A letter to Grandma: the nightmare of Disneyland....

1/18/15

Dearest Grandma,

A veritable mountain (or at the very least a considerable hill) of snacks has been arrayed, packaged, and even scheduled for our trip to Disneyland. Various kindnesses have made the trip possible, mostly in the form of monetary contributions by A’s father (who is also funding our tickets thereto).

"A" even measured our children in order to determine in advance the rides to which they’ll have access, as though to catalogue their amusement capacity.

My approach to Disneyland is to be that person assigned to the kiddie rides (though I hope with no one else’s children). When N and H were babies (in their respective Disneyland-baby eras) I was happy to enjoy California in February or November, sitting on a park bench and rocking a little one to sleep in a stroller while the breeze rolled across some overly charming pond and other more enthused Disneyites hurried busily past in brightly colored throngs.

It takes little to amuse me, and even less to repulse.

Take the gum-coated walls of rides with lines longer than that of most public “people processors”: the DMV or the post office at Christmas; even if by some miracle the devoted custodial crew took an evening to scrape seeming decades worth of thoroughly masticated synthetic rubber off a column there’s still the black of similarly encrusted human finger residue everywhere one can place a hand. It’s a nightmare.

But I digress…

Apart from a recent stomach virus we’re all doing well. N boasts of being “bitten” by a green praying mantis. H still finds her way into our bed each evening and finds a parent to cling to like an appendage, even on the occasions we put her back into her own bed (repeatedly). 

We’re fine, but who knows what terrors Disneyland may harbor…

Idyllic environs

Amber and the children remained at home while I caught church between the hours of 10:00 and 11:30, leaving just after sacrament because I suspected that Amber’s reasons for staying home would make it unconscionable for me to leave her with two darling but increasingly unruly children. It also happened that a chap sat next to me, greatly disturbing my personal space and —although I’m not really that esoteric—his presence came with an odor. Okay, so he smelled stale. Like he needed to be hung on the line for a while or freshened with a dryer sheet; that, or it might have been my imagination...

We finished the day with a riotous bout of children wailing, parents shouting (or doing their meager best not to) and all of that; so we high-tailed it to the mountains in search of a hike (the final determination of which was the culminating focus of interparental rage). We hiked two miles in a round trip that included children on hips, on shoulders, in arms, sitting down on flat terrain in a mistaken attempt to slide, lying down on the dirt as though it were a welcoming blanket, and poking at the dirt with sticks while fidgeting parents prodded them onward. There were the idyllic environs:  towering pines, soaring blue skies, a pristine lake (named Mary, no less), quaking aspens, and wildflowers like sprinkles on a misshapen green sundae.

But then there were mosquitoes. Not one, not two, and they were not tiny, or imperceptible, but a ravenous net laid across our path in a guerilla-style attempt to rob of us of our much needed blood protein as we flew—er, or haltingly trod and sometimes stood still—down the mountain, swatting, swiping, and sometimes cajoling the wingéd menaces.

Noah happily shouted in echo as we neared a natural “chamber” on our way down. (His father may have unwittingly started it by hooting just minutes before.) My intellectual method in accelerating his descent: “Noah, move your butt!” Alas, tomorrow may betray marks both external and internal resulting from this latest display of shenanigans, but it was one of those efforts, not quite herculean, which nonetheless remains worth the venture.

Wizard Lord

Noah, Hannah and I played “Wizard Lord” before bedtime. It involved Noah being the eponymous ruler, and he was not merciful in the least. He wanted me to hunt for people. We collected stuffed animals, my lord and me, and stuffed them under the piano bench and kiddie table in the front room, our overcrowded dungeons. Then I did my best British accent and pretended that his Waldorf doll, with flowing mane and leaf-emblazoned cape, was a hero bursting from his cell. Thence proceeded a wizard battle the likes of which no one has ever seen (or will likely not care to…) I would often conjure an invisible shield of some kind to repel his spittle-laden sound effects, and he would retaliate by attempting to seize my little hero with his hands, which as anyone knows is cheating. There were at least a few forms of magic involving bums, instigated by me, no less. Then Noah resorted to magically altering my hero until at last we arrived at a largish Winnie the Pooh, who received a thorough pummeling, no doubt for impersonating a wizard.

Where can I turn for peace?

