tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68214457671430020652024-03-12T22:16:49.554-07:00thunderstrokesWelcome to the desk of Kevin Thorson, writer. Rummage around and you will find stories, the odd poem, and musings on movies, pop culture and life. This is also home base for The Adventures of Heracles Mendoza.Kevin Thorsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13558399947728948576noreply@blogger.comBlogger187125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6821445767143002065.post-5461124364638234412017-08-18T10:29:00.000-07:002017-08-18T10:29:31.810-07:00Notes to Self: #6This world is still loaded with miracles.Kevin Thorsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13558399947728948576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6821445767143002065.post-80408378612036213822017-08-18T10:21:00.003-07:002017-08-18T10:23:23.829-07:00Notes to Self: #5The light of my candle can outshine any torch.Kevin Thorsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13558399947728948576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6821445767143002065.post-57091347743692079212017-07-24T16:51:00.001-07:002017-07-24T16:51:18.059-07:00Notes to Self: #4Do not pretend to understand the workings of the universe. You do not.Kevin Thorsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13558399947728948576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6821445767143002065.post-75218884324923931802017-07-24T16:39:00.002-07:002017-08-18T10:27:45.461-07:00Notes to Self: #3To the degree that you expect fairness in life, you reveal the juvenility of your mind and the immaturity of your spirit.Kevin Thorsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13558399947728948576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6821445767143002065.post-35296582577265641132017-06-01T17:20:00.000-07:002017-07-24T16:40:59.166-07:00Notes to Self: #2From the moment we are born, we are like an arrow launched into the sky. We move through each day, speeding onward in unstoppable flight, traversing our single arc. And like an arrow, we do not know when or where the moment will come when we shall strike home.Kevin Thorsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13558399947728948576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6821445767143002065.post-50444384034921928672016-09-15T13:27:00.002-07:002016-09-15T13:31:35.731-07:00The Adventures of Heracles Mendoza: The Golden Lion, Chapter 4<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
Chapter
4</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The feeling of liquid running over
his teeth, around his tongue, and down his throat brought Les back to
consciousness. His mouth grew warm and began to tingle, touched by a certain
sweetness, something like honey, but deeper, richer. <i>The way whipped cream is deeper and richer than air, </i>he thought,
still very groggy. A feeling of warmth trailed in the liquid’s wake, moving
down his throat and into his stomach. Once there, the tingling fire began
spreading through his body. His heart responded with a quickening,
strengthening beat.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
There had been pain in his head,
though he had only been dimly aware of it till just then. Now it was lifting,
dissolved by some effortless power. Relief flooded through him, sweeping away
all the pain and discomfort like so much floating debris. The effect was so
powerful that he thought he was going to melt, and slide off the table into a
grateful puddle on the floor.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
When the surge finally receded, it
left him empty and cavernous and hollow inside. The sensation was brief,
reminding him of that hanging moment he always felt just before an elevator would
stop. It was supplanted by a growing sense of renewed energy and strength.
Expanding rapidly, his entire body was soon alive with fresh vitality and a
raw, wild sensation of power. He reacted by jumping up from the table on which
he lay, even before he opened his eyes. Only a hand restrained him. A very
large hand.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Do not try to stand quite yet,” a
reassuring voice said. “Allow the initial effects to run their course. It won’t
be long.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Les blinked, trying to focus. The giant
was standing beside him. His name was <i>Polydeuces,</i>
Les remembered with a clarity that surprised him. <i>Pol, he had said.</i> Something was different, though. His overwhelming
fear of the man was missing. “Where am I?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“The Portalhouse, young master.”
Pol replied, smiling down at him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Les blinked and stretched his eyes
until the room around him came into dazzling focus. It was large and open, and lined
with a dozen long, gleaming silver tables, arranged like a dining hall with a
wide aisle down the center. The walls were made of seamless panels, silvery-steel,
laden with beautifully inscribed patterns. A large landscape picture hung on
the opposite side, the green of its meadows, and the blue of its sky ridiculously
bright against the metal wall. To his right, a high counter ran the breadth of
the room. Behind the counter, extending all the way to the softly glowing
ceiling, were shelves crowded with bottles, jars, and bowls of various sizes
and shapes. At the opposite end of the room stood a pair of very solid-looking
metal doors.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Young master,” Pol said, “I would
like to introduce you to ’Dora. It is she who prepared the elixir which restored
you to health.” Les looked around in confusion. He didn’t see anyone else in
the room.</div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
From behind Pol, a long, lithe
figure stepped out. She came nearly to Pol’s shoulder, which put her close to
seven feet tall by Les’ calculation. The woman was dressed in light, flowing
robes, delicate folds draped over her shoulders and arms, the hem just grazing
the shiny black floor. Only her hands showed, and her face, and an astonishingly
alluring portion of her neck. But when he met her soft, unflinching gaze, he
was instantly snared. She possessed dark, almond-shaped eyes, deep brown in
color. They radiated with inviting, overpowering warmth. The finely sculpted
features of her face, the lines of her eyebrows and her lashes, the way her
hair swept in a lustrous golden wave up and around her ear, the pink in her
lips, all of it was beautiful beyond reason. But it was the eyes that held him
fast.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Perhaps it was the extraordinary
way he could see things more vividly than he ever could before, or perhaps it
was the thrilling sense of vitality pulsing within him, but she was, he
thought, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Even Vanessa Orozco, his
secret crush, was a distant second. <i>Who
am I kidding?</i> he thought.<i> She’s been
lapped.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Th-th-thanks,” Les stammered. He
had forgotten just what he was thanking her for. <i>For existing?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
She nodded, and gave him a small
smile. His heart swooped joyously at the movement of her mouth. The feeling was
like what he thought love was supposed to feel like. “I love you!” he blurted.
Pol laughed, and the sound broke Les’s trance. His eyes darted to the giant,
whose forgotten hand was still resting – a little more heavily now, he noticed
– on Les’s shoulder.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“I would say the young master’s
recovery is complete, wouldn’t you?” he said, tipping his head at Les.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The woman moved her languorous gaze
to Pol. She smiled and nodded, and Les’s skin burst into flames of burning
jealousy. <i>Don’t look at him. Don’t smile
at him. Look at me!</i> Pol moved a half-step, eclipsing his view of her, and Les’
anger flamed higher. Before he could voice a protest, however, the giant said,
“Our young master is well out of danger now. Thank you, ’Dora. It would be best
if you left us.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Wordlessly, ’Dora retreated, moving
fluidly through a swinging half-door at the end of the counter. Les struggled
beneath Pol’s restraining hand, striving to follow her, hoping for one last
glimpse of her face. But the woman did not look back; he only saw the back of her
robed form as it disappeared through the wide central opening between the
shelves of jars and bottles.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Wow,” Les said breathlessly, “Wow.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Yes, that is the standard
reaction.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“She’s beautiful,” Les said, still
staring at the empty doorway. “Doesn’t she talk?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Yes,” answered Pol, “though rarely
in the presence of males.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“How come?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Mmmm. You saw how beautiful she
is?” Pol said, raising an eyebrow. Les nodded, vigorously. “Imagine a voice
that rivals her appearance in beauty. Men have been known to fall helplessly in
love with her just from hearing her speak. You combine the woman and the voice,
and, well, let’s just say we cannot afford such distractions.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
As ludicrous as the man’s claim
seemed to be, Les sensed he was telling the truth. Even now he was still
struggling to hold fast to the retinal image of her in his mind. “Is she a
nurse?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Pol chuckled again. “Only when
necessary. Mixing elixir, especially the particular kind you required, is very
delicate work. And these,” he said, holding up his massive hands, “are far from
ideal for delicate work. Primarily, though, she assists those females whom the
Olympians summon, just as my brother and I assist the males.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Olympians?” Les’ attention shifted
at the word. His memory was sharp and clear, unbelievably so. He immediately recalled
that Pol had mentioned the word before, while they were inside the plane. “Who
are these Olympians? When you say that, all I can think of are runners and
swimmers and the Dream Team, that kind of thing.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Mmmm. Yes, we have heard that the Olympiad
has recently returned to Gaia.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Recently?” said Les, surprised. “I’m
pretty sure the Olympics have been around for, I don’t know, like a hundred
years. Maybe more.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Pol chuckled. “Yes, well, we have a
somewhat different view of time, young master. Still, there is a connection. The
original purpose of the Olympiad was to honor the very same Olympians of whom we
speak.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Les’ face wrinkled. “I don’t get
it.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The giant man gazed down at Les.
His expression was serious, but there was a knowing sparkle in his eyes. “They
whom we call Olympians,” he said slowly, “were then called gods.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Gods?” Les’ mind raced. <i>Olympians? Gods?</i> “Wait,” he exclaimed, “Are
you talking gods as in Greek gods? Greek mythology gods?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Pol nodded. “The very same. This is
a fact that you must now begin to grasp: The Olympians did once exist, and they
exist still.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Les stared back, struck dumb at the
absurd words spoken by the gigantic man in a business suit. While the idea that
the Greek gods still existed – ever existed – was beyond crazy, he could tell
that Pol believed what he was saying. Les supposed it was his heightened awareness
that made him so sure the giant was being truthful. He hesitated, unsure how to
respond. He didn’t want to challenge Pol, or call him a liar and risk angering
him, but he also couldn’t accept such a far-fetched idea simply because this
strange man believed it. He needed proof. “Well,” he said, choosing his words
carefully, “and I mean no offense, but how do you know that again?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Pol laughed. “Young master, we were
there.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“What?” Les stammered. “What do you
mean?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“My brother and I lived the early
part of our lives in your realm, the realm of Gaia. We were born in the city of
<st1:city w:st="on">Sparta</st1:city> more
than three thousand years ago. Our fathers were King Tyndareus, and Zeus
himself, lord of <st1:place w:st="on">Olympus</st1:place>. Together we were called
Dioscuri, my brother and <st1:place w:st="on">I.</st1:place> ‘Zeus’ lads.’ I
assure you, back then the Olympians were very much a part of that realm.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Three thousand years ago?” Les
gasped. <i>How can he expect me to believe
these things?</i> “So you’re three thousand years old?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Pol shrugged. “Thirty-three
hundred, give or take. At some point, you find there is little sense in keeping
count.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“But how can that be?” Les
protested. “How can anyone be that old? To be that old, you’d practically have
to be…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Immortal?” Pol offered. “Mmmm. Precisely
so.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“But…but,” Les sputtered.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Do not worry, young master; all guests
struggle with these things at first. This is the dawn of a new reality for you.
It will take time to adapt.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“So,” Les said, “You’re telling me
that the Greek gods are real, and that when you were young…you lived in the
same, uh, what’s the word? – realm? – as me? And these gods, these Olympians,
they lived there too?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Yes,” Pol said. “Although I must
hasten to add that the Olympians have always had the realm of <st1:place w:st="on">Olympus</st1:place>
for a home, and that has not changed. But it is true that they spent much time
in Gaia. After all, it was their birth-realm, just as it was ours, and yours.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“I don’t believe it,” Les said,
shaking his head. “It makes no sense.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Pol nodded with understanding. “Much
has happened in Gaia’s history that has been lost to those who remain there. Tell
me, do you know of the Trojan War?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Les thought for a moment. The
entire vast library of his memory was available to him, thanks to the effects
of the elixir. But after skimming through it, all he could think to say was,
“Is that the one with the horse? The Trojan horse?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Mmmm, Odysseus’ infamous gambit.
It finally ended the war, so they say. But,” Pol added, raising a finger, “that
was only after ten years of hard fighting and a great deal of spilt blood,
mortal and immortal alike. There is a document called <i>The Iliad,</i> which is said to tell part of the story, though not the
end. I have heard that this document still survives in your realm.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Les thought for a moment, and shrugged.
“I don’t know.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Pol nodded. “Well, it hardly
matters now. I only mention it because the Twin Wars – the Trojan War and the
war which followed it, Poseidon’s War – mark the end of the Olympians’ reign
over Gaia. Within a mortal lifetime of the fall of <st1:city w:st="on">Troy</st1:city>, they had abandoned her for a new realm,
fashioned in secret. Zeus named it the Kainos, ‘the new realm.’” He paused for
a moment. “Unfortunately,” he added, “my brother and I were already imprisoned
in Tartarus by the time the siege of <st1:city w:st="on">Troy</st1:city>
began. We missed everything.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“In prison? How come?” Les asked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Mmmm,” he said, smiling wryly, “That
is a story for another time. The only reason we aren’t still there is because
Zeus needed someone to run the Portalhouse.” Pol nodded towards the far doors.
“You’ve seen what lay beyond those doors. It is a lifeless place, existing in
its own solitary realm. As you might expect, there weren’t a whole lot of volunteers
to come here. So he offered us the job, on the condition that we promise never
to escape.” The giant man pulled up the sleeve of his suit jacket, revealing an
intricately carved golden band that ran from his wrist halfway up his forearm.
“If we ever try, or if we ever set foot inside the actual Portalroom,” he said,
tapping the armband, “this would transit us right back to Tartarus again.” Pol
seemed to be on the verge of drifting into thought, then he abruptly smiled. “But
we truly have nothing to complain about. A hundred years here is better than a
single day there. You can trust me on that.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Well,” replied Les, “that explains
why you’re here. But it doesn’t tell me anything about why I’m here.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“You’re right! Here I am rambling
on, while you must be nearly bursting with questions! Shame on me.” Pol looked
down at Les, an almost sheepish expression on his face. “My apologies, young
master. I’d be only too happy to answer any questions you might have. However,
I’m afraid we don’t have much to offer on that particular one. All we can say
for certain is that one or more Olympians have requested that you be summoned
to the Kainos. Beyond that, we know little. And by little,” he said, lifting
his hands helplessly, “I mean nothing.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Me?” Les said, pointing at
himself. “They wanted me specifically? Or they just wanted someone, and I just
happened to be the one, out of all the people in the world, unlucky enough to
get picked at random?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Oh, no,” Pol said. “Mortals are
not summoned by chance. No, not ever. You were chosen. By name. Les Mendoza.
This is the name we have been given.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“But how do you know that’s me?
There must be lots of Les Mendozas in the world.” He paused. <st1:city w:st="on">Mendoza</st1:city> was a common enough Spanish name,
true enough, but Les was not a common first name amongst any ethnic group that
he knew of. <i>Any group, period.</i> “Okay,
maybe not lots. But I can’t be the only one, can I? Isn’t there a chance this
could all be a mistake?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Pol gave Les a sympathetic smile. “We
have a saying that goes back to our youth: <i>The
gods do not make mistakes,</i> it goes. <i>And
if they do, good luck getting a confession.</i>”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Les, however, was in no mood for
humorous sayings. “I just don’t understand. Why me? It doesn’t make any sense.
I know nothing about Greek gods or mythology. I’m not even Greek. I’m
half-Mexican and half-Polish. What would they want with someone like me?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“It is not only Greeks, as you call
them; mortals are chosen from all over Gaia. I have met many from places I have
never heard of, places I never imagined existed. I had always known the world
to be a vast place, but I had no idea just how vast, how truly vast, until we arrived
here.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“I just don’t get it,” Les moaned, oblivious.“Why
me? Why me?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“I swear to Zeus,” a loud, coarse
voice said, “if I hear another shunt ask <i>Why
me?</i> I’m going to hurt someone.” Les whipped in the direction of the voice
and found another giant of a man, this one standing behind the counter. Les gaped
in astonishment. The second giant looked exactly like Pol, except for the angry
scowl half-hidden by a thick black beard. He stood with his bare, thickly
muscled arms folded over his chest, and seemed to be wearing some kind of a garment
hanging diagonally from one shoulder. Aside from those differences, however, the
similarity of the two men was uncanny.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Les looked from one to the other. “Oh,
I get it,” he finally said. “You’re twins, right?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Oh, he’s bright,” the bearded man sneered,
his sour expression unchanged. “I was afraid we wasted our mead on an idiot.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Pol gave his brother a sharp look,
“Now,” he said, “there is no call for rudeness towards our guest.” Turning to
Les, he said, “Les Mendoza, this is my twin brother, Castor.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Call me Cas,” said his brother. “We
keep things simple around here. We find that shunts tend to be easily confused.”
After another pointed look from his brother, he added, “Generally speaking,
that is.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Oh, hello,” Les said hesitantly.
He didn’t know what the word <i>shunt</i> meant,
but it certainly didn’t sound like a compliment.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Cas stepped forward. Planting his hands
on the countertop, he said, “You want to know why you’re here?” His expression
was vaguely menacing. “It is really very simple. You are here because an
Olympian decided that you should be here. Now you know as much as we do.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“I know. Pol already told me that. But
what I don’t understand is-” Les caught himself, seeing Cas’ face, which looked
about to explode.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Listen, shunt. From this point on,
there’s a lot you aren’t going to understand,” Cas snapped, “In fact, almost
everything. Get used to it.” His continued staring at Les for a few moment, then
cocked his head slightly to the side. “Just how old are you?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Fifteen.” Les answered.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“You are young,” Cas replied. “Young
shunts are usually the most stupid.” He glanced at his brother, ignoring his
admonishing look. “Probably safe to rule out a Trial, eh?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Pol’s displeased expression slowly
faded. “I would expect so. It would be highly unlikely.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Cas waved his hand dismissively. “Probably
just one more Gaian summoned to play the role of temporary companion to a
homesick Olympian. They never seem to tire of the novelty.” He locked his eyes on
Les. “Though with this one,” he said, the contempt is his voice unmistakable, “novelty
appears to be the only thing he’s got in his favor.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Brother, curb your anger,” Pol replied
sternly. “He is our guest, and he did nothing wrong.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Cas scoffed. “Oh no, the shunt did
nothing wrong. He only panicked when you tried to help him. He only fell and nearly
killed himself. Would of, too, had we not given him mead in order to save his miserable
hide. I do not need remind you that we will be the ones to pay the price for
his mistakes, do I, brother? But no, he did nothing wrong. Nothing wrong at
all.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Enough,” Pol said, his tone
sharper than Les had heard it. “We are the hosts of this house, and he is our
guest. We will abide by the law of <i>xenia.</i>”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“We are not in Gaia, Pol. We’re not
even in the Kainos. There is no <i>xenia</i>
here.” He cast a glowering look at Les. “We don’t owe him anything.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<i>“Wherever
I am, whichever house I inhabit, there the law of xenia shall always prevail,”</i>
Pol recited.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The two brothers glared at each
other, as if engaged in a silent argument. At last Cas broke the tense
stillness. “Ah, bowlstones! Forget it,” he said, turning away. He began to
rearrange an assortment of bottles on one of the shelves.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“I’m sorry,” Les said to Pol. “I
didn’t mean to start anything.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Pol smiled. “Don’t worry, young
master. My brother often loses his temper. He forgets the true object of his
anger, and instead seeks to brook it against the innocent. It is I who must apologize
for my brother’s rudeness.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Don’t apologize for me,” Cas
growled over his shoulder.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“What is <i>xenia?</i>” Les asked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“<st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on"><i>Xenia</i></st1:place></st1:city>
is the law which governs the behavior of guest and host. Simply put, it says that
guests are to be treated with the utmost kindness and generosity. It was Zeus
himself who made the law, and it is Zeus who commands our obedience to it.” He
directed the last part at his brother, and his gaze lingered there until shifting
back to Les. “Now then,” he said, “we must begin preparing you for your next transit.
We don’t know how much time we have.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Transit?” asked Les.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Mmmm,” said Pol, “That’s what we
call the act of passing from one realm to another.”</div>
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“Where am I going?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“To the Kainos, of course.” Pol answered.
