Robin Williams

Robin Williams died today.

I know everyone dies but this is especially tough.  Because he did nothing but make me smile and feel like I could always find something funny in even the most serious of topics.  But is this it?  Do we now live in a world where one of the funniest men on the planet kills himself?

Where do you go from this?  What do you do when the man, who made you laugh when you first heard his voice as a big blue genie, who made you seek the inner thread of life as an eccentric teacher, and who made the large empty pit of death stretching out before you seem less threatening.

He was Dante, Plato, and Aristophenes all rolled up into one super ball of a human being.  

All that remains now are memories of him and his substantial body of work.

My God Robin. Why?  

It is like a pillar you always thought was going to be there is suddenly rubble before you, and looking up you wonder how the ceiling manages to stay upright.  What is holding it up?  

His laughs and smile were like a last bastion almost.  A place we could retreat to.

When the forces of the real world, the enemies of our spirit had beaten us back on all fronts, we could retreat to the Alamo of smile and assurance that Robin was, and lick our wounds while listening to him tell us that “When in doubt, always go for the dick jokes.”

And once we were finished and were ready for the world again, we could sally forth and punch our lost job, our departing girlfriend, or our ill health right in the cock.

Now there is just a foundation where there once stood protective walls.  With a gift-shop next to it and a sign proclaiming it to be a national historic site.  But the original safety is gone.

What we are left with is a picture.  An ideal for what we once had, and what we must now attempt to recreate.  We must rebuild it, with higher walls and turrets, to honor his memory, and serve to improve the lives of those who come after.

So as difficult as it is, we owe it to Robin.  For all the times he sheltered us and for all the things he taught us, to dry our eyes and run out to fight the sad, the unjust and the hypocrites with a smile in our eyes and a laugh upon our lips.  

Raising high the battle standard of our Joker, Robin.

The Lego Movie

I recently attended a showing of The Lego Movie.

Go.

That is all I can say.

It took me back 15 years to a much simpler time in my life.  I felt an immediate connection with the world, the characters and the plot.  It is evident that everyone involved in this movie was just in it to have a good time.

I'm not going to go into the plot, honestly the less said the better.  I was entertained by the voice acting (Morgan Freeman and Liam Neeson don't steal the show, but are funny none the less) and was deeply involved with the little plastic people.

I can also say that if you never had Lego creations as a child you won't get this movie.  It moves along at the speed that an imaginative child's mind bounces from one idea to another, bouncing all over the place but somehow making sense.

I can't say enough good things about this movie.

Go see it, your inner child 15 years ago would love it.

3 Stages of a Relationship Expressed Through Bathroom Manners

All loving relationships go through 3 stages.  There are only these three stages, no more and no less.

The first stage is one I call,

"The Diplomatic Falsehood."

During this stage when either one of the loving couple feels the sudden urge to use the toilet, they will avoid the issue entirely with a quaint "I'll be right back," or an "Excuse me for just a minute."  They will then take the long way to the toilet, maybe dropping by the kitchen first under the pretense of grabbing some Doritos before returning to watching The Notebook.  ("Watching The Notebook" is my favored euphemism for sex by the way.)  Once they are within the bathroom, there will be the most hurried and quietest shit in the history of mankind.  Prior to mounting the throne the faucet, and maybe even the shower will be turned on.  The individual will strain and push, praying to God above that there are no overly fecal noises to alert their significant other, that their asshole is indeed home to the greatest foulness to enter the world of man.

The second stage I refer to as,

"Allied Powers"

During this stage of the relationship, it is virtually identical to the first, except instead of the pretense of "Excuse me" the individual now uses the phrase "I have to got to the bathroom" or "I need to use the restroom."  Other than that there is no change.

The Third and Final Stage I call,

"Border Clashes"

Usually by this point the relationship is in decline, while not ending, it is obvious that in the near future is a major fight.  Instead of giving any pretense of any kind of activity other than the evacuation of their bowels, the individual will say something like: "Gotta take a shit."  Or something even more crass like "Taking the fudge pug to the porcelain dogpark."  They then go to the restroom and make their bowel movement as loud as they possibly can.  If there is a particularly rancid smell they might even close the door after flushing to leave a UN WMD violation waiting for their partner when they next need to use the latrine.

