posted: May 4, 2002
I used to carry a backpack or something of that ilk. It wasn't that I set out to carry something that big, but that I kept on adding more stuff to the things I wanted to carry around with me. Often it seemed that what I most needed was a dimensional doorway back to my home, since I always seemed to be carrying most of it with me. This is fine if you are living on the road or traveling light for some reason. But I was usually not that far from home.
My bag had become a traveling home on its own. A sort of wheel-less camper trailer with everything but the kitchen apparently included.
In other words, the purse from Hell.
It seemed extraordinarly heavy. But that might have been attributed to the library, the stereo, the sewing machine and the small nuclear device I found inside it--whoops, no... that was the lunch I misplaced a few months back.
I determined that what I needed to do was unburden my shoulder of this ridiculous load before the Hazardous Waste Commission cited me for it, or I found myself walking sideways from the weight imbalance.
So I slimmed down to a small black leather box on a strap. It's barely large enough for one paperback novel, money out of a wallet, cell phone and keys.
Yet, it still has the heft and imposition of a brick when it smacks me in the leg. I don't know how this can be, since I'm not carrying that much change. But I suspect that there is some little-known Physics Law of Purses which provides them with sufficient weight and thunk-age to fell a charging water buffalo when properly wielded... or dropped on your foot.
I believe it would be only reasonable for women to take advantage of this for their own protection against the exigencies and predations of the world. (Men could do this, too, if they were just willing to be seen in public with a purse, because only the owner of the purse has the ability to utilize the Law of Purses to their advantage--which explains why big, strong men always whine "geeze, honey, this thing is heavy" when carrying one.)
I imagine the first class on Purse-Jitsu to go something like this:
There is a doughty older lady dressed in an ugly print dress with all the charm of a bag full of wet flour (henceforth she shall be known as the Sargent-Major) facing a row of women ranging in age from 16 to 60. They are all clutching purses of one variety or another.
"All right, then, ladies, we've discussed the properties of a proper purse. So, now onto your first practical lesson. Reginald!" snaps the Sargent-Major.
A thoroughly hen-pecked young man shuffles reluctantly forward from a dark corner. Plainly, he is a Loser of the first order: he is wearing a t-shirt with the legend "I'm with Stupid" and an arrow pointing upward. His hair hasn't ever behaved properly in its life, and his shoulders are stooped in a permanent defensive crouch.
"Yes...?"
"Now dear, just come up here so I can use you for the demonstration."
"Oh, but Mom, it's so humiliating. Do I gotta?"
"Yes! Or no more Game Boy."
Muttering, Reggie slopes into place and glowers at the Sargent-Major.
"Now, then. Reginald, you are the mugger, so... attack me."
Reggie's eyes widen as he stares at the Sargent-Major. "But, but...," he stammers.
"Come on, come on, attack me!"
Reggie heaves a sigh of resignation and charges half-heartedly at the Sargent-Major.
She bats him clangingly on the bean as he runs past. Reggie reels to a dizzy halt, rubbing his head and moaning "Owwww...."
"Oh, do buck up, Reginald. Now, back into position."
"What? Why?" he moans, patting his head experimentally to check for lacerations.
"For practice." The Sargent-Major grabs Reggie by the arm and drags him into place. One by one the ladies advance with their purses at the ready. Dutifully, Reggie lunges and is batted on the bonce, falling back in an increasing state of irrationality. When the gauntlet is run once through, he sits down on the ground, cradling his aching head.
"All right. Very well-done, ladies," the Sargent-Major announces. "We shall now move on to advanced techniques of Purse-Jitsu. Reginald, stand up!"
Slowly, Reggie gets to his feet. As the Sargent-Major advances with purse in hand a strange, feral gleam erupts in Reggie's eye. He begins to twitch.
The Sargent-Major charges at Reggie.
Suddenly, he leaps and lunges for the purse. He grabs the purse and yanks it.
The Sargent-Major is ecstatic. "Excellent, Reginald! The Purse-snatcher variation! Good show!" She fights back valiantly, but, something has gone horribly wrong in the lesson plan, for it is always a mistake to utilize the hen-pecked near purses.
An even-less-well-known Law of Purses states that purses have a special affinity for the down-trodden. With this in play, all bets are off.
The Purse Affinity flips as Reggie yanks hard, shouting "Mine! Mine! Mine!" The Purse leaps away from the Sargent-Major and into the arms of Reggie, who runs across the field, wild-eyed and laughing maniacally. He is moving along nicely and his hair is suddenly quite well-groomed. The arrow on his t-shirt has turned and is now pointing down.
The ladies of Purse-Jitsu 101 pursue, shouting and waving their handbags.
Reggie, far ahead, pauses a moment, looks around, pulls the bag open and climbs inside.