On a rare child-free date night my wife and I went to see Star Trek: Into Darkness via some tickets Amber won in some contest. And it was typical of J.J. Abrams, in that the dialogue was snappy, tensions were high, there had to be some scantily clad female, and oh, the fightiness. I cannot pretend I am not a part of the mass populace beleaguered by repeated exposure to violent content. I grew up watching movies like Terminator and Die Hard, etc. Perhaps the continued milieu of fatherhood has made me more aware, or my resolve to no longer watch R-rated fare has by contrast increased my antagonism to its gratuitous inclusion in the Hollywood blockbuster. Whatever the cause, I felt that not only on a moral level, but an artistic one, that there were at least a few moments where the throttling, the bone-crunching, and the repeated pounding could have been cut much shorter, and allowed us contemplation, a denouement before yet another surge of seething testosterone.

My experience (indeed, my lifetime of media saturation) demonstrates how a thoroughly layered exposure to violence, sex (even implicit or mere innuendo), and other forms of moral decay can wreak havoc on internal peace and self-esteem. As I watched punch after punch I wondered if I'd ever feel comfortable exposing my son or daughter to the irresponsible wreck of media immorality that is now so ubiquitous as to be malevolent. Where, indeed, can I turn for peace? Certainly not to Hollywood (or most any media market, for that matter).

Why zombies? and Zone One

I've thought a lot about zombies. Not as much as those who believe a zombie apocalypse is approaching, of course, but a lot. (I believe a stupid people apocalypse is much more likely.) Most of my mental cycles deal with why the recent zombie craze? Why are zombies compelling? Tonight I finished Colson Whitehead's Zone One, a book about society trying to rebuild itself after a zombie plague decimates the population and rewrites the definition of civilization, or perhaps by contrast illustrates its fragility or fallacy. Whitehead's writing is thick with delicious metaphor, both micro and macro. That is, most every sentence rings with irony and implicit parallels, but the story overall, pensive and thoughtful, is an exhaustive essay on human existence.

As I read it, not only did I rediscover my intellectual limitations, but came closer to solidifying what I think drives the collective obsession with zombies and things-generally-apocalyptic. Some thoughts: 1) The zombie apocalypse is total, in part because it is a secular armageddon. There is no deus ex machina to deliver even the most righteous. All are potential fodder for an endless turmoil, a hell without the added color of fire pits or pitchforks. It is also total because there is no shore, no harbor, no refuge from its presence. In a zombie world, there is no peace, no real protection. 2) Death by zombie is the most gruesome death the imagination can conjure, excepting perhaps becoming a nest in which an alien larva pupates and then exits. It is gruesome not just because one is eaten, but because one is eaten by a rotting corpse. Exsanguination by supermodel vampire does not come close to being surrounded by the voracious, putrescent undead. 3) The apocalyptic tale (especially with zombies) is rife with primal adrenaline, thick with fight-or-flight emotion. I'm always kicking the character out of the door, perplexed when they don't run, or when they foolishly try to hole up in a run-down house and hope the boards will hold. 4) The zombie apocalypse is really a fictional guise for the aforementioned quite plausible stupid-people apocalypse, in which otherwise sane people give in to an underlying behavior to rape, pillage, murder, etc. if the economy tanks, governments dissolve, global warming leads to global scarcity.

The above ideas were in existence long before I read Zone One, but now I posit (or repeat Whitehead's emphatic observation) that a major reason why we fret so much about an apocalypse is how it will likely render our current existence obsolete, meaningless. The voice of the book, whether in its main character's head or in an all-seeing monologue goes on at length about the world that existed before "Last Night" without ever feeling truly redundant, painting it as an illusion, a thing to be ridiculed or scoffed at, as I suppose one did the days before the Great Depression when fleeing the Dust Bowl and a husk of a farm in a faint hope of work farther west.

Whitehead also illustrates how fleeting so-called civilization is, as though it's really just a coat that humanity put on because it was en vogue, but that it was never our true nature.

However, I also note that at least for Mark Spitz, the main character, the post-plague misery legitimizes his previous isolation, his withdrawal from companionship, his lack of place in the previous world. And magically, his mediocrity in a life structured by incremental achievements makes him seemingly invulnerable when the only criteria of success that matters is survival. (It gives me a smidgen of hope that I'm not so very different from Mr. Spitz in that I have achieved little in this incremental life.)

As with numerous other forms of entertainment, this one boasts profanity par excellence, if only when Whitehead allows his soldier "sweepers" some very sailor-like commentary. I confess that I tried to stop myself from reading and hadn't the willpower. The sentences devoid of f-bombs and the like were all so dripping with delicious language. The proverbial mess of pottage scenario.

