Musings
I BofA’d Your Netflix in Thailand
A typical Thursday night – for me, anyway – goes like this: (1) Get off work at 11PM. (2) If plans weren’t made, head home. (3) Get out of monkey suit/work uniform. (4) Feed cat. (5) Binge on the Internet ‘til some ungodly hour in the morning. It’s not an ideal or healthy routine, but it’s something…for now.
I decided to throw a wrench in that cycle by adding an old friend to the mix – Netflix. In the Before Time – when movies and streaming were still one option – I was an avid devourer. Nowadays, I leeched off of other people’s Netflix whims. What I missed was a steady supply of anime and Bollywood musicals a mere keystroke away. So, I rejoined via a 30-day free trial.
And that’s where the trouble began.
The day after a night of streaming anime, my cell phone buzzed me awake. At 10AM. I didn’t get to sleep until 7AM. The interruption of slumber was unappreciated. It was from Bank of America, or rather…their fraud department. My account had been locked out due to some recent suspicious activity.
After a two-hour power nap, I logged onto the BofA website to see what they were talking about. Lo and behold, it was locked out. Every time I tried to access my account info, it asked me to click on some fraud website for details. It was all mighty cloak-and-dagger, kinda suspicious, and extra cheesy.
Sidenote: Some of you may be wondering why I even have a Bank of America account. The reason is this – it wasn’t my choice. It’s a credit card I’ve had since college. Before being a BofA card, it was MBNA. Of course, after the ’08 ecomonic crash, that company was gobbled up by the precariously-footed financial giant. Hence the reason why I have no choice but to bank with them. Unlike some of the horror stories, though, I really haven’t had too many problems with them. Well, until recently.
I finally broke down and called the shadowy BofA “fraud protection” number. A perky woman (and, for once, not outsourced Indian) answered. She explained that the suspicious activity on my card was listed as a Netflix charge. Wait…that didn’t sound right. How could my card be charged if I was doing a free trial? Some quizzing on mine and her part ensued to verify the account, then said card was reactivated. However, the website access remained locked.
The next night, I called the regular customer service number to find out why the online option was unavailable to me. They confirmed that my account was indeed active but had no explanation for the website lock. Any attempt to address it couldn’t be made until regular business hours. On Monday. Lastly, the customer service rep informed me that Netflix had tried to charge my card, not once, but three times. Three simultaneous attempts at authorization led to the transaction being labeled as “suspicious”. I could understand that. Why would a “free” trial require three attempted authorizations?!
Groaning, I called Netflix. The barely-pubescent teller confirmed that there were, indeed, three attempted authorizations on my card. Two of them were for – get this – ZERO dollars. The last was for two dollars MORE than what a standard monthly fee was for streaming content. Pube-teller reassured me that the auth-attempt would fall off after two business days. So…by Tuesday.
And all while this was happening, I received an emergency notification from Google saying my e-mail had been compromised. Someone tried to access it. In Thailand.
What have I learned?
Absolutely nothing. After finishing this post, I’m going back to watching anime on Netflix streaming – all the while munching on BofA-bought Taco Bell while keeping my Gmail open. I have a routine to uphold, after all.
Knowing Shiloh - A Pre-Rapture Review of “The Christ Clone Trilogy”
In 1995, prior to graduating high school, I still held out hope of being a big-time sci-fi author before I hit my twenties. I had plenty of ideas in my mental vault, but the one that stuck out the most came to me a half a year prior. End-time talk was big back then - it being the last decade of the millennium and all - and, thus, my mind turned towards ideas of the apocalyptic sort.
In short, the idea was this: Imagine if a shadowy organization took blood samples from the Crown of Thorns and nails used to during the Crucifixion, then created a clone of Jesus Christ. When he came of age, they would pass him off as the Second Coming. The cloning would also trigger the events leading up to Armageddon.
Most folks liked the idea. My Dad even said, “You better hop on that quick.” Others thought it sounded similar to a Star Trek: The Next Generation episode premise. In typical fashion, I put the idea on the backburner. I was too busy being a teenager and figured I had plenty of time to flesh it out.
In 1998, someone beat me to it as my own father predicted. An author named James Beauseigneur released The Christ Clone Trilogy. The synopsis was near-identical to the one I was toying with. I was pissed. Luckily, I had revised the idea enough and took emphasis off the clone character. Eventually, I removed the clone bit altogether. Still…I was dejected. Beyond world building and character synopses, I never started it.
I lamented this vocally on a 2008 Myspace blog entry, which I later ported to this website. As chance would have it, the blog post - Stories I’m Glad I Never Wrote - became my most popular one to date. My website wasn’t even officially “live” yet. The sci-fi netzine - io9 - even spotlighted it; the exposure led to over 720 hits in a 24-hour period. (Hey, when you’re a nobody, that’s a lot.)
