No More Space

The greatest casuality of 2007 has happened.

My account with Myspace.com has come to an end (November 2005 - June 2007).

Here's an excerpt from the obituary:

"Peter's Myspace page, which had a circle of friends totaling 84 members, was found dead late Thursday evening, June 28, 2007. His myspace page led a great and courageous life. It was frequented by many visitors such as very attractive women named Colleen, Nicole, and Elise who wanted to have a good time. They placed many requests to be in the company of the myspace page.

Even in the music world, Peter's Myspace page had attracted many bands that thought they sounded like the Pixies, Sonic Youth, and even Radiohead. Such bands as the Godforsaken Bored, Rusted Souls, and the San Luis Obispo based Feathers on Sunday Mornings all asked to be friends with Peter's Myspace page.

Various accomplishments that Peter's Myspace had ranged from revealing its impact on Western history to indicating it has never seen an episode of Heroes.

Some not so known elements were the true outting of Valerie Plame, the revelation on who Deep Throat was, and the already given knowledge that Crash was going to win Best Picture over Brokeback Mountain at the 2006 Academy Awards.

Peter's Myspace page loved to laugh and adored children. People can contribute to the Peter's Myspace Memorial Endowment Fund; it will benefit innocent children who have bad luck."

Rest assured something new will come around.

"Why?! Why did Peter's Myspace page have to go and not you?! Why?!"

Gravity Sets the Mood

While researching random prospects on the donor database, I found myself in a definite set routine. Luckily, conducting this research made time, somehow, fly by extremely fast (and I assure you it was not one of those “time flies when you’re having fun” things). After plowing through a couple dozen names and looking up any contact report comments or general giving history patterns, I glanced at the time and it was already post 5 o’clock. I suddenly became Fred Flintstone and yelled “Yaba daba do!” and slid off my long neck dinosaur… that is not entirely true. I walked to the bus stop.

With the summer schedule already set, the buses are not as frequent as they were during the academic year. A bus finally came after a good fifteen-minute wait. I came aboard and about four feet in I suddenly trip. Another passenger had some sort of basket/suitcase item that was in the walkway of the bus. I slammed my body hard on the ground; luckily nothing bad happened to me besides my dignity being shattered. I heard the bus driver ask if I was alright.

The second after my horizontal transformation I heard laughter from one of the passengers and this passenger was actually right by my landing zone. I rose and saw the person and, my god, she was the most beautiful person I have seen in, at least, a few years (this is one of those movie moments where the light around her is really vibrant and a gush of wind comes out of nowhere). I ask her if I could sit next to her so I could hide my shame from the rest of the bus and she agrees. I think I was slightly shaken by my pull to the earth because I usually would never even try to sit close to an extremely attractive woman (please read my fear list from a month or so ago where I describe attractive women as my number 4, or maybe it’s number 3, fear).

My fellow passenger brought to my attention on why she was laughing. She had in her lap a notepad with various crazy Einstein looking notes; she said she was wrapping up her notes on a lecture she is going to help conduct on gravitational waves. She then asked if I knew what those were. At this point, I flashbacked onto my wedding encounter where the cute girl Yuriko asked if I knew what music therapy was.

“Um, is that when the moon is full and the tide is at its highest?” apparently I am extremely funny when I am extremely ignorant because this girl was laughing.

She cured my ignorance with a brief explanation on gravitational waves, which according to Einstein's theory of general relativity, the force of gravity is due to the curvature of spacetime; this curvature is caused by the presence of massive objects. Roughly speaking, the more massive the object is, the greater the curvature it causes, and hence the more intense the gravity. As massive objects move around in spacetime, the curvature will change. If the objects move around in the right way, ripples in spacetime can spread outward like ripples on the surface of a pond. These ripples are gravitational waves. She sort of said this but I had to use Wikipedia to assist on the wording of this as I write my story.

Basically, she was amused because as she was wrapping up her notes, she sees this tall guy, who represents a decent amount of mass and then is suddenly a victim of gravity. So, due to my tallness, the more intense gravity there was. I then explained that I was nine pounds and eleven ounces when I was born, measuring at twenty-five inches. This probably led to the reason why my mother’s labor experience was so short (starting at around 1am and then my arrival right before 7am) since this massive amount of mass came out of her and the earth’s gravitational pull was doing its part.

She put her hand out and introduced herself as Nikki and I followed back with Peter. Nikki said she was a TA for the summer session physics class; I said I was a digital text engineer. Lie! Just riding off of my wedding story! No, I explained what I did on campus. She went into some more detail about her physics knowledge and I sort of tuned her out. I kept thinking of my perceptions of beauty and what causes them to be even more enhanced. Last weekend I saw a series of local bands perform, and in some of them were female singers, and I thought, “Wow, they’re pretty. Wow, they can sing. I can’t sing. Wow, they play the guitar, that’s really hot. I can’t play guitar.” So with Nikki, my thoughts ran as, “Wow, she knows physics. She’s really pretty. She’s smart. I don’t know physics. I can tell her the speed of objects as they fall to earth’s gravity. She’s pretty.” Imagine my voice sounding like a six year old boy as these words traveled through my head. Basically, if the woman is pretty, that’s good right there, but if she does something that I can’t do or does something really impressive; that makes the beauty go into some exponential rate.

I figured she was getting off at the Science Hill/Engineering bus stop, which, unfortunately, was coming very soon. I became very self-conscious at this point because those thoughts were rolling through my head; I heard all those things like asking her for her number, something! But I backed out. However, I don’t think it was due to my usual list of excuses, this one was due to the whole bus atmosphere. The bus was pretty full and was getting even more full as we explored the campus. So, I didn’t want to be that guy on the bus who asks out some girl. The worst part would have been her declining and that I have to be that guy on the bus who got rejected. No good, I say.

I wished her luck on her gravitational waves lecture and she exited the bus. When the bus got to the College 8/Porter bus stop, a cool hipster got on board and sat near me. He pulled out a book and began reading. I glanced at the cover and it was Gravity’s Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon. Damn you, gravity!

I declared Nikki as my gravitational angel who I may never see again. Now, I’ve got to make sure that I get on the Route 10 bus at 5:33 pm outside of the Lower Campus bus stop, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll cross paths with her again.

The Fever of '57

So, my friend Zoe helped make a movie. It is a documentary about Sputnik, entitled The Fever of ‘57. I realize many people may not be appealed to documentaries, and that some people assume that all documentaries are boring or not interesting.

With the power of trick editing, studios can make movie trailers represent a certain type of movie whereas the actual film itself is an entirely different genre. Well, who says a poster can’t do the same thing?

Below is something for the anti-documentary people.

A Magnetic Personality

I enjoy taking the long way to work. I realize there is a bus stop a block away from my street. Instead, I enjoy the strut down Laurel Street, go about eight blocks, then turn on to Cedar Street and then eventually hit the main strip and buy a small cup of coffee, which is at the end of the main strip, and then walk back towards the metro bus center. It’s my routine of walking exercise, a good way to start the morning.

