Elegant Solutions

Earlier this week, I accepted a freelance job transcribing a DVD of a panel of experts discussing the latest challenges faced in the microprocessing industry. Although taking these extra side jobs requires a tremendous time commitment for which I get paid relatively little, it's good resume fodder. And I actually enjoy it.

These people are speaking my language, and yet I have no idea what they are saying. Okay, I have an inkling of what they're saying. It's hard to grow up in the Computer Age and not pick up a little jargon along the way. But still. Their meaning hovers on the very edge of my understanding. And I am fascinated by that.

I am listening to these guys talk about microarchitectures and software ecosystems, multicores and multi-threading, user parallelism, homogeneous and heterogeneous programming models, acceleration differentiation, platform characteristics and virtualization layers, codestreams and discreet processors.

Are you listening? Do you hear what is happening? This is the sound of language evolving. This is the sound of words stretching around new meanings, expanding to encompass new concepts, shifting to fill our need to communicate. This is the sound of language doing what it was meant to do.

Amazing, isn't it?

Vampiriffic Birthday

Today, the "Barnacle" is 15-years-old. I know. I can't believe it either.

We'll be celebrating on Saturday, but tonight I bought him a new book I stumbled across entitled Vampirates: Demons of the Ocean.

Vampires and Pirates: What more can you ask for?

Love Thy Neighbor

Since moving into this apartment complex about three years ago, I haven't had much luck with upstairs neighbors. Actually, at first I thought I was very lucky. For the first three months, there was a very quiet single woman living there. She was never seen nor heard. It almost was like having no neighbor at all. Then she moved out.

And she was replaced by a family with young children. Not only did it sound as if the children made it a regular pastime to climb up on their dressers and leap to the floor (my ceiling), but the father was a drummer. A drummer who thought is was a swell idea to practice at 1:00 in the morning. Yeah. Oh, and he sucked, too. I'd say "keep practicing" but I really didn't want to hear it. Then they moved out.

And were replaced by another family. With young children. Three children under the age of six whose "pitter-patter" of small feet sounded like a herd of elephants galloping across my ceiling. All. Of. The. Time. Then they moved out.

Now there is a young woman living upstairs. But she entertains so frequently, I'm not entirely sure who lives there with her. I think she has a sister or a roommate or somebody with a baby, because I occasionally hear a baby. But that's not the problem. The problem is (or was; it is less so now) she regularly has large groups of visitors hanging out on her front porch, drinking and smoking. Now this wouldn't be so much of a bother except these "parties" don't seem to get started til about midnight. And they continue to 2:00 in the morning. And it doesn't seem to matter what day of the week it is.

So one morning, after an especially sleepless night, I went to the office and reported the noise problem. And they make it all official-- you have to fill out a form and all-- and they told me that after three complaints, she could be kicked out.

The noise continued to be a factor. I hadn't made things better; in fact, I felt an increase of tension, because (it seemed to me--maybe I was imagining things) now I had a posse of 20-something males glaring down at me every time I walked by. I thought about writing up another report, but I realized this really wasn't getting me what I wanted. I don't want her kicked out, I just want them to respect my space. It was time to take action.

So--channeling my best diplomatic heroes: Gandalf, Qui-Gon, and the good Doctor--I went upstairs and knocked on the door. And this petite little blonde answered with a voice like an 8-year-old. She was so cute. But she kept calling me "ma'am". That was not so cute. I introduced myself and I explained that I worked full time and was a grad student at the university and that really the only hours I had to sleep were between midnight and 6am. Could she please ask her friends to keep it down, especially on weeknights? I also dropped a not-so-subtle hint that as my bedroom window was right at the bottom of the stairs, I could hear everything going on up here. Translation: I hear a lot of personal stuff you probably don't want your neighbor to know.

I think she got the hint. Mostly. Things have been quieter. Mostly.

The thing is, although the noise irritates me, I really don't dislike these people. As I lie in bed, listening to their banter (it's not eavesdropping if they're talking loud enough for me to hear, is it?), it's hard not to get nostalgic for my 20-something years and all the late nights spent on my best friend's back porch. They're really not bad people. They're just oblivious.

Two things made me decide that I liked them. Once I heard two of the guys talking. One was counseling the other, trying to give him the benefit of his experience, and he said, "How old are you?" And his friend replied, "20 1/2." And he said, "Well, I'm 21. I'm older, so you have to listen to me." An entire six months more of wisdom and experience. I love it!

The second involved an altercation at 4:30 in the morning. After I got over my irritation of being woken at this ungodly hour, I decided to find out what all the fuss was about. Apparently, they had been drinking, and one friend wanted to drive home. He wanted his keys. He grew exceedingly belligerent and demanding. He only lived 10 minutes away, he said. He had to get to work at 9am. He cursed and he swore and he disowned his own brother (who was apparently in the group). You know what? They never gave in. They never gave him those keys. And I thought, although their choice of activity may be questionable (I really have no idea if they are all of legal age to drink or not), they did right by their friend. They are being responsible. Or as responsible as they can under the circumstances.

But there is another problem. All that smoking going on upstairs has turned my back patio into the deepest ash pit of Mordor. Again, weeks slip by as my irritation grows. Aren't they using ash trays? Don't they realize other people live down here? So, once again, I don my diplomat's hat and head upstairs. Actually, first I went to the dollar store and bought an ashtray, then I went upstairs.