In the post, I mentioned my Christ clone idea in passing and said that some “dicksmack” snatched it out from under me. One of the replies happened to be from the author himself. It read: “Don’t know that anyone ever called me a dicksmack before.”
Pride is one thing, grace is another. No one stole the idea from me. He came up with it squarely on his own. My lazy-arse just never acted on it. I zapped off an apology to the author, published a retraction to the insult, and edited the original post. It was the least I could do. Beauseigneur actually took it with great humor and did something I never would’ve expected. He offered to send me the trilogy.
Who was I to turn down free books?! I wholeheartedly agreed. They arrived - I shit you not - a couple of days before Christmas. He even signed and inscribed each book. The first inscription, however, had me stumped. It read: “May you come to know and live in Shiloh.”
Huh? Wasn’t that a hotel chain?
I didn’t dig into the first book - In His Image - until August of ‘09. At a family reunion I was attending, I asked my very Christian uncle what “Shiloh” was. The reference had him stumped as well. A perusal of a “Godepedia” turned up several things. The two definitions that sounded promising were a reference to a place in Israel where the Ark of the Covenant was said to reside, and the second was a definition - “he who is to be sent” - usually a reference to the Second Coming.
Being the slow reader that I am, I only made it through a third of the first book before putting it down. A whole year would pass before I touched again. Two things were at play here. One, I found the dialogue a little stilted, but the second reason was a bit more complicated. I was…humbled. This guy I didn’t even know had sent me free books after I insulted him, and he did a much better job with a similar story idea than I ever could. It was a sobering experience.
I plowed through the rest of the trilogy in the winter of ‘10. Aside from long-winded character expositions (i.e. tendencies toward monologuing) and a somewhat slow start to the first book, I had to hand it to Mr. Beauseigneur. This was a well-crafted trilogy.
Without giving too much away, the premise is this: A reporter is called upon by an atheistic professor to join a crew sent to Italy. Their goal? To analyze the authenticity of the Shroud of Turin. Carbon dating had already proven it a hoax, but living cells are found on the fabric. Said atheist prof (with help) takes the living cells for further study. Out of those, he fashions himself a cloned son whom he names Christopher Goodman. From there, apocalyptic events begin to unfold.
James Beauseigneur does a wonderful job at providing a valid sci-fi twist to the Shroud of Turin’s possible authenticity. Another masterstroke is his way of correlating events in Revelation to terrestrial occurrences in the real world. When the Rapture actually happens, instead of having people simply vanish, he opts instead for unexplained deaths. Millions of people around the world dropped like fruit flies. Government agencies and media sources blamed the mysterious deaths on a mysterious (and as-of-yet-unforeseen) disease. An extremely topical subject even today.
There are even bits of humor peppered throughout. My favorite being the name origin of the Wormwood comet in Revelation. I won’t spoil it, but here’s a hint:
After a languid, hundred-page setup, the story really finds its thriller pace and sticks to it. The narrative rivals The DaVinci Code in pacing and progress. Annotations are also provided - for the reader’s curiosity - when obscure references surface. The level of research the author must’ve conducted to craft this is mind-boggling. I don’t know if I would’ve ever had the patience.
By the third book, it almost seems like Beauseigneur ran out of real-world/terrestrial explanations for apocalyptic events. I can’t blame him. How can one find a practical means of explaining away Abaddon. (No, I won’t go into detail about what that is.) Even when the story goes full-throttle into Fundamentalist territory, the author never loses sight of its accessibility. He also pulled few punches regarding the more gruesome end-time events.
To sum up, compared to other apoca-fiction out there - yes, I’m looking at you Left Behind - this was a worthwhile read. The author does his damnedest to appeal to…well…even the Damned. It reads like a taut, well-researched, oft-technical thriller in the vein of Tom Clancy or Dan Brown. Only less formulaic. Those that have done Revelation-related research before might guess some of the twists and turns before they happen, but the reveals are refreshing nonetheless. For those of us that aren’t “Raptured”, it’s good tribulation reading.
Rock, “Paper Towns”, Scissors…Dynamite
When I was a kid, a common way to end a stalemate on any given issue was with the tried-and-true “Rock-Paper-Scissors” method. The game was the best tiebreaker our mushy, five-year-old minds could muster at the time. Of course, like with anything, variants on the original formula were bound to surface - mainly as a way of circumventing defeat. The most common in my neighborhood was “Rock-Paper-Scissors-Dynamite”. Needless to say, Dynamite trumped the other three by a fair margin.
It was cheating, but it was lazy, elegant cheating. And - by proxy - became an indirect philosophy I’d follow throughout my young adult life. Why take the assured path to success when you could circumvent it entirely, or not play at all?
