Despite the end of the Cold War, the world is still a dangerous place. Many nations continue to fight each other, and we are very lucky that in recent years the major powers have not been drawn into a conflict. It may interest you to know that the third largest nuclear power in the world is Kazakhstan. This is not a thought that fills my dreams at night with confidence and security. (For those of you unsure just where Kazakhstan is, it borders Kyrgyzstan and Uzbekistan. Feel better now?) So I suggest that we redouble our efforts to end conflict and bring peace to the planet. I present the following suggestions:
-- During times of aggression between two or more countries, the United Nations should be granted special powers to intervene. The U.N. hasn’t had much success with military interventions in recent years, so I suggest instead that they order out pizza for all combatants. Nothing causes young men’s minds to forget what they were doing faster than a fresh, piping hot pizza. (Okay, there is one other thing, but that’s too tawdry. Even for the U.N.) Pizza would be a quick, painless method to stop a battle (and cheap if you order from a 2-for-1 place).
-- Communication between societies must be improved. There are thousands of languages, dialects and sub-tongues in the world, and yet laughter is a universal expression that everyone understands. Therefore, I suggest the U.N. take over all military and communication satellites and instead of using them to spy on the world’s population and send secret messages back and forth, it should use them to broadcast a world-wide Mr. Bean Marathon.
-- We must build more McDonalds restaurants. McDonalds has restaurants in (at this writing) 101 countries in the world. Amazingly, no country with a McDonalds has ever invaded any other country with a McDonalds. (Some of you may be thinking that the U.S. invasion of Grenada is an exception, but it’s really just a question of semantics; in some cases involving the Super-powers, “invasion” is pronounced “liberation.”) We must make sure that a McDonalds is built in every country in the world immediately. We could even make having a McDonalds a condition of entry into the United Nations. Admittedly, this proposal will have devastating environmental and social impact. But hey, that’s progress, right?
-- Young people, particularly young men, have a lot of excess energy, pent-up frustrations and an overabundance of testosterone. In many cases, these factors influence young people in their decision to enlist in the military. We need a “military substitute” where these young people can safely vent their rage and hostility. This is why Canadians invented hockey. (You’ll note that since the formation of the National Hockey League, Canada has never started a war.)
Let’s sum up these proposals: pizza, Mr. Bean, McDonalds, and hockey. Let’s break the proposals down even further into their basic elements: make sure that everyone has enough food to eat and foster a sense of well being.
Jeez, it can’t be that simple, can it?
Showing posts with label 1997. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 1997. Show all posts
Saturday, June 09, 2007
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Star Wars - Episode IV - A New Hope - The Special Edition
The recent retooling of Star Wars raises some interesting questions of art. When is art no longer the property of the artist and when does it become the property of the public?
Director George Lucas has added some new scenes and restored some lost scenes to the 20th Anniversary edition of Star Wars. Lucas has also replaced some of the clunky motion-control model spaceship shots with brand new CGI shots, which only point out even more how clunky those old models shots have become. State of the art once, but obsolete now. Why didn't he just replace all of them? But I digress. What if twenty years after the fact, da Vinci announced that he'd really wanted the Mona Lisa to be in a hot pink dress, but he just didn't have the proper shade of pink at the time. Is it his prerogative to make that change? Would Shakespeare, if he were alive, have the right to go back and tinker with the ending of Romeo and Juliet so he could set it up for a sequel? If Lucas' alterations were simply enhancing old effects shots that don't alter the story, that's one thing. But Lucas also has made a change that panders to political correctness, and changes a characterization: Greedo shoots first.
Greedo is the green alien who confronts Han Solo about a debt at a table in the bar at Mos Eisley. In the original version, Greedo is blown away by Solo, but in the new version Greedo shoots first and Han shoots back in self-defense. The issues raised by this are threefold: first, it makes Greedo look like at idiot because he can't hit a large target at a distance of about two feet (admittedly, we don't know a lot about Greedo -- he could very well be an idiot); second, this change smacks of political correctness -- we can't have a hero that would shoot first and kill someone; and thirdly, the character of Han Solo has been altered. As played out originally, Han is a selfish rogue who thinks only of himself. This makes his return at the end of the film all the more heroic as he has finally found something more important than himself. But by having Han shoot only after Greedo shoots first in the new version, this outlaw aspect of Han has been softened, thus also softening his change of heart at the end.
Worse yet, Lucas plans for this new version to be the definitive Star Wars. The previous version will no longer be available.And Lucas is not the only person changing old movies to be politically correct. In the recent reissue of E.T., director Steven Spielberg excised a line wherein one of the children says he wants to dress up as a terrorist for Halloween. Spielberg has also said that he would make other changes if he were making the film now, such as removing a scene where FBI agents are chasing a group of children with their guns drawn. I'm glad to see that Spielberg has grown up and realized that guns are not something to play around with, but obviously that was something he had not considered in 1982. But so what? Art reflects its times, and its creators. If Lucas and Spielberg feel grown-up now, that's great. But is it right for them, or anyone, to go back to inflict their modern maturity on their youthful exuberance? I mean, don't you think that fifty-something Pete Townshend would like to go back and re-write "My Generation": "Hope I die before I get old."
The special edition of Star Wars sets a dangerous precedent. Will other artists now revisit and retune their past works? What if Mel Brooks decides to redub Blazing Saddles in an effort to make it politically correct? Can you imagine the result? "The sheriff is an African-American!" Sure it's more polite, but is it funny? I hereby reserve my right to be offended.