Hi. Remember me? Here's a present for you. Well, I wasn't quite so abrupt. As it turns out, they have been using an ashtray. (Now they have two). And, no, they didn't realize how much ash was drifting downstairs. But they would try to contain it.

What happened next really surprised me. One of the guys said, "If you like, I'll go downstairs once a week and sweep up for you." Not in a sarcastic, Eddie Haskell kind of way. But in a nice, sincere kind of way. I hope he was sincere anyway. I accepted his offer. But even if he doesn't, even if he "forgets," I still think it was nice he offered. The thing is, they are aware now of the consequences of their activity, and perhaps... *perhaps* they will be more consciencious about cleaning up after themselves, or taking preventitive measures, or something.

What it comes down to is this: I have to believe that diplomacy works. How can we make peace with another nation, if we can't even talk to our own neighbors?

What are the Queen of England and the Prince of Wales doing my apartment?

I dreamed that I woke up and found myself living in a different apartment. It was actually inside a building instead of the outdoor complex I live in now. And I had a roommate: some lady. And this lady was friends with the Queen of England and the Prince of Wales. So I wake up and go out to the kitchen, and there is this lady with the Queen and the Prince. And she introduces us. I said, "How do you do, Prince... er, Your Highness. How do you do, Queen... ah, Your Majesty." Very awkward. I got the feeling they didn't approve of either me or my surroundings. So I left.

I went and found some friends (and I didn't recognize any of them-- do you ever have those dreams where your friends with people and you don't recognize any of them?) and we're hanging out and eventually we decide to return to my apartment. And we're driving into the parking lot and there's this huge crowd of people--press and police and gawkers--and so I say, "Oh, yeah, I forgot to tell you: Queen Elizabeth and Prince Charles are staying in my apartment." We go through the whole routine of getting patted down by the guards and our belongings searched, etc., in order to get in. Once inside, the hallways were long and twisted, like a maze, but not quite claustrophobic because there were windows always on one side, so you could see out all the time.

We get to my apartment and my roommate tells me that my friends and I need to stay in my room because the Queen isn't fond of strangers. So we're stuck hanging out in my room, which gets boring very quickly. My friends leave, and then I decide to leave, but then I discover that I'm not allowed to go. There are guards everywhere and everyone is required to stay in their rooms. I end up sneaking down to the basement and then crawling out a bathroom window.

I run into my cousin Carolyn and she invites me to come stay with her. But she has moved to a new house and I don't know where it is. When I am following her in my car, I lose her on the road, and I end up driving around in circles trying to find where she lives.

* * * * *

This was a bizarre dream because I really have no idea what it means. Your guess is as good as mine. I don't follow the news of the Royal Family all that closely, so I can't think why they would show up in my dream. I don't know who all those other people were. Thematically, there was a lot of emphasis on maze-like hallways and roads, and feeling trapped or lost. Perhaps it is merely a reaction to the end of the semester, with my losing the structure I've become accustomed to.

Watch out for the portcullis-- It bites!

Main Entry: port·cul·lis
Pronunciation: port-'k&-l&s
Function: noun
Etymology: Middle English port colice, from Anglo-French porte coliz, literally, sliding door
: a grating of iron hung over the gateway of a fortified place and lowered between grooves to prevent passage

The gods were against me it seems-- or at least had a really really wicked sense of humor. In our "adventuring" today, I got caught in a portcullis trap, not once, not twice, but three times! The first time it happened was just plain stupid. The second time it happened was stupider (and yes, in this instance, that is a word. Trust me.). The third time... well, the third time I laughed so hard I cried. Me and portcullises (portculli?): Man, we have issues.

I don't think I want to be a master of this game. I mean, it's the stupid fumbling and bumbling like this that makes it so much fun. ;-)

The Art of Star Wars

Back when Star Wars was just a twinkle in George's eye, he hired artist Ralph McQuarrie to create the concept art. I own all six of the art books (one for each movie) and paging through them just gives me shivers of awe and wonder, sometimes even more than the movies themselves. Think of it: George has a dream, he tells it to McQuarrie, and McQuarrie brings that dream into being, enough so that a team of technical people can work their magic and bring the movies to life. It's almost like a virus--an imagination virus--which starts with one person and spreads to another and then expands exponentially until it infects the whole world. I am fascinated by this process: That one person can have an idea, a mere spark, that sets off a chain reaction and takes on a life of its own. Star Wars is now part of our cultural consciousness. I would even go so far as to say it's part of our collective unconscious. The images are in our minds; the phrases have become part of our language. How incredible! How thrilling! Three cheers to Ralph McQuarrie for pulling those visions out of the ether and bringing a dream to life!

Happy 30th Anniversary, Star Wars!

I really didn't think I'd live to see the day...

Wow. Thirty years already? Has it been that long? What a long strange trip it's been.

I remember in one of my classes in school-- I don't even remember which grade it was or which class-- we were asked to write a short essay about something that changed our life. I wrote about Star Wars. Later, I felt a bit silly; after all, some people wrote about the death of grandparent, or other seemingly more significant things. But now that I think about it, that movie was pretty significant. I stopped reading Nancy Drew books and started reading science fiction. I paid attention to the space program. It changed what I thought about and who my friends were. I went to Sci Fi conventions and a whole new world opened up. If I hadn't seen this movie, I would be a different person. I am "different" because of this movie.

