A Note to Hollywood

            You know, this has been bothering me for some time now so I might as well get it off of my chest already; Hollywood needs to quit fucking up comic book movies.  There. I said it.  Whew!  That feels better.  Now allow me to elaborate.  You might want to sit down for this; it’s going to be one hell of a geek-rant.

            First I’ll start with the obvious: quit it with the origin stories already.  Now, I know what you (Hollywood) are going to say: not everybody is familiar with the origins of these characters, and we don’t want the audience to feel they are trying to play catch-up and avoid the movie thereby reducing ticket sales.  Well, I’m not sure that’s exactly how they’d say it as I’m not fluent in asshole marketing executive speak, but the problem with this it that you’re demographic already knows the origins to these characters so IT DOESN’T MATTER!  Why the fuck did they need to do the origin of Spiderman all over again already?  Feel free to change the actors a la James Bond, but save us from another movie where we have to trudge through half the movie watching some asshole whine and mope before we get to the superhero we came to see.

I will admit that there are cases when it works extremely well.  Iron Man being the stand-out in this regard as it’s really only been the origin story that has worked for those movies.  Part two was extremely annoying with the sit-com style banter between Tony Stark and Pepper Potts and a villain that lacked any kind of style, charisma, or even a logical challenge.  I mean, if all he has are whips why didn’t Iron Man just stand back about thirty feet and blast him with one of those tank decimating weapons we saw in the first movie.  Wasn’t that a killer scene when he dodged the tank’s artillery shell, after being shot down from the sky, and just took the tank out with one shot as he walked away with the style reminiscent of James Bond while it exploded behind him?  What was with Brody being able to operate a suit as well as Tony, maybe even better (he did win that first fight between the two after all), from the first moment he puts on the suit?  Tony nearly broke his neck trying to learn how to fly in the first movie for god’s sake.  Oh, oh, don’t tell me it’s because of his military training either.  That’s a fucking cop-out and is entirely too convenient.  The third movie was only slightly better, and might have been pretty decent if he had actually been Iron Man throughout the whole movie.  Do you (Hollywood) really think we want to watch Tony Stark run around trying to fix his suit for most of the movie?  And what was with him recharging it with the electrical wires from the garage?!  I thought that’s what the goddamn arc reactor in his chest was for.  All of a sudden these suits have a battery life and need to be recharged like my fucking Iphone?  That makes no sense in relation to everything the movies have set up so far. 

Sorry for going on an Iron Man tangent; now back to the matter at hand.  My point is that the origin stories just get in the way of the character.  I liked Man of Steel, and I’m willing to cut it a break since we haven’t seen Superman’s origin (the flashbacks in Superman Returns don’t count) in over 30 years, but I still think it would have been a better movie had it just jumped straight into the Superman mythos.  Now you’ve most likely fucked up by choosing to make a versus movie before the character of Superman has even been established.  I realize the D.C. universe is trying to compete with Marvel’s build-up to The Avengers, but I’m telling you right now you’re jumping the gun on this one.  Now, I have a soft spot for ol’ supes and I’m REALLY hoping the new movie is good, but I don’t see how Batman can really hang in a fight with Superman when we’ve just seen him take out almost an entire city in the collateral damage of his fight with Zod.  There’s no logical way for Batman to stand a chance without kryptonite being a factor and that’s just fucking lame.  It doesn’t matter if it’s a villain or if it’s Batman; using kryptonite is a tired plot device that you shouldn’t even bother exploring.  You might have been better off just doing a team-up movie where an older Batman (older than Superman, I mean) is a mentor to Superman and teaches him about how to be the best superhero possible.  Batman could be teaching him that it’s not ok to take out an entire city, killing millions of civilians just to defeat the villain, and that Superman’s powerful enough that if he’s not careful he will do more harm than good and that he’s also strong enough to be able to avoid causing that level of destruction.  Giving Batman this knowledge and wisdom would keep him on the same level as Superman in terms of superhero hierarchy because physically Superman wins hands down.