In 1994, I had three high schools under my belt in three years’ time. I was a part of no extracurricular activities. I could count my best friends on one hand. And my greatest achievement up until then was having no picture in any yearbook. At all. My grades were poor, I never did homework, and teachers often didn’t know my name. I was less than a geek, less than a nerd; I was invisible and proud of it.
I remember one instance when I was walking down Senior Hall with a friend - minding my own gloom - when I heard a squeaky voice to my left.
“Hi! My name’s Jenny,” she said chipperly. She was seated on the floor, kinda cute, and her hand was extended. It was a simple and sympathetic gesture.
My response?
“You’re worthy enough to shake my comb,” I said flatly. I was standing above her, glowering, and my worn black comb was in my hand. It was a mean-spirited, unsympathetic gesture.
She recoiled her hand in disgust, and I continued on my way with a smirk.
That pretty much summed up how I dealt with most situations. Save for a notable exception - a youth fraternity I was a part of - I wanted little to do with high school as possible. I felt (or at least hoped) there were better days ahead. Not to say that opportunities to advance my station never emerged, I believed that I possessed some “geek cred” if my profile remained low.
Funny thing happened in later years, though. While I refused to admit it, I was drawn to things that reminded me of high school. A song would chime in on the radio - Pearl Jam’s “Evenflow’, perhaps - and my eyes would glaze over nostalgically. In 1998, a little movie called Can’t Hardly Wait was released. It was the first of a string of teen comedies that would glut the movie market for the next half-decade. I loved the stupid flick.
The dilemma only got worse from there. I hunted down movies from my childhood, songs that made me choke-up (Metallica’s “Nothing Else Matters”, anyone?), or any media that brought on a vague, yesteryear tug. What was weird about this was I should’ve had no attachment to my early teen years. Especially not high school. I had no defining memories to speak of. The whole travail was a blur. That didn’t stop me from reminiscing on a make-believe could’ve-been. I even wrote stories about it. Not very good ones, but they were jotted.
All this culminated a few weeks back with the acquisition of a library card. There was an author I’d meant to sample the wares of, a man-child my age by the name of John Green. I followed the adventures of him and his brother, Hank, on YouTube. They were efficient and proficient vloggers that covered subjects ranging from nerd culture to the elimination of - as they called it - “worldsuck”.
When John Green mentioned he was a writer of young adult literature, my curiosity led me to a mandatory perusal of the Almighty Wiki to learn more. Of the four novels to his credit, one particularly caught my eye - Paper Towns, the story of a girl’s disappearance and the clues she left a boy who liked her. It sounded like Goonies meets Road Trip with sprinklings of The Adventures of Pete & Pete thrown in for good measure.
Unfortunately, this meant sifting through the “Teen” section of the library. I was…oh…sixteen years outta high school. And the time I went to look for the book, I was sporting a not-creepy-at-all! five-o’-clock shadow. I justified the venture by telling myself, “The author is my age. The author is my age.” Luckily, I didn’t have to spend too long in there. The Gs were right by the entrance. I was in and out in two minutes.
(Sidenote: I did notice that not too far from “Green” was another name I would’ve never associated with “young adult literature”. William Gibson’s Neuromancer was a mere two subsections down. Now, I did read that book when I was in high school, but I would be hard-pressed to call it teen lit. Just sayin’.)
Normally, I’m a slow reader, but I plowed through Paper Towns in two days. Unheard of for me, even if it is teen reading. I owe that mainly to Green’s conversational prose. The story is simple enough - boy likes girl, girl sneaks into boy’s house, boy and girl go on an all-night caper, girl vanishes, leaves clues for boy…okay, maybe not so simple. I guess he kept it captivating enough to hold even my attention span at bay.
Simply put, the story is told from the POV of Quentin Jacobsen. No other way to label him except to say he’s the Marty Stu of the story - the author made manifest as a teenager. Quentin - or “Q”, as he’s known - has a childhood crush on the girl next door (as they often do). Said girl, Margo Roth Spiegelman, is best described as the “manic pixie” archetype. Everyone’s seen this character in one fashion or another. The most prominent examples I can think of are Kate Winslet from Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and Natalie Portman from Garden State. They’re interesting characters but cut from the same mold. But I digress.
Q learns that Margo has disappeared. According to her parents, this happened often and she always left clues to her whereabouts. This time, though, she only left clues for Q. With the help of his two best friends, he begins to understand that the Margo he thought he knew may have barely scratched the surface. And for some reason, this story hit me like a brick sh*thouse.
Q may have been a Marty Stu/author-in-protatonist’s-clothing character, but I could relate to him. Margo may have been a manic pixie, but I’ve known girls like her. Plus, the stage Green built to let his characters roam was a new one. In teen stories of prior readings/viewings, the dorky protagonists were inhibited by (and about) their lack of status. Not the case with Paper Towns. If it weren’t for the teeny-bopper treasure hunt put before them, Q and his “crue” would’ve gladly sailed through their senior year playing videogames and B.S.-ing. I’ve never seen any author explore that angle. Well, no one American, anyway.
