Can one visualize epic?

I thought we saw the end of it with Pirates of the Carribbean or Lord of the Rings. That it would take years for Hollywood to finally outdo themselves. Too many times have I driven by the cinemas, only to be dissappointed at the sight of lackluster movies and cheap remakes. Nearly ten years it was, before I finally sat down again and felt my head crack as my mind exploded. A new precedent has been made. if ever there were an idyllic epic, this is it. And an epic 17 years certainly makes.

I will ruin no surprises. But the classic story line of Avatar, was nigh unto predictable and frankly, I couldn't care less. The views and the scenery. The high voltage actions and mindnumbing adrenaline rush. It was graceful, poetic, and righteous. Clean and beautiful of a flick this was. Notice how in todays society, as far as PG-13 movies go, they now can get away with at least two to even three of the harsher of the curses we commonly hear. James Cameron spat in those crude faces with dignity as his three hours of maddening goodness has nearly nothing to shake a finger at. Sci-fi movies are notorious for their love scenes. Our protagonists kissed once, love was implied, but nothing was shown. Proof, and not just proof, but incredibly heart slamming proof, that love scenes and gore and cussing a good movie does not make. Scratch your heads, my favorite movie producers and directors, fight to the top of the hill for the next five years, because it will take at least that much to come close to the level of wonder and awe this movie has created. I waited two hours for a PREMIER, and already scheduled, before the movie was released showing of New Moon, as is evident in previous posts. I walked right into this theater with plenty of time to spare. This, the unsung hero of modern movie marvels, I raise my glass to, and declare to my sparse readers and random blogosphere surfers that happen across this meager helping, YOU MUST SEE THIS MOVIE.

Redwall and Car Loans

Dramaticism

Interesting thing to note, living in a mountain valley. Everything has a dramatic mountain backdrop. At least the Eastern Mountains do that. The western ones are a little lack luster, but it's funny to sit in a parking lot, just before you get out your car, you glance over at the walmart you're fixing to go into, and there's a snow covered mountain looming over the top of it. Almost as if to say, that's not Walmart, that's Walmart. Like I'm about to get my buckler and shortsword and go on a quest. Anywhere else, chuckie cheese's is just that, but here, it's Chuckie Cheese's. Thus, mountains make everything cool.

Last week's christmas party gift....

The wonder of graphing calculators

Rapid succession or otherwise known as procrastination...

Worst Movie Ever: 2

OK, folks here it is, the second installment of my Worst Movies Ever series. Due to popular demand I have carefully selected my next victim, but let’s be honest, I’m pretty sure I’m the victim here.

Now before I begin the butchery, I must lay out a disclaimer. Though this movie may leave a nasty after taste in my mind, I don’t want to downplay my gratitude to my friend, Shelly Cluff for inviting me, and Shelly’s friends for putting on a premier a whole 3 ½ hours before the midnight showing of a much anticipated movie for the entire nation.

That being said, I will concede and say yes, readers, my standards have dropped and I have seen New Moon.

Let’s begin with one minor detail that irked me to a degree. There were no previews. It went straight to the movie. A good half the reason I go to a movie if for the previews, because then I know at least the beginning of it was great!

I will concede to some redeeming qualities of the movie. The sporadic and infrequent scenes of random action were admittedly thrilling. Seeing as how this was most undoubtedly a chick flick (my reasoning behind that? The werewolf character had his shirt off the entire film. ‘Nuff said. To be discussed later) I was a little surprised at the moments of random violence that was almost uncouth for something so centered on the emotions of an estranged high school senior (raise of hands, who doesn’t find that cliché?). I was deeply intrigued at the stories behind the three main vampires that sat as an unofficial government seat for vampires everywhere. Their collective 20 lines total told more about their story and left me wanting more from them, compared to the endless ‘tormented’ dialogue from the protagonist. Just in their demeanor, their visage, there was a more profound archetypal back story behind each one than I’ve found in a great deal many other like stories or movies. Additionally, I almost wish to read the books now with an intrigue on the story behind the werewolves and their purpose. There was much more to be said with respect to their casual appreciation for their monstrous powers, which turn out to be hereditary, as it were. It was a thirst that could not be quenched as I endured through the rest of this mind numbing parade of low literary prowess.

Thus, I descend into the depths of hell, the very jaws opening at my presence to swallow me whole, as in the very beginning there is a slow sequence of the vampire boyfriend Edward walking from his expensive, yet unflattering car, towards Bella. Five minutes into the movie I was unaware of what I had gotten myself into. Six minutes betrayed that knowledge and my stomach sank. This was going to be very long.

Let’s be honest folks, this pasty white, lanky, vampire is ugly. So who’s fawning after this guy? For what reason? Is it his endless cheesy and undesirable lines of romance? Let’s face it, the dialogue could give Starwars Episode 3 a run for its money. There were strokes of brilliance, especially in the father’s character. But, as a whole, the character dialogue was gritty, predictable, and without rhythm. You would be startled at the points of wisdom or maturity that each character would state, and then within the next sentence be guilty of the grossest of immaturities reminiscent of my own angsty teen days of my freshman and sophomore high school years. Who wants to relive that?

