Tuesday, July 31, 2012

Nos Populus and American University

I have a complicated relationship with my alma mater.  I met my wife at American University (off campus, but still).  I met most of my current friends either at AU or through friends from there.  The education I got has granted me opportunities I never could've dreamed and though most of those dreams were deferred, it's hard to blame the lousy economy on one college.  On the other hand, Ben Ladner.  And while I'm convinced that my present distaste for politics stems directly from my experiences there, I'm not sure whether that would've happened otherwise.  Or whether that was necessarily a bad thing. 

One thing I can say for sure: if I don't attend AU, Nos Populus never gets written.  The writing classes helped, of course.  Ditto the lit classes (I nearly could've minored in lit).  And my poly-sci major expanded my then-fairly shallow understanding of policy, strategy, theory, history, and all the other vague, indefinable aspects of political studies that make sensible minds go numb and turn decent people into overly-ambitious, image-obsessed, wanna-be pols.  See, for Nos Populus to be possible, I had to understand its targets. 

That's what primed me for the writing of the book: my fellow students--often it seemed the entire student body--who could shotgun whole seasons of The West Wing without irony once shaking them by the shoulders for their own good (none of them wanted to be Jed Bartlet, by the way--they all wanted to be Josh Lyman).  The 19-year-olds studying poly-sci at Washington DC's third most renowned college, convinced they'd run for president one day (and in an awful parallel universe, I'm sure many of them will).  The posturing ideologues, huffily turning class discussions into recital competitions of Democratic or Republican talking points that had been emailed to them that morning.  The way Democrats so far outnumbered Republicans as to make it kind of disgusting, until young Republicans learned how to be louder and more obnoxious--mistaking their minority status as proof of their persecuted righteousness, the way teenagers will.  The way a select few of them always managed to take it further than the rest, procuring the business cards and polished resumes listing one summer job and misinterpreting this behavior as "maturity."  The way I was very nearly one of them. 

Of course, most of the student body tended to shake this off toward the end of freshman year; those who were still in the throes of the culture through sophomore year were terminal cases: future Tucker Carlsons, on their way to the big, wide world, which they were already prepared to make vomit on impact.  But some of the scars remain.

It was natural fodder material.  Ozzie Vega, one of James Reso's right hand men, is straight out of the place.  His backstory--bizarre though it may seem--is a true story from AU (identities changed to protect the innocent-ish).  He's granted a shot at a redemption of sorts, as these stories require, and his choices are his own.  But I sometimes wonder how much my negative feelings toward too many of my fellow students impacted Ozzie's ultimate chances.  It's probably why I created Deacon Bell, another of James' aides and my own version of a genuine DC native: not a naif, but neither one of the bustling hoards, ever-scrambling for the attention of someone who can help move them up the ladder.  Someone who never had a chance at going to a school as good as that.  Someone who wants to make a real difference and for whom ego is a little more than a byproduct of end results.  The anti-AU.

I don't know that I'll ever be in a position to donate money to my former school.  But, if Nos Populus ever achieves any kind of financial success, well, it would seem rude not to pay back some credit to its most integral influence.

Monday, July 30, 2012

This Is What They Call White People Problems

Nos Populus is now available (after some troubles) at Amazon UK (Kindle version and paperback) and Amazon Europe (Kindle, paperback).  For US readers, the link is over there on the side.  It's also here.  Some of you might notice that the price for the paperback is now down a whopping 49 cents to an even $9.50.  Kindle still set at $6.99.  I'd really like to put the book on sale--$1.99 or something--but CreateSpace makes that difficult and, nearest I can tell, such things are at Amazon's whim.  Once I've figured it out, I'll let you know. 

To answer some questions I've had, I am looking into making Nos Populus available elsewhere.  Part of the problem is that to open it up to other stores (and libraries) means reckoning with CreateSpace's minimum pricing schemes; I've been keen on keeping the paperback price set below $10 and I would lose that by expanding availability.  However, if I get enough demand, I may go ahead and do it.  The other, smaller part of the problem is Barnes & Noble refusing to sell books published under an Amazon imprint, though CreateSpace is probably exempt.  I'd love to have Nos Populus available for the Nook and once I come to terms with raising the price for Amazon customers, I'll look into doing that. Once again, you'll be the first to know. 

I doubt Mittens will do any more shambling during his international trip.  What's that?  He has?  Ah, screw it--I'm too tired.  So with the next week looking pretty slow, I'll write some more about Nos Populus and try to tie it into our present mood as the election heats up and also tell you some more about the characters and some of the inspiration for the book.  After all, if you're going to give me money for this thing, you at least to deserve to know some more about it.

See also my previous post on some of the politics of Nos Populus and long-ish excerpts here, here, and here.

Friday, July 27, 2012

Flowers for Mittens (UK edition)

What the hell is wrong with you, Mittens?  And where are your handlers?  It's one thing to write something stupid like this in your book just because you never had to win Britain (much as Cameron never has to win Utah).  It's entirely another to run over there and insult them and make a general ass of yourself because... why, again?  Are their trees not the right height?  Are their national hymns harder to sing?  And not even getting a country's name right, by the way, earns you your "worse than Palin" status.

But you couldn't stick to your guns on any of that: you had to flip-flop... again... and give under-stimulated commentators like me yet more ammunition.

This, Mittens.  This is why Obama has to "apologize" for America.  Because of morons like you.

Thursday, July 26, 2012

Olympic Fever Isn't the Only Contagion


"Even if one didn't know from concrete examples (the 1936 Olympic Games, for instance) that international sporting contests lead to orgies of hatred, one could deduce it from general principles."
-- George Orwell, The Sporting Spirit

"I can't bear the thought of us hosting the 2012 Olympics. We're not ready, Liz. Have you seen the Beijing opening ceremonies? We don't have that kind of control over our people."
-- Wesley, 30 Rock

To start, I should say here that I don't have any problem with the Olympics.  The concept is solid enough.  And there is a vague, ephemeral inspiration that comes from watching athletes from all over the world compete for something that isn't money-oriented (generally speaking).  Plus, the Marathon is, for my money, the single most impressive thing a person can do because... that shouldn't be possible.  My fat, ten-year-old self sees people who willingly trained at running--running--for a really long time--26 miles and change--and weeps proudly for man's ambition and skill.  It's like the moon landing except harder because there's no one to make you run on the moon.  And, if nothing else, it's always a decent distraction from election year nonsense.