To his brother, he said, “I will escort the young master to the readying room. Can
I trust you to select the proper garb, or must I send the ’pods?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“I’ll do it,” snapped Cas. His eyes
scanned over Les, taking his measure. “I don’t know how much we have that will
fit such a…body,” he said, “but I’ll find something that’ll do.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Thank you, brother,” Pol said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Cas’ grunted in return. With one
last scornful look at Les, he wheeled around and stomped off through the
central doorway, his heavy footsteps shaking the entire room.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
When Cas had gone, Les remarked, “I
get the feeling he doesn’t like me.”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Don’t take it personally, young
master,” Pol replied brightly. “My brother doesn’t like anyone.” He gestured
towards a door standing in a corner behind the counter. “If you please, the readying
room is this way.”</div>
Kevin Thorsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13558399947728948576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6821445767143002065.post-69712423972453985542016-05-14T17:46:00.002-07:002016-05-16T21:13:16.811-07:00The Golden Lion, Chapter 3<div data-p-id="6fed3b5b34faa10a2b49c35ee51ac059" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #555555; font-family: 'Source Sans Pro', 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 24px; padding: 0px;">
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Les rode on a blast of pure black speed for what seemed like forever, and yet like one impossibly suspended moment. Then there was a lightning crack, and with it the movement simply stopped. Les clamped his eyes shut against the gray light that was suddenly there. When he opened them, a little at a time, he saw that the couple with the baby was gone, and all the nearby seats were vacant.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqQP4XHjF_MkxDPmJfXdEmc2T6Gmd4WI_uX3tkynRgQUYvAn4vPV9TBXRQOEULU9LjwgxS0ObEH0oiWEPoNF2VJsyQZSJ9i6Gl3g0Q_1vSrkesShW_SBJNIhDZAV0C5KUfzL41VaybUCk1/s1600/THE+ADVENTURES+OF+%25281%2529.png" imageanchor="1" style="background-color: transparent; clear: left; display: inline !important; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqQP4XHjF_MkxDPmJfXdEmc2T6Gmd4WI_uX3tkynRgQUYvAn4vPV9TBXRQOEULU9LjwgxS0ObEH0oiWEPoNF2VJsyQZSJ9i6Gl3g0Q_1vSrkesShW_SBJNIhDZAV0C5KUfzL41VaybUCk1/s320/THE+ADVENTURES+OF+%25281%2529.png" width="200" /></a>"Hello?" he called out. The hollow silence supplied the answer he instinctively feared: he was alone. <i style="box-sizing: border-box;">Did I black out?</i> It didn't feel like he had passed out. He thought he remembered the whole thing: the burst of golden light, the sudden darkness, the directionless whoosh of acceleration. <i style="box-sizing: border-box;">But where is everyone?</i> He must've blacked out, he decided, at least part of the time. It was the only way to explain the absence of the other passengers.</div>
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"Hello," he called again and tried to stand. His seat belt, still fastened, yanked him down. Les felt for the buckle, found that it was jammed and wouldn't release. A small, electric spark of dread coursed through him. Was that why he been left behind? Because his seatbelt was stuck? Was anybody coming back for him? He couldn't believe they would just leave him all alone.</div>
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Les began to notice strange things about the plane. For one, the cabin was completely unlit, illuminated only by the dingy daylight coming through the windows. The light strips that bordered the aisle were out, as were all the ceiling lights. It was as if the plane's power had been cut off, yet the plane itself was perfectly intact. Then there was the undeniable tinge of gold. It was everywhere: the seats, the floor, the entire interior of the cabin. At first he wondered if perhaps the brilliant bombardment he had endured was having a lingering effect on his vision. But when he looked down at himself, his clothes were unaffected, and his own skin was its usual bronzy-brown. Confused, he looked to the window and was startled by another difference: the glass in his window was missing. He raised a finger, and slowly pushed it through the opening. "What the--" he mumbled. "The window's gone?" He twisted around, checking the others. All of them looked empty, as if someone had come along and collected all the glass. <i style="box-sizing: border-box;">When could that have happened?</i> he wondered. <i style="box-sizing: border-box;">And why?</i></div>
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Les's stomach, which he had forgotten about, began to writhe again. With a low moan, he glanced outside. Only then did he notice they were not on an airport runway, or at an airport at all. Instead, it appeared that the plane was parked on gray rock, flat as concrete, spreading out in all directions. In the far distance Les could see a towering, arcing wall of sheer rock of the same gray color, its upper edge visible only when he cranked his head to one side and peered upward through the window. <i style="box-sizing: border-box;">Where are we?</i> He scanned along the base of the cliff, and finally found a solitary building, dwarfed beneath the high wall. Beyond that, he could find no other sign of life, not even a single shrub, or a blade of grass.</div>
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<i style="box-sizing: border-box;">Must've had to make some kind of emergency landing, </i>he surmised.<i style="box-sizing: border-box;"> But that still doesn't explain where everyone went, or why they left me here. </i>He swallowed hard, blocking the rising terror at his throat. <i style="box-sizing: border-box;">Wait,</i> he told himself. <i style="box-sizing: border-box;">Maybe everybody else is on the other side of the plane where I can't see them. Or maybe they're in that building.</i> "If I could just get this stupid seatbelt off," he snarled. Grasping it with both hands, Les tried his best to force the buckle to open. He pulled until his arms began to tremble, and his strength gave out, but it still wouldn't budge. Then he tried to wriggle out from under the strap, but he couldn't move more than a few inches either way. Frustrated, Les threw himself back against the seat. His head struck a cushion that he knew was made of soft foam, but felt hard as steel. It clanged hollowly.</div>
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"Ow!" he cried, twisting back and giving his seat an evil look. "What is going on around here?"</div>
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He was still rubbing his head when movement outside the window caught his eye. A man was crossing the expanse between the plane and the building. Within a few minutes, he had drawn close enough that Les could see he was dressed in some kind of pale blue business suit. The bright yellow flash of his tie stood out, even at this distance. The man appeared to be quite large, though that was difficult to judge against the emptiness of the surroundings. He carried some kind of bag in one hand, and walked at a brisk pace. Les watched him, nervous but hopeful that he was coming to free him.</div>
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The man stopped as he neared the aircraft. Les could see that he had short, semi-curly black hair, thick eyebrows guarding dark eyes, and a square face. The man scanned the line of oval windows. When he spotted Les, a smile spread broadly over his face, and he raised his hand in a friendly gesture. "Hello there," he called. "Are you alright?"</div>
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"I think so," Les said, relieved. "What happened?"</div>
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"Let me help you out of there. Then we can discuss what happened."</div>
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Les nodded, and the man disappeared under the plane. Les took a deep breath. <i style="box-sizing: border-box;">The others must already be in the building,</i> he reasoned. <i style="box-sizing: border-box;">But what happened?</i></div>
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A few moments later, Les was startled by a loud clanging sound from the opposite side, and then again by a second, ringing thud. A few subsequent, barely softer thumps followed and then Les saw the man's face abruptly appear, more than filling the open window of the emergency exit door. "This will only take a minute," the man said. "But you may want to crouch down as best you can there."</div>
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Almost before Les could comply, a whining metal screech filled the cabin. Les covered his ears and ducked forward. A shower of colored sparks flew by, arcing overhead and bouncing along the floor. The door fell in with a massive crash, and the whole plane shuddered. Les looked up to see the man pushing through the opening. Crouching low, and working his shoulders sideways, he finally squeezed through. Once inside, the man stood up.</div>
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He wasn't quite a giant, but he was, by far, the most gigantic man Les had ever seen. The ceiling of the cabin was not high enough for him to stand fully upright, so he had to hunch over, and hold his head bent awkwardly to one side. It was like watching a grown man trying to stand in a child's playhouse. The giant man looked sideways at Les and smiled.</div>
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"Hello young master," he said. "Welcome to the Portal. My name is Polydeuces, but most call me Pol." He bowed his head slightly forward, which was almost impossible, as his chin was already against his chest. "And," he continued, "unless there's been a terrible mistake, you must be Les Mendoza."</div>
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Les didn't answer, dumbstruck by the man's sheer size. <i style="box-sizing: border-box;">He must be ten feet tall,</i> Les thought. <i style="box-sizing: border-box;">And built like a bulldozer.</i> Massive arms led to fists the size of circus mallets, and the slope of his neck from the base of his head to his shoulders reminded Les of nothing more than the sides of a volcano. Finally, he managed to nod.</div>
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"Good," Pol said, smiling. He glanced back at the hole behind him. "At any rate, I'm glad I brought tools. Smaller conveyances I can usually handle," he said, running his eyes over the tube-like interior, "but I have a feeling this might have taken awhile." His eyes fell back on Les. "If you don't mind my asking, what is this type of conveyance called?"</div>
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But Les wasn't listening. On the spectrum of his imagination, the man was a cross between a fairy tale giant and some juiced up WWE wrestler. "What?" he stammered at last.</div>
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"This conveyance, young master," Pol said, indicating the plane around them. "What do you call it?"</div>
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The question slowly penetrated Les' disoriented brain. "This?" he finally said, looking around with a stupefied expression. "You mean an airplane?"</div>
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"Airplane," the man repeated slowly. "Airplane." He spoke carefully, as if trying to wedge the word into his memory.</div>
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Les stared in bewilderment. <i style="box-sizing: border-box;">Does he really not know what an airplane is? How is that even possible?</i> There was a stabbing chill in the pit of his stomach, and the prickle of hair on the back of his head. <i style="box-sizing: border-box;">Something's wrong here.</i> The man's enormity, the way he talked, the way he entered airplanes. The way he claimed not to even know what an airplane <i style="box-sizing: border-box;">was,</i> none of it was right.</div>
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The giant man seemed to take notice of Les' bewildered expression. "Naturally, you have many questions about where you are and what has happened to you. If you will permit me, I will free you from your seat now. Then we can return to the Portalhouse, and we shall answer your questions in a place of greater comfort." Pol began to wade down the center aisle towards him. "Clearly," he said, grinning, "these – what are they called again? – airplanes, yes, yes...are not intended to convey people my size." He paused before adding, with a look of peculiar amusement, "No reason why they should, of course."</div>
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Les pushed himself away from the approaching giant. Unfortunately, he barely moved at all, thanks to the seat belt. He could only watch with growing apprehension as the man loomed close.</div>
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Once he reached Les' row, the man removed some kind of tool from the pocket of his trousers. A thin, protruding blade-like edge glowed green. It looked enough like a knife that Les's eyes grew wide with fear.</div>
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The man, leaning over him now, held up. "Ah, rest easy, young master," Pol said with a smile, "I am not here to hurt you." Then, with a quick swipe, he slid the tool across the strap. Watching mutely, Les saw that it left behind a faintly glowing score mark. "There," the giant said. "Give that a moment or two, and-" There was a short buzzing sound, and the strap snapped apart, just where it had been cut. "Done," Pol said, slipping the tool back into his pocket.</div>
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Les wrested the stiff strap from his lap, bending it back until he was finally free. He got to his feet, eyeing Pol warily even as he glanced around the empty plane. "Where did everybody go?" he asked, pressing himself against the curved wall of the cabin.</div>
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Pol looked perplexed. "I don't know what you mean," he said. "There are others?" His heavy brow furrowed for a moment, and then eased. "Oh, I see. There were others on this convey—I mean airplane. Well, that stands to reason," he said, surveying the rows of seats surrounding them. "It is a large vehicle of transport. There is easily room for a hundred and fifty men. Reminds me of some ships I've sailed on, long ago though that's been." He slapped one of the chairs, which rang solidly. "Much more comfortable seats, though. And of course, no oar handles sticking through the ports."</div>
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Les had no time for the giant's ramblings. "The plane was packed," he sputtered. "Where is everybody? Are they in that building over there?"</div>
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"Well," Pol replied, scratching at his chin, "There is nothing to worry about with respect to your friends. They didn't go anywhere. They're still on the...ah... airplane, I would presume. In all actuality, it is you who left them, not they you."</div>
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Les shook his head. "I didn't say they were my friends, I-" he said, and then halted as a growing look of disbelief spread across his face. "What do you mean," Les said, "I left <i style="box-sizing: border-box;">them</i> behind? That can't be. Look around. <i style="box-sizing: border-box;">I'm</i> the only one still <i style="box-sizing: border-box;">on</i> the airplane!"</div>
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"You are upset," Pol said, speaking calmly. "Of course that is quite understandable-"</div>
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"Yeah I'm upset!" Les nearly shrieked. "You'd be upset too if you were me. All I know is one minute I'm sitting on a plane – a crowded plane – waiting to take off, and then all these crazy things start happening, and then suddenly I'm sitting here in the same seat on the same plane, only everybody else is missing. So please, stop messing with me, and just tell me where they've gone." Les could feel himself losing control, the hysteria welling up, practically boiling over. His glance darted from the giant to the back and then the front of the plane, checking the exits. The signs above the doors were dark.</div>
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"Perhaps I should give you more room," Pol said, backing away slowly. He crammed his body further back into the aisle, leaving an open path to the doorway. "If you want to run, you can. I will not try to stop you. But you should know there really is no point."</div>
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"Just tell me the truth!" Les exclaimed. "Where is everyone?"</div>
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"Young master, what I have said is true. I swear it. The others are not here. It is you the Olympians have summoned, not they."</div>
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"What? There's no way," Les screeched. "This is the plane. What did you do to them?" He looked down, intending to grab his backpack and make a break for it. When he didn't see it, he dropped down to the floor, but the space underneath the seats was clear. "And now my backpack's gone," he muttered, climbing back to his feet.</div>
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"I can help you understand everything that has happened to you, if you will only allow--"</div>
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"No," Les cried. He lunged into the aisle and dashed to the opening. Without stopping, he leapt through the gaping hole and down onto the wing. Unfortunately, Pol had left his bag precisely where Les landed. He tripped and then tumbled down the wing's angled surface, just managing to catch himself short of the edge. Regaining his footing on the slippery metal, Les scrambled up to the front of the wing. From there he looked down, catching his breath and gauging the distance to the ground. <i style="box-sizing: border-box;">What was it, twelve feet? Fifteen?</i> Whatever it was, it was far enough that he might hurt himself if he tried to jump, maybe badly. Still huffing, he lifted his eyes, taking in the cliff that completely encircled him. It was like the plane had landed in an enormous moon crater, though it was too perfectly formed to be a natural feature. Above, the sky was a solid gray, like the inside of a pot lid. He looked around helplessly. <i style="box-sizing: border-box;">Where had the others gone?</i></div>
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Pol's head appeared in the plane's massive hole, and Les instantly knew he had made a mistake. Instead of being at the top of the wing, he should have stayed at the bottom, which was substantially lower, closer to the ground. <i style="box-sizing: border-box;">Now it's too late.</i></div>
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Pol, however, made no effort to come through the opening. He simply stood hunched inside the door. "Good," the giant said with relief, "I was afraid you had jumped. That would only have complicated things. I promise you, I will stay where I am as long as you promise not to jump. Is it agreed?"</div>
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Les didn't answer. He continued scanning the surrounding area, still searching for signs of the others. Finally he looked at Pol. "Where is everybody? They can't just be gone."</div>
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"There is something you must understand," Pol replied. "This," he said, bumping the plane lightly with a fist, "is not quite the thing you think it is. Granted, it has the appearance of an airplane. But in truth it is merely a shell of the airplane you were in. Hephaestus calls it a net, but it makes more sense to me to think of them as shells. Please do not ask me to explain them any further." The giant gave him a cockeyed look. "Have you not noticed that it is different?"</div>
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Les shook his head in wild denial, but Pol's words stirred a murky suspicion that had been building in the back of his mind. Some things about the plane were different, he had to admit, things which he had disregarded because he couldn't understand them. "What do you mean, shell?" Les said, trying to keep his voice level.</div>
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"By shell I mean that this is a casting made from the airplane you were in. It is not the airplane itself."</div>
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Les's mind reeled. In a way, it made some strange kind of sense: the way everything on the plane was so metallic, the lack of lights and power, the slight golden tinge to everything. But, in every other way, it made no sense at all. "But...how?" he stammered.</div>
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Pol seemed reluctant to answer. "Please, young master, all your questions can best be answered from the safety of the Portalhouse. Allow me to help you down from this conveyance, and then we shall talk."</div>
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Les shook his head violently. "How?" he said, and then shouted, <i style="box-sizing: border-box;">"How?"</i></div>
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Pol took a long breath, reluctance clouding his face. "In order to extract you from your realm, a conveyance was required. The Olympian Hephaestus, who is master of all things metal, fashions the conveyances. To do so, he requires only a source, an object containing metal in some certain percentage. I do not know exactly how much; he has told us, but..." Pol shook his head. "Well, simply put, it is beyond our ken. Your airplane – and by that I mean the original one, the one that exists in the Gaian realm – must have contained metal enough to serve as the source for this conveyance." He pounded the opening again. "The net in which you were caught."</div>
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Les could make little sense of what the giant was saying, but certain words: <i style="box-sizing: border-box;">extract, Gaian realm, conveyance, net</i>, <i style="box-sizing: border-box;">caught,</i> stuck out, triggering successive waves of deepening dread. He couldn't stop shaking his head, as if he could fling the words, and the terror they were bringing, out again through his ears. "No, I don't understand. It doesn't make sense."</div>
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"It is difficult to comprehend, I know," Pol replied, and then added firmly, "But I shall say no more until we return to the Portalhouse."</div>
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Les looked wildly about, then raised a shaky finger, pointed it at Pol. "I can't trust you," he said. "I can't trust any of this," he said. He turned away from Pol and looked nervously at the ground. Abruptly, he dropped to his hands and knees and crawled to the wing's edge, muttering, "I have to get out of here."</div>
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With an alarmed expression, Pol exclaimed, "Les Mendoza, listen to me. Do not try to climb down there. If you must, cross to the lower side. I give you my word – I will not interfere."</div>
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But Les, now sprawled along the leading edge of the wing, wasn't listening. Bewildered tears trickled from his eyes. "I can't trust you. I can't trust anything," he repeated, sliding his legs over the edge until they dangled freely. Slowly, he began to lower himself, his arms pressed flat against the metal.</div>
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In response, Pol tried to push through the doorway, but his enormous body lodged in the opening. "Young master, please stop!" he cried, stretching out an arm. "This is not wise! If you will only-"</div>
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At that moment, Les's grip on the smooth surface failed. He felt himself fall for only a fraction of a moment, then felt the sick crack of his own head slamming against the ground, and then nothing.</div>
Kevin Thorsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13558399947728948576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6821445767143002065.post-43049945535919396582016-05-01T21:55:00.001-07:002016-05-01T21:57:30.819-07:00The Golden Lion, Chapter 2<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhXzketcFPxxqxOVIvdqV5MLlge3gla8jRQKgHip03dQzyv2AA8Oxot1mILFJRemdJmdO_bg134xvIHoy95yZCHGlwfjfWcyECNN0a2UG0ha4QuEEK_tmeb-wzh1av43Jk-k_t_n4-rVIy/s1600/THE+ADVENTURES+OF+%25281%2529.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhXzketcFPxxqxOVIvdqV5MLlge3gla8jRQKgHip03dQzyv2AA8Oxot1mILFJRemdJmdO_bg134xvIHoy95yZCHGlwfjfWcyECNN0a2UG0ha4QuEEK_tmeb-wzh1av43Jk-k_t_n4-rVIy/s320/THE+ADVENTURES+OF+%25281%2529.png" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Les finally reached the gate near
the end of the terminal. The waiting area was already crowded. After searching
briefly, he was able to find a single empty seat overlooking the tarmac through
a high window wall. With a sigh of relief, he slumped into the chair. His
stomach was aching badly, and his legs were still a little weak. He wiped a
film of sweat from his face with a corner of his shirt. Navigating through the
airport had turned out to be an even worse experience than he imagined.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
It started off well enough. The
lady at the check-in counter had been kind. When she saw that he was traveling
by himself, she gave him a map of the airport, circling in red both the security
checkpoint and the gate. As she did so, she instructed him to tell the gate attendants
that he was something called an ‘unaccompanied minor,’ which should allow him
to board the plane early. She even offered to have someone escort him from the
security checkpoint to the gate. Les politely refused, thinking it would look
pretty stupid to be walking around with an airline employee like he was a lost
child. Still, he appreciated her concern, even as he resented himself. He was
pretty sure she had only been so considerate because she saw how nervous he
was.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Getting through security was a very
different matter. First, there was the line. When Les saw it, snaking back and
forth through a cordoned maze of black straps and chrome posts, he immediately
began to worry. With a groan, he traced the line backwards, and took his place
at the end. The people were bunched so tightly that Les couldn’t even be sure
how many times the line folded back on itself. All he could do was wait, watching
for the periodic spurts of movement, each of which traveled down the line like
a slow-moving millipede. When the ripple reached him, Les shuffled forward a
few feet, then stopped. <i>This is going to
take forever,</i> he moaned to himself. <i>I’m
gonna miss my flight.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
At each turn in the line, Les would
try to look ahead, and see how far he was from the checkpoint. It was during
one of these moments that he happened to lock eyes with one of the security
agents. Les’ heart spiked, and he quickly looked away. After that, he
couldn’t shake the feeling that the man was tracking him, though he was very
careful not to look directly at him again. <i>Stop
being so nervous,</i> Les told himself savagely. <i>They might think I’m a terrorist or something. You don’t want to end up
in a very small room with a very large man wearing latex gloves, do you?</i></div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
By the time Les reached the front
of the line, he had nearly convinced himself that at any moment he was going to
be gang tackled by Homeland Security and sent to <st1:place w:st="on">Guantanamo</st1:place>. A guard standing in front of the
body scanner started to motion him forward, but then quickly stopped him. Les’
breath caught in his throat. Grimly, the agent pointed at his feet, which were
still in his shoes. Les quickly realized the mistake, and remedied the problem
– a bit shakily – by pulling off his shoes and placing them on the conveyor
belt. Then the agent permitted him into the tall, clear-sided scanner. He
raised his arms as he was told, and held them there. Inwardly he was cringing,
as if he expected alarm bells to start ringing at any moment. But a second guard
waved him through, and just like that it was over. He went to the end of the
conveyor table, looking for his backpack and shoes, relief running through him
like a river of cool. He found his shoes, and slipped them on, leaving them
untied for the moment. His backpack, however, wasn’t there. When he looked
back, he noticed two agents were studying it, moving it back and forth in the
machine. One lifted his head and looked at him, and Les saw it was the same man
who had been tracking him. Les’s blood froze. The man lifted the backpack off
the belt as he approached. “Come with me, please,” he said sternly, and waited
for Les to move in the direction of his raised hand.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Les’ stomach plunged. <i>Oh no,</i> he thought. <i>This is it. This is the part where they handcuff me and put a hood over
my head. I’ll probably get waterboarded. But what could they have possibly thought
they saw?</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
They stopped at a high steel table.
The man set the bag down. “Do you have anything in here you shouldn’t have?” he
said, his heavy, bloodshot eyes laying on Les like dead weight.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“No, no,” Les said, shaking his
head emphatically, “Not that I know of.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“No electronic devices? A laptop or
tablet? Anything like that?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Well, yeah,” Les said, confused.
“I do have a tablet in there.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The man stared at him with weary exasperation.
“Young man, all electronic devices are to be removed from bags and placed in
trays for inspection.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Oh.” Then Les remembered seeing
the signs as they approached the checkpoint. Quite a few of them, in fact. He
even remembered reading one. But he had been so nervous that somehow it never
really registered. “Right,” Les said. “I’m very sorry about that.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Will you please remove the tablet
from the bag, and turn it on?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Les hurried to dig his tablet out
and then pressed the power button. “It just takes a minute or so to-”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The man interrupted him at the
first flash of screen. “Thank you,” he said, “you’re cleared to go. See to it
that you follow the rules next time, alright?” Les tried to stammer a reply, but
the man was already walking away.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Les leaned against the table, for his
legs were suddenly weak and felt ready to buckle. Trembling visibly, he zipped
up his bag, and started slowly away from the security checkpoint. At the
nearest store, Les bought a Dr. Pepper and a packet of Ding Dongs and sat down
to eat them on a bench along the wall. After a few minutes, he started to feel
better. He checked the time on his tablet. <i>Still
twenty minutes to get to the gate.</i> Despite the interminable waiting, it
hadn’t actually taken all that long to get through. Rising at last, he dropped
his trash into a nearby can, and made for the gate.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Now he was there, grateful to be
sitting again. The combination of junk food and an already upset stomach was quickly
proving to be a very disagreeable one. <i>I
don’t get it,</i> he thought miserably. <i>I’m
almost fifteen. All I’m doing is getting on a plane. What is wrong with me?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
These kinds of moments, though
infrequent, had always been with him. The first day of kindergarten, for
instance, he had a full blown panic attack in the hallway outside the
classroom, so bad his parents had to take him home and bring him back the next
day. It took almost a whole week before he could make it through an entire day
without crying inconsolably. Lisa, of course, got a kick out of reminding him
of that, usually in front of his friends. Even now, after all these years, the
first day of school always brought him a nasty case of butterflies. <i>Butterflies,</i> Les scoffed. <i>As if they were delicate, happy things floating
around in there. If those are butterflies, </i>he thought miserably, <i>mine are some mutant species of fanged,
rabid ones determined to eat their way out through my stomach.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Then there was that horrible
free-falling feeling he got on those rare occasions when he had forgotten to do
some important piece of homework, or just suddenly realized that a major
project or essay was due Monday. That particular feeling was even harder to tag,
unless it was like having giant rabid butterflies eat their way out of his
stomach while being dropped down an elevator shaft.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
School wasn’t the only source of anxiety.
Basketball tryouts, big games, talking to people he didn’t know, pretty much any
kind of unpredictable situation. Sometimes, even something as innocuous as
unfamiliar food. And, of course, girls. He briefly thought of Vanessa and, as
if to prove the point, his stomach lurched extra sickly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The worst part about the whole
thing was that it never seemed to get any better. He always assumed that he
would outgrow these feelings, and had been counting on the fact that they would
eventually go away. Yet, as today was so vividly reminding him, they seemed to exert
as much control over him now as they ever had. With a heavy sigh Les leaned
forward, putting his elbows on his knees, and letting his head hang down. <i>I’m hopeless.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
After a time, he opened his eyes.
Directly below him were his shoes, his black Nike Jordans. <i>And you, </i>he thought. <i>You were
supposed to help me out.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Les’ <st1:country-region w:st="on">Jordans</st1:country-region> were not just his favorite
shoes. It was impossible to explain precisely the effect they had on him. He
loved everything about them: the way they looked, the way they performed on the
basketball court, the way his feet fit into them like supple, custom-made
armor. But there was something beyond that, something almost mystical, and that
was the way they made him feel. He didn’t know why, or how it could be, but he
felt stronger, sturdier, faster, lighter in his <st1:place w:st="on">Jordans</st1:place> than any shoes he had ever worn.
