In this episode, it's Christmas day, the fourth day of a four day weekend, and I have to choose and then navigate through an activity for the day. Since I received a $10 gift card to any Regal cinema at my work holiday party, I decide I will see a movie (Juno), something I never do due to the outrageous price and Netflix. To see Juno and use my gift card, I need to skip the closest theatre (not a Regal) and go a bit further, but still within a reasonable distance. When I arrive, I realize that I'm actually going to a matinee, whose cost is $7.50, as opposed to the $10 regular price. My choice is to either use my giftcard and be stuck with $2.50 on the card, or to pay my own way and save the giftcard for the next time I go to a full fare show at the Regal, when I can use my gift all in one shot. This dramatic moment has first time viewers of this channel on the edge of their seats, but those familiar with the show have no doubt guessed correctly that I choose option two, leading to the result of my paying for a movie that I had decided to see mostly because I would not have to pay for it. A classic end to a classic episode.
In the closing credits, viewers find out I liked Juno very much, and Ellen Page even more.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Monday, December 24, 2007
pretender to the coat
Near Lathrup Village, about a mile from where Sweatshirt and I used to play two-square, there was a small music store called Off the Record, a mom-and-popper that fed and nurtured my early album collection. It was here I bought a used copy of Whipsmart, which I still listen to every couple months; it was here I sold Girls, Girls, Girls, a decision I now regret.
One day I visited this store with my then-friend D., and for around a dollar I bought a used tape, The Grateful Dead's Skull & Roses album. I was maybe 13-years-old, and my expectations were high. The album art, the band's name, the T-shirts I'd seen on certain neighborhood punks--all foretold greatness, all pointed to Marlboros and leather and amphetamines. I was ready for heavy metal: I was looking for an older and scarier Guns n' Roses.
My disappointment, then, was severe and enduring. 15 years later the band still disgusts me, and while a few of my grievances may have some basis in legitimacy, most I suspect probably crystallized in that initial, preposterous letdown.
Since college, however, I've carried this dirty secret: for all my tirades, (and despite the trauma of buying and not liking a one-dollar used tape), I've always enjoyed the song "Ripple." It's smooth and sweet and relaxing: it does for me, I suppose, what American Beauty did for Lindsay Weir in the final episode of Freaks and Geeks.
For years my affair with "Ripple" festered. Questions haunted me, and I wept over them in dark rooms and with strange women: how could the Dead have written this song? How could I like it and still respect myself? Was there something wrong with me--should I pop a peyote button and be done with it? Perhaps "Ripple" reminded me of another song, one with strong positive associations, one I liked for reasons extra-musical? Or perhaps--hope upon spite--"Ripple" was composed by someone else, a man or woman of actual talent, someone such as--I don't know--Andrew Lloyd Weber?
You be the judge. Listen to "Ripple," then to "Any Dream Will Do," written at least two years earlier.
Poor, poor Joseph. First they nicked his coat. Then they took his song.
One day I visited this store with my then-friend D., and for around a dollar I bought a used tape, The Grateful Dead's Skull & Roses album. I was maybe 13-years-old, and my expectations were high. The album art, the band's name, the T-shirts I'd seen on certain neighborhood punks--all foretold greatness, all pointed to Marlboros and leather and amphetamines. I was ready for heavy metal: I was looking for an older and scarier Guns n' Roses.
My disappointment, then, was severe and enduring. 15 years later the band still disgusts me, and while a few of my grievances may have some basis in legitimacy, most I suspect probably crystallized in that initial, preposterous letdown.
Since college, however, I've carried this dirty secret: for all my tirades, (and despite the trauma of buying and not liking a one-dollar used tape), I've always enjoyed the song "Ripple." It's smooth and sweet and relaxing: it does for me, I suppose, what American Beauty did for Lindsay Weir in the final episode of Freaks and Geeks.
For years my affair with "Ripple" festered. Questions haunted me, and I wept over them in dark rooms and with strange women: how could the Dead have written this song? How could I like it and still respect myself? Was there something wrong with me--should I pop a peyote button and be done with it? Perhaps "Ripple" reminded me of another song, one with strong positive associations, one I liked for reasons extra-musical? Or perhaps--hope upon spite--"Ripple" was composed by someone else, a man or woman of actual talent, someone such as--I don't know--Andrew Lloyd Weber?
