "gholas" (Dune for clone), I feel that was done just to bring back those characters we originally loved. I doesn't matter that Paul, Jessica, Chani and Leto are diminishing their historical importance by fighting robots! Since the clones in the Dune universe can learn the memories of their original self, the concept of cloning carries much more weight then in something like Star Wars. In Frank Herbert's writing, gholas were carefully crafted living machined, designed to spice something up. In the prequels, they pop up so damn often that they remove any sort of importance when a character dies. Same thing happens in comic books and in the Pirates of the Caribbean movies.

Why do we even care anymore? Because we are all fans. Dune spoke to us someway and we enjoyed it enough to keep exploring it I don't hate Sandworms of Dune. I am happy it exists to put a final end to this series. Whether or not it is the end we all wanted depends on the reader. But it's there for all of us to nitpick, whine about and, sometimes, enjoy.

PEACE!


*I just learned that Brian Herbert and Kevin J. Anderson are going to slam out three more Dune prequels! Set in between the original Dune and it's sequel, Dune Messiah. ACK! Give us a break, guys! I am too much of a sucker not to buy them.

** I hate the word "n00b" and all that "gamerz" language. Is Halo, so damn intense that you can't spell the word "owned," instead saying "pwned." Yeah, way to bring video games to the masses kids and free them from decades old stereotypes. Creating your own little secret annoying language. "Oh, but the rappers did it back in the late 70's," you say! Well, they had culture. You have a hack code for Halo 3.

Apples to Apples

This little piece started as a first person narrative, but I don't like writing those pieces because they just feel like glorified personal essays. I feel weird trying to pass off personal essays as straight up-fiction. Just call them creative non-fiction and be done with it! So I added a bit more framing to it and tried to remove my voice from it. I do love apples, though. A lot. That is where the personal comes from.

___________________________________________

Our Town's Apples

My daughter, Janice, writes an article for the local paper. The piece is called, "Talking About Our Town." She didn't come up with the title, but inherited it from the previous writer, a stay at home mother who ran an impromptu antique shop from her garage. Janice is out of town this week, a friend's wedding in Nevada. So I am writing the piece for her, covering the monthly town board meeting.

I settled into one of the steel folding chairs at the back of the room. The town just put new carpet in the building and the room smelled plastic. I didn't notice the man sitting behind me, an older man with a potbelly that hung over his waist, until he cleared his throat. He wore a striped polo shirt tucked into his jeans and a pair of red suspenders. His hair was white, licked into a smooth left side part. "New to town?" he asked.
"Well, no. I have lived hear about five years."
He shrugged then made his lips into a circle. "Oh," he looked at the ceiling. "Well, I've never seen you."
"Well, I've never seen you." I introduced myself. His name was Bob, but even after a cold handshake he still seemed funny. Like he was unconvinced with and of me. "My daughter writes for our town's newspaper. That is why I am hear. I am covering the meeting for her article." I held my notebook and pen.
"Don't read the paper, myself, but I guess if you're new..." Bob's voice trailed off as the side door opened. It was the mayor. Five minutes late.

The conspiracy theory around town was that the mayor showed up to meetings late because he was getting sick of it. And being the mayor of our town must be hard because with only 1,700 people you know everyone. It's one big family. And it's a lot easier to be candid, honest, and angry with your family.

"Let's get this started," said Mayor Valenti taking his seat flanked by Bonnie K., the town clerk. He banged a gavel on the folding table in front of him. "I call this meeting to order." Looking down at his agenda Mayor Valenti said, "Lets talk about our town."

The first few minutes were just pomp and protocol. Approving last meeting's minutes. Reports from various public service commissioners like the police chief, fire chief, and zoning officer. The fire chief, a hefty guy named Jay who looks like he could carry two twenty-foot ladders over each shoulder, gave my first source of material.

"And to conclude, something funny this week. The fire department got a call to Badger Run road to rescue a cat stuck in a tree." He then smiled and someone chuckled from the front row of seats.

Actual cat stuck in a tree! I wrote in the notebook, quickly jotting down the details. A grey tiger tabby named Aurora. Belonging to Jackie McGlot the local aerobics instructor. A poplar tree.

With the reports done, Mayor Valenti opened the floor to public comments. Bob behind me grunted and turned to an older, overweight lady sitting next to him. "Here we go," he whispered to her.

A hand came up from the front row. A knotted hand, smeared with paint and grease. A working hand.