Viva la difference! ;-)

By the way, Star Wars is not such a sacred cow that I can't take a little humor. Check out this 30-second Star Wars with bunnies!

Oh, and another by the way: I can still do my hair like Princess Leia!

;-)

Know Where Your Towel Is

Douglas Noel Adams (11 March 1952 - 11 May 2001)

I put off reading Douglas' last book, The Salmon of Doubt--which wasn't so much a book as a collection of random entries found on his computer after his death and lovingly compiled by his editor--for as long as possible. When I finally did read it, about two years ago, I laughed and laughed.

And then I cried.

No one will ever make us laugh the way he could. Ah, Douglas, we hardly knew ye...


... any man who can hitch the length and breadth of the galaxy, rough it, slum it, struggle against terrible odds, win through, and still know where his towel is, is clearly a man to be reckoned with.
~Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy

CLIXBY (adj.) Politely rude. Briskly vague. Firmly uninformative.
SHOEBURYNESS (abs.n.) The vague uncomfortable feeling you get when sitting on a seat which is still warm from somebody else's bottom
WOKING (vb.) To enter the kitchen with the precise determination to perform something only to forget what it is just before you do it.
~The Meaning of Liff

It was a couple of days before Kate Schechter became aware of any of these things, or indeed of anything at all in the outside world. She passed the time quietly in a world of her own in which she was surrounded as far as the eye could see with old cabin trunks full of past memories in which she rummaged with great curiosity, and sometimes bewilderment. Or, at least, about a tenth of the cabin trunks were full of vivid, and often painful or uncomfortable memories of her past life; the other nine-tenths were full of penguins, which surprised her. Insofar as she recognised at all that she was dreaming, she realised that she must be exploring her own subconscious mind. She had heard it said that humans are supposed only to use about a tenth of their brains, and that no one was very clear what the other nine-tenths were for, but she had certainly never heard it suggested that they were used for storing penguins.
~The Long Dark Teatime of the Soul

Mark Carwardine's role, essentially, was to be the one who knew what he was talking about. My role, and one for which I was entirely qualified, was to be an extremely ignorant non-zoologist to whom everything that happened would come as a complete surprise.
~Last Chance to See

I've heard an idea proposed, I've no idea how seriously, to account for the sensation of vertigo. It's an idea that I instinctively like and it goes like this. The dizzy sensation we experience when standing in high places is not simply a fear of falling. It's often the case that the only thing likely to make us fall is the actual dizziness itself, so it is, at best, an extremely irrational, even self-fulfilling fear. However, in the distant past of our evolutionary journey toward our current state, we lived in trees. We leapt from tree to tree. There are even those who speculate that we may have something birdlike in our ancestral line. In which case, there may be some part of our mind that, when confronted with a void, expects to be able to leap out into it and even urges us to do so. So what you end up with is a conflict between a primitive, atavistic part of your mind which is saying "Jump!" and the more modern, rational part of your mind which is saying, "For Christ's sake, don't!" In fact, vertigo is explained by some not as the fear of falling, but as the temptation to jump!
~Last Chance to See

My favourite piece of information is that Branwell Brontë, brother of Emily and Charlotte, died standing up leaning against a mantelpiece, in order to prove it could be done. This is not quite true, in fact. My absolute favourite piece of information is the fact that young sloths are so inept that they frequently grab their own arms and legs instead of tree limbs, and fall out of trees.
~The Salmon of Doubt

Random quotes:
In fact, I wanted to be John Cleese and it took some time to realize the job was in fact taken.

Writing is easy. You only need to stare at a piece of blank paper until a drop of blood forms on your forehead.

It takes an awful long time to not write a book.

I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they go by.

Getting a movie made in Hollywood is like trying to grill a steak by having a succession of people coming into the room and breathing on it.
~MIT (1999)

P.S. National Towel Day is Friday, May 25.

Apocalypse Now

Main Entry: apoc·a·lypse
Pronunciation: &-'pä-k&-"lips
Function: noun
Etymology: Middle English, revelation, Revelation, from Anglo-French apocalipse, from Late Latin apocalypsis, from Greek apokalypsis, from apokalyptein to uncover, from apo- + kalyptein to cover -- more at HELL
1 a : one of the Jewish and Christian writings of 200 B.C. to A.D. 150 marked by pseudonymity, symbolic imagery, and the expectation of an imminent cosmic cataclysm in which God destroys the ruling powers of evil and raises the righteous to life in a messianic kingdom b capitalized : REVELATION 3
2 a : something viewed as a prophetic revelation b : ARMAGEDDON
3 : a great disaster


I had the oddest notion while driving in to work today: Having spent a good portion of my (earlier) life in anticipation of the Biblical Apocalypse, I found myself thinking that while we may not ever see a literal apocalypse, we are responsible each day for a number of little apocalypses. How often do we find ourselves destroying one thing to begin another? Whether it be a career change, or a relationship, or changing an old for a new habit. Maybe that is why change is so difficult; we resist change, because we resist destruction. But we cannot stop change: destruction and creation are both bound up in it. Anytime we embrace something new, something old is lost. The four horsemen are always riding through, but in here and not out there.