In addition to the confusing dialogue that gave me no solid foundation behind the character’s individual personalities, what artists crawled out of the cesspool of understandably forgotten music to provide the random scores during this display of serious lack of talent? Each time our protagonist was ‘feeling,’ someone dug through the moldy recesses of some backwater suburbia for unseemly and meaningless notes strung together. It was at each time that these scores would play that I legitimately asked myself, “Wow, this movie kinda draws out doesn’t it?”

What happened to the deadly secret of the werewolf’s identity? First off, I’m sick of folk telling me they’re not werewolves, they’re just dudes that turn into big scary wolf things. Oh wait, sorry, I thought THAT’S WHAT A WEREWOLF WAS. Prove me I’m wrong, but during this entire flick, I was unconvinced that they were anything but. Since there is an argument to that point, and considering I’m not an expert in the subject of ‘Twilight Mythology’ (thank the heavens), I have naught but the years of Van Helsing, The Wolf Man, and European/North American mythology to back my thesis. But returning to my original argument, a good half of the movie (I’m unsure if that’s accurate seeing as how it felt like I spent an eternity watching this. Day is a vestigial mode of time measurement based on solar cycles, it’s inapplicable. In this case, half the movie, doubly so.) was spent trying to keep a secret that the audience was anxiously pained over because they already knew it. For someone who was unfamiliar with the stories altogether, it was frustrating, because it was easy to see what the issue was, and with all other rules being made, kept, and broken in rapid succession in the New Moon world, I was tearing my hair out trying to understand why they decided to drag out the obvious! And then, once the secret was revealed, it was tossed aside like a hazy bad dream on a feverish summer’s night. With casual disinterest, these werewolves related their story when only minutes before, our unattractive protagonist’s life was threatened over it. WHAT?

Additionally, the werewolf had his shirt off the entire movie. How am I supposed to impress the girl I’m taking out on a date to her movie, if she’s got visions of this plastic cutout, worse than the old Batmans might I add, floating around her head the rest of the evening?

Equally frustrating was the relationship between Bella and the werewolf. How is it that she is blinded by her infatuation with the ugly pasty vampire, regardless of the true nature of friendship that was fostered by the werewolf? How is that fair, that after all the werewolf had done to show his devotion to her, he was rejected in the end?

I missed the climax, I’m sure it was in there somewhere, unless this was so poorly written there was none. No third grade writer would be guilty of that.

In any case, with all things considered, I have decided this movie in becoming my new precedent. This movie has proven to be grouped in an undesirable category separate from the rest, but it would seem that it has been years since I have found such distaste and confusion in a single setting. I could have understandably forgotten them, but this will probably be burned in my memory for a long time. Save me. Thus, this movie merits the bottom of the barrel. One would think that its pros would out weigh its cons, but they only add and increase the chaos. God have mercy on the souls who watch it in future generations. Learn from my example, and don’t tread the path I have blazed.

Until next time –

Valentina

“Are you getting ready for work Valentina?”
“Sure am Liga.”
“Do you like work?”
“It’s tough at times, but yes, I like it.”
“Huh. I’m not sure I like school.” Valentina laughed, her stark blonde hair listing softly as she shook her head. She sat in front of her old oak mirror, brushing her hair. Liga apparently didn’t think it was that funny.
“I’m serious. The boys pick on me and I’m no good at math,” She said with a pout.
“Oh Liga, you can’t let them pick on you. And I’m sure you’re plenty good at math, you just need to work hard.” Valentina finished brushing her hair, then quickly and expertly tied it up in a tight bun. She stood up quickly with a determined grace and grabbed her white lab coat. Pulling it around her, she slipped it on over her shoulders and began buttoning it up.
“Why is it always white, why not a pretty color like blue or purple?” Liga asked, now playing with the brush on the small desk.
“I think white is pretty. Like snow or a baby’s skin.” She walked over to her door, and hanging on the back was a large brown ¾ length parka with fur lining the hood. She pulled it around her again and looked over at Liga, whose attention span robbed her interest of the brush and made her drift to smelling the different perfumes that stood there in their glass bottles.
“I like purple. When I grow up I want a purple coat,” the little girl said, now peering over the largest bottle, trying to get a gentle whiff of its contents.
“I know you do. Now quick run downstairs and see to papa. He’s got breakfast ready for you.”
“Awww, all right,” Liga folded her arms and stomped off, pouting again, before she rushed back and gave her big sister a swift kiss on the cheek.
“Have fun at work.”
“And you have fun at school.”
“Not likely…”