Somehow, they gave him a measure of added confidence he didn’t otherwise
possess. He had made sure to wear them today, and yet today it felt like they
were failing him completely.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
He leaned back against the chair with
a deep sigh, idly watching the planes as they navigated an invisible labyrinth
between the gates and the runway. To his surprise, he saw that their plane had already
arrived. People were emerging from the long tunnel, streaming through the gathering
throng of waiting passengers. He watched them, watched their brisk walks, their
happy faces, and was jealous. <i>I wish that
was me. I wish I was getting off the plane instead of getting on it. And this
coming from someone who ordinarily loves to fly.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The last of the passengers filtered
out. Les kept a careful eye on the gate attendants. When one of them announced
that pre-boarding was about to begin, Les grabbed his pack and skirted around
the line to the front. After an awkward and somewhat confusing explanation of
his status as an unaccompanied minor, they allowed him through, and he descended
down the enclosed ramp. At the aircraft door several attendants were stationed,
the pilot and co-pilot right behind them, chatting amiably. A polished blonde
woman who, in a thick Southern accent, called herself Nora escorted Les to his
seat. He slipped into the row, taking the last chair, next to an oval window.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Now you just let us know if
there’s anything at all you need,” she said with a wondrously incandescent
smile, then disappeared up the aisle.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Les pushed his backpack under the
seat and buckled his seat belt, pulling the strap tight. He looked out, studying
the other parked behemoths, and the small workers moving busily on the ground.
He thought about getting his tablet out and listening to some music, but
decided he was too uncomfortable and restless. Instead, he stared gloomily out
the window, watching the distant palm trees wag their shaggy heads in the wind.
<i>I wish I didn’t have to go. I wish I
could just stay here with nana and tata for Christmas. Even Lisa.</i> Then,
laughing at himself, he thought, <i>Just a
few minutes ago I was wishing I was already in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Seattle</st1:place></st1:city>. Which one is it, dummy?</i> But he knew
that wasn’t the question. <i>Anywhere. Just
not here.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
He began to hear the sounds of people
moving down the aisle, though the high seatbacks blocked much of his view. His
leg started bouncing nervously again as he fretted over who would be sitting
next to him. Before long, a young couple with a small infant took the two seats
beside him. The woman smiled at Les, and Les reflexively smiled back.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“I just fed her,” she said. “I’m
hoping she’ll sleep the whole time.” The woman sounded apologetic, though Les wasn’t
sure why. She glanced down at the baby with a smile. Les followed her gaze,
looking at the pink face and black hair bundled in her arms, and then looked
away. He had no interest in babies under normal circumstances, and even less so
now.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Flying alone?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Huh?” Les said, glancing back from
the window. The father, a friendly-looking man maybe in his mid-twenties, was
leaning around his wife and child, looking at him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Going home for the holidays?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Les shook his head. “No. Actually, I
live here. I’m going to my grandma’s and grandpa’s for Christmas.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The man’s eyebrows raised. “Oh?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“The rest of my family’s already
there,” Les continued. “Well, except my older sister.” He stopped short, realizing
he was on the verge of babbling.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“That’s a coincidence,” the woman
said, gently tucking the baby’s blanket under her chin, “We’re taking Emma to <st1:city w:st="on">Seattle</st1:city> to meet her
grandparents for the first time.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Les nodded vaguely, then found he
had nothing else to say. His attention drifted back to the scene outside. A
truck was parked below. Two men in fluorescent orange vests were tossing bags
onto an elevated belt. The bags moved steadily up the incline, eventually disappearing
into the open underbelly of the plane. When the last of the luggage had been
loaded, the truck lowered the conveyor and drove away.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
By now the aisle was packed solid with
passengers, a muted pantomime of people contorting themselves into their seats,
jamming their bags into the compartments above, or squeezing past those who
were stopped in the walkway. <i>Can’t they
hurry up already? </i>he said to himself, scowling.<i> Let’s get this show on the road.</i> That was one of his dad’s
favorite expressions. In an effort to further distract himself, Les pulled out
the information card from the seat pocket, perusing it blankly before swapping
it for the airline magazine, and then a catalog. Finally, he turned back to the
window. There was little to see, just a few workers waving orange-tipped lights
at creeping planes. His leg worked ever faster, almost frantic.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Finally, the passengers were all
seated, and the attendants came sweeping down the aisle, closing the overhead
bins and checking seatbelts. Nora stopped at his row. Les lifted his arms to show
her it was fastened. She winked, and moved on.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Hey, she winked at him,” the man
said. He leaned forward. “I saw that,” he said with a cock-eyed smile. “I think
she likes you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Michael…” the woman said quietly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“By the way, what’s your name?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Les,” His name practically came
out as a croak.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Les, huh? Les what?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Les Mendoza.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The man nodded. “Well, Les Mendoza,
how do you feel about dating older women?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Les managed a shrug, sharp-bladed embarrassment
adding to his barely manageable discomfort.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Well, I’d say you’ve got a bright
future with the ladies ahead of you, Les.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Michael,” the woman repeated, more
forcefully.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Just sayin’.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
She poked him with an elbow. “Can’t
you see he’s nervous?” she said, darting a glance at Les.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Oh,” he said. He gave Les a
quizzical look. “I’m sorry, man. What is it? Don’t like to fly?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The woman sighed impatiently. <i>“Michael,”</i> she said in a harsh whisper. <i>“Leave the boy alone.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The man looked from Les to his wife’s
pointed gaze, then back at Les. With a baffled expression and a shake of his
head, the man reclined back into his seat.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<i>Oh
God,</i> thought Les, his face forlorn as he turned back to the window. <i>Could this possibly get any worse? </i>He only
half-listened as the attendants gave their standard ‘in the event of emergency’
speech. He was busy, pleading silently with the plane to start moving already.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
He didn’t notice the light at
first. When he did, his initial thought was that the bright flashing
glow coming through the window was a momentary thing, sunlight reflected
off the glass of a passing plane or something. But the golden light persisted,
growing unmistakably stronger and brighter. When he looked inside the cabin, he
was astonished to see dancing beams of semi-translucent gold, penetrating
inward through the cylindrical form of the cabin from every angle. He glanced
at the woman beside him; she was cooing softly to her baby, which was
peacefully resting. He looked around, but no one else seemed to be taking any notice
either. Meanwhile, the vibrant glare pouring through the window continued to intensify,
soon obliterating his view of the outside world. The light grew increasingly opaque,
as if the shafts were solidifying somehow, though they still flowed like
curtains. <i>Actually, more like lava, </i>he
thought. But there was something very strange about the way it was moving; it
seemed to be flowing towards him, and towards him alone. Fully panicked now, Les
tried to get up, but the seatbelt had gone rigid, holding him fast against the
chair. Then, with an almost audible <i>snap,</i>
the golden light tightened around him. All went black, and Les felt a coldness
slam him in the chest, even as he felt a surpassingly powerful rush of
acceleration pull him away. But in which direction: up, down, in or out, Les
could not say.</div>
Kevin Thorsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13558399947728948576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6821445767143002065.post-17940680686815812072016-04-26T14:11:00.001-07:002016-04-27T10:01:24.057-07:00Pat Tillman Does Not Belong in the NFL Hall of Fame<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK4sJjQtv9ji3vbO2BW7lbBTLUEQfLJ5lkig6gur1lRD0HZteO-QWxsbmyeMMzw1cq2JgxBwdl93Mf-x2ivtas_6a6b9F5ZhUUpoFB8uWaNLXeKhhXY9WbHMiKfGaLON4diXmQGch_B7zV/s1600/PTSI1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK4sJjQtv9ji3vbO2BW7lbBTLUEQfLJ5lkig6gur1lRD0HZteO-QWxsbmyeMMzw1cq2JgxBwdl93Mf-x2ivtas_6a6b9F5ZhUUpoFB8uWaNLXeKhhXY9WbHMiKfGaLON4diXmQGch_B7zV/s1600/PTSI1.jpg" /></a></div>
It's been twelve years now since ol' number 42 (40) died. This past Friday, on the anniversary (funny word for marking the passage of time for a death, isn't it?) of Pat Tillman's passing, NFL commentator Chris Collinsworth tweeted the following:<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: #fafafa; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"> "If it were my decision Pat Tillman would have been a 1st ballot Hall Of Famer."</span><br />
<br />
It was a gracious thing to say, a gesture of remembrance and respect.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYIxn6OAZaTOdLx-3qi8Rap2io-gQpOPerUzNUldrrarb9i3vpQEWAauqOp6vPzHJ9phMRjO5CW9QL26cNN47StRKU5ye5amrWpVocEvTG7-rnUsK4lkdpIuqRy8UZ818hele05lHhe0_b/s1600/PeterKing1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="123" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYIxn6OAZaTOdLx-3qi8Rap2io-gQpOPerUzNUldrrarb9i3vpQEWAauqOp6vPzHJ9phMRjO5CW9QL26cNN47StRKU5ye5amrWpVocEvTG7-rnUsK4lkdpIuqRy8UZ818hele05lHhe0_b/s200/PeterKing1.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Peter King: It's my football, and <br />
don't you forget it.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Peter King, the venerable columnist for Sports Illustrated, responded to the tweet by saying,<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: #fafafa; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">"Not mine."</span><br />
<br />
He then went on, apparently forgetting that brevity is the soul of wit, (not to mention the soul of Twitter):<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: #fafafa; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">"IMO: Silly to confuse patriotism with athletic greatness. Some will disagree with me. That’s fine. It’s a free country."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #fafafa; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: #fafafa; color: #333333; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Predictably, his open invitation to disagree with him ignited a Twitter brush fire that he then spent the remainder of the day trying to fight, basically by saying the same thing over and over:</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #fafafa; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: #fafafa; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">"Football players should be judged for the Hall of Fame based on their football credentials. Nothing else."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #fafafa; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: #fafafa; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">"My feelings about this, as a voter for the Hall, is players should be judged for football only. Nothing else."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #fafafa; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"></span><br />
<a name='more'></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiks1Y4LSqkQ7FMrRW-nWrJbTbYvp4-xnGxNvpa5dlDo6tVVWQI6z_fSe2fnn4SEinjuWP-h7OSGzYWKuGII-Sa8mnMHp1_DbS1787LKBm6hduYMxXjBD2UXDC9bKfQYyf1uJS9Yely1_Ec/s1600/PTASU2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiks1Y4LSqkQ7FMrRW-nWrJbTbYvp4-xnGxNvpa5dlDo6tVVWQI6z_fSe2fnn4SEinjuWP-h7OSGzYWKuGII-Sa8mnMHp1_DbS1787LKBm6hduYMxXjBD2UXDC9bKfQYyf1uJS9Yely1_Ec/s1600/PTASU2.jpg" /></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIxn8LT7vaV4KfprwGWpEYJrUojdmVbMapwK__m9uTBjsFhOvMM08Fg2elT9iKWUUr8Qu6gS4Alf1RRwhxKK2ZKOPcI3JgiWkbNZIpU8t496q-dph9cmDTnXHEyi4ngNuveFVQn5Bz6cE0/s1600/PT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIxn8LT7vaV4KfprwGWpEYJrUojdmVbMapwK__m9uTBjsFhOvMM08Fg2elT9iKWUUr8Qu6gS4Alf1RRwhxKK2ZKOPcI3JgiWkbNZIpU8t496q-dph9cmDTnXHEyi4ngNuveFVQn5Bz6cE0/s1600/PT.jpg" /></a><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: #fafafa; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">Here in Arizona, where we were privileged to watch Pat Tillman play football for eight years, it's difficult to agree with Mr. King. But, the thing is, underneath the emotion and the sentiment, we know he's right. Number 42 was a great college football player at Arizona State, an absolutely remarkable player, one of the all-time greats. In contrast, Number 40 was a good safety for the Arizona Cardinals. That's why when we, the fans who have followed him all the way through, think of him, we think of him as a Sun Devil first, then a Cardinal. (That's also why </span></span><span style="background-color: #fafafa; color: #333333; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">the 42 goes first, and the 40 goes in parentheses.) Tillman was a good NFL player, very solid. Better than anyone who was a seventh round pick has a right to be. But no, not great.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: #fafafa; color: #333333; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">So, yes, Mr. King. You are right. Pat Tillman does not belong in the NFL Hall of Fame. He belongs in a much, much bigger one than the NFL has to offer.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEm2EMso_CVkx2n0o6TnAl9IhNxRXbs1fzT5RPdWKXzwQoQNTVlDlSupn6VVqNFBgWql8Azn84x1Rv8t0EL_et-Fdl6xXqlunkTjsM0qIxWJekrdSHVJQsfsPrTDPkxJWu3LMnKlvAxE8B/s1600/PTQuote2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEm2EMso_CVkx2n0o6TnAl9IhNxRXbs1fzT5RPdWKXzwQoQNTVlDlSupn6VVqNFBgWql8Azn84x1Rv8t0EL_et-Fdl6xXqlunkTjsM0qIxWJekrdSHVJQsfsPrTDPkxJWu3LMnKlvAxE8B/s320/PTQuote2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: #fafafa; color: #333333; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: #fafafa; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">Here's a link to a tribute a local radio station (Arizona Sports 98.7) plays every year on April 22nd. If you have a few minutes, listen to it, and remind yourself who Tillman was, what he sounded like, and how he impacted some of those who knew him best.</span></span><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.azcardinals.com/news/audio/Pat-Tillman-Radio-Tribute/f5520f76-9fd7-4d29-9d75-8f872ef1dc87" target="_blank">http://www.azcardinals.com/news/audio/Pat-Tillman-Radio-Tribute/f5520f76-9fd7-4d29-9d75-8f872ef1dc87</a><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: #fafafa; color: #333333; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Twelve years on, and it still hurts.</span></span>
<span style="background-color: #fafafa; color: #333333; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: #fafafa; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span>Kevin Thorsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13558399947728948576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6821445767143002065.post-46002770788248279232016-04-23T22:41:00.001-07:002016-04-23T23:00:23.720-07:00The Golden Lion, Chapter 1<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidVngOdLHYD5eW4NL7lYWUC4MCyln6UfpW8OtoBnGpysqHXLDrqc5QILi4ezEW7NsRGyjr-mnoiBy3WMOrRT0s_X_W_jSwkVH27r74lo8CITb20x3M6eIhKjkl0bYYvHAkZSrrvlWA7bW-/s1600/THE+ADVENTURES+OF+%25281%2529.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidVngOdLHYD5eW4NL7lYWUC4MCyln6UfpW8OtoBnGpysqHXLDrqc5QILi4ezEW7NsRGyjr-mnoiBy3WMOrRT0s_X_W_jSwkVH27r74lo8CITb20x3M6eIhKjkl0bYYvHAkZSrrvlWA7bW-/s320/THE+ADVENTURES+OF+%25281%2529.png" width="200" /></a></div>
“Nervous?” Lisa said, casting a
glance at Les’ rapidly jiggling leg.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“No,” Les replied. His leg stilled.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“So, how was it staying at <i>nana’s</i> and <i>tata’s</i>? How’s <st1:place w:st="on">La Jolla</st1:place>?” she
asked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Les shrugged. “Okay.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Did <i>nana</i> make her green chile?” Les didn’t respond. Lisa gave him a
prolonged glance. “Talkative today, aren’t we?” she said archly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Les said nothing, just stared straight
out the windshield as they raced along the freeway.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
As she drove, Lisa’s eyes flitted between
the road and her brother. “You’re nervous about flying by yourself, aren’t
you?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“No I’m not,” he answered curtly.
In fact, Les was nervous about the flight to Seattle, and growing more so by
the minute. But he knew better than to admit it to his older sister. Years of
bitter experience had taught him that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“So what’s bothering you?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“I’m fine, Lisa. Just drop it.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Lisa was silent for a few moments.
“Les, it’s okay,” she said, her voice assuming a softer, lulling quality that
Les knew all too well. <i>Here it comes. The
heartfelt invitation to spill my guts. How many times have I fallen for that
one?</i> It was her one of her most effective tactics, and it always began the
same way: she would ply him relentlessly with sincere, sisterly overtures to
confidence. He could tell her anything, she would say. She would listen to him
without judging, no matter what it was. Mom and dad would never find out. And
she sounded so authentic, so convincing, that, even though he knew she was
lying, she would still somehow persuade him into believing her. He would reveal
whatever dark, horrible secret he was hiding, or the embarrassing incident at
school, or the lamest, most stupid little thing; it didn’t seem to matter how
big or small it was. It only mattered that she could get it out of him. <i>Well, not this time, sister.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Les leaned back, looked sideways
out the door window. The city of <st1:city w:st="on">San
Diego</st1:city> sparkled in the bright blue sunshine, the towers
and skyscrapers stark and straight and proper against the ocean. Behind them, the
graceful curve of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Coronado</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Bridge</st1:placetype></st1:place> rose and dipped.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“So, how’dja do in your games?” she
asked after a time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<i>Oh,
like I don’t know this one,</i> Les thought. <i>Change subjects, get me to lower my guard, and then come back in for
the kill. You’re being way too obvious, Leese. Hardly one semester away from
home, and you’re losing your touch.</i> “We went one-and-two,” he said finally,
in answer to her question.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Oh,” she said. “Not so good, huh?
What happened?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Les shrugged as if it wasn’t
important.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“So what team are you on this year?
JV?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Les nodded once. If she was set on
dragging something out of him, he was going to make her work as hard he could.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Well, that’s good,” Lisa replied,
undeterred. “I mean, at least you’re not on that freshman team you hated so
much last year.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Les stared down at the floorboards.
“Yeah, well, that really wasn’t an option, since I’m a sophomore now,” he said acidly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“I know that. I just meant, well, I
mean, you made the cut, right? Plus, now you get to be on the same team with
your bestie, so life’s a beach, no?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Les turned from the window, leveled
his eyes coldly at his sister. “Yeah, it’s a real beach.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
She looked at him, perplexed, until
she had deciphered his response. “What, Omar made Varsity?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Of course he did,” Les said,
“because that’s how things always work for me.” He paused, and then groaned
loudly. “No, that’s not fair,” he said. “I mean, he totally deserves it. He led
JV in scoring last year. Offensive rebounds. Steals. He was their best player,
hands down. ‘Course it didn’t hurt that he grew five inches in the last twelve
months.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Really?” Lisa said, evidently
surprised. “So what is he now?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Six-one-and-a-half,” Les said. “He
said his doctor told him he probably had four or five more inches left to
grow.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Omar?” Lisa said, surprised. “In
eighth grade, you two were the almost the same height.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Thanks for the reminder,” Les said
icily. Then, sensing an opportunity to take a shot of his own, added, “Besides,
you haven’t been around in forever. If you had, you would’ve seen him.”</div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Oh, don’t you start,” she said,
and the unexpectedly sharp tone told Les his blow had landed squarely. “Look, I’m
busy,” she explained. “I took sixteen credits this semester. Plus my job.” She
shook her head, her pony-tail bobbing. “Since I moved out, I just don’t have
any time. Trust me, mom makes sure I know just how long it’s been. Every time she
calls.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Les didn’t really care; he had only
been trying to get under her skin the way she so easily got under his. Besides,
he expected to be doing the very same thing once he was out of high school and
in college. “Meanwhile,” he continued, “here I am, stuck at five-six. I’ll
probably end up five-seven, five-eight if I’m lucky.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Dad’s five-nine,” Lisa offered.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Yeah, and dad’s the tallest one in
his family. And mom’s side’s hardly any better. And even at five-nine, I’m
screwed. Do you know how many five-nine NBA players there have been?” Playing
in the NBA had long been his secret dream. Lisa already knew about it; she had
dragged that secret out of him some time in seventh grade.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“No,” Lisa said. “Do you?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Yeah, I googled it. Twenty-three.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Well, there’s that one that dad told
you about. What’s his name again? Bud somebody? Or Dud…Stud…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Les, who had begun chortling the
moment she said <i>Dud,</i> burst out
laughing. <i>“Stud?”</i> Les said. “<i>Stud</i> Webb? Yeah, that’s the guy’s name.
I bet he probably wishes that was his name. It was Spud. Spud Webb.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Spud? Really?” she replied,
wrinkling her nose. “Spud? That can’t be his real name. Who would name their
kid Spud?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“A potato farmer?” Les suggested
sarcastically. “A potato-chip mogul?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“You’re such a jerk,” she said, but
laughed anyway. Les felt a momentary sense of camaraderie between them; for all
their antagonism, it always pleased him when he could make her laugh. “Anyway,”
she said, “this Spud person wasn’t very tall, was he?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Five-seven,” Les said. “But I
don’t have a forty-two-inch vertical leap like he did. That guy could dunk a
basketball in high school, when he was only five-three. I can’t even touch the
rim.” Les shook his head in disbelief. “That’s just sick.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“So? That still leaves twenty-two
others. Maybe you can be number twenty-four.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Les gave his sister a sidelong, dubious
look, unsure if she was being genuinely encouraging, or baiting him. “I’m
almost positive none of those other players are half-white and half-Mexican. I
just need to face it. I don’t have a chance of making the NBA.” As soon as he
said it, Les regretted the admission. <i>Her
plan is working,</i> he thought. <i>She’s
wearing me down. Don’t fall for it.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Well, not with that attitude,
mister,” Lisa said, giving Les a look of mock sternness.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Les rolled his eyes and grimaced. “Gee,
thanks, mom.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“I don’t get something,” Lisa said.
“If everything basketball-wise is so bleak and terrible, why would you want to
stay home and play during Christmas break? Why not fly to <st1:city w:st="on">Seattle</st1:city> with the rest of the family? That way
you wouldn’t have to go by yourself. And you wouldn’t be all nervous and
uptight right now.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“I’m not nervous,” Les said. “And
there’s no way I was gonna miss any games. Basketball’s not the problem,” he
said. “It’s just that the circumstances in which I exist suck.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
She looked at him and half-snorted.
“You’re so weird.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“And you’re not?” His age-old
reply.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Shut up.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“No <i>you</i> shut up.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
It was a routine exchange, usually conducted
with perfect seriousness, sometimes in complete fury. Now, though, it felt different:
ironic, familiar, vaguely sentimental.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
They drove on in silence. Les saw
the first sign for the airport, and his stomach convulsed with heightened anxiety.
Without his knowing it, his leg resumed its rapid jittering.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“So,” Lisa said, seemingly out of
nowhere, “you still have a crush on that girl from your freshman algebra
class?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<i>How
does she do it?</i> <i>Who else could go
three-for-three when it comes to sore subjects? Maybe mom.</i> Les feigned a
blank look. “What girl?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Oh, you know,” she said, a sly
smile stealing over her face. “Vanessa?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Les struggled to maintain his
expression of ignorance. His crush on Vanessa was very much alive. Her cousin
was on his team, and the knowledge that she would be there in the stands was in
no small part responsible for his decision not to miss the last three games
before Christmas.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Come on, Les. I know you like her.
You told me all about it last year, remember?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Of course he did. Yet another
secret she had pried out of him, although that time it was a little different,
because he had secretly wanted her to. “Oh,” he said as if finally remembering,
“Yeah, I don’t know.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Do you have any classes with her
this year?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“First-hour English,” he said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Have you talked to her?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Oh yeah, we talk,” Les replied.
