Tears of a clown, heart of a champion

I started watching the 1974 version of Murder on the Orient Express 85 minutes ago. 80 minutes ago I remembered how it ends, despite never having read the book nor seen any of the various movie interpretations (or played the video game ... what the hell?!). Regardless, I'm unable to stop watching because it's on Turner Classic Movies, which means no commercials which means anything I'd want to accomplish away from the tv could mean missing the scene where Sean Connery and Michael York discuss their desire to star in ill-conceived sci-fi movies later in the decade.

I'd go downstairs for a cookie, but we don't have any cookies so that could turn into a long trip.

Instead, I'll let the movie play out as I try to think of what to write in emails when nothing happened today. I'm tempted to steal from Camus: "Aujourd'hui, je n'ai fait rien. Ou peut-être hier, je ne sais pas."



Actually, I did go for a walk because it was a lovely day. I brought along my camera and took pictures of birds, winding roads, dilapidated barns, and the rolling hills all around me. I regretted not taking my wide-angle lens because a rolling hill isn't the sort of subject you always want to zoom in on. Upon getting home I looked at the pictures on my computer, at which point I came the conclusion that there's a spot of dust somewhere on my lens. So that kinda sucks.

Later, I composed a possibly ambiguous text message. I wanted to send a follow-up explanatory text message, but resisted the urge; hey, maybe it won't be misread, right? Fingers crossed!

"Aujourd'hui, j'ai écrit un message des textes qui était ambigu. Ou peut-être hier, je ne sais pas."

Fig. 1: Honey, where's the diaper I wear when I go shootin'?
You know, my shootin' diaper! Where's my shootin' diaper?

Buckle up, we got ourselves an analogy!

So in my previous post, I mentioned a job interview and hoped that the follow-up interview wouldn't be "What's Happening Now!!" to the first interview's "What's Happening!"

No fears! The situation went the other way. The second inteview was The Godfather Part 2 to the first interview's The Godfather. Or rather, that's the conclusion I reached when I got an email a few hours ago saying that they couldn't hire me because I was too awesome for the job involved and would get bored doing it. I always suspected that being too awesome would come back and bite me in the ass, but I always thought it come in the form of "It's not you, it's me." Ah well.

Yesterday I sent them an autographed 8x10 thanking them for the interview, with a "ps - please hire me" at the bottom, so at least they'll have something to remember me by.

What's ... happening ... now

I've got a job interview in 7 hours. It's actually the second round of interviews, which means they liked me enough in the first interview to bring me back for the play-offs. All the same, I'm pretty nervous, so I'm trying to take the edge off by watching "What's Happening Now!", the 1985 series which revisited half of your favorite characters from the 1976 series "What's Happening!!"

[My Canadian/younger readers may not be familiar with "What's Happening!!", so let me summarize: It was on after school and it was awesome, especially when gangsters force Rerun to bring a huge-ass tape recorder to the Doobie Brothers concert to bootleg it, and then at the show Rerun is bouncing up and down with such glee that the tape recorder falls out of his huge trenchcoat and the concert stops dead, and then later the gangsters show up at Rob's Diner to shake down Rerun but then the Doobie Brothers show up to scare off the gangsters! Like I said, awesome. And that was a two-parter.]

You'll notice that the second series has only half the exclamation points of the first series. I think it's because the creators knew the sequel wasn't that great, so they didn't want the audience to get too excited. Very noble, those creators. Not especially talented, but noble.

I am, of course, trying not to draw any similarities between "What's Happening [Now]![!]" and my interview situation, especially that whole "successful the first time, lackluster the second" part. Though I am disturbed by this bit of trivia about "What's Happening Now!" ...

Fred 'Rerun' Berry quit the series after the first season when the production company refused to give him a salary increase. Rerun's whereabouts were not mentioned after he left.

It's a little creepy that a main character can just disappear like that. If any parallels are to be drawn to my own situation, I hope this isn't one of them. For one thing, my affairs are not in order. At the very least, I'd need to hire a stand-in to take over the blog and/or make public appearances for me, like that weird JT LeRoy situation.