However, I'm not sure what any city expects when it vies to host the games.  They're kind of expensive, for one thing, and don't usually return on the investment, for another.  They're also obnoxious for locals (yes, people live and work in London, and they don't all wear the Marge Simpson hats or use Cockney rhyming slang--fascinating, eh?).  National pride is a decent reason, but it's a gamble.  If the country loses money and is made to look poorly (and it can happen), what good does that do for morale?  What do you get if all goes well?  A chance to literally hand the torch to the next host while everyone goes home.  And how much national pride can you claim when one city hosts the games?  At least the World Cup uses host countries, balancing the burdens and expectations on more than a single metropolitan area. 

I've started to wonder if I should feel any sort of stoic disappointment in the fact that the city of my birth is hurdling towards an internationally-anticipated debacle.  That does seem the classically English way to absorb bizarre and embarrassing spectacle, isn't it?  Or perhaps a detached, all-in-good-fun kind of derisiveness--that's the best aspect of Englishness.  The sort of softly biting sarcasm thing that was born in watching gilded, pompous ceremonies planned by and for coddled, privileged aristocrats.  The tongue that was sown permanently into cheek over centuries of Keep Calm and Carry On.  And finally achieving adulthood after the Empire collapsed and the world didn't end but was instead revealed to be much less serious and important than it had previously seemed.  Tried and true.  That seems the right perspective. 

There's a decent chance that the opening ceremonies will be genuinely impressive in that standard British way.  You know, the sort of overzealous sound-and-fury-signifying-nothing events with which the royal family continues to slyly evade the "what are you still doing here" questions (except Prince Philip--he exists for the enjoyment of all God's creatures).  Weddings, funerals, and everything in between; put the royal team on it and you might just have something worth crippling a working city for.  Something that makes the world say "Wow, look at that."  "Yeah.  Why is Mary Poppins fighting Voldemort?"  "I'm not sure, but look at it!"  And then, for those of us who understand that the Brits are truly at their best when taking snidely taking the piss out of whatever's happening in front of them, you get Stewart Lee to narrate the whole thing.  Imagine what he could do with those mascots.  Assuming he doesn't break down and go mad just looking at them.

Monday, July 23, 2012

Man Of Steel teaser

The Man of Steel teaser debuted with The Dark Knight Rises this weekend.  In a word: underwhelming.  I'm not sure what makes WB/DC think that Superman is still regarded on the level of, say, Batman or Harry Potter. 

A Superman trailer needs to demonstrate why the movie and the character are still worth people's time.  Superman: The Movie demonstrated over thirty years ago that a man could fly--we're not impressed by that anymore.  We need mouth-watering action and something we know will be new and different; flashing Zach Snyder's name partially fixes the first half of that equation and Christopher Nolan's partially fixes the second.  But they're going to need more.  They can't just throw up the "S" logo and get people to excitedly bounce in their plush and fluffy theater seats the way they once would (when theater seats were a lot less plush and fluffy).  Comic-Con got a lengthier look at MOS and I can understand why you'd show it there first, but doesn't it seem easier to give us the same thing you gave them?  Especially since it apparently blew the roof off the place? 

Here's hoping the first full trailer gives us that kind of feeling and not the "again?" kind of feeling. 

Sunday, July 22, 2012

The Dark Knight Rises

WARNING: SPOILERS AHEAD.

The best and worst part of Christopher Nolan's Dark Knight trilogy is the compulsory ending.  Rather than flaming-out, as film franchises often will, The Dark Knight Rises brings this Batman to an unambiguous close, leaving no room for another director to come in and foul it all up.  The trouble is that any definitive end risks ill-will.  With all arcs wrapped and all possibilities for future characters, storylines, speculations, and explanations finished, the finality can make some people feel abandoned, even betrayed.  Some who legitimately don't care for the ending will struggle to reconcile the ending the writer/director wanted for his story with the ending they'd have preferred.  This tendency is more pronounced among comic book fans, who can find a reason to hyperventilate over the slightest deviation from canon.  And they frequently forget that their preferred vision of Batman is always safe in old books or TV shows, or movies or, for many of us, in the individual versions of the character we've formed in our heads from the odds and ends of different source materials (my own ideal version is an amalgam of elements from the Nolan films, the 90's Animated Series, and a few others). 

Unfortunately, many will not countenance an end for Batman--it seems so un-Batman to "finish" his mission, after all.  But within the more plausible "Nolanverse," it takes a deranged mind to think that not only can Bruce Wayne continue doing his job, but that he must.  A character we ostensibly love must not be allowed to end his ordeal, cannot become happy.  And, admittedly, TDKR tows that line for much of the run time, doling out one gut-punch after another, to a degree that often seems unbearable, especially on a first viewing.  Such is the nature of viewing a psychologically-thrashed vigilante in a more "realistic" atmosphere; Batman may be mortal, yet what mortal can ever be Batman?  As Alfred points out, there was probably never anything for Bruce in Gotham except pain--and he finds it.  And this was always Bruce's arc, not Batman's.  But as we learned last time around, the night is darkest just before the dawn, and without Batman's (and Gotham's) greatest challenge beating him down again and again, it would be hard to buy the idea that Bruce has earned the right to overcome it, to settle down, unburdened by his past, enjoy a clean slate, and finally be happy.  "Why do we fall, Bruce?" 

But where would the fun be if our imaginations weren't allowed to run wild?  After years of saying he would never bother with Robin, Nolan threw us for one final loop.  After building up to the reveal with an intriguing, understated performance from Joseph Gordon-Levitt, police officer John Blake avoids the nasty pitfall of such a reveal: seeming cheap.  By quietly throwing in elements from comic book Robins (Dick's police background/years of experience, Jason's angry orphan, and Tim's straight-up reverence for Batman), it allows Nolan and Gordon-Levitt to make the slow-burn, giving us something we may not necessarily have expected, but that we can instantly accept.  And because they didn't take the even cheaper route of giving us Blake in the Robin costume fighting along side the Dark Knight, it never takes away from what is fundamentally Bruce/Batman's story.  We'll never get a movie with Gordon-Levitt as Robin/Nightwing/Batman II/Azrael.  While that idea might be fun, I think it would be bound to disappoint in the long-run.  But it always works in our dreams. 