You need to quit making up your own stories for our beloved superheroes.  There are SO many great storylines and graphic novels written by people who know and understand what makes superheroes special that you can adapt to the big screen.  You want to finally make a good solo Hulk movie?  Go with Planet Hulk and listen to everybody scream like little school girls in delight.  You could probably turn it into a trilogy, since you insist on EVERYTHING being a trilogy, (I know it’s not a comic book but it is in the same ballpark so why the hell did The Hobbit need to be a trilogy?!) and it would be amazing!  So what if there aren’t many humans in the Planet Hulk story.  Humans only tend to drag the story down (Michael Bay and Transformers, I’m talking about you!).  Please just pick a good storyline from the comics, adapt it to the big screen because most of us are smart enough to realize that some things may work in the comics but won’t work in the movies, and then get out of the way. 

You need to realize that not everything should be or HAS to be a big tent pole movie.  As much as I enjoyed the movie I actually blame The Dark Knight for this mindset.  It made you believe that every comic book movie has the potential to be a billion dollar movie, and that, I’m afraid, just isn’t the case.  You have ruined the character of Wolverine with the stubborn desire for this type of giant blockbuster.  X-Men Origins: Wolverine was a big steaming pile of shit that was laughable in its conception and sickening in its execution.  Wolverine is a gritty visceral character and I would love to someday see a lower budget movie, along the lines of Punisher: War Zone or Dredd, which depicts the character as he should be in all of his deservedly rated R glory.  I know that Dredd and the Punisher movie didn’t make the money you’d like to see but it was so fucking cool to see those characters as they should be and not softened up to PG-13 status for mass market appeal.  Wolverine has metal fucking claws and we never see any blood.  How is that possible?  We should be seeing decapitations, disembowelings, and amputations in every fight scene.  Goddamn, now that would be a sight to behold! 

Finally, not every comic book character has what it takes to be made into a movie.  Catwoman is the supreme example of this disgraceful error in judgment.  I’m really not confident that Fantastic Four or even Daredevil can ever make a successful transfer to the silver screen; not on their own anyway.  You will have to choose your comic book movies wisely and not just ride the current trend trying to make a few easy bucks.  You will just lose money and alienate the demographic you are trying to entice.  Superman is a very popular character and even he has had trouble in the box office.  Do you really think the Black Panther is going to win over big audiences?  Some of the characters might be able to do something in let’s say a movie made for HBO or Showtime, but the theater is not where they belong.  Show some balls and use your heads, Hollywood, and give us some more quality comic book movies.

Thanks-fucking-giving

Ah, the holidays: the time of year when we give thanks for what we have, at least in theory anyway.  In truth it’s a time of stress and/or depression.  It’s the time of year when far too many of us lament the lack of fulfillment or, for those on the flip-side of the coin, resent the burden of obligation they have to their family and friends that cause them stress and monopolizes their time and money.  For the sad-sacks, such as myself, we lament the lack of real flesh and blood people in our lives that care about us.  We see the smiling couples and laughing families out and about as we walk the cold and damp November streets alone and desperately hoping and searching for a meaningful connection with somebody, anybody, that might prove, to ourselves, that we are not alone in this harsh and brutally indifferent world and that, if we should die, somebody might actually care to notice and maybe even mourn our passing.  I’ve seen the pictures of the lonely and isolated people who have died in their sad little homes swelling to balloon-like proportions before the horrific smell of decomposition finally drives somebody to inquire about their existence, or lack-thereof, and I know, with terrible certainty, that there lies my pathetic fate if things don’t change.  Sure, my cell phone, that for the most part remains depressingly silent save the notifications of junk mail, might ring a few times when I don’t show up for work, but nobody I know would actually come looking for me if something fatalistic were to occur.  There would be no knock on my door until a neighbor just can’t stand the smell any longer, and since I live in a diverse community with many immigrants having brought with them various sorts of interesting odors to the land of the free, I know it would take some time before the odoriferous emanations of my rotting corpse would be noticed and addressed.  Even though, at this time of year, we are supposed to acknowledge what we are lucky to have, it only reminds some people of the exact opposite. 

