Greetings, Starfighter…

When I was a kid, my Mom wasn't too keen on me rotting my brain all summer at the movie theater.  She felt quite strongly that, although I was "a bright boy with lots of potential," modern-day movies contained a level of sex, realistic violence and gore that she simply did not want me exposed to.  It was not always this way.  She and Pops used to bring me and my Sis out to see some of the big blockbuster movies on the big screen.  Here are a few movies that I WAS allowed to see that stick out in my mind as the ones that probably changed her perspective (using ‘confidence-in-my-masculinity-inducing’ flowery bullets):

1. Grease

I know, right?  Grease seems so innocuous by today's standards.  But my Mom was flat out disgusted by this movie.  Was it Olivia Newton-John’s skin tight leather pants?  No.  Was it the drive-in make-out scene where John Travolta gets his balls slammed in the car door?  Nope.  It was one single phrase in one single song that forever banished Grease to the household smut pit: “The chicks will cream for Greased Lightning.”  Perhaps the fact that I’ve never forgotten that phrase is testament that she was probably right.

1. Raiders Of The Lost Ark

 

Face-melt scene, FTW!  It’s completely awesome and classic and all that, but I was like 9 years old in the theater watching this.  I wouldn’t let my son watch it now, and it’s fairly tame by today’s standards.  This was like 1981!  ‘Nuff said.

1. Buck Rogers In The 25th Century

Before it was a classic, campy sci-fi TV series it was a classic, campy sci-fi movie with space shuttles, little robots with talking Flava-Flav clocks and Erin Gray in skin-tight spacesuits:



Let’s just say that Erin Gray had something of an impact on my dark and sticky path to manhood.  Hmmm…

Before this turns into a Cracked.com ‘why classic entertainment is actually stupid’ article, let me get to the point: Although my Mom was not willing to allow me to actually witness the movies of my day, she would buy me the novelization of any movie I asked for.  Her reasoning of course was “Well, at least he’s reading.”  That what I was reading was often more descriptive in its violence and sex than the movies were ever allowed to be was kind of my little secret.  You know like, until now.

For example – the commercials for the Michael Douglas/Kathleen Turner flick Romancing The Stone presented it as a comedic action/adventure romp through the jungle with a bumbling Danny DeVito as the ‘heavy.’  Mom decided it may be a bit too violent for me, so I got the drug using, graphic violence infused and explicit sex scenes filled paperback book version:



When I finally did watch the movie years later, I was a bit disappointed it was so tame.

Another – Indiana Jones and The Temple of Doom… After getting burned by Raiders of the Lost Ark, Mom was on to Spielberg and Lucas.  And in this case, rightfully so.  No child under 16 or so should be allowed to see that scene when the creepy shaman guy tears the screaming slave-boy’s still-beating heart out of his chest and shows it to him as he dies.  But let me tell you, reading it is the stuff of nightmares… not because it’s so gory, rather you are left to imagine what it looks like – while knowing it has been filmed and you someday CAN see it:



The final film novelization I’ll mention is one that I picked up not because of a commercial or schoolyard rumors that it was cool.  I simply spotted it on the shelf, saw that it was based on a movie and grabbed it.  And man am I glad I did:



I must’ve read The Last Starfighter 20 times as a kid and teenager.  It’s a great book and I later found to be an equally great movie.  I watched it recently with my kids and was so wrapped up in it I actually got a little choked up at the end (stupid, I know).  I have such fond memories of this story that I think I’m going to run out and pick it up for my sons to read.  And maybe we’ll pick up a few other books while we’re there… Is there a novelization of Zookeeper?

Oral Pacification and The Unbroken Habit

My oldest son is the victim of our parental inexperience.  With our subsequent children we had learned from our mistake.  But it cannot be denied - there are few things cuter than a baby or toddler who soothes him or herself with a soggy, wrinkled little thumb.  Of course by the time he was four or five (and entering the sick and diseased world of pre-school and kindergarten) it was far from cute.  Rather it had become a source of endless anxiety: frantic calls from frustrated teachers, late night trips to pharmacies for infant illness remedies and visions of second-mortgage requiring orthodontal bills.