Especially during one amazing week where they were part of a group assigned to research
the use of sensory detail in <i>Of Mice and
Men.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Uh-huh,” Lisa said, undeterred by
his hedging. “Have you asked her out?” Les didn’t answer. “Well?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“No,” he admitted reluctantly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“How come? If you like her, you
should ask her out. Here: Just get Omar to come along, and get this Vanessa to
bring one of her friends. You guys can go to the movies, or <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Balboa</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Park</st1:placetype></st1:place>,
or the beach. Mom and dad will let you. You’re fifteen. You’ll be sixteen in
March.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“I know how old I am.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Come on. Seriously, what’s the
issue? Are you scared?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“I’m not scared,” Les said,
bristling. “I don’t know, I’ve just been busy with basketball. You know how it
is, Leese…<i>I just don’t have any time.</i>”
He mimicked her tone as well as her words, exaggerating them for emphasis. It
was an admittedly desperate attempt to change the trend of the conversation. Lisa
ignored it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Listen,” she said, “take some
advice from your big sister. If you’re ever going to get anywhere, with a girl,
or even in life, you’re going to have to step outside your comfort zone. You
gotta put yourself out there, you know? Even if you’re scared. Look, I was
scared to move out of the house at first. That’s why I didn’t do it last year.
And I won’t lie; it was hard being on my own. But now I’ve made some great
friends, and I have the freedom to do whatever I want, and there’s all this,
all this…life going on, you know? And when I think about it, I realize that it
wasn’t worth being afraid of. If you let being afraid stop you, you’re going to
miss out.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“I told you, I’m not scared! Why do
you keep assuming you know how I feel? You don’t know. Nobody does!” Folding his
arms over the wretched churning of his stomach, he stared straight ahead,
refusing to look at her.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Lisa watched him for a moment, then
turned back to the road. “I tried,” she said. “I guess you’ll have to figure it
out the hard way.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“I guess so.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
They didn’t speak again until the
car had exited the freeway. “<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">San
Diego</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">International</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Airport</st1:placetype></st1:place>,” Lisa sang, breaking the tense
silence as they turned onto the terminal road. Hardly a minute later they were
pulling up alongside the curb. Les grabbed the backpack that was tucked behind
his legs, placed it on his lap. His heart was pounding now, his stomach
flipping and flopping sickly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“I can’t go in with you,” Lisa
said. “I have to be to work by eleven.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Les nodded and reached for the door
handle. “Pop the trunk, will you?” he said, not looking at her. “I need to get
my bag.” He started to get out, but was stopped by Lisa’s hand on his arm.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Hey,” she said. She waited until
he met her gaze. “I’m sorry, Les. I didn’t mean to preach. God knows we get
enough of that from mom and dad.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Yeah,” Les said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“You alright? You look a little
flushed.” She looked down at his arm. “And your skin feels a little clammy.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Les pulled his arm free. “Geez
Leese, I’m fine,” he muttered.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Alright,” she said. “Well, have a
good flight. Oh, tell mom I’ll call her at grandma’s on Christmas Eve, and tell
dad I’ll feed the dog and do all that other stuff at the house.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Nodding absently, Les climbed out
of the seat and went to the back of the car to retrieve his bag. When he closed
the lid of the trunk, Lisa was standing there. “Are you sure you’re okay?” she
said, eyeing him skeptically.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Peachy,” Les replied. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Lisa wrapped him in her arms with a
tight hug. “Well, I hope so,” she said, speaking into his ear, “I’d hate to
think my weird little brother is silently suffering.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Who, me?” Les replied. “You’ve
never accused me of being silent about anything.” Lisa laughed, and hugged him
again. Les, worried that she would feel the hard pounding of his heart, pushed
away after a few moments. “Um, thanks for giving me a ride,” he said, forcing
his mouth into a tight smile.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Sure thing,” Lisa said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Les stood looking at the terminal.
He didn’t want to walk away. When he glanced over, Lisa was smiling with a
mixture of concern and sympathy. It was an expression he wasn’t used to seeing
from her. “You should probably get going,” she said. “You barely have an hour
to get to the gate, and you never know how long security’s gonna take.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Les nodded. “Yeah. Okay. See you.”
He forced himself to step onto the curb, and walk towards the glass doors of
the terminal. He knew Lisa was standing there, watching him go, but he didn’t
dare look back. <i>I don’t even like her
that much,</i> he thought. <i>Why do I feel
so bad about leaving her?</i></div>
Kevin Thorsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13558399947728948576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6821445767143002065.post-32074015374207134152015-08-16T22:45:00.000-07:002015-08-16T22:51:13.587-07:00Remembering a Fallen Nemesis: The Columbia House Record Club<div class="MsoNormal">
Welp, the time has come to bid farewell to another great
institution of the lost American cultural landscape.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, it’s time to say goodbye to the Columbia House Record
Club.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik9ZFoXaL8Bc8a_3dRcQu0PrjJWL87nMCfz_SI81M3gM_53qaAmW3N_9QIwMgTTgmUrHHw0ppgftt3zknngKaGM47e0WEGbMCp3HN7p-2vox3GRVYpyS5mtrxZovG4y3vjy_7J17fHiIDm/s1600/ColumbiaHouseRecordClub002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik9ZFoXaL8Bc8a_3dRcQu0PrjJWL87nMCfz_SI81M3gM_53qaAmW3N_9QIwMgTTgmUrHHw0ppgftt3zknngKaGM47e0WEGbMCp3HN7p-2vox3GRVYpyS5mtrxZovG4y3vjy_7J17fHiIDm/s1600/ColumbiaHouseRecordClub002.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Actually, Columbia House Record Club ceased to exist ten
years ago, when it merged with BMG. And they stopped selling mail-order music
in 2009, so the ‘Record’ part of the club has been gone for some six years now.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Still, the announcement earlier this month made me wistful. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How I wish I could go back to a time when I could buy my
record albums through the mail. You know, wait for one of those bimonthly club catalogs
to come, make my selection, buy a stamp, send the order back, and then pay
fifteen bucks for the privilege of waiting three weeks for the record to
arrive. So much better than the way things are now, when you have to go online,
choose your album from Amazon, pay for it with one click, and listen to it now.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Actually, I learned a lot from The Columbia House Record
Club. A lot about business. A lot about life. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNvEpf1sIohh76eEnhaE8yekxSN5gs7N98DxOqczrhuaSNXall76NGTk3oJueiMdiXO2MrZ7CrZbPTqJVwAu4Q-i7-2DRJrquBumrHG73YT8vUqny1fveJNvCITzIjlgR8UGHnq9_OiSKU/s1600/ColumbiaHouseRecordClub003.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNvEpf1sIohh76eEnhaE8yekxSN5gs7N98DxOqczrhuaSNXall76NGTk3oJueiMdiXO2MrZ7CrZbPTqJVwAu4Q-i7-2DRJrquBumrHG73YT8vUqny1fveJNvCITzIjlgR8UGHnq9_OiSKU/s320/ColumbiaHouseRecordClub003.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve probably joined The Columbia House Record Company on a
half-dozen different occasions between the years 1981-1991. Somehow, I always
thought I could make it work to my advantage. And each time, I would fail
miserably.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
See, already a business lesson. Make the customer think he
can get a bargain, then soak him for every penny you can. It’s a tried-and-true
business model, just ask any car dealer.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I first joined the prestigious Columbia House Record Club
with my older sister. We split a membership, but I wouldn’t tell that to the
kids at school. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m a member,” I would say proudly, nodding meaningfully at
the Members Only label on the person’s jacket.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, yeah?” they would inevitably respond, wondering what this
had to do with anything.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Uh-huh,” I would say, nonchalantly brushing my shirt.
“CHRC.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What’s that?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I can’t really say what it is – rules, you know – but I can
tell you that it’s very exclusive.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh,” they would say. Most would walk off after this, some
pretty quickly. But if the person seemed impressionable, I would go on.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Look, I’m not supposed to say, but… so I’m really into
music. CHRC is kind of a music industry thing. Sort of an insider’s club.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Usually this would get their attention.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Insider’s club? That sounds cool.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, it is,” I would reply, trying not to look smug.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So, what kind of music?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, any kind. Rock’n’roll, that’s my thing. But they have
stuff for jazz, country, R&B, anything.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“And every month, they send music from today’s hottest
artists for me to listen to.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Really?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Uh-huh. And guess what? We get to be the first ones to hear
new albums when they come out. Billy Joel, Journey, J. Geils, big bands like
that, and not just J’s either. Well, maybe not the first. But two, three months
after they come out.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“That doesn’t sound so cool.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah, but that’s not the best part. When I got my
membership, I got to pick twelve albums, any ones I wanted that they had, and
only had to pay for shipping and handling.” I was stretching the truth; I only
got six albums, because as I said, my sister and I were splitting. But I felt
safe saying it; it would be hard to prove since my sister went to a completely
different school.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Wait, is this that Columbia House thing?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What? <st1:city w:st="on">Columbia</st1:city>
House? I don’t…” I would shake my head as if confused.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“My older brother got suckered into that one once. He said
it was a total rip-off. Said he could of gotten the same albums for way less at
Tower or Circle, and wouldn’t have had to wait forever for them to come in the
mail. I hope it’s not that.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah, well, where else are you going to get the official Broadway
cast version of ‘Grease?’” I would snap back, my feelings suddenly hurt.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At this point the other person would look at me blankly,
shrug, and walk away. I would spend the rest of the day telling myself that I
bet they didn’t pay a dollar for their copy of “Paradise Theater.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of course, they probably didn’t pay eighteen bucks for their
copy of “Hi Infidelity” either.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So that’s one of the lessons, the business law of averages.
If a person buys twelve albums for twenty dollars shipping and handling (I’m
guessing here, I don’t remember exactly what the charge was for that first
shipment), and then that person buys eight more at eighteen bucks a pop (again
an estimate, including shipping and handling), that person will spend an
average of $8.2 per album. Still sounds like a good deal, right? But wait,
there’s more! If you add in the cost of all the albums that person got because
that person forgot to send the card back on time, the average goes up to about
$13 (a conservative estimate, trust me). And $13 is greater than $10, which is
what those same albums would have cost on sale at Target. Plus, I (I mean, that
person) would have had albums that that person wanted to listen to.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Speaking of those d*mned cards, I learned another valuable
business lesson from Columbia House’s practice of sending you the album (and
charging you full price for it) if they fail to receive your completed card by
the deadline. From this I learned you can make a lot of money off people who
are lazy, or forgetful, or both. Your customers may not like you very much, in
fact they may curse you, gnash their teeth, and rend their garments with rage
and frustration, but then again, this is business, right?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Even when I was sure I sent the card in with time to spare,
I still sometimes ended up with another unwanted album. As time went on, I started
to question how they defined each part of the process of “receiving your
completed card by the deadline.” Did ‘receive’ mean the day your card was
delivered to the Columbia House warehouse, or was it only considered ‘received’
when some dude who only works a half-shift every other Tuesday saw it? And if
you forgot to dot the abbreviation Rd. of your address on your card, was that
card regarded as incomplete? And by ‘deadline,’ did they mean the deadline
printed on the card, or did ‘deadline’ refer to the some other deadline, for
instance the one used for filing the previous year’s taxes? Oh, and by the way,
there was no way to argue with them, because you could never be one hundred
percent sure that your card did in fact make it to the necessary place by the
necessary time. Advantage: <st1:city w:st="on">Columbia</st1:city>
House. Well-played, my friend.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Another little lesson I learned from Columbia House is that
you really have to know what it is that you are buying before you buy it. I
once ordered an album called “George Burns in <st1:city w:st="on">Nashville</st1:city>.” I thought it was a comedy album.
Who knew George Burns had a short-lived career as a country artist? </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJIATjPZz0jGrjxmACoK62CAHL85MQzdM7jPqTzzcdyDEBSDmCmD4VWc42X0fbV9yVGo5EIAYNvE3s7YGF_6hLxZvN185ZyTAJyG0ZO9GwDK1TWlP2n3bW_XmrfaXIGHIztRfZ35UnU8B6/s1600/ColumbiaHouseRecordClub004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJIATjPZz0jGrjxmACoK62CAHL85MQzdM7jPqTzzcdyDEBSDmCmD4VWc42X0fbV9yVGo5EIAYNvE3s7YGF_6hLxZvN185ZyTAJyG0ZO9GwDK1TWlP2n3bW_XmrfaXIGHIztRfZ35UnU8B6/s1600/ColumbiaHouseRecordClub004.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One more thing Columbia House liked to do was have sales.
Buy one, get two free! Buy one at half-price, get another for half-price, stuff
like that. Which sounds great, and really generous, but by the time you add in
the shipping and handling, you save maybe a few bucks. Why did shipping and
handling always cost so much anyway? What exactly was ‘handling?’ I get the shipping
part: that’s the cost of preparing and mailing your records. But handling? What
is that? At those prices, you’d think they were handling live venomous
reptiles, like boomslangs and puff adders. One other thing about those sales.
Because it was a special deal, the records you bought didn’t count towards your
album purchase requirement. So nanny-nanny-boo-boo to you.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, I’ve learned a lot about business from the good ol’
Columbia House Record Club. It’s a shame that the kids of today’s generation
will never have the same opportunity to get ripped off over and over the way
kids in my day were. They may never get the chance to see how devious and
underhanded money-grubbing companies can be.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Wait, what am I saying? Kids these days still buy cars,
don’t they?</div>
Kevin Thorsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13558399947728948576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6821445767143002065.post-8074402756533358842015-05-20T00:29:00.000-07:002015-08-16T22:52:07.928-07:00Repaying the Debt #4: David Letterman<div class="MsoNormal">
So tomorrow is David Letterman’s last show. It’s a
remarkable thing. Some call it the end of an era. For me, the era of which Dave
was part has been over for awhile now. But then again, I don’t even feel like
I’m a part of the era in which I find myself.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I first met Dave sometime in 1984. I was fifteen or so, and I
had recently talked my parents into letting me have a TV in my room under the
pretext that I needed one for my TI-994A (if you don’t know what that is, google
it). The TV was a little 13” black and white job. Offbrand, of course. Paid for it
with my paper route money, or maybe I had started working at Lionel Playworld
by then. The thing was, I was only supposed to use the TV as a monitor. And for
the most part, I abided by my parents’ wishes. But late one night, I dared to
turn it on. In the course of flipping through the six or seven available
channels, I suddenly found myself confronted by the image of a pudgy,
bespectacled man. His odd, distorted face completely filled the screen. I don’t
remember what he was doing, or why he was so close to the camera. It didn’t
matter. All I knew was that on my television was a man who looked like a Gary
Larson cartoon come to life. It’s all I needed to see. I was hooked.</div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The man, of course, was Larry “Bud” Melman. The show was
Late Night with David Letterman.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was love at first sight. I know it was love because I
would stay up till midnight every weeknight. The show would end at 1 a.m., and
I would get five hours of sleep at most before having to get up and head off
for school. But I didn’t care. I could sleep in Trig class, for God’s sake. I
didn’t know what I’d do if I missed Letterman.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Like I said, love at first sight.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In those early days, Dave was cocky, and funny, and
sarcastic, sometimes to the point of being caustic. He was clever, and sharp, and
above all, a royal smart-ass. He had an underdeveloped sense of propriety, and
respect for authority. As a kid in high school these were all qualities I
valued highly. It was as though the television gods had granted me a mentor, a
co-conspirator, possibly even a savior. Maybe that’s going a little far. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No, I’ve thought about it, and I don’t think so.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Okay, well, maybe a little.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I feel bad for people who missed the early years of Dave’s
NBC show. It’s hard to describe just how entertaining it could be. It’s
frustrating, too, because I’m a writer, and I’m supposed to be able to describe
these things. Here’s how I sum it up: Dave took the talk show format and
systematically dismantled it, tearing down every element and twisting it into something
new and ridiculous. The results could range from the merely wacky to the
sublimely weird. Some things didn’t work, but that was okay, because he was
experimenting right before our eyes. Look, scientists who only conduct
experiments that they know will work never discover anything new, right? And in
those early days, Dave had the definite air of a mad scientist. In his maniacal
hands, the rigid talk show format was just so much Silly Putty. It was
television projected through the lens of a funhouse mirror. At least that was
my experience; I can only imagine what the drunk and/or stoned people out there
made of it. The point is, when you hear people talk about how groundbreaking
Dave was, don’t judge him by the version you’ve been seeing for the last twenty
years. You have go way back, to those first five years or so, to see exactly
what they mean. It was, at times, barely controlled chaos. At its best, it was inspired
and wonderful.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dave mellowed out after a while, incrementally became something
approaching mainstream. That happened well before his move to CBS and The Late
Show. This probably took some of the luster off for those of us who liked to
revel in his unique form of smart-assery. I know it did for me. The truth is, he
became a little less relevant in my life. I gradually noticed that I no longer
felt the same compulsion to stay up until midnight to tune in. But he always remained
my favorite, and over the many years since, I would always check in with him
from time to time, to see how he’s doing, maybe reassure myself my world was
still intact.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ll be honest, it’s going to be a little harder now to
maintain that façade.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here are some things I remember fondly about the early days.
I’m going back as far as my memory permits for these, and intentionally not
mentioning the most obvious ones (Stupid Pet/Stupid Human tricks, the Top Ten
list, any Jack Hanna appearance, Dropping Stuff off the Building, etc.):</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Chris Elliot (most vividly, his unnerving portrayal of The
Man Under the Stairs. Alternate: The Fugitive Guy )</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Steve Jordan on drums (and his new replacement at the time,
Anton Fig)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Director Hal Gurnee (or, as Dave liked to call him, Hal
Gertner). I loved Hal. Hal played the part of the longsuffering director, but
his choice of takes alone could elicit laughs, or provide ironic commentary on
whatever topic the Dave and his guest were discussing. I think Hal was
brilliant.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t get to see Andy Kaufman’s legendary appearance on
Late Night, but I was there for Crispin Glover’s kung-fu freak-out moment.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Alka-Seltzer suit </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Larry Bud Melman </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Monkey-Cam</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Barbara Gaines’ voice coming from somewhere far away</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Interrupting the local NBC news show, among others</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Canned ham<br />
<br />
Tierra Del Fuego<br />
<br />
Dave talking to his mom on the phone</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Paul Shaffer as The Flash</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Speaking of Paul, how could I leave out his imitation of <st1:place w:st="on">Cher</st1:place> singing ‘O Holy Night’?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"I've been hyp-mo-tized!"<br />
<br />
Charles Grodin</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Pyramid of Comedy (building blocks of comedy)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Bananas!"<br />
<br />
Talking to the woman in the next building (What was her
name?)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Teri Garr<br />
<br />
Connie Chung<br />
<br />
Jay Leno ("pound for pound, the hardest working man in show business")<br />
<br />
the voluminous viewer mail<br />
<br />
Sadly, this only scratches the surface. I know there are so
many more, but they’re all buried under six inches of dust somewhere in my
brain.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One last thing:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dave:</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Like The Kinks, and Star Wars, and Huck Finn, and WKRP in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Cincinnati</st1:place></st1:city>, you are
something very special to me. My memories of watching you are something I will
always treasure. Thanks, Dave, for everything.</div>
Kevin Thorsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13558399947728948576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6821445767143002065.post-48956163024675844172015-05-05T16:11:00.000-07:002015-05-05T16:50:08.286-07:00Brain DroolWork continues apace on the novel (that pace being glacial (and not of the global warming variety, but of the older, proverbial kind)). In addition to consuming vast quantities of time, it is also absorbing nearly all my mental energy (you try drinking orange juice in your coffee instead of milk!). All I have room for anymore are the occasional oddball thoughts that will manifest in my brain, and then melt away through the voluminous gaps (the human brain is, after all, 90% air*). For some reason, today I have a few still clinging to my gray matter. I'm going to share them, if only so I can clear space for still more thoughts on Greek mythology, the many intractable problems of narrative writing, and how many ways I can come up with to describe rocks.<br />
<br />
Parenthood: that glorious state of existence where the days pass like weeks, and the years pass like months.<br />
<br />
Conventional wisdom isn't just an oxymoron; it's an impossibility.<br />
<br />
Does this happen to anyone else? Listening to John Lennon's <i>Imagine,</i> and he sings the line: <i>Imagine all the people/Livin' for today...</i> I always have the same reaction. What is he thinking? Six billion people living for today? That's my definition of a nightmare. Knowing that we all have to come back again tomorrow is the only thing that keeps the social order going. Without it, we'd have sheer chaos. I think I must be missing the point...<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
* I have no idea if that is true.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Kevin Thorsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13558399947728948576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6821445767143002065.post-17814533421405621802014-12-21T10:41:00.001-07:002014-12-21T10:41:24.087-07:00Peter Jackson's Hobbit Trilogy in Three Words<br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Overthought</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaPHUrV-NIH4eHpLboge27nOQOz3Udj9hNh2OZtiUciQ_YFihy1Dg1QsJ-2vtBoo5gnx6to47jFOtZYMPk6YkD1I-Z18dvwlwugKm3kOq4jGj-rWlbm6PIPSNNHId6ykGyxMLTSQCgLPLw/s1600/HobbitTril001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaPHUrV-NIH4eHpLboge27nOQOz3Udj9hNh2OZtiUciQ_YFihy1Dg1QsJ-2vtBoo5gnx6to47jFOtZYMPk6YkD1I-Z18dvwlwugKm3kOq4jGj-rWlbm6PIPSNNHId6ykGyxMLTSQCgLPLw/s1600/HobbitTril001.jpg" height="320" width="216" /></a></div>
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<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3vlyz9IhPX_qqP3BAikJ4QSTVWcbK0ssQN3MkMAfcm6ZV9oYSdQJuzqoEIlx2XawX-w0UdIsw1N2ALKSFMZpSGaEzSwMwIO736LA2e_FH7VZWn6Y5j6iJouF4Rb7vuBnIRmfYU5-Ed9Sy/s1600/HobbitTril004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3vlyz9IhPX_qqP3BAikJ4QSTVWcbK0ssQN3MkMAfcm6ZV9oYSdQJuzqoEIlx2XawX-w0UdIsw1N2ALKSFMZpSGaEzSwMwIO736LA2e_FH7VZWn6Y5j6iJouF4Rb7vuBnIRmfYU5-Ed9Sy/s1600/HobbitTril004.jpg" height="320" width="219" /></a><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Overwrought</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Overfought</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgis6YZjoaueZscSG6hYO9R9DStKMJU7mG7fFx2_izDoPDZlz0HuEU73M5yrZdGn4WeBiy3ztJ_evlBD9-PoEKSiclsHAVYuXNDU9bDawcCPK84CGU-cN7iZ97G_KMYLnTifLF5tKKSZ709/s1600/HobbitTril005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgis6YZjoaueZscSG6hYO9R9DStKMJU7mG7fFx2_izDoPDZlz0HuEU73M5yrZdGn4WeBiy3ztJ_evlBD9-PoEKSiclsHAVYuXNDU9bDawcCPK84CGU-cN7iZ97G_KMYLnTifLF5tKKSZ709/s1600/HobbitTril005.jpg" height="320" width="215" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
And now, thankfully, it's just over.<br />
<br />
<br />Kevin Thorsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13558399947728948576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6821445767143002065.post-83606287488107453052014-12-12T12:57:00.000-07:002014-12-23T08:50:13.036-07:00The Real Story of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9cFuFQ0pHjoJxBJKgXnWcNOzg8hRrKja1j3zHgpGmxxQJHFqwMTKmUX9tx0GMG8kii9FzOnppvckREHv1NvPH5V5V99IFVseYXw_1SeJugdOS6LVXf7Vuy-AYlD8m2taxz83pOXXFcDIQ/s1600/Rudolph003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a>The Real Story of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Rudolph the red-nosed
reindeer<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Had a very shiny nose<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNJ0alUnk_7wuEXhLpY4cMhMSHAYsOl7dn07vJIwIEm5P0YhSnvzX5p3_3He2iZite2Mgnxvf2ZxmXCLRRpVRs3LIahfybIyLlXJKu3M8uM8ganK5pEx1PCCjt24XLXkF0nP5q_n6wB1KX/s1600/Rudolph002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNJ0alUnk_7wuEXhLpY4cMhMSHAYsOl7dn07vJIwIEm5P0YhSnvzX5p3_3He2iZite2Mgnxvf2ZxmXCLRRpVRs3LIahfybIyLlXJKu3M8uM8ganK5pEx1PCCjt24XLXkF0nP5q_n6wB1KX/s1600/Rudolph002.jpg" /></a>Yes, kids, that’s how the old song starts. Of course, we all
know that Rudolph had (and continues to have) a red nose, but most people don’t
how just how shiny it really was.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>And if you ever saw it<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>You would even say it
glows<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You could say it glows. You could also say that a searchlight
glows, or a five-alarm fire glows, or the sun glows. Take it from me, kids,
glows doesn’t begin to cover it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>All of the other
reindeer<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Used to laugh and call
him names<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m sorry to say, things did come to a point where most of
the other reindeer teased him mercilessly. But the truth is, Rudolph’s nose
shone so brightly that it was physically difficult to be around the little guy.