The mayor knew that hand. "The board recognizes Mr. Tom Kell of 137 Invite Lane," he said. The polishing his glasses with the bottom of his t-shirt, Mayor Valenti said, "What have you got for us this month, Tom."

Mr. Kell got up and pulled a bushel of apples from underneath his chair. He passed them down the first line of chairs. "Please, everyone take an apple!" He smiled brightly, revealing yellowed teeth shining among all his farmer's scruffiness. I then realized him as the man people referred to as the local homesteader. Janice had written about him.

"I hope everyone enjoys these apples because they are behind," Tom struggled with opening the flap of a Photopix envelope. "Behind, behind, behind a new endeavor I offer for all the children of our town!" He wrung out the pictures and then flipped through them. "Here I got some pictures, but they are mixed up with some of a hike I just took to the falls."

The apple basket came my way. I grabbed one and held it to the light. "Oooo, yeah that's a good one," said Tom. I then realize he was speaking to me.

'Oh, yeah?" I brought the apple down and cleaned it on my shirt sleeve.

"Yes, sir. A Cox Orange apple. See how the skin looks so mottled and alternates between burgundy and auburn. Reminds me an old leather bound book. And it tastes so complex. Nutty and citrusy, never foamy!"

Never heard of Cox Orange apple, but I was excited. Taking the first bite, I realized Tom wasn't lying, but I could only nod my approval. Someone else spoke up.

"Hey! What kind of apple did I get!" It was a woman's voice.

"Excuse me," interjected Valenti. "Please say your name for the recorder" He motioned to the digital recorded by Bonnie K.

"Oh, sorry," said the woman. "Katie Peterson of 176 Oldfield Road and I just want to know what my apple is." She turned to the whole audience. "No offense," she said smiling.

"Another good one!" Tom scrambled over to her side and held her hands which still clutched the fruit to the light. "An Akane! A Japanese hybrid with cherry pie colored skin and a heavenly pure white flesh. Very bright and sweet. Sunny flavor!"

Over the crunch of apples Valenti asked what the point behind all of this. The town board members nodded in agreement.

"Well, I planted all these apple varieties in my front yard, and created the first ever walking tour of apple diversity for the area! We live in the second largest apple producing state in the country and we know nothing but effervescent Granny Smiths and Red Deliciouses!" Tom stuck out his tongue and faked a gag after saying those words. I scribbled down everything, especially the apple varieties which I hoped to rattle off to Meredith later tonight. She had grown up in Washington state and might help me with the research. "You can see all the trees in those pictures," Tom said stabbing his finger toward the tables up front.

The lady behind me stood up and puffed out her thoughts. She didn't extend any courtesy to the recorder. "Well that is why I am here! I don't want to see these apple trees every morning when I wake up. They are deformed or something, all low to the ground and gnarled. And the flowers attract bees and my grandson is allergic to bees!"

Another voice, young and shrill, came out from the side of the room. "Well maybe if you had a job you wouldn't have to see them all day!"

Then a rumbling din began. The crunch of fruit, throaty laughter of some, annoyed grunts of others, and Valenti slamming his gavel. I made my own noise, scribbling down what was happening in our town.

__________________________________________________

I do love me some apples. Back home, the only apples we had were imports from Washington state. Red Delicious apples and Granny Smiths are anything but good. Horrible, messy things that taste like you bit into a fleshy Alka-Seltzer tablet. While I grew up I hated apples, because back home there were no such thing as good apples. But, now, in New York State, apples are everywhere and they KICK ASS! Of course, you can tell that I am a bit of an apple snob and when I taste apples, I bring out all the language usually reserved for wine, beer and coffee. Even when I worked as a barista, I could have never said something like that description of Cox Orange (They also have a wonderful graininess, like a pear, but not as overwhelming.). If you live anywhere in apple country then I suggest you look at any local U-pick farm and take advantage of the season. I will be the guy scaring kids out from underneath trees at Little Tree Orchards in Newfield.

"My apples, kids! BACK OFF! Don't test me! Don't talk to me, criminal! Or I'll cut you...a piece of this apple!"

Awww......even I can be nice to the kids.

Oh, yeah. What did you think of this little slice-of-life piece?

PEACE!

The Spice!

Around the apartment, we talk a lot about "the spice." Not the food items, but the weird cultural haughtiness that plagues many a Hispanic, particularly, in our case, Puerto Ricans.

Now any familiar reader of the blog will know that I am one crappy Puerto Rican. Mostly because I don't have "the spice," which means I don't think I am better than everyone just because I am Puerto Rican. Oh, it happens...

