HAPPY NONSENSE: POP CULTURE CONFIDENTIAL

2011-12-18T20:29:00.001-08:00

NOT A JEDI

I was texting with a friend yesterday afternoon, and we were commiserating about some of the feelings that get drudged up around this time of year. Speaking for myself, I can struggle quite a bit during the holiday season- like many people, I have depressive issues associated with this time of year. Every year I take certain steps to deal with it and keep myself going, and so far this year they seem to be working out reasonably well. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that it continues.

When we were done texting, I was thinking about my friend and how much fun we had the last time we hung out, and a phrase from eons ago popped into my head: that one of the reasons I like and respect her so much is because she is not a Jedi.

Like many people my age, I grew up as a STAR WARS kid. Seeing the first film back in 1977 activated my imagination and set me on a course that in many ways I am still on today. I grew up in a small town in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, so the idea of escaping, going on an adventure, tapping a fantastical super power, and becoming a great hero? Gold. To millions of us, the idea was gold.

Then THE EMPIRE STRIKES BACK and something happened in that film that changed my perspective completely.

You all know the story. Luke goes off to meet Yoda and begin training as a Jedi. Early on, Luke is a whiny bitch, and Yoda is a dickhead. Classic buddy movie stuff, really. But one line of dialogue stuck out to me after I left the theatre: “Adventure. Excitement. A Jedi craves not these things.”

Insert the sound of a needle screeching across a record. What. The. Fuck?

Let me get this straight: you’re blessed with this amazing superpower, you have the most amazing weapon in the universe at your side, and you’re supposed to treat it like it is nothing but a fucking burden? Are you shitting me with that crap? Basically, being a Jedi means you have to shove your head up your ass and never smile. Well Han Solo got the girl, had a cool ship, and loves the hell out of his life. Fuck you, Yoda. If using the force means having a stick shoved up my ass, I’ll pass, thanks.

My friend has done so much cool shit in her life. Adventure, excitement, travel… she has the soul of a poet and the guts of a pirate. If I had the proverbial chance to go back and do it all over again, I would follow in her footsteps as far as getting outside my comfort zone and taking the world head on. A Jedi might not crave these things, but a fun, full-of-life human being does.

Yoda’s little credo really means that you should be obedient and not question things. Even the slightest glance at what is happening in our world right now shows us the peril of doing that. We need to question authority. We need to be disobedient. Anything else and those with the power will only continue to consolidate more of it, and at the expense of those without it.

I want more out of my life and from my world than to just sit by idly. So, no thanks, you short, green putz. I’ll stick to my cravings. Even if occasionally I wind up frozen in carbonite.

2011-10-29T15:20:00.000-07:00

RENAISSANCE MAN

I have always been torn on the subject of single-mindedness. Part of me appreciates it- some forms of single-mindedness demonstrate a level of focus and commitment that I haven’t had since I was a kid. There’s a drive and energy in that mindset that I wish I could find again. Those that have it (and use it correctly) tend to do amazing things.

However, there’s a downside to single-mindedness. You can get so focused that you lose track of other important things. There’s a danger in your personality becoming unbalanced. Not keeping a broader look at the world at large means you might not take the time to stop and smell the roses. Pity, that.

This is on my mind thanks to a number of recent events in my life. Things are ridiculously busy for me these days; from late August to mid-October, I was working my regular 40hr-a-week job, teaching two classes as professor, and also taking two classes towards the Masters degree I am pursuing. It would be an understatement to say that was exhausting- I did a shitload of work between those three things, and that was not all I accomplished during that time. I also managed to achieve a lifelong goal along the way.

In early January 2012, RED SONJA: RAVEN will ship from Dynamite Entertainment. This marks my debut as a comicbook writer, and that’s huge for me. I’ve been reading comics since I was four years old. I’ve been a comics journalist for the past decade. I suppose this is one of those “it’s about damned time” moments, and I’m okay with that.

My point, though, is that I wrote the book right alongside everything else I was doing.