His nose wasn’t just a nuisance to the other reindeer, it was downright
hazardous. Why, his own mother and father had to wear welding masks just to put
him to bed at night. The others couldn’t even get close enough to talk to him
without risking permanent damage to their eyes. No one could understand how a
reindeer’s nose could be so infernally bright, and some of them thought it was just plain unnatural. A few were afraid of him.</div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>They never let poor
Rudolph<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Join in any reindeer
games<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, just imagine trying to play a game of football or
soccer when Rudolph was around. Always losing the ball in the glare of
Rudolph’s nose, or having everything go dark whenever he moved his head
suddenly, or had to blow his nose. The rate of injury among reindeer skyrocketed.
Playing was simply out of the question.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Then one foggy
Christmas Eve<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Santa came to say<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was the blizzard of 1882, to be precise. It was a freak
storm, which caught the elf weather forecasters completely by surprise. Not
that they could have done much about it, had they seen it coming. It was a booger of a storm. Santa, who
has a well-deserved reputation for stubbornness, wasn’t about to let a little
snow and ice and howling wind (oh yes, and perhaps some fog, too) derail him.
He was determined to deliver those gifts, or die trying. Interesting fact: Using
Rudolph’s nose to lead the way was actually Mrs. Claus’ idea; she was one of
the very first animal-rights activists and founder of PETAA (People for the
Ethical Treatment of Arctic Animals). She was very worried for the safety of the
reindeer.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Rudolph with your nose
so bright<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Won’t you guide my
sleigh tonight<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Unlike most of this song, this is exactly what Santa said, verbatim. I don’t know where the songwriter got his information, but it’s
accurate. Eerily accurate.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Then how the reindeer
loved him<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>As they shouted out
with glee<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Actually, it took a bit longer than that, a couple of years
anyway. Some of the reindeer took a wait-and-see attitude, while others didn’t
think it right that they were being asked to change their deeply-held beliefs
at the drop of a hat. And some continue to hold a grudge to this very day. But
those reindeer are a small minority now, and no one talks about them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Rudolph the red-nosed
reindeer<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>You’ll go down in
history</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsM37QhyUneA7mIOEffrqZmWX7wPnUQypbO0ZC7y30NsQHE9evLdezZl0W6lS_HbxA6D9eOvrY6DkqLyIgTPfYUHjEAyolQjKtYshwaCEoGT5TLugnAtyYNIvsk2l_jDhNLzNRVGxZBNs6/s1600/Rudolph001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsM37QhyUneA7mIOEffrqZmWX7wPnUQypbO0ZC7y30NsQHE9evLdezZl0W6lS_HbxA6D9eOvrY6DkqLyIgTPfYUHjEAyolQjKtYshwaCEoGT5TLugnAtyYNIvsk2l_jDhNLzNRVGxZBNs6/s1600/Rudolph001.jpg" /></a>Unfortunately, contrary to the song’s lyrics, Rudolph
struggled in anonymity for many years after that fateful Christmas Eve. Though
he was slowly accepted by the small community of North Pole reindeer, the wider
public only knew about the eight older reindeer: Dasher, Dancer, Prancer,
Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, and Blitzen. It wasn’t until 1939 that people
first became aware of Rudolph’s difficult childhood, and his pivotal role in
assuring Santa’s arrival every year (prior to Rudolph, even on clear Christmas
Eves near-misses with mountains, airplanes and tall building were a frighteningly
regular occurrence). Finally though, his story was brought forth by Robert L.
May (Oprah hadn’t been invented yet). Ten years later, in 1949, it was turned into
the familiar holiday song we all know and love. But, as a testament to the slow
march of progress, Rudolph continues to be a controversial figure. At last
count, 62 countries and 5 states (mostly in the south) have not officially
recognized his existence.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My two cents:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kids, I think the natural inclination here is to come down
hard on those other reindeer. But we shouldn’t forget that the vast majority of
them were, in every other way, good, decent, hard-working reindeer who meant
well and wanted to do the right thing. They were dealing with a very difficult
situation, one that they really didn’t understand. Accepting something one
doesn’t understand is very hard, even for reindeer, who are naturally very
open-minded creatures. In the end, they really only made one mistake, but it
was a very important one. They forgot that though Rudolph was indeed Red-Nosed, he was always a reindeer.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Merry Christmas!!!</div>
Kevin Thorsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13558399947728948576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6821445767143002065.post-81477328979034296982014-11-03T21:08:00.000-07:002014-11-03T21:12:20.988-07:00Come Dancing<div class="MsoNormal">
Most days, I listen to Van Halen, Foo Fighters, or Green Day
to help me through my “Thirty Minutes of Hell” workout, you know, something
high energy and especially loud, which helps drown out the sounds of me panting
and the occasional groan. Today, though, their brand of accompaniment doesn’t
strike me right, and so I go with something else: The Kinks’ <i>Live - The Road.</i> As the title suggests, it is a mostly live album, a collection of songs
recorded in concert by that most English of English bands circa 1987.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It seems an unlikely choice, I know, but it works surprisingly
well. The Kinks happen to be my all-time favorite band, and they flat out know
how to rock in concert. I crank through the first three songs, and before I
know it, I’ve already whittled twelve minutes off today’s timed descent into suffering.
The fourth song begins. It’s “Come Dancing.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you were around in the eighties, you might remember “Come
Dancing.” It was the last big hit The Kinks ever had. It’s a bright, breezy
song with a wistful, melancholy message, the kind that Ray Davies is so adept
at writing. It’s the kind of song that seems crafted specifically to be remembered
fondly. It’s the kind of song that you could easily imagine being sung in an
English pub during the wee hours of the morning a hundred and fifty years from
now.</div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Come Dancing” has always reminded me of my older sister.
The song is about an older sister, so I suppose that would explain it. But
there’s more. The sister in the song loves to go dancing, as Ray makes clear early
on:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Come dancing/that’s
how they did it when I was just a kid<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>And when they said to
come dancing/my sister always did<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That was my sister too. When she was young (but old enough),
my sister would go out to the clubs and go dancing every chance she got. To me,
her passion for dancing was inexplicable. She would enthusiastically talk about
where she had gone the night before, and what it had been like, but my eyes
would glaze over after about thirty seconds, and eventually she stopped.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As the song progresses, it connects with my memories in such
a way that makes me wonder if all older sisters are pretty much the same:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>My sister should have
come in at midnight/my mum would always sit up and wait<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>It always ended up in
a big row/when my sister used to get home late<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That was my sister, too. Except it was usually my dad who
waited up, and my dad who laid into her when she finally cracked open that
front door. A big row, indeed. I could never understand why my sister couldn’t
learn to come home on time. I, in turn, learned a lot by watching my sister. I
learned it was better to sneak out through a window and hop the fence when you
wanted to be out late, and come back in the same way. Turns out there’s far
less yelling that way, assuming you don’t get caught.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The song goes on to relate how his sister’s favorite place
to dance was knocked down to make way for a bowling alley, and how she cried
when it did, and how part of her childhood went with it. Oddly, I have no
memory of my sister doing this.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But then comes the part that always gets me, and somehow
today it gets me worse than normal:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>My sister’s married
and she lives on an estate<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Her daughters go
out/now it’s her turn to wait<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>She knows they get
away with things she never could<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>But if I asked her I
wonder if she would<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Come dancing/Come on
sister have yourself a ball<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Don’t be afraid to
come dancing/it’s only natural.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My sister is married now, and lives on something that, if
you half-close your eyes and pretend not to notice the neighbors, approximates an
estate. But, thanks to a really complicated set of medical problems she endured
many years ago, she’s never been able to have kids of her own. She doesn’t have
daughters, and she doesn’t have the unique privilege – or pain – of having the
tables turned, of having to stay up late and wait for them to come home, for
instance. I hate the fact that she couldn’t have kids. If anyone deserves them,
it’s her, and she would’ve made a great mom. There are plenty of nieces and
nephews in the family, and she spoils them. She gets to be the cool aunt, the
one that they love. Especially the girls, I think.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know that she relishes playing that role. But I also think
that deep down, it has to hurt a little too. How could it not? And somehow this
song makes me think of not just this, but of all the pain she’s had to bear in
her life. More than her fair share, in my opinion. She’s handled her burdens with
spunk, and dignity, and a perfectly unrepentant sense of humor, all without a
trace of self-pity. Still, the song never fails to stir up the heavy mud of
melancholy in me, far more than Ray Davies could’ve intended.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can’t forget that stubborn, restless, fun-loving sister
who loved to go dancing every weekend, and who always seemed to be getting into
trouble with mom and dad. While my legs pump relentlessly away at 62 revolutions
per minute, my heart wishes we could escape, my older sister and me, back to that
time, if only for a while. I know that if I were given the chance again, I
would listen to her babble on about dancing the night away at Mr. Lucky’s, or
Graham Central Station, or wherever she had been, and I would soak up every
word she said. I would even try to advise her on how she might be able to get
away with coming in late. Most of all, I would watch with wonder at how she
just seemed to come alive in those moments.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I start to choke up. I’m now fifteen minutes into my
workout, and I have tears brimming in my eyes. I tell myself that it’s the
damned elliptical machine’s fault; after all it’s designed to bring suffering
to the surface. But I know it’s not the machine. It’s not the machine at all.
The song, and my memories, and the vicissitudes of life, are to blame.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The song ends; the Kinks move on. I don’t notice, though.
I’m still thinking about my sister. Like Ray, I wonder what would happen if I
asked her to come dancing. I wonder if she would.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Come dancing<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Come on sister have
yourself a ball<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Don’t be afraid to
come dancing<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>It’s only natural.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Kevin Thorsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13558399947728948576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6821445767143002065.post-17549605105372122862014-10-16T11:54:00.000-07:002014-10-16T12:46:36.346-07:00Elliptical Batman<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I was on the elliptical this morning, slogging my way
through “thirty minutes of hell,” an accurate – if not quite affectionate –
name for my workout. At some point, I catch a glance of an old lunchbox on the
shelf nearby. It’s a childhood relic recaptured through the magic of ebay,
an old metal lunchbox with Marvel superheroes adorning every side. The side
that’s facing out shows Spiderman, Thor and Captain <st1:country-region w:st="on">America</st1:country-region>. They are showing off,
their athletic muscularity on bountiful display in powerful, iconic poses. I
cannot see myself, but I know what I must look like in comparison as I sweat
and strain and groan: a pale reflection filtered through a funhouse mirror.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Suddenly, I hate these guys.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I struggle to cultivate (or even hang on to) the
comparatively small amount of muscle mass I possess, as I grapple with this
stupid machine in an increasingly tenuous battle to fend off the excess weight
that seems determined to envelop me, as I endure these thirty minutes of hell
each day just so I can continue to keep some degree of fitness part of my
identity, it dawns on me that those guys over there on the shelf have it easy.
They always have, and they always will. None of them had to earn their muscle,
or fight off the insidious advance of middle age obesity. Spiderman
spontaneously sprouted muscles after being bitten by a radioactive spider. Thor
was born a god. Gods never have to throw themselves in the path of an oncoming
exercise machine. Sure, Steve Rogers started life as a scrawny runt – he and
I had at least that much in common – but then he went and got injected by a
super-secret super-soldier serum (which conveniently went missing long before I
got my turn) and then, <i>WHAM!</i>, next
thing you know he’s Captain America. He’s set for life. He might retain some
vague recollection of what it was like to be a scrawny runt, but he’s never
going to have to deal with the twin scourges of visceral and subcutaneous belly
fat.</div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I look at them from my position, a solid twenty minutes deep into hell, and I reject them. I reject all accidental superheroes. Every one
who came here from another planet, or were born with superpowers, or acquired
them through some bizarre accident. What do they know of me, of my struggle?
Give me the self-made superhero, the one who had to earn his muscle. Give me
Batman.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Batman, at least, knows my pain. Batman, I am certain, has had
to fight hard to maintain his peak physical condition all these years. Of all the superheroes, Batman's the one who, like me, must mount the elliptical machine every day and put
himself through thirty minutes of hell.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe even forty.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Kevin Thorsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13558399947728948576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6821445767143002065.post-76286015970486968722014-08-02T14:36:00.001-07:002014-08-02T14:50:41.002-07:00The Adventures of Heracles Mendoza - Sneak peak!After months of revising and rewriting and polishing, I finally have a chunk of the novel ready to read that stands a decent chance of not embarrassing me. Just to be clear, I said a <i>decent</i> chance. I have written a prologue, which I am currently undecided about using, mostly because the tone and style of it is so very different from the book itself. Still, I'm posting it here because it does introduce the character in what I hope is a charming manner, plus it serves the additional purpose of raising the question as to who exactly the narrator of this story really is, and that, it seems to me, is a very fair question.<br />
<br />
After the prologue, there are links to a PDF version of Chapters 1-4 as well as a link to a Word document that readers can complete and return to me if they wish to send me feedback. Or feel free to comment directly on the blog. Thanks for reading!<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
PROLOGUE</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Where to begin?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Many writers like to start their
stories with a bang, jumping right into the middle of some hot mess, trying to
hook the reader with a shocking dose of tense, dizzying commotion. Others take
the slow, methodical approach, carefully setting the scene, and then zooming in
slowly like a camera until the main character is front and center.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
But, really, a story can start any
old way. I suspect that deciding just <i>where</i>
to begin a story is a problem that drives writers crazy. Or maybe it’s just me.
I wish I knew for sure. I don’t know too many writers.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Take this story, for example. This one
begins on a sunny morning in the city of <st1:city w:st="on">El Cajon</st1:city>,
a suburb of <st1:city w:st="on">San Diego</st1:city>, which is a large metropolis
in the state of <st1:state w:st="on">California</st1:state>,
in the country of The United States, in the Year of Our Lord 2009. It begins
with a fourteen-year-old (almost fifteen) boy by the name of Les Mendoza, as he
plays basketball with a couple of friends on Monday, June 10<sup>th</sup>, the
first real day of summer break (because everyone knows that weekends don’t
count…).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
But is that the <i>best</i> place for the story to start?</div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I suppose some writers, if this
were their story to tell, might have chosen to begin almost a full year before,
at the end of the previous summer, when Les returned home from spending two
months at his <i>tia’s</i> house in <st1:country-region w:st="on">Mexico</st1:country-region> to
discover that his father had met a woman. Julia. This was a great shock to Les,
as was the horrifyingly rapid escalation of their relationship. The thing was,
the more he got to know Julia, the more he hated her, and every time he had
dealings with her, the more certain he became that she hated him with equal, if
not greater, fervor. Now, if this was your standard story about some adolescent
boy who meets his future stepmom, and who, through a series of painful lessons
about life, is finally able to overcome his initial hatred for her and learn to
accept her and perhaps even to love her, it might make sense to start here, but
it isn’t.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Other, and perhaps better, writers might
have started the story a few years before that, in the fall of 2005, when Les’s
mother was killed in a car accident, because that’s when things really started
going wrong for Les. Of course, it didn’t help that when the accident occurred,
his mother happened to be coming to pick him up from basketball practice. Or
that Les, who usually walked himself home, had felt particularly lazy that day
and so called home and pestered his mom until she agreed to come get him. Now,
that’s a tough thing for any boy to deal with, let alone one who is already prone
to blaming himself when bad things happen. Les was sad and quiet for a long
time after that, and nearly lost all of the real friends he had, except Omar,
his best and closest friend since sixth grade. But he had his dad, and together
they endured the nightmares and the misery of being alone. That whole time was
tragic and depressing, and it was hard enough to witness, let alone write
about, and I just couldn’t bring myself to start the story there.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
On the other hand, one could plausibly
argue that a compete telling of this story can begin at one, and only one,
place: his birth. But, if I might be
perfectly frank, there really was nothing truly remarkable about the birth of
Les Mendoza. Don’t get me wrong; every birth is a miracle, and every child marks
the creation of a new, mysterious universe. My point is simply that he wasn’t
anymore a miracle, or anymore a new mysterious universe, than any other kid
born on that day, or any other. The facts are simple: born July 21<sup>st</sup>, 1995, to Hector
and Annette Mendoza at the <st1:placename w:st="on">Naval</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Hospital</st1:placetype> at <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Camp</st1:placetype> <st1:placename w:st="on">Pendleton</st1:placename></st1:place>.
He weighed 6 pounds, 2 ounces, and was 15-and-a-half inches long. Actually,
these last facts may or may not be completely accurate. They are really my best
guesses pulled from vague recollections of the times. How much a baby weighs,
or how long it was when it was born, seem absurdly unimportant pieces of
information to me, but I have included my best estimates out of respect for those
who place significance in such numbers, as many people appear to, particularly
women, I have noticed. If you’re one of those people who just has to know, you
might be able to contact the hospital’s records department yourself, although
I’m not sure that’s the sort of information they’ll just hand out to anybody
who calls.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Les, it might be noted, was born
with a full head of bushy black hair and a pair of thickly-lashed dark brown
eyes, but in all other respects was unremarkable in appearance. At least the
other babies in the incubation room and their parents took no special notice of
him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
As he grew up, Les was always small
for his size, and tended to be a friendly, well-intentioned child. He was never
the center of attention, but most everyone seemed to like him well enough,
although sometimes you would have to prompt his classmates and teachers before
they remembered whom you were talking about. He didn’t collect friends the way
some people collect, oh, let’s say stickers, but he always had a small group of
close friends who ‘got’ him and to whom he was devoted. In most ways he was
like most kids, and his early childhood was marked by nothing more sinister
than basketball, bicycles, and birthday parties. Sometimes his ball went flat, sometimes
his tire got a nail in it, and sometimes he didn’t get what he wanted, and
these constituted almost all the terrible tragedies in his early life.
Obviously, there’s little point in starting here, as nothing is quite so boring
as a story about a kid with a happy childhood.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Going even further back, some
people, especially writers of a certain genre, might suggest that it would be
best to begin Les’ story with the story of his parents, perhaps on the night
they met, because that’s always a very romantic scene, even if it’s only
romantic in retrospect. Besides, these writers hasten to assure us, readers
love romance. But others, equally ardent, would quickly counter that romance
has no place in this story, and that it would be far better to begin with a
closer look at his father, and the Mendoza family, which has a rich history
that traces back from California to Mexico to Spain, and, before that, far into
the dim and unrecorded annals of time. Some knowledge of the <st1:city w:st="on">Mendoza</st1:city> family history, these people would contend,
is essential to understanding the events that befall Les in his own time. To
this I say that too much information is as often a curse as it is a blessing,
and besides, I really don’t want this story to begin like the Old Testament
books of Numbers and Deuteronomy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
And if we were to go back that far,
then a single large step further might make a better starting point, because no
account of Les’ travails can truly be considered given without mentioning that keystone
moment in history, some three thousand years ago, when the so-called Trojan War
(but known by others as the First Olympian War) and subsequent events
fundamentally changed the direction and course of the mortal world forever.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
And yet, to truly understand that momentous time requires knowledge of what came before, and that would lead us in a very winding path all the
way to the very beginning of beginnings, the birth of the universe, and the
earth, and the gods themselves. Those events have been covered, however, and
are readily available for anyone to read, even now. If they are not always
accurate, and if the accounts sometimes seem to disagree (if not blatantly
contradict each other), at least they are, in a general sense, close enough to
the truth to suffice. If you are interested in that portion of the story, you
can glean the essentials from any respectable book on Greek mythology. Many
such books exist, and while I will not get caught up in side-choosing, I will
simply say that each one reflects the truth in some ways, and fails in others,
and the difference between them is small enough to be overlooked, except by the
most serious and committed of truth-seekers.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
At any rate, I believe I’ve made my
point; actually, probably more than made it: Starting a story is not always as
easy as it seems. If this digression has already bored you, I apologize. Perhaps
I should have clarified earlier: I am not a natural writer. So please take that
into account as you decide if you want to read further or not. If you do,
consider yourself warned.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
All of which brings us back to that
late morning in early summer in 2009, which started, to all appearances, with a
few friends playing basketball at a neighborhood park. Perhaps it is not the
best choice for a beginning, but it’s probably not the worst either. And, no
matter what any critics of this selection might argue, there is one thing that
cannot be denied: it was the day that
everything changed for Les Mendoza.</div>
<br />
Link to Chapters 1-4 of The Adventures of Heracles Mendoza: <a href="https://www.dropbox.com/sh/r5d7hc40ldmx3nu/AACm7mtjRyfGUN-4_wxkQLNja/Ad%20of%20HM%20-%20BK1%20Dr2%20Ch%201-4.pdf">https://www.dropbox.com/sh/r5d7hc40ldmx3nu/AACm7mtjRyfGUN-4_wxkQLNja/Ad%20of%20HM%20-%20BK1%20Dr2%20Ch%201-4.pdf</a><br />
<br />
Link to Feedback form: <a href="https://www.dropbox.com/home/AoHM%20Bk1%20Second%20Draft">https://www.dropbox.com/home/AoHM%20Bk1%20Second%20Draft</a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />Kevin Thorsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13558399947728948576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6821445767143002065.post-27326356179867658832014-05-23T22:16:00.000-07:002014-05-23T22:20:44.405-07:00Bull-leaping lives!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
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Ever since setting to work on my novel, I’ve been digging
deep into the mythology and ancient history of the Greeks. One unexpected (but
cool) side effect is that some otherwise random news story or fragment of ephemera
will catch my attention because it recalls or connects with something from that
time. A great example of this is the following photo, which chanced across my
computer’s homepage a week or so ago:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2FCEqvTB_g2svCQ_UXgUctDqmm1_Pbku3XwkIWKM78qtuegDJ8m77QYk_o_NWFrXaRn4P5w441oG-iwPBRH-JmOi9faiOYdbcUwVn99kppMl-d_IcStBWagQ56p-qvjjsHK6J-yQmSGJM/s1600/Bull-leaping01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2FCEqvTB_g2svCQ_UXgUctDqmm1_Pbku3XwkIWKM78qtuegDJ8m77QYk_o_NWFrXaRn4P5w441oG-iwPBRH-JmOi9faiOYdbcUwVn99kppMl-d_IcStBWagQ56p-qvjjsHK6J-yQmSGJM/s1600/Bull-leaping01.jpg" /></a></div>
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This is a picture of a man sailing over a charging bull, looking
much like an <st1:city w:st="on">Acapulco</st1:city>
cliff diver, only sideways. One thing we can say for sure about this guy is
that when he landed, it wasn’t in water. Hopefully, it was just sawdust, or
sand, or something equally inoffensive. Anyway, it makes for a compelling
image, and instantly raises the question: What is this man doing, and where did
he get those nifty socks?</div>
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I’ve had no luck with the socks yet, but it only took a few
clicks to learn that the man is called a <i>recortador,</i>
a professional bull-leaper. That’s right, he leaps over bulls for a living. The
sport is called <i>recortes,</i> and the
premise is to avoid being gored and trampled by a stampeding bull while still
picking up points for style. To do this, the <i>recortador</i> relies on courage, preternatural agility, and an uncanny
knack for knowing where the bull is going to go. The only weapons he takes into
the arena are his wits and an unlimited supply of hair product.</div>
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The modern sport of <i>recortes</i> is known by almost no one. It is practiced mostly in a few areas in northern <st1:country-region w:st="on">Spain</st1:country-region> and isolated parts of <st1:country-region w:st="on">France</st1:country-region>, where
it meekly coexists alongside its braggadocian cousin, bull-fighting. Why
bull-leaping remains so obscure is a real mystery. Killing a bull with spears
and lances is one thing, but to go out there and try to embarrass one to death takes
it to a whole new level. Bull-leaping requires no less fortitude on the part of
its participants, but it does require a whole lot more athleticism, not to
mention flexibility. Don’t believe me? Watch this.</div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/lSRsPmrzjfc?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br />
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The thing is, as obscure as it is today, the sport of
bull-leaping actually has roots going all the way back to the ancient Greek
world. That’s why the image originally caught my eye. As soon as I saw it, I
was reminded of a fresco recovered from the <st1:placetype w:st="on">palace</st1:placetype>
of <st1:placename w:st="on">Knossos</st1:placename> in <st1:place w:st="on">Crete</st1:place>.