I don't have to explain anything to you, Mr. Tax Man! I have THE SPICE! *swings hips wildly while at the front door*

*Dancing on top of the boardroom table* Of course I picked the right font for that business report, Mr. Woods. I have THE SPICE!!! Serifs are always better because they move and dance!

*Yelling back at the movie string* Hey, it's OK I yell back! I have THE SPICE! *Indeterminate voice tells speaker to shut up* No, you shut up, honky-gringo! I HAVE THE SPICE! *Dances in chair*

You know how some Hispanic characters on TV shows have to always fucking say everything first in English and then in Spanish? That's the spice, except this time it is Mr. TV Producer telling the actor to ham it up.

"We must get there fast! RAPIDO!"
"Hey there. Where is the milk? LA LECHE!"

I mean all cultures have something like the spice. It's just a warped evolution of being proud of who you are and where you come from. "The spice" is the dividing line between patriotism and nationalism, between respect and idolatry. And while this can all get pretty heavy-handed, I treat the spice like one big joke. I mean its all pretty much bullshit.

As a minority you hear a lot of things. One is that the greater world, every culture, not just white, has certain expectations of you. Most of them are negative and its sad to see that stereotypes still play such a big role today. We want to break those stereotypes and show everyone that things such as intelligence, responsibility, and creativity are human traits, not national traits. However, at the same time you can stray too far from your roots. Too far from "the spice." Then you are a traitor, someone who betrayed your entire cultural nation because your cultural nation has been boiled down to how thick an accent you speak in and whether or how much you love dancing.

Bah! This was supposed to be a bit about the new Dune book. Get it, the spice? That is still to come, but I can't help getting on my soap box when I think about "the spice." As a wannabe writer, this cultural awkwardness is a driving force. A real writer parallel is the wonderful Sherman Alexie who chronicles the identity struggles of Native Americans. Read him, he is wonderful.

Peace!

Movies I Should Have Already Seen Vol 3. #3

I'm back and you know the freaks can't handle it! WOOOOO!

But, of course, you aren't a freak. Right? So you can handle it. Which is good because I don't want the three people that read this to not handle it.

Onward....

Movies I Should Have Already Seen #3

I remember when this movie came out. Yes, I realize how pompous that sounds since Borat is only about a year old, however everyone treated it like the next comedy powerhouse.

Like with Team America: World Police (another movie that needs the "already seen" treatment) I initially stayed away. I didn't know anything about Sacha Baron Cohen or his Borat skit. I thought this movie would just be an ugly excuse to play off xenophobia and stereotypes. Sort of like Eurotrip except without Michelle Tranctenberg in a bikini. The Ithaca in me overtook my movie judging powers* and I quickly turned my nose up at Borat.

Of course, I was wrong.

Now don't think I am too deep into the Borat army. I still don't think the movie is the next comedic watershed. For how much the shock value was billed, I found the funniest part to be pure slapstick that could work in any movie. The whole "NOT" gag, the bear in the ice cream truck, and the asshole neighbor were gold. I can never look at an Ipod Mini again and say, "Everyone knows it for girls!"

And then you just had those Amelia Bedelia moments like the "gypsy" garage sale and the dinner party. Classic.

When the credits rolled, I kept thinking, "Well, what was the big deal?"

The whole experience reminded me about a time Amanda and I were discussing art. In our plush leather chairs in the study we sipped on Lagavulin that our dapper bunny Carson brought while wearing a tuxedo. Dante the Guinea pig played harp atop the antique globe that held our single malt scotch. While we were so refined, I said that comment that no one is supposed to say.

"I just don't get modern art sometimes. What the hell is so important about a Mark Rothko piece?"

Then she brought on an epiphany!

What defines a lot of modern and post modern art and creativity is not so much what they are showing, but how it was made. Hence, the value of a Pollock piece. This same thing applies to Borat. I didn't find the frat boys particularly funny (Anyone who has been to high school and/or college in the past twenty years should have spent plenty of time laughing at guys like that already), but the method was scintillating. Baron Cohen duped hundreds of people into thinking that he was a real reporter from Kazakhstan and then had them verbalize their unhinged opinions. There lies the success and the comedy, the fact that such horrible figures* still exist in America and want to have everyone hear their vitriol. So the main impressions rests in the method itself. That is why it was a big deal. Obviously, I enjoyed it, and I hope that it is for the same reasons the producers of the movie thought it was hilarious. It is a buffoonish movie, appealing to the lowest common denominator, but still able to create huge amounts of discussion. Conversations about race, American image, and sociology.