In an odd way, I found parallels between some of the scenarios in Paper Towns to another unlikely story of teen angst - an anime based on a novel, no less. The Melancholy of Suzumiya Haruhi is told from the perspective of a cynical teen (Kyon) who begrudgingly accepts his monotonous life for what it is. A small part of him desires an interesting change, but only a smidge.
His “world” is shaken with the arrival of a student that valiantly declares she wants nothing to do with “ordinary humans”. Her life goal is to prove the existence of extraterrestrials, time travelers, and ESPers (people with mental abilities). The eccentric yet beautiful oddball is Suzumiya Haruhi. Through a series of events Kyon can’t quite explain, he is thrust into her oft-foiled efforts to prove the mysteries of the universe. He also learns that Haruhi herself is one such mystery - one capable of unraveling the fabric of existence by her very whim.
Okay, I know what you’re thinking. That sounds nothing like Paper Towns. Hear me out. Quentin bears similarity to Kyon in the fact that he is somewhat content with the cards he’s been dealt. A part of him does desire a shift in paradigm, but he’s too unmotivated to exact that change. Kyon, likewise - albeit more nihilistically - is accepting of his lot in life and sees change as an inconvenience.
When their prospective worldviews are tested by women [it's always by women], both are reluctant at first to surf the tide. They do their damnedest to prevent change from occurring. However, that li’l part of them that thirsts for excitement takes over eventually. With a bat of a lash, they’re hooked.
I draw this parallel because both pieces - diametrically opposed genres, though they are - spoke to the part of me that sacrificed a casual high school experience for anonymity. Unlike those two lucky protagonists, I never had a manic pixie muse to challenge my reverent redundancy. The desire to seek out literature and movies that speak to that inner pubescent is proof of that. I guess I’m making up for lost time, encapsulating it as best I can in whatever medium I can.
If you - fair reader - aren’t familiar with the works of John Green, I seriously recommend checking him out. And by extension, seek out the anime or light novel versions of the Suzumiya Haruhi series. They are deceptively simple on the surface, but will breathe life to a part of you long thought dormant. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a fart joke to laugh at.
2010: A Year in Rant…er…Review
The quintessential and clichéd way to begin an entry like this is to declare, “What a wild ride it’s been…” And with other years, and other people, that might be entirely applicable. 2010 was an entirely different beast, however. I can’t say it was wild by any stretch, but strange things did happen - some good, some life-changing, and others terrible. I’m not even entirely sure how this entry will play out. So, I thought I’d summarize my year - to the best of my ability - and reach a conclusion. I have some idea of what that conclusion is; still finding the words to voice it, though. Here we go.
Good ol’ Baby New Year ‘10 began with a “THUD!” in the form of a road trip, one I took in order to see a girl again. Funny what men will do in the name of the opposite gender. Wars have been started for and about the fairer sex. And in my case, near crashes and snow storms. The former of which should’ve been my first clue that this trip was a bad idea.
A mere ten miles outside of home, a car spun out in the fast lane. I caught sight of it before it 180-ed in front of me, put on the breaks just in time, and then veered around the “ruh-tard” by inches. In a flurry of curses, I pulled off the Wilsonville exit to catch my breath. That should have been my cue to turn around in the complete opposite direction. But I didn’t, I continued on unimpeded, blind in my resolve.
The good? By the time I made it down to SoCal, I was able to see my grandparents, Dad, Evil Stepmother, uncles, aunts, and cousins again. A new tea shop was notched off with friends, I saw Air Supply in concert (I know…”WTF!”), did a mad-dash through Disneyland, and - of course - spent quality time with said girl.
The bad? Just about everything else.
Fast-forward to the spring. I hate that time of year, and it has no fond feelings for me either. I’m not sure what happens to me when things “spring” forth anew, but I tend to go completely batshit. Not “rifle-on-a-clock-tower” nuts…but still impressively annoying. Usually, my changes in mood (of which there are many) result in loud declarations and hermitism. In essence, Seasonal Male Menstrual Syndrome.
The trigger this time around was social networking sites - the Internet’s drama lubricant. Several friends of mine who followed me on Twitter found my plethora of tea updates boring and annoying. They had a point. Not everyone is as fascinated as I am about dead, dried leaves steeped in hot water. As a result, these several friends “unfollowed” me. I didn’t take that well.
To me - at the time - unfollowing was akin to a friends’ list removal. It was a very clear sign, in my mind, that I was an irritant. Instead of puttig up with online disapproval and “butthurt”, I ranted, then deleted all my social networking incarnations - Myspace, Facebook, Twitter, YouTube, Google Buzz, everything. My only outlet to the “Intel Inside” world was my website.