It dates back to 1700-1200 B.C.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-K-fDoAURWEA6542X5UWyvZL1ROqQyCYyiM3rc_TGUBA_4FDi97rXB_12W0xdBaWZGHaTATP966afU8Ejrcrwu6XgYi8cKBGT4e7XE09RYmCN9iRYpEFjRFKfbare7EkeUJFJ8561RgrI/s1600/Bull003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-K-fDoAURWEA6542X5UWyvZL1ROqQyCYyiM3rc_TGUBA_4FDi97rXB_12W0xdBaWZGHaTATP966afU8Ejrcrwu6XgYi8cKBGT4e7XE09RYmCN9iRYpEFjRFKfbare7EkeUJFJ8561RgrI/s1600/Bull003.jpg" height="227" width="400" /></a></div>
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In this image, a man with what can only be described as
Cirque-du-Soleil-caliber flexibility is shown, mid-vault, as he leaps over the
back of a bull. A woman stands to his right, apparently waiting to catch him,
or maybe she is just preventing him from running away. A woman on the left appears
to be hanging on to the bull’s wicked-looking horns. What this woman is doing has
puzzled anthropologists for decades. My guess is she’s preparing to get thrown
eight rows into the stands. You know how Sea-World designates certain rows
closest to the action a ‘splash zone,’ to warn people they might get wet during
a show? Maybe in ancient <st1:place w:st="on">Crete</st1:place> they had a
‘splat zone.’ You’d definitely want a poncho for that…</div>
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According to the experts, bull-leaping was quite the rage in
old, old, old <st1:place w:st="on">Crete</st1:place>. And the sport wasn’t limited
to the relatively simple matter of leaping over the bull, like today’s <i>recortadores</i> do. No, experts seem to
think that the ancient Cretans did astonishing acrobatic routines, using a
rampaging bull as their apparatus. They theorize that it worked something like
this: the bull charged at the target, in accordance with standard bull-charging
procedure. Just before impact, however, the person jumped up, grabbing the
bull’s horns with both hands. Then, as the bull reflexively threw its head
upward, the person was catapulted into the air, where he was free to perform as
many flips, twists, Heisman poses, etc., as he could while waiting for gravity
to reel him back in.<br />
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As if that weren’t enough, some further believe that the
person would land on the bull’s back, probably so he could mock it with the
Cretan equivalent of ‘nanny-nanny-boo-boo’ before dismounting in some equally
impressive and death-defying manner.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvoRyJOG1VZJOlDFl2X-ufe0aHO9A4ms6Fru-wew3Nu0XhSuBZ0i87jxRTrVutIioubTUI3G0ID1M5FtFuuLu5jWK48W3nYzbWKZxYtlbUtuABKRPK74sg1XbHxB7CW65NqnmChp8HWbzW/s1600/Bull001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvoRyJOG1VZJOlDFl2X-ufe0aHO9A4ms6Fru-wew3Nu0XhSuBZ0i87jxRTrVutIioubTUI3G0ID1M5FtFuuLu5jWK48W3nYzbWKZxYtlbUtuABKRPK74sg1XbHxB7CW65NqnmChp8HWbzW/s1600/Bull001.jpg" height="263" width="320" /></a></div>
In a way, it sounds similar to the contemporary gymnastic
event known as the vault. Of course, no bull is used; the modern athlete utilizes a piece of equipment called a vaulting table. Among the benefits, it's fully padded, and it’s got springs built right in, which provide
the gymnast with the necessary boost he or she needs to execute their leaps. Another advantage is that the table stays put. And, oh yeah, the table doesn’t possess an uncontrollable desire to turn every gymnast it sees into a jock-ka-bob. Aside from that, though, the similarities are enough to wonder if perhaps the modern vault originally derived from the bull-based version.<br />
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Some argue that the bull-leaping acrobatics ascribed by
historians to the ancient Cretans are physically impossible to execute, given the speed involved, the
strength required, the trajectory of the bull’s head thrust, etc. Whether this
is true or not remains to be seen, as nobody seems to be in a hurry to test the
hypothesis. Personally, I think this would make a great experiment for a Mythbusters:
Greek Mythbusting show. Other possible topics: Did Hercules really look just
like Dwayne Johnson, Was King Midas’ golden touch really golden or a cheap
imitation, and How long can thirty Greeks be stuffed into a wooden horse
without arguing so loudly they ruin the surprise?</div>
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I, for one, am glad to have discovered that the <i>recortador</i> exists, a living heir to an ancient and illustrious
tradition. Now, if I could just find out where he gets his socks…</div>
Kevin Thorsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13558399947728948576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6821445767143002065.post-86179074761245186222014-03-30T18:16:00.000-07:002014-03-30T18:20:53.486-07:00Throwing the Penalty Flag on Muppets Most Wanted<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc-Ddx-VEBpK3w2_2oSr-yU_qzDkEiUhxKcVEpcxX_4Nz0jTQzSnPKspOsCkdBugE4rGUQ-XgI3opKu1-AM_iatVPz8YcjHElcCIb5bgnVuSN8ZkluYQsFt-QZM_E-dL6grU-ZBvZPci7m/s1600/MuppetsMW001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc-Ddx-VEBpK3w2_2oSr-yU_qzDkEiUhxKcVEpcxX_4Nz0jTQzSnPKspOsCkdBugE4rGUQ-XgI3opKu1-AM_iatVPz8YcjHElcCIb5bgnVuSN8ZkluYQsFt-QZM_E-dL6grU-ZBvZPci7m/s1600/MuppetsMW001.jpg" height="135" width="320" /></a></div>
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I am already on record as being a huge fan of the Muppets,
going back to the early days of <i>The
Muppet Show.</i> And I wasn’t shy about professing <a href="http://www.thunderstrokes.com/2011/12/muppets.html" target="_blank">my love</a> for the recent
Muppets reboot (2011) starring Jason Segel and Amy Adams, because it
resurrected so much of the pure whimsy, joyful exuberance and gently caring
spirit of the first and best Muppet film, 1979’s <i>The Muppet Movie.</i></div>
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So how does the new film, <i>Muppets Most Wanted,</i> fare in comparison? Well, let’s just say that
it’s a frog of a different color. Not a completely different color. Just a few
shades off. After the opening number, <i>MMW</i>
never quite rises to the level of its predecessor. It’s not that it can’t quite
hit the high notes; it’s more like it’s not clear that they’re trying. Generally
speaking though, it does meet the Muppet standard for entertainment value, and
that means kids and adults alike will enjoy the film, in their own ways. Grown-ups
will guffaw at the moments of parody, the playful pop-culture references and the
quick one-liners, while kids will have fun watching the silly and colorful antics
of the characters. It may not be the Muppets at their best, but it is them in
their most familiar habitat.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfakLjYKOKqhNdi6eQ3ZNesuJkaQoD71leFRh-yTUMsaGBUuQGjRMabbOPzshy6A3drOGSCmzNPaJsoCzaUYgP9LUEP1e9VMRZMeR-YOEfitbKMG9XULWD4vE7U8dxhBeTu7PEO1LXdFs6/s1600/MuppetsMW005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfakLjYKOKqhNdi6eQ3ZNesuJkaQoD71leFRh-yTUMsaGBUuQGjRMabbOPzshy6A3drOGSCmzNPaJsoCzaUYgP9LUEP1e9VMRZMeR-YOEfitbKMG9XULWD4vE7U8dxhBeTu7PEO1LXdFs6/s1600/MuppetsMW005.jpg" /></a>One thing I confess I don’t understand about <i>Muppets Most Wanted</i> is the intentional
decision by the filmmakers to loosely shadow the storyline of <i>The Great Muppet Caper </i>(1981). In <i>The Muppets</i>, the theme of reviving past
greatness by getting the group back together again naturally lent itself to
multiple parallels to the original, which was the story of Kermit and how he
gathered the group together in the first place. <i>MMW</i> does something similar with its call-back film. Both are
predicated on the Muppets venturing overseas and getting entangled in a major heist.
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But why? <i>The Muppets</i>
had something to say about reinvention and facing the future that actually builds
upon the original, but that is not the case for this newest film. Both <i>Muppets Most Wanted</i> and <i>The Great Muppet Caper</i> are varieties of
caper film, but there is no necessary link between them. So what’s the point?
Why not set off in some new, different direction with <i>MMW? The Great Muppet Caper</i> wasn’t that great to begin with. Why use
it as a model? And does this mean the next film is going to be <i>The Muppets Take <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New Jersey</st1:place></st1:state>?</i></div>
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That aside, <i>Muppets
Most Wanted</i> as a film is not interesting enough to warrant much discussion.
In fact, I wouldn’t have made a point to comment on the movie at all, except
for two things about it that have been festering in my mind all week. One of
them is merely annoying, but the other is somewhat disturbing. </div>
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Let’s address the merely annoying first. So, is Celine Dion
actually a long-lost Muppet, or did she donate a ton of money to the Muppets
future re-retirement fund? Those are the only two explanations I can come up
with to explain her dull <i>(black and white
in a Muppet movie?!)</i> and completely unnecessary appearance in the film. I
mean, I’ve heard that she’s capable of delivering a show-stopping performance,
but this one brought the movie to such a complete and screeching halt I could swear
I smelt the burnt rubber coming through the screen. In the film, Ms. Dion
serves as some kind of sparkly, magically-appearing mentor to Miss Piggy, kind
of a cross between the Fairy Godmother from <i>Cinderella</i>
and Obi-Wan Kenobi from <i>The Empire
Strikes Back.</i> Except she sings a song and then disappears without either waving
her wand or telling Piggy to go to Degobah.
It certainly doesn’t advance the story or add anything of value to the
movie, unless you count the slight uneasiness that comes from listening to
Piggy and Celine trying to harmonize. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF6YaIBZU6ecAW94A8dyDwVviIC53dQEidoaTrmRITtO88Ylm-V5-93uwBgt-oTOa9p3rG-2VimDBeG784RIzgJnIyeVLb17BoMr0SGmCgGvqZ8YneqGN5qvPPOAhXLJtl69hZVrfC4OMM/s1600/MuppetsMW006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF6YaIBZU6ecAW94A8dyDwVviIC53dQEidoaTrmRITtO88Ylm-V5-93uwBgt-oTOa9p3rG-2VimDBeG784RIzgJnIyeVLb17BoMr0SGmCgGvqZ8YneqGN5qvPPOAhXLJtl69hZVrfC4OMM/s1600/MuppetsMW006.jpg" /></a></div>
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I don’t know if the filmmakers involved realize this, but since
Jim Henson’s death, those of us who love the Muppets are continually asking
ourselves <i>WWJD</i> (as in <i>What Would Jim Do?</i>) whenever we watch
something Muppet-related. And I can’t
help but think that if Mr. Henson were the one pulling the strings (forgive the
pun) on this production, he would’ve avoided a scene like this.</div>
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There’s something else, though, that isn’t as minor, or as
easily dismissed. The film’s villain, Constantin, is an escaped criminal
mastermind who happens to bear an uncanny resemblance to our favorite frog.
Seeing an opportunity to do more evil, he has his agent (Ricky Gervais) coax
the Muppets into going on tour in <st1:place w:st="on">Europe</st1:place>, where
they hope to build on their sudden, but possibly fleeting, resurgence of
popularity. Once there, Kermit is quickly framed, captured, and returned to the
Russian gulag Constantin hailed from. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2ngkWQCZanwOyDR6qn2A25Itb15fC1ZuFPH_bbM6uasdLR9gSaGXqr2Mj-6XfqAFXW-TRtr8BWwW_54IJWJ3F5s_OMAiSOUF2SqdyuC5SakSq6OCm3csIPzhlZ77rv-zl4o6TjjU6gS9R/s1600/MuppetsMW002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2ngkWQCZanwOyDR6qn2A25Itb15fC1ZuFPH_bbM6uasdLR9gSaGXqr2Mj-6XfqAFXW-TRtr8BWwW_54IJWJ3F5s_OMAiSOUF2SqdyuC5SakSq6OCm3csIPzhlZ77rv-zl4o6TjjU6gS9R/s1600/MuppetsMW002.jpg" /></a>And here’s where things went a bit off
the rails for me. For starters, they show Kermit being wheeled into the gulag <st1:city w:st="on">Hannibal</st1:city> Lecter-style down
the long hallway to his cell. That was a really disturbing image. Granted, I
think it disturbed me more than it did my daughters, but that’s because my
emotional investment in Kermit is much stronger than theirs. There are certain
things you just don’t do to Kermit, and one of them is to treat him like a brutal
serial murderer so you can reap a cheap movie parody laugh. It’s wrong, and I
didn’t like it. So there. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDzoJdFvN4j5OQNo8_EgOzNH44zlBuqgH5cg7sBT9YU_NuiyBhuGveAfukSJ3qBUGC_oZ23yRKE2IZPTboHQIGKOVuSYQJZltS1wpHqB-9hbNZX9_efOXXsCovdlyuSstL8LU5KyRg9nGd/s1600/MuppetsMW003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDzoJdFvN4j5OQNo8_EgOzNH44zlBuqgH5cg7sBT9YU_NuiyBhuGveAfukSJ3qBUGC_oZ23yRKE2IZPTboHQIGKOVuSYQJZltS1wpHqB-9hbNZX9_efOXXsCovdlyuSstL8LU5KyRg9nGd/s1600/MuppetsMW003.jpg" /></a>But much worse than that was the portrayal of the gulag in
the film. As we follow Kermit through his ordeal, we see him confronting the
other prisoners, languishing alone in his cell, and trying various manners of
escape, all of them foiled in light-hearted manner by the gulag’s commander
(Tina Fey). We see other prisoners treated even worse. One is locked in an
isolation box in the yard (although one of the funnier surprises in the film
comes when we see just who it is who has been locked away the whole time,
prompting me to remark, “So that’s where he’s been…”). Others are left chained
to a wall in uncomfortable-looking poses. Eventually, Kermit is able to win the
hardened prisoners over, even after they realize he is Kermit the Frog and not
Constantin the arch-criminal. The gulag commander, who secretly adores Kermit, even
puts him in charge of the annual prisoner show. </div>
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Now, if you think that ‘gulag’ is just the Russian word for
prison, none of what happens there is likely to bother you much. It’s basically
a Muppet version of Jailhouse Rock, a song-and-dance version of the big-house.
All good, clean fun. </div>
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The problem is, the gulag as it existed wasn’t any of these
things.</div>
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Here’s a small sampling of what the gulag <i>was:</i></div>
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In what I suspect is a stupendous example
of understatement, the Library of Congress offers the following <a href="http://www.loc.gov/exhibits/archives/gula.html" target="_blank">description of the gulag:</a> “Conditions in the camps were extremely harsh. Prisoners received
inadequate food rations and insufficient clothing, which made it difficult to
endure the severe weather and the long working hours; sometimes the inmates
were physically abused by camp guards.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="background: white;"><a href="http://www.britannica.com/EBchecked/topic/249117/Gulag" target="_blank">Encyclopedia Britannica</a>
offers these tidbits:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white;">“Besides rich or resistant
peasants arrested during collectivization (after the Bolshevik Revolution),
persons sent to the Gulag included purged Communist Party members and military
officers, German and other Axis prisoners of war (during World War II), members
of ethnic groups suspected of disloyalty, Soviet soldiers and other citizens
who had been taken prisoner or used as slave labourers by the Germans during
the war, suspected saboteurs and traitors, dissident intellectuals, ordinary
criminals, and many utterly innocent people who were hapless victims of
Stalin’s purges.”</span></div>
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<span style="background: white;">“Long working hours, harsh
climatic and other working conditions, inadequate food, and summary executions
killed off at least 10 percent of the Gulag’s total prisoner population <i>each year.”</i>(emphasis added)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white;">“Estimates of the total
number of deaths in the Gulag in the period from 1918 to 1956 range from 15 to
30 million.”</span></div>
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A brave man named Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn exposed the true magnitude
of the gulag’s abuses when he published “The Gulag Archipelago,” which
documented the stories of 227 prisoners, as well as his own. Here’s a great, fast
<a href="http://www.slate.com/articles/news_and_politics/foreigners/2008/08/death_of_a_writer.html" target="_blank">article</a> from Slate written in 2008, just after the death of Solzhenitsyn,
that’s well worth reading. Also, there’s a <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/books/98/03/01/home/solz-gulag.html" target="_blank">NewYork Times book review</a> from 1974, when the first two parts of the enormous
project were initially published. Those interested in learning more might want
to check it out. Here’s a quote from that article which summarizes Solzhenitsyn’s
description of what it was like for those targeted for the gulag:</div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">“The reader
follows scores of victims, their biographies effectively generalized, from
arrest to first cell and "interrogation," then onward through transit
prisons, across the vast country in overcrowded, pestilent trains, to the ports
and ships of the Archipelago. It is a journey into debasement and death, into
grotesque torture, execution, rape, starvation, thirst, disease and more.
Reduced to "a caricature of humanity," millions somehow survived the
journey, other millions did not. The journey and book end upon arrival at the
forced labor camps (the gulag). Solzhenitsyn presumably will describe life and
death there in subsequent volumes. Here he remarks only, "In camp it will
be. . . .worse."”</span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t know about you, but that doesn’t sound like any
plain old prison. It sounds a bit like what was going on just on the German
side of the Russian border during the 1930’s and 40’s. I’m not suggesting
they’re exact equivalents, but I wonder what the audience’s reaction would have
been if Kermit had been sent to a concentration camp instead of the gulag.
What, because it’s in <st1:country-region w:st="on">Russia</st1:country-region>
that somehow makes it funny? I don’t think so.</div>
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At the theater where we saw the movie, one gentleman got up
and left the auditorium just after the scene where Kermit is repeatedly caught
trying to escape the gulag. This person exited to the parking lot, not the
lobby. Perhaps it had nothing at all to do with the scene, maybe the guy just
felt a sudden and overwhelming need to drive. But could you blame someone for
being upset at the movie’s depiction of the gulag if, let’s say, one of their
relatives or ancestors had experienced the real thing? I know I couldn’t. Even
before the man left, I was already feeling pretty uncomfortable about seeing the gulag treated in such a offhanded and tone-deaf manner.</div>
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The gulag system went extinct around 1960, so in <i>Muppets Most Wanted</i> we are most likely talking
about the Russian equivalent of a prison. But the Russians didn’t refer to the
gulag as the gulag, and as far I can tell, they don’t refer to their current
prisons as the gulag either. So why did the movie feel it necessary to characterize
it that way? It gives a distorted sense of history, doesn’t it, to call what
was seen in the film a gulag? Don’t get me wrong; I’m not counting on the
Muppets to teach history to my kids, or anyone else’s, but I have to say I’m
disappointed that they didn’t have the sense or sensitivity to avoid this kind
of mistake. Getting back to <i>WWJD?</i>, I don’t
think I’m going out on any limbs when I say it’s the kind of mistake we’d never
see Mr. Henson make.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9BSpdBh4TtX2x4nZrPO4fZCBSiT88kGU4SI3BY3fXQlfRBFXW6Fd29zKKX9XlbGd1iROSfw7rSXbnXKzsWIbYFDLkCK02nnHKewTE0YIdHPu9TrpArRAn-mRlKJsd7PYm8-t3m0INzy6W/s1600/MuppetsMW007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9BSpdBh4TtX2x4nZrPO4fZCBSiT88kGU4SI3BY3fXQlfRBFXW6Fd29zKKX9XlbGd1iROSfw7rSXbnXKzsWIbYFDLkCK02nnHKewTE0YIdHPu9TrpArRAn-mRlKJsd7PYm8-t3m0INzy6W/s1600/MuppetsMW007.jpg" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For that reason, <i>Muppets Most Wanted</i> deserves to have a penalty called
on it. </div>
<br />
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<br /></div>
Kevin Thorsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13558399947728948576noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6821445767143002065.post-10283920554883271802014-03-27T13:38:00.001-07:002014-03-27T13:50:41.860-07:00Tapping Out: Spinal Tap Turns 30<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7Orbl7ecLxhMAMODTl_YVABraQ0Nb_dZBqNx0O076G82tNF_QvlS8AGryqXeArvw1o2nY_sDymQeootqURBUXV2TdaXUEHcmhpUFmxCcR6HbnrgL8vcuP8Dfq9R5KrhOBCnJgzRpBHtrK/s1600/SpinalTap003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7Orbl7ecLxhMAMODTl_YVABraQ0Nb_dZBqNx0O076G82tNF_QvlS8AGryqXeArvw1o2nY_sDymQeootqURBUXV2TdaXUEHcmhpUFmxCcR6HbnrgL8vcuP8Dfq9R5KrhOBCnJgzRpBHtrK/s1600/SpinalTap003.jpg" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
My career as a movie reviewer began in March, 1984. I had
just managed to land the assignment to write a movie review for the next
edition of my high school newspaper, “The Brophy Round-Up.” I don’t know how it
happened, me only fifteen, still an underclassman. I had only written only one previous
piece, a less-than-scintillating profile of Key Club, and now, here I was, getting
a crack at the paper’s second-most-coveted gig (just behind music critic). True,
being at an all-boys school, I couldn’t count on my status as the school’s
official movie reviewer to attract girls, but still, it beat the crap out of covering
cross-country racing. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I set out to make a statement with my first review; you
know, start things off with a bang. If I knocked this one out of the park, I
reasoned, they’d never be able to pry me out of the job. I’d become known as
the movie mogul of Brophy College Preparatory. I would go down as the greatest
film critic the school had ever seen. And this would be the review that started
my inevitable rise to fame.</div>
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Brimming with ambition, I scanned the movie section in the <i>New Times</i> during seventh-hour Biology.