Over the years we have tried a variety of medieval devices and dissuaders to break this cycle of anti-hygiene: foul-tasting digit dips and Oriental foot-binding inspired wraps and straps - all to no avail.  Eventually, we tired of the battle and left our hopes to the schoolyard - secretly hoping for a mild jungle gym teasing that would both disengage the shriveled and foul appendage and encourage a little 'hair on the chest' masculinity.  But alas, it seems not to be.  Despite the early stages of dental deformity, the boy has been overwhelmingly accepted and left to his anxious sucky-sucking in relative peace.

Today, after a brave first day of Tadpole swimming lessons (which consisted mostly of small children putting their faces in water and blowing real hard) we stopped for a celebratory treat on the short drive home: the much coveted 'donut' stop.  To drive home the message of my paternal pride we not only stopped but actually got out to stand in line so the actual donut choosing could be personalized.  A special event indeed.

As we stared as glazed as the delicacies before us, we were woken from our fat and sugar anticipatory stupor by a sudden "OH NO YOU DITN'T!!" uttered by the large black woman before us in line.  "You think you can just go sticking that thumb in your mouth where other people 'bout to eat? Nuh-uh, mister!"

I looked to my son - white as a sheet - and then to the woman who gave me a large smile and knowing wink.  "Thank you," I whispered to her as she turned to pay for her flavored iced coffee.

The Impoverished Executive

"Life is a spiraling whirlwind of stressful things I cannot contain or control. Let me count the ways..."

Did I ever tell you about the time I got the big promotion and an accompanying pay cut?  No?  Well it’s a lovely story – and as today’s thing is a direct result of it, here’s a few highlights:

In 2008, I was an hourly employee on a team that was working on a major project.  The project was hugely successful. I was promoted into a new position where I manage the processes we implemented with the project.  The timing of this promotion coincided with a major downturn in the economy where hourly employees were being asked to take voluntary time off and stuff.  I was made into a salaried employee and have earned approximately two-thirds of what I earned in 2007 since.  Oh, did I mention that when this pay change happened my wife was 5 months pregnant with our third child?

Since then, my family and I have been through some pretty rough patches: a serious foreclosure scare, broken down cars with no way to get to work, scraping together meals just trying to get through the next pay check… you get the idea.  And while all this stress was going on at home, at work I am in a high-profile position working with individuals at the highest levels of the corporation.  I am seen as one of the forefront business leaders.  Yet as I am picking up packages of ramen on the way home to feed the kids, my peers are leaving early to pick up their clubs in their new BMWs to hit the links. 

Grating.  Demoralizing.  Frustrating.  Feel free to add your own –ing.

So hey – this is all history, right?  It’s 2011 now and things must have gotten better by now… Well, a little.  As long as nothing out of the ordinary happens.  Like a birthday.  Or Christmas.  Or a vacation. 

Ah, vacation.  Today is my first day of Summer vacation.  We’ve been planning it for a few weeks.  We made some reservations at a hotel near an amusement park to meet up with some family for a long weekend and everything.  And the pay schedule worked out that I’d come into some extra funds a few days ahead of time.  Perfect. Almost.

Last week I found out that “due to the Fourth of July holiday” things were delayed and the extra bucks we had planned our vacation around weren’t going to be available until after the vacation is over.  So… no cash to actually do things during said vacation.  We can get to the amusement park and the hotel is already paid for, but we can’t afford to do stuff like actually get into the park or feed the kids.

Over the past couple of years I’ve had several moments where things seemed really hopeless.  And to be honest, this is one of the less ‘life-critical’ moments to fall apart over.  But you know, being in a desperate financial position for an extended period is wearing.  And over time I’ve gotten to the point where if someone at work asks me to go to lunch and I say “no thanks” (but really mean “I can’t afford to”), I’m nearly in tears as they walk away.  Fucking miserable.

Today is my son’s 2 year birthday party.  I’m a ball of stress.  People are coming to our house and I need to host.  I need to feed them.  I need to make a cake.  I need to keep people entertained.  I need to leave them with the perception that I am not at any moment going to shatter into a million pieces like a cheap clear beer bottle tinkling down a steep paved hill and that instead I am a successful professional who has things under control and is going on a wonderful vacation where my kids will not want for anything and life is good and I am happy.

Pray for me.

