Bamf…sorry for disappearing.

As I’ve said elsewhere, work and illness conspired to eat up what little free time I had left for the last month or so.  It got kind of daunting after a while.  Writing—doing—anything, anything at all has been a physical drain.  It’s getting better.  At least now it doesn’t involve as much caffeine to bluff the flesh and spirit.  Each forward lurch becomes less half-hearted.  Eh.  Whaddaya do?

Speaking of half-hearted, this li’l entry probably won’t be too coherent.  I’ve got a few points, so I’ll be jumping all over the place.

Weather

While the supposedly liberal media lauds the virtues of Michael Crichton’s State of Fear, the weather is getting strange out here in the real world.

Here in the Pacific Northwest, it’s dry as a bone, pushing the mercury up to the 75-degree Fahrenheit mark.  Down south in California, it’s raining to the point of flooding.  North and south, glaciers and the polar icecaps are getting smaller.  Melting.

I’m on a marginally regular basis with several people across the country; my wife, with several more people worldwide.  Why are so many people complaining about how weird the weather has been?  It seems as if everyone’s climate is acting screwy.  Granted, anecdotal evidence isn’t entirely useful.  And yet there is a great preponderance of said evidence.

If there’s no such thing as global warming, what the hell’s going on with the weather?

I’ve stumbled on a few reviews and articles that shed light on Crichton’s latest, but this line from David Roberts’ review at Grist Magazine makes a telling point:

But what’s the reality at the core of State of Fear? Crichton’s not asking
us to believe that environmentalists really run a ruthless transnational
cabal, of course. But he is asking us to believe something more fanciful:
that in the real world, they have engineered a global scientific and
political consensus on climate change without one.

Two Girls in Need of Lemons

You’d have to see the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy movie to follow my meaning.

Jamie and I went to see it last night.  We have to watch it again.  Not because we liked it.  I mean, we did.  But the whole experience was ruined for us—for everyone else in the theater, for that matter.

Except for two girls.

Well, they sounded like girls.  Giggling, immature, cute in voice if not in conduct, jailbait girls.  Jamie told me (and now you) that only one of them was.  The other one was a grown woman.  I didn’t look.

Much as I try not to contradict my esteemed freckly better half, I must in this case.  Girl #2 might have looked Jamie’s age, but I’m judging it was a girl, an immature female, based on existential instead of phenomenological evidence.  In other words, the airhead sounded too vacuous to be a grown-up.

Anyway, a few rows behind us, at our four o’clock, two girls yakked through the trailers.  Through all three “please silence your cellphone” signs.  Through the whole damn movie.

When a trailer for a new movie about Herbie, the precocious sentient VW Bug that won’t fraggin’ die, was blasting past us, one of them bubbled, “Oh, I love Herbie!”  When a Vogan construction fleet comes to Earth with bureaucratic tidings of steaming hot doom, one of them giggled, “Yup, there’s the Vogons!”  When Marvin made his first appearance, they blurted out, “Marvin!”  Apparently they expected their amygdala-deficient ardor was going to make him wave or something.  At the sight of dolphins, one of them squealed, “Ooh, the dolphins are coming back!  Yay, dolphins!”

As I’d said before, I didn’t look.  Stopping myself from turning and making eye contact was the only way to keep myself from leaping out of my chair and eating their flesh.  I mean, that would’ve been the sensible thing to do, isn’t it?  So there I was, trying to leave such thoughts where they belong.

At work.

Clearly, these girls were convinced that they and they alone were capable of enjoying Douglas Adams’ master work properly.  They prided themselves on knowing the story, knowing where everything in it went, and knowing their knowing that they knew.  In the presence of such sagacity, only a heat-stricken wombat would fail to gouge out its eyes and wail in reverence.

And yet these Hitchhiker mavens didn’t sigh or cheer or praise God for answering that one teeny prayer when “Journey of the Sorcerer” made a triumphant entrance.  They didn’t seem to recognize the original Marvin or the original Arthur Dent when they appeared.  They didn’t wail when Douglas Adams’ face appeared in a semi-subliminal flash.  And they didn’t seem at all aware that some of us were Hitchhiker fans back when it was just a radio show, whose hearts broke when Adams died, who brandished our towels proudly in his memory a year later, and that we’ve been waiting for only 20 bloody years to see this movie.