The other morning was like any other morning, except for the amount of traffic there was on Laurel Street. I was approaching the light intersection where Laurel and Center Street meet, and one of the side streets (Washington Street, I believe) had a car pulling out. The car was a dark blue PT Cruiser. There was a line of vehicles at the light but the Cruiser did not hesitate; it pulled right out onto Laurel Street and drove in the left lane where the oncoming traffic would come. Luckily there weren’t any oncoming cars and the Cruiser just plowed right through the red light and kept going.

Randomly, at the intersection, coming from the Center Street side, was a police car. I shouldn’t say randomly since the Santa Cruz city police station is on Center Street. Anyway, the police car was the first car at the light and after seeing the Cruiser blast its way through the light and continuing to accelerate down Laurel, the police car followed pursuit. I saw that the Cruiser made a right onto Cedar Street, which is where I usually cross the street to get to and then go down. The police car followed it onto Cedar.

I was only a block away and I was hoping that when I got to the crosswalk I would see the Cruiser pulled over. As I was passing one of the side streets, which is directly across the street from Cedar, there was a couple walking ahead of me, maybe fifteen or twenty. I saw to my left, which is where Cedar began from Laurel Street, the PT Cruiser coming from where he turned. However, he did not stop as he pulled from Cedar, it bolted across Laurel and right down the street that I was passing. Lucky for me, I was not in the crossing, but I did back up as this maniac was going at least 50 mph through the street. The unlucky part was the couple in front me got a first hand experience of the Cruiser maniac. The male of the couple encountered a sideswipe from the Cruiser. It was not a head on collision, but a good enough hit that caused the man to be forced to dive into the street, headfirst. The woman was in a state of hysteria as the man lied there; his face was pretty scraped up but he was talking at least.

I rushed over to see if he and she were alright. The woman was fine and the man seemed to be doing fine so far. I asked if she wanted me to call 911 and she snapped saying she would do it. I then asked if she wanted me to stick around to be a witness, or give a statement. She again declined. Right after this, the police car that was originally in pursuit was still on the Cruiser’s tail. The police car went down the same route that the Cruiser did. It had its lights on and I could see the police officer speaking into his dispatch.

The woman told me to leave and that it would be okay. I continued walking down to the metro center, I chose to skip coffee and just go straight to work. While walking, I kept contemplating on whether or not I should call 911 just to make sure. I turned around and saw her on the phone and the man was sitting up right, so that all looked comforting.

I arrived to work and immediately went upstairs and told my coworker Stacey what I had witnessed. It was all a little surreal for me. I later told some other coworkers, and one of them mentioned that I tend to encounter some strange happenings. This made me think of one of my student workers. I was telling her and some of the other students about my wedding weekend and she replied with, “We decided that we can’t believe you anymore! You have some of the weirdest shit happen to you, yet you are such a normal and dorky guy! What the hell? I mean, your house floods, old men give you hundreds of dollars at a bar, people mistake you for a Mormon and throw coffee at you, deer run you over!” I can elaborate into more detail on some of the stories mentioned, if needed.

What is it about my presence? Why am I a part of these strange predicaments? I think it’s some weird case of a magnetic personality (seeing that a PT Cruiser, a large metal vessel, was a few feet from my body as it went 50 plus, that makes sense).

Anyway, the day went on and I eventually became distracted from my morning actions due to the excitement I take in from the grand world of development.

The next morning I was taking the same path to work, that is, going down Laurel Street, turning onto Cedar Street and then the coffee shop and then to the Metro. I passed by a newspaper stand, which was actually right by where the man got hit by the crazy Cruiser. The front page of the Santa Cruz Sentinel stated “Car Crash Ends in Firing Blaze” or something along those lines. I start reading the first paragraph and it read:

“CAPITOLA — A high-speed car chase just before noon Wednesday turned a normally quiet neighborhood into a fiery crime scene.”

Interesting, Capitola had some excitement. Then the article continued.

“A man suspected of stealing a PT Cruiser on Bay Avenue” Jesus! A PT Cruiser, that had to be my Cruiser, or some really messed up coincidence “snubbed orders by police to stop and, in an attempt to outrun authorities, drove the stolen vehicle into a patrol car and injured a Capitola police officer before crashing it into a home and setting the house ablaze, according to police.”

My god. The article went into further detail on how around 11am, the Capitola police started chasing the Cruiser. It ended, as mentioned, with the Cruiser plowing into a house. I’m still trying to get all the fine points together because I was heading to work around 8:45am or so when I saw the Cruiser and the Capitola police did not interact with him until 11am. So this crazy man must had gone into hiding somewhere for a while.

When I walked into my office there were the usual fifteen to twenty new email waiting for me; three or four of them were from my coworkers asking me if the article they read in the Sentinel was the same thing that I encountered. I replied, assuming as much, unless there is some hot demand for PT Cruisers. I am still trying to figure out why were all the Santa Cruz details not mentioned? A man did get hit by this guy. I wonder if the woman gave a statement or if she did, was there a connection made. Maybe since there was such a gap of time, that the police did not connect the Santa Cruz PT Cruiser chase to be the same with the Capitola PT Cruiser. I’m going to go to the Santa Cruz police station and mention what I encountered, just so there is some awareness, or something!

In pursuit

Poor, poor Cruiser.

Maniac McGee

The Workings of a Beautiful Friendship

Over the past few years I’ve noticed that I have acquired certain allergic reactions to various fruits, mostly within the melon family. Does this stop me from eating them? Of course not. I just cowboy up and indulge. How can one say no to a piece of cantaloupe, even if it makes the roof of my mouth itchy and my throat create some swelling? In recent encounters, I have come to the conclusion that more common fruits (apples, grapes, and bananas) are doing some other kind of reaction; the kind that requires you to sit on a toilet. I apologize for the gross factor. Like the melon, I do not stop because I know deep down that fruits are healthy for me.

Today at work there was a fruit platter in the kitchen and, of course, I take stab at some grapes, and within forty seconds, a shotgun went off in my stomach, and I suddenly had a new destination. When I came back to work reality, I had to pass through the kitchen again to get to my office and one of my coworkers was talking about her neighbors and the crazy parties they tend to have on a regular basis. I commented on how in my recent living situations I haven’t had a true bonding experience with any of my neighbors and then suddenly my days at the old Capitola apartment building I lived in with Christy came to me.

I know I have mentioned the Capitola days in the past; it was right after college graduation, I wasn’t making much money at the video store, my boss was a jerk, it was a challenging time for me. One of the other things that played a factor in my living situation was our next-door neighbor. When Christy and I first looked at the fourplex, we had the opportunity to look at the two apartments upstairs (both were vacant). There was suite number 3 and suite number 4. We chose number 4 because it had better natural lighting. About two weeks in, suite number 3 was being occupied. About a day or two later, I finally met the two occupants.

