What Made the Pan Refuse to Grow…
January 31, 2009
I finished reading Peter Pan last night, and I observed something that some of you may find intriguing. While the book is famous for being a children’s story filled with wonder, I also perceived a subtle but definitely sinister undertone to it. I’ve always noticed this mildly disturbing undercurrent in the writing I feel best captures dreams and/or childhood, most notably Neil Gaiman’s work. It reminds us, I think, that dreams (and the waking dream of childhood) are things of both wonder and terror. Perhaps it is impossible for the soul to be open to the wondrous without making itself supremely vulnerable, a truly terrifying prospect to many.
Anyway, fans of Neil Gaiman (and there should be some out there, lord knows I work hard enough to enlarge his cult), check out Peter Pan. Fans of Pan, check out Gaiman’s Coraline.
In the Meantime, I thought I’d leave you with a description of one of literature’s most memorable villains:
“A more villainous-looking lot never hung in a row on Execution dock….
In the midst of them, the blackest and largest jewel in that dark setting, reclined James Hook, or as he wrote himself, Jas. Hook, of whom it is said he was the only man that the Sea-Cook feared. He lay at his ease in a rough chariot drawn and propelled by his men, and instead of his right hand he had the iron hook with which ever and anon he encouraged them to increase their pace. As dogs this terrible man treated and addressed them, and as dogs they obeyed him. In person he was cadaverous and blackavized, and his hair was dressed in long curls, which at a little distance looked like black candles, and gave a singularly threatening expression to his handsome countenance. His eyes were of the blue of the forget-me-not, and of a profound melancholy, save when he was plunging his hook into you, at which time two red spots appeared in them and lit them up horribly. In manner, something of the grand seigneur still clung to him, so that he even ripped you up with an air, and I have been told that he was a raconteur of repute. He was never more sinister than when he was most polite, which is probably the truest test of breeding; and the elegance of his diction, even when he was swearing, no less than the distinction of his demeanor, showed him one of a different caste from his crew. A man of indomitable courage, it was said of him that the only thing he shied at was the sight of his own blood, which was thick and of an unusual color. In dress he somewhat aped the attire associated with Charles II, having heard it said in some earlier period of his career that he bore a strange resemblance to the ill-fated Stuarts; and in his mouth he had a holder of his own contrivance which enabled him to smoke two cigars at once. But undoubtedly the grimmest part of him was his iron claw.
Let us now kill a pirate, to show Hook’s method. Skylights will do. As they pass, Skylights lurches clumsily against him, ruffling his lace collar; the hook shoots forth, there is a tearing sound and one screech, then the body is kicked aside, and the pirates pass on. He has not even taken the cigars from his mouth.
Such is the terrible man against whom Peter Pan is pitted. Which will win?”
Unforgiveness
January 30, 2009
The other night I saw one of my favorite westerns on television, and decided to watch it. The movie was Eastwood’s Unforgiven, and it was on the Hallmark channel, which I found a pretty unlikely venue for a movie about a bunch of whores who decide to avenge a brutal attack on one of their own by pooling their savings to hire killers. Was Hallmark hoping that the movie’s depiction of the brutal consequences that follow will persuade more people to send “get well soon” cards instead?
Anyway, I’ve always loved this movie, because it is just so high-concept for a western, a genre which is often seen as a collection of simplistic tales promoting the cult of an outdated masculine ideal. It is thematically dense, raising a number of provocative themes – age, the romantic myths which surround violence, revenge, etc. – and it does all this from a stark, morally ambivalent perspective that has more to do with film noir than it does with Bonanza. In addition, it benefits from so much acting horsepower – Clint Eastwood, Gene Hackman, Morgan Freeman, Richard Harris – that it feels like almost an embarrassment of riches.
I grew up watching Eastwood in innumerable westerns; it was some of the best quality-time my father and I spent together. Now, later in my life, I choose this one again and again as the one to grow old with.
The Reaper’s Stealthy Tread
January 29, 2009
One of the helpful side effects of spending a fairly long period of time in freezing temperatures working with snow is that it serves as a kind of diagnostic for one’s body, especially as one ages. On Monday when I was slinging snow off of cars for a couple of hours while the temperature plunged down through the teens, I found out that my left knee was the latest part of my body to give up the fight. It stiffened really badly – I was practically hobbling by the time I came in.
My esteemed employers thought a little heavy lifting might be just the thing to limber me up again, with the end result that my lower back has joined my knee on the disabled list.
I may also have crippled my left hand playing too much pretend guitar in the evenings. Y’see, Guitar Hero places high demands upon your left hand, so it gets sore. It especially gets sore when your wife who hates Guitar Hero keeps accidentally slamming drawers and cupboards and car doors on it.