(The Special Edition of The Empire Strikes Back contains few changes other than some special effect shots, although there is a new scene with Darth Vader inserted near the end that is not voiced by James Earl Jones(!). The Special Edition of Return of the Jedi also has mostly just special effects changes, and a second and longer song inserted in the scene in Jabba's palace (like we needed that). Verdict: Empire still rocks and Jedi still sucks.)
2005 Addendum:
The original Star Wars trilogy was re-issued in 2004, and George Lucas made further changes in the original trilogy in an effort to further conform the films to the new trilogy. With specific regard to Greedo, he still shoots first, although Lucas has attempted to make the shot a little egregious. But it still sucks.
Look, I don't care. Lucas can make as many changes to Star Wars as he wants. Just allow the original version to be available, too! Spielberg did this with the DVD release of ET. He removed the FBI agents' guns, restored other scenes, and redid some special effects. But when we bought the DVD, it had both versions. So the viewer had a choice of ET Redux, or the original ET.
The original version should be preserved and availble, if only in the name of cinematic history. It is, after all the 1977 version of Star Wars, warts and all, that set box records and sent people like Peter Jackson, James Cameron, Ridley Scott and a host others diving into movie careers, not the 1997 Special Edition, or the 2004 DVD version.
Wash the Glasses First
“Here’s a hint,” said Tracey. “Wash the glasses first.” My friend Tracey was critiquing my dish washing technique (or lack thereof). I had made the faux pas of washing some greasy plates before I washed my glasses.
It makes perfect sense, of course. If you wash something greasy before you wash a glass, the greasy water in the sink will make the glass greasy. It’s so obvious, but no one ever taught me that before. I think this was something I should have been taught in school.
I did learn some useful things in school. I learned about pi, helium, calculus, Peking man, Peking Duck and Planck’s constant. I was taught about Shakespeare, subjects, predicates, trigonometry and plate tectonics, all of which serve me well in my daily life. In fact, it was only the other day during one of our all too frequent West Coast earthquakes, that I stopped and said, “Ah, tectonics,” before scrambling into the alleged safety of a doorway.
No, really. The B.C. educational system taught me a lot. I can explain to you the physics behind a lunar eclipse. (One night, I explained it to a group of strangers at Willows Beach, using a garbage can, a large rock and a car as my props.)
But now, many years later, I wish that the educational system had taught me the important things that a person really needs to know to get through life. Sure, algebra is important, but it was a dirty glass that embarrassed me in front of my friend. Why wasn’t I ever taught that in school? There needs to be a class called Important Stuff 101, where you learn meaningful concepts like:
- wash the glasses first;
- how to tie a necktie;
- what to do when you can’t communicate with your partner anymore;
- credit cards and the road to financial ruin;
- how to fake insincerity;
- how to care about someone without becoming smothering and possessive;
- you can’t change the past, so learn whatever lessons you can and move on;
- popular people aren’t any happier than you are;
- how to cook more than Kraft dinner;
- spiritual well-being is more important than money;
- vacuuming can be fun;
- how to accept people for who they are;
- quality, not quantity;
- always remember to wash colours separately;
- how to ignore advertising;
- live for today – tomorrow never knows;
- where to find the strength to tell her you love her, and where to find the wisdom to know if you should;
- how to believe in yourself;
- how to live with yourself;
- how to let go.
I didn’t learn anything like this in school. These are all lessons that I have learned later in life. Some of these lessons have been difficult, most I still need to practice and some I will never master.
But if you need help to solve a quadratic equation, I’m your man.
It makes perfect sense, of course. If you wash something greasy before you wash a glass, the greasy water in the sink will make the glass greasy. It’s so obvious, but no one ever taught me that before. I think this was something I should have been taught in school.
I did learn some useful things in school. I learned about pi, helium, calculus, Peking man, Peking Duck and Planck’s constant. I was taught about Shakespeare, subjects, predicates, trigonometry and plate tectonics, all of which serve me well in my daily life. In fact, it was only the other day during one of our all too frequent West Coast earthquakes, that I stopped and said, “Ah, tectonics,” before scrambling into the alleged safety of a doorway.
No, really. The B.C. educational system taught me a lot. I can explain to you the physics behind a lunar eclipse. (One night, I explained it to a group of strangers at Willows Beach, using a garbage can, a large rock and a car as my props.)
But now, many years later, I wish that the educational system had taught me the important things that a person really needs to know to get through life. Sure, algebra is important, but it was a dirty glass that embarrassed me in front of my friend. Why wasn’t I ever taught that in school? There needs to be a class called Important Stuff 101, where you learn meaningful concepts like:
- wash the glasses first;
- how to tie a necktie;
- what to do when you can’t communicate with your partner anymore;
- credit cards and the road to financial ruin;
- how to fake insincerity;
- how to care about someone without becoming smothering and possessive;
- you can’t change the past, so learn whatever lessons you can and move on;
- popular people aren’t any happier than you are;
- how to cook more than Kraft dinner;
- spiritual well-being is more important than money;
- vacuuming can be fun;
- how to accept people for who they are;
- quality, not quantity;
- always remember to wash colours separately;
- how to ignore advertising;
- live for today – tomorrow never knows;
- where to find the strength to tell her you love her, and where to find the wisdom to know if you should;
- how to believe in yourself;
- how to live with yourself;
- how to let go.
I didn’t learn anything like this in school. These are all lessons that I have learned later in life. Some of these lessons have been difficult, most I still need to practice and some I will never master.
But if you need help to solve a quadratic equation, I’m your man.