No matter where you go, there you are.

4 miles
5 deer
3 bunnies
1 cat
and a smattering of leaping lizards

Epiphanies: I wanted a nap; I took a walk. This "spend energy to get energy" stuff really works!

Maybe next time I'll discover something more profound. ;-)

The Uses of Enchantment

*****CAUTION: SPOILERS******

I saw Pan's Labyrinth (El Laberinto del fauno) and Bridge to Terabithia at the cinema when they came out, then bought Pan's Labyrinth on DVD when it was released. It didn't occur to me until today that these movies have a similar theme: The use of enchantment--or imaginary play--to transcend personal circumstances. In both stories, a young girl dies: The "magic" cannot stop that. But what it offers is a bridge, a means to transcend grief, fear, and horror, and recover our humanity.

Bridge to Terabithia is the more straightforward of the two. Two outsider tweens befriend each other and create an imaginary world out in the woods and have adventures. When the girl dies in an unexpected accident, the boy is bereft until he realizes he can keep the memory of his friend alive by opening up and sharing Terabithia with others. When he brings his sister into Terabithia for the first time, it's a powerful moment.

In spite of being a simple tale, I discovered there was tremendous controversy surrounding the book this movie was based on. It was actually banned by some extreme groups. Some parents object to death being dealt with so frankly in a "children's" book. Some object to the "magic." Some object to what they perceive as threatening anti-religious sentiments. (Actually, the story is very spiritual in places; it just makes it okay to question religion, or at least look at it from a very different angle. One of my favorite lines in the movie is when the girl says: "You have to believe and you think it (religion) is horrible; I don't have to believe and I think it's beautiful.") And one librarian even wrote online that she had a father return the book on the grounds that no boy and girl that age should be alone together, because "we know what they're really doing out in the woods." [!!!]

All that aside, though, there is never any question that Terabithia is an imaginary world. It cannot bring the girl back to life. But the boy can use it as a tool to overcome the grief, guilt, and helplessness he feels over his friend's death.

With Pan's Labyrinth the lines between fantasy and reality are blurrier. Set during the time of the brutal Franco revolution in Spain, a young girl travels with her mother to go live at a military outpost. The General, her mother's new husband, is in charge of tracking down and destroying the rebels in the surrounding countryside. The picture can be interpreted in either of two ways: The girl creates an imaginary world to escape the harsh realities of the war surrounding her, or she really is a lost princess who needs to find her way back to her underground kingdom. The director very cleverly gives nothing away right to the very end. It is left to the viewer's interpretation.

At first viewing, I was a little disappointed with the ending. It seemed just a little too happy an ending after such a grim tale to see the princess get home to her kingdom. But after watching it again, I'm not so sure. I think it is a fairy tale, after all, the director's fairy tale. It is his gift to us. We need the happy ending. For we know that in the real world, little girls die, and there's no magic kingdom to bring them back. We know the horrors of war are with us, and we're all going to have to work just a little harder in order to get home.

The Tinderbox

My friend Camille and I attended Ballet San Jose's production of The Tinderbox, one of my favorite Hans Christian Anderson fairy tales.

But even better than the story was the annual showcase of all their talented dancers in the second half. It was a wonderful presentation of different age levels performing modern, jazz, and classical ballet. The jazz portion was exciting and really amusing: there was one boy among a stage full of girls, all around the ages of 10-12, and he was just dancing his heart out with the biggest grin on his face. He stole the show!

Equally impressive was the classical ballet set to Pink Floyd's "Us & Them." Imagine 16 ballerinas and 4 male dancers, probably around ages 16-18, dressed all in black dancing against a red lit background. Gorgeous!

And the neatest thing of all was that these were all kids: student performers who get their chance to shine on one of the most beautiful stages in downtown San Jose, the renovated California Theatre. They weren't perfect--there were a few wobbly moments, and some of them you could see were getting tired after a long, rigorous dance routine--but they were up there giving it their very best with joy in their hearts.

Long live the arts in San Jose!

Happiness Is...

...reading a "guilty pleasure" book as late as I want until it's all done.


[Reading a memoir is like that Steven Wright joke: "I like to reminisce with complete strangers." Goldie Hawn is a great person to reminisce with.]




...taking my son to see an exhibit of exquisitely beautiful, deeply disturbing art at the San Jose Museum of Art.











[This was very provocative. The artist has an interesting message that is worth listening to, but she is perhaps a little too dark and despairing. Yes, there is darkness in this world, but there is light also. One has to see both.]





...having a whole Saturday to just do what I please.

Life, what is it but a blog?

This morning I woke from a dream in which I was writing in my blog.

I wonder what it means.....

Lloyd Alexander: Fantasy and Adventure Writer

Lloyd Alexander
(January 30, 1924 - May 17, 2007)

“In whatever guise — our own daily nightmares of war, intolerance, inhumanity; or the struggles of an Assistant Pig-Keeper against the Lord of Death — the problems are agonizingly familiar,” he said in his Newbery acceptance speech in 1969. “And an openness to compassion, love and mercy is as essential to us here and now as it is to any inhabitant of an imaginary kingdom.”

D&D

So I know this just puts the laminated seal on my card-carrying nerd status, but I figure at this point the social circles I skirt from time to time will be none the worse for my confession.