And vanishes with a "pop" into the dimensional doorway at the bottom.
All they ever heard from him after that was an occasional gust of beery laughter out of the purse, late at night.
And this is the real reason purses weigh so much.
posted: May 10, 2002
Ok, I've seen Spiderman and it's really fun. I've also seen most of the Superman and Batman films and X-Men, as well as the short-lived TV series about The Flash. They were mostly pretty fun, too. But what I want to know is: where did they get the suits?
I've seen Peter Parker's sewing skills and there is no way he learned to sew spandex overnight. It's a bit of a leap in my disbelief to imagine he suddenly became a whiz at the sewing machine when all he could manage before was that tacky shirt and sweatpants combo.
And what about all the other super-heros and super-villians? Oh, sure, Batman has his faithful butler, Alfred, to run the rubber suit molding machine (and I must say that's a skill I wouldn't have normally looked for in a butler, myself) and, yeah, all these guys are supposed to be science geniuses in one way and another, but, I've lived with nerds--and if these guys aren't just super-nerds I don't know what else to call 'em--and I have to tell ya, most of them can't sew on a button to keep their pants up, much less design and execute a skin-tight super-suit in space-age materials. Nor can the super-villians, with the exception of Cat Woman, who seems to be a dab hand with a needle and sutures, but a bit of a mess with a Singer. Who has time for all that sewing and testing out of designs when you have world domination to consider? Plans to lay? People to kidnap and cities to bring to their knees?
No, I suspect that somewhere in the greater New York area (because that's where most of these guys come from, even if they pretend it's somewhere else) there is a secret shop run by a very special lady. She is the super-seamstress and she knows all about these guys, because she dresses them and maintains their working wardrobes.
She is, herself, a sort of super-hero, because how else could she keep up with the demands of these busy go-getters who must be hell on their clothes? This super-seamstress and her crew are, of course available on a 24-hour basis. Since the fabric of society would crumble if the super-heros couldn't go about their business due to ripped out seams in their suits. Would it be reasonable for Superman to defend Metropolis with his butt hanging out of a tear in his tights? Not hardly. No more could Peter Parker be taken seriously as anything more than "your friendly neighborhood looney" if he ran around in his jammies and a ski mask all the time.
Thus we come to the tailoring shop of Mrs. Bastion, seamstress to super-heros, who doesn't take any shit off anyone. She's a tough old bird with a beehive hairdo of terrifying and board-stiff proportions, cat's-eye-spectacles on a chain around her neck and a cigarette dangling from her lip sporting three inches of ash which never seems to drop onto anything unless she wants it to (this is one of her super-powers, along with abilities with a tape measure and scissors which are utterly mind-boggling). When Mr. Parker needed his suit, he knew where to go. Why? Because she had sensed that he would become a super-hero long ago and sent him a card on his High School graduation. "Free fitting for all super-heroes. Easy terms. Bring this card for 10% off. Super-suits and prom dresses a specialty."
It's a dim, strange place with racks of garments and an odor of super-mothballs. Mr. Parker stands very still while the redoubtable Mrs. Bastion measures him so rapidly he can barely see her move. In the waiting area, a ruckus erupts as Clark Kent arrives to pick up his suit after having the bullet-holes re-woven and encounters Lex Luthor waiting for a fitting. With a flick of her tape measure, Mrs. Bastion lays the super-hero and super-villain out on the floor from a distance of 12 feet without even a shrug.
"I told you boys: no fighting in here!" she bellows. "This is neutral territory! Take it outside or y'can both go about yer business buck nekkid! Y'hear me?"
Mumbled "yes, ma'ams" float back from the waiting area.
Mr. Parker is impressed.
"Wow. Do you really know all the super-heros?"
"Most of 'em. What size shoe y'normally wear, Pete?"
"Uh... nine. That's really impressive, Mrs. Bastion. Did you really sew all their suits, too?"
"Well, not Batman's, though I once gave Alfred some tailorin' tips about workin' with rubberized armor. Sweaty, y'know what I mean? Gotta have good ventilation. And that Cat Woman, such a pity. Could look so much nicer if she's just learn to make smaller stitches. Real kinky customer, that lady. Leather and whips. Blech. Back in my day, we didn't go for that sorta thing. But, y'know, t'each their own, right? Now, ya want this spider here on yer chest, right? Just the one?"
"Umm... yeah. Please."
"Very nice design, ya got here, Pete. Nice color. Y'sure ya ain't gay or something? Most of my boys come in here, they ain't got no design sense a'tall. Like Clark out there. Comes in with this old baby blanket got the family crest on it. Says he'd like to work it into a sort of plaid or something, bring up the yellow a bit. I say 'nah, Clark, yellow's for bumble-bees and skinny guys. Big guy like you, you want to look sleek and impressive, show off them pecs and quads, y'know? How 'bout a nice blue, bring out your eyes?' He argued with me a bit, but in the end, he knew I was right. Now he's a legend. How bout these web spinnerettes? Ya need a hole there or what?"