“Miss Valentina? Valentina, may I talk to you about something?” She looked up from her notes, a project she was working on for the lab. MIR Labs was known as Moscow’s authority on chemical engineering and was built in connection with the Russian Science Academy. It was a bit of a commute from Solntsevo to Moscow, but it was where she was raised all her life. She took the job with hope that soon she’d be able to move her family out of their small apartment into a safer town on the other side of Moscow. But who could really escape the gangs nowadays? Her boss was kind enough to give her a chance, a large scientist and businessman by the name of Alexander Fedorov. He always wore a blue collared shirt with red suspenders, which had the effect of keeping his enormous gut from spilling over his black pressed slacks. Today he was wearing his lab coat as well, as he was increasingly these days. The economy couldn’t allow for too many to be hired, as meager as their wages were. So with budget cuts and layoffs, work was increasingly more difficult and stressful, making even Alexander don his coat and finish projects. It wasn’t uncommon for him to call Valentina in his office frequently. Alexander knew her father very well and Valentina grew up with his daughter before she moved to England to study business and finance. She pulled off her lab goggles, and set them carefully on her desk. As she walked in, he turned in his chair and motioned her to sit down. She crossed her long legs in the upholstered yet uncomfortable chair and took notice of the deep circles under her old friend’s eyes. He had not gotten much sleep lately and was showing many signs of stress. She felt a deep feeling of worry wallow in the pit of her stomach, not only for her friend, but she was playing out the worst case scenario in her head.
“Valentina, I need to tell you something. You have been one of the best scientists I have ever worked with. When I ask you to do your task, you do above and beyond. When I ask you to do above and beyond, you somehow manage to still exceed my expectations.”
“I’m not sure…thank you.” She was unsure as to what he meant by this, but she expected the worse and could already feel the crushing sorrow beginning to swell.
“How’s your American boy, Daniel? How’s he doing?” Alexander asked.
“He’s doing fine, Mr. Fedorov.”
“Listen, I have had to make a decision I don’t like. I’m going to give the Ivanov boy your project.”
“Dimitri? But he’s barely a year out of the academy!” cried Valentina, louder than she even herself expected.
“I know, but you know who he is. The school and subsequently the government fund this lab. You know I have to keep the president’s son, and yet they keep cutting my payroll. I can’t support all of my technicians. The one person I pay the most is you, and for good reason, but I can’t anymore.”
“Well then cut my pay, we can manage. We always have.”
“It’s not that straightforward. The directors of science at the academy say we’re paying you too much, but for the work you do, it would be criminal to pay you less. So they asked me to work on transferring you to another lab. Perhaps Novosibirsk.”
“Novo..! Are you serious?! I can’t move all the way to Siberia.” Valentina nearly jumped out of her seat, mouth open in livid surprise, fighting her emotions getting the best of her.
“Well that’s why I ask, how’s that Daniel doing.” It had finally hit her. Like the surf rising against the beach before it dashes itself against the cold hard sand. Then as her emotions crested, she wept. How could this happen? She had worked hard all her life, she had done her very best at all she could to be the most successful in her career. The political fancies of a corrupt leader had robbed her of her livelihood and the hopeful future of her family. What had she done? What could she do? In rapid fire all these things ran through her mind, making the swirling mass of her sorrow spin all the faster. When she could gather her composure and becoming aware of the torment she was causing her friend at his decision, she choked a question between sobs.
“What, must I do then? The Americans won’t accept my degrees.”
“Well…”

“Valentina, pass that bottle there will you?”
“Da, I mean yes.” She nimbly passed the large bottle over to her co-worker, while she was occupied with her work. It had been two years since she moved to the United States, and she had been married to Daniel for that time, living on the campus of the private school he worked at. The winters were much like they were back home, but the summers were nothing like she experienced, and she still was unaccustomed to it. She moved her fingers quickly, her instruments flying expertly in her hands as she worked on her project. She had become swift, and learned the art very quickly, especially for someone so young in the craft. She was making significantly more than she was at the Labs, but she couldn’t help herself when she wanted to mix the strange bottled substances and see their reactions, or figure out the basic elements of the compounds she commonly used. The fact was, she was miserable. She hated every minute of her job, but she couldn't go back to Solnstevo. Justifying her torment, she kept back a sob as she returned her focus on her current project.
“Be sure you cut it straight in the back there, last idiot that did it she cut it all crooked and I looked like a fool for weeks,” said the man in the chair. He hadn’t torn his gaze from the T.V. screen in front of him replaying highlights from the football game this weekend that he missed. He had complained about that too. She quickly finished her work, tried to appreciate it like it was art, then brushed him off and removed the small tarp that covered him. He sighed and hastily stood up with a determinedly proud look on his face. It made Valentina laugh a bit to herself as she saw his face and could see the thousands of little hairs that had been left behind from her work. She took him to the register and processed his pay. When he asked for change back, she couldn’t help but say, “No…” and then caught herself.“No what? No tip? No. It feels crooked in back and you didn’t talk the entire time. Like talking to a brick wall. You want a tip? Get a real job you idiot.” Laughing he walked out the door and stuffed his fat wallet back into his back pocket. She stifled a tear and finished writing down the transaction. Sadly she turned around the corner and returned to her station, sweeping everything up and putting things away.

To be continued...

This might come as a shock but....