I hope this has been informative.

Dracula Re-imagined

Recently I attending a performance of Dracula Re-imagined by Richard Davis.  I enjoyed the performance and felt that all the actors were a credit to their profession.  I took many notes during the performance and would now like to share my thoughts on the story as a whole.

First, I think that if this production were in a larger venue it would actually decrease the impact of the performance.  There is something about a small theater like The Browncoat that heightens certain kinds of drama.  This was no exception.  I didn't feel like I was part of a large elaborate production, rather that I was back with my primeval ancestors, telling stories around a campfire.  This is by no means detrimental, and if anything heightens the action taking place on stage, passing the weight to the actors shoulders.

I would like to touch briefly on the music selection.  I understand that there was a theme that was being developed, but I felt that it was a little too heavy handed.  Around 30 or 45 minutes in I was struck by the thought of "I get it.  Gothic story and vampires.  We can quit with the over the top choral pieces."  The various covers of the song House of the Rising Sun did fit well with the plot and tone however.

A quick run down of the characters and their place within the story.

The most glaring flaw to me was Jonathan Harker.  His whole point in this production seemed to be a piece of meat.  The average man being slowly ushered deeper in to horror and actively seeking a way out was not as prevalent as I remember from Bram Stokers original piece.  I am not sure if this was Davis's intent or not, but at the end I felt as though I never got to really meet Jonathan.

Mina Harker however, had an obvious amount of time dedicated to her.  She experienced quite a bit of character development, and I felt that it was a well executed take on a character that has started to become a bit overdone.

Abraham van Hellsing experience nearly no change from his original form, and I liked that.  A little familiarity is good, especially when you are going to manipulate the original story to the degree that Richard Davis has.

When it comes to the character of Lucy, I felt that there may have been more unsaid.  She felt like a character that had gone through one too many revisions and not was simply a shadow of what had been originally written.

I couldn't stand the character of Arthur Holmwood, but I think this was deliberate.  I have a certain loathing for whiny characters (and people) and Arthur inhabited this very well.

The character of Renfield was equal parts new vision and old homage.  I'll get more into this later.

Quincy changed dramatically, from a southern gentleman, to a good ol boy.  I'm not sure I really approve, since this change was not essential to the story.

Dracula, was Dracula.  His presence was required, but the changes made to his role in the story and his interaction with members of the cast were new and innovative.  I would like to see more thought put in to these kinds of adaptations in other works.

The Brides of Dracula were characters whom I wouldn't change a single thing about.  They were creepy and sensual.  Ol' Bram would be proud.

A few comments on the blocking and directions.

There was far too much pausing in doorways.  If it was enough to draw my attention, then it was far above the amount regularly seen in stage shows.  It felt like the entire production hinged (pun intended) on important lines being delivered on the threshold.  It is called a stage show, and I would like to have seen more work done, on the stage.

I found the use of found footage to be an excellent echo of the original book by Bram Stoker, I found myself wanting more of it over the course of the play, but I was grateful for what I received.

In short, I liked a different take on the story we all know and love, but the novelty grows a little stale.  This is a play that deserves one or two rewrites, and would make an excellent found footage film.

The Wind Rises

You are all going to think of my as an incredibly sappy, weak and emotional person.  I don't care.

The English trailer for The Wind Rises, the last film from Hayao Miyazaki has been released.  I can tell already from the small segments shown in the trailer that Miyazaki has only gotten better at his craft with age.

I was able to keep it together for mostly the entire trailer, until the "Farewell Masterpiece" came up.

Then it hit me.

This man, whom I have never met, has been telling me stories and taking me on journeys since I was 12 years old, when I watched Princess Mononoke for the first time at a friends house.  He has told me tale after tale, and now he is finished.  I took him for granted all this time, and I never thought that he would really stop.  I've learned a lot in that time, and some of my morals have been shaped explicitly by some of Miyazaki's films.

I learned leadership skills from Naussica, I finally figured out how to make someone laugh from Lupin, and through nearly all of them I was indulged in my passion for flight.