What tears at me is the question: why can’t you just settle on one thing and do that? I’m a good teacher- this semester, more than ever, I can see the effect I have had on my students’ lives. I’m having a fantastic run as a student back in the classroom; by the time this semester is complete, I expect I will have four A+s and two As from the six classes I’ll have taken so far for my degree. I’m also a solid writer- dependable and reliable, if not flashy- and can tell a story that will entertain.

My lack of single-mindedness has carried over into most aspects of my life for a long time now. I remember a few years ago explaining to a good friend of mine in the comics business how much I enjoyed golf, and that I subscribed to more golfing magazines than comics-related magazines. He looked at me like I was drunk. But it isn’t just golf; I’m an avid bicyclist, too. I bounce from one thing I enjoy to the next, heedless of the consequences.

Honestly, for a long time, this is one of those things that has really bothered me about myself. I’m 41- shouldn’t I have written a ton of comics by now? Shouldn’t I have gone back to school five years ago and be finished and teaching full-time somewhere at this point? What the fuck is wrong with me?

It is only lately that I have begun to realize that the answer to that question is “nothing.”

Certain things in life, you need to be ready to do them. I wasn’t ready to go back to school until this year. I don’t know that I was strong enough at the keyboard to write a good comic until right now. But more than that, I needed have the skills and patience I possess now in order to finally chase what I consider to be success and have a chance of achieving it.

Perhaps the greatest of those skills is time management. When I started writing SONJA, my house was in the middle of massive repairs by my landlord. Not only did that restrict my time at the computer for working on the script, it also hampered my ability to grade my students’ homework, do my own homework… it would have been easy to just throw my hands up in exasperation. But I didn’t. I changed how I managed my time. I set goals for what I was going to do each day and defined how I would get them done. And on not one day did I ever fall behind or falter.

What this began to show me was that my lack of single-mindedness was an asset, not a hindrance. I began to realize that it is okay to want to do a number of different things and keep my options open for how I approach the world. I can teach. I can write more comics. I can finish this degree. I can do all the things I want because I am not so buried in my head that I cannot see how to do them.

That’s weirdly close to optimism for me, which is kinda scary. I’m just going to chalk it up to going through a midlife renaissance. After years of allowing my potential to lie fallow, I have begun tapping into pieces of myself I didn’t know still existed and developing as a person again. For the first time in a long time, I am able to ask myself “why can’t you do that?” and not come up with an answer. Because right now, I can. And there’s no feeling quite like having that particular knowledge at your fingertips.

2011-03-29T20:41:00.001-07:00

WHERE HAVE ALL THE GOOD PARENTS GONE?

Legit question, right?

I only ask because I watched some amazing parenting this past weekend, and it just appalls me to see so many others doing such a shitty job of it. Poor manners, inappropriate public behaviors, terrible attitudes, rotten language and lack of respect for authority. Honestly, people. Why did you bother having children?

Too often I look at these people and think to myself “because you were too stupid to use birth control.” Or they listened to a “religious authority” and were told it was wrong to do so.

On that one: are you shitting me? You’re taking family planning advice from some dude that took a vow of celibacy? A dude who belongs to an organization so corrupt that it has spent decades protecting child molesters from prosecution in an effort to cover its own ass?

Fuck that.

Parenting takes time and work. A little patience doesn’t hurt, either. It also takes a desire to just do it.

My friends Bill and Holly have exactly that.

This past weekend, they escaped the icy clutches of Indiana and headed out to the Arizona north country. I met up with them for a day of fun and frolic, most of which came from their three amazing daughters. They had triplets eight years ago, and that certainly isn’t an easy thing. Most people are lucky to find the energy and stamina to keep up with their first child. My friends pulled the lever and it came up jackpot.

Let’s be blunt- if you saw some parents out in public with triplets, you’d probably guess that those were a couple of overwhelmed adults, and that their children would be horrific brats. Most of us would do anything to avoid sitting near them on an airplane, I am certain. But that isn’t the case with Bill and Holly.