Given about sixty seconds' more screen time, Anne Hathaway might have stolen the show entirely.  Catwoman (referred to in TDKR only as Selina Kyle) probably shouldn't be a tough character to pull off.  But because of comics' (and comics films') trouble with women, she sometimes is.  Once again though, the Nolan crew's adept handling of the Batman mythos gives us something true to the source while also giving us a genuinely good character.  Take note, comic filmmakers: understanding a character's psychology and worldview is infinitely more important than getting the costume right.  TDKR showcases the banter with Batman (and Bruce) that--done well--is always entertaining, as well as the visceral fanboy thrill of watching the two fight side-by-side.  It never disappoints on those more superficial levels, but always keeps higher purposes in mind.  A quasi-Occupy-esque Robin Hood, Kyle is a force for--forgive me--chaotic good.  She sees through the elites' obsession with order and takes the piss out of a system designed--intentionally or not--to domineer those who aren't born/luck into the upper echelons of society, here meaning people like Bruce Wayne who, while doing genuine good, sometimes misses the forest for the trees in his crusade to end crime.  But upon seeing the effects of Bane's gross and manipulated populism, she understands that this, too, is wrong.  And while this might reek of some vacillating on class stratification, the trilogy has never totally sided even with its hero on right vs. wrong.  Mistakes can be and often are made even by those with the most noble of intentions.  Would that we could all have a device to wipe the slate clean. 

Tom Hardy takes on the hardest job in the film, trying to live up to Heath Ledger's lighting-in-a-bottle turn as Joker.  It's to Hardy's credit that he never attempts to top Batman's greatest villain, instead handing in a new rogue on his own terms.  Half-reprising his performance from Bronson, he delivers a terrifying and strangely charismatic Bane.  With most of his face obscured, Hardy communicates volumes through very expressive eyes, conveying a pain and tenderness that's easy to miss for the device on his head and his harsh, cold voice.  Oh yes, the voice.  Nolan clearly acquiesced to studio demands at least a little, adjusting Bane's voice where and when the film needed it; in a few scenes (the plane-hijacking, the first fight with Batman, and the storming of the Bastille Blackgate), where Bane has exposition to parcel out, the voice becomes clearer, taking on a sing-song quality--a bold choice on Hardy's part.  Regardless, concerns over the voice neglect who and what the character is: a victory of function over form, a utilitarian monster who may not be easily understood but whose blunt brutality and driving force of will is unmistakable.  Not unlike another masked man who rose from hell to free Gotham from its torment, each in his own way. 

Among other praiseworthy elements: Hans Zimmer's finest work of the Batman movies ("Imagine the Fire" is my new go-to track at the gym).  Talia's death mimicking that of her father (Marion Cotilard lies to us so as not to hurt us).  The whole concept of that prison in the pit.  A really good (small) story for Alfred; the life of the stoic is not always a rewarding one and I've always loved the the idea of Alfred as a tragically loyal enabler to Bruce's psychoses.  And Jonathan Crane returns! 

The last few minutes of the movie are nothing short of spectacular and though I haven't shied away from spoilers here, I can't do them any justice by describing them.  Those minutes, more than any other part of the trilogy, will--and probably already have in come corners of the internet--prove divisive among fans for several years to come.  But, as previously discussed, no ending could possibly have satisfied the entirety of the Bat-fanbase.  And Nolan should never have been forced to do so.  What he demonstrated with this trilogy was that nothing trumps a solid vision and a willingness to tinker with the letter of the material, but never the spirit.  Not all Gothamites embrace Batman as their savior and not all Bat-fans are through-and-through admirers of Nolan.  That's okay.  Nonetheless: when a man with a mission is given the tools to see it through, he creates his own mandate.  When allowed to do his job the way he sees fit, he'll work wonders never thought possible.  And despite all the mistakes that came before, a man shows what can be done when he make the concerted effort to pull himself--and others--up, out of the pit.  Sometimes, a man rises. 

Grade: A 

Friday, July 20, 2012

Ugh...

Horrible news out of Colorado.  My thoughts are with the victims and the community.  A four-month old was among the injured, thankfully released from hospital (no, I don't know why a four-month old was at a midnight showing of any movie, let alone this one, but it hardly seems to matter now).  Tragic, heartbreaking news all around. 

And tear gas, fucking really?  Where does a civilian get access to tear gas?  What--aside from this--can be accomplished with tear gas? 

Anyway, I'm still going to see it tonight.  "Never Give the Bastards the Satisfaction" is kind of an unofficial motto 'round here.  But I can't say I blame anyone who feels a little queasy about seeing this movie on opening weekend--or in theaters at all--after this. 

Wednesday, July 18, 2012

In Brief: Carville's Still Got It

"The only person who has seen Romney's taxes is John McCain and he took one look and picked Sarah Palin."
-- James Carville 

Cajun Style, indeed. 

Of course, the Palin pick was less about tax records and more about a moderate Republican needing one of the flock to bolster his right wing-cred (an issue Mittens himself is currently having to address), plus the element of one of the most cynical men ever to vie for the office trying to twist former Clinton supporters to his side.  So the Carville line sounds good, though it isn't wholly accurate.  But who am I to begrudge a man that? 

Also, we're all agreed?  If Romney follows his father's example and does release his tax returns, we're all gonna shout "flip-flopper," right?

Tuesday, July 17, 2012

Rich Kid Incoherently Grumbles "Nobody Understands Me"

If you haven't seen this ad, take thirty-two seconds to fix that.  It's not just that the Obama campaign hits the jugular.  The ad has honest-to-God artistic value: there's subtext and space to read between the lines.  There's no grating, insulting voice over.  It features irony and satire in a minimalist approach that manages to say more about both Romney and the state of the country than Gingrich's thirty minute epic did last winter.  And it satisfactorily savages Mittens' stupid-ass, off-key singing of a song he understands only on the most obvious, superficial level--a song he manipulates into garnering support for himself, having no other means with which to inspire loyalty.  But why would we expect loyalty to be a naturally understood virtue for Romney?  This man, who disavowed his greatest gubernatorial achievement and nearly all of his past positions in order to appeal to the rump of his father's former party. 