Only three films were opening that weekend: <i>Repo
Man, Against All Odds,</i> and <i>This is
Spinal Tap.</i> </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The obvious choice would have been <i>Against All Odds,</i> the Jeff Bridges/Rachel Ward flick. I spurned
this idea, even though I liked Jeff Bridges in <i>Tron,</i> and really liked Rachel Ward in <i>Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid,</i> even if she was in black and white the
whole time. <i>Odds</i> was a romance, and I
knew I needed something more substantial than some piece of romantic fluff to properly
begin my conquest. I needed something quirkier, edgier, less mainstream. So instead,
when I arrived at the AMC Village Six multiplex that Friday night, I bought a
ticket for <i>Footloose.</i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What? Aren’t quirky, edgy, and less mainstream the first
trio of adjectives that pop into your mind when you think of <i>Footloose?</i></div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
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<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizw5QWZDRKUhuivznKdK3hm9g-y9CS3tPQuQBlZxm5TCMBsYalfSa8bejKiJ3CcKMh9Mi2mMw52LAHdITbtngXo2MJJEW212V8FRUNAer-Z3HtDJiEuLvjJcU551aXeWI2ONYH2L86exKI/s1600/SpinalTap006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizw5QWZDRKUhuivznKdK3hm9g-y9CS3tPQuQBlZxm5TCMBsYalfSa8bejKiJ3CcKMh9Mi2mMw52LAHdITbtngXo2MJJEW212V8FRUNAer-Z3HtDJiEuLvjJcU551aXeWI2ONYH2L86exKI/s1600/SpinalTap006.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Spinal Tap</i>, the <i>Airplane!</i> of rock</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Well, before you kick off your Sunday shoes, I only said I
bought a ticket for <i>Footloose.</i> Once
inside, I promptly skipped theaters, and, as discreetly as possible, found an out-of-the-way
seat in the already-darkened auditorium next door. That was where I saw <i>Spinal Tap,</i> along with about two dozen
other people that Friday night, half of whom seemed confused by what they were
seeing.</div>
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I was in the other half. I was incapacitated from beginning
to end to by successive paroxysms of paralyzing laughter. It was the funniest
movie I had seen since <i>Arthur,</i> which
was, up to then, the funniest movie I had ever seen on a movie screen. Well,
that and <i>Richard Pryor Live on the Sunset
Strip.</i> I actually got kicked out of that one, though, halfway through, for laughing
too much. It sounds silly to be kicked out of a theater for laughing at a
comedy film, but I was only thirteen, and a thirteen-year-old sitting by
himself in a theater laughing hysterically at a very R-rated movie was inevitably
going to bring the usher down for a closer look at the ticket stub. </div>
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<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW91t02ghhnSXzPTR9Q1I0dXhmqkz3W3Q0fsNVhgM4ac9rtqFUQejIBHz4Jq2EZhs63l9QLJz7j9HFJ2HLI7BD9LmLUvPvv3iuR8ltAi0xi-OZ8jNpmTVMSnwIiHD8CyvDNvFYhx1W2-Om/s1600/SpinalTap002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW91t02ghhnSXzPTR9Q1I0dXhmqkz3W3Q0fsNVhgM4ac9rtqFUQejIBHz4Jq2EZhs63l9QLJz7j9HFJ2HLI7BD9LmLUvPvv3iuR8ltAi0xi-OZ8jNpmTVMSnwIiHD8CyvDNvFYhx1W2-Om/s1600/SpinalTap002.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nigel Tufnel (left), David St. Hubbins (center),<br />
and Derek Smalls (right) <i>are</i> Spinal Tap</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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When the movie was over, I went straight home and began planning
my review of <i>Tap.</i> I soon encountered
a problem, however. The only name actor in the movie was Michael McKean, who
was known for playing Lenny, the tall, satin-jacketed doofus on the TV show <i>Laverne and Shirley.</i> For reasons I still don’t completely understand,
I somehow watched all of <i>Tap</i> without it
ever dawning on me that McKean was playing the role of David St. Hubbins, the
lead singer with the stringy blonde hair. It was disturbing, because I just
couldn’t find Lenny’s recognizable face (or voice) in the movie at all. I began
to realize I was facing a serious dilemma. I had no idea how to attribute the
actors’ performances. Any of them. This might come as a surprise to the
uninitiated, but it’s kind of difficult to project a reliable, confident voice
as a film reviewer when you can’t even state with any certainty which actor
played which character. In the end, I faked it. Of the three main actors in the
film, I got none of them right, confusing Christopher Guest and Harry Shearer
for each other. I think I named Ed Begley, Jr., as David St. Hubbins. Michael
McKean, I decided, must have played the minor role of ill-fated drummer Mick
Shrimpton. This was something of a disappointment, I remember writing, as McKean
had only two discernable lines of dialogue in the entire film, both of which
occurred during the end credits. </div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1GBZkk9MJPDAWUcOw0_Ng7vrcnLTjX4bg7YSqytnFlFPo-OL_Chw3E-nme0kokCW29fdioNnyc8W_dMvc9K_VIPmadkiCpIb3t7Z5x5iFE-r0J6ii0hAqPRkpoFsi9a6VwVl0Yb0oHViE/s1600/SpinalTap004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1GBZkk9MJPDAWUcOw0_Ng7vrcnLTjX4bg7YSqytnFlFPo-OL_Chw3E-nme0kokCW29fdioNnyc8W_dMvc9K_VIPmadkiCpIb3t7Z5x5iFE-r0J6ii0hAqPRkpoFsi9a6VwVl0Yb0oHViE/s1600/SpinalTap004.jpg" height="302" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Artist's approximation of a smudged newsprint ad.<br />
Mick Shrimpton (and somewhat Squiggy look-alike)<br />
is the one with the hat.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Note: In my own defense, this was many years before the internet
and helpful websites like <a href="http://www.imdb.com/" target="_blank">IMDB</a>. All I
had to work with, beyond my own deeply flawed memory, was a blurry newsprint ad
for the film that ran in the movie section of the paper. Based on this, I
determined that I must have mixed up the whole Lenny/Michael McKean thing,
since the only person who seemed to bear even a passing resemblance to anyone from
<i>Laverne and Shirley</i> was the drummer,
who, in smudged newsprint, looked something like Squiggy (actually R.J. Parnell for Mick, and David L. Landers for Squiggy). </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I turned in my review the following Wednesday, hoping that
the sheer enthusiasm I brought to the piece would be enough to offset my
all-too-obvious lack of command over basic facts. Then I waited, on pins and
needles, for the next edition of the school newspaper to come out. It was an unmitigated disaster. The editor
had made major changes. As I recall, every line was altered in one way or
another, most of them drastically. I was aghast. The review that I had poured
all my time and energy into, sweated over, carefully weighing almost every
single word choice, agonizing over finding just the right adverb or adjective
and then revising again and again and again, was not even recognizable to me. This
was not the fruit of my loom. To add insult to injury, the only part of my work
that made it into print were all the mistakes I made identifying the actors.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I took it hard. It was a travesty. It was an outrage. It was
a troutrage. In a fit of self-righteous anger, I resigned my position with the
paper (actually I just stopped showing up for the weekly meetings), and I swore
that I would never allow myself or my work to be degraded by an editor again (a
great way to ensure that you are never published, by the way). </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As swiftly as they began, my movie reviewing days were over.
The promising career, the improved social status, the legacy, all gone.
Disillusioned with the life of a writer, I turned instead towards my other
love: drawing cartoons and comic strips. The career of a cartoonist was the way
to go, I reassured myself. Sure, they tended to be misunderstood, but they were
also largely neglected by everyone, even editors. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Wait. Allow me to correct that. Especially editors. </div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
This piece was written in homage to <i>This is Spinal Tap,</i> which celebrated its 30<sup>th</sup>
Anniversary on March 2. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Happy 30<sup>th</sup> Anniversary, <i>Spinal Tap!</i> You remain a small piece of perfection in a highly
imperfect world. You have improved my stay here on planet Earth, and I owe you
for that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSUUjCv3Qs5EwGcStEfYgf7Sk6f-4b1pnz8nw0DP-dcasyDQtJGmFYcwfal7N4qESM6tByCQ4W8Fg7fYJpU2dJk7CvhJadHjAg1hUHNbIZQxH5irBHrcA-GaZw3Rdro1v6iOuFcXJmJQlR/s1600/SpinalTap005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSUUjCv3Qs5EwGcStEfYgf7Sk6f-4b1pnz8nw0DP-dcasyDQtJGmFYcwfal7N4qESM6tByCQ4W8Fg7fYJpU2dJk7CvhJadHjAg1hUHNbIZQxH5irBHrcA-GaZw3Rdro1v6iOuFcXJmJQlR/s1600/SpinalTap005.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The pop culture litmus test</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For those of you who haven’t seen the film, check out
<a href="http://www.yeahtv.com/rental/this-is-spinal-tap/4941" target="_blank">YeahTV’s website</a>. In honor of <i>Tap’s</i> 30<sup>th</sup>,
they are making the film available to stream for free, along with access to a
whole bunch of interviews and extras. It’s worth checking out, even if you’ve
seen the movie before.</div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
And if you’ve ever wondered, as I have, whether the wacky
incidents in <i>Tap</i> really happen to
real rock’n’roll bands in real life, check out <a href="http://ultimateclassicrock.com/tags/spinal-tap-stories/" target="_blank">Ultimate Classic Rock's website</a>, which honors the
transcendent glory of the film by seeking out Tap-like revelations in
interviews with some famous groups like Meatloaf, Queen, Heart, Jethro Tull and more...</div>
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</div>
Kevin Thorsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13558399947728948576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6821445767143002065.post-49835384711425786412014-03-01T19:14:00.004-07:002014-03-01T21:01:56.497-07:00Gettin' Smauggy With It: The Desolation of Smaug<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHgoN9uapQgBlGgcEWKbZ42UBYyxpDBiy5UZn99ZS0N_NFVVq_U0DvDs1y5H_EAg2_iAkbithC_bdEluqgndQMvjsjrqWq8POdf9d6oe3ywhtgRpTdLlqIUBZyZX8bE7WdSlskUGagisE1/s1600/HobbitDOS001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHgoN9uapQgBlGgcEWKbZ42UBYyxpDBiy5UZn99ZS0N_NFVVq_U0DvDs1y5H_EAg2_iAkbithC_bdEluqgndQMvjsjrqWq8POdf9d6oe3ywhtgRpTdLlqIUBZyZX8bE7WdSlskUGagisE1/s1600/HobbitDOS001.jpg" height="320" width="216" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Orcs gettin’ shot<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Drilled by elves right
on the spot<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Chasin’ dwarves without
a thought<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>You know they’re never
gettin’ caught.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Like a Shaq free throw
shot<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>This hobbit flick is
all for naught<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Cuz the action’s
overwrought<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>And it’s fraught with
extra plot.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Word.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That’s how I imagine Will Smith might rap-review Peter
Jackson’s second film in <i>The Hobbit </i>trilogy,<i> The Desolation of Smaug,</i> if rapping
movie reviews was his thing, which it isn’t, and if he shared my cinematic
sensibilities, which he probably doesn’t.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Overwrought. That’s the key word I keep coming back to. I
could add a few more: ostentatious, histrionic, superfluous, but I don’t know
what those words mean. Here’s one I like:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Splurgy. That’s a good word too. This film has a certain
enthusiastic spendthriftiness to it. It’s like the working stiff who wins the
office pool, and then rushes home and announces, “Gather up the kids, honey.
We’re all going to Golden Corral tonight!”</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA0SG6t4jbfr3m9yEYzF7w455Tt5WcnMr2r3_SSQyw-tDqnSQm80slSqOOBNVoHNf3h42HXXKQI-RsolWPUrwK9v-uIEFT1s7GuFwmjdqyPMUbTOyDrnPnsud5YKwIRYEcNPKXFdS7oN6B/s1600/HobbitDOS003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA0SG6t4jbfr3m9yEYzF7w455Tt5WcnMr2r3_SSQyw-tDqnSQm80slSqOOBNVoHNf3h42HXXKQI-RsolWPUrwK9v-uIEFT1s7GuFwmjdqyPMUbTOyDrnPnsud5YKwIRYEcNPKXFdS7oN6B/s1600/HobbitDOS003.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And possibly a severe bowel obstruction.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I suppose this is the kind of thing that can happen when a director
as imaginative and ambitious as Mr. Jackson gets too much of everything he
wants. As in:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 12.25pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .25in; text-indent: -12.25pt;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: Wingdings; text-indent: -12.25pt;"> <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Wingdings; text-indent: -12.25pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"></span></span><span style="text-indent: -12.25pt;">Too much creative control</span><br />
<span style="text-indent: -12.25pt;">Too much perceived demand for more Middle-Earth
movies</span><br />
<span style="text-indent: -12.25pt;">Too much money gladly handed over, strings
detached</span><br />
<span style="text-indent: -12.25pt;">Too much film stock, or hard
drive capacity, or whatever medium movies are made with these days.</span><br />
<ul>
</ul>
<br />
Yet it’s hard to fault Mr. Jackson entirely for cranking out
an overwrought, bloated product. After all, could you blame the proverbial kid
in the candy store for eating himself into a blimp if he was given the key to
the store with the words, “We’ll see you, oh, I don’t know…Tell you what, why
don’t you let us know when you’re ready to come out?”<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The man’s only human, and self-restraint is not high on most humans’ list of strong points. Self-restraint is one of those things that
sounds good in theory, but in practice, well, check back later. The sample
size is too small.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So what do I mean by an overwrought film, exactly? Well the proof is in the pudding, and the pudding in <i>The Desolation of Smaug</i> is the action
sequences. So let’s taste the pudding, shall we?</div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>The Dwarf/Elf/Orc Barrel-Battle scene</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzHWsmpiedMOqX38gyHt1M1gwA7FWFPVkkC-0_iXMJcmqaiu6Up0qQE2NyO28fXJSLAffvSMXsaG-7eib5SM854Q5RLW1qyWegSHNKR4asLKN_Jvk9LJvsTE2rw0RddC7QG9OQRjntfYt9/s1600/HobbitDOS006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzHWsmpiedMOqX38gyHt1M1gwA7FWFPVkkC-0_iXMJcmqaiu6Up0qQE2NyO28fXJSLAffvSMXsaG-7eib5SM854Q5RLW1qyWegSHNKR4asLKN_Jvk9LJvsTE2rw0RddC7QG9OQRjntfYt9/s1600/HobbitDOS006.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Floating down the river was a lot harder before inner tubes.<br />
On the other hand, you never had to worry about<br />
losing your keg.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The film moves along at a fairly economical clip until Bilbo
and the dwarves escape from their elvish prison in Mirkwood by means of hiding
in wooden barrels and leisurely floating down the river to safety. I’m sorry, I just
described the way Tolkien wrote that part of the story. Mr. Jackson’s take was
slightly different. Now I’ll grant you, the first few minutes of the intertwining
battle between the orcs, elves and dwarves is fun to watch. But it just goes on
and on and on: dwarf stabs orc, orc swings at dwarf and misses, elf shoots orc,
orc jumps at elf and misses, elf steps on dwarf, dwarf curses out elf as elf
shoots two orcs with one arrow, you get the picture. Mr. Jackson invests a
solid five minutes in the cinematic equivalent of button-mashing; and in a
film, just as in watching someone else button-mash a video game, five minutes
can feel like fifty. It was about this time in the theater that I first started
to notice the numbness in my butt-cheeks, which is not a good sign.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve said this before, in fact about <a href="http://www.thunderstrokes.com/2013/01/hobbits-and-wizards-and-dwarves-oh-my.html">the previous <i>Hobbit</i> film</a>, but it is my belief that an
action sequence that goes on too long actually drains energy from a movie,
instead of adding to it. For an action sequence to be effective, especially an
extended one, there has to be some wins and losses mixed in there.Contrast this
scene, for instance, with a virtual clinic on well-crafted action sequences:
the truck convoy scene toward the end of Steven Spielberg’s <i>Raiders of the Lost Ark.</i><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2RH-qNVLG5UMd0eSVx6j70gY4QTPwLv6qDcXJoHanVS6gYM2_MPtP5OqiL1NUAcq-wKltMoqIsNhRDXUPLUtjRRH44BhVPtyTk1iYZdl4tDAulmzimxpsUdMEOg_1wury6wZZsNyWnT_A/s1600/HobbitDOS004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2RH-qNVLG5UMd0eSVx6j70gY4QTPwLv6qDcXJoHanVS6gYM2_MPtP5OqiL1NUAcq-wKltMoqIsNhRDXUPLUtjRRH44BhVPtyTk1iYZdl4tDAulmzimxpsUdMEOg_1wury6wZZsNyWnT_A/s1600/HobbitDOS004.jpg" height="137" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
In this scene, Indy
is trying to liberate the ark from the Nazis. You’ll notice that he doesn’t do
this by simply dispatching Nazi after Nazi in various intricate and increasingly
ghoulish ways until he wins. No, Indy fights his way to the truck, takes it
over, then gets shot in the arm, thrown through the windshield and nearly run
over. He gets dragged through the dirt and the rocks and dust, only to scratch
and claw his way back up, and then he starts all over again. Indy faces
setbacks and reversals, testing his character and his wits as he overcomes each
obstacle. He’s down almost as often as he’s up, and the audience is never sure
which way the fight’s going to go next. That generates excitement, suspense,
empathy, a sense of participation, all of which add energy to the film.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTGLXoZYwpXJ6xViyjmId6are5lFVRSVs2O-MC-MZMbIheG5ZkjDhcQL4FrYZzo73pUE3TVurMbcigAUowlDj-D4kFYJ4hSwyke-YH0Z9xazelJbY4kkW_rd8y4KRZcN5g0oykAZ7I4DrB/s1600/HobbitDOS005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTGLXoZYwpXJ6xViyjmId6are5lFVRSVs2O-MC-MZMbIheG5ZkjDhcQL4FrYZzo73pUE3TVurMbcigAUowlDj-D4kFYJ4hSwyke-YH0Z9xazelJbY4kkW_rd8y4KRZcN5g0oykAZ7I4DrB/s1600/HobbitDOS005.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mr. Jackson: "And right about there is where I plan to<br />
abandon my better judgment."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The barrel-battle scene, though, lacks any of this kind of complexity.
There is little shifting of fortunes, and, consequently, very little emotional engagement
for the audience. It quickly becomes a wearying experience when all you’re doing
is watching an ever-growing string of increasingly meaningless visual theatrics.
When this tendency becomes a habit, it can project an impression of careless
self-indulgence, and self-indulgence in films looks bad, regardless of whether it’s projected
at 24 or 48 frames per second.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Lake-town</b><br />
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Much of what happens in Lake-town is invented for the film,
and most of that is purely extraneous, starting with the pack of orcs who come
riding into <st1:city w:st="on">Lakewood</st1:city>
unnoticed and unresisted, and who proceed to ransack the town in their search
for Bilbo. Call me a purist, but I found the concept of orcs traipsing through <st1:city w:st="on">Lake-town</st1:city> like it was
their own version of Club Med another example of action for action’s sake. Beyond
portraying the residents as criminally incompetent defenders of their town
(lookouts, anyone?), its only purpose seemed to be to juice up the action-to-running
time ratio. Usually, that’s the kind of thing a studio makes a director do, in
a desperate effort to prop up a film that it feels has bogged down, but here we
can safely assume Mr. Jackson is calling the shots all the way.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh, and by the way Mr. Jackson, we’re not buying the whole
elf/dwarf love thing between Tauriel and Fili (or Kili, I can’t remember). In
the history of the earth, and that includes all earths: upper, middle and lower;
beginning, middle and end, this one truth holds eternal. Mountains may rise and
fall, seas may form and dry up again, dinosaurs and dodo birds may come and go,
but short guys never, ever, <i>ever</i> get
the tall girl. Even fantasies have their limits. And oh, in case you’re
wondering, I’m a guy, and I’m five-four. So yeah, I know what I’m talking about
on this one.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>His Smauggyness</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1bD-og4KfAMsgb5CXwXyrdCjIBJICEOYvZ60Xxgha9te-steWMIUTMcWTB0oI15QN3JVV9rAIiifV4MEmVYek_scsO7_SxrMB3NQlHEMOPdlKcRqrPTqR7yxoqDMqSZqBac-uo6atai_-/s1600/HobbitDOS002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1bD-og4KfAMsgb5CXwXyrdCjIBJICEOYvZ60Xxgha9te-steWMIUTMcWTB0oI15QN3JVV9rAIiifV4MEmVYek_scsO7_SxrMB3NQlHEMOPdlKcRqrPTqR7yxoqDMqSZqBac-uo6atai_-/s1600/HobbitDOS002.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So far, so good...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
This one hurts the most. Especially because Mr. Jackson does
such a fine job of introducing us to the dragon, Smaug. The interaction between
Bilbo and the dragon sparkles, literally as well as figuratively, as they spar
verbally on a cascading mountain of gold. Smaug comes across as sly, powerful,
and exceptionally intelligent, just as we expect him to be. And then, out of
nowhere, the scene degenerates into Smaug chasing the dwarves around the cavernous
old hall like they’re so many Shreks. It practically devolves into a digital
age version of a Keystone Cops routine, except that with every passing moment,
it gets less and less funny. Look, these dwarves have already proven themselves
to be less than adept at avoiding capture, and yet Smaug can’t manage to corner
even <i>one</i> of them? Even a lowly orc
managed to stab one during the dwarf/elf/orc barrel-battle scene. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The pity of it is, the dragon’s mindless pursuit of the
dwarves undermines the very cerebral image Mr. Jackson had just painstakingly
created. Instead of coming across as a lethally wicked and clever opponent, by
the end it’s hard to see Smaug as much more than a spoiled, arrogant blow-hard,
pardon the pun. The whole sequence goes on far too long, and nothing of
significance gets accomplished, unless you consider seeing Smaug coated with a
layer of liquid gold a la Shirley Eaton in <i>Goldfinger</i>
something of significance. Apparently, skin suffocation isn’t an issue for
dragons. Who knew?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdCS7Vx5DMgen7ukJMyikYBgJoi48tgk99Y58xckEyUHvytHCyNj_7ICHfYOX4eQOkJwTIXe8bSXW9PCRmtFbazm2XyclMxkapdJlgS6a3UOre8Ty_Vf3C5YRatazS7-J6GoGZzZ_SdBmV/s1600/HobbitDOS007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdCS7Vx5DMgen7ukJMyikYBgJoi48tgk99Y58xckEyUHvytHCyNj_7ICHfYOX4eQOkJwTIXe8bSXW9PCRmtFbazm2XyclMxkapdJlgS6a3UOre8Ty_Vf3C5YRatazS7-J6GoGZzZ_SdBmV/s1600/HobbitDOS007.jpg" height="153" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Why can't I look at this picture without seeing Austin Powers?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I feel like we need to hold an intervention for Mr. Jackson.