I am not going to remove myself from this argument. If I would have been walking down the streets of NYC and some mustached man came up to me asking for a kiss, I would probably freak out. And if we were in a more controlled setting, like the Southern dinner party, I would get all tense and awkward at Borat's mannerisms. Just like the people in the movie. If I met a mysterious man from Kazakhstan then I wouldn't know what to say. I don't know anything about the country except:

1) It is a former Soviet republic;
2) It borders the Aral sea; and,
3) I can point it out on a map. Pesky Uzbekistan, too!

Peace!

* If Wikipedia is right, then I don't feel bad for the rodeo owner or the frat boys, but pity the news producer in Mississippi. But, how true is the report?

Summer Movie

I always resist the urge to talk about my movie going experiences. Well, except "The movies I should have already seen, but that's different! There are about one jillion other blogs that do that and an equal amount that seamlessly mix their regular content with these "out of context" posts. While I resist, sometimes I just have to wax methodically about some movie. And that movie is...

TRANSFORMERS!!!!

Yes, that's me as a cartoony Optimus Prime. No, I didn't make it. My lovely gf Amanda made it as she is too amazed by this movie. That is her as Bumblebee. We are about to destroy Wal-Mart because it is the closest thing one can get to Unicron.

I must admit that I was never really a part of the Transformers band wagon. Like a lot of those 80's cartoon shows*, I was just a baby when they were in their first run. I saw the original cartoons as re-runs and only saw fresh versions during the subsequent 1990's~2000's spin-offs. I watched the hell out of Transformers: Beast Wars as a a kid in the mid 90's. And I really wasn't into the toys either. I was much more of a GI Joe fanboy. I do remember having one Transformers action figure that I won at some carnival at my sister's high school. It turned into a fire truck, which for a little boy, epitomized awesome.

I even made fun of the live action movie when I first saw the teaser trailer last year. It looked so dumb, built purely on nostalgia for something that never really had a message except big bucks. But, as usual, I was wrong.

First, the movie was the most fun I have had at the movies in a long ass time. As a summer blockbuster it had to appeal to the lowest common denominator and show some broad appeal, but there was a real sense of wonder. As a Star Wars fanboy, I hear plenty about people having the same sense of wonder at the release of the original movie back in 1977. I am not comparing Transformers to Star Wars, but I know understand what the feeling was and is. Amanda and I have seen the damn thing three times. THREE TIMES! Now we look for Transformers everywhere. The weekend after we saw it the first time, we happened to find ourselves in Trumansburg, NY driving past the Grassroots Music Festival. And there we saw a Pontiac Solstice**. As soon as we saw it, we both said, "Hey, look! It's Jazz!"

Shia LaBeouf, who played the protagonist Sam Witwicky is my new hero. He is a beleivable loser teenager and, well, if you have ever read this blog, I relate to that. And while it had some of the usual Michael Bay holes (What the hell happened to Barricade!?), it was wonderfully slick. The movie had the full support of the military, which made sense because it made me want to sign up! Those guys had all the coolest military toys like dune buggies, gunships, and vertical take-off aircraft. No desk jockeys, defense contractors, or red tape here. Just ass kicking. I was half expecting Tyrese Gibson to scream out "FUCK YEAH" whenever an air strike happened. All the hardware made it seem like a Tom Clancy novel, just with none of the subterfuge and that pesky Jack Ryan. And no soldier dies. Except the Puerto Rican one, of course.

And thanks to all the slick advertising, now I want the damn 2009 Camaro featured in the movie. I understand the idea of the military-entertainmnet-industrial complex, but I am not made of stone, damn it!

Peace!


*If any show was 80's it had to be Transformers. An entire show and mythology based exclusively on toys. Big money, no whammy!

**I don;t know why a Pontiac Solstice happened to be at Grassroots. When I think hippie, zydeco music fests, I think sports cars.

Stand by for action!

I write plenty of pieces that I can describe as "verbal still life's." Something about a deer sitting underneath our porch. Something about a stream in mid-April thaw. These little pieces have very little action in them and that is because action is hard to do. I remember hearing some interview with Quentin Tarantino about Kill Bill and how action is one of the hardest genres to do. It is very easy to slip into the excessive and gratuitous. How does one toe this line? Well, I don't know. Here are some brief little action snippets I whipped up during my lunch break at work.

• As "Double F" Steff asked me to go get her some iced tea, I flicked out the scrape from beneath my nails. I shuffled into the kitchen and poured a highball glass for the patient. The ice cubes snapped out of their tray and nestled into the soft bend of the glass. The glass hissed as liquid poured into the cracks between the cubes. I brought her the glass, still crackling, feeding the patient liquid spark storm.