And you know the Bain story.  The politically disadvantageous outsourcing of jobs (to go with the layoffs) that his former company was involved in.  The claims that he wasn't involved whatsoever, despite the $100K/year that he was paid for three years from 1999 to 2002, during which time he wasn't working there (flying in the face of Romney's "no free lunch" line).  The non-association he had with any of it because he was in Salt Lake, though was still technically CEO (a lack of accountability we all love in our elected officials).  The fact that he wasn't in Salt Lake enough to discount him from running for governor of Massachusetts in 2002 because he was still sometimes in Boston on business (not outsourcing business, of course).  And the "retroactive retirement" talking point that might be worthy of an award in the field of Orwellian laziness.  Honestly, the whole thing might not even hurt Mittens that much just because the whole thing's too bloody complicated to fathom, a fact that pretty well sums up how the finance industry and the ultra-wealthy have been able to run roughshod on regulators and the world economy lo these last decades. 

But Mittens not only makes the amateur mistake of overreacting to the Obama ads, keeping the accusations in the public consciousness (and unintentionally revealing a raw nerve that speaks volumes about the kind of obfuscation he was involved in with Bain), but also seems to think that he can get out of it with the same stilted and confusing business-speak he might feed to the SEC.  A language most Americans aren't exactly fluent in.  And when someone asks for a clarification, he'll get pissy because he doesn't handle dissent and contrary information well.  He'll turn it around, citing an imagined jealousy on the part of the asker because that's all he has--it's the only way he can understand any hostility that comes his way.  He's still the privileged teenager at Cranbrook, not sure why he doesn't always fit in, but knows that it's someone else's fault. 

See, the modern Republican Party is that obnoxious, nearly friendless kid on the playground, swinging his arms as he shouts "y'all just jealous!" at no one in particular.  He never stops to consider the meanings of his words, or the words of others as directed at him.  Not because that kind of self-reflection is a sign of weakness, as the last Republican president believed.  But because in that evaluation is the doorway to the abyss of the emptiness of a person who's never looked in there before.  And Romney is the perfect avatar for them: a plastic, hollow Etch-a-Sktech.  An insanely wealthy businessman who speaks in misleading legalese, when he's not awkwardly pandering to his (at best) outdated conception of what a "regular American" is.  A man who doesn't understand that most Americans aren't "jealous" of the wealthy (though we may occasionally want to know how they got their wealth), but we do expect them to play by the same rules as the rest of us.  A man with an unhealthy and telling distaste for those who are comfortable being the outsider.  This is who Republicans believe best represents them among the choices they had in the primaries, probably the closest abyss-moment we'll get from them in the near future.  Because when and if Romney fails to beat Obama in November, they'll turn inward again, circle the wagons, and proclaim that it was only because he wasn't conservative enough and because the rest of us are all too stupid.  We're all just jealous.  And Romney, still set to "pander" mode, will agree with them.

Monday, July 16, 2012

In Defense of Jack Nicholson's Joker

It's not hard to find criticism of Tim Burton's Batman on the Internet; it's about as hard as finding Internet criticism of anything else.  And most of that is legit, to my mind: Joker killing Bruce's parents, the lack of focus on Bruce, Alfred letting Vicki Vale into the Batcave, Batman's uselessness and sheer luck while fighting henchmen, killing off Joker at the end.  But in re-watching the film this past weekend, I've found that parts of it still hold up: the relative gravity and tonal seriousness (it's easy to forget that public perception of Batman was very different before 1989); Billy Dee Williams' Harvey Dent (oh, the lost opportunities...); Danny Elfman; Bob the Goon; and, perhaps especially, this scene.  Jack Nicholson owned that scene--and it was very Joker. 

See, amidst all the complaints, Nicholson seems to me to draw the most unwarranted fire, a situation that's only hardened since The Dark Knight.  Now, this is not an argument that Nicholson's was a superior Joker to Heath Ledger's.  He wasn't.  I also think TDK was a much better movie overall than Batman.  But, if WB is going to deliver a new Batman reboot after The Dark Knight Rises, we as a community of fans need to get used the idea that not everything can be "definitive" and that comparisons are better left to subjective pros-and-cons (you know, the way we should've been doing with comics all these years).   To that end, I think it's time to reexamine the bits of Nicholson's Joker that still work today. 

For starters, I don't like Joker having a clear origin; I'm a "multiple choice" Joker fan, myself.  But, if you have to tie the character down with a background, a crime lord's ruthless and conniving underling is the way to go.  Give us someone who was already a bad guy (Joker should never be a sympathetic villain--not like, say, Mr. Freeze) and then throw him off the edge entirely.  And it plays to something that Nicholson has always done well: sinister and crazy, with none of that compassion to get in the way of a character we only like accidentally, but not enough to keep us from wanting Batman to beat the hell out of him. Name an actor of the late 80's who could've done this better than Nicholson (aside from possibly Robin Williams--who was not-so-famously teased the role in order to get Nicholson on board--though casting him in a role requiring over-the-top humor is a gamble). 

I've also heard people complain that the 1989 Joker is nothing but Nicholson in clown makeup.  And, yes, it's clearly Nicholson under there, especially when contrasted with Ledger, who seemed to disappear into the role.  But Nicholson was never that kind of actor--the Daniel Day Lewis (or, ahem, Ledger) type who becomes a character rather than playing one.  But even in his most iconic roles (One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest, Chinatown, As Good as It Gets), there's something about Nicholson's voice and cadence and presence that bleed through, making him recognizably Jack--like a slightly more talented Christopher Walken--and it's so strong it even comes through from under a few pounds of clown makeup.  But does that tendency take away from his award-winning roles?  If you think it does, well, at least that's a coherent stance. 

Yes, there's the dancing.  And Prince.  And the dancing to Prince.  But that's been largely confirmed as a studio demand, meaning the only other probable option was having Michael Keaton do the Batusi.  So let's be thankful for small favors.

And the considerable amount of time Joker spends covering up the white-face has always screamed to me of the same kind of studio meddling: no sense in obscuring your biggest star's face for the entire picture, right? 

I'm aware that this defense has been riddled with caveats and qualifications; any defense of the film seems to require them.  But having been spoiled by the last decade-plus of good and great (and bad) comic films, we've forgotten what Burton's movie did not only to help push Adam West aside in our collective conscious, but to plant the seeds of the superhero renaissance we enjoy today.  And with Keaton's unmemorable Bruce Wayne/Batman and the trilogy of lousy and confused Batman films that followed, we should remember Nicholson's Joker as the indication of what superhero flicks might be, the light bulb of an idea that later allowed for performances like Ledger's.  If we let go of the pointlessly competitive discussions and the absurd idea that everything is either The Best or The Worst (of which Nicholson himself can be said to have been guilty), we can proceed into a brave new era of continual reboots emotionally and psychologically healthier. 