I kept this e-embargo up for the worse part of four months. Parallel to that, I sunk into a deep and denial-based depression. I rarely went out and rarely corresponded online. I went to work, I slept, I drank tea; rinsed, repeated. The one bright (and sometimes frustrating) spot in all of this was the adoption of a furry, cuddly, and whiny Maine Coon mix named Georgia.
But we won’t go into the flea epidemic she brought upon us. You can read about that HERE.
There was another momentary distraction in the wake of my netizen exile. The parents required help in June for a cross-state move to Wyoming. I was asked to take time off from work in order to help with the endeavor. At first, I was ambivalent to the travailing trek. I was a wuss, completely useless as a mover. Added to that, I wasn’t a fan of readjusting my sleep schedule (I worked nights) to accommodate the request.
My mood brightened on arrival. The process of moving went rather quickly, and the rest of the trip was spent bonding with the bros and stepdad over various microbrews. What started as a weekend I dreaded became a three-day trilogy of remembrance. To this day, it’s one of my more memorable trips.
That reverie wouldn’t last long upon my return to Oregon. I was greeted with a lay-off. My job was posted on Craigslist, or at least a part-time version of it. My occupational existence of the last six years changed with a blip of the computer screen. Luckily, the parting was somewhat amicable given the circumstances, and I tried to view it as a necessary evil. Finally, I got the kick in the proverbial pants I needed to move on with my life.
On the suggestion of my mother, I attended various job and networking groups to “get out there” again. With six years gone, I was a little rusty on my job-hunting skills. Wrestling with the unemployment office was also becoming an arduous experience. By the end of summer, I was down to the wire financially. My bro/roommate was (thankfully) patient and understanding during the process.
In the interim, one of the biggest recommendations made by the job groups was to put my online presence back together. I returned to Twitter and Facebook, actively updated my blog again, and put feelers out there among friends that I was seeking employment. Unfortunately, due in part to my long absence, my social circle had decreased by half. Part of the blame rests with my outburst and subsequent hermitism. That sudden realization - and my car going “kaput” - made August a very dark month.
My brother changed this a bit with the declaration that he wanted to adopt a puppy. Not just any type of puppy, a Saint Bernard. I joined him for the jaunt to Camas to pick out the little fella. In the litter there were many to choose from, but one in particular stood out; a fuzzy, forehead-dotted little critter that was licking my shoe. I pointed to him, my brother picked him, we named him Abacus, and the rest is history. (My cat can’t stand him. We’re working on that.)
September saw two more gestalts to the ol’ routine (or what was left of it). My sister also decided to move to Wyoming and - again - I was drafted to help with the move and clean-up of her old place. While I can’t claim the task was easy, it was a welcomed distraction from the work-related/wallet issues. By coincidence or fate, right as we were about to take to the road again, my first unemployment check arrived. A summer-ton weight was lifted from my shoulders.
Partial gainful employment appeared a couple of months later in two forms thanks to the feelers I put out three months prior. I landed two temporary gigs doing floor sets and meeting setups, and a return to an old art gallery cashier job in October. Things were looking up.
November rained down soon after with the arrival of mounting debts. Red tape held up my unemployment benefits, and I was making nowhere near enough to pay my bills. Searches for additional part-time work were next to impossible given my limitations in availability. I could only work on Sundays, Mondays and Tuesdays. Other days affected my art gallery gig.
Additional help would arrive once the red tape with the unemployment office cleared up. And - again - thanks in large part to a very patient and humble housemate.
Which brings us to December. Sales at the gallery were good; I had many writing posts under my belt. I sampled new teas from far-flung locations, and still found time to hang out with friends. The only speed bump was a speeding ticket. Christmas came and went, spent in the company of intermediate family and candlelight services. (Although, my first present on Christmas Day was a computer virus.)
And - now - here I sit, reflecting on the “Year That Was”. In the middle of concocting this narrative lump, I had to backtrack as other significant moments popped back into memory. “I almost forgot the dog!” I inwardly exclaimed. Had this been scribbled on a piece of paper, it would look like a jigsaw puzzle.
So what does 2011 promise? I have no clue, and I’m not just saying that to be cheeky. My temporary “contract” at the gallery ended today, and I’m back on the job hunt. I will hopefully start up a novel of some sort, while simultaneously juggling a blog/review schedule. My “Tea Want” list has grown to thirteen - including (but not limited to) a British-grown and blended Earl Grey. Not that many of you care. (*Cue chuckle*) Beyond that, I don’t care. It’s a start.
Conclusion? 2010 was a ride; not a wild one, not a slow one. I liken it to driving my Ford Focus. It doesn’t look pretty, doesn’t stand out, but at least I can see where I parked.