A ten-year-old boy was also there.  He didn’t say a word.  He made them look stupid.  A gaming console wasn’t even involved.

Girls, word to the unwise.  Nobody in that theater thought you were cool froods who knew where their towels were.  But we did think you were morons.  Several minus billion for being rude, self-absorbed little twits.  j00 F4Il.

Last Refuge of the Scoundrel

            He may look like an idiot and talk like an idiot,
but don’t let that fool you.  He really is an idiot.
—Groucho Marx

If you’ve been following my little bloggy rantings, you might remember a few mentions to the neocon mouthpiece Mark Levin.  Wretched little man, sort of like the opposite of a TARDIS.  Big on the outside, really small on the inside, goes absolutely nowhere…unless UN black helicopter territory is considered somewhere.

I was following his show for Media Matters for America for a while, but technical difficulties got in the way for a while.  When I wasn’t able to get captures of his radio show, I figured I could just leave him behind.  He was a big fish in a little pond out on the east coast, I thought.  He’s not like the Pope or Mitch Hedberg, somebody who’s been everywhere and left a positive mark on the world, however small.  I told myself he was best forgotten.

No such luck.  Here’s another far right wingnut with a book out.  This one is a collection of screeds pushing the myth of judicial activism, of liberals making law from the bench.

He can argue his way out of a wet paper bag, sure—but he needs fangs to do it.  His arguments stand up to the light of neither sun nor moon.  Heaven help him in the event of an eclipse.  Without cheap shots, name-calling, or factual distortion, he’d have nothing.  His answer to any caller he disagrees with, “Get off the phone, you big dope!”  When cornered, the best retort he can unload on a worthy opponent is, “Who cares?!”  His witticisms are limited to elementary school scatology and sound board buttons.  His answer to the first anniversary of the breaking of the Abu Ghraib story is singing along with the holiday song parody “Walkin’ Round in Women’s Underwear.”  His ethical and empathic muscles have atrophied.  They work only for call-in sycophants.

He has fans that worship him, people who think ad hominem attacks on his opponents make him a hero and a genius.  There’s the slimmest of chances they might find this single lame-ass blog post on a Google quest.  I doubt it, but they get seriously, painfully, mortally wounded by any slight against their guy.  I can only assume it really hurts them because they get really mad about it, wherever and whoever the source of that slight.  Anyone who fails to squint at the brilliance of their golden idol is called names.  “We called that lib ‘jerk,’ ‘moonbat,’ and ‘loser.’  Then we nailed him on his typos.  That’ll show ‘im.”

Stuff like this used to depress me; to think, grown men and women resort to playground epithets and blind worship to feel good about themselves.  Now it’s just sadly amusing.  They’ve glommed onto the biggest, loudest bully on the block, offering their lunch money, their thinking, and their sycophancy to him just so that nobody else beats them up.  There’s no real concern for America’s future going on.  If someone is reduced to poverty, if a woman is beaten, if a dark-skinned man is tortured, if a child is made into a sexual slave, they don’t make a move.  But if their hero comes yelling into their homes, warning them about an evil conspiracy, they’ll call in and love him to death.

I guess I see the benefits.  It’s easier than hearing out a contrary view.  Easier than actually doing something.  giving someone a sandwich.  Easier than seeing a common darkness within themselves, something we all share.  Easier than holding a kid’s hand.   Instead they dismiss an electrocuted sand N1Gg3R with mockery and laughter, then sacrifice their compassion and their minds to a demagogue, all because they’re afraid of the world.  Poor things.

If they ever bother to approach a cosmic nobody like me, I’ll try not to laugh, I swear.

***

Let’s not end on a dark note, hm?  (For once.)