Friday, July 13, 2012

"Grandpa, what did you do in the Goldeneye wars?"

"Well.  You had to learn about Goldeneye sooner or later, didn't you?  Your dad, he wouldn't tell you.  He only ever got the knock-offs, the ones that were almost there but never quite matched it.  But, then, what could?  No, what we had was special.  We didn't know it yet--we were just kids, no older than you.  But we'd lose whole hours, days, weekends of our young lives.  Lost in the grip of Goldeneye.

"I don't have a lot of specific memories of the wars--it's mostly a lot of little images: an unaware target running across my screen with nary a crate to hide behind.  Or the crisp, satisfying sound of reloading my KF7.  Sometimes I still see a pixelated explosion, setting off a thousand other, equally beautiful, explosions until the whole screen is nothing but yellow and orange pixels, killing us all before respawning us, back to square one. 

"Some of the memories, though...  They're with me even when I don't want 'em.  Especially when I don't want 'em.  I shout, 'Get out!  Get out of here!  I'm not in those Caves no more!'  But all I see is the winding tunnels of the Caves.  The big, open rooms of multiple levels coming out of nowhere, leaving you open from every conceivable angle and from others you didn't know were possible.  Those Caves had the kind of rock formations that don't appear in nature--neat, sloping ramps and horrifying, hexagonal columns.  Some people thought they were programmed by demons; I don't know much about demons or devils but... I think those people might be right.  And then there was the black.  The endless black, broken only for a second by... his face... his hand

"It was always so dark in them Caves.  So dark and so endless and so, so cold.  Like the Temple but... so much more circuitous.  No matter how dark it got in the Temple, an experienced player knew where he was, where he was going.  It wasn't the Complex, neither, which had all that light--all the subtle clues giving you some idea where you might be.  Give me the Facility anytime.  That was a clean layout.  Always knew where you were, where others might be.  And those doors, all those doors.  You could always hear them opening and shutting--there was an adrenaline boost for you, whether you wanted it or you didn't: when a door opened in earshot and it wasn't you who did it.  Some said, if you made it far enough through the Caves, you'd come out into a jungle--a jungle that traded endless black for endless green--but we never found it. 

"None of my crew ever liked going to the Caves much.  But, sometimes, when you set your destination for 'random,' well, that's the kinda place a man can end up.  That was a risk we all took.  Even little Rhodie--he always played as Boris, shouting "I AM INVINCIBLE" every time he notched a kill--he knew the risks, and I think a small part of him died every time we looked around and found ourselves in the Caves.  Little guy always wanted to go to the Stacks--said he liked the big open spaces: better for watching the explosions.  He was a remote mines kinda guy.  That was a point of contention between him and me.  See, I liked proximity mines.  You lay 'em and get the hell out of there.  Maybe set the buggers up near an ammo cache or, better, a respawn area.  Rhodie used to say that was cowardly--told me over and again 'that's gay!' back before we stopped using that as a pejorative.  'What's the difference,' I'd shout back, maybe a little more defensive than was needed.  'What's the difference when we're going License To Kill?'  Because that was how a man went to war, son: License To Kill.  When any second you'd be runnin' high, but the next you'd be on the receiving end of somebody's cheaply-found Klobb.  Where body armor meant nothing and every time you picked it up, you snorted a little; yeah, you pretended it was funny, but in that abbreviated breath there was more fear than bemusement--because you knew nothin'--nothin'--could save you.

"One time, totally punch drunk, somebody suggested we do Slappers Only on LTK.  'It'll be fun,' the bastard insisted.  It wasn't fun.  Dull, at first, maybe.  But when the suck set in, the war we experienced wasn't contained in the Stacks.  Not even the Temple could've held the contempt we started feeling for each other.  We had each lost a thousand lives in Goldeneye.  But that day, it took our innocence... our friendships.  I wish I... I wish I could tell Rhodie now that it didn't matter--that it never mattered.  Proximity, remote, who cares?  He wouldn't... I never got to... I don't know how many wars he had after that.  But I like to remember his last round--in the Stacks, where he was always happiest...

"I was almost out of the Caves.  I had to be: I had been running so long.  So long since I had last heard any gunfire, any explosions.  As though I was the only one left alive, and yet the round wouldn't end.  Stuck in my own little purgatory.  And that's when I saw him--the little Asian guy with the bowler hat, jumping out of the shadows.  We had a code, our crew: no one gets the little Asian guy.  But there he was, plain as day, and he was coming for me.  I tried shootin' him; used every last round in my PP7--the only gun I had left with ammunition, the only friend that hadn't let me down.  And I swear to this day: I got the son of a bitch.  I got him, sure as I ever got any man.  But them bullets just kept... flying right over his head.  By the time I understood what was happening, before I could even think to lower the gun, I fired my last and he was on me, hand stretched forward.  Slappers Only.  'That cocky little Asian man,' I thought to myself, just before the blood dripped down from the top of the screen--the wars' way of telling you 'You're Done.' 

"Anyway, I don't remember a lot, son.  But I do remember that I earned my Longest Innings medal.  And dammit to hell, I earned Most Deadly, too!  But no one remembers the awards.  What are they even for, anyway?  We couldn't figure out how we got some of them.  One of my crew--big fat guy, used to play as Trevelyan--he once got Most Honorable and Most Dishonorable in the same round.  The same round!  Explain that to me, God!

"But that's... that's not fair.  For God or for any man.  I'm not sure there is an explanation for the hold that game had on us.  The memories it carved.  The friendships it forged... and ended.  I don't know if your generation will ever know the likes of Goldeneye, boy.  But I hope you get your own.  And I hope, when you do, that your controllers are easier to hold than the ones they gave us."

Wednesday, July 11, 2012

D.C.: On The Other Hand...

A few months ago, as part of Andrew Sullivan's "Ask Anything" series, Wired writer/blogger Spencer Ackerman had all of this to say about Beltway culture:


I try to refrain from effusive praise and don't know where to start with this, anyway, so I won't say much.  From the pointed differentiation between "Beltway culture" and "D.C. culture," to the way people from the culture--whether themselves guilty or not--are never allowed to escape the image, Ackerman gets it done nearly flawlessly (I forgive the brief sidequest into "suck my New York dick" territory as a matter of policy, because that's a disease for which science has not yet discovered a cure).  It's so satisfying and bang-on that it nearly makes me rethink my stance on D.C. Statehood

And it was apparently off the cuff.  For something that was planned out (though perhaps not as viscerally pleasing), see the excerpt from Nos Populus about Washington. 