Today's Special
On Sunday, dinner was sloppy meatloaf shoveled out of a cold, white pan onto her husband’s dirty plate. She winced at the cracked rib she didn’t know she had. It could be worse. He only hit her three or four times a month.
On Monday, dinner was sirloin steak served on sterling silver platters by an elegant, thin black man. His daughter was in the second year of university and still not sure who she was. His son was a fifteen year-old high school hellion. His wife had passed away from cancer six months ago. His employer didn’t know any of this because he had never bothered to ask.
On Tuesday, dinner was the salty crunch of Pringles potato chips, the cheesy zing of pizza, and the stomach-melting acid of Diet Coke. He had stayed home to watch the hockey game on TV, but even if there had been no hockey game, he would have stayed home.
On Wednesday, dinner was grilled salmon by expensive candlelight at Le Chateau. They looked long and deep into each other’s eyes. They had the whole world and all their lives ahead of them. If they only knew.
On Thursday, dinner was spaghetti. It was the ritual meal when they all got together for their annual retreat. Usually it wasn’t very good, but the company was delicious.
On Friday, dinner was warm wind and hot sand. The well had dried up months ago. The Red Cross could no longer operate in the area because of all the fighting up north. All the aid was held prisoner by bureaucracy on the docks of Addis Ababa. Any food that did get through was hijacked by soldiers or black marketers. They were often the same people.
On Saturday, dinner for the family was three Big Macs, one McChicken, three super-size fries, a side salad, two shakes, 2 large pops, two ice cream cones, four apple pies and a box of McDonaldland cookies. They never finished it all – there was just too much.
On Monday, dinner was sirloin steak served on sterling silver platters by an elegant, thin black man. His daughter was in the second year of university and still not sure who she was. His son was a fifteen year-old high school hellion. His wife had passed away from cancer six months ago. His employer didn’t know any of this because he had never bothered to ask.
On Tuesday, dinner was the salty crunch of Pringles potato chips, the cheesy zing of pizza, and the stomach-melting acid of Diet Coke. He had stayed home to watch the hockey game on TV, but even if there had been no hockey game, he would have stayed home.
On Wednesday, dinner was grilled salmon by expensive candlelight at Le Chateau. They looked long and deep into each other’s eyes. They had the whole world and all their lives ahead of them. If they only knew.
On Thursday, dinner was spaghetti. It was the ritual meal when they all got together for their annual retreat. Usually it wasn’t very good, but the company was delicious.
On Friday, dinner was warm wind and hot sand. The well had dried up months ago. The Red Cross could no longer operate in the area because of all the fighting up north. All the aid was held prisoner by bureaucracy on the docks of Addis Ababa. Any food that did get through was hijacked by soldiers or black marketers. They were often the same people.
On Saturday, dinner for the family was three Big Macs, one McChicken, three super-size fries, a side salad, two shakes, 2 large pops, two ice cream cones, four apple pies and a box of McDonaldland cookies. They never finished it all – there was just too much.
Ramming Speed
I have some friends in the Green movement and naturally they are extremely anti-automobile. And let’s face it, they’re absolutely correct. Our 20th century love affair with the car may be the death of us all. Noxious emissions that poison the air, acres of pavement, an expensive and wasteful infrastructure, and a staggering reliance on fossil fuels are the sad legacy of the automobile, to say nothing of the daily horrific carnage on the roads and highways. But in their crusade to curb the car, my Green friends may also be saving lives in a completely unexpected way. Of course, I’m referring to Justifiable Parkade Homicide.
When I’m driving in a parking lot searching for an empty space, I always try to be considerate to the other drivers. I don’t stop in the middle of the row, blocking traffic, unless it’s pretty obvious that someone is just about to pull out and free up a space. I don’t stop and wait on the slight chance someone may return to their car in the next ten minutes. Sure, if you wait long enough, eventually someone’s going to return to their car and free up their space right in front of you (unless the world ended while you were waiting and, boy, wouldn’t you feel stupid then?). But is it worth the impotent aggravation of just sitting there doing nothing? I say if you can’t find a place to squeeze into where you are, you should move on and look for somewhere else to park it.
Other people don’t feel the same way as I do. Some feel it’s their right to hold up as many other drivers as possible while waiting for a parking space to be vacated. Pedestrians don’t do this. How many times have you seen a person stand in the middle of the sidewalk blocking other pedestrians on the slight chance that a space may open up at the bus stop?
I was recently a passenger in a friend’s car in the View Street Parkade in Victoria. As we entered a new row of parked cars, he stopped his, apparently intent on waiting. It didn’t help that this particular level of the parkade was also used as a pedestrian throughway. Office workers on their way to be late back from lunch scurried by, tantalizing us by walking past the parked cars. After ten minutes, my friend noticed my annoyance, manifested by my tapping the dashboard loudly. And not in time to the beat of the music on the radio.
“We can wait,” he said. “We’re not in a hurry.” This was a debatable point. Did I really want to waste ten minutes crammed in a car so my friend could walk fifty feet to the exit instead of a hundred? (If I was a professional, I could have charged him by the minute for wasting my time.)
“Yeah, but what about the guy following us?” I asked. A car had driven into view behind us. “He might be in a hurry.”
“He isn’t. He hasn’t passed us.”
I glanced outside our car. My friend had somehow maneuvered it so it blocked the entire passage. I can just imagine what the guy behind us was thinking, because I’ve thought it myself a hundred times: why isn’t common sense a prerequisite for a driver’s license? “He can’t pass us,” I said. “It’s too narrow. You haven’t left enough room for him to get around us on either side.”