Exit Through the Art Gallery
It was a prototypical Thursday. Nothing of import should happen on a Thursday. (Well, except for “ladies night”-s at certain bars.) I had an hour left on my shift at the art gallery. For a temp gig, the retail stint had proven to be an engaging one. Rarely were there bad days. “Off” days, yes…but rarely bad. This was one of those days.
At the five o’ clock hour, a youthful-looking man with a long, scraggly chestnut ponytail came into the store. He reeked of booze; the smell of ethyl clung to him like a haze. I couldn’t identify the libation in question, but it seemed like bourbon. Attired in a Pendleton coat, a faded backpack, jeans, and a vacant gaze, every inch of him screamed homeless or hipster.
He asked, “Do you have any art by Banksy?”
“Never heard of him,” I replied. A part of me hated it when people asked about artists. While I did work at a gallery, I knew next to nothing about art. I was a writer by “trade”.
“Oh, he does - like - street art. Cut-outs and such. It’s really killer, man.” At least, I think he said “killer”. I dunno. I’m paraphrasing here.
“That sounds great,” I lied.
For some reason, he took my curt replies as an invitation to continue talking. Perhaps the best strategy in this situation would’ve been to simply ignore him. I didn’t, however, and he segued from art into music - particularly work he’d done. Apparently, he was a musician - a famous one…a famous un-credited one, according to him. Mr. Chestnut (as I’m wont to call him) claimed to have written the song “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” by Deep Blue Something, along with many other famous titles I only halfway paid attention to.
Then he veered onto a tangent about movies, touting having thought of the movie Breakfast at Tiffany’s (which would’ve made him a zygote at the time of production, but no matter). Further to his dossier of phantom accomplishments, he added I Am Legend (no specificity as to book or movie), Dumb & Dumber, and a myriad of other comedies. Before I could stifle a chuckle, the conversation got dark.
He confessed to me that he’d written a conspiracy theory novel linking the 9/11 terrorist attacks and the “4/20″ British Petroleum oil rig explosion to The Church of Jesus Christ and Latter Day Saints. Mr. Chestnut mentioned he was raised Mormon and witnessed firsthand some of the shadowy goings-on of the Prophet and his ilk.
When the Mormon Church caught wind of Mr. Chestnut’s impending novel, they squelched its chances of being published and ruined him on a pot-possession charge. As in, any attempt to make a name for himself ultimately failed - his music “career”, his writing “career”, anything. He continued on for a good half-hour, relating to me the links of organized religion to attempted world domination, and of how he was one of the few who knew the full story.
At the forty-five-minute mark, he finally realized that I wasn’t paying attention anymore. He politely excused himself from the gallery with a, “Good talkin’ to ya.” I closed shop soon after, but I got to thinking…
What an interesting story that would make! A man seemingly on top of the world - destined for mainstream success - has his life taken from him because of something he knew. I dreamt of a similar idea over a year ago. Did I believe him? Oh, heck no. His list of “credits” predated his own birth. He was as wackadoo as any batshit hobo in Portland. Still, it made for an interesting thought on the way home.
I related my creepy encounter with my brother/roommate, had a good laugh at Mr. Chestnut’s expense, and proceeded to lounge in the living room with Netflix fired up. We couldn’t quite determine what to watch; I wanted something stupid, he preferred something more contemplative. It was his Netflix account, so he had veto power. A documentary caught his eye.
“Y’know, I’ve wanted to see this for a while now,” bro/roommate said. He had stopped on a film called Exit Through the Gift Shop - a doc about street artists.
It seemed as good a choice as any. Nothing else was catching my eye. I shrugged and said, “Sure”.
I asked to read the blurb before he selected it. Afterwards, I let out a guffaw. Bro/roommate wondered what had me so tickled. The artist that was heavily featured in the documentary…was Banksy. The very same street artist that Mr. Chestnut had inquired about before going on his little tirade about Mormons. My brother thought it an eerie coincidence - as did I.
The film was an interesting one, to say the least. It was about an oddball who meant to make a documentary about street artists but wound up sucked into the lifestyle. I found myself liking it far more than I intended. Parts were poignant; others were offbeat in their hilarity. The “protagonist” himself - a Frenchman named Thierry Guetta - was the epitome of undeserved hubris, yet at the same time, he was somewhat loveable; an odd dichotomy, to be sure.
When the end credits rolled, we were surprised to learn that Banksy himself directed the documentary. Without giving anything away, I can say that it made me question the different between art and crap. A ninety-minute film succeeded in driving a question home that four months at an art gallery hadn’t. Perhaps I didn’t feel as invested as I did now. The combination of coincidence, conspiracy, and consciousness made me more alert to the subject.