Monday, July 9, 2012

D.C. Can't Have Representation Because

A couple of weeks ago, days before the Supreme Court made the Internet explode, Sen. Rand Paul was spending his obviously valuable time shutting down another bid by the citizens of the District of Columbia to get a slice more autonomy from the federal government.  This might seem confusing, given Paul's reputation for demanding less federal involvement in local affairs, especially fiscal affairs.  But considering this dichotomy for too long gets us into the weeds of the ideology of a man who (in addition to having a weak grasp of civics) doesn't care so much for originalist readings of the founding documents as much as he does political power and his right to set poor people on fire.  In fact, he admits outright that he doesn't have a problem with D.C. autonomy, per se:

“I think it’s a good way to call attention to some issues that have national implications,” Paul said in an interview Tuesday. “We don’t have [control] over the states but we do for D.C.”

Translation: "The federalism I wholeheartedly support in some instances is aggravating in other instances, so I'm gonna spit on these people over here until the country sees how mad I am about this situation."

Clearly, Paul's opinion on this matter (as so many) isn't worth whatever he pays his barber to do whatever it is he does.  But it does beg the question of why this has gone largely unnoticed outside the District (and even within, what with the heat wave).  Or better yet: why is this even a discussion we're able to have?  As with most questions, the answer lies with some jerk-off squatting in the middle of the road, pants crumpled around his ankles, insisting that traffic cannot move until he successfully takes a shit and stop all that honking, I can't concentrate! 

The most solid constitutional argument against representation for the District is that it was never originally meant to have any.  And, like any intellectually lazy deferment to a half-considered constitutionality, this argument made sense at the time, but has since begun to erode.  Used to be, the city where Congress met was just that: there was nothing here except congressmen, senators, presidents, judges, and the slaves servants they brought with them.  And it would be absurd to give federal representatives their own additional representation.  But as the government settled in here, it--like any government will in the place where it resides--encouraged its own economies: restaurants, bars, bordellos, hotels, hospitals, brothels, social clubs, laundromats, whore houses, etc.  And as the government expanded, especially in the 20th Century, those businesses continued developing, bigger and more numerous, bringing both government and non-government employees into the city to work and, in many cases, live.

It didn't take too long for Washington to become a real live, grown-up city--an industry town for an ever-growing industry.  Accordingly, it was granted a few of the niceties enjoyed by other towns: city government, electoral votes... and that's about it.  All because the city was at one time in a weird situation and now it's not so much, but it's now infested by people who are black vote Democrat work for the government have different concerns than many congressmen do and would have to be put on the same footing as the rest of the country.  Certainly, congressmen shouldn't have their own representation outside of their home districts--they are their own representatives--and government employees shouldn't have extra representation beyond what other Americans get.  Those who choose to live in Maryland or Virginia have representation in those states and the same should apply for those who chose not to, along with those thousands of Washingtonians who are born here, live here, and pay federal taxes here, without a day spent working for the federal government. 

That argument is usually followed up with a lazy, twenty-year-old crack about Marion Berry (HA!  Get it?  CrackMarion Berry?!  Oh, the relevance!). See, Berry is a convenient short-hand for anyone who wants to get out of the conversation quickly by pointing out that voters of the District have not always made good choices; Kwame Brown would probably make for a more timely example, but he's not nearly as colorful.  This is the "they haven't earned it" argument.  And a good argument it might be, if other constituencies had ever been required to earn their right of representation.  But, of course, none have (unless you count former Confederate states in the 1870s, but if the District ever withdraws from and goes to war with the Union, I'll switch sides on this issue).  If we applied that logic to the rest of the country, there are several congressional districts that should probably have their representation rights stripped, or at least be made to sit quietly in the corner for a few election cycles.  Just to name a few: the NY-15, the CA-50, the TX-22, Alaska, and all of Louisiana.  But notice how those districts not only maintain representation but will also return the same clowns, thugs, and lunatics to Washington every election, as though to rub it in our faces. 

The arguments against Statehood deteriorate further: the finisher is almost always a succinct bon mot along the lines of "if you don't like it, move."  A brilliant and simplistic little nugget, eh?  And I know what you're thinking: such an easy fix must have more universal applications.  That's right: I just found a solution for Israel-Palestine.  

Some will point out that Rand's torpedo was only effective because supporters of the bill (D.C. officials among them) decided it better to pull out for this round, rather than swallow some extremely bitter pills just to satiate a few petty partisans.  That's true.  And it brings to mind a previous attempt to bring congressional representation to the District that was crushed because it would've required less stringent gun laws than the city would prefer.  Many (including myself) believed that that was a situation of the city cutting off its nose to spite its face.  The problem is that many of those who criticized the decision (including, again, myself) don't usually live in parts of the city where guns are an enormous problem--and where guns mean something very different than they do to the many rural members of the House and Senate.

And therein lies the problem: not necessarily racism (though it often appears that way) or elitism (D.C. has plenty of its own elite on its side) or even the shifting sands of temporary transplants who are unable and unwilling to fight for D.C. Statehood for more than the few years during which they have employment here.  It's the refusal of leading politicians to consider proposals that don't immediately benefit them and, in the case of a party ever-more insistent on eating the federal government and any goodwill it has remaining, to do a relatively simple thing like let the city that they live in for most of the year be a real part of America.

Imagine a chunk of rural Tennessee or sub-suburban Arizona suddenly not having their usual representation in Congress and think of the shit storm Republicans would brew about Real Americans(TM) not having their say in Washington.  And why would it matter then if it doesn't now?

Saturday, July 7, 2012

The Amazing Spider-Man

WARNING: SPOILERS AHEAD.  

It's not fair to compare a film from 2012 to an unrelated set of films that wrapped in 2006.  But that's more or less the way with comic book movies and probably doubly-so in this case, since The Amazing Spider-Man has rebooted the whole Spidey franchise before most of the world had the taste of Spider-Man 3 out of its collective mouth.  And, if anything, ASM can only stand to benefit from the comparison. 