Now in his final piece, he is waving goodbye.  Someone I never met, wrote or spoke to has given me years of lessons and is now waving his hand as he departs this medium.

It is sad to see him go.

I am reminded of a poem by Christina Rossetti

Who has seen the wind?
Neither I nor you:
But when the leaves hang trembling,
the wind is passing through.

Who has seen the wind?
Neither you nor I:
But when the trees bow their heads,
The wind is passing by.

Farewell Miyazaki, thanks for everything.

The Man in the Suit

I've told you twice already.  Why must I say it again?

I had been working the case for weeks.  A random murder in a suburb.  We had made no progress, no murder weapon, no suspect.  Our investigation team had only found the body by chance.  I was on the verge of madness, the district attorney was breathing down my neck.  Apparently the woman's father was a golfing buddy of his and they wanted results.  It should seem obvious the choice I then made.

I made him up.

Honestly I did.  There was no murderer, and there was nearly no evidence.  What was I to do?  

So I invented him.  

A middle aged man, medium build, with grey hair, and wearing a suit.

I typed up a fictitious transcript of an interview with a local drifter who had also been found dead.  I had something to show the DA, and I thought that it would disappear.  

But I was wrong.

The anguished father found out of course, and he plastered wanted posters with the description of my fake suspect for miles around.  A sketch was on a billboard, news anchors were discussing him.  Everyone was talking about the man in the suit.

I had made a living hell for myself.

I was forced to answer questions, and invent more lies.  I gave interview after interview about this man who didn’t exist.

He may have a scar on his left cheek, he could be driving a black sedan, his preferred weapon was a Glock 17 fitted with a suppressor due to the lack of reported gunshots.

I hear you disagreeing, but you must understand that he was never real.

At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

Then the sightings came.

The 22nd of November, six weeks after the murder, he was spotted on a security camera buying gas not two miles from the suspected scene of the crime.

Of course I didn’t follow up the leads, I had invented this man after all.

But the next day there was another sighting.
Then another.

And another.

I finally had to act, and instructed my fellow police officers to be on the lookout and to bring him in if spotted.  

None of them did.

But the reports kept coming in.

Outside the dead womans house, near the church she visited, at the entrance to the city morgue.

It was impossible.  I was receiving reports of the figure across town at exactly the same time.

After a week I was called in to the DAs office.  

He wanted to know why I hadn’t caught this man.  Why he was still out on the streets making a mockery of his town and its police force.

I had no answers for him of course.

Then he told me to go out there personally.  He sat there, in his leather high backed chair and told me that I was forbidden to return to my office until I had apprehended the suspect.  

What was I to do?  How could I handcuff someone who I invented?

I went home and pondered just ending it all with a gun in my mouth.

But then I looked outside, and there he was.  Standing underneath the streetlamp, right next to his black sedan, staring back at me.  

I froze.

It was impossible.  How could he be here, looking back at me with those blue eyes.  Or were they grey?  My fictional account wasn’t sure, and right now I couldn’t be either.  He seemed to be almost a painting, or illustration given manifest form.  

He shimmered, and seemed to constantly change as though out of focus or viewed through frosted glass.

I backed away from the window and put my .38 revolver in my coat pocket, then stepped out the front door.

The closer I approached him, the darker the surrounding lights became, until even the streetlamp seemed to be just a flickering memory.  A greyish haze more than a light.  

He was just as I had described him.  Tall, gaunt, with a scar on his cheek and a slightly unshaven face.  
“Who are you?”

I asked.

He smiled.  

“You know exactly who I am.”

He said.

“You made me.  You gave me life, purpose, and a face.  Faith is a powerful thing detective.  You trumpeted my existence to a town of half a million, and they all wanted to see me.  They all wanted me to appear.  And lo, I did.  Here I am detective.  Am I everything you wanted?”

I was quaking.  Days without sleep had brought about his hallucination, I was certain of it.  But I had one way to prove it.

I plunged my hand into my coat pocket, and fired all six shots into his tall figure.  

The bullets passed through, leaving his clothing unmarked, but they all impacted the brick wall across the street.  

He smiled.