In an effort to take the edge off last night, I spent way too long reading about JT LeRoy/Laura Albert last night. You might notice I have a lot of edge to take off. Maybe I should take up drinking or something. I bet the interviewers would love to hear that 5-year plan.

That's Montgomery Clift, honey!

I think I've discovered the most depressing movie ever made. Ain't Bambi, ain't Requiem for a Dream. Ain't ... you know, I can't think of another depressing movie. That part in Taps where Timothy Hutton dies is pretty sad, but the movie on the whole is meh. Know what else is meh? Using "meh" as an adjective. I need a word-a-day calendar, one that shuns words like "encephalopathy" and instead contains words that are ... good. And usable. And real. Not fake like "meh".

When I was 6 I saw the beginning of Dr Zhivago, and I haven't seen the rest of it because just the beginning was bleak enough. But that's still not the most depressing movie ever made. Must Love Dogs was pretty depressing in its criminal misuse of John Cusack and Diane Lane, and specifically Diane Lane's cleavage. What's hilarious is that Cusack's and Lane's characters in Must Love Dogs both love Dr Zhivago despite its bleakness; they claim to watch it repeatedly in the hopes that the ending will change, with [Omar Sharif's character] and [Julie Christie's character] reuniting in the end (I don't know their character's names, I've never watched the movie)-- and see, that's similar to the reason that I watch Must Love Dogs every time it's on, because I'm hoping that the movie will change and be actually good.

Yep, I think Must Love Dogs may be more depressing than Bambi and Requiem for a Dream.

But there's a movie even more depressing than that. The ne plus ultra of depressing movies: The Clash: Westway to the World!

It's a documentary about the Clash. In 2000 they interviewed Joe Strummer, Mick Jones, Paul Simonon, and Topper Headon, about the band, the music, the albums, the shows. There's the first reason it's depressing: Joe Strummer is still alive, healthy, and the only man I'd switch teams for. He was good-looking and he was the coolest man ever. And now he's dead. Today in a bookstore I saw a new biography of Joe Strummer, but I couldn't buy it because I'd be too sad to read the last part of the book -- it'd be another Must Love Dogs, where I'd hope the ending changes miraculously.

Oh, but Westway to the World: They cut the interview topics into chronological order and inserted brief footage of performances, music videos, behind-the-scenes footage, and candid photos. And there's the second reason it's depressing: From May 28 to June 13, 1981, the Clash played 17 shows at a New York City venue named Bond's Casino. Coincidentally, from May 28 to June 13, 1981, I was a six-year-old boy living right across the river in Maplewood, NJ. If my parents had loved me as much as they claim, they could have taken me to any one of those shows. In many respects, my parents did a fine job of raising me. In this area, they failed me.

So we've established that Westway to the World is depressing because of unfulfillable homosexual lust and the lasting damage of parental negligence. What pushes Westway to the World over the top is towards the end, when one of the guys (I forget who it was; it was hours ago!) says that if they'd better managed their personality conflicts, the band could still be together today ... er, in 2000. Before seeing Westway to the World, I'd never considered a world where the Clash hadn't broken up. Can you imagine how great it would have been if the Clash had stayed together through the 80's and 90's? Sure, they'd end up like the Rolling Stones, making albums of diminishing quality and relevance ... but they would tour and I would see them, thus erasing any lingering resentment I carry toward my parents for not taking me to the Bond's Casino shows. Their tours would be of a much higher profile than Strummer's seemingly occasional work with the Mescaleros, and with Strummer out and about more often I would have a better chance of having a magical night of Vikingly man-on-man action with him. And if they Clash were still together ... er, in 2000 ... more people would see the Rolling Stones for the rock-and-roll dinosaur douchebags they really are, and maybe Johnny Depp wouldn't base his Pirates of the Caribbean character on a doddering old fool like Keith Richards, but on an awesome cool superhero like Joe Strummer.

And isn't improving lousy movies a worthwhile cause we can all get behind?

Must Love Dogs, I hate you.