However Long It Takes…

It’s not like I’m the only patriotic person in America. And there are far better writers writing far better takes on the death of Osama bin Laden. But I feel like I need to get this out, so here goes.

There aren’t too many people in the civilized world who, if they were alive at the time, wouldn’t say they were strongly affected by the events of September 11, 2001. I was extremely affected. I remember the nights after the attacks, looking up into the sky and seeing the stars above and realizing: this is the first time, and probably the last time I will see a full, clear sky with no passing planes. Our entire continental United States was declared a no-fly zone for all commercial flights for a couple of days, and I remember it being kind of eerie, the calm quiet after the horrific storm.

On September 10th, 2011, my wife and I were pretty sure she was carrying our first child, and there was hope in the air. On September 11th, that hope was replaced with fear for the future of our country, our stability, our child’s life. I remember wondering what sort of world he would grow up in – Would he live in fear that the bus he was riding to work may be carrying a suicide bomber, moments away from violently disrupting American civility? Would he be forced to move to the wilderness with limited resources, for fear of the live warfare happening in the cities and former peaceful suburbs? My mind reeled with these extreme visions of Apocalyptic horror. Because I had seen the towers fall. I had seen people so frightened of the climbing flames that they jumped to their deaths, choosing a peaceful plunge over suffocation and burning.

By the time our first son was born on May 2nd, 2002, Ground Zero was well underway of being cleared, and much of the fear in the United States had been replaced with a dangerous mix of unwavering patriotism and bloodlust for the man behind the attacks, and frankly anyone who resembled him – even if only by nationality or race. Every house had a flag hung high, the economy was struggling but showing signs of coming back around and we had hope again. We supported the war in Afghanistan and were eagerly awaiting pictures on TV of Bin Laden’s head on a stick being paraded down the streets of Kabul, while onlookers threw rocks and garbage at it. But that didn’t come.

Then Saddam Hussein started acting up again. So we started telling playground rumors that he was mixing mustard gas in his bathtub and was going to gas his civilian population and then he was going to gas New York City and school children would die. And the political cartoonists made him look a little more like Bin Laden, and the lines were blurred.  And with the full might of our patriotic, bloodlusty military, we went in and pulled him from a dirty hole and hung him in the streets while people threw rocks and garbage and we cheered. But the glow of our national orgasm wouldn’t last for long, and when our blue balls started to ache for victory and returning heroes we got impatient and got all crazy for domestic regime change. So urgent was our need for change, we didn’t even want to see another old white guy in office. And we voted in a guy whose name rhymes with Osama, just so we could make him feel stupid until he either ended the war or brought us Bin Laden’s head on a stick.

Today is May 2nd, 2011. Today my son is 9 years old. Today Osama bin Laden is dead.

Every September 11th, I am brought to tears by some fucking TV news retrospective. I feel stupid when I cry over it. But I can’t help it. It was fucking tragic, and every year I am overwhelmed with a feeling of helplessness and anxiety that the world can come crumbling down and kill my children. Today I cried again. I was driving to work. I had already heard that Bin Laden had been killed, but it didn’t really hit me until I was by myself on the highway listening to of all fucking things the new Beastie Boys album. I simply realized I had tears in my eyes. And when the tears stopped I felt better.

Now I know the war’s not over. As a matter of fact, I expect something bad will happen quickly - as all those mother fucking, murdering, freedom-hating, religious fucknuts decide who the new leader of the symbolic America destroyers will be. People will die, and it will be sad. But I feel like a weight has been lifted. I have a little closure. And today I will celebrate the 9 years of my son’s life knowing that there is one less evil out there for him to be afraid of.

Testies - 1,2,3...

Hang on, I'll be right back.

What's up?

I guess I owe a big explanation why I left the world on the edge of their seats... I mean, how do you start an epic story like the one below and then not reveal the answer? Worse yet, not even an update for months? If I was a faithful reader, I'd be kinda pissed. So if you're one of those - I'm genuinely sorry. There is a grand ending to the story below, and I plan to reveal it one of these days. But for now - it's on hold. Always leave 'em wanting more - thanks, PT.