These kids? Amazingly well-behaved. They’re polite, inquisitive, and most of all, supportive. They have that special rapport that twins and triplets have, and even though they each have wildly differing personalities, their ability to function as a unit is impressive. Take what happened at lunch, for instance.

We were actually seated at two different tables- adults at one, the kids at the one next to us, about six feet away. Already, that’s a recipe for disaster for a lot of parents. Three kids without an adult sitting there could be an omen for a lot of restaurants- call your insurance agent! But not these three. Their parents have put in the time and effort to teach the girls right and wrong as it pertains to public behavior. They sat there quietly, drawing and coloring, waiting for their food to arrive.

Then, the potential for disaster struck.

A bee landed on one of the girls’ sarsaparilla bottles. But did she freak out and cause a scene? Nope. Instead, the group dynamic kicked in. One of the other sisters took her straw out of her bottle, reached across the table with it, and enticed the bee onto it. Then she got up from the table, slowly walked the bee and straw away from the table, and gently placed it on the ground away from the three of them. No yelling, screaming, or wailing.

I was flabbergasted.

Yet I wasn’t wholly surprised, either. The trio have amazing, committed parents that put in the time and effort to impart proper behavior and values to their kids.

Now I realize that not every kid that acts like an asshole is the product of shitty parenting. There are plenty of mitigating factors that lead kids down the wrong road and thwart the best efforts of their parents to raise them right. Environmental issues, body chemistry issues, simple lapses in judgment… shit happens, and I feel a great swell of sympathy for those parents that have to deal with it.

But let’s also be honest- there are plenty of people that should have never spawned. People that had kids for the wrong reason, people that never really wanted children… we see them all the time. Those people? I don’t feel sorry for them. I feel angry for them, and I feel sad for the rest of us.

Because it is ultimately the rest of us who pay the price. Whether it’s the simple disruption of a meal, or a criminal act against us, we pay for it. Time, tax dollars, patience- there’s a cost to society as pertains to bad parenting.

Folks, here is a simple fact you can take to the bank: planet Earth has plenty of fucking people. We aren’t exactly hurting for population. Growth is continuing at an exponential rate, and resources aren’t keeping up with them. We’re no longer an agrarian society, so you don’t need to knock out kids in order to have free labor to tend the crops. In short, there is absolutely zero reason to have a child unless you really, really want to be a parent. And I mean really want it. You’re ready to give up freedom, you think your genetic code deserves to continue into future generations… whatever. You’re committed to making the time and effort to do the job right.

If not… for fuck’s sake, don’t do it.

Wear a condom (or two). Take the pill. Get a vasectomy. Embrace abortion. OR: don’t fuck anyone at all. Whatever it takes, just be smart about it. The rest of us don’t need the grief caused by your mistakes.

2011-02-28T15:13:00.001-08:00

RESURRECTIONIST

Yeah, it’s been a while. I’d apologize for that, but it would be a lie. To be honest, 2010 was a pretty bad year. The first half was actually pretty good- I was happier than I had been in a long, long time. But then things went to shit, and when they went to shit, they really went to shit. Plans and ideas went by the wayside, projects were left unfinished, and I didn’t get book two completed.

It was ugly.

But I woke up on January 1st feeling clean. I had undergone a catharsis as 2010 fucked off out the door, and I knew it was time to get back on top of things, particularly because at the end of the year I had applied for, and was accepted to, a Masters program. For the first time since 1993, I was going to be fully committed to being in school.

Holy shit.

I’m almost done with one class, as it is crunched into an eight-week period, and to say that I’m happy about it would be an understatement. It’s different this time. I’m different. I’m finding myself committed to this in a way I never was before.

Look, I’ll be blunt: growing up, it all came really easy to me. I had to put little to no effort into getting high grades. I’m not (I swear) bragging, but I was blessed with a high level of intelligence, and one of the ways it worked for me was that I had a strong intuitive grasp of material put in front of me. (Still generally do.) I didn’t need to study- I could show up, essentially download the answers out of my personal random access memory, and ace whatever was on the agenda.