I'm on it

I was watching the NBA Finals this evening because the Cleveland Cavaliers were about to lose the championship in front of their home fans, and I'm a bad enough man to enjoy watching season ticket holders be disappointed. During a commercial break I saw the worst ad I've ever seen in my life.

It had two McDonald's Filet-o-Fish sandwiches sitting next to each other on a table. The dialogue went a little something like this:

Sandwich A: "Filet-o-Fish."
Sandwich B: "Filet-a-Fish."
Sandwich A: "No. Filet-o-Fish."
Sandwich B: "Filet-a-Fish."
Sandwich A: "Repeat after me: Filet-o-Fish."
Sandwich B: "Filet-a-Fish."
Sandwich A: "Filet-o-Fish."
Sandwich B: "Filet-a-Fish."
Sandwich A: "Filet-o-Fish."
Sandwich B: "Filet-a-Fish."

It went on like that for thirty seconds.

When I watch tv, I sometimes fantasize that I'm a rock star in a hotel room because then I could kick in the picture tube and throw the tv out the window. This was one of those times. Instead of giving in to my baser instincts, I actually visited the McDonald's website and navigated to the correct contact page so that I could send them an email letting them know that this was the worst ad I'd ever seen. (I also mentioned that I like the Quarter Pounder With Cheese -- hey, I do -- so maybe I'll get a coupon.)

I've taken to emailing corporatons when they displease me. Until recently I was a member of Zip.ca, the shitty NetFlix rip-off that Canadians have to use if they want to rent dvd's by mail. I cancelled my membership when I left Saskatoon, but I kept getting their pointless "hot new releases!" email newsletter. I followed the unsubscribe link and unchecked "send me your pointless email newsletter". The next week, I got another pointless "hot new releases!" email newsletter. I again followed the unsubscribe link. The next week, another newsletter. I went to the Zip website and finally found the page from which I could send them an email; they did not make it easy. I received a confirmation email that sounded like it was written by a person, indicating that they'd take care of it.

Guess what I got the week after that.

No, go ahead. Guess.

Another goddamn pointless "hot new releases!" email newsletter. I again went to their website and filled an email with as much profanity as I could think of, in addition to telling them in no uncertain terms that their company was a pathetic Netflix rip-off that I'd never join again if I moved back to Canada. I even wrote some parts in ALL CAPS, which is somewhat more embarrassing than repeatedly using the f-word in an email to a 3rd rate dvd-rental company.

I received the requisite confirmation email (again sounding like it was written by a real human) and it was great because it was worded in way that made it sound like they were apologizing to me for my salty language. I think if I'd mentioned how much I like Quarter Pounders, they would have sent me a coupon for one, somehow.

All-you-can-eat nachos!

Oh, the small defeats.

I don't think "Gmail is jerking me around with error messages" necessarily qualifies as a defeat, but if the email I wanted to write was to be addressed to you, wouldn't you consider me defeated in trying to send that email? OK, chances are the email won't be addressed to you, but for awhile there you were panicking, weren't you? You were thinking, Dave must not be defeated in his efforts to send an email to [possibly] me!

For the past ten years, I've been a believer in "a while", two words. Lately I've been trying "awhile", one word. You gotta try new things.

I see the Gmail error messages are gone now. Looks like I can stop writing this time-killer email.

Come on, you knew the truth.

Buck up. I'll send you an email soon. Just not tonight. And honestly? Maybe not tomorrow, either. I'm sorry. It's been that kind of week.

So obvious!

Last night I wrote about eating desserts, having a sing-along, and playing Guitar Hero with Karen Carpenter, were she still alive. I can't believe I forgot the leisure-time activity most appropriate for the tragic chanteuse: spending all night crank-calling Sonic Youth's Kim Gordon.

Apologies all around.

I actually think Monday is a better fun day than Sunday

Fig. 0: I really need a digital SLR (I think)

It's one of those days where I wish Karen Carpenter were A) a stress eater and B) still alive, because if rainy days and Mondays always got her down, she'd be doubly down today. We don't have any dessert items in the house, otherwise I'd totally join her in some cheesecake or apple babka, and then we'd have an old-fashioned sing-along or play Guitar Hero or something.