First, a word about the Sam Raimi trilogy: poorly-aged (that's a hyphenated word and I'm counting it as one).  Like most of the world, I really dug the first two films.  On more recent watches, however, the pacing slows, the character motivations seem muddled, and the formerly charming eye-rolling cheesiness is... not so charming.  It doesn't help that we've since had Chris Nolan's Batman series and the Avengers franchise, films that strive not only to be good comic book movies, but good movies period.  And so while Sony's desire to reboot the whole thing is more than a little transparent (see here and here for the mess that is the film rights to Marvel characters), going back to square one was probably for the best. 

Among the more promising aspects of the early ASM trailers was that Andrew Garfield's Peter Parker/Spider-Man seemed actually, well, likable.  That's huge for a character whose biggest selling point has always been relateablity, something Tobey Maguire never quite managed in the role.  And the trailers did not lie.  Garfield almost-perfectly captures Parker's funny and sympathetic qualities, giving us a Spider-Man we want to root for.  That's the advantage of hiring a genuine fan of the character, I suppose.

About as good was Emma Stone's Gwen Stacy.  If comparing Garfield to Maguire was unfair, then comparing one actress to another actress in a different role is certainly unfair.  But screw it.  Stone kicks the hell out of Kirsten Dunst's Mary Jane.  It's amazing what you can accomplish with a female lead when she's not selfish, overly-deified, and used for purposes beyond the distressed-damsel.  I don't know if producers plan to "Gwen Stacy" Gwen Stacy, but it would almost be a shame if they did, wasting one of the better love interests a comic book film has ever seen (it's a close competition with Hayley Atwell from Captain America: The First Avenger). 

Likable leads, however, are only half the equation.  It's at this point that the comparison to the previous films both helps and hurts ASM.  Spider-Man's origin story is one of the most iconic among superheroes, so I can understand the desire to rehash it better than I can with most other heroes.  And ASM does it much better than Raimi's Spider-Man did, with or without Macho Man Randy Savage (may he rest in peace), in large part because it doesn't fall victim to the pacing issues of that film: making Peter's trip to the location of the accident about more than getting bitten, getting the bite over with, letting his powers manifest quickly.  But even though it was moving faster, I was always aware that I had seen Peter do all this previously.  This problem continued, up through Uncle Ben's speeches on responsibility and Peter's realizations that being a superhero has its own built-in pitfalls.  Even the Peter's parents angle that was supposed to distinguish ASM was never really exploited (why shoot your load now, when there are sequels that need material?).  It felt too soon to see Spidey's beginning retold again and while that's not entirely the fault of the filmmakers, it does hurt. 

The villain, at least, should've been able to provide a marked contrast, but sadly never quite gets there.  Rhys Ifans' Curt Conners/The Lizard calls back to the motivational issues of Dr. Octopus and Sandman in the previous series.  He starts out typical scientist-doomed-by-his-creation, with a dash of big business forcing things that should never be, and that works for a while.  But the next thing we know Conners is thoroughly crazy (which we know because he's hearing voices, yes, just like Norman Osborne in Rami's first Spider-Man), which is a great excuse for Ifans to put on his evil-guy face; not that Ifans doesn't do that well--he handles the material like a champ--there's just not a lot for him to work with.  It would be one thing for Conners' transformation to make him think differently and understand that there could be something (good and ill) in his work that he had never realized.  I might even accept an evangelist/drug addict kind of angle, where he determines that everyone should experience the same Lizardy high he gets.  But when he's suddenly sympathetic and remorseful again at the end--after he's been cured, conveniently--his whole arc rings hollow. 

Sony is now promising a trilogy (stunning, right?).  The good news is that they have a decent base to build on and there's a lot in Spidey's world left to explore.  The bad news is that they only have the base and there's a lot in Spidey's world left to explore.  And while I think this crew has the skill to go places the last crew never could, they have some problems to sort out as they prepare to compete in an ever-improving field of comic book films. 

Grade: B-

Friday, July 6, 2012

Someone Crossed the Streams


That's from the Mitt, Venn and Now Tumblr.  More context about the Romney Campaign's ill-considered use of Venn diagrams here

I suppose, if I had to nitpick, that I could argue about how Batman doesn't hide from his dark and mysterious past so much as he strives to overcome it and keep others from suffering the same fat.  And the Joker's past is so mysterious, even to him, that there's actually not much to hide from.  But it's Friday and it's too hot for that.

Thursday, July 5, 2012

All The Fireworks Go Off At Once

A few years ago, a friend and I stumbled upon a Bangladeshi street festival on what happened to be Bonfire Night in East London.  The show runners clearly had enough fireworks to make for a ten to fifteen minute show, but they apparently decided to crunch it down into two minutes and it was the greatest fireworks show I'd ever seen.  That is, until I found these videos from yesterday's San Diego Fourth of July celebration

Behold the new champion: 


Look, when it comes to fireworks--there aren't a lot of surprises left.  We've seen the tricks, we know the deal.  Bright lights and loud noises for twenty minutes.  We're wowed once when we're four years old (those of us who aren't terrified, which is a more reasonable response, anyway) and then pretend to be awed by them every year for the next seventy years.  It's time for the farce to end.  At the very least, let's not waste so much time anymore.  There's no point in building up to a grand finale when the beginning can also be the finale--fireworks shows shouldn't require foreplay.  And we're not talking about a subtle medium here--there's no dramatic storytelling element to respect, at least not in the modern American version.  So why do we, as a culture, insist on stretching these things out? 

As San Diego proved yesterday in a beautiful accident--not unlike a younger sibling--less is more.

Wednesday, July 4, 2012

Happy Fourth

We've been spoiled the last couple years with a lot of holidays falling on Mondays, Fridays, and weekends proper, giving us natural three to four day weekends.  Today we get the Fourth of July on a Wednesday, breaking the week into even halves, neither of which will prove productive for office drones (such as myself).  Could be worse, I suppose.  Christmas this year will be on a Tuesday, forcing many to take Christmas Eve with their earned time off, or otherwise go in and pretend to work while their minds swim in the void that stands between a not so regular weekend and Christmas Day.  That''ll be worse than this.  Even so, this midweek holiday is hardly ideal.

Personally, I'm with Mike and Mike's idea of treating the Fourth like we do Thanksgiving--give us the first Thursday of July and let American commercialism create a de facto holiday on that Friday--"Trade-In Old Grill Friday."  Yes, it doesn't make as much sense with the Fourth, since the Fourth represents an anniversary/birthday that we can mark on the calendar, while the exact date of the first Thanksgiving is muddier in large part because there was no single Original Thanksgiving.  But people do often push birthday celebrations to the nearest weekend for similar reasons: doing it during the week doesn't work as well.  And the food hangover that Black Friday is supposed to help with?  You mean to tell me that we couldn't use the same for our sun-baked barbecue/beer hangovers, made worse by a late night drive home from the fireworks display? 