The Unofficial Rental Rule

When I arrived home I was told that we were to have an unprecedented neighbor meeting. This meeting ultimately involved a very redundant (and I would argue semi-pointless) discussion of noises, real and perceived, with the lower apartments being primarily victims and the upper apartments (primarily us) being the abusers. Apparently we should not simply walk, but float. Our neighbor (upper) has lately been reduced to tip-toeing around his own apartment, trying to sail from doorway to doorway w/o disturbing his downstairs neighbor. All of this in addition to my own sins leads me to believe that the apocalypse already happened. This is some sublevel of hell, wherein no one knows the unofficial but glaringly obvious rule about rentals: there will be no real privacy, let alone silence. Let's face it, when your bedroom is adjacent to the abode of another household, whether above, below, or to its side, you will not only be disturbed but will likely disturb someone else. It’s the ipso facto form of suffering that most rational people accept as part of being an apartment dweller as opposed to a home owner. You want silence? Try headphones. Try sleeping pills. Try a drive far, far away but do not expect to have such living at most twenty feet away and just a few measly wood joints apart from three other households.

I wooted, even though I cannot woot.

Hello, absentee followers and non-existent aficionados. I'm baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack. I've doffed my curmudgeonly resentment because the light of the Whedonverse has, once again, restored my faith in Hollywood's storytelling capacity.

Most of the movie-going planet has already seen the Avengers, bought a T-shirt, and returned to their respective sweaty-male-scented caverns. I saw it for the first time, admittedly with some reluctance, given that even the most devoted of geek-geniuses have succumbed to the withering aura of marketers and monetizing producers, and then betrayed yours truly.

But this time I found myself so enthralled, so stirred by the fantastic whoosh of it all, that I wooted. That is, woot, as in a shout, a yawp, a huzzah, etc. Of course, I had only the scarred and ragged vestiges of a throat so it sounded like the wheezing crack of pubescence, but yes, there was wootage.

At one point I even shouted (internally) my love for Joss Whedon. No other knows better how to make the funny moments funny, the supernal moments supernal, and the tragic moments as heart wrenching as they should be. Oh, and snappy dialogue. He does that.

Thank you, Mr. Whedon, for joining them without getting beaten. Keep 'em coming.

"Art Insights Oct 29" work convo

K: so art insights last night...i'm not sure whether i liked it or not. i had a hard time following exactly what he was saying, though the main concept was clear.
Lord of the Goblins: I don't think he knew (or knows) what he was(is) saying
K: thank you!
Lord of the Goblins: It was a matter of semantics, really
Lord of the Goblins: I'm a proponent of what I think he was trying to say
Lord of the Goblins: which is that denigrating one discipline in favor of another is not only narrow-minded but limiting
Lord of the Goblins: or that because art becomes commercial that it ceases to be meaningful, even avant garde
Lord of the Goblins: In other words, perhaps the most promising aspect of postmodernism isn't its cynicism, but the promise of eroding traditional boundaries in favor of a more inclusive, interweaving artistic global society
Lord of the Goblins: one in which new ideas are possible because one can straddle multiple disciplines/ideas simultaneously
K: awesome
Lord of the Goblins: like the paint splatter commercial
Lord of the Goblins: or a fine artist also being very commercial
Lord of the Goblins: not all commercial fine artists go the way of Thomas Kinkade
Lord of the Goblins: :)
Lord of the Goblins: but, that too is a statement that doesn't fit into this broad expansive new age of art
Lord of the Goblins: of course, one wonders how to express an opinion, even a judgment (which I think is still crucial) in a world where "it's all good"

K, this blog's for you...

Lord of the Goblins: should you care to grace my blog with your ever-welcome company, it's http://captainredguy.blogspot.com/
Lord of the Goblins: feel free to comment! you'll be the first one who does! (or you can remain ninja-like and hover in a cloud of smoke)
K: sweet! I wanted to ask but...i'm glad you offered it.
K: some people aren't in to having everyone they know read their blog...
Lord of the Goblins: don't mention it! and I wish more people I knew would
Lord of the Goblins: because I'm much more personable in blog form ;)
K: ha ha. :)