One of the great things about that time was that I was surrounded by others like me. Billy, Eric, Tina, Jill… extraordinary, gifted people. Thinking about it now, I realize what a privilege it was to have been their contemporary. Priceless. But I also know that they weren’t all like me, either. Our gifts worked differently. Some of them were putting real effort and caring into their work, pushing themselves to be the best they could be.

I was generally phoning it in. I know now that it was disrespectful to the job they were doing, but back then I didn’t see it. I didn’t care about anybody but myself.

When I got to ASU, my academic malaise remained. A rough first semester kicked me in the pants, and after that I pulled myself together, but I still didn’t really care as much as I should have. Why spend more time getting a 4.0 that semester when I could have fun and still get a 3.5? The way I pissed away my potential is ridiculous. I’m embarrassed at what an asshole I was.

And now here I am, back in school again. I’ve been teaching as a professor at ASU since 2009 on top of being a research professional and instructional specialist for the libraries, and I decided that I want to push myself more in the teaching direction. I like working with students, I like engaging with them, and I love seeing what happens when they put the pieces together and get it. You can’t pay for a satisfying moment like that. It’s wondrous. Way better than anything I get out of my day job. But I also want to broaden my horizons as a teacher- I would like to teach writers. I want to help others find their voice, they way my writing professors helped me.

That means getting a different degree. Thus: Masters program starting this semester.

Now that I’m doing it, though, I’m dedicating myself to doing it right. I want to test myself and see what I am capable of. I want to give effort, if only to show that I can. I want to live up to the example that my friends (and to be blunt, my teachers) set for me, and show them the respect now that I didn’t back then.

I’m not going to settle for “good enough.”

Only being The Best will do.

2010-01-23T14:38:00.000-08:00

AHH. NOW IF ONLY I COULD GET MY SALES RANKING OUT OF THE TOILET

Now available from Amazon:

http://www.amazon.com/Jokers-Advocate-Marc-Mason/dp/0557226902/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1264286139&sr=1-1

Buy!

~Mason

2009-12-31T12:11:00.000-08:00

STANDING

2009 is finally almost over. Thank fuck for that.

As I’ve looked back over this past year, what sticks out to me is what an insane roller coaster ride it was. I had some incredible highs this year; on the other hand, I had some of the lowest lows to come along since Rebecca and I split.

It’s hard to find the balance.

On the high side, I worked very hard this year, and in doing so, I gained the respect of my colleagues in a way I never thought possible. I gave a presentation in Albuquerque last May that drew a ton of people, and when it was done, I was flying high in a way that no drink or drug could ever induce. That evening I spent time with an old friend whom I had missed terribly, beginning what was really a full year of touching base with the past and bringing it all to the present. It was amazing.

In the fall, I took on the role of professor for the first time. No longer would I be just the “hired gunslinger” that rolled into classes, taught for a day, and left the students behind. Instead, I would take responsibility for the same group of students across a sixteen-week span. It was a life-changing experience. I learned so much it was almost sickening. The hired gun stuff is fine for now, but I think my future may be in putting away the pistols and grabbing the whip and chair, spending the semesters taming a new group each time. Feeling the full effect of my impact in a way that my day job doesn’t really allow.

The lows… they were always there creeping in the background. Exactly one week after my triumphant night in New Mexico, I spent the evening in the company of someone who, in the space of two hours, completely destroyed every bit of confidence and self-esteem I possessed. I can still feel the emotional sensations from that evening reverberating through me to this day. Not too much later, I thought I had met someone really grand, someone I thought might be my next longterm relationship. Instead, she broke my heart. Coming so close to that prior soul-crushing, it left me almost completely malfunctional.

Confidence was an ongoing issue. Every time it seemed like I was gaining a bit, something would happen to kick me back down. I wandered dazed throughout much of the summer and early autumn. I discovered that I can fake my way through work, fake my way through social events, fake my way through so many things.

The zombie apocalypse is already here. If I can do what I did, then how many other thousands or millions are doing the exact same thing? The dead are walking among us; they just aren’t advertising that fact. Yet.