I did what I always do after watching a movie that “superpoked” my paradigm, I researched it. Different reviews posited a theory I found fascinating. Some questioned the validity of the events in the film. Others went as far as to claim that it was an exercise in Andy Kaufman-esque performance art, devised by Banksy himself to make us question what art really was. Such a stunt would be well within the street artist’s modus operandi.
An online friend pointed out to me that Banksy had directed one of The Simpson’s opening sequences, revealing an exaggerated portrayal of a Korean animation shop and the conditions therein. I had seen it before, found it funny and slightly thought-provoking, but not enough to jolt me. I was more surprised it was made at all.
The whole day gave me much to ponder on. How does one define art? What makes a piece art? What makes a piece good art? Is it only art if a bunch of people agree that it is or only if someone puts their heart and soul into it? And what if someone puts their all into something that is less than stellar; could it still be art then?
In the end, I can only conclude the same way I did several years ago. I remember a conversation with my aunt about artists and practitioners. My stance was that anyone involved in the arts shouldn’t take themselves too seriously. The world doesn’t need artists, they need artisans. Of course, she - being an artist - didn’t take a liking to this opinion, and she had every right to. It’s not a popular opinion.
As I see it - and as someone involved in an “art” of some sort - we are putting something of ourselves out there for the world to see. The hope is that the piece finds an audience, and that said mob will “get” the message (if there is one). The secondary hope is that the piece in question outlives us, demonstrating a helluva half-life close to immortality.
I don’t like the idea of creating in the hopes that someone will coincidentally happen by it. Granted, I like getting recognition for work well done, but that can’t be the only thing motivating me or nothing would get done. Not that much does anyway. By not taking one’s self too seriously, one isn’t subject to as much disappointment if merits aren’t bestowed. Call it a safety mechanism.
After all, how different are we from the sad, Pendleton-draped would-be, mythical music/movie-making homeless person? The only thing that separates the crafty folk from him is…well…reality. Life is fleeting, art is finite, but we might as well have fun in the process. We like art, we like to think about art, and some of us like to create it. In the vain hope others consider it art and like it as well.
The process is - like many things - cyclical. A man came into my gallery, spouted achievements and conspiracies, then left. But his presence inspired a likely story idea, or rather a direction for a story to go. In turn, I watched a movie about the very man - by the very man - that he found inspirational. It’s enough to make me giggle.
Or perhaps I’m taking this too seriously…
The Belle of the Bell
I submitted this to a blog-writing contest. The parameters were to select a positive local restaurant experience we had and write about it. This is what I came up with.
Picture, if you will, a corpulent bespectacled thirtysomething gent. A five o’ clock shadow adorns his one-and-a-half chins, a black fleece sweater - covered in cat hair - frames his heaving mass; shielding him from the cold. Said man-child only has one thought on his mind - cathartic carbicide.
Of course, that man-child is me. At the time, I had ended what seemed like the pissiest day of errand-running in recent memory. Where most would turn to some form of battery acid-like alcohol for swift release, I turned to something else. I bee-lined for fast food.
Not just any fast food, mind you. Somewhere in the deep and dessicated tendrils of my scholarly “brain”, I was of the notion that Taco Bell was healthier than other fast food outlets. Some distant memory of a health class experiment that measured fat content kept springing to mind. Whether or not there was validity to the claim mattered little; only economy of distance and dime held sway. Their dollar deals.
From the route I was taking back home, the most convenient of locales lay on Cedar Hills Blvd in Beaverton. I usually hated this location, but it was on the way. I pulled my manly Ford Focus up to the drive-thru, the white noise-washed voice chimed a “Can I help you?” And I went about regurgitating my order: two chicken burritos and a chicken flatbread sandwich. However…I stopped in mid “chick-”.
Their dollar menu was gone. My one solace - the chicken burrito - had risen to the astronomical price of $1.29. My heart and stomach sank. Given the unison of the “sinking” feeling, my shoulders slouched. I blubbered a, “You know what? Nevermind.”
Dejected, I drove off. Only one other avenue remained. There lay another Bell one bridge over from my house on Murray, right next to the Home Depot. It was an island of faux-Mexican excellence residing in an empty parking lot. By the time I reached it, my stomach moaned in anticipation. I looked at their menu. My inner child cued an “I’ve got a golden ticket”-esque silent melody as I beheld the dazzling “99 cents” next to my beloved burrito on display.
I ordered, I counted, I horded, I drove off - all the way beaming my burrito-battered grin. Why I hadn’t considered that outlet first, I know not. Their staff was always nicer than the other franchises, they made their burritos with plentiful amounts of chicken, and their sauce? Well…it was the stuff angels wipe off in place of sweat. Leprechauns collected it instead of gold - a mysterious miasma of Mexi-nectar. I was in fast food heaven, and I never looked at another Taco Bell again.