“Look, he’s not even on our bumper,” he said, checking his rear-view mirror and growing angry at my impatience. “He’s way back there.”
My friend was correct. The other driver was way back there. Then I sensed what he was up to. “He’s making sure he’s got enough room to achieve ramming speed,” I said.
My friend was still very nonchalant about the whole business. But what if this guy had been a lawyer on his way back from lunch to be late for his first afternoon appointment. Now he really was going to be late, and it was our fault. “If he was actually in a hurry,” my friend said, “he’d honk his horn.”
I checked the other driver in the rear view again. “He’s too busy shaking his fists.” I’ve never seen a face so red before. Or such foaming at the mouth. Or a windshield fog up so fast. I rolled down my window. “He’s also making a comparison between your family lineage and exotic farm animals.”
I’m not telling you this simply to embarrass my friend. That’s only part of the reason. It’s also to save his life. One day, he’s going to pull this stunt on a disgruntled postal worker and that’ll be it – out comes the Uzi and my friend is Hyundai Helper. The worst part is that no jury in the world would convict the killer. We’ve all been there, right? Justifiable Parkade Homicide. (With my friend’s luck, the judge will turn out to be that poor guy we delayed. “I remember the victim well. RJK 042. As a judge, I can’t condone violence or vigilantism, but the bastard had it coming.”)
So remember, don’t plug up traffic in a parkade waiting for a space to open. You’re annoying people, wasting fuel, and polluting the planet. The life you save might be your own.
When I’m driving in a parking lot searching for an empty space, I always try to be considerate to the other drivers. I don’t stop in the middle of the row, blocking traffic, unless it’s pretty obvious that someone is just about to pull out and free up a space. I don’t stop and wait on the slight chance someone may return to their car in the next ten minutes. Sure, if you wait long enough, eventually someone’s going to return to their car and free up their space right in front of you (unless the world ended while you were waiting and, boy, wouldn’t you feel stupid then?). But is it worth the impotent aggravation of just sitting there doing nothing? I say if you can’t find a place to squeeze into where you are, you should move on and look for somewhere else to park it.
Other people don’t feel the same way as I do. Some feel it’s their right to hold up as many other drivers as possible while waiting for a parking space to be vacated. Pedestrians don’t do this. How many times have you seen a person stand in the middle of the sidewalk blocking other pedestrians on the slight chance that a space may open up at the bus stop?
I was recently a passenger in a friend’s car in the View Street Parkade in Victoria. As we entered a new row of parked cars, he stopped his, apparently intent on waiting. It didn’t help that this particular level of the parkade was also used as a pedestrian throughway. Office workers on their way to be late back from lunch scurried by, tantalizing us by walking past the parked cars. After ten minutes, my friend noticed my annoyance, manifested by my tapping the dashboard loudly. And not in time to the beat of the music on the radio.
“We can wait,” he said. “We’re not in a hurry.” This was a debatable point. Did I really want to waste ten minutes crammed in a car so my friend could walk fifty feet to the exit instead of a hundred? (If I was a professional, I could have charged him by the minute for wasting my time.)
“Yeah, but what about the guy following us?” I asked. A car had driven into view behind us. “He might be in a hurry.”
“He isn’t. He hasn’t passed us.”
I glanced outside our car. My friend had somehow maneuvered it so it blocked the entire passage. I can just imagine what the guy behind us was thinking, because I’ve thought it myself a hundred times: why isn’t common sense a prerequisite for a driver’s license? “He can’t pass us,” I said. “It’s too narrow. You haven’t left enough room for him to get around us on either side.”
“Look, he’s not even on our bumper,” he said, checking his rear-view mirror and growing angry at my impatience. “He’s way back there.”
My friend was correct. The other driver was way back there. Then I sensed what he was up to. “He’s making sure he’s got enough room to achieve ramming speed,” I said.
My friend was still very nonchalant about the whole business. But what if this guy had been a lawyer on his way back from lunch to be late for his first afternoon appointment. Now he really was going to be late, and it was our fault. “If he was actually in a hurry,” my friend said, “he’d honk his horn.”
I checked the other driver in the rear view again. “He’s too busy shaking his fists.” I’ve never seen a face so red before. Or such foaming at the mouth. Or a windshield fog up so fast. I rolled down my window. “He’s also making a comparison between your family lineage and exotic farm animals.”
I’m not telling you this simply to embarrass my friend. That’s only part of the reason. It’s also to save his life. One day, he’s going to pull this stunt on a disgruntled postal worker and that’ll be it – out comes the Uzi and my friend is Hyundai Helper. The worst part is that no jury in the world would convict the killer. We’ve all been there, right? Justifiable Parkade Homicide. (With my friend’s luck, the judge will turn out to be that poor guy we delayed. “I remember the victim well. RJK 042. As a judge, I can’t condone violence or vigilantism, but the bastard had it coming.”)
So remember, don’t plug up traffic in a parkade waiting for a space to open. You’re annoying people, wasting fuel, and polluting the planet. The life you save might be your own.
Here Are Some Scenes From Next Week’s Episode
FADE IN
The dirty, stained interrogation room at the police station. There is an old wooden table and two worn chairs. Seated is THE SUSPECT, an older, weather-beaten man. His is mumbling quietly to himself. In a corner watching are THE DETECTIVE and THE CHIEF.
“I can’t make it out,” says the Detective. “Is it free verse or iambic pentameter? We’re going to need help on this one. We better call him in.”
The Chief, rotund and stoogie-chomping, grunts. His voice sounds like a tuba played through sandpaper. “He let me hang out to dry last time.”
