Friday, January 27, 2006

And Then the Vulture Eats You 

There's this guy at work that's just not working out. My problem in the whole mess is I just can't stand him. It's nothing against his quality, which is strong. He's too nice. He's fake nice. I just can't listen to it anymore. I can't even look at him. It's beyond Fred Rogers nice. It's stranger offering the kids candy from his car nice.

I don't even fake it well anymore. I just look straight ahead, answer the questions as best I can, and get busy with something else. The levy broke last week when he told me he was going to teach his future children English, Spanish, French, Russian, and like five other languages; he was going to teach these kids who don't yet exist how to fire a gun, take apart and reassemble a gun, live on their own in the wild, how to kill, cook and eat their own meat, and blah, blah, blah, blah.

I turned to him and said, "I'm just trying to get my kid to go to sleep at night, so best of luck with that whole Oxford University-Unabomber thing."

Thursday, January 26, 2006

Biggest Lie Told on a Director's Commentary to a Film 

No question: Larry Cohen on 1974's It's Alive. Cohen states:

"And I think the picure has really stood the test of time."

I say: 'Fraid not.

Rather: there is no picture which has fallen so dramatically when facing the test of time. Maybe it's the wild and crazy 70s outfits everyone's wearing. Maybe it's the straight performances from the actors. Or maybe it's in the ultra-cheap special effects -- effects which were so poor even back in their day that they took pains to only show brief glimpses of the monster. This -- instead of frightening viewers during a death scene -- only makes them wonder: howd that little thing, that only caused a scar, kill that big guy?

Larry, it was a schlock B-movie. I'm sorry 32 years have passed, and nobody told you. The monster baby just wasn't that scary.

Friday, January 13, 2006

What to Do with Mean Mr. Mustard 

This post is all about how I came here the other day with some mean-spirited, angry rant that would have alienated everyone I know and caused many people to hate my guts and wished that they could pull the guts out of my body like that poor girl in "Last House on the Left" . . . . but then my post got accidentally deleted . . . despite the autosave Blogger supposedly has.

I logged back in, but . . . the fight wasn't in me anymore. I called it a night and turned in.

I think that's Milwaukee's problem with murder right now. See, generally there's two kinds of anger:

A.) "You suck," anger. This is when two people don't like each other or their sports teams. Or they've made comments about the other's mother or religion or car. Or they bumped into each other in a drunken state. You get the idea.

B.) "You're fucking dead, you son-of-a-bitch, bastard, mother-fucker, who the hell you think you are?" anger. This is the premeditated stuff. The you slept with my wife, killed my parents, raped my dog, fired me from my job and cashed out my bank accounts kind of stuff.

What people in Milwaukee are doing right now is they're pulling out guns for both kinds of anger when it used to be just for B anger. I think if more people accidentally had their rage deleted, despite the autosave, maybe they'd just get tired of it all and call it a night.

Thursday, January 05, 2006

Forgetful Downhill 

Whenever I start running after time off, I get hit with the doldrums. See, when you start back up (that is, if you have a history in the sport, some semblance of "muscle memory") it's not hard for the first few runs. Your legs are completely rested. You're sometimes running faster than your regular pace. But only so long. At some point in time -- usually 6-10 days in, the doldrums hit.

I know they've hit me when my legs have had at least 24 hours of rest, the weather's fine and I'm only going vanilla miles . . . yet my legs are sluggish. It's like they're saying to me, "So this is for real, huh? Every day? That's what this really is?"

This time, my doldrums didn't hit until 18 or 19 days. Can't figure out why; I'm not getting any younger. More weird -- they only hit for two or three days, not the customary week or three.

If only everything else were like my current case of the doldrums.

I heard on a radio show the other day how 95% of the callers thought 2006 would be a better year than 2005, 99.99% of the 95% coming to this conclusion merely because they, "just thought so". This inherent, January-health club optimism eventually stares down February. And so many people blink.

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?