Commonly I have to disclose my identity when talking to my friends or list a disclaimer to anyone I take on dates that I suffer from two things. I was diagnosed three years ago with a serious, and on occasion terminal, case of dorkism. I mean no harm in saying so, but I have a tendency to embrace my diagnosis and it has become a part of me. Thus I claim the official title of dork. The other thing, which could be potentially more harmful to my health is my frequent and deliberate delusions of grandeur. It is not uncommon for me to dream of fighting evil space empires, sailing the seven seas, or defeating a dark lord with naught but my hairy feet. The reason I tell you this is to know, you blog stalkers and you internet surfers, is that if we chance to meet, I must warn you, these kinds of things are contagious. If you’re going to hang with the Man at Arms, you’re going to be dressing up, taking down, or rocking out in the craziest of means. I have no shame. Period. I rock out to System of a Down just as much as I rock out to the soundtrack from Pirates of the Caribbean. Give me some arm greaves a decent breastplate and a sword and so help me I will learn how to use them convincingly so I can be cool. Not by everyone else’s standards, but my own, and that is what matters. What I've discovered recently, however, is that though I may suffer from these frequent bouts of oddity, it really makes life an adventure. I live for the thrill of the moment, and I embrace the hilarity and excitement of the here and now. Yeah, so I might do so dressed up as spider man. But I love the high adventure of a delusional hero.

CURSE YOUR SUDDEN BUT INEVITABLE BETRAYAL!!!! HAN SHOT FIRST!!! THE BALROG HAS WINGS!!! And so I end my piece.

!!!

Rejected by a zombie

The denizens of the undead world aren't known to be picky. It's common knowledge that their hunger is unabated and insatiable, causing much of the stress and anxiety of overworlders such as you and me. So, it added to the hilarity of the situation, as the Captain and I stood in line waiting to be mystified by the darkness of the Nightmare on 13th, when a shuffling zombie approached me (smelled pretty good, all things aside, including looks. I think he used Gain) It was the usual hideous, gorefied monster of the night, and it endeavored to stare me down, anticipating my nervousness to get the best of me. Snuffling and sniffing me out, it was clear in it's intentions. Had I any indication it was female, with such interest in my being, I might have asked the poor thing to dinner. Desperate, NOT SO!!!! In any case, losing interest, the bag of bones turned to my Captain, clad in the best he could muster on short notice. The zombie took a good look, sized him up, and then, to the shock and utter amazement of myself and my Captain, shook it's head! It was uninterested!!!! Could it be slamming on the nature of the getup of the Captain, who knew, but the action did not go unhearalded, as our roars of laughter filled the chill air. An event to always be remembered, and I will hold a soft place in my heart for the zombie with a personality, one of it's kind.

Thirteen Seconds

It was unclear how it began. Usually things of this nature start little by little, until they snowball to a size of epic proportions. And with each infinitesimal amount added to it, it grew in chaos, losing all order and application, until it was about to burst at the seams. The very fabric of its being was threatened from the beginning, as all things of evil are. Then, like an electric circuit, as the board couldn’t take any further power, the only remaining barrier being the morals and values of one man, the resistor explodes creating an exponential expenditure of untamed energy. Consistently he asked himself why he did what he did. Where were the characteristics of an honest man he was taught to be all those years on the range with the legendary ranchers of old? Where had he gone wrong from the day he laid his right hand on the holy word of God swearing to protect and uphold the law, stand as a safeguard for the innocent lives he was granted to defend? He blamed it on his apathy. Eventually he was faced with the lack of concern for not only the souls of those around him, but more importantly and most dangerously, his own.

The lawman wiped his brow in the gleaming sun of noonday. Dust flew from the baked earth as he dug, reaching beneath him for solace, as he found it no where else. Nothing on high cared for his wounded soul, or so it seemed to him. He felt unworthy even to speak the name of his God to try and ask a blessing on the child that lay next to him. In his own way, as he struggled with the earth, unwilling to release its soil, he prayed for the soul of the child that it would find peace and rest wherever it may reside after this life. His emotions flashed like the lightning would over the ridge of mountains in the east. In one instant he would be in the deepest sorrow, mourning for his friend. The next he would be wallowing in self pity, finding no peace for his soul, nor any soon promise of it. Suddenly, marked with his increased and heated rhythm of his digging, he would find himself hot with inexplicable rage and fury, at himself, at the earth, at those who committed this atrocity. He could hear the wood of the beaten shovel creak as he dug endlessly, and he wondered when it would finally crack. He would be willing to continue digging on his hands and knees with only the blade in his hands, knowing full well the bloodied state of his hands would be in if he did so, and again, cared not. He then mused and wondered at what point when he himself would crack. It was a little while longer before he hit a rather large stone, jarring his arms and shoulders from the force of his blow. It caught him off guard and he staggered a bit in the hole before he regained his balance and ultimately his senses. He leaned back against the wall of his hole, and sat, gasping for air in the arid heat, not knowing or caring if it was sweat or tears that ran down the sides of his face. Gaining his composure, he dusted himself off absentmindedly and hefted himself out of the ground. You have to dig deep out here, he thought to himself, as he picked up the 10 year old body from the ground next to the hole. He laid the boy in the ground and stood for a moment, not knowing if he should say something or if he should just continue. Making up his mind, he picked up his shovel and began restoring the loose dirt to where it came. It took much less time to refill the hole, all signs of the little body gone. He secretly wished he could have had time to fashion a proper coffin for the boy, but things had to be made right, and time wasn’t waiting. The damned soul took the tiny cross of two sticks lashed together and set it at the head of the grave. He dusted himself off once again, from his white shirt and to his black trousers, cursing the earth that wouldn’t leave him be. But it was an attempt to not have to move from this point, to forget that he was missing something. Hefting the shovel on his shoulder and touching the silver Deputy’s star pinned to his black best, he again had the inkling that he should say something, something to reverence this moment of solemnity in a day where reverence was far from anyone’s mind but his. Looking strained he tried to find the right words, then deciding on them he turned and walked determinably back to town.
“I’m sorry kid.”