For the last couple of days I have been shuffling around like a geriatric version of myself. Enthusiasm is low. Energy is low. Urge to lay down and die is strong. Stubbornness is stronger, at least for the present.
Be back tomorrow to discuss one of my absolute favorite things…
Golden Oldies
January 28, 2009
I continue to thresh out the chaff from my ipod playlist slowly but surely. One interesting development is a decided bias toward old rockabilly, rhythm & blues, and early rock and roll that has been created because these are the types of music I downloaded straight to my computer rather than purchased on cd (not all of my cd collection has been transferred to the computer yet).
Since this playlist is what I find myself listening to at work all the time, I’ve kind of been in a musical time machine lately. I thought I would select a few of these old gems to share with you, gentle reader.
“Mona” – Bo Diddley His “I’m a Man” is awfully good as well.
“Lonely Weekends“ – Charlie Rich Sounds so much like a young Elvis Presley it is uncanny.
“Dedicated to the One I Love” – The Five Royales If you’ve only heard the sugary cover versions of this song by The Shirelles or The Mamas & the Papas, then you haven’t heard this song for real.
“Maybe” – The Chantels “Every Night (I Pray)” is also a terrific song. There just aren’t many singers who get across yearning like this any more.
“A Fool in Love” – Tina Turner While I’m not sure that the relationship described in the lyrics is all that healthy, you just have to check out the raw, soulful power Tina puts into this vocal. (sorry there’s no link – can’t find my favorite version on the interweb).
There are certainly more treasures on the old playlist, but I thought this handful (all recorded no later than 1960) would do for a start.
Bourne Again
January 27, 2009
It’s been an axiom of mine for years that any given narrative will fare better as a book than as a movie. I haven’t decided whether this is because of any inherent strength in the medium, or simply because less people are involved in producing a novel than a feature film, or for some other, more esoteric reason, I just find it to be true in nearly every case.
The biggest exception I have found in my career as a reader and moviegoer has been The Godfather. This was a very good book, but it was a great movie, for two primary reasons that I can discern. First, whereas the novel tends to sprawl a bit, spinning out a couple of secondary plotlines that frankly don’t add much to the book, the film is more tightly focused and compact, trimming away the extraneous bits and gaining power and momentum because of it. Second, while Mario Puzo was an adept writer, and skilled at characterization, the film had the advantage of employing a handful of the most brilliant actors in the profession to invest these same characters with a humanity and intensity Puzo did not achieve.
This stood as a lone example in my experience for many years, but recently it acquired a companion when I finished reading Robert Ludlum’s The Bourne Identity. Now, the gap is much narrower in this case, and I admit that I wasn’t sure I liked the movie more until the very end of the book. Which I suppose is a backhanded way of recommending the novel. Ludlum, unlike Puzo, is not a terribly good writer. The following passage from early in the novel is fairly typical: “the white sprays caught in the night sky cascaded downward over the deck under the force of the night wind.” Why not throw “night” in there a couple more times, really drive the point home for the reader? And how about stacking some more prepositions into this sentence?
“The white sprays caught in the night sky plummeted downward through the night toward the benighted ship below, cascading over the deck beside the cabin ahead of the stern under the force of the night wind, all beneath the concealing cloak of night?”
Anyway, Ludlum also has a mild case of Clancyitis, drawing characters that are occasionally unrealistic or corny. On the other hand, he came up with a very good premise, and is clearly ferociously intelligent, twisting and turning a convoluted plot in ingenious ways and using cleverly constructed traps and dangerous situations to produce crackling action sequences.
Ultimately, the movie transcends the book because it, like The Godfather, trims away the extraneous (and in this case, that includes some of the thinner characterizations) to weave a tighter version of the story. Also, director/producer Doug Liman and company are clearly more adept at the execution of their craft than Ludlum was at his – the film has a terrific economy and intelligence in its selection of shots, cuts, etc.
High Rate of Attrition
January 26, 2009
Last week’s schedule, like so many of its brethren, was defenestrated almost immediately. It is a common fate for schedules here at El Burro Volador, and yet, the plucky little fellows keep stepping forward every Monday, hoping that they’ll be the lucky one that makes it. Why, here comes one of the little guys now. If he seems to look a lot like his immediate predecessor, it’s because a lot of those same ideas are still bouncing around over here.
Tuesday – Bourne Again
Wednesday – Golden Oldies
Thursday – Unforgiveness
Friday – Miscellany
Saturday – At the Closing of the Day
Sunday – Guitar Heroism
Our Thrilling Conclusion
January 25, 2009
Well, apparently it has taken me too long to get here, but it all ends today.