In response to Leah's surprising question (surprising because if she knew the mundane answer, she'd likely never have asked), here is the plumbing I did on Saturday:

I took out this:

Fig. 1: Some parts practically disintegrated in my hands

and put in this:

Fig. 2: Beneath the kitchen sink

and this:

Fig. 3: Bathroom faucet

and this:

Fig. 4: Beneath the bathroom faucet

My hands are still sore from trying to manually remove some calcified, thirty-year-old bolts. I finally cut them off with my Dremel tool. Goddamn, the Dremel is magical. But flying bits of metal and hot plastic? Not as magical. I wore eye protection, but this still happened ...

Fig. 5: I'm a monster!!

But hey look:

Fig. 6: A bunny!

A bunny!

If I go to grad school, this post will bite me in the ass

These were the things on my "to-do list" today: Install fibreglass insulation; buy plumbing supplies.

Exciting, yes.

No, wait. I meant, "Exciting, no. In fact, the opposite of exciting. Mundane. Tiresome. And worst of all, non-remunerative."

It didn't matter when I started the day, though. When I started the day I felt alive and excited. I embraced the mundane, tiresome, non-remunerative items on the to-do list.

The reason why: That night I dreamed it was the first day of school.

Ugh. I can't think of any individual day worse than the first day of school. Note to my future children (and those living ones who claim to be mine): Stay in school. I'm getting to my point.

When I woke up, I felt alive, excited, blah blah blah, because I never have to endure another first day of school. Today could have been the day I was supposed to report to jail, and I still would have welcomed the day. As horrible as the nightmare was, the fact that it could never ever ever never ever (ever) come true makes it into an affirmation that makes the Serenity Prayer look like an Ann Coulter personals ad.

A couple of weeks ago I had a similar school nightmare: I was hanging out with friends when I remembered I had a final exam. I showed up at the exam with time running out, having not studied a single page. Hell, I didn't even know what class it was for. But I woke up, and it was awesome. No exams for me that day! Or any other day, every again.

I really wish my friends and family who have degrees would have told me about this. If I'd known getting my degree would mean having THE BEST DREAMS EVER ... well, I still would have taken my sweet time getting my degree, but at least I would have had something to look forward to.

Tomorrow I have to use the pumbing supplies I purchased today. I hope tonight I dream about having an assignment due, or maybe having to take Calculus II again, because I'm really not looking forward to plumbing.

Oh der Rattenkonig, ich liebe Dich

I've never been particularly quick on the uptake. Example: Only months after its relevance to an episode of 30 Rock, I find out that the rat king is a real cryptozoological beast.

I suppose "real cryptozoological beast" is a paradox, or perhaps an oxymoron. Do you have any idea how long it's been since I've taken an English class? Neither do I. It's really late and this episode of Law & Order: Criminal Intent is really not very good. I almost typed Law & Order: Criminal Internet, which would be ... actually not that great, unless all the crimes were committed by the Internet itself, and because the Internet is not a real person it always gets away with the crime, leading to some combination of Sam Waterston and Vincent D'Onofrio slamming their fists on a table in every episode and saying, "Goddamn that Internet!"

What? Oh, rat kings.

According to the Wikipedia entry, the rat king is a predominantly German phenomenon, with several German museums displaying formaldehyde-protected rat kings. Why, if I knew someone who was in Germany right now (Laura ...), I'd highly recommend a day trip to one of Hamburg, Hamelin, Gottingen, or Stuttgart to get pictures of a liquidy version of this:

Fig. 1: Their tails "become stuck together with blood, dirt, and excrement"

I'd go into paroxysms of delight if Albrecht Durer had one of these in his portfolio:

Fig. 2: I love the guy with the club on the left

It now occurs to me that the first picture is a little gross. Sorry about that. I'm not admitting culpability, but to make hypothetical amends here's a fun, non-nauseating image that contains little-to-no blood, dirt, or excrement:

Fig. 3: Balloons

My shirt reads: "We do things my way or the Hemingway."

It made sense at the time.