It was a true sense of the odd couple. There was an older man, maybe somewhere between 45 and 55, possible Filipino background, his name was Sam. Then there was the prizewinner. This individual was pretty unique; he was tall and slender, but very toned. He had long blonde hair, but bleached, but not that salon bleach, but Tom Hanks Cast Away bleached. He wore a leather vest, a sports bra, and some small short denim shorts. There were all kinds of tattoos on his arms that were that dark green color and they mixed in with his leathery tan skin. He wore thick glasses that magnified his eyes and he lacked a front row of teeth. He introduced himself as Miss Daryl Powell, a certified hermaphrodite.

I am not a connoisseur on the hermaphrodite world, but I don’t think that word is used anymore. I believe it has transitioned into transgender, but I can’t back that statement up. So when I reference Miss Daryl Powell, I was never sure what gender to identify Miss Daryl Powell with. Powell didn’t really have any feminine features besides the various articles of clothing he wore (all from the women’s side of the local thrift store). I do recall seeing his chest having lump features but then I saw him, one time, adjusting the little pads under his sports bra. Plus he wore spandex shorts sometimes and, sure enough, there was definitely something three dimensional down there. So maybe Miss Daryl Powell wanted to identify as a woman. I really do not know.

So once they moved in, it was late June, and little did I know that this was going to be a long summer. But not in that Endless Summer- I love surfing- kind of way. Miss Daryl Powell was a very up close and personal type of human, that literally would talk to you with a four inch distance between your face and his/her’s. I remember Miss Daryl Powell asking if Christy and I smoked cigarettes, and we said no. S/he was pleased with this answer because s/he indicated that s/he had asthma. However, s/he then responded with that we better not mind that s/he smokes marijuana because s/he has a license to do so. Miss Daryl Powell mentioned something about bad bones, and then it went into bad blood circulation, and then into other health issues. I just thought it was amusing how one with asthma would be such a proponent of marijuana usage. One thing though, was I didn’t realize that Miss Daryl Powell’s free ticket to partake in the ganja would result in s/he sitting outside of her/his doorway and lighting up. This was quite common. Another observation was the instrument involved; for someone that is medically certified to smoke weed, you would think a better tool would be used. What I saw when s/he smoked was a piece of wood used for the base, a lot of aluminum foil, a straw, and something that looked like a little light bulb. Like the realm of hermaphrodites, I am not a connoisseur on the instruments that allow one to smoke weed, but I would think something a bit more professional would be involved.

When Miss Daryl Powell was not taking in marijuana, s/he would usually sit outside in the little lawn chair placed outside of the door and take in the general surroundings. Every time Christy or myself would leave for work or come back from work, there was Miss Daryl Powell, taking in life. The worst part was when s/he would speak to either of us. Questions about what we were doing would come about. Christy was a runner so on her downtime, she would take advantage of the freedom, and, well, go for a run. Miss Daryl Powell asked about this and then go on about how for thirty years s/he used to train people for marathons. I had my share of conversations with Miss Daryl Powell, and the chronology of her/his life did not quite add up. There were the stories how Miss Daryl Powell was born and raised in Oklahoma, stayed there for thirty years, s/he lived in Hawaii for thirty years, lived in Santa Cruz for thirty years. Of course there was marathon training for thirty years, then there was being a cop for thirty years, worked in real estate for thirty years. While living there I drove a ’74 Plymouth Valiant, and Miss Daryl Powell mentioned that s/he used to work on engines for Valiants for thirty years (although the Plymouth Valiant went extinct by the end of the 1970s). So, basically, Miss Daryl Powell was full of shit, or slightly delusional.

It became a problem with Miss Daryl Powell hanging outside of her/his door that we would fear leaving our apartment because we knew we would have to be caught in some conversation. When I pull in the driveway, I would try focusing on the stairwell to see if there was a body up there. I would sometimes wait in my car until I saw the body move inside.

Miss Daryl Powell then took the initiative to come to our door sometimes and ask for various favors. Both of us had vehicles, s/he did not. Therefore there was always the random errand that needed to be done. S/he would ask if one of us could drive her/him to the social security office to pick up a check, could we take her/him to the store to buy some “pop,” the favors never ended. Neither of us ever did any of those favors because we are liars. We created random excuses all the time in order to avoid taking part in any mentioned actions. S/he would also do random things like put a welcome mat in front of our door, or fix our sliding screen, or hang a plant.

“I fixed your door,” s/he mentioned, as I was about to unlock the door to go inside.

“Oh, I didn’t know it was broken.”

“Oh yeah, you see here…” Miss Daryl Powell then went into great detail about how one of the screws was- I don’t even know what was wrong with the screw. All I remember is hearing Miss Daryl Powell saying that s/he used to be a civil engineer for thirty years. Finally it ended with “it’ll cost you.”

Knowing that I didn’t ask for this deed to be done, I was slightly confused, but I was polite, “Um… what do you want?”

“A meal,” I went inside really quick and found a half empty bag of frozen peas and just threw them to her/him. That hit the spot apparently. But this became a theme later on.

About a month or so in, Miss Daryl Powell’s housemate, Sam, packed up and moved out in the middle of the night. I could tell this hurt Miss Daryl Powell’s feelings, but it didn’t keep me up at night. S/he would then make little visits and ask if I knew anyone that was moving. Miss Daryl Powell was trying to sell the idea, s/he would mention that the deposit was already taken care of, all the person would have to do is just move in. That was it. I remember some people I knew talk about moving but there was no way in hell I was going to alert them about a possible opening.

Finally after a two-week struggle, suddenly Miss Daryl Powell had an answer to her/his problems. S/he rang the doorbell of our place to say that s/he found somebody to move in. S/he met this person at the metro bus center at the Capitola Mall. S/he described him as quiet but aggressive. I wasn’t sure what to expect from those details. A day later I looked through the curtains of our front door and I saw the individual who moved in. He looked like a very hairy bear that was caught in a fish net. I think Miss Daryl Powell found a bum hanging around the bus center and had that person move in. I do not know how rent was paid (well, from either of the two, for that matter). I never met the individual but I called him Papa Bear.

The living situation between Miss Daryl Powell and Papa Bear was somewhat awkward. The two of them had a mutual appreciation for the medically certified marijuana that Miss Daryl Powell had, but once they were inside, all we could hear was yelling. We could never decipher what the yelling was exactly, but the occasional push and shove would take place. Our living room walls would vibrate every once in a while. However, ten minutes later the yelling and physical forces would die down and then the two were back outside taking hits from the aluminum foil instrument with the random light bulb.

By October, one morning I was going to work and I saw a piece of paper taped to the door of our glorious neighbor’s place. It was from the rental company, and it was an eviction notice. There it was, the thirty-day notice and that after the given time period, the two individuals were not allowed back in the premise. There were no details on why exactly, but I had a decent sized list in my head on why they were forced to leave.