“Chief—”
“You’re right. We need a poet. Get me . . . McCardigan!”
CUT TO
Opening sequence. Music up – fast and percussive, a cross between the Mission Impossible theme on steroids and Jan Hammer on acid. We see a red Ferrari accelerating down the highway. We zoom into the driver, McCardigan, as the title flashes – McCARDIGAN: POET LAUREATE.
CUT TO
The Chief’s Office. He and McCardigan are leaning over the desk in a head to head confrontation.
“I don’t like you, McCardigan,” says the Chief. “I don’t like your act, I don’t like your style, and I don’t like your Armani suits. Frankly, you overuse metaphors, your similes suck, and your rhythm patterns are excessively simplistic! You better not let me hang out to dry like the last time.”
CUT TO
The Interrogation Room. McCardigan is examining The Suspect’s personal effects that are spread over the table. “See?” says McCardigan, pointing to some books. “Keats, Shelley. Your man here is into the Romantics. But the guy you want is strictly Ginsberg and Kerouac. You’ve got the wrong man.”
The Chief grunts. “You better not be letting me hang out to dry on this one.” He turns to The Detective. “Fire up the computer. Start cross-referencing. We’re looking for a terrorist who reads beatniks. Move it!”
CUT TO
The abandoned warehouse. THE TERRORIST is holed up inside. The police have the building surrounded. The Chief and McCardigan are using a police car as a shield. The Chief is shouting into a megaphone. “This is the Chief. We have you surrounded! Give it up!”
“You never take me alive,” shouts the terrorist. “Do your worst!”
“All right. We ‘re going in! Let’s—”
“Wait!” yells McCardigan. “Let me try.” He grabs the megaphone from the Chief. “You! In the building! It’s me – McCardigan!”
“McCardigan!” shouts the terrorist. “I know you! You humiliated me at the haiku open mike at Berkley! I’ve never forgotten that!”
McCardigan reaches into his jacket and pulls out a thin book.
“You got a permit for that?” asks the Chief.
“Yes, I have poetic license.” McCardigan reads from the book into the megaphone. “‘What a piece of work is man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god.’”
The terrorist leaves the building in tears, dropping his weapons as he staggers out. “Oh man, that was beautiful.”
CUT TO
McCardigan in his Ferrari with a buxom BLONDE in the passenger seat.
“—and when I saw the suspect was reading Hyperion, I knew the cops had the wrong guy.”
“Oh, McCardigan,” says the Blonde. “Did you ever fix that rhythm problem you were having?”
“My rhythm’s great. How’s yours?”
“Ooooh, McCardigan....”
We pull back as the Ferrari races into the sunset. We watch it recede to the horizon as the music comes up and we
FADE OUT
The dirty, stained interrogation room at the police station. There is an old wooden table and two worn chairs. Seated is THE SUSPECT, an older, weather-beaten man. His is mumbling quietly to himself. In a corner watching are THE DETECTIVE and THE CHIEF.
“I can’t make it out,” says the Detective. “Is it free verse or iambic pentameter? We’re going to need help on this one. We better call him in.”
The Chief, rotund and stoogie-chomping, grunts. His voice sounds like a tuba played through sandpaper. “He let me hang out to dry last time.”
“Chief—”
“You’re right. We need a poet. Get me . . . McCardigan!”
CUT TO
Opening sequence. Music up – fast and percussive, a cross between the Mission Impossible theme on steroids and Jan Hammer on acid. We see a red Ferrari accelerating down the highway. We zoom into the driver, McCardigan, as the title flashes – McCARDIGAN: POET LAUREATE.
CUT TO
The Chief’s Office. He and McCardigan are leaning over the desk in a head to head confrontation.
“I don’t like you, McCardigan,” says the Chief. “I don’t like your act, I don’t like your style, and I don’t like your Armani suits. Frankly, you overuse metaphors, your similes suck, and your rhythm patterns are excessively simplistic! You better not let me hang out to dry like the last time.”
CUT TO
The Interrogation Room. McCardigan is examining The Suspect’s personal effects that are spread over the table. “See?” says McCardigan, pointing to some books. “Keats, Shelley. Your man here is into the Romantics. But the guy you want is strictly Ginsberg and Kerouac. You’ve got the wrong man.”
The Chief grunts. “You better not be letting me hang out to dry on this one.” He turns to The Detective. “Fire up the computer. Start cross-referencing. We’re looking for a terrorist who reads beatniks. Move it!”
CUT TO
The abandoned warehouse. THE TERRORIST is holed up inside. The police have the building surrounded. The Chief and McCardigan are using a police car as a shield. The Chief is shouting into a megaphone. “This is the Chief. We have you surrounded! Give it up!”
“You never take me alive,” shouts the terrorist. “Do your worst!”
“All right. We ‘re going in! Let’s—”
“Wait!” yells McCardigan. “Let me try.” He grabs the megaphone from the Chief. “You! In the building! It’s me – McCardigan!”
“McCardigan!” shouts the terrorist. “I know you! You humiliated me at the haiku open mike at Berkley! I’ve never forgotten that!”
McCardigan reaches into his jacket and pulls out a thin book.
“You got a permit for that?” asks the Chief.
“Yes, I have poetic license.” McCardigan reads from the book into the megaphone. “‘What a piece of work is man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god.’”
The terrorist leaves the building in tears, dropping his weapons as he staggers out. “Oh man, that was beautiful.”
CUT TO
McCardigan in his Ferrari with a buxom BLONDE in the passenger seat.
“—and when I saw the suspect was reading Hyperion, I knew the cops had the wrong guy.”