• The cop's billy club flew by my head all whirly-twirly. I ducked, then throwing myself into a puddle on the alley floor. Stale coffee from a crushed cup swirled into my nostrils. Bhutes runs at me, jerking the cop's gun out of the belt holster. He struggled with the leather snap, gritting his teeth and pumping his hand up and down. He said something between his teeth before I heard the loud pop. I slammed back into the coffee-water, seeing Bhutes fall to a knee with his hand still around the trapped pistol.

• Vinnie had a dream last night where he imagined his pet guinea pig, Santiago, driving his sister's Power Wheels Jeep around the cul-de-sac. He imitated Santiago's voice, while I whipped up eggs for breakfast."And, he went....BEEP! BEEP! Who has got the key's to the jeep!"I imagined the guinea pig perking up its nose, holding his white streaks to the sky. I inserted, "VROOM!"

Eh? Peace!

Moving Water

Here is a little something something I imagined while reading a biography of Mark Twain entitled, well, Mark Twain. I have gone on about water before, and here is some more of it.

____________________________

Trying to decipher the language of moving water, I lost my watch. The frayed nylon strap seemed to react at the slightest moisture and snapped off. It fell to the river bottom in a falling leaf motion. First through the shallow layer of blue and then into the sooty auburn of the middle layer. It slid into a cloudier shade of brown, lost into the bottom even though it had not hit the end.
I cursed. "Well, Goddammit!" My tongue pressed against the back of my teeth. I gritted through another noise, a whirring grunt.
"Hey!" said Captain Dale from behind the plexiglass at the wheel. "Language, OK?" He turned his head back and smiled to the passengers behind him. He shrugged and they smiled.
Dale gives the throttle a tiny push and inches the boat further down river. The soft eddies around the hull spun faster until the spun themselves into mild jets of foamy water. They squeezed out from underneath the hull, down the side of the boat, and back into the river.
"OK, folks," said Dale into the scratchy microphone. "We are almost near the ocean, so look for those changes in scenery and life. Look for the mangrove trees with the spider legs."
Everyone turns their heads around, except for Dale who keeps looking forward to the horizon. I look towards the bottom, hoping moving water swirls my watch to the surface.

_____________________________

Peace!

Co-op of Justice #1

I realized that I had not written anything about the COOP OF JUSTICE since those initial line-up posts. So here is a little something, something.

Now, before we start, I hate doing this because it shows you are a weak storyteller. But, dammit, I am also not afraid to admit that!

Please understand this is all in jest and in good fun. So, I am sorry Dryden, but someone had to get the shaft. I mean, why do all these stories happen there?! As someone said on Craigslist, in defense of Dryden, "Crazy people live everywhere." Well, true, but, the damage has already been done. I'm not saying Dryden is the county's version of the Wild West, but if I am going to send my crime fighting team somewhere in Tompkins County, well, then, I only got a few options. Besides, this story is set on The Commons.

Onward...

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The July heat comes off from the cement surface of The Commons. I stay in my half-crouch atop the Bank of America building, eight stories above all the perps and civvies. The whole team is off in Dryden, because, well, it's Dryden and something is always happening there. Sitting here in the sun, I realize I have hung around those kids too long. Made me soft always having to bring Flutter always back to reality or keep Clancy from blasting into the Common Council meetings during each public comments section.

It feels nice to work alone. To have the entire heart of a great Central New York city under your care. I give back to this community every time we bring in a perp to Pete or Lauren, sometimes both. Just for the hell of it. I give back every time I teach the kids on the team something about a back-alley switchback or that Crazy Ivan I pulled in a commandeered IPD cruiser. I give back to the community every time that....

A SCREAM!

From down below, I hear a tussle in the Bernie Milton Pavilion. It's hot, but it's still early morning. To early for the goth-skater punks and the hackey-sack kids. I took one of those hackey-sacks in the solar plexuses once. I was getting over the flu and the kid caught me off guard. Flutter later told me the best hacky-sacks have small beads. They handle better. That one must have been a small-bead one. I still took the perp, even though Dawn had to pop in with her shape shifting at the end. It was a lesson for both of us.

I jump off from my half-crouch and unfurl the cable line from my belt. I swing it into the locust trees in front of me and send three dozen Starlings flying away in fear. I feel the rope. Nice and tight, around a heavy branch. Then I fly.

