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Monday, September 29, 2008  
My 20th high school reunion was this past Saturday. I didn't go.

Now, as recently as this past June, if you had asked me if I were going to go, I'd have snorted derisively in your face and looked at you like you were stupid. Plus, I live kinda far away. But later in summer I had an epiphany about my adolescence and my school experiences and my tune changed.

I realized that, while I carried around plenty of the traditional youthful angst and pain, most of it truly had nothing to do with school or my fellow students. Were there blips? Sure. But most of it was down to the people I was related to, their petty squabbles, and the smoke. Dear god, the smoke.

The more I thought about it, the more I came to realize that I was one lucky sonofabitch.

I had some amazing friends. We had some wonderful times. And I'm intensely grateful for every bit of it because now I know that there was no way I could have done it without them. They kept me sane. They kept me going.

And not just them. I was also lucky that some of those friends had parents who treated me like one of their own. The Beechlers. The Spencers. The Spanglers. Mrs. Kirkendorfer. The list goes on. I was able to leave an environment where I was struggling and go somewhere where I felt safe and welcome. That's a blessing. I took it for granted then. But I know what it means now, and I'll never forget it.

The circumstances we lived through... nasty car accidents... losing Danny Jenkins... gaining a new friend and a national spotlight when Ryan White joined us. I still take pride to this day in how we held up as class and as a school with the media watching us for even one false move. We showed the way for so many others. As seniors, it remains perhaps our lasting legacy: proving that you can educate kids about something important and they GET it.

So to my fellow '88ers, I can only say one thing: thank you. From the bottom of my heart, you made my life better. I didn't know all of you perfectly well, but even then: I was fortunate to walk the same halls with you. I hope you're all living happy, healthy lives, abundant with the things that mean the most to you, no matter what those may be.

And maybe I'll see you in five years. You never know.
6:40 PM

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Friday, May 02, 2008  

FLASH FICTION FRIDAYS: APOCALYPSE NOW?

The thin, balding man smoothed the creases in his shirt and sat down on the sofa. He loosened his tie, quietly sighing relief, and removed his loafers. Running his hand across his forehead, he realized he was sweating, so he reached for the box of tissues on the desk across from him, the man sitting opposite sliding the box towards him. Dabbing at his forehead, he removed the perspiration as if drop-by-drop. When finished, he took a deep breath and slumped his shoulders.

“Afternoon, Bob,” the man across the desk said, smiling at his patient’s attention to manner.

Bob shifted his rear end on the sofa, trying to sit up a bit straighter. “Hello, Charlie. How’s business?”

“Always good,” Charlie replied. “It’s always good in our business. After all- even…”

“Shrinks need shrinks!” the duo said in unison and shared a laugh.

Charlie leaned forward on his elbows and took off his glasses and began to clean them. “Rough week in the office?”

Bob nodded softly. “Oh yeah. I had another session with… him… again.” Charlie perked up and began rummaging through his notes.

“The court-ordered guy, right? Arrested for assault, conspiracy…”

“That’s him,” Bob said, shaking his head wearily.

Charlie leaned back in his chair. “As I recall, your first session with him was quite a whopper. He claimed he was a deep cover operative for the government and started telling you how we were already living through the apocalypse and we didn’t really know it.”

“Right,” Bob nodded. “That certain powers that be had worked to create the Biblical apocalypse through economic means, rather than nuclear or biological weapons. The creepy thing was just how plausible he made it all sound.”

“That’s what makes the difference between a raving paranoid and a functioning one. This guy easily sounds sane enough to face trial. He’s at least fueling his fantasies using something tangible.”

Bob ran his fingers through what was left of his hair. “So today was his second session, right?”

“Okay.”

“And it got… weirder. Much, much weirder.”
“How so?” Charlie asked.

Bob leaned back into the couch. “He said he wanted to ask me a question, so I told him that I couldn’t guarantee an answer, but he could ask.”

“What was his question?”

“If you wanted to destroy a civilization,” Bob paused, “how would you do it?”

Charlie smiled. “Intriguing question. What was your response?”

“I told him I’d never thought about it, but I supposed large scale weaponry was probably the best way.”

“And how did he respond?”

“He laughed at me, Charlie. Laughed. Told me weapons were obsolete and unnecessary and that I wasn’t really thinking about things very clearly.”

“This should be good,” Charlie said, suddenly deeply interested.