A quick shoutout to some nice folks.  First, my old friend Frank Shaw in San Jose.  I haven’t buzzed him in, like, a century.  But I think about you and Jeong Hee all the time.  The Mars Attacks! flying saucer toy helps.  Brrr-zap brr-zap!  Ack, ack ACK!  Ack ack!

Second, for my next trick, I’m gonna suck up to a fan.  Maybe not a fan, but it’s nice to know I have a few supporters.  And no money exchanged hands or anything, either.

A couple of months ago, I got an e-mail from a kind lady named Jessica who was wondering where I’d gone to.  She’d read the stuff on my old Blogger account, but lost track of me.  The way I flitted across two or three blogging services, it was bound to happen to someone.  She tracked me down to the Afterhell website.  Apparently that wasn’t enough to run screaming.   Anyway, I brought her up to date and sent her links to my other blogs.

Now, whenever I get burned out or frustrated, I sneak another look at her e-mail.  I try not to care what people think.  It’s a dangerous thing, especially for folks with pretenses toward art, truth, or individuality.  But it’s good to get some positive feedback, a little support, some warm human contact.

And one thing about e-mail:  You don’t have to worry about finding mysterious strands of long red hair in it.  I just don’t know if it’s a good thing or a bad thing.

I’ll explain later.  Nightie night.   [thud]

People have called me weird all my life. I might have stumbled on further proof.

Like most couples at the end of the workday, yesterday my wife Jamie and I said our hellos and brought each other up to date on what happened to them earlier in the day. She told me about meetings, moving to a new cube, e-mail and memo exchanged re weekly reports. So what did I do that afternoon, she asked. I watched “Freddy vs. Jason” and offered my thoughts.

Boy, am I weird….

I blew off the movie for a long time. I’m into horror these days (in case you couldn’t tell), but I don’t have patience for most horror movie fare. Out of morbid curiosity, I’ve taken occasional glances at the “Nightmare on Elm Street” and “Friday the 13th” franchises. Rolled my eyes. And moved on. In the end, curiosity got the better of my judgement. As usual.

My rationalization for checking out drivel of any kind often involves some combination of the following:

A) It doesn’t cost me anything to try.
B) A snap judgement means very little, but an informed opinion counts for something.
C) I might learn something.
D) Well, how bad can it be?

All four came into play this time. And this time, all four turned out to have some merit. Go fig!

A lot of these observations probably won’t be new or unique to me, but this movie turned out a little better than I expected. Hardly a classic, though. Compared to the nourishing psychic feasts of classic horror movies, “Freddy vs. Jason” is junk food. It’s mostly empty calories. But it has its moments.

Okay, spoiler warnings…in case someone actually cares!!!!

SPOILERS
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Now I’m going to use this token effort at a spoiler buffer to rant a bit.
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<redguy>  Aw, is widdle widdums not in the mood of some stampin’ on the soapbox? Tough cheese, little snuggums. My blog, my rules.
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Okay, so I watched too much “Cow and Chicken.” Not following the reference? Are we unable to keep up, hmmmm? WELL, THAT”S TOO BAD!!!! </redguy>
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All the spoiler nonsense is endemic of Western civilizations adoption of the Elizabethan ethic of dramaturgy, where the unveiling of plot takes on greater emphasis than interpretation. On the other hand, the ancient Greeks had it the other way around, that the interpretation of the artist and the audience took precedence. You’d think from all the gratuitous remakes Hollywood pumps out so much, you’d think they must’ve hung out with the same Greeks. But whether it’s SF, sports, or soaps, spoilers are all that matter. Concern over spoilers are such horse-hockey, I swear. I mean, seriously! If people were this conscientious about all media consumption, we wouldn’t have to worry about impartial juries! F***ing nuisance.
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Whew. That was fun. I’m almost too tired now to get on with the “Freddy vs. Jason” thing. Okay, okay! Lookie, I’m dropping the other shoe!

You can probably tell from the title, the film’s mainly a bone thrown at fanboys. “Who’d win in a fight, Freddy Krueger or Jason Voorhees?” That’s high concept for ya, folks.