At 39 years old, I'm learning (finally) how to play D&D (that's Dungeons & Dragons to the uninitiated). I had plenty of friends in high school that played, but I never had the time to commit to it (and it does take a considerable amount of time).

I have to admit, though, this game is a tremendous amount of fun. The group I'm playing with--we're mostly all amateurs, except for our DM (Dungeon Master), who has taken it upon himself, quite bravely I might add, to train us up as experienced adventurers--we spend a lot of time laughing over the stupid situations we manage to get ourselves into, and eventually, out of.

For instance, on one early adventure, we were standing at the edge of this chasm, and suddenly we realized that none of us had brought any rope. Three weeks in every direction from any town or village, we're at the edge of a chasm we have to get down, and no rope. Our infinitely patient DM just shook his head in disgust. Then he said, "The heavens open up, and God says, 'Let there be rope.' There. Don't ever expect me to do that for you again! Amateurs." We're learning.

Basically, what this is, is pretend for grown-ups. For a period of time, we agree that this imaginary world is real, and we can be whoever we want, and we agree that we're going to follow a set of rules while we're there. And you know, we know that it isn't really real, but at the end of the day, it feels like we've really been through something, and so the bond that we forge there is real. And that's what it's really all about.

We are the stories we tell

Last day of class: 20th Century Poetry

Actually, this was last Thursday, but I've been in no condition to post anything for over a week now. So now I'm catching up.

This was a great class. We turned in our final papers and had a little party. Everybody brought food and we just sat around and talked. Then the teacher asked us to each tell the class something about ourselves, some unusual story or fact that few people knew. Some amazing, and some really funny, stories came out.

One guy told us how when he was living and going to school in San Francisco about 10-15 years ago, he'd almost made the final cut to MTV's Real Life show. He didn't get picked ultimately, but he did make it all the way to the final rounds.

One girl told how she had seen a naked man when she was about four or five years old. The guy just decided to take a walk through their neighborhood stark naked. Her mom saw him first and told her to stay away from the window, but of course, that's just an invitation to any five-year-old to go look anyway. Then she said her mom went outside and yelled at him, "Go put some clothes on!" Hilarious.

One woman told how she had met her husband through an online dating service.

But the best story, I think, was Ben's. He told how his mother met his father while hitchhiking on Highway 1. She was this Santa Cruz hippie chick and he was this slick business dude in a gold Mercedes. And he offered her a ride. (Can't you just see it?) They were both really attracted to each other, but she didn't want to let on that he was all that, so she blew him off. But this is where it gets good. One year later, she's working as a waitress in a diner, and he walks in. At that point, they realized it was destiny. What a great story.

Oh, yeah, and my story? Well, I told them about the Cabaret, of course. Everyone was suitably impressed. ;-)

All is Illusion

Last day of class: Critical Theory

Our final assignment was a choice between doing a compare/contrast essay on four critical essays we'd read over the course of the semester, or do a creative re-write, using what we'd learned of critical theory, to put a different spin on either The Tempest or Heart of Darkness. I chose the creative re-write assignment, and I picked The Tempest.

Or rather, The Tempest picked me. This happens when I get creative. I experienced, too, a kind of synergy between my two classes. I had done my final paper for 20th Century Poetry on T.S. Eliot, so The Waste Land was foremost in my mind. And I was thinking about Sycorax, the witch-mother of Caliban, who appears only in name in The Tempest, and suddenly, I could hear her voice intoning the words of The Waste Land, the words out of the storm. And just as suddenly I knew whose story I needed to write, and what form I needed to write it in. So using The Waste Land as a template, I wrote Sycorax's story, and I'm telling you, it's brilliant. ;-)

Actually, much of the verse, I'm sure, is bloody awful, but I made a brave attempt. I have to say, though, the idea is one of my best. My story functions as a prelude to The Tempest: Sycorax tells her story, and casts her spell. The result is irony. Everything that happens thereafter becomes caught up in her spell. She is in full control. All of the magic is hers. No one ever actually leaves the island. All is illusion.

A friend of mine in class chose to tell the story of Miranda's mother, who also is only mentioned in the play and not even by name. I thought her story and mine would work together well. We've promised to swap stories via email.

Another friend also chose The Tempest, but chose to make it a science fiction story. She set it on a ship: Prospero is a scientist, Miranda is his android, Ariel is a computer program, Caliban is an alien. Very clever stuff. I want to read this one, too.

I really enjoyed this assignment. It reminded me of what I do best: write stories. I need to make more time for this.

Spiderman 3

I know this has been out a week or so already, so I will try not to repeat what's already been said. But, you know, I have to put in my two cents.

I had gotten the heads up from various friends, and even conversations of complete strangers overheard, that this movie does not live up to its potential. But I had to see it anyway, because its Spiderman, and Spiderman is fun. And I have to agree: it does not live up to its potential. But it wasn't complete unwatchable trash either. (I did find the "jealousy" scenes between MaryJane and Peter, and then Peter and Harry, a bit tiresome). It was just... mildly disappointing.

What Worked
The special effects. Yes, we know going in this is going to be an F/X heavy movie, and it doesn't disappoint on that score. They do some amazing CGI sequences, especially with the creation of the Sandman.