“Where the hell have you been?” The grizzled red-faced man leaned forward from reclining with a thump of his boots hitting the floor as the other walked in.
“Digging,” replied the other, dust still caked on his knees and seat of his pants. His face showed no sign of any emotion now, just endless features etched in the tanned hide of his skin. The man at the desk slammed his fist on the table jarring loose some of the papers and rattling his mug.
“I can see that Parker. That wagonload was supposed to leave at high noon today, with you at the reins protecting it, so I’ll ask you again. Where, the hell, were you?” the grizzled man demanded. His shaggy beard covered his face which was plump with years of low labor and living off the benefit of others. He wore a red shirt and a brown leather vest with a tarnished, but still gleaming at some points, silver Sheriff’s star hanging from the top right of it. His breath smelled of a large use of expensive whiskey, yet it was clear he held it well from years of practice. His brown eyes glared threateningly without concern if Parker’s excuse was legitimate or not. He had been crossed and he was used to getting his way. As Lee Parker set the shovel against the wall in its place, he paused, motionless.
“You worthless son of a whore, answer me!” Lee turned with a wretched look on his face, eyes full of venom.
“The Sanderson boy is dead. One of your boys shot the whole house to pieces looking for Jeff and they killed him.”
“And you come in here looking like you are, expecting me to give a damn? Is my boy dead?”
“In the worst way.”
“Who was it?”
“Alan.” The sheriff leaned back again, grabbing his mug as he went, taking a sip.
“Didn’t like that worthless dog anyway. Still not solving my problem about this wagon needing to be in the next town. Take care of it now.” Lee slammed his palms on the edge of the desk, his green eyes in tattered confusion not knowing whether to be enraged or sorrowful. The sheriff jumped in surprise but held himself as he stared back, daring Lee to make a move.
“I ain’t your hand anymore. I done things I’m not proud of and I’ve watched countless innocent folk die at my hands and yours. It’s over.” The sheriff leaned in setting his mug on the desk and rose from his chair to level with Lee. “You picked to wrong day for a confession, Lee Parker. I had the church man killed early this morning while you were dumping that kid in a hole. Them damn Natives have confused your mind. What, you’ve got values now? Morals? I’ve half a mind to kill you where you stand you gutless stack of cow-heap. Turn around right now and get out of my office before I riddle you with holes boy.” The Sheriff’s beard quivered with blind fury as he heaved threateningly. Lee just glared and counted down the seconds. With deliberate emphasis he pushed himself slowly from the edge of the desk, escaping the engulfing stench of the crooked sheriff’s malice laced breath, and continued counting. One, two, three. He stood straight, and as he counted he became fixated on every passing moment, slowing time down in his own sight. Focused and stable, mind clear of anything but one thought, he stepped back. Four, five. Lee could feel his weight shift as he began turning his step, his boot catching his balance. Six, seven, eight, nine. He began making steps towards the door and settled on thirteen, that thirteen would be it. He could hear the soft glide metal made on leather as he sensed his sheriff pulling his cold pistol from it’s holster. Sloppy and slow, Lee thought, as he realized it took the sheriff a good part of ten, eleven, and twelve to draw and aim to shoot. In the first quarter of thirteen, Lee shifted his weight to turn back on the sheriff, hand on his gleaming ivory-handled six shooter. In the second quarter he had it drawn, hate bearing down its long silver barrel towards the sheriff. In the latter half of thirteen, he had pulled the trigger, holstered the gun, and turned around again resuming his solemn walk out of the office. The sheriff lay dead in his wooden chair at fourteen. Lee continued counting to keep his focus, but with his task done, and now with the hot sun blinding him as he stood in the doorway, he couldn’t hold it for long. Too many distractions. He did note, however, that at twenty-two, he heard the sheriff’s pistol hit the floor. He forced the sounds and all those following to be etched in his memory as the beginning of his penance. He would begin with finishing the rest of the sheriff’s boys. The quick draw of his gun popped the blisters on his hands, and as they stung from the flying dust and wind he looked at them. Finally his own blood instead of others. He took his right index and second finger and pressed them against his left hand, then swiped horizontally against his cheek. He then took his index finger and marked the turtle clan, symbolic of the traveling medicine man he met and saved his life those years ago, and then marked the lines of his face with the lightning bolt. Setting his hat he walked to the edge of town, barely noticing that three men already lay dead in the streets. His speed at encouraging their deaths made it seem to him that it was as natural as breathing. He decided to change his name, a name the whole county, perhaps the state would know, as the man he swore to be, the man he was when he fought in those wars years ago. He would be Man at Arms.