But the writers threw in something else. A little psychological subtext. This is a carryover from the “Nightmare on Elm Street” movies, where character motivations fed plot as well as token attempts at surrealism. The writers of “Freddy vs. Jason” kept that aspect. And that was a smart move. It lent some intellect to an otherwise pointless gorefest.

As established in earlier films, the parents of Elm Street have gone to extreme lengths to stop Freddy Krueger. Their conspiracy of silence, to conceal and prevent the existence of Krueger, has taken downright Stalinist extremes. Kids who know too much about him have been carted off to a private asylum, drugged to keep them from dreaming. (How they’re expected to get any rest without going into a REM state…is totally beyond me.) The town has censored any reference to Krueger in official records and newspapers.

But like most ideas, Freddy Krueger resurfaces. Now forgotten and trapped in Hell, he hatches a plan to revive the town’s memory of him and free himself. He chooses a fellow lost soul. A fellow killing machine.

…with all the personality of a defective Cuisinart. Enter–or rather, exit– Jason Voorhees, the hockey-masked, machete-swinging 4F nutboy of the “Friday the 13th” movies.

No, I don’t have much regard for this character. I mean, he’s not really a character, is he? Even Michael Myers, the equally anonymous and unstoppable knife-wielder from the “Halloween” movies, had more personality.

That’s where the cleverness in the original “Elm Street” concept salvages something from even the “Friday the 13th” movies. In this flick we see the true motivations, however shallow, of Jason Voorhees. We get a glimpse of his childhood (or at least Jason’s view of it): a mistreated Down’s Syndrome child, hounded and tormented by others, powerless to resist the soul-twisting influence of an oppressive mother during the late 1950’s.

Oppressive mother. The 1950’s. Did anyone pay Robert Bloch for this?

But anyway, this explains a lot. There’s no justification for his puritanical killing spree, but it does provide context. He’s acting on the lopsided ethics of his upbringing. He doesn’t know better. He didn’t have the chance. At heart, Jason is a victim. Without hope or direction. And out of control.

Of course I’m reminded of one of the better lines from Thomas Harris’ “Red Dragon.” To paraphrase: I feel for him as a child. As an adult, he needs someone to blow the sick f*** out of his socks.

And I couldn’t help finding a certain aptness to the vulnerabilities that inevitably brought these two monsters down. Oppressed and submerged by wills greater than his, Jason is always left at the botton of Crystal Lake. Sexual deviant Freddy Krueger is powerless against fire, the force that deprived him of his bodily existence, the only thing that gave his lfe meaning.

I’m sure a lot of the symbolism and Jungian resonance I find in this horror schlock-fest wasn’t intentional. But hey, when you’re watching crap–even good crap–you start looking for psychological footholds.

They get elected.

Editorial:  “No. 1?” Minneapolis/St. Paul City Pages
Commentary:  “Struggling with Our Own Inhumanity,” SFGate
“The New Face of America?”, ACLU
New Poll Finds Bush Priorities Are Out of Step With Americans, New York Times

And thank God this one didn’t.
“Jael Phelps Says Gays Should Die,” Crooks & Liars

Some things, you can’t just laugh off.

But could anyone use a GMail invite?
[ducks]  INCOMING!!!!!!

Man, I’ve been swamped.  Being able to set aside 90 minutes just to watch a schlocky vampire flick felt like an accomplishment.
I woke up this morning to an interesting wrinkle.  Not to brag, but…I just got a GMail account.

It was my crazy scheme to contribute something to GMail4Troops.  I signed up for one and forgot all about it.  The first thing in my mailbox every morning is usually a posting from some mailing list or a private e-mail from a friend who hasn’t seen me since the Hyborian Age.  This time…I found an old ticket for the cyber-lottery was actually worth something.

I’ve spent the morning going on a crazy unsubscribing/resubscribing spree, convincing myself this was going to help me clear out the junk in my main mailbox.  I just hope I haven’t screwed anything up….

I wanted to put in an appearance and make a mention.  I just saw an article on Comic Book Resources reporting that comic book master Will Eisner died December 22.  I wanted to go into his contributions, but…funny how certain kinds of bad news just drains energy out of you.
Anyway, I found a Wiki article that covers the basics pretty well.