“Oh, McCardigan,” says the Blonde. “Did you ever fix that rhythm problem you were having?”
“My rhythm’s great. How’s yours?”
“Ooooh, McCardigan....”
We pull back as the Ferrari races into the sunset. We watch it recede to the horizon as the music comes up and we
FADE OUT
Fire in the Friday Night Sky
Full moon and low tide at Willows Beach.
A pool of argent glow trailed across the opaque ocean, silently following the moon on its daily mission through the sky. We stood for a moment at the water’s edge as the sea vainly fought against the tidal pull of the lunar orb.
We talked about life, the future, the past, and about dreams. We talked about how we wanted to live our lives, and what we wanted from them. We walked the boundary of the ocean and the land and explored the boundary between dreaming and acting, while silently overhead the heavens caught fire.
An ocean of raining incandescence was spreading across the sky – kaleidoscopic streams of bright burning debris trailing wispy flames and tumbling cinders.
What it really was, was the funeral pyre of a Russian SL 12 booster rocket burning up upon re-entering the Earth’s atmosphere.
At first, I thought it might be fireworks. It looked a roman candle except that the angle was wrong – it looked like it was traveling downward at a shallow angle. Instead of burning itself out like a firework, it became brighter and spread out. The primary body seemed to split in two, and smaller chunks fell away from the two bright main portions. By the time it passed directly overhead, the whole sky was filled with flaming space debris dragging multi-coloured streamers of fire.
It lasted no more than a minute. By the time it disappeared behind the horizon, it had mostly burned itself out. But while it lasted, it was spectacular.
If I was a little more superstitious, I might say it was a sign or portent. But I’m not superstitious (touch wood) and I don’t believe that it was some sort of divine being (or the Russians) giving its blessing to my wanting to change the direction of my life. It was, however, a once in a lifetime vision, and I’ll take it as that – something you only dream of seeing. But dreams inspire other dreams. What dreams inspired the scientists that built the rocket that burned up over my head? Whatever they were, they were big dreams.
And if you don’t dream big dreams, your big dreams never come true.
A pool of argent glow trailed across the opaque ocean, silently following the moon on its daily mission through the sky. We stood for a moment at the water’s edge as the sea vainly fought against the tidal pull of the lunar orb.
We talked about life, the future, the past, and about dreams. We talked about how we wanted to live our lives, and what we wanted from them. We walked the boundary of the ocean and the land and explored the boundary between dreaming and acting, while silently overhead the heavens caught fire.
An ocean of raining incandescence was spreading across the sky – kaleidoscopic streams of bright burning debris trailing wispy flames and tumbling cinders.
What it really was, was the funeral pyre of a Russian SL 12 booster rocket burning up upon re-entering the Earth’s atmosphere.
At first, I thought it might be fireworks. It looked a roman candle except that the angle was wrong – it looked like it was traveling downward at a shallow angle. Instead of burning itself out like a firework, it became brighter and spread out. The primary body seemed to split in two, and smaller chunks fell away from the two bright main portions. By the time it passed directly overhead, the whole sky was filled with flaming space debris dragging multi-coloured streamers of fire.
It lasted no more than a minute. By the time it disappeared behind the horizon, it had mostly burned itself out. But while it lasted, it was spectacular.
If I was a little more superstitious, I might say it was a sign or portent. But I’m not superstitious (touch wood) and I don’t believe that it was some sort of divine being (or the Russians) giving its blessing to my wanting to change the direction of my life. It was, however, a once in a lifetime vision, and I’ll take it as that – something you only dream of seeing. But dreams inspire other dreams. What dreams inspired the scientists that built the rocket that burned up over my head? Whatever they were, they were big dreams.
And if you don’t dream big dreams, your big dreams never come true.
Growing Older With a Modicum of Dignity
I’m growing old. My marriage failed, my body’s failing, my hair is graying, and my favorite music is played only on the “Good Times Oldies” station. My Generation is a nostalgic blast from the past. The Wall has been relegated to elevator music. Some day soon, some business will feature The Fugs as their “on hold” music. It’s only a matter of time. All the songs I danced to in high school are now available on a double CD called Retro-Night. (“Thomas Dolby! Split Enz! Trio! The Buggles! The Boomtown Rats! Flying Lizards! Howard Jones! Blondie! Modern English! The Bangles! Now how much would you pay?”) The music of my youth has been marginalized into a great offer from PolyTel.
I am a demographic that no longer matters.
At first, I felt rejected. I’d walk into trendy clothing stores, aghast. Nothing appealed to me (including the muzak.). I shouldn’t have to feel guilty just because I don’t like having the crotch of my pants down at my knees. Why can’t I just find a decent pair of pants? I could go to Sears, but at Sears if the crotches aren’t at my knees, then the waistbands are around my chest. Sorry, but pants modeled by either Marky Mark or Arnold Palmer do not appeal to me!
Then one day, I had a revelation. I was looking at some sort of pseudo-sweater made from a fabric I couldn’t readily identify in a store with a name like Sassafrasparilla. It sported an unidentifiable logo and a slogan that played on some joke I didn’t understand. It was a colour I would never wear. There was a poster of some sports star I’d never heard of wearing it. Then I realized something: this sweater wasn’t meant for me.
Not only was the sweater not meant for me, but the marketing of the sweater wasn’t meant for me, either.
I was suffering the ultimate indignity; advertisers were no longer after my money. They are after the cash of pennywise seniors and pennyfoolish youth; people who’ve had forty years to save money, and people who can’t hang onto money for forty seconds. Me, I’m in the clear now; I’m too young to have saved money, and I’m old enough to have already spent whatever money I had.