Papa Bear suddenly vanished; there were no more signs of his existence after the sign went up. Miss Daryl Powell still hung around; I know he didn’t have much furniture, it was mostly plastic crates and office storage boxes with random pictures taped to the walls. By the end of the eviction due date, somehow Miss Daryl Powell managed to persuade some young guy, maybe my age or a little younger to help Miss Daryl Powell move out. The youngling had a van and Miss Daryl Powell took advantage of this. It was just one day, and Miss Daryl Powell was no longer in our complex. About three weeks after that, a young married couple moved in. They were incredibly sweet people.

I saw Miss Daryl Powell maybe two more times after that. Both were at the bus center at the Capitola Mall. The first time, s/he was just walking around, sort of hovering in front of the Carl’s Jr. The second time, s/he was leaning against the wall of the bus center, her/his head rocking out to some tunes. The funnier part of this site was seeing the headphones attached to her/his head but the cord that dangled from the headphones was not plugged into anything. Oh Miss Daryl Powell, how you amused me.

Redefining the Word 'Amusement'

After getting off the bus today to get to work, I noticed something distinctly different. That difference was the general vacancy on the autobus, there weren’t any students riding on it. It was officially summer in my head, although a meteorologist would probably have an alternative argument. Last week was finals week and this past weekend was graduation.

Acknowledging summer’s existence usually puts all kinds of thoughts into my head: vacation plans (Virginia here I come!), work transitions (new office!), no student workers (well, maybe three), general nostalgia (how doing nothing but swimming and playing outside for two and half months was absolute bliss), and the summer blockbuster (all the action flicks and sequels).

Summer blockbusters become a staple conversation for many of the common people. This topic almost replaces the “how’s the weather” conversation that many folks tend to divert to when they find a lull in some form of discussion with another human being. The films that get released in the theater will find their way into the hearts of many, whether it ranges from taking the kids out, a possible date, entertaining friends, recognizing that guilty pleasure, or the remake that rekindles your childhood (Transformers anybody?).

However, in the tradition of summer releases, there is always a theme: sequels! It’s a guarantee you will see a parade of sequels, whether they are parts of an overall series, third installments wrapping up a trilogy, a part two you were expecting, or a fourth installment that you didn’t see coming due to a thirteen year hiatus. Currently there has been quite the streak of non-originals out like Shrek the Third, Ocean’s Thirteen, 28 Weeks Later, Spiderman 3, and Fantastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer. The ones due out soon are Rush Hour 3, Aliens vs. Predator 2, Live Free or Die Hard (Die Hard 4), and Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (Harry Potter 5). The one that I want to talk about is Pirates of the Caribbean: At World’s End.

The latest Pirates movie was released a few weeks ago and is the third (and hopefully) final feature in this, now, trilogy. The summer of 2003 is when the first Pirates film was released. I remember I had some negative thoughts about this flick when I first saw the poster for it at a movie theater. Two things bothered me about this: a) it’s a movie based on the amusement park ride and b) it was produced by Jerry Bruckheimer, who was responsible for such hits as Armageddon, The Rock, Gone in 60 Seconds, and CSI. Come that summer, it was released and everyone and their mother went and saw it. Some selling points were the fact that Johnny Depp was the main star, which many people love the Depp, and that Orlando Bloom was in it, which any girl between the age of fourteen and twenty-five is in love with. I’m not going to advocate Kiera Knightley’s role in it because I don’t find her all that attractive and I don’t know many other guys who do either.

I did not see the first Pirates in the theater, I, instead, went and saw many other quality films such as S.W.A.T., League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, Matrix Reloaded, and Terminator 3. I waited for its rental release and this was when I was working at the video store. It wasn’t until this movie, specifically, came out for rent was when I decided that humans are going to go extinct very soon. Seeing this movie get rented out the day it was released, and then for almost five weeks it was still checked out, I saw people at their worst.

“When the fuck do you think you’ll have a copy?!”

“I’ve been here everyday for the last two weeks!!! You owe me something. I’m not leaving here until I get something that I didn’t pay for!!!” I promoted that he should steal something but then I would call the cops.

During my time at the video store, I saw people get driven to insanity over four films: Pirates of the Caribbean, Lost in Translation, Kill Bill Vol. 1, and The Incredibles. These four were constantly checked out for a great period of time, and people literally cut their own arms in the store (not entirely true). If someone is so upset that a movie about pirates is checked out, his life must be pretty good then. I just never understood why you would pull your own hair out or threaten people due to the absence of some movie.

I saw Pirates, and it was decent. I didn’t (and still haven’t) figure out what all the insanity was about. Well, apparently this movie was so good that Bruckheimer and the Nazis at Disney decided to make another Pirates movie (and secretly make a third one simultaneously). The sequel was released last summer and everyone I knew went and saw it. The common reactions were:

“It was really boring.”

“That movie should have been an hour shorter.”

“Some of those scenes could have been ten minutes shorter.”

However, the common thread amongst all the viewers I knew of that movie was:

“But the last two minutes were so good, I’ll go and see the third one.”

All I can say is that you are a sucker. Just because a character from the first film makes a cameo in the last two minutes of this near three hour feature doesn’t mean you have to cough up another ten dollars for the third installment a year from now. Here we are, the next summer, and almost everyone I know went in line to get his or her Pirates of the Caribbean: At World’s End ticket.

When friends and colleagues would tell me they were planning on seeing this film, I would usually role my eyes or pass some form of judgment. As usual, they would have their argument on why they were seeing this film, and the follow up argument on why I should shut up and see the film anyway.

“Come on, it’s entertaining.”

When someone says this, that person is walking into dangerous territory. The word “entertaining” can go in various directions. If you want to use entertaining as a valid reason of why this movie is good, then I can argue that the action flick Swordfish is an entertaining film. Why? One may ask. Simple. The film has a pretty hip soundtrack by Paul Oakenfold, you get to see Halle Berry’s breasts, and there is a scene where Hugh Jackman has to crack a computer code within a minute while having a gun to his head… oh yeah, and he’s getting a blowjob while this is all going down (no pun intended). That’s entertaining.

The other direction is that entertaining is one of the ugliest words in the English language. Entertaining falls into a triad of words that people should do their best to avoid. That triad is:

Entertaining – Interesting – Nice

Interesting is usually used when one is not quite sure how to sum something up. It’s mentioned when someone wants to describe a specific topic, whether it was a presidential debate, or a woman’s singing vocals, and that person lacks any other adjective or is not totally familiar with the English language and will then bust out with, “well, it was sort of interesting.” It’s possible that some elaboration may arise after the I word was dropped. Sometimes the person will use the I word in order to avoid a phrase like, “that chick was totally cool!” In most common situations, the person who used interesting is worried about not sounding like a complete idiot and that interesting is, maybe, somewhat, of an academic word.