You be the judge. Listen to "Ripple," then to "Any Dream Will Do," written at least two years earlier.
Poor, poor Joseph. First they nicked his coat. Then they took his song.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
A hypothetical situation
Imagine that you start a group blog. Several months in, your friend Smith (or I guess we should call him Smiths, since that is his real name), joins the blog, and writes a funny introductory post.
Now lets imagine that after reading Smiths' post, you check the nickname that he has chosen for himself, and notice that the name he has selected for himself is also the nickname that people have called YOU for the last ten years or so of your life.
WHY, SMITHS, WHY!?!?
Now lets imagine that after reading Smiths' post, you check the nickname that he has chosen for himself, and notice that the name he has selected for himself is also the nickname that people have called YOU for the last ten years or so of your life.
WHY, SMITHS, WHY!?!?
Friday, December 21, 2007
Have an idea do an idea
Today I was twice reminded that some people have ideas and do ideas. There is this guy who has taken his picture every day for years and turned it into an aging movie, and there are these guys featured in the NYT for giving up their high paying jobs to evaluate charities to see which are most effective.
I think it's high time for me to have an idea and do an idea. Something even more ground breaking than trying to maximize how many netflix movies I can watch each month. How do I top that?
I think it's high time for me to have an idea and do an idea. Something even more ground breaking than trying to maximize how many netflix movies I can watch each month. How do I top that?
Dude, why aren't you drinking?
One of my regrets is that I didn't do more things to regret in my youth. One thing I didn't do, until a vat of jungle juice raced down my throat at an apartment party full of strangers freshman year of college, is get drunk. The complete cause behind such abstinence will not be known until an ambitious nobel-bound doctoral student of psychology decides to use me as the case-study that will catapult him or her into stardom, but the effects are more easily observed.
While it wasn't until afterwards that the pang of regret set in for not having a few pocketfuls of comical teenage tales involving humiliation, escapades, and rudeness, the suffering I knew even then was the steady stream of predictable peer pressure whose defining catch phrase was, "Dude, why aren't you drinking?" And of course there was no answer. To certain people, certain choices and behaviors simply don't process. I'll never understand why given the choice to smoke cigarettes or not, one would choose to smoke them. And others don't really get why, given the choice, someone would choose not to have a drink when one could be had.
Since the jungle juice turning point, my drinking habits, in the language of online dating multiple choice traits, could be described as "moderate" or "socially." And while less frequently than before, there's no shortage of people who don't consider it a party until there's beer, and who look suspiciously on anyone whose reason for not drinking is anything other than being pregnant.
But all this is just the lead-in. Because, as looking back I wish my behavior never would have prompted one to ask "Dude, why aren't you drinking?", so now the internet peer pressure is causing me to change my behavior so that no one will be tempted to ask me, "Dude, why aren't you blogging?"
While it wasn't until afterwards that the pang of regret set in for not having a few pocketfuls of comical teenage tales involving humiliation, escapades, and rudeness, the suffering I knew even then was the steady stream of predictable peer pressure whose defining catch phrase was, "Dude, why aren't you drinking?" And of course there was no answer. To certain people, certain choices and behaviors simply don't process. I'll never understand why given the choice to smoke cigarettes or not, one would choose to smoke them. And others don't really get why, given the choice, someone would choose not to have a drink when one could be had.
Since the jungle juice turning point, my drinking habits, in the language of online dating multiple choice traits, could be described as "moderate" or "socially." And while less frequently than before, there's no shortage of people who don't consider it a party until there's beer, and who look suspiciously on anyone whose reason for not drinking is anything other than being pregnant.
But all this is just the lead-in. Because, as looking back I wish my behavior never would have prompted one to ask "Dude, why aren't you drinking?", so now the internet peer pressure is causing me to change my behavior so that no one will be tempted to ask me, "Dude, why aren't you blogging?"
Thursday, December 20, 2007
The Jerky Boys
I've always had an affinity for making prank phone calls. When I was a kid, I can still remember the exact calls I used to make and to whom I was calling. Whether I was calling the "Sexy Sisters" Escorting Service or Dr. Merial Wagner, the jokes never got old. My passion for pranking people has not waned. I've even gotten my wife into the mix.....