Happens every time...

This was actually my Captain's idea, but I decided to put it in motion.

Things I learned today...

You can't put a price...

Retail: Yay

As is known, I also work retail, which all negative points aside, isn't so bad, considering I get 30%-50% off fantastic gear. So what could those negative points be? Customer crabbiness is a given, sometimes people just suck. It's those kind of people that rememind me of slinkies. Good for nothing, but bring you a smile when you push 'em down the stairs. But even the most disgruntled customer is only misery for five minutes. What could possibly worse? I will describe it in my new dialogue for a sales pitch. You will only hear what I would say:
"Hi, how're you doing? Is there something I can help you find?"
"Ok, well, be sure to check out our sales, and we have our new gear in the back."
"Oh yes, please, try on anything you like, in fact, try on EVERYTHING, and don't buy it, just leave it there."
"Oh no, if you would just roll it in a ball and leave it on the floor of the fitting room that would be fine."
"No worries, I'll just fold it later. In fact don't even put it back where you found it, no let's just THROW IT across the store and I'll take care of it later."
"Oh yes, I'll take care of the dirty diapers and moldy grapes you left behind no worries."
"WELL thanks for BUYING JACK, hope YOU have a GREAT day."


Beyond that, retail ain't so bad. For the record. Oh and buy our stuff, uh, because. No that's just it, because.

Things I learned today

Dawning of an Epic

I've decided to post each chapter of my book for the intent of folk being able to read it. Best way I think to get some input and things, but frankly, I'm not of the opinion that the novel will go anywhere, so it's going to be my second blog and that should be it. Someday, who knows, but I've just enough attention span to be able to blog regularly, and not so much write regularly. Thus why now has become the dawn of a new epic. Good times

Life's lessons

So I have just broke up with my girlfriend, and sure, I'm a bit broken up about it. But I think I learned something new about myself. First of all, that I'm still just an RM, and I still, no matter how much I try not to, act like the typical marriage crazy RM. The truth of that is frankly we can't change who we are. Granted it was more than my subconcious that made me crazy about her. I've learned what I need to be, and who I should be in the future. And I've learned that, frankly, I just can't handle a relationship right now. I'm not trying to be hard on myself, just realistic. It was a good run. I made some mistakes, and stumbled over some things. And dang it, having a car would have made life a whole heck of a lot easier. But it just wasn't the right time. And as low as my heart may be right now, I'm straight with that. I've come to terms with it and I'm settled. One thing is sure. I still love Firefly and Muse, and I must say I credit her as to part of the reason I moved out here, but I'm staying here. Because this is my new home, and this is where the Lord wants me to be. I think I've said my peace.

Things I learned today

Worst Movie Ever: Episode 1

No, not Star Wars Episode 1, though that certainly ranks up there somewhere (The fact that Ray Park is Darth Maul off sets the balance there, evens out our favorite Gungan). Seeing as how TV just really isn't my thing, and I need a new form of 'homework' as far as writing goes, I've decided to begin this series of Worst Movies. It was a serious task to try and figure out which one to write about first and also the system by which I plan to gauge the horror of each whether it being the EBCO Factor (Eye's Being Clawed Out Factor) or the BB Complex (Bleeding Brain). I eventually settled on a tamer yet no less appropriate form to measure my results. It is the ALW Ratio (Chances of me choosing to watch an Andrew Lloyd Webber Musical Movie marathon rather than the movie compared to). Though this system may not be as statistically mathematical as others may be (four or five stars, pish, what a cop out) it is no less accurate. That being said on to my first column of worst movie.

It has been said that Jennifer Lopez is a great actress. Unfortunately most those that said it never so much as set foot in an acting class to remind the rest of the students about their school Spirit Week! Such a statement is proven false when you compound her 'skill' with the plotless Monster in Law. Yes, I will concede, I have seen it and it has made a little of me die inside. I will play devil's advocate and admit that there were a few points of hilarity, ones where I nearly gave a chuckle. But let's be honest folks, the main reason why we would watch this is to make out. If there is anyone that chooses to watch this on their own, I pray for you.

The premise of the movie is to introduce Jlo's fiance (Michael Vartan) and his mother (Jane Fonda). While JLo and her husband to be are blissfully happy with each other, once she meets her soon-to-be-mother-in-law, an age old battle over Vartan explodes. On the one hand, he's JLo's, while on the other, Fonda is playing the over-protective mother. And yes, this goes on for at least an hour, maybe two. Lost those brain cells right quick.

In any case, I have dug for a meaningful plotline in this debacle and have yet to encounter one, I tried to understand the choppy screenplay and was almost as confused as when I saw the first Incredible Hulk, and let's be honest, I'm just not a fan of Jane Fonda. Prove me wrong if you will, but here is my standing. Now for the verdict. By analysis, let it be known that this movie reaches a ALW Ratio of 0.65, or 65% chance of me choosing to rather watch Andrew Lloyd Webber. Yeah, it's that bad, but thus are my results, and that is where is stand. Stay tuned for my next installment, and let's explore the jems of the horrific filmaking world.