“I’m more than a man now detective.  I am a shared belief.  And those are much, much more difficult to kill.  Not even the truth can bring me down now.”

I watched helplessly as he pulled a suppressed Glock from his coat, and shot me twice in the chest.  As I fell to the pavement he grabbed me by my shirt, and holding me close to him whispered into my ear.

“Thank you.”

He dropped me like a wet sandbag onto the sidewalk, strode to his car, and drove off.


I know you think me mad.  You think all of this stress has gotten to my head, but I tell you it is the truth.  He is not real.  I swear it!  He is not real!

How I Imagine Most American Families

Cliff Anderson stared into the runny mashed potatoes.  The pinch pot containing the instant potato mix had been made by his son in Reform School pottery class, and while functional, was not aesthetically pleasing at all.

“Dad.  Gimme the potatoes.”

Inside Cliffs mind, a little voice suggested picking up the bowl and throwing it at his fourteen year old daughter.  

It wouldn't take much, just grab and throw.

Just grab, and throw.

A small smirk flicked across the left corner of Cliffs mouth as he reached over and lifted the bowl, before setting it down within reach of his daughter.

Daisy, was about as far from her namesake as it was possible for a fourteen year old to achieve.  She had pierced her lip, nose and left eyebrow.  She had also tattooed the international sign for recycle across on her right cheek the size of a coaster.  

All her face tackle had been acquisitions she had made while running away from home for the third time.

At the other end of the table sat Cliffs wife Tammy.  Cliff found himself attempting to remember back before their children had intruded so pointedly into their lives.  

Cliff and Tammy had met at a state fair, she was selling the deep fried HoHos and Cliff was on leave from the Army.  He had first seen his wife of twenty three years while watching his close friend vomit up his lunch from the tilt a whirl.  The putrescent stream had jetted out from the spinning contraption and hit one of Tammy's customers full in the face.

The young boy had commenced to cry as the bile worked its way down the front of his overalls while his mother stepped back in unbelieving horror.  

Cliff had run on up to assist, only to be beaten to it by Tammy.  She wiped the boy and awarded the rotund youth a fresh piece of fried food for his trouble.  

Cliff had never been a romantic man, but his luck in finding possibly the most promiscuous woman in the carnival awarded him a quick turn with Tammy.  She had run off with him back to Fort Hood and the two had somehow managed to survive.

Three children later the pair were starving their way through their two mortgages for a single floor three bedroom house.  Their oldest son, Reggie, was in jail following a failed robbery of an adult bookstore, and their two hundred fifty pound, self loathing daughter seemed determined to follow.

Cliffs mind was wrenched away from thoughts about the hopelessness he felt about his sons and daughters prospects by the sudden thud that marked the near daily demise of James Franklin Anderson.

The two year old had put both feet out from his high chair and kicked for all he was worth, catapulting himself and his chair backward in an arc cackling with mad delight.  The high chair slammed into the ground bouncing the young childs now unconscious form completely free of the wreckage.

The unexpected lurch of the table caused Daisy to spill her milk all down the front of her t shirt.  

She immediately began to cry.

“It’s not fair.”

She said, sobbing into her sausage like fingers.

“It’s just not fair.  I didn't ask for any of this to happen!  Why won’t this family just leave me alone”

Tammy was on the floor checking on James Franklin while scolding him simultaneously.  The young boy had a look of dumb incomprehension on his face, as though his sudden arrival to the floor was entirely a surprise to him.

Daisy continued to sob and berate everything that had happened in her life since she was old enough to understand object permanence.

Cliff simply stood up and took his dinner to the bed room with him, and switched on the television.  

“Tonight at 11,”

said a broad mouthed smiling female anchor

“more and more families are eating dinner separately.  We ask our resident experts what this means for the stability of the American family.”

Cliff laughed, spearing a head of broccoli viciously on his fork and worked the vegetable around in the instant gravy.

From outside the door he heard his wife disciplining the two year old, while the slamming of the screen door announced his daughters fourth bid at freedom.

Cliff saluted the slamming door with the impaled gravy soaked vegetable.

“Maybe this time she’ll run off and join the carnies.”

He said, before popping the miniature green tree into his waiting mouth.