Two nights ago I was watching the Ann Arbor Public Access Channel. They pretty much let any old Ghazer do or say whatever they want on that channel. I found this weird dude that hosts a live weekly show about local and world conspiracies. I don't remember the name of the show but the best part was you could call in and talk live on his show about whatever you want. Without any hesitation, I called in immediately and go the guy going. I won't go into the details but when I was finished, I convinced my wife and Ming, an autistic friend of ours, to call in as well. We easily took up 30 minutes of his 45 minute show. I can't wait until next Tuesday to call in again.
Two nights ago I was watching the Ann Arbor Public Access Channel. They pretty much let any old Ghazer do or say whatever they want on that channel. I found this weird dude that hosts a live weekly show about local and world conspiracies. I don't remember the name of the show but the best part was you could call in and talk live on his show about whatever you want. Without any hesitation, I called in immediately and go the guy going. I won't go into the details but when I was finished, I convinced my wife and Ming, an autistic friend of ours, to call in as well. We easily took up 30 minutes of his 45 minute show. I can't wait until next Tuesday to call in again.
Friday, December 14, 2007
parallel irresolutions
Today though I was too ill to work, I was healthy enough to watch the final episode of Freaks and Geeks. My feelings are now most uncomfortably mixed. Part of me is still exhilarated: I have, after all, been following a great adventure. At the same, though, there is loss: my new character friends are forever gone--I will never hear from them again--I will never know what became of them.
There is almost too much to praise in Freaks and Geeks: the writing is excellent, the acting superb; and to my private satisfaction the show evokes both the same 80s suburban Michigan I grew up in, and the same two cliques I mostly then moved with. (To complete the regression, while writing this post I am wearing sweats and consuming my third successive bowl of Corn Chex.)
Most impressive to me is how well, even how ingeniously, the Lindsay and Sam plotlines intertwine. In some episodes the points of contact are subtle and thematic, in others they're brash and literal; but in each the Weir stories contrast, compliment, or unexpectedly complete one another, and often they manage to do all three at the same time.
The combined effect of these interactions is tremendous. Emotions are blended, resolutions few and pointedly unconvincing; and so the series delves increasingly into the feelings between feelings, which to my mind is a mark of great art.
In the final scenes Lindsay says goodbye to her family and boards a bus. She calls out to her mother, as if she has something important to say, but then manages only another goodbye. Sometime later she sneaks off into a hippie wagon, and so we understand that she's lied to her parents, presumably after having taken their money, and will now follow the Grateful Dead for nine days...Part thrilling escape, part conscious betrayal, Lindsay's decision leaves the viewer at once amused and uncomfortable. The emotions are strong and contradictory here, and while part of me wishes that Freaks and Geeks had a thousand more episodes, I couldn't imagine a more suitable ending.
There is almost too much to praise in Freaks and Geeks: the writing is excellent, the acting superb; and to my private satisfaction the show evokes both the same 80s suburban Michigan I grew up in, and the same two cliques I mostly then moved with. (To complete the regression, while writing this post I am wearing sweats and consuming my third successive bowl of Corn Chex.)
Most impressive to me is how well, even how ingeniously, the Lindsay and Sam plotlines intertwine. In some episodes the points of contact are subtle and thematic, in others they're brash and literal; but in each the Weir stories contrast, compliment, or unexpectedly complete one another, and often they manage to do all three at the same time.
The combined effect of these interactions is tremendous. Emotions are blended, resolutions few and pointedly unconvincing; and so the series delves increasingly into the feelings between feelings, which to my mind is a mark of great art.
In the final scenes Lindsay says goodbye to her family and boards a bus. She calls out to her mother, as if she has something important to say, but then manages only another goodbye. Sometime later she sneaks off into a hippie wagon, and so we understand that she's lied to her parents, presumably after having taken their money, and will now follow the Grateful Dead for nine days...Part thrilling escape, part conscious betrayal, Lindsay's decision leaves the viewer at once amused and uncomfortable. The emotions are strong and contradictory here, and while part of me wishes that Freaks and Geeks had a thousand more episodes, I couldn't imagine a more suitable ending.
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