My power in society is ebbing.
I felt so ashamed that I sheepishly went to Mark’s Workwear World and bought some blue jeans and a denim shirt.
But surprisingly, there is an upside to this.
No longer do I have to feel guilty that I am hopelessly out of style and not clothed in the latest chic fashions. That’s a great feeling because most of what passes for fashion these days is so damn UGLY! Put your baseball cap on the right way, Skippy! Now when I need clothes, I wander through the malls and laugh at the poor souls who are slaves to the advertising gods. Supplicate yourself to them if you must, worship Bay Street’s image of perfection if it brings you inner satisfaction. I don’t need – or want – to wear that stuff. I don’t like it. I’m not buying. It ain’t me.
And I’d much rather buy the new remastered version of Quadrophenia than the latest by Nine Inch Nails, The Bloody Chiclets, Dr. Dre or Ghostface Killah. I’d much rather listen to Pete Townshend’s anguished searches for spirituality than bad spoken-word poetry performed to an annoying electronic drumbeat. I don’t care if most of my favorite bands haven’t made a decent album since 1982, they are still my favorites. Rush rules! The Kinks clobber Coolio! In my day, music was created with instruments played by hand, not spit out by some computer program through a MIDI interface.
Yeah, I’m getting old. Big deal. So is everyone else. Even you. But right now, I’ve got Empty Glass in the car, the volume up way too high, and I’m cruising to Mark’s Workwear World to buy some blue jeans and another denim shirt.
I am a demographic that no longer matters.
At first, I felt rejected. I’d walk into trendy clothing stores, aghast. Nothing appealed to me (including the muzak.). I shouldn’t have to feel guilty just because I don’t like having the crotch of my pants down at my knees. Why can’t I just find a decent pair of pants? I could go to Sears, but at Sears if the crotches aren’t at my knees, then the waistbands are around my chest. Sorry, but pants modeled by either Marky Mark or Arnold Palmer do not appeal to me!
Then one day, I had a revelation. I was looking at some sort of pseudo-sweater made from a fabric I couldn’t readily identify in a store with a name like Sassafrasparilla. It sported an unidentifiable logo and a slogan that played on some joke I didn’t understand. It was a colour I would never wear. There was a poster of some sports star I’d never heard of wearing it. Then I realized something: this sweater wasn’t meant for me.
Not only was the sweater not meant for me, but the marketing of the sweater wasn’t meant for me, either.
I was suffering the ultimate indignity; advertisers were no longer after my money. They are after the cash of pennywise seniors and pennyfoolish youth; people who’ve had forty years to save money, and people who can’t hang onto money for forty seconds. Me, I’m in the clear now; I’m too young to have saved money, and I’m old enough to have already spent whatever money I had.
My power in society is ebbing.
I felt so ashamed that I sheepishly went to Mark’s Workwear World and bought some blue jeans and a denim shirt.
But surprisingly, there is an upside to this.
No longer do I have to feel guilty that I am hopelessly out of style and not clothed in the latest chic fashions. That’s a great feeling because most of what passes for fashion these days is so damn UGLY! Put your baseball cap on the right way, Skippy! Now when I need clothes, I wander through the malls and laugh at the poor souls who are slaves to the advertising gods. Supplicate yourself to them if you must, worship Bay Street’s image of perfection if it brings you inner satisfaction. I don’t need – or want – to wear that stuff. I don’t like it. I’m not buying. It ain’t me.
And I’d much rather buy the new remastered version of Quadrophenia than the latest by Nine Inch Nails, The Bloody Chiclets, Dr. Dre or Ghostface Killah. I’d much rather listen to Pete Townshend’s anguished searches for spirituality than bad spoken-word poetry performed to an annoying electronic drumbeat. I don’t care if most of my favorite bands haven’t made a decent album since 1982, they are still my favorites. Rush rules! The Kinks clobber Coolio! In my day, music was created with instruments played by hand, not spit out by some computer program through a MIDI interface.
Yeah, I’m getting old. Big deal. So is everyone else. Even you. But right now, I’ve got Empty Glass in the car, the volume up way too high, and I’m cruising to Mark’s Workwear World to buy some blue jeans and another denim shirt.
The Call of Technology
I called a friend on my cell phone last night.
I was heading home and my friend and I had made one of those tentative sorta maybe kinda plans to perhaps do something the next day. I didn’t want to call too late, so I dialed her up from my truck on my way home. We talked for about forty-five minutes – the drive home is only about ten minutes, so I spent half an hour or so wandering around my house talking on the cell phone.
“How long have you had your cell phone?” she asked.
“About two and a half years,” I replied. Since I live almost to an hour away from the store I own, I had decided it would be a necessity in case of an emergency.
“Don’t you feel weird walking around talking on one of those?”
“No,” I replied. I didn’t mention that the only time I ever felt weird talking on it was when I was downtown reporting on a spy mission I’d just done for someone. It’s hard to be discreet while shouting to be heard over cars, buses, trucks, and bongo drumming street kids. Someone yelling, “They didn’t suspect a thing!” into a phone in the middle of a large, metropolitan downtown core attracts a variety of worried and questioning glances.
“Well, I don’t have one,” she said. “I don’t even have a microwave oven or a dishwasher.”
I knew she didn’t have a dishwasher because every time I visit her house she starts doing the dishes. What I didn’t realize was that she was lacking a microwave. I have one – I just can’t remember the last time I used it. “I do things the old fashioned way,” she said.