The Door

This was in connection with another paper that I was asked to write about my door. The emphasis was on descriptive vocabluary, to see how vivid a picture we could paint. I normally don't write like this, because it almost gives one a headache to digest a great deal of detail, but I think this is a fair balance. I hope you enjoy :)

Thresholds of Life and Opportunity

Life is about choices. Choices made on the thresholds of opportunity. And something I do every day is symbolic of that relationship I have with life in general. My life is filled with doors opening and closing, but there is one that is very special to me. My front door is the portal to opportunity and a recorded cassette of memory. It has raised me, among other things, and I have grown to know it very well. Its voice, its face, its past, and I know it so well, I can almost tell you its future. The two of us have grown and developed together, and I wish to share some of what my door means to me.

To illustrate the significance of my door to me, the Doors of Ireland seem to be a sufficient parallel. Many find it odd that the doors in Ireland are so many different colors, though there is somewhat an urban legend about it. The story goes that as the Irishmen, after a hard day’s work, would go to the public houses and drown their worries and stress in a grand ol’ pint. Many would have one too many, either out of a great many stresses or the revelry in association with it, but in any case, these drunken men would find it very difficult to find their own door, if they all looked the same, and the result would be waking up in the wrong woman’s bed. To avoid that, their wives painted their doors different colors, to identify them. Great story, though it's not completely reflective of my door. I may be an Irishman, but I have never drank. Instead , to me the Doors of Ireland identify the homes and families of those that are lost, and in connection, so does my door signify the same thing. It is a beacon, with its deep burnt red face, and multiple nicks from bags and bags of Costco and Sam’s Club groceries, enough to feed an army. The brass handle still gleams in the morning sun, and firm though it may be, its nose has become loose and free, threatening to lose itself, but ever persevering to serve my family for another year.

Characteristic of a door well used is the giant magnet, used by my mother to hang all sorts of wreaths and seasonal decorations to signify the coming and sometimes going of yet another age. The aged wood chips away with each chill and warm of the year, and as it grows and shrinks, it loses a bit of itself, almost as we do when we grow. A chip of our face is lost with age, and a wrinkle is all that remains. The only gripes I have about it are the decorated side windows, employed only to give my door class, and serves no other purpose. The angled glass and frosted decorations make it terribly difficult to perform surveillance work when mom and dad are on their way home. Rarely does it ever catch any sunlight to cast rainbows on the wall, seeing as how our home faces north and south, but the limited amount of light it does permit illuminates the foyer enough to create a natural glow about everything. How wonderful it is to keep one’s reality in check, to find that even such a substantial symbol of our lives isn’t perfect either.

Woven in the door's metal fabric are the memoires of years past, both cold ones of long winters and warm ones of humid summers. Snow, maple leaves, and grass clippings live and breathe within the inner workings of my door, creating a unique taste to the air. It changes with the seasons, but there always seems to be a piece of each season that still remains. In winter, the stark metal gives off a smell of sterile honesty. The combination of melting salt and the crisp, frozen air, gives the door a lifeless and almost unwelcoming odor. In spring, it becomes more inviting. Cold wet grass leaves its impression, and it gives it a clean, earthy brown smell, as if it foreshadows the sowing of seeds and reparation of my yard after a long winter. Summer gives my door almost a harsh, open smell of suffering vegetation, almost like the tree leaves are melting, but not burning. To counteract that, one can also pull from my door the distinct and purely American flavor of charcoal and Sweet Baby Rays barbeque sauce, as the many hundreds in my neighborhood have little porch gatherings, celebrating the warm weather for a short time. Lastly, autumn has my most favorite smell of all. With the air quickly getting colder, trapping the savory and wholesome smells of summer, it adds the homey aroma of wood smoke and burning leaves. It's an ever changing smell, and my door seems to adopt a different personality or style with each new day.

Unique to my door are the sounds that are emitted from it. Contrary to popular belief, my door is not silent, deaf, or lifeless. It is not merely a composition of wood and metal, whose sole purpose is to be a source of protection from the elements. It is a source of security, of course, but it is also a reminder of the comings and goings of a happy healthy family. Each time it opens, you hear this great sucking noise, as if a very slimy cork is forcefully removed from a bottle. It also screams its presence, but almost in a singsong kind of way, like a macabre musical with a horrific, high, soprano descant. The only difference is it’s not unsettling in the least bit, in fact, it adds to the feeling of security, knowing that if any intruder comes to invade our private security, we would know in an instant. It takes a bit more of a trained ear to hear the distant memories of times past hidden within the framework of the door. The shouts of excitement from crazy kids shooting burp guns at each other, the shrill barks of a protective border collie, the roaring laughter over a great movie, and the calm collected serenity of one reading a book all combine to create a unique and particular symphony of younger days. As I run my fingers over the framework, I can almost feel the threshold breathe with the house. It’s a steady movement, like an aged and wise animal, standing guard. My door is as smooth as ancient metal can be, and regardless of the warm security of the general atmosphere, it feels cold and oppressive, no matter what time of the year it may be, almost like an emotionless sentry over a royal family. You can also feel the gummy residue of many a wreath, hung for the various holidays, on the face of my door. Running one’s hands over the rest of the framework would be unwise, however, owing to the many rusty nails and old staples from evergreen garlands of Christmases past. Added to the danger of the nails is the splintered wood, almost saying, “Yes I will protect but remember I am a force to be reckoned with.” Ultimately, to the touch, my door is solid and stalwart, ready to stand against any resistance Mother Nature can create.