The IPD SWAT does some repelling from the building every year for Christmas. One of the guys dresses up like Santa Claus and scoots down delivering presents to kids. I got no problem with kids. Did a bunch of work with Make a Wish and GIAC. It's the "scooting" I hate. It's a quick drop from the building and since it's morning I don't have dodge the lunch time crowd under the trees.

I hit the Commons running and hear some whispers from behind me.
"Captain Gorges!"
"I thought he was only an urban legend!"
"Someone call the paper! NOW!"
I ignore them. I hope I don't appear callous, but I see the trouble. She isn't hard to miss.

FG-1000 has the tourist couple cornered. That android from Elmira has been ravaging the city since 1989. Screaming and yelling, she has all the time to complain and intimidate. I always found Dr. E's evil creating ingenious. Using the city's progressive label against it. She's everywhere. Every rally. Every pow-wow. Every discussion group and drum circle. FG-1000 is there. My portfolio for the IJ has dozens of pictures of her. She is usually holding a cardboard sign.

The android's voice carries clear and strong. It's a bit raspy, probably from lack of maintenance. The FG-1000 can't operate any vehicle besides a bike. And Dr. E knows never to show up in Tompkins County since "the incident."

"WHY DID YOU LEAVE YOUR WATER BOTTLES OUT IN THE SUN!?" The FG-1000 screams this to the tourist couple. The couple cowers in a corner of the pavilion, a Dasani bottle at their feet and in the sun. From their clothes, I can tell they are financially well, but don't want to show it. Some smart khaki shorts and polo shirts. Teva sandals over their feet. The husband has a ratty Boston College cap. The wife's polo is the BC colors. Probably some folks passing through looking at Cornell or the wineries. FG-1000's perfect prey.

"DON'T YOU KNOW WATER BOTTLES IN THE SUN CAUSES CARCINOGENS!?" She continues. "INSANE! MADNESS! PEOPLE!"

The wife speaks up. "Hey, why don't you mind your own business!?"

Bad idea. The FG-1000 is inflamed. "WHAT!? I LIVED IN THIS TOWN FOR 18 YEARS!"

Luckily, she can't see me in her state. I unfurl an escrima stick from my side holsters. Never had to use it against her, but then again, she has next to nothing in hand-to-hand training.

"Hey!" I scream. "Leave the nice folks alone, FG."

"WHAT!? YOU!? I DESERVE YOUR JOB! I SERVE ITHACA BEST. CORNELL DID THIS TO US. THEY BRING THE CRIMES WITH THE STUDENT'S DRUGS!"

She swings at me with her yellow bike helmet. This is a first. Dr. E. must have sent new protocols to her. However, she swings from the shoulder. Swings hard and clumsy. I dodge it easily. However, she keeps on coming. "ALL YOUR BASE ARE BELONG TO US!"

I duck another helmet swipe, bending forward as I were picking up some change. Unsnapping the strap for my shield, I whip the old girl onto my wrists. The helmet strikes the face of the shield. A low thud fills the air around us. "NO STUDENTS ON COMMON COUNCIL!"

My shield is made of recycled-ceramics pulled from discarded terracotta pots and treated to be high-impact machine grade. It then has a thin layer of recovered plastic, designed to be ablative and diffuse the impact. I really wanted a shield made of metal, but some folks at Greenstar got a wind of it and protested. Some kid from IC was at the presentation, listing off air pollutants saved by going with the ceramics. They won. I deal.

FG-1000 follows through with her swipe and I come up to slap the helmet out of her hands. I just tap it, using the same strength I would if I were yawning. Just with a bit more grace. my shield just taps her in the chin, but it sends her reeling. FG-1000 is pear-shaped, a design I always assumed was poor. What did she keep down there? Speakers. She wobbles before hitting the pavement.

I turn to the tourist couple, who blast down the Commons Bank Alley. The wife turns her head back and smiles at me. Gives me a wave. The husband just pulls her farther away and closer to her car.

In the meantime, FG-1000 waddles away down the Commons. I am always surprised how fast she actually moves on those legs. A kid comes up to me and asks for my autograph.

"Are you really Captain Gorges?!"

I see FG-1000 jump on her bike. It's parked where the Commons Bug uses to be. They got rid of them when they made me. I kind of missed them today. She pedals away, but she screams, "NO MOPEDS IN CITY PARKING LOTS!"

But I also hear the kid say, "Excuse me, but are you really him?"

"Yeah," I say, grabbing his pen. I sign the autograph, "Captain Gorges. Giving back to the city."

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Peace!