It’s like finding out Leonardo Da Vinci died.  He was that talented.  His contribution to English literature and popular art…it was that significant.

Now I know why the wind has been blowing so hard.

Jamie decided to get a totally unnecessary and much appreciated gift for yours truly — the new U2 album.
It’s screaming with a new energy and yet a recognizable passion familiar to U2 nuts like me.  I’ve been a fan of theirs since I saw concert footage of them on MTV back in January 1981.  Yeah, it was that memorable.  Seeing Bono on stage was a shock.  I got the same emotional response, amazement and awe, that I got when I first saw the Beatles.  He was like a mix of Patti Smith and John Lennon.

Here’s the beauty of what they do and Bono’s writing in particular.  Their new single, “Vertigo,” is obviously about a certain kind of confusion.  But the context, the cause, is left open to interpretation.

Hello hello (hola!)
I’m at a place called Vertigo (sorpresa!)
It’s everything I wish I didn’t know
Except you
give me something
I can feel
FEEL

Is it about personal change?  A whirlwind romance?  Political upheaval?  Spiritual crisis?

Or how about a chorus from another song,  full of poignancy and self-recrimination:

And it’s you when I look in the mirror
And it’s you when I don’t pick up the phone
Sometimes you can’t make it on your own

All I know for certain is that the emotions are genuine, the music is honest, and that the boys are at the top of their game.

And I miss you when you’re not around
I’m getting ready to leave the ground

To quote Gypsy from MST3K, “Working like a dog.”  For a wonder, I’ve been able to do a lot of catch-up.  The wretched neocon Ugnaught is no longer in my hearing range.  The NYC radio station hosting him and the rest of their demon horde of screaming heads has changed their audio stream.  So I’m getting a much needed vacation imposed on me.
But I have a lot of work ahead of me.  Lots of editing, e-mailing, scheduling, researching, note-taking.  One of these days I’ll actually get to do some writing.  God, my kingdom for an intern.

I haven’t completely bowed out of the media monitoring thing.  For one, someone has got to slay the poisonous beast that cable news has become.  Wolf Blitzer has gone from Gulf War luminary to Bushco stooge.  It should be of no surprise to anyone, I suppose.  But I was reminded of it this morning, courtesy of Media Matters for America.  If you follow the link, you’ll get an idea of why I sent this to CNN:

I’m writing in response to the November 21 installment of “Late Edition with Wolf Blitzer.” It’s a bitter reminder of why I stopped watching CNN on a regular basis. After this, I won’t forget again.

The Nov 21 program was brought to my attention this morning while reviewing the website for Media Matters for America. MMfA posted a transcript and, later, video excerpts of a segment with US House Representatives Loretta Sanchez, Jesse Jackson Jr, and Martin Frost along with radio personality Al Franken.

Instead of moderating the discussion, host Wolf Blitzer was leading it. Instead of eliciting opinions from his panelists, he tried to muzzle them. He was pushing a premise when he should have been testing it. He asked leading questions and repeatedly defended their subtext, often at the expense of the panel’s analyses. He had already decided that his opinion, not those of his panel, was the focus of that segment.

When panelists openly challenged the news media’s effectiveness, and specifically that of CNN, he shut them down. He didn’t explore their points or even tried to disprove them. Instead he openly dismissed them. Further, he also did a poor job of encapsulating those points, distorting or exaggerating their arguments as a result.

Mr Blitzer’s abilities as an impartial journalist have proven lackluster. Unfortunately such blatant partisanship and poor skill has become typical of the entire network. CNN has become a major source of disappointment and anger for me, a former longtime CNN viewer since 1981.

But I will win — for I am good and the Mads are evil!  But how?!?!?!

File this entry under, “Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how did you like the play?”  I won’t be expending a lot of blogspace or words on the election.  Anyone who knows me can guess where I stand on it, assuming they haven’t heard me already.   No, you’ll get to dismiss my thoughts on a different topic altogether.