“Can I see your ID badge?” asked the security guard. There was no attached “sir” which experience has taught me is a bad sign where security people are concerned.
“I don’t have one, but-”
“This entrance is for employees only. Use the service counter entrance.”
I gave the security guard an appraising look. Evidently he was a good enough reader of body language that he picked up on the whole “swift kick to the groin, then race down the hallway” strategy I was piecing together, because his hand moved purposefully toward the taser holstered on his right hip.
“Alright,” I said, backing toward the door, “I’ll go.”
The next moment I was standing outside Wesco again, and it was definitely the low point of the whole ordeal. Then I realized it was my turn to pick up Clem from the Collie-seum. Dejectedly I began trudging toward the moat.
If the route into Wesco is intended to discourage visitors, navigating it in reverse after having been foiled by the security at their actual location is utterly demoralizing. I doubt many people have the gumption to ever come back a second time….
Which I bet is why the security guard was so surprised when I came barreling back through the door an hour later, 15 pounds of squirming terrier clutched tightly to my chest with one hand. I’ll give the guy some credit – he was awfully fast on the draw. He already had his taser out by the time I flung Clem at him.
Unfortunately, he also had a very steady hand, and managed to taser Clem when she was still in midair.
I call this “unfortunate” because anything which delivers a smaller charge than the electric chair only gets Clem excited. I strolled slowly down the corridor toward the service counter, knowing that any additional security personnel would be busy for a while.
And so it was that at long last I stood in front of someone who was willing (albeit grudgingly so) and able to sell me a thousand watt light-bulb. He was a little confused at first when I walked around the service counter from behind him, and he did falter sometimes when the sounds of people running in fear or being dragged from their offices by a wild animal got especially loud (I thought all was lost when the fire alarm went off, but I was able to convince my paint-befuddled interlocutor that it was just my cell phone’s ring tone), but I was able to get him through the checkout process in the end.
Finally, I carefully accepted the proffered replacement bulb, shot back the double bolts securing the service counter door, and stepped outside. Clem was waiting by the moat, using the taser to fish for piranhas.
“Good girl,” I said, reaching down to scritch her with my free hand.
“Wanna go get some hamburgers?”
Clem snorted, then began to butt her head into my knee. Hard.
I took that as a yes.
A Moment of Clarity
January 24, 2009
I have managed to break free from the mania that has gripped my blog all week, upsetting my nice little schedule. I am so fatigued from the end of the work week and four straight light-bulb saga posts that I am begging off for today, and promise to bring the saga to a conclusion tomorrow, after which regularly scheduled programming will resume.
I would also like to take a brief moment to talk about personal stuff. I have been fighting off fugue states again all this week, and for a while now I’ve felt like I am just trying to get to each weekend so I can curl up into a little ball for two days and rest and try to reestablish my equilibrium. My life isn’t so hard, and although there have been a number of sad times lately, I feel like I should be able to cope with things if I could just stop feeling so depressed and bewildered for no apparent reason. I mean, sometimes it will just descend on me out of a blue sky.
Anyhow, those that read, thanks for reading, and I promise to wrap things up in grand style tomorrow, with a little help from a good friend who has been absent from this space for too long.
In Through the Out Door
January 23, 2009
I had reached the parking lot of Wesco, a somewhat superfluous structure since there were no roads leading to the place. Indeed, it looked as though a few tumbleweeds and I had the place to ourselves. I took a few moments to assume a gunslinger stance and visualize St. Clint of Eastwood to prepare myself for whatever hellish confrontation awaited me within the drab grey brick walls of the squat, unlovely edifice before me.
As I drew near the building, my newly donned tough-guy demeanor was immediately cracked by the slogan adorning walls of the godforsaken structure : “Wesco, the extra effort people”. My incredulity brought me to a dead stop – extra effort? extra effort?! In addition to atrocious customer service and deliberate misinformation regarding the company’s whereabouts, I had just recently overcome the difficulties placed in my way by the fact that the place was located in the least accessible region of the city and had guard-piranhas! Extra effort was certainly on display, but it was all directed at keeping customers out!
Recovering myself sufficiently to continue, I approached the main entrance. At least, the door said “Main Entrance” on it, though underneath it bore the additional legend “Please use service counter entrance during business hours” and an arrow pointing left. I wondered for a moment what kind of business had a main entrance for use only after or before business hours, but I decided to play along.