Nice is used when someone doesn’t want to hurt another person’s feelings. Nice can encompass a person’s comments on the color of a house, the looks of your best friend’s girlfriend, or the cuteness of a dog. “Oh, it’s… nice.” “Oh, she seemed… nice.” You know you have used it, you have heard your friends use it, and you hate it when someone uses it on you. Nice is a dirty word that upsets everybody involved, because the one using it knows he is not being honest and the person hearing it knows he is full of shit.

Entertaining is involved when an individual has just watched a crappy film and won’t admit it or hasn’t quite recognized the fact that it was a crappy film. Sometimes entertaining is an escape route to hide the fact that the following movie is actually a guilty pleasure of yours and your friends just won’t understand. The e word is also a defense mechanism to those who liked the crappy movie and his entire circle of friends hated it.

“Oh my god, Fast and the Furious was probably the worst movie ever made!”

“Seriously! I could have made a better film with $12 and Bazooka Joe gum!”

“Hey, it was at least entertaining,” dirty looks then arrive.

In the same conversation where the friend or colleague is trying to persuade me to go see the new Pirates movie, the mention of it being based on the infamous Disneyland ride comes up. Like entertaining, this argument can be steered in different directions.

The fact that Pirates of the Caribbean is based on the internationally recognized amusement park ride can seem charming. Many people may not realize, or maybe chose to forget, that Pirates was not the first or last movie to be based on a Disneyland ride. A year, maybe two years, before the first Pirates flick came out, Disney released The Country Bears with the talents of Haley Joel Osment and Christopher Walken. How many people saw that film? 4500. The film that came after the first Pirates based on a ride was The Haunted Mansion, an Eddie Murphy classic. It’s up there with Boomerang.

The flipside of this concept of the film being based on a ride, is that THIS FILM IS BASED ON A RIDE!!! I find the value and appreciation of films slowly draining due to this reason. I can’t wait until the day that all the ideas have run dry and all the rides have been made into feature length films, producers will then pitch such potential hits as Bumper Cars starring George Clooney, Mandy Moore, and Al Pacino as the crazy bolt of electricity, or Tall Water Slide starring Ethan Hawke, Natalie Portman, and Michael Ironside as the fear of heights. I’m sure Disney knows the money they are going to make from this new franchise; they have an entire amusement park of ideas to choose from for their next films.

The third Pirates movie has already been released and now many more summer features are coming out, every Friday to be exact. Come this October, Pirates will most likely be released out on DVD. Everyone will go out and buy their copy to add to their shelves with their copies of the first two Pirates movies. Then by Christmas time, the ultimate trilogy edition will be released. By summer of 2008, the Treasure Chest trilogy edition will be released that will include 12 discs of pure pirate booty fun. The funny part is that everyone who bought the third pirate movie in fall, will buy the ultimate trilogy edition in wintertime, and then will buy the special treasure edition in the summer time. I saw people do it with the Lords of the Rings and The Matrix.

In the meantime, everyone should get excited as It’s a Small World comes out Christmas of 2007 with Matthew McCounaghey and Rebecca Romijn. Next May we will see Space Mountain starring Jude Law and Cillian Murphy. Don’t forget the Thanksgiving after that will be The Tiki Tiki Room with Jake Gyllenhal and the voices of Danny DeVito, Bruce Willis, and Sarah Silverman. This is only the beginning, you realize.

After the beep, tell me how you feel...

It’s been about two and a half years since I first got my cell phone. I did not realize that obtaining a cell phone meant that you would be part of another world. Prior to cellular usage, I was a house line kind of a guy, which meant I was a sucker. The various phones I had that were connected to the typical house line never had caller ID so I picked up no matter what. I felt that every time I picked up the phone it was like playing a game of Russian Roulette: one call could be a friend; another call could be a telemarketer, or a family member you’re trying to avoid. It was always a gamble when it came to picking up the house phone.

When I obtained the cell phone, I found myself in this odd sense of freedom. After programming all the numbers I knew into the little device, I could choose if I wanted to pick up the phone or not. My favorite scenario was when I was working at the video store. I was the assistant manager and the store manager wasn’t the most reliable (she didn’t speak English that well, which was one factor), so when ever I wasn’t working, I usually received a phone call from the store and the topics ranged drastically from a cash drawer is off by eighty dollars, to the power going off, or how to reset the security cameras, to a random worker not showing up to work and asking me to come in.

Having the cell phone made me have the choice of not picking up. Just because I have a phone that is readily accessible does not mean that I am readily accessible. Maybe mentally I am just not ready to have that conversation.

The other situation with cell phones is when a number pops up on your screen and you do not recognize the number. Since I do not give my phone out on a regular basis and there isn’t a directory of cell phone numbers handy, I get a little weirded out when an unknown number makes an appearance on the screen. I know some people will pick up automatically; I, however, wait for a voice message. The unrecognizable number may be a solicitor, a bill collector, or a friend calling from another phone, I just don’t know, hence the patience for a voice message.

Yesterday morning, while at work, my cell phone started to ring and there was a number that I didn’t register at first, but then about five vibrates in I realized it was my landlord calling. It was too late at this point to pick up and I was not sure on why he was calling exactly. I remembered after the phone stopped vibrating that my housemate Eric was going to email him about our moving out this summer and what the situation was with the deposit money we gave to the company to dry out the house. But why would he call me?

After the vibrations ended, there was no sign of a voice message, so he must have done the call and hang up scene. I left my office and did the typical rounds with the fellow coworkers and then came back to my office some time later and there was the sign saying I had a new voicemail. Oh, what did the landlord have to say?

“Hi Peter, it’s [censored]. I just got Adam’s email,” goes to show how well he knows his tenants, especially tenants who caused a lot of damage to one of his houses “and he wanted to know what the situation was. Well, I tell you what the situation is. I lost a lot of money with all this hell you guys put me through.”

You can tell what the tone of the voice message was just from reading the first couple of sentences. He went on for a while listing off the amount of time he spent getting his team out here to reconstruct the house, how there are some money disputes with the company that came out to do the dehumidifying, there are still some unsettled discussions with the home owners insurance, and how he has not been reimbursed for his efforts. He went on another topic on how he tried being a good landlord by not having the insurance people talk to us. And then the last topic was the deposit money for the dehumidifying company.

“And as for the check you wrote for $644, well, just think of that as a generous donation for the hell you put me through!” Say goodbye to that check.

It ended with him saying if I had any questions, I can feel free to call him. Thank you. When the message ended, I looked at my phone, which indicated the length of time I was on that line. It ended with eight minutes and forty seconds. He left a message that went for almost nine minutes (the description I provided was the true Reader’s Digest version). He had a lot to get off his chest and had to talk to somebody. Maybe an email was not enough, and I am pretty sure that my number is the only one he has out of the household.