I’m willing to preside, if you can somehow get him to my house. I’d say:
“Peter, please, listen. Action scenes aren’t meant to last forever. No matter
how much you love them and want them to, Peter, they just aren’t. They’re like
leftovers, or old shoes, or dogs. You have to let them go before they start to
stink to high heaven; although if it’s a dog, at least it’s a forgivable
offense. Please, Peter, think about that, preferably before you sign any papers
for a 12-movie version of <i>The
Silmarillion</i>.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s enough to make you wonder exactly how in the wide wide
world of sports the <i>LOTR</i> trilogy ever
managed to avoid the same stink of excess. Part of it obviously is that when he
made the first trilogy, he wasn’t Peter Jackson yet. By that I mean he wasn’t
yet the crown prince and U.N.-sanctioned potentate over all things
Middle-Earth. He hadn’t taken over the sandbox, and relegated everyone else to
standing around and watching him play. He had fellow producers to placate and a
studio to please, and no legions of adoring fans. And no blank checks. But I
think the real key is that Mr. Jackson was constrained by the necessity of
keeping <i>The Lord of the Rings</i> to a
trilogy-length series. He was forced to take a great literary work, its three
volumes already full to bursting with more material than he could ever hope of
using, and compress, compress, compress until it fit into the rigid framework
of exactly three feature films. There was simply no room left over for
Jackson’s rococo action instincts to manifest themselves, and the movies, deprived
of his natural tendency to try and out-Hobbit <i>The Hobbit,</i> turned out brilliantly as a result.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I ran across an interesting <a href="http://movies.msn.com/movies/article.aspx?news=854335&ocid=rr-mov-news">story about Robert DeNiro</a> just the
other day. With respect to directing he said,<span style="background: white; color: #333333;"> </span><span style="background: white;">"I
don't know if I will ever do another movie. If I did five in my life, I would
be happy. I might not do three... It's a lot of work... very tough, especially
if you care about doing it... It's always about money, about budget. You always
have to be fighting them (studio bosses) every second."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, now, Mr. DeNiro, let’s not be too rash about this.
After all, without that detestable studio intervention, your film <i>A Bronx Tale</i> might have turned into a
trilogy of three-hour movies called <i>A
Primarily Bronx Tale, Along With A Whole Bunch of Crap About The Other Four
Buroughs.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You know, on second thought, I get the feeling you don’t
have the same self-restraint issues.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hey, how much do you like hobbits, Mr. DeNiro?</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Kevin Thorsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13558399947728948576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6821445767143002065.post-28812181835363131532014-02-24T11:14:00.000-07:002014-02-24T11:15:39.962-07:00Note to Self...<div class="MsoNormal">
It is said that we are made in the image and likeness of
God.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is also said that God is Love.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What else, then, do you need to know?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The answers to your endless questions exist in that one
simple truth.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You are not the fear that occupies you</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You are not the doubt that undoes you</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You are not the selfish lies you speak</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nor the selfish acts you do </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You are not the envy that you feel</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You are not the shame of your failings</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nor the pride of your victories</div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
You are not the body which the world sees</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You are not the mind which analyzes and compares and
categorizes</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You are not the name that was given to you at birth</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You bear the original name, and it is fixed onto you</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is there now, and it will always be there, buried</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Under all your other names</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And you cannot deny it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The unhappiness you so often feel with yourself </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Is merely the result of forgetting yourself.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Remember who you are, and why you are here</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You are here to learn yourself, and to grow yourself </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and to be the unique expression of the eternal, beautiful
truth.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You are made in the image and likeness of Love</div>
Try to remember that.Kevin Thorsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13558399947728948576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6821445767143002065.post-63475698604139307252014-01-13T15:29:00.001-07:002014-01-15T11:50:48.917-07:00So, you’ve written a book…<div class="MsoNormal">
What does it mean to have written a book?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That’s the question I’m asking myself now, a week after
finishing the first draft manuscript of my first novel. I’m wondering what is it that I’ve done. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m supposed to feel really good, and I did, for nearly the entire day.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But that euphoria didn’t last, and coming down was like a
caffeine crash. It was, in fact, a
caffeine crash, because immediately after finishing the book I swore off coffee
and the like, at least for a month. By
the next day I was in a completely explicable funk, tired and cranky. I was mentally exhausted, having
written the last six chapters in the last two weeks of the year. Around, under, over and through the
holidays. When I complained of this to <st1:city w:st="on">Elizabeth</st1:city>, she told me I
was just tired and needed to rest. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I knew there was more to it than that. I had a new question to answer, and no suspects.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What does it mean to have written a book?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For the next week, I did no writing at all, and stayed away
from the computer as much as possible. I
felt lost. Withdrawal symptoms. Following Stephen King’s advice, I decided to
put aside the manuscript for a month, use the time to gain some distance and
some clarity. I started thinking about
the next book, and also about the future role and function of <i>thunderstrokes</i>. But the question loomed over me the entire
time, still hangs over me, and so now I’m trying to sort it out, the only way I
seem to be able to sort things out anymore, in writing. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What does it mean to have written a book?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Where do you even start to answer that question? <st1:place w:st="on">Elizabeth</st1:place>
tells me it’s a great accomplishment.
But in my mind, the answer comes back quick: it’s only a first draft of a manuscript. One massive revision is needed just to make
coherent and readable enough to critique, and then at least another to make it
publishable. And that’s only if I
perform magnificently. From where I
stand, it doesn’t feel like a book yet.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The sober, rational side of me looks at how I’ve spent my
time and wonders what the hell I was ever thinking. Two-and-a-half years spent finding my voice,
finding a way forward, and then dreaming up this crazy story about a kid who
has to go to a strange land and accomplish the Twelve Labors of Hercules, and
then turning that dream into a rickety reality, held together, it mostly seems,
with equal parts duct tape and pixie dust. Two-and-a-half years of lost income
and retirement savings, of trying to dress up a dream in work-clothes, of feeling
like a bystander while Elizabeth bears the entire financial load for our
family, of struggling with fears and doubts and uncertainties about myself as a
writer in an endless procession of constantly changing mutations, each one as
ferocious and as deadly as any monster Hercules ever faced, or will. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know that sounds dramatic, but I believe it. The harshest battles most of us will ever
face is with ourselves. Our inner
monsters cannot be seen, and for that we should be grateful. I sincerely believe that if they were given a
tangible form, they would fill us with such terror and paralyzing fear it would
put <st1:city w:st="on">Hollywood</st1:city>’s
horror-meisters and their paltry creations to shame.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So that, at least, is something. I have learned that I can
live with the doubts and uncertainties, and find my way through.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
What does it mean to have written a book?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have told a story. I
took a character, sent him away to a place rife with dangers seen and unseen,
and returned him safely home again.
That’s something. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The book needs a lot of work, a lot of everything: adding,
trimming, reworking, condensing, simplifying, smoothing, tightening, loosening,
adding support, removing unnecessary support.
I used to think writing a book was like a sculptor creating a statue:
the sculptor starts with a block of marble, then roughs out the form, then
makes pass after pass, chipping and cutting and chiseling until the form is set,
and lastly, adds the final touches while polishing the whole thing to a high
gloss. Now I think that writers are more
like builders, and that stories are a certain variety of machine, much like a
Rube Goldberg invention, designed to accomplish something very simple through an
insanely complicated, obtuse and perfectly ridiculous (at least as viewed from
the inside) delivery system. And what is
that hideous amount of effort for? All
those thousands of hours spent planning and crafting and tinkering and
fixing? All the immense wear and
tear? All the blood, sweat, and
tears? All for something as ephemeral as
a story. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Don’t get me wrong. A
great story can make a permanent mark; it can change how we think and what we
feel. It can be one of life’s great
joys. It can be a refuge for us in dark
or dreary times, and can help us feel less alone when we feel forsaken by our
friends. An oasis in a wasteland, a warm
fire on a cold night. A great story can
teach us what is good and true about ourselves and about our world, and that
makes a great story a thing of beauty which is more real than reality. A great story can be so beautiful that it is
worth dying for. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But so few stories are great.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Most of them, in fact, miss their mark, due to some fatal
flaw of their own or of their storyteller.
Many hit the wrong target, some intentionally. Most of the stories we have heard or read or
seen provide at most a fleeting form of entertainment or escape, far from
fulfilling, failing to leave a lasting impression. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Who am I? Why would I
willingly waste so much of my time, energy, and creativity just to become
another dusty piece of clutter on a shelf? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Part of me says the answer to that question is simple: I do it because I have to do it. I’ve spent thirty-plus years afflicted to my
very soul, and now I have learned the truth of what I have long known: I have to write in order to feel like I am
doing something more than skating over the hard crust of life. I have to write to feel like I’m doing
something more than slowly dying. That, I
suppose, should be enough. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But it isn’t. And why
must I insist on forcing my way onto other people’s shelves, dusty or not?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Even as I ask, I know the answer to that. I have to tell stories because it’s my way of
reaching out to others. I want people to
feel certain things that I feel, and to see things that I see. Ever since I walked out of the theater after
seeing <i>Star Wars</i> for the first time
in 1977, I knew that I was meant to be a storyteller. I wanted to someday bring the same pure kind
of joy to people that I felt that day, and the only way I could think of to do
that was to tell them a story that would stir their passions, fill their minds
with questions and possibilities, and touch their hearts. As silly as it sounds, over all these years,
my motivation has never wavered: I just
wanted to share the gift I found with others.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But a sparkling motivation doesn’t ensure success any more
than good intentions are guaranteed to deliver good results. Many writers, I’m willing to bet, have set
out with similarly undiluted (or is that undeluded?) and lofty goals, and have failed
miserably.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t want to be a miserable failure, but if I must be,
I’m willing to endure that too.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The irony for someone as self-contained as I am is that I
want people to love the book I’ve written.
I want it to mean something to them.
If they read my book and love it, then I will feel I have been
successful in some way in passing along the joy I have felt from experiencing a
great story. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I am not so foolish as to think that lies within my
control. I can’t control how anyone
reacts to what I write, and I can’t force anyone to enjoy the story I’ve chosen
to tell. If the reader thinks I write
garbage, then for that reader I write garbage.
The reader doesn’t care about the crazy hours I’ve spent caring about
the characters, or trying to decipher what happens to each of them in the
course of the story. Nor should
they. The story stands or falls on its
own, and there is no other way it can be.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It just so happens that it puts the writer in an awkward
spot. Only readers can tell the writer
if they’ve hit The Mark or not. The writer
can feel like he or she has achieved all that he hoped to and more with a
story, but if the reader does not respond, what exactly has been
accomplished? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Writing is a connective act.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
What does it mean to have written a book?Kevin Thorsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13558399947728948576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6821445767143002065.post-22260799704010311872013-08-23T22:39:00.002-07:002013-08-24T06:23:01.430-07:0080's Buddy Pictures<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
We here at thunderstrokes are big believers in the four R's: recycling, reducing, reusing, and repurposing.<br />
<br />
As proof, today we are offering a collection of repurposed pictures featuring recycled celebrities, reusing a traditional comedic device known as inappropriate photo captioning, the results of which have been reduced in scale from monumentally hilarious to merely silly. <br />
<br />
The following gallery of celebrity buddy photos all hail from the era of Reagan, Frogger, and Gilbert Gottfried, and were borrowed without permission from The Huffington Post, which really wasn't doing anything with them anyway. <br />
<br />
So, here you go, a little feature we're calling...Celebr80's<br />
<br />
#1: Betty White and Charlie Sheen<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjae4WB6h22Nm2-bEOBU9CgSrjlq0XznR-MyJ_QoCIfs_AQqIRmHpZ-VIqVBWmP6HOPGwS88cH2yUVbZn4paja4YoW1VJEbsOB2XQSWcYaO2iAvhg4J-_P-fUuON5hlm_s06OpWHzRZR6qJ/s1600/Celebr-eightiesCS1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjae4WB6h22Nm2-bEOBU9CgSrjlq0XznR-MyJ_QoCIfs_AQqIRmHpZ-VIqVBWmP6HOPGwS88cH2yUVbZn4paja4YoW1VJEbsOB2XQSWcYaO2iAvhg4J-_P-fUuON5hlm_s06OpWHzRZR6qJ/s640/Celebr-eightiesCS1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Charlie (to himself): Betty has no idea what she's in for tonight...<br />
Betty (to herself): The hell I don't. <br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
#2: Arnold Schwarzenegger and Leif Garrett<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCqVnmouBfp7EAKrdcxwdH8DDYX7PBw8RNHaC9WrYVzCEIpEgtS03fpNb-BOFRUSMauMPxQGIRgycdG_zgTwzHE0cf9DIJo4hPGwLiE6vE4xk5Ll0A37G_2Zw-Xa0DEmI4iHiDLQdpbqVV/s1600/Celebr-eightiesAS1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="411" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCqVnmouBfp7EAKrdcxwdH8DDYX7PBw8RNHaC9WrYVzCEIpEgtS03fpNb-BOFRUSMauMPxQGIRgycdG_zgTwzHE0cf9DIJo4hPGwLiE6vE4xk5Ll0A37G_2Zw-Xa0DEmI4iHiDLQdpbqVV/s640/Celebr-eightiesAS1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Leif: "So I said, 'Okay, Arnold, maybe your pecs <i>are</i> bigger than mine, but I'll bet my pecker is bigger than yours. <br />
And it was!!! Man, steroids are some crazy sh*t, aren't they?"<br />
<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">
#3: Cyndi Lauper and Rodney Dangerfield</div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg77WbT1wVG8in4_weIiTetXHLrbOkkNBC-G2ztjIZEpveU2MnJQ777p4HfJJ9N2lQaVMRg_znDiVfv7oYClTQI1WV2qMNZKeP6LljCmgGHMwrZ9vWIYO4UOJcejfCmmkBYfIlVkcsFAYv/s1600/Celebr-eightiesRD1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg77WbT1wVG8in4_weIiTetXHLrbOkkNBC-G2ztjIZEpveU2MnJQ777p4HfJJ9N2lQaVMRg_znDiVfv7oYClTQI1WV2qMNZKeP6LljCmgGHMwrZ9vWIYO4UOJcejfCmmkBYfIlVkcsFAYv/s640/Celebr-eightiesRD1.jpg" width="427" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rodney: "This Lauper kid cracks me up. I mean, look at her!"<br />
<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
#4: Richard Gere and Susan Sarandon<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3vBuHEnDm2_H42W8MCcjVlWRfcrjztQDoAFoK_LTuH4SvcUNfH3YuXlZkpFZaHWji8NQjNlzOmHKXjaUEgEPEbjai6Ip9Y2R8-bf-vzaYWFLF5XxXDx0tugy8AkOeRzqA_QSeBkBivUtI/s1600/Celebr-eightiesSS1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="420" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3vBuHEnDm2_H42W8MCcjVlWRfcrjztQDoAFoK_LTuH4SvcUNfH3YuXlZkpFZaHWji8NQjNlzOmHKXjaUEgEPEbjai6Ip9Y2R8-bf-vzaYWFLF5XxXDx0tugy8AkOeRzqA_QSeBkBivUtI/s640/Celebr-eightiesSS1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Susan: "My house burned down, I was robbed, my cat died, and now this..."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;">#5: Corey Haim and Alyssa Milano<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiApUXjFK0aukeYanpzh8gniKGQ7aSSYqKsY-h8j5ZD0Vrb9pmSvtDkJy6O_RdequfM_41yHj_9MvHtGJFN8Ha8Tl1HJq0SdPSneZ8awWddW5F3OloHcIQzEQ8EMZ6msSAxh7WBwJzPp5wX/s1600/Celebr-eightiesCH.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiApUXjFK0aukeYanpzh8gniKGQ7aSSYqKsY-h8j5ZD0Vrb9pmSvtDkJy6O_RdequfM_41yHj_9MvHtGJFN8Ha8Tl1HJq0SdPSneZ8awWddW5F3OloHcIQzEQ8EMZ6msSAxh7WBwJzPp5wX/s640/Celebr-eightiesCH.jpg" width="411" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alyssa: "Oh my God! Take the picture, quick! This baseball <br />
player looks just like LUCAS!" </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
#6: Brooke Shields and Matt Dillon<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF1WrbUzx8Sb6Jeicw960yg0lbVUQi9lkS_WXkRs16dynf25OAK6ltTeWhCeQkifdLFAL89IbpTIhRGb20GvUkKPchEtxkJpulokRAMK0NErqp1fmiwKdeEQXR_GhwlxXRoAShFaNTvf7V/s1600/Celebr-eightiesMD1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="430" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF1WrbUzx8Sb6Jeicw960yg0lbVUQi9lkS_WXkRs16dynf25OAK6ltTeWhCeQkifdLFAL89IbpTIhRGb20GvUkKPchEtxkJpulokRAMK0NErqp1fmiwKdeEQXR_GhwlxXRoAShFaNTvf7V/s640/Celebr-eightiesMD1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Matt: "She's feeding me cake, and I'm <i>still </i>prettier."<br />
Brooke: "Oh my God, he <i>is</i>."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
#7: David Lee Roth and Madonna<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyAp5y_PSXeUGCmVssDENMoBtk5zTFhKTJkxVjwJaVekPVA3usj9ezB08CXlR02s7hAgwnQPUp2TcqPNcFqDezXu7LWWLJPEYx78yATdy7MZXcvp47xiC2GOdk31PJQ8_dkcY8IHzr3Da_/s1600/Celebr-eightiesDLR2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyAp5y_PSXeUGCmVssDENMoBtk5zTFhKTJkxVjwJaVekPVA3usj9ezB08CXlR02s7hAgwnQPUp2TcqPNcFqDezXu7LWWLJPEYx78yATdy7MZXcvp47xiC2GOdk31PJQ8_dkcY8IHzr3Da_/s640/Celebr-eightiesDLR2.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Madonna (to herself): "Ten minutes now, and 'Crazy Dave' hasn't stopped talking about his f*ckin' dogs...."*</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
#8: Goldie Hawn and Steven Speilberg<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1RNeQWrUlC08-jCmCgmloYbk5S1ZyOtDzHJ-ORtObTaE2qRDEvj4hislM0Cm9wNI73P9Lu_bVEnoYtCGP-f8G-9IR_MVDcWDhP6bQZ8g-VfRFNx1b0SDDTbIm_mxDGUM4jzD8rc8uiE_P/s1600/Celebr-eightiesGH1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1RNeQWrUlC08-jCmCgmloYbk5S1ZyOtDzHJ-ORtObTaE2qRDEvj4hislM0Cm9wNI73P9Lu_bVEnoYtCGP-f8G-9IR_MVDcWDhP6bQZ8g-VfRFNx1b0SDDTbIm_mxDGUM4jzD8rc8uiE_P/s640/Celebr-eightiesGH1.jpg" width="428" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Steven: "Finally...the roller derby free skate! Okay Goldie, this <br />
one's for all the trouble you caused me on 'The Sugarland Express.'"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
#9: Corey Feldman and Heather Graham </div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigN6iqtnMm9tOeiZE-pvI17ezJaYSD3u6zFBI-BgujXWO0vv0uWwfawiWPmI6Be0igUNjOZRhvGNku_31MgKlwif4JvZGZR-pd5Mzn1xHfp4i-GXt3duDt47-bBsYPKBpGCZjQZ9eAXv1N/s1600/Celebr-eightiesHG1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigN6iqtnMm9tOeiZE-pvI17ezJaYSD3u6zFBI-BgujXWO0vv0uWwfawiWPmI6Be0igUNjOZRhvGNku_31MgKlwif4JvZGZR-pd5Mzn1xHfp4i-GXt3duDt47-bBsYPKBpGCZjQZ9eAXv1N/s640/Celebr-eightiesHG1.jpg" width="424" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Heather (to herself): My only hope is that in 30 years people<br />
will think he's Michael Jackson.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">
#10: Sean Penn and Nicholas Cage</div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI1zBP7wYVBTL-W3Z1tcAapN0mJ5dku-omHaoXcaDgQcptH_mWiewwBKhThRP2Ao2RsaYhrWyMkNMxPbeBk_PUzby5hgJAHkSx5s-cRVQUVOL_6mOjkqpn064BLzhJ24DBMMq5qv6-VvOV/s1600/Celebr-eightiesNC1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="512" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI1zBP7wYVBTL-W3Z1tcAapN0mJ5dku-omHaoXcaDgQcptH_mWiewwBKhThRP2Ao2RsaYhrWyMkNMxPbeBk_PUzby5hgJAHkSx5s-cRVQUVOL_6mOjkqpn064BLzhJ24DBMMq5qv6-VvOV/s640/Celebr-eightiesNC1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">
Nick (to himself): I order the pizza. I pay for the pizza. I drive across town to get the pizza...</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Sean: "Mmmmm..." </div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
#11: Steve Gutenberg and Bruce Jenner<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD3m4wVyx5uPaVo1BprKNDF7O_VdHj7jzXvvRRqWf7wC-N6Bcifx24HdvtWB3oHmizs7a2sHlbsc8vye1F-UU9GkM0xm9XzJkCk80mcrrVmu2hI1w1XP4IPoyTZGJ1kk97NstcwLMCfATJ/s1600/Celebr-eightiesSG1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD3m4wVyx5uPaVo1BprKNDF7O_VdHj7jzXvvRRqWf7wC-N6Bcifx24HdvtWB3oHmizs7a2sHlbsc8vye1F-UU9GkM0xm9XzJkCk80mcrrVmu2hI1w1XP4IPoyTZGJ1kk97NstcwLMCfATJ/s640/Celebr-eightiesSG1.jpg" width="424" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Steve: "Pay up, Jenner....I told you we'd be the stylin'-ist guys here..."<br />
Bruce: "Hey, who's that brunette?"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;">#12: Tom Hanks and Shelley Long <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicLpxqgcm5kqhVPxY200xKmQ3HCCmHD-B7mvQvs6h1vHeZ3a03YisxEHpMbQown72J0BUoh36XCZ6LvZtYdAAfjucrdaTAK_VJGs-5dWKJL5V0xjMeMZETXNigI8Y6s6_fX0kb2l7wcPYc/s1600/Celebr-eightiesTH1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicLpxqgcm5kqhVPxY200xKmQ3HCCmHD-B7mvQvs6h1vHeZ3a03YisxEHpMbQown72J0BUoh36XCZ6LvZtYdAAfjucrdaTAK_VJGs-5dWKJL5V0xjMeMZETXNigI8Y6s6_fX0kb2l7wcPYc/s640/Celebr-eightiesTH1.jpg" width="446" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shelley: "Tom, you let Rita do that to your neck? That is one crazy hickey." </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
#13: Robert Downey Junior, Anthony Michael Hall, David Lee Roth, and some chick with only two names (just kidding, it's Sonia Braga; and no, I can't explain it either)</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs7N1GwA_HkLoNKV9wZgRporiStU4GBhzwlYbmqCwhHAw6PpNKjhlNTRIwY06malz2evF_NrVZxcDm4sltTBalPpGWU2bSlYDawOdVj7T0DT_dIrz7mzx9-r4bIVgpYYhke7H48NS8NJgx/s1600/Celebr-eightiesDLR1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="468" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs7N1GwA_HkLoNKV9wZgRporiStU4GBhzwlYbmqCwhHAw6PpNKjhlNTRIwY06malz2evF_NrVZxcDm4sltTBalPpGWU2bSlYDawOdVj7T0DT_dIrz7mzx9-r4bIVgpYYhke7H48NS8NJgx/s640/Celebr-eightiesDLR1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Robert Downey (to Anthony Michael Hall): "Dave's still talking about his f*cking dogs, isn't he?"*<br />
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* Dave does like to talk about his dogs. A lot. In fact, at the last Van Halen concert here, 'Crazy Dave' stopped the show and talked about his dogs for at least ten minutes. I sh*t you not. You can read about it <a href="http://www.thunderstrokes.com/2012/06/for-unlawful-concert-knowledge-van.html">here.</a></div>
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Kevin Thorsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13558399947728948576noreply@blogger.com0