Yet another convo from workie

Lord of the Goblins: do you swim for fun? that is, do you not only do it to make those of us slackers feel bad? ;)
K: Yes, it's definitely something I look forward to, not dreading. I enjoy it.
Lord of the Goblins: I confess I would be very nervous swimming
Lord of the Goblins: 1) I don't have a figure that belongs in a swimsuit; 2) I, despite having some rigorous training at age three, can only manage a clumsy flounder when trying to do laps—I excel only at the frog stroke
Lord of the Goblins: (I say age three but I exaggerate, as usual)
Lord of the Goblins: (I also call it the frog but reliable sources dub it the breast stroke)
K: i was going to comment on how I like that you call it the frog stroke! i think that's the first time i've heard it referenced that way. :)
Lord of the Goblins: well, that's me! Mr Original
K: That's okay that you don't like swimming. A lot of people don't. And it is kind of uncomfortable being in a swimsuit, but once in the water, all is well for me. :)
Lord of the Goblins: I shouldn't say I don't like swimming
Lord of the Goblins: Once upon a time I tried to do it to avert the impact of running
Lord of the Goblins: but I was a lazy swimmer
K: cool!
Lord of the Goblins: and the pool, was... er, untidy
K: ugh.
Lord of the Goblins: yeah, I don't like swimming with dead insects
K: oh, i see. yummy.
Lord of the Goblins: what did you think I meant? poop?
Lord of the Goblins: lol
Lord of the Goblins: sorry, still a five-year old in there somewhere
Lord of the Goblins: been trying to kick him out
K: i was thinking of a glob of hair and dirt i saw on the bottom of the pool this morning in the shallow end. (not as clean by the end of the week).
Lord of the Goblins: naturally, I have some dignity, a man of my caliber will not swim with poop... dead bugs, yes, but never poop
Lord of the Goblins: lol
Lord of the Goblins: ewwwwwwww!
Lord of the Goblins: hair... ewww ewww ewwwwwwww ewwww!
Lord of the Goblins: blech. amen.

Some artwork for a change...

A recent convo at work, which, given my current temperament, I thought at least mildly amusing.

Slug-A-Muggle: KB or Kb or kb?
B: kilobits or kilobytes?
Slug-A-Muggle: lol
Slug-A-Muggle: hold on
Slug-A-Muggle: bytes
B: KB
Slug-A-Muggle: k

It's a dry computer version of Flik's hurried stammering: No! Ha ha ha! Sorry. No, no, see it's classified in the DMZ, gotta go ASAP, you know, strictly BYOB. Bye!

What the?? or Armageddon approaches

Jonas brothers, Jonas brothers, Jonas brothers!!!... where are they?
I'm sorry but when I came across this photo in the news, I couldn't help notice the poor onlooker's troubled countenance. It makes me wonder if Miley Cyrus was at all embarrassed to be pole-dancing in front of her peers. (I dare not consider her doing it in front of another demographic, however... *shudders*) It seems to me that we have another would-be Madonna on our hands, just rarin' for the sickly side of the limelight enjoyed by other artists-turned-media-hookers: Janet Jackson, Mariah Carey, Britney, Christina, etc., etc., etc.,

WOW! No, really!!!!

Well, I thought I was over WoW or Warcraft in general... and then this! Blizzard really is out to get us...



I kinna believe it!!

The Death Cab for Cutie days

I'm reminiscing: reviewing my earliest blog entries, recalling the LIZ factor, even conceitedly relishing my old poetry as if it sprang from someone else's melancholy mind; the Death Cab for Cutie days, the peanut-butter-saltine-cracker-sandwich days, the movie-a-week days, and being-lost-and-found-at-the-same-time days. I miss them. Truthfully, I miss my blog friends. I call out to you folks through the ether and bid you a warm virtual clap on the shoulder and a hearty hello. Until next time...

G-farce or People Are Stupid

Look out! They're coming from the sky and they'll pee anywhere!

Okay. Alright. I get that some of you hard-working Americans think you're doing yourself a HUGE favor after a long work-week by going to a theater to absorb yet another gluttonous downpour of mindless drivel, thanks to the now very unscrupulous, artless moguls that are master over Hollywood (and perhaps, the world). But THIS! THIS is number one?! At all? THIS managed to exceed the earnings of a wonderful film like the latest Harry Potter ANY weekend?

I suppose parents will coyly suggest that this movie is perfect for the kids. Nay! NO! It will turn your children into the horde of video-gaming, consumerist oafs who use dude repeatedly and end up setting themselves on fire and then posting it on YouTube.

So please, please America, I beg you! Turn away from this detritus and stop stupidity at its root!!! C'mon! Do it for the children!!!!!