Exacerbating the problem is the cursed knowledge that we really shouldn’t feel this way, even if we’re truly as alone as we feel, because we know it could be so much worse (side note: I’m using the royal we as I can’t possibly believe that I’m alone in these feelings, and though it would be nice to believe that I am unique in feeling this way, as that would set me apart from the rest of mankind in an interesting, though depressing, way; I’m far too realistic, and honest with myself, to believe that I’m original in any significant facet), making us hate ourselves, all that much more, for being so self-pitying and pathetic.  I mean, for god’s sake, there are people in the world whose lives are in danger every single day.  There are parts of Africa that are a living nightmare, such as which most Americans can’t relate to on any level regardless of the ghetto they may live in, where children are forced to murder their parents, where women are raped on a daily basis, where disease and famine are rampant, and here we are complaining that we’re lonely and unloved while we walk the streets with a steaming hot white mocha latte in one hand and a smartphone in the other.  I, for one, hate myself, that much more, for feeling this way, but I can’t pretend those feelings exist without lying to myself and living in denial.  I believe honesty is better than denial even if it’s negative.  At least that way we can face the problem head-on.

             Personally, I am honestly thankful that I still have my mother after her having battled breast cancer this past year.  She lives far enough away from me that I don’t see her often but if she were to pass away I would truly be alone.  My siblings and I are not close and I don’t have a father so once she’s gone I will have, essentially, lost my family.  However, I don’t have kids and it seems that there’s some unwritten rule for my parents, and maybe other’s as well, that if you haven’t given them grandchildren to visit then there’s really no reason to make the trip.  I’ll get the call, usually the day after they actually arrive, letting me know they’re in town and want to see me, but I had better drive across town to my step-brother’s house, where there are two grandchildren of course, if I want to see them.  They are from a very rural area and I’m just not worth braving the “crazy” Denver traffic to visit without having grandchildren to motivate them.  In the almost twenty years since I’ve moved out of their house they have seen all of three of my apartments.  So while I’m thankful I have my family I still resent the fact that they don’t seem to consider me worthy of their effort or time.  It’s a horrible feeling when you realize that your family considers you a second class member, and their affection and love have more to do with convenience that anything else

Thank you, oh so much, Thanksgiving for making me recognize all that I hate about myself.  I really appreciate it.

Thus ends my whiny little woe-is-me rant.  Thanks for letting me get that off my chest.  Isn't that what the holidays are for?  :)

In The Beginning...

          I created this blog, long, long ago in a galaxy far, far away that I call the What The Fuck was I Thinking Moving In With That Crazy Bitch Galaxy, as a way of documenting the painfully slow downward spiral of a toxic relationship I was in with an angry little woman I was living with at the time.  A woman with the unfortunate combination of crippling insecurities and an arrogant and self-entitled attitude on par with the worst of the reality television stars that she so loved to watch. The whole relationship was a mistake, to say the least, but I thought it would be interesting to document the torrid details of the asinine conflicts within the relationship.  We would fight endlessly over the most trivial of matters and it seemed to me, at the time, that it would be of great benefit, to all mankind, to make an historical record of these ridiculous fights and show the world just who this woman really was.  People should know, not only for their own edification, but for their own safety as well.  “Danger, Will Robinson, Danger.  This bitch is fucking insane!”  They need to know she's not the laid back woman she would have you to believe.  That she is one of the most selfish and self-deluded people on the planet.  That she was riddled with double-standards and hypocrisies.  That she lived in a world where her own rules applied to everyone but herself.  That, for her, anger is the default emotion, and if there's nothing to be happy about then she will be angry.  That this anger consumes her and she's left with nowhere to turn it except on those who are closest to her, and as I learned from, both, experience and from her stories about her past, her boyfriend will always take the brunt of the anger.  I thought people needed to know and I should be the one to call her out, but I never started this documentation of our pathetic decline.  I didn’t really have enough free time away from her to write anything and I didn’t want her to see what I was writing as that would just result in many more fights.  In all honesty, I also realized I really didn’t want to hurt her and I knew I’d really just be embarrassing myself in the process.  I just needed to get out of the relationship.