"Yeah, some kind of hole, I guess. Boy, that's a heck of a story. So you've helped these guys attain a sort of fame by, what would you say, packaging?"
"You could say that. It's not always a great success, though, y'know. One a my first customers, way back, fella called The Beetle, wouldn't take my advice for nothin'. Liked puce. Puce, I ask ya. Horrible."
"I've never heard of The Beetle."
"Course not. Who wants to remember a super-hero who wore puce? Better t'just put it from yer mind. I wasn't too crazy about that Green Lantern design, either. I mean, so few guys really look good in green, but he carries it off all right. That magic stuff, though, that's a pain in the ass to work with. Not too bad with the Lantern, but that Dr. Strange. Phew! Let me tell you, engineering a suit to stand up to the forces of darkness is a royal pain in the ass. Not to mention the angst. But, I guess that sorta goes with the territory, eh? Now, my villians, they ain't got angst like you heroes, 'cause they don't gotta feel no remorse or make no personal sacrifices. They're instant gratification type guys. But, I'm always losin' a few. Pity. Good tippers. I guess it's easy to tip well when it's someone elses' money, huh? There ya go, now, Pete. All done. I'll have this ready for ya Thursday."
"Thanks, Mrs. Bastion. I'll come by for it."
"Nah, I'll have one of the elves deliver it. They been gettin' antsy lately. Good help is hard t'find y'know."
"Elves?"
"Yeah. Got a whole group of them working in a room in the back. Most of 'em are moonlightin' from Santa's studios in the off season. Great at makin' somethin' out a nothin', Elves. Gotta be when the only resource ya got is ice and snow, y'know what I mean? Anyhow, got a long history of tailorin', there. All those fairytales about elves and brownies helpin' out tailors and cobblers ain't just stories, y'know. Really, y'don't think I could manage this all by myself, now, do ya? That would really take a super-hero. Be seein' ya, Pete. Take care. Oh, by the way, I shouldn't tell ya this, but, keep yer eyes peeled fer guys in green."
"Guys in green? Why?"
"Oh, nothin'. Just, yer such a nice boy, I'd like to keep ya comin' back fer a while, y'know what I mean? Now, get outta here. I gotta get over and see what Lex and Clark are scrappin' about. I swear, you can't leave those two alone a minute without someone starts a fight. Sheesh!"
She accompanies Mr. Parker to the door and then turns her gimlet stare onto the pair awaiting her attention. Slowly she removes her cigarette from her mouth and looks them over. "Now, what are you two fightin' about? Y'know I don't allow that crap in my shop."
And she taps the ash off her cigarette. It hits the floor with the ring of Doom. Mr. Parker skedaddles on out of there. He is a spiderman, after all, and knows better than to be in the line of fire from the likes of Mrs. Bastion. The wise super-hero does not infuriate his tailor.
posted: May 17, 2002
Ah, the thumb. Such a useful thing, which separates Man from Beast (though there is a little question about chimpanzees). It's got all sorts of cultural reference, too. One can thumb a ride, give a thumbs up or thumbs down or have one's thumb up one's butt (figuratively, you filthy beasts!). Without our thumbs we would have difficulty turning doorknobs, using can openers or pulling plums from pies, much less sticking it in our mouths.
The glory of the thumb is its amazing ability to pinch. Yep, when you come right down to it, the thing which makes us superior tool-users, capable of massive leaps of mechanical and deductive reasoning which raised us above the other mammals, is the ability to reach out and grab an errant brat by the ear and give a twist.
Opposition gives rise to evolution. In so many ways. Many creatures have what could, loosely, be called a thumb, but theirs are not opposed to anything. In fact, these rudimentary would-be thumbs have a terrible tendency to go along with the crowd (of other digits, that is). But not Human thumbs! Ours is the wickedly independent digit, the loner finger, the defiantly different Opposable Thumb. To misquote Tom Hanks in Turner and Hooch "Look: Opposable Thumbs! Which is why your kind will never rule the Earth!"
Dogs everywhere long for opposable thumbs of their own (but they'll still want to be your friend, even once they get them). Cats, on the other hand, don't care (at least not when you're looking) because they have opposable thumbs: attached to their human slaves, that is. Ferrets have nearly opposable thumbs, which causes them to sing the blues:
Cain't open locks
Cain't drive the family car
Cain't thumb a lift
Cain't even hold a candy bar!
I got them totally frustrated,
Ferrets-ain't-got-no-thumbs blues!