I imagined this must had been pretty therapeutic for him; knowing that someone’s voice message system is listening to all his problems. That got me thinking about therapy and the world of cell phones. Wouldn’t it be great if there was some hot line you could call where you just rant for however long you want and then you hang up, and hopefully you feel better after all that. There won’t be a call back; the call system is just a technological representation of someone listening to you, and that’s good enough sometimes.

The range of topics would be vastly different, everything from a man named Harold calling in to discuss his suspicions on his wife cheating on him to young Joshua and his new found crush to Miss Powell vocalizing her concerns on the apparent deterioration of human kindness. There will probably be the sickos calling in on how they want to kill somebody or have sex with somebody or have sex with somebody and then kill that somebody. So, there may be some monitoring involved. I haven’t figured out all the details yet.

Prologues and Afterwords of a Holy Matrimony

Friday evening was not a full moon night, although it seemed to have that tone. Usually on a full moon night there are the ignorant drivers, insane people on the street, and your pets all act unusually weird (I assume there is always a full moon inside my house then). This weekend was going to have a full line up since my two friends, John and Sean, were coming in. Then it dawned on me that when these two individuals are in my presence (or at least knowing they’re in close proximity) strange things tend to happen.

After work, Eric and I did a sushi run and then he left for the night. I received a phone call from John saying he was downtown and that Sean was due relatively soon. John and Sean were two close friends from college; however, John moved to the Los Angeles area last fall and Sean moved to the east coast last summer to attend John Hopkins University. It was a bit painful to see them leave Santa Cruz since they made up a good portion of my social scene while living here. This weekend, their good friend, Nick, was getting married.

Once I received the call from John that he and Nick were downtown drinking coffee, I was in pursuit to Pacific Avenue. As I went down a few blocks, I saw one of the typical Santa Cruz street people. It’s best to not make eye contact with them, but sometimes they still go in for the attack. This street culture member started talking to me as I was walking.

“When someone asks you for a drop of blood, don’t you just want to give them a tenth of a drop of blood and then do that ten times?” I really had no response; I didn’t even stop to pretend to be polite like I was interested in what he was saying. I kept walking and did not make eye contact or any other gesture of recognition. He spoke some more but lucky for me I was not able to intercept the waves of noise that were coming from his position.

After passing the wild street person and knowing that I was seeing John, it made me flashback on one of our strange encounters from the college days. Senior year, spring break, John and I did a walk downtown to go to the Red Room (a hipster bar that many college students attend when they break the 21 mark). We started at the beginning of the main street and the Red Room is a block parallel to Pacific but towards the end of the street. We had many strange interactions with many strange people.

There were the two “gangster” looking people in which gangster 1 asked gangster 2, “Man, remember when we used kill people?”

The random young man on a skateboard that decided to do a small orbit around John and me and then handed a piece of paper that simply said “Missing Dog” with a picture of some dog’s head placed on top of a Magic Eye backdrop.

The best one was once we were on the parallel street, there was a couple (a woman and a man) getting frisky against a tree. Suddenly we noticed the woman’s panties were dropped on the ground. “Those two are having sex,” John whispered.

The worst part was when I got a closer look of the woman. “Her name is [censored], she likes Josh Hartnett movies and pays with a debit card.”

John looked bewildered, “How do you know that?”

“She came into the video store this evening.”

After the series of flashbacks, I found myself at Hoffman’s coffee where John and Nick, were. We sat there for a little while discussing various themes, mostly pertaining to Nick’s future. Eventually we heard from Sean as he pulled into town and the night continued longer once he met with all of us.

The next morning arrived and John got ready and met up with Nick to buy some flowers (John was the best man for Nick’s wedding). Sean asked me to be his “plus-one” since he was dateless; I didn’t have any plans so I said yes. We made the rounds with downtown again to get some coffee, and of course, there were still strange encounters. Various people were passing out fliers that stated free screening of a new documentary called, “Psychiatry: the Industry of Death.” When reading this I thought that this had to be some Scientology bullshit; the flier indicated that it was presented by the Citizens Commission on Human Rights. Once we got back to my house, I googled that name and sure enough, it’s a branch of the Scientology church.

While we were all getting ready for the wedding, John decided to clean his contact lenses. However, due to laziness he didn’t get his own contact solution from his car, he just borrowed Eric’s solution. The catch here is that Eric’s solution is not the typical type, it’s an anti-bacterial formula, so it’s hydrogen peroxide that filters into a metal catalyst; after five hours it eventually becomes water and the lenses are thoroughly cleansed. Well, John just threw them in there for about an hour, not knowing what was actually in them. John took them out, placed one lens in the right eye.

“Oh my god! What the hell is happening?! Owwww! Oh my god!” John had his hand to his eye “Jesus!” He started to collapse, he began reaching out to anything, our books fell off their shelves as John desperately searched for the bathroom. Upon arrival to the bathroom, Eric sat there on the couch.

“Oh, he must’ve used my contact solution.”

“God! What the hell is this?!” came faintly from the bathroom. He turned the sink on and flushed his eye out as much as possible. John came out of the bathroom, water dripping off his face, his eye blistering red “man, if pain was on a scale from one to ten that was an eight.”

John did his best to get over the pain, got dressed and met with Nick to get flowers and did all the necessary deeds to make sure the wedding was going to happen. Sean and I wrapped up our current actions and eventually became decent and ready to go.

The wedding ceremony started at 1:00pm; Sean and I were on highway one, and it was twenty till at this point. Sean then spoke.

“Alright, so Peter, now I know Nick is getting married at a Catholic church in Watsonville. The problem is I don’t know where it is.”

“Have you called John?”

“I tried, it goes straight to voicemail, the same with Nick’s.”

“Bummer.”

“So, having you as navigator, once we get into Watsonville, I’m going to role down the window and you’re going to ask every person you see where is the nearest Catholic church.”

I was not quite ready to go and ask random strangers where the nearest house of God was, so I got on the phone and started calling people who may have had some kind of Watsonville connection, hoping I would get an answer on where the main Catholic church is. Nick and his wife to be are pretty devout Catholics, so we figured they would want the main popular church.

Luckily, as we drove on to Main Street in Watsonville, on the horizon was a tall gothic looking building. A very traditional church was ahead of us.

“I think we got ourselves a winner!” Sean exclaimed. We pulled into the parking lot and saw various people, all dressed up, walking into the church. They all looked ready for a wedding. As we got closer to the church, I noticed that they were all Latino. Nick’s wife to be, Rebecca, was from a Mexican family, so we drew the conclusion that these people were all from her side of the family. The doors to the church were in front of us, we walked in, took a seat on the groom’s side.

My eyes wandered around, trying to identify Nick, or any relative that looked like Nick, or looked Anglo-Saxon. The entire church was full of Latino people, the song being heard was in Spanish. I leaned my head to Sean, who took my words.