The bad guys. Sandman/Flint Marco, Venom/Eddie Brock, and New Goblin/Harry Osborne are complex and sympathetic (okay, sometimes Harry gets a little pouty, but I'll pardon him). Thomas Hayden Church is brilliant as the Sandman. (Oh, and watch for Bruce Campbell as the snobby French waiter: delightful!)

What Didn't
For one thing, it desperately needed editing. It started 10 minutes too early (we don't need to see (and hear) MaryJane sing to know she's terrible-- cut to the bad review); and ended 10 minutes too late (Peter and MaryJane weeping over their fallen friend with a spectacular sunset in the background (or was it sunrise? Whatever)-- fade to black. We don't need to see them reconcile. We know they will); and, I'm sorry, but the whole John Travolta jig down the street was just goofy.

The good guys. Sappy. I've seen better acting from a damp dishrag.

The narrative. There are too many stories going on here. Whose story is this? Is it Peter's? MaryJane's? Harry's? Marco's or Eddie's? It was so diffused, I couldn't tell who I was rooting for. (Ultimately, I settled on the Sandman, which was a good choice).

But the thing that disappointed me most was the whole Dark Spiderman subplot. There is an entire mythopoeic precedent they could have drawn on for this, and they just let it fall flat. Where is Peter's dark side? We see him push a rival into a wall, break his girlfriend's heart, and go on a brief murderous rampage in revenge of his uncle (which turns out not to be so murderous in the end). Any person in crisis could manage this, and without the aid of an alien suit. Anakin's slaughter of the Sandpeople in Attack of the Clones had more potency. Where is the epic struggle of good vs. evil? Where is the ultimate epiphany that Spidey needs both these sides of himself to be the hero he wants to be? Star Trek did it before and did it better. What lesson did this alien suit teach him? How to flirt (badly) with the ladies and be a snappier dresser? Plus, he never embraces his dark side, he destroys it. According to the rules of myth (and Jungian psychology), this only means that his dark side will rise again, unexpectedly and more powerful than before. However, I doubt if they will address this in any of the future films.

KaBoom! 2007

On this beautiful Saturday afternoon, I met my friend Gina in Menlo Park to head up to KFOG's KaBoom on Piers 30/32 in San Francisco. We bought our CalTrain ticket before realizing that the trains only run once every hour and we had already missed the 2:30 train. (I usually take BART which runs every 10-20 minutes, so this was a surprise for me.) Never at a loss for ideas, we settled down at a nearby pub to pass the time til the next train with a glass of wine.

So we got started a little later than we expected, but once on the train we found ourselves in good company: just about everyone on the train was headed to KaBoom as well. Some were already getting the party started: a group of young guys across the aisle from us had brought their own beer. (I guess rules on the this particular train were less restrictive than others because nobody said anything about it). Anyway, they were in good spirits (or maybe it was the beer) and kind of flirtatious (that wasn't the beer--me & G, well, we're a couple of hotties any day [grin] ). So the trip to SF was an amusing ride.

Arriving at the end of the line was an interesting shift of perspective for me. For several weeks in the Fall and Spring I had taken my son to an art class at the Academy of Art. I would park my car outside the building and look over at the tracks of this very station. And here I was, riding in on a train, looking back the opposite way. It was just one of those odd moments of recognition.

We walked from the station past Pac Bell Park down to the pier. The event had already begun and there was a huge line. Fortunately, I had ordered our tickets in advance. Also as fortunate, we just walked up to the entrance and went on in. We're still not entirely sure if we were supposed to wait in that line. I'm *sure* that must have been for people needing to buy tickets at the gate, but who knows? Don't ask, don't tell. ;-)

We missed Ozomatli, but we found a good spot and lay down our blanket to stake out our spot for the next act. Then we went in search of food.

We had split briefly while getting our food and drinks, so when I returned to the blanket, I found that we were now sitting behind the same two couples who sat in front of us on the train. Now this wouldn't have been so very odd, but that Gina had a story to tell. Gina had come back to our spot and found that these people had folded our blanket back saying, "Well, they're only two, so they'll have to make room for us." So Gina says, "Hi." And they say, "Oh, are you one of the two sitting here?" And she says, "Yes." And then they get embarrassed and say something like, "I hope you don't mind us sitting in front of you. We're nice people." And she says, "I know you are." And they say, "How do you know?" And she says, "You were sitting in front of us on the train." So then they're really embarrassed. And then, Gina looks over at one of the men, and says, "Wait, you look familiar. Is your name Jordan?" Turns out they had been on a blind date some few months ago, set up through a mutual friend. That's my friend Gina: Dating Queen. ;-) So then he says, "Well, this is awkward." And she says, "No, it's really not." But they decided to move anyway.

That was actually pretty convenient because then she was able to tell me the whole story, with the addition that the reason their date didn't work out was because, while ordering dinner, he had announced casually, "I don't eat anything with neurons." She replied, "I don't date anybody that doesn't eat anything with neurons." [snicker!] She thought it was a really weird thing for him to say. I guess he thought he was being clever. I didn't think it was that weird, but what *was* weird was that her friend thought she and this guy would be such a good match. I mean, I could tell just by looking at the guy that he wasn't her type.