From an instant messenger convo at work...
Count Dookie says:
I'm not your typical male
so any considerable levels of testosterone and/or sportiness
and I shut down
I just don't want to talk to anyone who says dude profusely
or seems to have the emotional capacity of concrete
K says:
no male bonding for you, ha ha. No, that's cool. I can relate a little when it comes to girls who primp and keep the drama coming.
Count Dookie says:
I'm talking specifically about the kind of guys who form an informal group like "Team Awesome" and who use those long tables you see in every church building to do some impromptu bobsledding at a ward activity, or cannot seem to funciton without emitting hoots and hollers
in short, I really cannot abide a neanderthal
though doubtless everyone else may impressed with them
if I recall, there was a time that I admired their hooligan bravado from afar
but just didn't understand it
and now have come to fear it
though once I may have chuckled at it
K says:
That is awesome. I totally know the kind you're talking about and i usually keep as far away from them as possible, too.

Harry Potterin' (I coined it! It's mine!!)

From an e-mail I sent on July 15th...
We saw [Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince] beginning at 11:59 pm...[Tuesday evening, the 14th] there was a costume contest (I'd call it a "get-up" contest, since so much of Harry Potterin' draws from one's own scarf collection) in which Amber competed, but unfortuntely didn't win (there was a flock of boisterious thespians charming the audience from the outset). Amber did a lovely turn as "Tonks," the pink-haired witch in love with a werewolf, even performing a flourish with her cape to woo the crowd, but to no avail. These thespians came as predictable "Harry, Ron, Hermione, ... Hoo!" Who? Who but a giddy young thing dressed (sparingly) as Hedwig, Harry's owl. Still, their exuberance had won everyone over. These four were part of a group that formed an impromptu choir that happily entertained the rest of the crowd with a song from "Potter Puppet Pals" of YouTube notoriety. ("Snape, Snape, Severus Snape... Dumbledore!!...")

As you know I'm wont to tear movies to shreds, and despite myself I couldn't help but laugh when I believe I was meant to, mourn when it was intended, or just be enthralled over all by the movie. It struggles during some of the first few moments, especially if you've read the book recently and observe some of the changes made, but on the whole I can say that I'm in love with this movie. I'm putting it right up there with some legendary favorites, because David Lynch, the director, seems to have treated the Potterverse with uncanny sensitivity, if only for the fans, and yet managed to compress the considerable length of the book into a cohesive, charming, and I daresay epic couple of hours. I could go on gushing, but I think I'll let you discover for yourself the estimable joys of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince...

I saw the above while perusing Ryan Wood's links. It's by someone named Ani, in Bordeaux, France. It's possibly the most charming thing I can recall seeing for a long time. Perhaps I've become resentful of illustration (to the extent that I've begun loathing a lot of it) because I cannot seem to find the time to do it.

Just thought that if anyone should read this, they'd get a kick out the ogre's expression, the lovely glow billowing across his bulk, etc.

Le sigh

Thankfully I have emerged from my young days of summers past of braving the risky summer movie roulette wheel and regularly having my hopes dashed (not to mention my pocket book) a little wiser. No, I will NOT be seeing the new Transfomers movie, prompted both by the fear that the aforementioned stirs within me but numerous reviews and my wife's persistent scoffing.

I did find an article that in a tangential way reflects my current thinking.

The general critical response to Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen is mostly a mad rush to find the right metaphor to describe how it feels to be trapped in a working food blender for two and a half hours. Although many critics have also generously found time to despise the plot, the characters, the dialogue and the special effects, it’s the two and a half hours that seems to grate the most. What does this movie think it is? Titanic?

Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen is indeed way too long, but that’s part of movie-making this year. At the recent Cannes film festival, film after film unspoiled at unconscionable length — “two and a half hours is the new 90 minutes,” someone said...

...In this company two-hour movies — like Ang Lee’s Taking Woodstock — seemed modest. But not as modest as Wild Grass (Les Herbes Folles), a lovely little bit of ambiguity by French master Alan Resnais that managed to tell a complex, teasing little story of love and obsession in 104 minutes. It was announced this week that Wild Grass is coming to the Toronto film festival, along with another movie from a legendary director, Manoel de Oliveira’s Eccentrities of a Blonde-Haired Girl, which is also about love and obsession. It runs for 63 minutes.

Significantly, Renais is 89 years old and Oliveira turns 101 in December: they understand about time. It’s precious, and who has two and a half hours to spend on robots?

Taken from canada.com