“Peter, I don’t think this is the wedding.”

“Yeah,” we immediately left, hoping no one actually saw us. After getting back in the car, our new goal was to find a phone book and look up churches. Then in the distance was a Best Western motel. Sean and I thought this was a calling for some odd reason.

“Best Western, I bet they know where the Catholic churches are,” Sean proclaimed the statement, and it made sense somehow. The motel was not busy so the two women at the front desk had our undivided attention. We proposed our current situation and then our question.

“Well, there’s St. Patrick’s off of Main Street.”

“Is that the tall creepy one?” Sean asked.

“Yeah.”

“Oh, that’s not it. We already crashed that wedding, wasn’t ours,” the lady then explained that there was another one near the Watsonville fairgrounds. The directions were written down and we went on our next mission. The church was discovered. As we pulled into the parking lot Sean pointed out his observations.

“Now that looks like a white trash vehicle. I bet the guy who drives that is from Sonora,” Sean, John, and Nick all grew up in Sonora, CA. The doors to the church were open, Sean and I slowly walked up to the steps and peaked our heads in. Half the church was Mexican, the other half was all white. I squinted my eyes a bit and saw the altar; there were Nick and Rebecca. Thank god. We took a seat and enjoyed the wedding.

After the ceremony, everyone gathered outside. John caught up with us; he took off his sunglasses and there was his eye: completely red and surrounded with a ring of mucous. I assumed it would have just been a little irritated but it looked like it was going into a more horrible route.

There was a small break between the ceremony and the reception, which was at the Chamadan resort in Santa Cruz. Sean and I made it back to my house and we did not see John. It came time for the reception and we headed to the resort. We eventually found John, who had his sunglasses still on and a glass of champagne in his hand.

“Hey guys, so I am going to down this glass of champagne and then go to the emergency room.”

“What?” came from both our mouths.

“My eye still hurts, it still burns, mucous keeps flowing out of it, and I can’t see because all the crap is covering my eyeball. I feel like I am looking through a glass of milk,” John finished the glass and Sean and I agreed we would take him to the ER.

Randomly, Santa Cruz Dominican Hospital was the next block over from the resort. We found a parking spot and came in. Sean and I took a seat and John explained his problem to the nurse at the front desk. There was a slight wait, but there was not many people in the waiting room. There was a couple in front of us, who I think were getting annoyed by us simply due to the fact that John was becoming tired and delirious and therefore was making a lot of non sense talk.

“Alright, which would you rather go without: pissing or sweating?” John asked with a serious face.

“Now, do all the post-effects come into play once I remove one of those functions? I mean, if I go without the function of peeing, does my body still require me to pee, and therefore I am in an everlasting state of pain?”

“What about sweating? Do I still get to have some kind of cooling down process? How will the water I consume be processed?”

“Do I still get to have some kind of condensation reaction? Will I know that I am being cooled down?”

“If I go without peeing, will the urine therefore just become sweat?” These were all real questions. Finally, John concluded it all.

“How about every time you sweat, pages of pornography seep out of your skin?”

“Deal!” Sean was set on that. A nurse called John and away he went. I got on the phone and went outside to hold the conversation. As I was in mid-conversation, I kept hearing this roaring noise. I looked up and about two hundred feet above me was a life-flight helicopter. I started moving away from the parking lot so I can actually hear the other end of the line, then I realized that the helicopter was actually landing. It was probably one of the most intimidating things I have seen. An ambulance met up with it and out came a child on a stretcher and paramedics loaded the child into the helicopter. It was weird to see. The conversation ended and I went back inside and saw Sean asleep.

John came out after being gone for about forty-minutes maybe. The doctor diagnosed him with having a minor-chemical burn on his eyeball. It seemed that when John was pouring massive amounts of water into the eye, there were still some remains of the hydrogen peroxide left. The doctor gave him some antibiotics and Vicodin.

We all rushed back to the wedding reception, which had transitioned into the dinner portion and we had reserved seats. However, that did not mean much because some random family members took the seats. We all had to split up and find the random available chairs at tables at different parts of the banquet hall. I found myself at a table where the wedding photographer was sitting and two co-workers of the bride.

The waiter, come to find out, was an old film major colleague of mine, who was annoying. When we were in college, he knew my weakness, that is, he knew I would listen to him because that’s what I do. He spoke to me for a good hour one time about a screenplay he was writing about a protagonist who has mental powers. After much description, his main character was a pervert and my film major colleague was pretty much writing down all his erotic fantasies into this screenplay. He later explained his methods of getting this picked up: he would move to LA, wait tables at the hipster restaurant where all the producers eat at and show them the script (of course they would buy it without hesitation), and he also stated that people have told him he looks like Topher Grace, and Scarlet Johansen dated Topher Grace, so therefore, she would date my film major colleague. He had it all figured out. I did my best to ignore him at the table but he found me, and we had a similar conversation.

I struck up a conversation with the two co-workers of the bride. I asked them what they did for a living (because I had no idea what the bride did). The woman next to me explained that they are music therapists. I nodded like I knew what that meant and she read right through me.

“Do you know what that is?”

“Yeah, it’s to make pianists less stressed out,” nothing but laughter from the woman, who I found out was named Yuriko (very similar to a friend’s name, sort of weird). She and the other co-worker went into great detail about what exactly music therapy is, but I don’t want to go into it.

Finally, I got to do one of my dreams, which was to be at a wedding and give off a false identity. I told them my name is Peter, but when they asked what I did for a living, I told them I work in San Jose as a digital text engineer.

“Do you know what that is?” I asked the two persons, both looked lost “well, basically, I create fonts for computers.” I just pulled that out of my ass. I went into great length on how my team and I are trying to reformat the Geneva font to help bridge Macs and Linux based computers better and how Helvetica is going to be the font for the 21st century. Again, I don’t know where this came from or for that matter where it was going.

The rest of the night went into the same path that other weddings do: a lot of champagne and wine consumption, and people on the dance floor. I went out to the parking lot because I do not like to dance. Let me say that again, I don’t like to dance. My friends tend to forget this and keep trying to persuade me by saying things like “it’s fun!” Well, you know what is also fun? Playing jacks. Yeah, and you don’t see me forcing that onto anybody.

As things unfolded, many people left, we all went off to other points of interest. John’s eye managed to make it through the night. We all made it home safely. The next day was something new for everyone.

Coincidental sounds that have no meaning other than their own definition

I have come across this on a few forums, blogs, and music magazines. Everyone wants to know what the soundtrack is to her or his life. Well, here is the breakdown. Go to your iTunes library or Windows Media library or put all your best CDs in your multidisc stereo and put the songs on shuffle.

Below you will see all the cliché categories that make up a movie narrative, so imagine these categories summing up the path of what makes up your life. The first song that turns on from your shuffle will be the opening credits track, the next song you hear will be the waking up track, and so forth.