Bob coughed and took a bottle of water from his briefcase and began to drink. “He told me to look at American civilization right now and think again. I did, but I was still baffled,” he took another sip from the bottle, “so he said he would lay it out for me. He called it the anti-Renaissance.”

“Fascinating term,” Charlie said.

“Here’s how he explained it. Weapons of mass destruction destroy the infrastructure, the farmland, leave bodies around to pollute the water. So you destroy a civilization by rendering it ineffective and moot. You attack the culture, destroy it, make sure it shows no progress that isn’t backward.”

Charlie jumped in. “And he believes this has happened here?”

Bob nodded. “God, yes. He told me that years ago, agents from terrorist nations began slowing buying their way into American newspapers, magazines, and television networks. They began shaping the agendas of the media. And rather than focus on positive, affirming people and news, they began shaping coverage of what we see in a different direction.”

“So essentially, there isn’t a liberal media bias? There’s an al-Qaida media bias?” Charlie asked, skeptical of what he was hearing.

“Precisely,” Bob said. “His point was that our culture has become so dumbed down, so inanely pointless, because it’s a plot to destroy us. That Britney Spears, Paris Hilton, Nicole Richie, Lindsay Lohan, the Simpson sisters, Brooke Hogan, Tila Tequila, and THE HILLS and the rest of it including the seriously creepy parents involved are all part of an over-arching plot to destroy this country culturally and render its citizens globally stupid and impotent. That VH1, US Magazine, MTV and their ilk are controlled by forces deliberately attempting to destroy us.”

Charlie laughed. “Well that sounds a bit more far-fetched than the apocalypse stuff. You must have gotten a good laugh out of it.”

“I did. At first. Then…”

“’Then’ what?” Charlie suddenly began to worry about his friend.

Bob stuffed the used tissues into his empty water bottle and threw it towards Charlie’s trashcan. “Then, I have to admit, I could see what he was talking about.” Charlie’s eyes popped open in shock. “I mean, look… Britney Spears gets more media coverage than dead and wounded soldiers coming back from Iraq and Afghanistan. THE SIMPLE LIFE ran for something like five seasons. Lohan’s mother got her own reality TV show. One of the girls from THE HILLS was on the cover of one of my MAXIM issues recently. Six million people watched the finale of Tequila’s show. And how many of those people is going to educate themselves on the issues and go to the polls and vote this year?”

Charlie looked befuddled.

“I’m just saying,” Bob continued, “that I could see it. Clearly. We don’t prize real musicians anymore, but samplers get Grammys. True artists are ignored, while the stars of JACKASS get rich for injuring their own genitals. ‘Popular’ and ‘quality’ are dangerously close to being exclusive terms. The Beatles would never have become the Beatles in this era- they’d have struggled to get their music heard through MySpace, and if they were lucky, maybe a single might have gotten airplay on some shitty show on the CW network.”

“Jesus Christ, Bob…”

Bob stood up. “I know, I know… it’s bullshit, right? It can’t possibly be a conspiracy. Our society has deteriorated on its own. It has to have, right?”

Charlie swallowed hard. “Right, right. To believe otherwise…”

“Is batshitinsane, I know,” Bob jumped in. “But as I listened to him talking… he just sounded so… so sure… and it was, for a moment, very, very credible.”

“Remember, Bob, he is an accused criminal.”

“I know,” Bob exhaled. “It just… it shook me, that’s all. These two sessions… he’s not your classic paranoid delusional nutcase.”

“He seems to be much more, that much is certain,” Charlie agreed.

The two continued talking for a few more minutes, shifting the topic of conversation to more mundane topics, such as Bob’s marriage and his affair with another therapist sharing office space in his building. Finally, their time drew to a close.

“Thank you, Charlie. I really appreciate your listening skills, especially on days like this.”

Charlie chuckled. “That’s why you pay me the big money, Bob.” The pair shared a laugh, shook hands, and Bob left the office. Charlie sat back down at his desk and wiggled the mouse on his computer so that the screen would activate. As it did, he checked his favorite news site and was immediately struck by the top headline: “Miley Cyrus shocked by sexual nature of photographs she posed for.”

Stunned and curious, he clicked on a link for a slideshow of the pictures and came across one of her draped across her father’s lap in disturbing fashion. Suddenly, his head began to throb, the beginnings of a migraine starting to settle in. He gingerly picked up the phone and paged his secretary.