In general, it is pleasing to have a thumb, except when using a hammer. It appears to be part of the contrary, opposable nature of thumbs to get in the way of hammers, because it always seems to be the thumb, and never the finger next door, which gets flattened by a misplaced blow.
Thumbs were finally accorded the starring status they deserve in the video Thumb Wars in 1999. Now, I ask you, wasn't it about time?
So, be good to your thumbs, revel in their opposition, pinch your kids and siblings, hitchhike, wiggle them proudly. Just don't suck them....
posted: May 24, 2002
OK, I'm giving in to a rant I've been making in person for a long time. Special effects should support a movie, not be the movie.
Tuesday I went to see Attack of the Clones and the more I think about it, the more annoyed I get. It wasn't a lousy film. Production values were high, people looked good, hit their marks, said their lines (clichéd as they were) and the whole thing looked lush and detail-rich. The sound was spectacular and foley and effects were excellent. But....
Aside from all the other near-misses in the film, it seems designed to show off the technical prowess of ILM with eye-candy that not only doesn't support the story, it drags the film. The damned thing is 2 hours and 40 minutes long and it wouldn't have suffered one bit by being 40 minutes shorter (though I must admit, half the shortening--another word for fat--could have done by axing half the dopey romance scenes). Yeah, yeah, the digital backgrounds, the environments, the creatures, and so on are trey kewl, but they aren't really new, just bigger and longer examples of the same thing we've been seeing for a couple of years, now. Gee, it's really nice that you can, essentially, render and animate an entire feature-length film at high-res and gorgeous, life-like detail, but, frankly, all it takes is time and hard-drive space. People can do this on their desks now.
This is not meant to denigrate the incredible talent of the artists and designers who make creatures come alive and fantastic settings and effects leap into detailed reality. (I was really impressed by the design and execution of the Cloners of Camino, for instance.) That's massive and creative work. But you can show it off more than adequately in a 20-minute short.
Feature films are still, essentially, stories and they need to be at least moderately well-constructed. The look, feel and technical virtuosity of the film should support, enhance and move these stories, drawing the viewer in. The judicious use of technical ability is what does this, not simply tossing in every cool trick you know and doing as much with your new toys as you can, just to show it off. A little restraint goes a long way (not those restraints, you goons, though it might not be a bad idea to tie a few people up and throw them in the film-making dungeon of shame).
CGI characters can't act any better than the actor who voices them and the technicians who create them and they will still be unbelievable stooges if the script stinks (Jar-jar Binks! The Trade Federation! That horrid, little, furry "gleep" thing in Lost in Space!). Chases are boring if they are more about how cool the backgrounds are than the suspense and pace of the action (witness a certain chase in ATotC). A fight scene is a yawn when you can't see the skill of the fighters and the drama of the scene for the filters, explosions and editing tricks in the way (Gladiator, the recent remake of The Count of Monte Christo, The Musketeer, oh, boy, I could go on and on with this one). No matter how exciting it is to the animator, humans who don't move like humans don't excite me much when they stumble around the screen in a lugubrious plot with all the believability and grace of marionettes for over 2 hours (Final Fantasy, anyone?)
Special effects (analog or digital) and animation have come a long way in my movie-watching lifetime. No one expects an extra to don a 50-pound monkey suit and sweat it out with a Barbie clutched in his hand anymore just to make King Kong, although Tim Burton did recently stoop almost that low with Planet of the Apes. It's pretty cool to see new stuff, like the spinning, writhing camera angles executed in The Matrix, but when showing off the new stuff turns into the central core of the film, it usually becomes dreck. (Sheesh! Can't anyone come up with their own clever camera trick? I swear that if I see cheap-ass "bullet time" in an inappropriate scene one more time I'm coming after the producer and director with a dead carp! And knock it off with the over-use of red and orange filters, ok?)
Where films like The Matrix, Raiders of the Lost Ark, Blade Runner, the first Star Wars, and so on succeeded spectacularly wasn't just the way they pushed the special effects envelope, but the reason they pushed and what the did with their innovation. No one on these films sat down and said, "Hey, I've got this really cool trick I'd like to try out with mattes and animation to make ghosts and things erupt from this box and suck the souls out of people. So let's make a film, ok?" More likely, when Steven Spielberg was thinking about the opening of the Ark of the Covenant in Raiders, he was more interested in how to create an effect which would convince the viewer that the Wrath of God, itself, had been unleashed upon the desecrators. The effects technique may be a little dated, today, but the scene still works dramatically, enhanced, not operated, by the special effects.
But a lot of modern film-makers seem to have lost sight of this, and they are more interested in showing off and doing something "new" or "cool" than in presenting good stories and compelling images with suitable effects. This isn't good film-making, this is wanking. Can we please get back to making movies, now, instead of playing with our toys?
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