I either had too much respect for myself to put up with it or I wasn't a strong enough man to give her what she wanted, depending on whose side one chose to believe.  If I'm being honest with myself; it was probably both but obviously I lean toward the former, and I refuse to believe any man should have to fight for the right to get out of bed in the morning before his significant other, whoever that might be, has awaken.  Yes, that was a real argument we had; she, literally, wanted me to lay in bed until she woke up on her own, even if it was for hours ("But don't move too much or you'll wake me up").  Back to the point I was making; I never began the documentation of our fights, and several months after I created this blog I broke up with the woman and have moved on.  Although after reading this I wonder if that's true.  The ghosts of a dead relationship linger longer that we’d like to admit, I think.

          Here I am, months later, and I realize I have a blog that I've never used.  So what is a man to do?  Like they say: you gotta use it or lose it.  So I'm gonna use it.  For what, exactly, I'm not sure.  Mostly to vent and display any of my work, I imagine, but, as a highly unsuccessful artist, I know that what you aim for isn't always what you get.  And that's a good thing.  My art school instructors (RIP E.C. Cunningham) were all very fond of telling us to "let the process inform the work," or something to that nature, meaning that the work will change and evolve, during its creation, in a way that may diverge from the artist's original vision.  The concept remains the same but the execution changes, even if just a little.  And that's a good thing.  Artists are flawed gods that create life with a false idea of perfection.  I doubt any painter has ever created a work of art that's exactly as they had pictured it in their mind.  That being said, this blog will probably start as a way for me to vent about any and everything before evolving into something unforeseen.  I see the title “Those Fucking Kids and Their Skinny Jeans” somewhere in the future.  Most of it, I'm sure, will be trite and narcissistic, as the rants of the deranged often are, but I need not worry about the lack of focus this blog may exhibit as there will, no doubt, be few, if any, readers to judge and criticize.  To the unfortunate souls who might happen to stumble upon this, I apologize for the quality but thank you for your time.  

          That’s more than enough of me droning on.  For this first post I will end with a short story that’s rather lighthearted.  I just can’t resist the compulsion to display a bit of creativity since this has been rather dry and lacking in originality so far.  I hope you enjoy; it’s an old one but I still find it amusing in its simplicity.  Much darker work will follow in the future, I assure you.

Afterwards

     Contrary to popular belief one actually has several options upon entering the afterlife.  Most theologies are correct in their interpretation of the afterlife, but they only have part of the picture.  There is a god, but it’s more of a position than anything else.  Once someone is voted in as God he has a 500 year term at the end of which he may retire or run for God again.  Their campaign tactics are surprisingly dirty to say the least, and listening to those damn election commercials are just as annoying up here as they are down there. Reincarnation, Hell, purgatory, and Heaven are just a few of the possibilities.  If you want to spend your next life as a candle in the castle of King Henry VIII or stay in the here-after and just get a job; the choice is yours.  The jobs vary widely from guardian angels (the most popular) to file clerk to maintenance to custodial and everything in between. 

I tried Heaven for a while, but it was just a little too pious for me.  I heard it used to be a pretty nice place.  You know: it was clean, the food was great, it had a great nightlife, and the women were…well, let’s just say they were divine.  But then the Christians came and ruined it.  They are the mall police of Heaven.  They’re always passing out pamphlets, lecturing you on how to behave properly, and telling you about the sins you’re committing.  Let’s get one thing straight, shall we?  There are no sins.    The fact is murder’s the only thing that will keep you out of heaven, and even that’s really just sort of a suspension.  One thousand years and then you get another chance.  But they act like they did something special to get in.  They even tried to change the rules and make the standards for admission a little tougher because too many sinners were being allowed inside the pearly gates.  The Big Guy vetoed that down right away.  If you ask me I don’t think he cares much for Christians either, but what are you going to do, right?  It didn’t take me long before I decided to get out.