For all of it, I kept plugging along. The occasional high moment would come along, and I would thus be injected with a new fervor to work towards the next one. Knowing the lows were coming, I put my focus on numbing myself to them and waiting them out. It was a playing of the odds; the Law of Averages means that things do eventually have to swing back the other way.

And if you can’t trust the law, you’re screwed. Really, really screwed.

What I ultimately remembered, though, is that sometimes you have to make your own luck. Sometimes the only way to uphold the law is by breaking it for the greater good. Thus, I set out to end the year on my terms, and on my high.

As far back as 2003, I had put together a collection of columns from when I was doing Happy Nonsense on a weekly basis, adding a few short stories into the mix as well. However, it had never come together, and sat collecting metaphorical dust for years. Back in April I had dug it out and added author’s commentary for each piece, thinking that perhaps this would be the year I got it out in front of the public. Then all the shit I mentioned above started happening, and I put it aside again. Cut to December.

Taking charge of my fate, and putting the lows behind me, the book finally got finished and released.

When I held it in my hands, it was like light coursing through my veins. If I died tonight, I have at least left that behind. It’s a snapshot image of who I was from my late 20s to my early 30s, for better or worse.

Maybe that’s what it is all ultimately about. I had never wanted children of my own, but after having three step-children in my life during some of those years, I developed a strong realization of how much kids represent our footprint on this planet. Even now, as she nears 14, I see my impact on Krysten quite clearly. It’s brilliant to see those little things she picked up from me and incorporated into her personality at a young age still developing as a teen.

What I will mostly leave behind, though, are my words. THE JOKER’S ADVOCATE is hopefully just the start. What my focus will be on in 2010 is in powering through and upping my creative output. Producing more “children” with my name on the cover and/or in the credits.

So now I say goodbye to 2009. It wasn’t the world’s greatest experience. But it had its moments; the best one I made myself, quite literally. And hopefully by the time this day rolls around in another year, you’ll find me right here, doing what no series of lows can stop me from doing.

Still standing.

2009-09-22T20:35:00.000-07:00

SECOND

Am I doomed to be permanently second?

That’s a question I’ve been asking myself a lot lately. Why? Because it certainly rather seems like it. Like I’ve hit a place in my life where I will never, ever truly win. Or be allowed to. Like I’m gained some sort of mystical curse that gives me the latent ability to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory.

That I will always be second best, no matter what I am doing.

This concern stretches across all aspects of my life. Work? Sure. And when it comes to the day job, that’s sort of the only one I can live with; I work alongside absolutely incredible, talented people on the day job. Many of them have tons more experience than me, and it shows. Acceptable. But other work? That’s a different story.

Take CWR, for example. It’s been running on its bi-weekly magazine schedule for almost two years now. We’ve never missed a deadline. The site produces some consistently interesting and intellectually challenging material. But ultimately, it doesn’t have the audience that it should or that it deserves. I’m starting to run out of ideas for how to change that.

Is it because we only run every two weeks? In the beginning, CWR was a daily update site. The numbers were smaller then, as well. There are about three sites that are daily necessities for comics folk, and trying to add myself to that number was folly. Is it because we don’t run in a blog format? It seems like every site out there is running on Wordpress, and they all look the same. Should I sacrifice my integrity and stated desire to do something that looks different and stands out from the crowd? Those aren’t easy questions. Maybe that would make a difference. Or maybe we’d still be right where we’re at.

Maybe CWR has simply risen to where it belongs and where it will stay: as a second-tier website struggling for audience and respect. But I owe it to myself and to those who are writing for me to continue to try and make that push forward.

My personal life?

Looking at my dating history over the last two or three years, the consistent outcome for me has gotten to a point where it would be funny if it wasn’t so maddening. To wit:

The girl that really liked me, but decided that I don’t spend enough time outdoors (I’m an avid bicyclist that spends huge chunks of his fall-through-spring weekends outside, pedaling his way all over the city, mind you). The woman that decided that she needed to buy a business to run during the day and on weekends because her night job wasn’t fulfilling enough and then complained we never got to spend enough time together. When I pointed this out, I didn’t get even the slightest response that made sense. Except that I would be second. Always second.