I strode along a blank stretch of brick wall to a heavy steel door that said
Service Counter Business Hours M-F: 9:00 A.M. to 4:30 P.M.Ah-hah! So the little phone punk had been lying to me after all – “We, uh, close at three-fifteen.” Feeling vindicated, I tried the door. It was locked. I checked my watch. 11:03 a.m. on a Wednesday. I tried the door again, twisting on the handle and yanking on the door until it rattled in its frame just to make sure. I pounded on the door and hollered the usual things one hollers in such situations:
“Hello?”
“Is anybody in there?
“Are you guys open -it’s Wednesday!”
“Let me in! For the love of God, let me in!”
“Candy-Gram.”
“Pizza delivery.”
“Fire!”
“Rape!”
“Weasels!”
But there was no reply.
“Alright,” I thought, “I’ve tried it their way, now I’m going in that main entrance.” I barreled back along the wall and grabbed the handle of the main entrance, pulling it…well, nowhere, because it was locked tight and didn’t budge an inch. Grabbing tight hold of the handle I leaped up and placed a foot on the wall at either side of the door, heedless of the consequences that prying it open would now entail for various parts of my anatomy. Again and again I heaved with every muscle I possessed, my magnificently overdeveloped flacktoids straining mightily, but to no avail. Exhausted, I dropped back to the ground, noting with a certain grim satisfaction that I had at least left my mark – two footprints, each about a half-inch deep, were pressed into the brick of the wall.
Half-muttering, half-growling I prowled around the perimeter of the building until I spotted a door marked “Employees Only”. Deciding that at this point I was working harder to put money in this outfit’s pockets than anyone on their payroll, I decided that I was entitled to get in any way I could.
I pounded across the pavement and gave an almighty wrench to the handle, flinging wide the door. “Success!” I thought, racing inside.
And that’s when I ran into the security guard. Into his midsection, to be precise.
Light-bulb saga trivia: a few posts ago I used the nonsense words “blantoon” and “sninkleboffins” in my post. The WordPress spellchecker objected to “blantoon” but not to “sninkleboffins”, which begs the question: are these a real thing? Has anyone ever heard of a sninkleboffin before? And if so, why? What are they?
Directions
January 22, 2009
I began the second and final day of my quest by bundling up the giant light-bulb, which I had taken to calling Lou (don’t ask), in its traveling-box and heading out to follow the directions supplied me by the surly lighting jerk. As I drove all around the west part of Fort Collins, it soon became apparent that these directions were not going to be sufficient, so I tried the low-tech solution of stopping and asking the local populace for directions to Commerce drive.
This, as it turns out, was not a great idea. First of all, many of the semi-literate hillfolk who dwell in west Fort Collins distrust anyone who they see exit a form of conveyance not pulled by some sort of animal. Some of them chased me off their property with farm implements, others insisted on escorting me back to my car at the point of a double-barreled scatter-gun despite my assurance that I was not affiliated with the guvmint and that what went on between them and the livestock was their own business. I did manage to win the confidence of a handful of local residents, however, who were unanimous in assuring me that twern’t no Commerce drive round these parts. Eventually I gave it up and retreated to the nearby bastion of learning operated by my lovely spouse, where I proceeded to consult the oracle.
I at once realized that Wesco was not even in the remote vicinity. It was, in fact, back on the east side of town. At first I was furious at the vile treachery practiced upon me, but I was soon to change my mind once I discovered what giving me real directions to Wesco would have entailed. Here’s the simplest way to get to Wesco, using my experience as a guide:
From I-25, head west on Mulberry. Turn right on South Link Lane (it’s kind of a tricky intersection, so watch out) and head north about 500ft. On your right you will see an establishment known as “A Hunt Club” (curses, Home Despot guy was right!). Pull in and park your car, you will have to proceed on foot from here (make sure to approach the bouncer standing guard at the door of this den of iniquity and pay him the cover charge, or he will have your car towed when you don’t go inside).
Head down the narrow alleyway beside the club until you reach the dumpster at what appears to be the alley’s dead end. Roll the dumpster aside (this is easier if you come early in the week when it is still pretty empty, and easier still in the afternoon once any transients sleeping there have cleared out for the day) and lift the manhole cover underneath. Descend into the sewer below and head northeast about a quarter of a mile.
Be careful not to miss the next manhole cover, as it is the last one for quite some time. Exit the sewer into an old switching yard – you may have to fight hobos if you did not bring any comestibles with which to distract them. Hike up a pile of scree until you reach the moat surrounding the Wesco parking lot. It is filled with piranhas, so you will have to leap over it if you did not bring a hobo with which to distract them…
The quest simply will not release my blog. I’d like to wrap it up tomorrow, but I promise nothing.