And all this before the second act. ;-)

Guster was fabulous. Of the three bands, I think I like them best. Kenny Wayne Shepherd was good, too. I have to say, though, the best show was last year's Los Lonely Boys. Now *that* was music you could get up and dance to!

But the best thing about KaBoom is the event itself-- just being out there on the pier underneath the Golden Gate, as the sun goes down and the lights of the city come up. And then the stars come out--hopefully not obscured by fog--and then the fireworks begin.

The thing that makes KFOG's fireworks special, well, besides the fact that use some pretty spectacular fireworks, is that they synch it to a soundtrack. The first song this year? Star Wars. Dear KFOG, I love them more than ever. If you want to see what you missed, click here.

Another crowd pleaser was "I Left My Heart in San Francisco." Usually, there's at least one song that gets everybody singing along. And if you've never stood in a crowd of 30,000+ people all looking up at an amazing fireworks show and singing along, well, it's worth the trip. You'll have your chance. There's always next year.

But the adventure didn't end there! We got back on the train to head home. Saw the same funny guys we rode down with. Found ourselves some seats. The train starts to pull out of the station, and we're but a few minutes out, when the train suddenly comes to a stop, and an overly excited conductor gets on the intercom: "I need everyone's attention. Everyone quiet down and give me your attention. We have an emergency situation. The train has struck a vehicle. Everybody stay calm and collective, and stay in your seats. I repeat, stay in your seats and remain calm. We will let you know what is happening as soon as the police arrive and assess the situation." He said this little speech several times, especially the "calm and collective" part. I don't know, I was looking around and everybody looked pretty calm. And as far as I could tell, everyone was staying in their seats and nobody was storming the front of the train. So I don't know why he was so excited. Hey, we had just seen a fireworks show. A little fender bender between a train and a car? Phth. Amateur hour, man.

As it turned out, the train only struck the front end of a vehicle and took off the bumper. Whoever was driving it apparently had reasons to be elsewhere and took off, abandoning the vehicle. Eventually, the train was released and we continued on our journey home, none the worse for wear. So just let that be a lesson to you, kids: Never park too close to the railroad tracks, because the train is bigger and it will *win.*

Deep Thinkers

The Graduate advisor for the department put together a potluck so we could all get together and hear what some of our fellow students were doing with their Masters theses.

One student read from his completed translation of Beowulf, and discussed the difficulties and challenges of translating a text from Old English.

Another discussed her research of John Muir and his writings, her attempt to reposition him in the transcendentalist movement, and her argument that he was more Emerson's ideal Man than Thoreau was.

Another was doing research on African-American writers in San Francisco from the years right before the Civil War to immediately following.

And as I sat in that room, listening to their thoughts, I could not help but wonder at what incredible colleagues I am sharing my graduate years with. What wonderful minds.

I have not decided yet if I am going to do a thesis. It is not required. But after listening to these others, I kind of want to. It seems . . . so very exciting to be working on a project of one's own. At the same time, I am filled with the gravest doubts that I could do the work. But listening to them made me want to try.

Living on Grad Student Time

When am I going to learn that writing a term paper really *does* take all night?


Term paper: 10 hours
Sleep: 4 hours
Condition of house: Absolute squalor
Condition of brain: [...soft, staticky hiss, background noise of the universe...]

Lady Moreta, Dragon Queen,
Save me, please, from going between...

And All Shall Be Well

"Departure for Darkness" by Patrick Woodroffe

Excerpt from "Little Gidding" from The Four Quartets

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Through the unknown, unremembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning;
At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall
And the children in the apple-tree
Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.
Quick now, here, now, always—
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flame are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.

~T. S. Eliot

From the Mouth of Mein Monsterkind

Otherwise known by such terms of affection as "Bane of My Existence," "Beast from the Netherhells," and "Barnacle Boy," my son has grown (and grown) into a bundle of contradictions. At times he displays the boundless energy of a puppy, and at others an aloof "I'm-way-too-cool-for-this-party" kind of detachment. He will be 15 this month [!!!]. Sometimes I watch him as he and his friends walk along with their arms and legs all long and angular and awkward. They remind me of a young pack of Timber Wolves: they don't walk, they lope.

I suppose I should have known what sort of challenge I was in for when, at four or five years old, we were having a conversation like this:

Me: "Oh, you are such a pill!"

Him: "Am I a red pill or a blue pill?"

Recently, he has been fascinated, yea, even obsessed, with vampires. He says he wants to be a vampire. I said to him, "Why would you want to be a vampire? You would be living off of other humans. You would be the Destroyer." He replied without batting an eye, "Mom, aren't normal humans the Destroyers?" Point.

But my secret weapon is still language. And it will be awhile before he can catch up. The other day we were eating a sweet snack in the mall, and he said to me rather pointedly, "Isn't this kind of fattening?"

I went immediately into mock offended tone. "So what are you saying? Are you saying I'm fat?"

"No! No! You're not fat!" [backpedal, backpedal, backpedal]

"So what are you saying?"

"I'm saying, um, you're... a cute plump!"

"Acute plump? What is that? Some kind of condition? It sounds like I'm afflicted with plump, like acute pneumonia!"

"No! No! A... cute... plump. Two words! Two words!"

I let him sweat it out. Yes, any future partner of his will have me to thank for his having just the right amount of mild neurosis. My work here is done.