So in that case, I was the first to leave.

If those were the only two, it would be one thing, but add another three or four, and you’ll be in the right vicinity. My fate seems to be thus: I am great/awesome/ideal BUT there might be someone better, so adios!

It kinda fuckin’ sucks.

And I can’t put it on any of the women (except the business owner- bleah). When a pattern emerges, and something is no longer just a coincidence, you have to look at the common denomenator and say “Dude, it’s YOU.” There’s something about me, something about my emotional and/or behavioral makeup, that makes me easily flushable.

I wish I knew what it was.

(I have some ideas, mind you, but some things even I can’t broadcast.)

Second on the job. Second in the heart. Second at the keyboard. I sit at the computer, writing the day away, and I turn out work that I know is good, quality, material. But the critic in me? He’s a bastard. And he judges that work as just that; good, but never rising to that next level. Never achieving the level that transcends my capabilities. Pathetic compared to so many others that I admire. Justthisclose to calling me a fraud. That’s right:

Even in part of my own brain, I’m always second best. What the fuck is wrong with me?

All I know for sure is: being second is excruciating.

What are the perks to being second? Confusion. Inability to trust. Being left in the dark. Self-loathing. Frustration. There are others, but why belabor it?

I don’t even know how to ask to NOT be second. What’s that plea like? “Please let the world stop kicking me in the crotch and cut me a break.” “I’d like to leave my neuroses at the gate for this project, okay?” How is that prayer structured? “Please fix me so I’m not so fucked that I drive people away. Amen.”

Two things I do know for sure: one, I have rambled on like a madman. And two, if you had many options for things to read right now, I’m guessing this one wasn’t the one you picked first.

2009-03-28T18:14:00.000-07:00

My Day at the LPGA Tournament, or “Why my face is burned to a crisp.”

I’ve made a habit the last few years of hitting the LPGA tournament when it rolls through town. The reasons are many: I love golf (the men and women’s tours both), the tickets are inexpensive (I bought mine online and printed it myself for $17), and the LPGA offers the most fan-friendly experience of any major sporting league. On pretty much every hole today, I walked side-by-side next to the players whose group I was following. The PGA hides their players like they’re in witness protection instead of a professional sport. Plus, each player, upon signing their scorecard, hits the autograph booth. Paging Tiger Woods? Yeah, right.

The past few years, the tournament has been played on a spectacular course out on the fringe of the Valley at Superstition Mountain. The drive was always a pain, but the quality of the course and the tremendous field the event draws always made it worth the hike. But with changes in sponsorship and trouble at the course, it moved this year. To a course about six miles from my house.

That meant I could hop on my bicycle and ride to the tournament, which elevated my mood intensely. Checking the pairings last night, I saw that my favorite player, Christina Kim, was paired with an up-and-comer named Erica Blasberg, teeing off at 9:16am. That meant I basically needed to get out of bed like it was a workday and go- sold!

I arrived at the course around 9am, giving me enough time to get back to hole #1 as the group in front of Kim and Blasberg were preparing to putt out. Soon enough, the green cleared and both Christina and Erica took shots at getting home in two on the opening par five hole. Kim, being one of the longer hitters on the tour, made it to the left fringe, while Blasberg came up a bit short. Erica’s third left her fifteen feet behind the pin for birdie, while Christina’s eagle putt from 60 feet rolled to within five feet. She sank her birdie while her playing partner missed and made par, and they were off and running.

Christina Kim became my favorite player when I first got interested in the LPGA back in 2005. As a Korean-American, she bridges the two national groups the primarily make up the tour; however, when she had the opportunity to play for the United States in the Solheim Cup at Crooked Stick in 2005, you could see just how much it meant to her to have the opportunity to represent the stars and stripes. She played hard, feisty golf, her brash and fun personality lifting the spirits of her playing partners.