So, what have I been doing? you might ask. Well, I've been wallowing in financial crisis, for one. Tough times got REAL tough. But throughout all the stress, pain and tears, Missus Mungus and I have come through strong. All is on the mend there. The ole job has been eating up all my time as well, so not a ton of hours available to work on epic saga. So, I've been focusing on the instant gratification - one liner - business. Twitter: www.twitter.com/fungusmungus

I've also revived my first love: comics. I've started a daily webcomic illustrating the bizzarre behavior demonstrated by the inhabitants of an alternate universe of bi-pedal piggies: http://tlpig.wordpress.com/ . This has been a true labor of love. Comics were my passion all through my school years including an attempt at an illustration major in college. The realities of life did not allow this to come to fruition (needed aday job to like eat and stuff. That forced me to quit school and work). But now I have an outlet. And I'm totally digging it. If you'd like to check it out, I've added an update box over there on the top left of this page.

Fear not, fellow XE-ers, FM vs. Reality readers and friends - this site is not dead. A place to write some long-form discertations on the WTF moments in life is always needed. But in the meantime, check out the comic - and say 'hi' on twitter sometime. There's friends there.

A Fiction: Part XXI

II

“I must say it’s really quite remarkable. We never thought you’d make it this far. But clearly we made the right choice with you.” A small square panel embedded in the chamber wall throbs as the words are spoken. The walls are an unfinished metal, the joints of the panels plainly visible. It is clearly a strong, sturdy structure, yet built by someone with little regard for cosmetics. “I apologize for leaving you literally hanging for so long. The environment here takes some getting used to. It requires a process of adjustment.”

At first the tingling in my toes is a small irritation, but it is slowly climbing my leg – growing in intensity as it goes. Then I feel it in my fingertips. Soon it has spread up all of my limbs and begins to work at my chest and groin. I begin to panic a bit, instinctively shaking my arms to get the blood flowing again. Soon I am thrashing to work the crawling itch from below my flesh – its insidious etching like microscopic knives cutting me from the bone to the surface. My eyes are darting from side to side and the once irritant is now agony. I tuck my knees into my chest and wrap my arms around them and squeeze. Behind my now closed eyes, I am a ball floating in a pool of electric fluid, the less I move the easier it washes over me.

Either the sensation is lessening or my senses have dulled as I open my eyes and spread my limbs like newly formed wings. I am slowly spinning in all directions – end-over-end, around and twisting – but it is not disorientating. I see every scratch and imperfection in the surface of the chamber in perfect clarity. My mind builds a map of the welds and scuffs and I could recite the uneven corners like rote. I raise my open hands before my eyes and feel power surge through them. I make fists and can imagine driving them through the walls with little effort. My body feels of perfection – any cuts or bruises are gone, my worn muscles now taut and strong, my mind clear and full of peace.

“What has happened to me?” I cry out – elated.

“Adjustment, as I told you to expect, Mr. Cole.” The voice is from within the room. I spin my head to see the speaker, but am still rotating in the air, and cannot find the man. “We have such hopes for you. We could not wait for you to reach your potential naturally, as that could take years without this type of intervention. Most never achieve it, though you are clearly not like most.” I still have yet to spot my host and am sure I have rotated past every inch of the chamber more than once.

“Why can I not see you?”

“You will learn to see me, Mr. Cole. But you must be patient. You have come a long way towards your goal very quickly, but you still have a few connections to make on your own. And when you do, many things not visible will be seen and many secrets will be revealed.” The voice is stifling a laugh with much effort, and coughs. “But of course even I am not complete yet. We will complete our transitions together you and I. We will do great things, Mr. Cole.”

My imagination reels with the wonders I am hearing for the first time – disembodied voices, physical (?) transformations… and the word appears in my mind as though it were placed there, which I presume it may have been. “Evolution?” I speak to the air.

“Nature evolves over millennia, Mr. Cole. And the individual knows no benefit. Nature is bound by time. You and I, though – we do not have this limitation. We are our own generations and re-generations. We are on an expedition, Mr. Cole, to discover our potential and the ultimate potential of our kind. We will see the infinite.”

As the cloud of thought clears before my eyes, I realize I have stopped rotating and am moving feet first towards the floor. Before me, a doorway slides up and away and I see a dimly lit passage beyond. Testing my legs, I walk through – my first steps towards the unfathomable.