If she were a woman, I’d marry her. In Vegas. With Wayne Newton presiding. Because nothing’s too good for my “Bell belle”.
Needless to say, it didn’t win.
Photo by Roman Pinzon-Soto
Year-End Facebook Status Collage
Normally, I wouldn’t post anything to my website that has anything to do with my social networking hijinx (well, unless it was to rant about it), but this was just far too cool to pass up. It was an application on Facebook that compiles a collage of various status updates someone has made. The result is a non sequitur narrative so epically esoteric, one can’t help but love themselves for it.
This has nothing to do with writing, tea, beer, or movies. It probably isn’t as cool to others as it is to me, but it’s my site. So nyah. I’ll do what I want with it.
Social Graces of the Sky
Photo by Ian Burt
Picture if you will a hectic afternoon of changing flights. We’ve all been there. Playing airline tag is a necessary evil in the game of speedy commute. The goal of an airport is to herd sardi-…I mean, “patrons” to the correct winged can. Then they launch said can into the elements to bump and jostle until the final destination is reached. It’s a tedious, long, frustrating, and overall uncomfortable experience. One of the few joys - for a solitary male, anyway - is sitting next to attractive girl.
In this, I have the worst luck. I pray to whatever lust demon happens to be in charge of such matters, but almost every time I get stuck with the “just-shy-of-too-obese-for-the-plane” guy or the twitchy woman with a horse’s maw. I wasn’t particularly thrilled about the flight I was getting on. It was a departure from Billings, Montana with a changeover in Seattle, Washington. I love me some Montanan women, but they’re not the ones sardine-ing themselves on Horizon flights.
I found myself in Billings waiting for the clock to chime with the load-up warning. Also in the waiting was a rather striking fortysomething gal who had “BikerMomma” written all over her - auburn hair, square jaw. The epitome of badass beauty. If it weren’t for clothing in the way, I would’ve guessed she was adorned with tattoos.
There were a few other scattered specimens waiting for the flying bucket to board; a couple of blondes, a college girl or two. Things were looking up this flight. The time came to crowd onto the metallic seagull before I could muse on it any further.
My side of the row was a two-seater - one aisle, one window - mine was the aisle. Two rows behind me was BikerMomma occupying a window seat all by her lonesome. Damn, there went that imaginary opportunity. All I could do was sit, wait, and see if my fellow occupant was of the aesthetically pleasing variety.
The first person on was a rather sweaty mouth-breather of a business man. The second, some corpulent “thing” that I couldn’t discern a gender for. Fifth through tenth? Nothing. Fifteenth? Cute brunette, four aisles up. Damn! The suspense was killing me. Then came a platinum, bottle blonde girl in a pink ski coat. Jackpot!…I hoped.
“‘Scuse me,” she said in the cutest, squeakiest voice ever.
I got up to let her through, all the while trying to contain my elation. The feeling didn’t last long, however. Someone tapped my shoulder soon after PinkCoatGirl sat. I could’ve groaned.
“Yes?” I said tightly.
A somewhat hippie-ish man with week-old facial scruff said, “Hey, I was wondering if you and I could switch seats. You see, my dad is over there.” He pointed to an older gent in the aisle seat on the other side of me. “I really want to sit next to him.”
Crap. I had to think a moment. Do I do the right thing here? What is the right thing to do? How often do I get to sit next to a hot chick? Never?! Would it really matter to him if he was close to his dad? What, was his dad senile or something? He looked fine to me.
As all these questions played ping-pong in my brainpan, the PinkCoatGirl was looking at me intently. HippieSon also awaited my answer. His father…was staring blankly at the fold-out table.
I shook my head, “No…sorry.”
Dejected, HippieSon said, “That’s alright.”
“I’ll switch with you,” chimed a young-ish guy in the window seat next to HippieSon’s pop.
“Great, thanks!”
I looked to see where HippieSon had been sitting; it was the aisle seat next to BikerMomma.
For the rest of the flight, the PinkCoatGirl never said more than five words to me. And those five were extracted with great difficulty. All the while, two aisles back, the young-ish guy and BikerMomma were flirting and laughing the entire flight. What did I learn?
Biker chicks are awesome. Blondes in ski coats don’t talk much. Never get between the bond of father and son. And always fly Horizon; they serve good beer.
So, fellas, what would you have done differently?
Reviews by Rhyme: J.J. Abrams’ “Star Trek” Reboot…Thingy
This is the so-called “maiden voyage” of the Reviews By Rhyme section. And what better way to usher it in than to review another maiden voyage. That being the new Star Trek movie.
This is still quite an experiment, so bear with me.
Best Bad Joke…Ever…
It was said that a black man would be president “when pigs fly”.
Lo and behold, 100 days into Obama’s presidency…
Swine Flu.
(Don’t blame me, blame my friend Becky.)
*Hides under a rock*
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