And that’s what you notice about Kim- her personality on the course. She seems to remember that golf is her job, but it is also fun. Christina talks to the ball, perhaps hoping to verbally command it to obey her directives. She chats with her playing partners like they’re her best friends. She’s good with the media (and she “gets it” on a number of issues- this is a player who knows how to sublimate her own ego and desires for things that will help the tour) and even better- she’s great with the fans. Who can forget when, at the ADT championship in 2007, she hit a great shot and then turned and did a full jumping side-bump with her caddie as a nod to her pro-am partners that week?

Oh, and today after their round? Blasberg signed autographs for about four minutes before wandering off. Kim stayed and autographed for the entire line, including a number of junior girls golfers. Me? She signed my USGA 2009 Member's US Open hat with a pink Sharpie. That one goes on the shelf, thanks.

Another thing I’ll point out about following this group today: they played fast. The LPGA has a reputation for slow play (and over on the PGA Tour, one of the three slowest players on Earth, Sean O’Hair is leading this weekend), but Kim and Blasberg played with their feet on the pedal. 9:16am tee time, 1:30pm finish. 4 hours, 14 minutes. On three occasions, they were held up by the group in front of them, which means they could have conceivably finished in four hours flat, easy. Last year, when I watched Kim’s group, she was paired with Michelle Redman, who was so slow that she might still be finishing. That’s a key element when going out to watch a golf tournament and finding a group to follow- find out who has a reputation for fast play (or vice versa- find out whom to avoid- you’ve now been warned about Redman).

I was very impressed with the number of kids on the grounds, and for this being the first year that the Papago course is hosting the event, I thought they did a pretty fair job of it. Honestly, this really is a great way to spend your time and hard-earned cash, because you can get so much out of it. Had I purchased online, I could have gotten a five-day pass that covered all four rounds and Wednesday’s pro-am for $64. That’s a sweet deal, no denying it.

There are things the LPGA could be doing better- they need to help their players develop a stronger personal web presence (a player as popular as Kim needs a website, merchandise, fan club, etc., and the tour’s enormous Korean contingent could make huge inroads with American fans by having websites, blogging, the complete enchilada); more players need to start using Twitter (so far, only Natalie Gulbis has taken the plunge, along with the “tour” itself); and I’d like to see the tour get more active about getting players out to other events for publicity. I saw nothing this week about players throwing out first pitches at spring training, for instance, and it seems like that would be a natural. Still, there’s a lot that the tour is doing right, and the proof is in the tournament itself. So do yourself a favor and check it out- you’ll be glad you did. And you could probably use the sunshine! Just make sure your sunscreen holds up… unlike mine.

2009-03-06T12:56:00.000-08:00

PLANET P, “WHY ME?”, AND ME.

I’ve been playing an “80s song of the day” via Twitter and Facebook over the past few weeks, purely as an exercise in fun and nostalgia. Despite the decade’s more… unusual excesses… it did manage to turn out some decent music. And some music that’s so awful that you have to celebrate the fact that someone still managed to get it recorded, published, and into stores. But it wasn’t until yesterday (March 5th) that I actually played a song that meant something to me. What surprised me, though, was just how much the music seeped back into my brain as it played, and the memories and feelings it would dredge up.

The song is “Why Me?” by the band Planet P (Project), a side effort by musician Tony Carey. The first Planet P album is a masterpiece of wonder and concept, and while Carey has only released two more records under that band name (the latest one after a twenty-year hiatus), they don’t compare to that initial effort. “Why Me?” is, on the surface, the lament of an astronaut launching into a journey and coming to regret the isolation that this duty has brought into his soul.

”Watching all the lights blink down below… the Earth is turning, why does it go so slow?”

So what makes it special to me? I’m not an astronaut, after all. Simply put: it was probably the first time that I listened to a song and realized what it was REALLY about beyond the lyrics. Sure, there’s a deeper message about isolation in the lyrics, but that’s not what the song is about.

“Why Me?” is about someone fulfilling a destiny that they want no part of. About getting so caught up in a culture that pushes excellence upon its members that you can lose sight of what you really want and instead do what everyone expects of you. About how living within that culture becomes an addiction and realizing your addiction only when it has come closest to destroying you.