Hell was a little better actually.  It’s really not a punishment at all.  I mean if you choose to go there then how can it be.  The only down side is all the trash.  That’s how Hell got started in the first place: Lucifer was sent down here as Waste Disposal Manager to incinerate all of Heaven’s trash.  That’s where all those images of fire and molten pits of lava come from, but that’s really just a small section of Hell that we jokingly refer to as “Heaven”.  The rest is actually quite nice.  There’s always a barbecue to go to, we get all the really good movies, and all the great musicians are here from Beethoven to Kurt Cobain.  It is a little hot but it’s really not all that bad.  It’s like Florida in July except without the old people.    They never even intended for people to live down here, but once the Christians ruined Heaven some folks decided to clean Hell up a little and live down here.  Lucifer is actually a pretty cool guy once you get to know him.  He’s a little rough around the edges, but he is a janitor after all.  I can’t imagine anybody being too incredibly chipper after burning trash for thousands of years.  And, let me tell you, once he’s got a few shots of Jack Daniels in him he’ll tell you some of the craziest stories you’ve ever heard.  Ask him to tell you the one about Gandhi, Charlie Chaplin, this guy named Jack, and Haley’s Comet.  I was laughing about that one for weeks.  Eventually the heat got to me and I had to leave, but I still pay ol’ Cifer a visit every now and then.

I tried reincarnation a few times, but I didn’t really like it.  Once you’re reincarnated you’re stuck there until you’re dead.  That can be a pretty long wait if you get stuck with a lemon of a life.  Choosing a fun life isn’t as easy as it sounds.  Let me tell ya: being rich and famous is fun until you’re broke and sitting in a bar trying to convince some guy with one hand and a drooling problem that you used to be “somebody”.  I got three years of bliss and fifty-four years of crap on that one.  I tried out British royalty and my brother assassinated me when I nine.  I came back as a physics genius, but ended up spending my socially awkward life alone until the age of seventy-three.  There are two major problems with reincarnation.  One: you’re not privy to the details of your next life so you don’t know what to expect exactly.  It’s a crapshoot; you choose a life and just cross your fingers.  And two: you don’t remember anything you’ve learned in past lives so you just end up repeating the same mistakes over and over again.  Oh sure, you can choose to go back as Frank Sinatra or Hugh Hefner and run with the mob or surround yourself with shallow easy women, but the waiting list is long as hell.  I think I have another fifteen thousand years before I’m up.  So I moved on to something else while I wait my turn for old blue eyes.

I decided to get a job in the nether world.  One of the more sought after positions is that of Death.  There are a countless number of them walking the earth bumping people off.  It’s a good job, really.  It has great benefits, it’s relatively simple, and everyone respects, if not fears, Death.  I even get great rates on insurance just for being Death.  The only down-side is that you’re always on call, but it’s the price you pay I guess. 

It’s quite a process in just getting the job.  If you’re lucky enough to be picked then you have to go through training.  I just finished it and let me tell you: it was brutal.  I had to go through a week of just learning what the dress code is.  You have to have the right cape, the clothes have to be skintight, and you have to wear the right makeup.  Oy, it’s a whole ordeal.  Then you have to learn what the different degrees of death are.  Did you know you can actually overkill a person?  If you’re not careful you might just fry a person’s soul to a crisp and boy will you catch hell for that one.  We had to go through physical training where they whipped us into shape and taught us how to fight.  FYI: if a person’s tough enough they can kick Death’s ass and prevent himself from dying, but let’s just keep that between you and me, okay?  We had to take courses on metaphysics, astrophysics, and philosophy.  I damn near failed the final.  Got through by the skin of my teeth on that one thanks to some cleverly hidden cheat sheets and some duct tape.  But I made it and now I’m off on my first job. Maybe afterwards I’ll stop by Hell and shoot the breeze with my old cronies.  Better pick up a bottle of Jack. 

The End