Who knew one could talk so much about their door. Honestly, I’m kind of sick of it, but if you don’t understand a bit more about what my door looks like then don’t tell me, because at that point I’ll feel like I wasted my time, which I know I didn’t. I learned some very important things about my door, and ultimately myself. Again, I draw back to the significance of the Doors of Ireland. Each one unique, each one stands as a symbol of the inhabitants it protects. As we cross these thresholds, one can only wonder what life will bring them, but if we remember the feelings and memories our doors keep, if we remember what they mean, then a better sense of who we are will follow and we will be able to withstand whatever hard times may come our way.

Who'd have thought...

Adam Sandler really isn't that funny. No, like, I'm serious, I just realized it. Huh...

Death match of the century

It has been decided carefully by a professional discussion panel, that the Ultiamte Death Match 2010 must be fought between the two most powerful forces known to common man. The first would be no surpise, being the walking carpet Chewbacca. Pained for finding an appropriate match, we fell on the least likely candidate, and after a display of unmatched prowess and cunning, our second contestant is decidedly the perfect match for our fuzzy beast. That being said, we will introduce our very own Big Bird to fight to the death. May the best misunderstood beast win...

The ABC story

Success!!

All right, I'm excited now. I'll begin with one of my first thoughts, and see where things go from here.

Callings and Creeds

Agent Callings just weren’t his thing. Buttresses soared over his head as great winged creatures, blotting out the sunlight as he walked, gathering his thoughts and trying to digest this new assignment. Callings always caught him in rare form, but this one served both as a source of wonder and uncertainty. Difficult as it was to understand Their reasoning, Alan could begin to feel the rising excitement of a new mission, and just as quickly suppressed it to keep his face from flushing. Emotions were a sign of chaos and rebellion, and he had not worked so hard and for so long to forfeit his position. Finding his own door, Alan slowly but deliberately pushed through the door, with poetic emphasis, and quietly shut it behind him. Grabbing his pristine suitcase, he pensively and reverently threw things together for the three day journey, almost as if he was building a shrine of parting, knowing that before he could venture out, he’d have to appear before Them again to make his Calling official. Holidays were typically the only occasion one of the Sanctuary had to travel, and such were rare, making the prospect of a trip exciting. Ignoring his feeble emotions, Alan moved with quiet determination as he heard a knock on his great oak door, almost as if its source was unsure whether or not it wanted to alert him. Jumping to the door realizing it could be one of the brethren, he swung the door open. Keeping himself composed, he scanned the threshold, and hallway, to find no one there, though there was something that caught his eye. Lurking in the shadows of a great marble pillar stood, or rather hunched, a wizened old man in rags, shaking in his age and muttering under his breath while pointing directly at Alan. “Might I ask who you are,” asked Alan.“Never you mind boy, but I have something of yours.”Obviously confused and a little angry, Alan took a step forward trying to see the old man more fully, wondering what it could possibly be that he took.“Please return it to me now,” Alan said with determined force.“Quite the request boy, but it was you who gave it up.”Realizing the beggar’s words were cryptic in nature, Alan’s eyes narrowed in frustrated misunderstanding. Slightly annoyed, Alan took another few steps towards the old man, to try and reason with him.“Try as you might boy, you won’t wrest it from me, especially if you understand that it has to be fought for and earned, your gift.”Understanding swept across Alan’s face, realizing what this man was, who he was, what he represented.“Vile rebel, get out of here before I call the Statutories and have you hanged!”Wildly the old man spun around and laughed a wicked laugh, a doomed man with nothing left to give. “Xylene and ice, Master Priest!” yelled the beggar, as he ran down the hall cackling and finding his way to the nearest window, flung himself through the curtains and down to a death in the streets. Yelling for the Statutories, Alan ran to the window, and grimaced, not only for the old man’s sake, but also for the very reason Alan didn’t call for the Statutories in the first place. Zeal was often the cause for misplaced hatred and strictness, and Alan, though faithful to the Pact, felt at times, the rebels had a point, and wondered whether or not his faith was well placed…

This was a paper we had to do in english comp. Take the each letter of the alphabet and write a 26 sentance paper using each one once at the beginning with the sentance

The Test

I was introduced to the blogging world and the amazingness of it, so I decided to do my best to put together something meaningful and thoughtful, as opposed to the normal lunacy usually associated with 'MyFace'. Given that understanding, and knowing that I'll not have too many opportunities to post something witty or clever ;) , my intention is to post my random musings, thoughts and novel ideas for the approval and criticism of friends and family.

So, the truth and point of this, my very first blog post, is to test this out, and see if the world of Blog is a place to be...