Anyway, just a thought.  Happy Fourth, everybody.

Monday, July 2, 2012

Ain't None of Us Special

This Open Letter From a Millennial is making the rounds.  And, as far as these things go, it's a damn good read.  Especially when read in response to the recent high school graduation commencement by David McCulloch, a speech which has, thus far, garnered significantly more attention than this Letter has, a trend which will likely continue.  I'll get to the speech in a bit. 

Detractors of the Letter will likely say that there's some projection coming from the writer, "Sierra," toward her own parents.  And that there's a tinge of rambling, barely focused frustration going on.  To the first point: possibly--no one could prove it either way.  To the second: yeah, maybe a little, but who can blame her?  And in either event, is she wrong?

I don't go in much for blaming parents for the problems of their children.  Even in cases where the parent clearly is to blame--which can be often--I feel that it's also a case of "nothing to be done now."  We can blame everything around us and, however right we may be, it solves very few problems.  But the least I think a generation can ask is a little sympathy and an understanding that no generation is perfect (some far from it); the thing about giving the "you're not special" speech or writing the "you're not special" article/book is that, to retain any high ground, you also have to admit that you yourself are not so special.  Our problems may be our own to solve, but when you waltz onto a stage and belch your righteous hand-washing in our faces, it reminds us why we've always sensed an air of anger and resentment hanging about the world you're preparing to give us.  As you rebelled against your own parents for not meeting the standards you set, now you blame us for not meeting other, slightly different standards.  It's always some other generation and not an issue of human nature itself being annoying.  Convenient, eh? 

Sierra covers most of the big points, from the expectations that were so high that we were assumed to need a hand-holding that crippled us more than helped us, to a shifting of the playing fields that has left us with disadvantages only pre-WWII generations can rightly scoff at.  Part of the reason I don't go in for generation-blaming is that once you start, you can do it forever, but if Sierra failed at anything (she didn't), it was leaving some more specific grievances off the table. 

For starters: we get called the tech-generation, and not as a compliment to our relative savvy with technologies that are more and more defining our economies and societies, but as an insult--slurring our unceasing connection to and with video games/smart phones/Facebook/Twitter/whatever else older generations refuse to simply ignore.  And this is fair, to a point.  We do, in a frighteningly unquestioning manner, embrace means of communication and entertainment that can both enhance and undermine our abilities to function and interact with others.  But it begs twin questions: who gave us these devices?  And why?  If a parent gives their child a video game system, the parent should assume the odds that the child may become addicted to a machine that provides instant gratification and reward for fairly little effort or slightly more reward for a lot (and I mean, a lot) of time and effort.  That's called "entrapment."  And so when our early attachment to these machines helps foster an attachment to electronic entertainment and connectivity more generally--and when similar devices continue to be pumped out through our formative years and beyond, by companies that our generation does not yet run--is it any wonder that we have such reliance on the machines? 

Ours was the generation that inherited the fear engendered by the viewing habits of older generations.  The A Current Affair-type programs that dominated early-mid 90s television coincided with our childhoods.  The first major world events that I remember getting pounded into my head over and over again from middle school through high school are, in order: The Columbine Massacre and its aftermath in our schools, the Lewinsky scandal, the Y2K scare, the 2000 Election debacle, and 9/11.  Every generation has its horrifying and stupefying episodes to endure and I don't want to take away from the generation that experienced My Lai, Kent State, and Watergate.  But wouldn't it be more helpful to acknowledge that our baggage is as legitimate as your own, and guide us through shit like that (when you can't stop it happening) with the knowledge you've gained, rather than simply dismissing us? 

Remember: we did not set up the lavish high school graduation ceremonies--ostensibly for our benefit--during which self-important prigs like McCulloch tell us that we actually kinda suck.  Even when not used for the purposes of insulting us, what kind of attitudes do you expect these farces to instill in us?  To say nothing of the middle school, elementary school, and kindergarten graduations that I took part in growing up.  If our achievements are so banal, why throw the parties? 

We then went to overpriced colleges (I'll let you off the hook for this one and not ask "who made them so overpriced in the first place?") that you told us were necessary.  An amazing gambit, that.  You tell us we need college, so we all go, and suddenly, with so many degrees floating about, it really is necessary!  Those degrees are so necessary, in fact, that a mere bachelor's won't do it in some parts of the country anymore.  We have to go back for advanced degrees, deepening our debt and, in many cases, keeping us away for that much longer from the jobs and real world experience that employers also crave. 

We then graduate into a shitty economy that we, again, had no hand in making.  We have to inherit a debt that previous generations are politically incapable of paying off; the entitlements and tax-cuts that they cannot sacrifice even a portion of become our burdens.  We have to watch while Boomers refuse to retire, either because they can't or won't, and watch once reliable industries go abroad because we literally cannot lower our standard of living to the levels that China and India have done.  I mean, we could try, but where would that leave us in your eyes?  As the generation that let America slip to third world status because we had to eat?

And you wonder why we hide ourselves in video games and Internet message boards.  

Much of my generation is intolerable and self-involved and in dire need of an attitude readjustment.  You won't hear an argument from me there.  The good news is, we're getting that readjustment.  We get it every time we apply for fifty more jobs we're not going to get call backs for.  We get it every time we receive another notice about overdue student loans.  We get it every time our exceedingly patient parents can't quite stifle the eye roll when we have to ask to stay with them a while longer.

The bad news is that every time we try to pick ourselves back up, there's a small and irrationally bitter person like McCulloch, standing there, telling us how bad we are at getting up.  You think speeches like that do a goddamned thing for inter-generational relations?  Or encourages us to engage with you on your terms and your terms only?  How did your generation respond when your own parents grumbled about your lack of respect and initiative?  Are our values inherently less important than yours?  If they aren't, if our concerns as inhabitants of the same rock are equally valid, then surely you can find a better way, as the older and more experienced generation, to encourage us to push ourselves through a harsh world that you had your own hand in shaping.  Something that doesn't involve insulting us.

But if I'm wrong there, and you do believe that your generation's values are more worthy of addressing than ours, then, simply put: you ain't so fucking special yourselves.