It’s not that my friend is a Luddite – she’s had plenty of computer training and could run rings around me on Excel or Lotus, although I could probably do the same to her on Duke Nukem 3D. But the sentiment she’s expressing is one you hear all too frequently these days – enough with technology, already.
The pace of modern life is increasing exponentially. I’m working harder and harder to fall further and further behind. I am being assimilated by the mind control drone-toadies of the corporate thought-cults. Resistance is futile. Greed is good. Money is everything. Last year’s annual report is this year’s religious relic.
And the rapid advance of the technology that is supposed to make my life simpler just makes it more frustrating. Thanks to e-mail, cell phones, ELTs, fax, voicemail, GPS, modems, call forwarding, pagers, answering machines and satellite communication I can be reached twenty-four hours a day by anyone.
The bottom line is that I am no longer unreachable. I no longer have an excuse to be inaccessible. I can’t leave work behind because it follows me everywhere, hanging on my belt like a leech. I’ve been called at the beach, in my truck, on a date, in my sleep, and yes, in my bathroom. And worse yet, most of the time I get phoned for idiotic reasons:
“Hello?”
“Yeah, John? This is Svend at the store.”
“Hi, Svend. What’s up?”
“Yeah. There was this guy who wanted to sell you some new maps.”
“Uh huh.”
“So I told him you weren’t here.”
“Great. Thanks.”
“Is that okay?”
“I wasn’t there, was I?”
“Ahh, nope.”
“Then that was fine.”
“Oh. Okay. Well, bye.”
“Bye.”
And another 75 cents gets transferred from my coffers to Cantel’s. Having a cell phone is a convenience, but often it’s an annoying and frustrating convenience. Sort of like public transit. My staff rarely calls me on the cell phone anymore because I usually get annoyed at them unless they’re calling about a disaster on the magnitude of my business burning down. (Now they get their revenge by leaving long, rambling messages on my answering machine at home.)
The point is that all these technological delights are taking away our humanity. E-mail – who would’ve thought that anyone would get worked up about a phone call you type? I don’t want to be linked to machines, I want to be linked to people.
A home in the country, fields of daisies, and not a cell phone in sight – some days that sounds pretty darn good.
I was heading home and my friend and I had made one of those tentative sorta maybe kinda plans to perhaps do something the next day. I didn’t want to call too late, so I dialed her up from my truck on my way home. We talked for about forty-five minutes – the drive home is only about ten minutes, so I spent half an hour or so wandering around my house talking on the cell phone.
“How long have you had your cell phone?” she asked.
“About two and a half years,” I replied. Since I live almost to an hour away from the store I own, I had decided it would be a necessity in case of an emergency.
“Don’t you feel weird walking around talking on one of those?”
“No,” I replied. I didn’t mention that the only time I ever felt weird talking on it was when I was downtown reporting on a spy mission I’d just done for someone. It’s hard to be discreet while shouting to be heard over cars, buses, trucks, and bongo drumming street kids. Someone yelling, “They didn’t suspect a thing!” into a phone in the middle of a large, metropolitan downtown core attracts a variety of worried and questioning glances.
“Well, I don’t have one,” she said. “I don’t even have a microwave oven or a dishwasher.”
I knew she didn’t have a dishwasher because every time I visit her house she starts doing the dishes. What I didn’t realize was that she was lacking a microwave. I have one – I just can’t remember the last time I used it. “I do things the old fashioned way,” she said.
It’s not that my friend is a Luddite – she’s had plenty of computer training and could run rings around me on Excel or Lotus, although I could probably do the same to her on Duke Nukem 3D. But the sentiment she’s expressing is one you hear all too frequently these days – enough with technology, already.
The pace of modern life is increasing exponentially. I’m working harder and harder to fall further and further behind. I am being assimilated by the mind control drone-toadies of the corporate thought-cults. Resistance is futile. Greed is good. Money is everything. Last year’s annual report is this year’s religious relic.
And the rapid advance of the technology that is supposed to make my life simpler just makes it more frustrating. Thanks to e-mail, cell phones, ELTs, fax, voicemail, GPS, modems, call forwarding, pagers, answering machines and satellite communication I can be reached twenty-four hours a day by anyone.
The bottom line is that I am no longer unreachable. I no longer have an excuse to be inaccessible. I can’t leave work behind because it follows me everywhere, hanging on my belt like a leech. I’ve been called at the beach, in my truck, on a date, in my sleep, and yes, in my bathroom. And worse yet, most of the time I get phoned for idiotic reasons:
“Hello?”
“Yeah, John? This is Svend at the store.”
“Hi, Svend. What’s up?”
“Yeah. There was this guy who wanted to sell you some new maps.”
“Uh huh.”
“So I told him you weren’t here.”
“Great. Thanks.”
“Is that okay?”
“I wasn’t there, was I?”
“Ahh, nope.”
“Then that was fine.”
“Oh. Okay. Well, bye.”
“Bye.”
And another 75 cents gets transferred from my coffers to Cantel’s. Having a cell phone is a convenience, but often it’s an annoying and frustrating convenience. Sort of like public transit. My staff rarely calls me on the cell phone anymore because I usually get annoyed at them unless they’re calling about a disaster on the magnitude of my business burning down. (Now they get their revenge by leaving long, rambling messages on my answering machine at home.)
The point is that all these technological delights are taking away our humanity. E-mail – who would’ve thought that anyone would get worked up about a phone call you type? I don’t want to be linked to machines, I want to be linked to people.
A home in the country, fields of daisies, and not a cell phone in sight – some days that sounds pretty darn good.
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