A Note on Radiomancy

Hey, you know it's going to be a good day when you wake up with "Mr. Blue Sky" singing in your head. ;-)

First off, I have to give a nod to Brett, who widened my ELO horizons by revealing that "Mr. Blue Sky" is actually a very excellent song by ELO and *not* just a theme song for the new VW Beetles as I had previously supposed. ;-)

On "Radiomancy": I could have sworn I saw a Wikipedia entry on this, but I just did a search and nothing came up. So maybe I imagined it.

But you know what turned up when I did a Google search? My Blog! How's that for circularity? (And a little unnerving, I might add. I am suddenly in the spotlight... [shuffle, shuffle]) Here I was thinking anyone wondering could just go do a random search and figure it out. So now I feel Obligated to Explain Things.

Radiomancy, according to what I read on a Techno-witch's site (yes, Virginia, there are Techno-witches) is similar to Bibliomancy, which was an ancient practice in which someone would seek an answer to a problem or a vision of the future by randomly selecting a page or passage out of a sacred text. With Radiomancy, you randomly move the radio dial and listen for dialogue or verse as your "answer."

My Radiomancy is more passive. It's more of a good vibe, resonance thing. And I don't necessarily need the radio. It may be a song stuck in my head, like this morning. It may be the first song I hear when I turn on my car in the morning. Or I may be driving along, not paying attention exactly, and suddenly the next song on the radio resonates precisely with what I am feeling at that moment.

So no, I have not asked the radio to tell me my future. But you know, if the first song of the day is Yes's "Owner of a Lonely Heart", I ask you, How can that not be a wonderful day?

Have you seen this book?

I think I'm going mad.

I know I own this book. I'm sure of it. But I can't find it anywhere.

I have checked every shelf, every box in my closet.

I have a distinct memory of holding this book in my hands, smelling the new book smell, reading a few random pages, before setting it on the shelf for later... and now... gone.

Did I dream it?

I feel like Bilbo Baggins searching for his ring.

Someday I'm going to have an entire room devoted to books so things like this won't happen.

What a bother.

Flights of fancy

"The best thing for being sad," replied Merlin, beginning to puff and blow, "is to learn something. That's the only thing that never fails. You may grow old and trembling in your anatomies, you may lie awake at night listening to the disorder of your veins, you may miss your only love, you may see the world about you devastated by evil lunatics, or know your honour trampled in the sewers of baser minds. There is only one thing for it then -- to learn. Learn why the world wags and what wags it. That is the only thing which the mind can never exhaust, never alienate, never be tortured by, never fear or distrust, and never dream of regretting. Learning is the only thing for you. Look what a lot of things there are to learn."

~ T.H. White

Adventures with Alcohol

One "Daisy Duke" sends Tinkerbell flying...

Two "Daisy Dukes" knocks her on her ass...

Cryptozoology

My son already knew this word.

Main Entry: cryp·to·zo·ol·o·gy
Pronunciation: "krip-t&-zO-'ä-l&-jE, -z&-'wä-
Function: noun
: the study of and search for animals and especially legendary animals (such as Sasquatch) usually in order to evaluate the possibility of their existence
- cryp·to·zoo·log·i·cal /-"zO-&-'lä-ji-k&l/ adjective
- cryp·to·zo·ol·o·gist /-'ä-l&-jist, -'wä-/ noun

http://www.cryptozoology.com/

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cryptozoology

Never tell me the odds!

Well, I was hoping to be Han Solo or Princess Leia, but Qui-Gon is cool, too.

Click here or on the image above to play the game.

So much music, so little time...

tori's latest was released today, but do I have time to go shopping? [sigh!] And after spending $$$ on new tires and a front-end alignment, well, my heart just isn't into going out and spending more money. I have a weird relationship with money that way. Anytime I spend more than $100 on anything, I start to feel slightly ill. It has taken me most of my adult life to get to where shopping can be remotely pleasurable, and even then I'm still a walk-in-find-what-I-like-and-walk-out kind of shopper. Except for books. I can browse a bookstore for hours. Music runs a close second.

So I guess tori will have to wait. Looks like it's getting some good reviews. Yay, tori! Meanwhile, I have a really cool copy of Paste magazine with a CD sampler to keep me occupied (Thanks, Guy!). I love it when my "favorites" come out with new CDs, but I also love discovering new music, especially these obscure little bands from other countries that nobody has ever heard of who are trying new and interesting things. Trouble is, some of these obscure little bands put out one CD and then disappear forever.

Which reminds me, I've been meaning to do a post on William Gibson's No Maps for These Territories. It's taking me a long time because there is just so much packed into that film, well, it's just going to be a really long post once I get to it. Anyway, the eminently quotable Gibson said that, with the advent of technology, "movements" don't really have time to gain momentum anymore. So these obscure little bands are catapulted into fame and fortune too quickly and burn out like meteorites. Even during the time of bands like Nirvana and the whole grunge thing. It just doesn't last anymore because there is no longer any "backwater" to nurture it. Almost as if music needs a primeval goo to evolve in before coming out into the light. It's an interesting thought. I mean, I just love the way the whole indie rock scene is taking off and there are all these obscure little bands getting attention. But what if there is some truth in what Gibson is saying? What if we are somehow disconnecting from that creative space where original ideas are born?