I need someone else to explain this to me.  I’ve been a vocal supporter of feminism for some time.  When the ERA was effectively crushed, I was stunned.  I was in junior high at the time (called “middle school” in my neck of the woods.)  But no one, not even militant feminists, has ever explained to me why the word “lady” is now an insult.

The discourse went something like this:  I refer to someone I admire as a lady.  Someone jumps on me for it; the perp usually calls me a sexist chauvinist pig.  I explain I was giving someone a compliment.  Perp says it’s an insult, not a compliment, that I was demeaning women.  This is where it all falls apart:

I ask how the word demeans women.  Instead of explaining that, Perp insists it was cruel, condescending, belittling, humiliating.

I lose patience and get confrontational.  I asked about the word.  Instead I get an emotional audit of the entire area.  When forced to admit whether he or she is reading minds, naturally Perp denies it.  The other person scrambles to regain some credibility, issuing excuses and ultimatums.  I’m picking them apart, trying to separate fact from spin.  But no explanation or definition of the word.

And it isn’t just me.  Many others don’t understand why the word “lady” is no longer acceptable.  Scroll down a bit and survey the comments with this entry of Cam Edwards’ blog.  You’ll see more than a few people, men and women, scratching their heads on this whole thing.  Consider it a testament to the confusion and rancor generated by the incoherent belligerence of poorly equipped intellectual warriors, who ransack casual conversations and social discourse like robber barons in the name of their chosen causes.

Yesterday, while smarting from the election, I got back on this issue by an on-air remark by Katherine Lanpher, Al Franken’s co-host on his Air America Radio show.  She nailed him hard about addressing someone as a lady.  Jesus, here we go again.

Feminists and pseudo-feminists have failed to educate me on this solitary point.  I decided to get to the bottom of it myself.  It took a few Google searches, playing with keywords a bit.  I found (gasp) an explanation in, of all places, the March 2000 newsletter of the Victorian and Edwardian Ladies League, with my emphasis:

Now would it have killed anyone to read up and explain that?

On the other hand, maybe folks couldn’t justify their actions.  In that context, it constitutes a socio-linguistic war, waged in the here and now, against the Victorian Age.  Modern speakers don’t use the word “lady” in the same context as the upper-class of one or two hundred years ago.  And yet we’re held to the same ancient account, plus interest, whether we made the investment or not.  That’s revisionism, the rewriting of history to better control the present.  Big Brother luvs yoo.

You can argue that the word “lady-like” is antiquated and even derogatory.  Easily.  “Lady-like” behavior has no place in the real world.  In the modern age, women must express themselves with political power and harsh words just to hold their own.   We need women with backbone, integrity, and genuine wit.

To me, that describes a woman of substance.  Someone worthy of respect.  A class act.  A lady.

Now here’s my problem.  Does that make me a terrible person?

Maybe I’ve unintentionally redefined the word.  Or maybe that’s the definition we should all use.  Should I be punished for trying?  Is the very word so dangerous that it must be completely excised from the language?  How can such oppression be justified?

Sorry, I just can’t go along with that premise.  We don’t need thought police to defend the honor of women everywhere.  That’s hypocrisy.  There is no such thing as equality through oppression.

A woman’s place is in control.  But get your foot off my throat.

I’m going to be all over the map.  Bear with me.  I need to get these thoughts and emotions out of my system.  Relax, this won’t be rant.  I’m not in the mood right now, but nobody is.  Maybe this’ll be a shellshocked tone poem or something.  I don’t know.  I just need to put this stuff…somewhere.

Neocons
I try not to demonize people, but as I continue to track their distortions, insults, and out’n’out slander, they seem less and less human.  And so do their fans.

I’m tracking this one neocon talk show host.  Thanks to a wonky CD burner, I spent the better part of yesterday scanning through 36 hours’ worth of right-wing paralogia and neocon hate speech to catch up on my work for Media Matters.   I feel as if someone’s taken a lead pipe to my soul, man.  I haven’t felt so emotionally overwhelmed in a while.