“Janeane?”

“Yes, Charlie?”

“I’m not feeling well. At all. Please cancel my appointments for the rest of the day.”

“I’ll take care of it, Charlie. Sorry you aren’t feeling well.”

“Thanks. And Janeane? Can you call my therapist and see if he has any open slots for an emergency appointment?”

Tuesday, January 22, 2008  
CLOVERFIELD

They were in my head.

Sitting in the theatre back In July, seeing the first
teaser, I was capitvated, and more than a bit excited.
In one of those rare moments, the entire film had
snuck under the radar, and that little smidge of
footage, untitled, represented something that I as a
filmgoer was hoping for: another shot at redemption
for the American kaiju film.

God knows, it needed it. The 1998 "Godzilla" (and I
can only put it in quotation marks, because it was NOT
Godzilla) was the most colossal disappointment of the
past decade of cinema. Peter Jackson's KING KONG had
its moments, but pacing issues were brutal. And
frankly, the big monkey wasn't big enough.

Reaching back into my childhood, I was like so many,
addicted to watching syndicated movies on weekday
afternoons after school and on idle Saturdays. And
nothing captured my attention like turning on the
television and seeing Godzilla on the screen. This
hulking, green, fire-breathing monster, rampaging his
way through cities and battling other monsters his
size... God. I would curl up in my grandfather's
recliner and lock my eyes onto the screen, unable to
turn away, and in my own way, deeply in love with what
I was seeing.

But as we all know, love is a double-edged sword. It
cuts, and it makes us bleed. And as much as I loved
those movies, inevitably, I would go to bed those
nights, and my nightmares would come, filled with
giant monsters. And for my part, I was always trapped
somewhere, trying to hide. Yet no matter where I went,
it always seemed like I was stuck in the middle of the
fights, or that I was never far from danger. I'd wake
up panicked, sweating, shaking... disoriented and
wondering why I was still alive.

Hell, if I'm being honest, I still have those types of
dreams today, even when I haven't parked my rear end
in front of the tube and watched a giant monster film.

I'm certainly not the only one, of course. Plenty of
kids went through the same thing, the same nightmares.
Hell, for young geeks, it's sort of a rite of passage,
I suppose. It doesn't always become one of their
ultimate obsessions, but for some of us, it has become
a lifelong relationship. Some of you know just how
much the big G means to me, and that I'd sell every
one of your mothers, including mine, to get my hands
on the character creatively.

My friend Matt and I have differed wildly in our feelings about
what CLOVERFIELD would be and whether or not it would
deliver upon its promise. I get exactly where he's
coming from, and honestly, after the 1998 "Godzilla"
debacle, I'm the last person who should ever have
anything resembling expectations. But watching the
trailers and clips from CLOVERFIELD, I was absolutely
certain I knew what it was. And it was.

It was my childhood nightmares brought to life and
slapped up on the screen.

People trapped, chasing through danger to save the
life of another, and finding nothing but fear, death,
and horror, no matter where they go. No safety. No
moments to breathe. Panic. Loss. Captured to a "t" and
right on screen. I don't mind telling you, it kinda
freaked me out.

But as much as it freaked me out, I can only imagine
what a New Yorker who lived through 9/11 is going to
feel while watching it. The film baldly plays upon
imagery from our national conscience's day of imfamy.
Debris clouds, destroyed landmarks, toppled buildings,
people trying to evacuate Manhatten on foot via the
Brooklyn Bridge. Memories will be dredged up, and I'm
sure that many will feel uncomfortable. Can't blame
them, that's for sure.

I have zero clue what the ultimate verdict the
nerdosphere will render on CLOVERFIELD, but I can say
this beyond my personal reaction: when the credits
began to roll (and if you go, stay through the
credits- there's only one piece of musical score, and
it plays after the credits begin, and it is an
incredible tribute to every great monster movie score
*ever*) more people stayed in their seats than any
movie I've seen in *years*. I sat listening to the
chatter, hearing people discuss and dissect what they
had just seen. Good or bad, the film struck a chord
with the people in the audience, and they needed to
get their thoughts out *immediately*.

If you do plan to see it, let me make two
recommendations. One, see it in the theatre: the
handheld camera work is going to be extremely rough on
home video, unless you have at least a 42-inch TV.
Two: sit as far back from the screen as you
comfortably can. Or motion sickness is in your near
future.

/Mason
7:42 AM

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