The songs provided are the ones I encountered when I hit shuffle.

Opening Credits:
“In Limbo” by Radiohead
Waking Up:
“Dance with Me” by Nouvelle Vague

Falling In Love:
“The Mariner’s Love Song” by the Decemberists

Fight Scene:
“Moonage Daydream” by David Bowie

Breaking Up:
“Start Making Sense” by Peter, Bjorn, and John

Making Up:
“Breathe Like You’re Dancing” by Sybris

Life’s Okay:
“Razzle Dazzle Rose” by Camera Obscura

Mental Breakdown:
“Brown Boxes” by Spinto Band

Driving:
“Here Comes the Summer” by the Fiery Furnaces

Flashbacks:
“Harrowind Hill” by Thom Yorke

Happy Dance:
“Street Spirit” by Radiohead

Regretting:
“Pete Standing Alone” by Boards of Canada

Final Battle:
“Ballad of a Comeback Kid” by the New Pornographers

Death Scene:
“Lady of Dreams” by VAST

Ending Credits:
“Calling Me” by the Rapture

After the list was complete, some of the songs that were “chosen” I thought were amusing. I was glad to see a Bowie song was picked for my fight song; I love the Razzle Dazzle Rose song by Camera Obscura, so having that as my “Life is okay” montage was pleasing; I am not sure about Street Spirit being the happy dance song; for regretting, Pete Standing Alone seemed fitting but the winner is Lady of Dreams by VAST as the Death Scene, that is the most appropriate.

Let me know if you want a copy of the Proud Gemini soundtrack. Also, to my viewers, you should try this out and let me know what your outcome was.

Arse versus Art

Can you believe that the Criterion Collection is investing their time by restoring these trashy and really bad films?!

Howard the Duck
Attack of the Killer Tomatoes!
Snakes on a Plane

p.s. Actually, Criterion is not doing this. I thought it would be amusing if these films got marketed as art-house films. Would you see them then?

This Just In: Three Ponies Delivered to Sixteen-Year-Old Girl's Birthday Party.

What is it about the local news that makes it so charming and cute?

The local news is made to, obviously, deliver the updates of what is going on in your general community. With these updates, they want to make sure that everything is fun, happy, and comfortable for you. This is your neighborhood they are talking about. For the bad stuff, one can attend the evening news provided by the corporate stations where they discuss things from a national point of view. For the bad and the ridiculous, you can tune in to the major 24 hours news stations where they discuss the news how they see it (local or national).

When the local news starts, it’s always something adorable yet awkward. The other night I tuned in to:

“Two whales came into the bay today. Look how they appreciate the water!” the alpha male anchorman stated, his name was most likely Pat Douchenberg “You know, Sandra, I haven’t seen whales that big since I saw Star Trek IV.”

Sandra the sidekick anchorwoman did a light giggle and said, “I know, and it’s so heartbreaking when Darth Vader blows up that planet.”

Then the judgmental look from Douchenberg, “Oh, Sandra, you poor ignorant woman, meanwhile, today the county office of education sponsored the county spelling bee! Little Daisy Rovendorf of Central Street Elementary School won the contest when it came down to her and fellow schoolmate Rafi Lopez who lost to spelling ‘Reconnaissance.’ What a stupid little minority.”

I love the atmosphere I see from the local news.

After the heartwarming stories, like the spelling bee and stranded whales, there’s usually something about an elderly woman who saw the Virgin Mary when she pulled the lint out of the dryer. Then something slightly traumatic appears like:

“This morning a fire broke out at the Egotronics factory on Maple and 2nd Ave. The fire took charge and burned the first three stories killing at least eight people. Fire department said it was started by a Morningstar boca burger patty that was left in the toaster oven. Well, it’s fair to say that the vegetarians are to blame for this one. Let’s go to our reporter on the scene, Cheryl McCarelys.”

“Thanks, Pat. I’m here with blue-collar worker Mario who saw the whole thing happen,” the microphone goes to Mario, who’s never been on television before. She will ask him a series of questions like was he afraid, what did he see, was he or was he not a hero? Mario then will explain that he saw a dog trapped under a pile of debris and he saved the dog. Next frame: a close-up of the dirty yet lovable dog who was saved. The story will conclude that Mario will adopt the dog. Then it’s back to Pat Douchenberg.

“Well, I hope Mario names the dog Sparky,” Pat has a smirk on his face.

“Or Luigi,” Sandra chimes in.

The factory inferno story is then transitioned into the story about how tomorrow is “Free Slurpee Day” at the 7-11 on Hazel Road. The local news will then end with more footage of the whales that came into the bay.

The corporate evening news is a bit of a contrast from the “pinch its cheek because it’s so cute” local news. Usually you will see a stern, plastic looking leading anchorperson that will list off the more official news.

The headliner is Iraq. And yes people are still dying.

The follow up is a report that says studies have shown that the bigger your shadow is, the better chance you will have cancer.

Then some concluding news that goes:
“The federal government announced today that in an effort to eradicate the national debt, it will be selling the state of Rhode Island to a group of private investors, for a reported $18 billion. The investors plan to enclose the entire state with an all-weather roof, and turn it into the world’s largest shopping mall. When asked for comment, a White House spokesperson would only say, ‘Well, at least we didn’t sell it to the fucking Japanese.’”
Finally, you have the pleasure of switching channels to Fox, CNN, and Headline News where there is a whole variety of things to observe.

Fox News: “Today, our Lord and Savior President Bush arm wrestled the Devil and won. The CIA then took the Devil to Guantanamo Bay and after much ‘interrogation,’ the Devil confessed that he is to blame for the attacks on September 11, Ronald Reagan’s death, the creation of Charles Manson, and An Inconvenient Truth.”

CNN: “We’re focusing on the countdown to the 2008 elections. Here’s Barack Obama in Detroit. Look what he’s wearing: grey sports coat, white buttoned down shirt, with the collar unbuttoned. You know who also dresses like this? Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. Now, you wouldn’t want to vote for someone that dresses like a crazy terrorist supporting Muslim?”

Headline News: “Just a moment, we have news coming from the White House. Here’s Tony Snow with an important announcement…
‘I'm just going to make this brief statement...the spreading of these erroneous and offensive descriptions has gone on for decades... and we find ourselves once again... having to make a public statement. Racehorses do not urinate more frequently... or at greater length than non-racing horses... or, for that matter, any mammal of comparable size. This organized, publicly sanctioned slander must stop.’”
I would say that the evening news is more like general entertainment.

This morning I tuned into NPR and caught this:

“A New Mexico woman was named Final Arbiter of Taste and Justice today, ending God's lengthy search for someone to straighten this country out. Eileen Harriet Palglace will have final say on every known subject, including who should be put to death, what clothes everyone should wear, what movies suck, and whether bald men who grow ponytails should still get laid.”