Between shrill diatribes against liberals, Europeans, and Muslims (who are all part of a conspiracy to take over the world apparently; I’ll bet you didn’t know that), grown women call up this one guy’s radio hate-fest to flirt with him and giggle like schoolgirls.  Sometimes I flash on that one piece of newsreel footage of a glassy-eyed woman wearing a Jokerfish grin at a Nazi rally.  Power is sexy.  Oversimplication and unshaking certainty are sexy, I suppose.  Maybe even blood is sexy, provided it’s on a sufficiently attractive pair of hands.

To be fair, it’s not just neocons.  I’ve seen dysfunctional support systems form up around popular people all the time, throughout the political spectrum.  Cults of personality just coagulate around the charismatic person in range, it seems.  And yet how often are the objects of such affection good people?   Instant dime-store idolators:  Just add Dark Side points.

God, how much of their souls have they surrendered to be so wretched and so proud of it?

RPGs
Doing so much work on role-playing games lately has brought back a feeling I try to avoid.  I get wistful, thinking back on those special moments that make those games unique, the sense of empowerment and awe that comes with participating–not just writing or witnessing–in adventures and worlds worthy of legend.  Die-hard gamers have war stories of derring-do, mirth, and wonder.  You get to invent your own myth.  That legendary one-liner just came from you and your friends, not Hollywood.  You get to be a hero, to test your wits and abilities, to transcend reality a bit and bond with your buds over pizza at the same time.

I haven’t been able to do that in a long time.  Jamie and I have been busy.  Even if we weren’t, the only people we know around here clearly aren’t interested in the kind of stuff I want to do.  They might try a game if they can meet Qui-Gonn or Data.  But that’s it.  No desire to explore a new world, meet mythical beings, or show that we have in ourselves to be just as magical.

It’s a sad world when even dreams become the property of the corporate sector.

Trekdom
Speaking of which, I’ve been getting curious about “Enteprise” lately.   Anticipating the season-opener, I started catching up on past eps.  It’s just modern Trek again, isn’t it?  I didn’t go in expecting Theodore Sturgeon or anything, but it’s all formula.  “Cue the interrogation scene.  Okay, Big-Bad, gloat at your prisoner.  Good.   Cue the hero.  Spit in the interrogator’s face in five, four, three, two…good!  Cut to camera two.”

I might watch, but I’m at a disadvantage from the start.  So far I can see every punch before someone throws it.  I suppose this is when someone yells at me for not turning my brain off before the movie starts.  I keep getting wake-up calls and apparently it’s disturbing everyone else’s viewing experience.

Depression
I’ve been painfully aware of its presence in my life again, probably from the sheer psychic assault of all the neocon screaming heads.  Circumstances haven’t been the easiest either, but to complain or vent about it only invites mockery.  Didn’t I know that life was supposed to be so grueling or miserable?

Anger seems to be my first defense against it.  That only makes sense.  More often than not, depression is what happens when you sit on your emotions for too long.  That’s why it’s so exhausting.  You had to cut off those power sources, stifling parts of yourself.  And anger is a defense mechanism.  It’s sadness with a sword and shield.  And let’s face it.  Anger is more respectable than sadness.

(Is there any wonder we glorify violence?  “Hey, Governator, what are the best things in life?”  “Kicking girly-men arse.”)

It’s not easy to go out into the outside world, but it’s the only way to feel the wind or the sun on your face.  That sounds lame especially here in the land of liquid sunshine.  I can’t avoid the truth of it though.

I was reminded of that when I gave a neighbor a misaddressed package meant for them.  Nice guy, nice lady.  Everyone there shook my hand and thanked me.  Even their one-year-old son.  When he shook my hand, his hand barely made it around my forefinger.  He even had a Spider-Man shirt on.  Always a good sign.

I don’t have the time or energy I’d like right now, otherwise I’d be able to do the rounds, say hi to everyone, help people with their writing (always important, if you ask me) and perk a few folks up wherever I can.  I just get worn down sometimes.   I wish I had more time.

Not to mention a speeder bike.