I understood what the song was about very, very well.

”Houston can you hear me? Or have I lost my mind?”

To say that my youth was spent in a culture that pushed excellence would be an understatement. I was part of an amazing group of fellow geniuses that thrived on pushing each other higher and farther in our intellectual pursuits. Billy, Eric, Tina, Jill and I found ways every day to raise our level of performance past the others, forcing the rest to take note and think about ways to keep up. It wasn’t just school. It was practically a sport. And even though I played sports incessantly, and worked as a sports reporter, our group made for the most competitive environment I’ve ever been around.

It was brutal. Whether it was a class presentation or the speed at which one completed a math test, there was an unrelenting pressure to be better, no excuses.

And like an addict, I craved it. A huge part of me thrived on it, because there was nothing better than the thrill of having a day where you felt like you had set the standard for everyone else. But there was also a part of me, a small one at first, that I began to see what was happening as a disease.

I was diseased.

”There must be a thousand other guys… must be some other way to look good in your eyes…”

So that’s how I went into high school. Feeling like a part of me was diseased. Wrong. All (not so) wonderful emotions for a 14-year old, for sure. But there’s really not a damned thing you can do about it at that point.

I couldn’t exactly say “Fuck this- I just want to be happy, find out who I am, and let academics go.” I was shouldering huge expectations from my family as well. I wasn’t going to get any sort of large college dollars from any of them. So the focus on scholarship money, etc. was prominent. But as desperate as I felt, I was also feeding the addict, because I didn’t know any other way.

Being around my friends (and I love them all dearly to this day- I was lucky to have them in my life, and know that it was a privilege) was like… like I was an alcoholic living in an apartment upstairs from a bar. Morning brought a new fix as I walked through those glass doors. How could I screw up my life that fresh, new day? I’d find a way.

Then the worst possible thing happened.

Each year there was an academic awards ceremony, giving out top awards in various categories, as well as a “Student of the Year” award (male and female) for each (freshman, sophomore, etc.) class. My freshman year, I won the award.

I was soooooooo fucked.

One, you could only win the award once. So there was this stunning feeling that I had maxed out and had nowhere to go but down for the next three years. Two, it simply demonstrated that my addiction to my own competitive nature had actually paid off. Talk about mixed messages! So after it was all over, and I was home and allowed to show my true feelings about what was happening to me (to my mirror, not to my mother- I trusted only me at that point, and even then, not very much), I had my first inclination to run.

”Hey, let me out of here… what am I here for?”

It wouldn’t be the last time my fight-or-flight instinct kicked in. At least one other time I was really close, going so far as to figure out the logistics of how it would work. And, ironically, I suppose I sort of did in the long run by moving to the desert. But there no question that I had begun to crack around the edges, and that added a new problem: I was going to have to work harder to fake my way through it all.

Yes, the competitiveness encompassed emotional states as well. Never let ‘em see you sweat, and none of us ever did. Invincibility can be a curse, and I focused my energy to trying to make it look like my struggles could just be passed off as moodiness. And I’m reasonably certain that a good number of the people I went to school with would tell you to this day, twenty years later, that I am one of the moodiest bastards they’ve ever known.

Mom would be so proud.

Throw in some family issues to go with all of it, and I was in full retreat. I had my moments of joy, of course, and I had some wonderful friends who took the edge off of that feeling. Sometimes, I even felt a real sense of self-worth, not just the one I could fake like an Oscar-caliber actor.

”Why am I up here? What do they see in me? Must be a thousand other places to be.”

Over the past six months or so, the internet has brought many people back into my life from back then, old classmates living their new lives. It’s been an incredibly rewarding and fulfilling experience in many ways, yet bittersweet in others.

As a person who left and had very little contact with anyone over the past two decades, I suppose when I began reaching out I was guessing that there might be some sort of mild curiosity factor and people might actually talk to me. For a short while, at least, until they remembered what I pill I was as a kid. Then I figured I’d get dropped and folks would move on. But that hasn’t been the case at all. I’ve had wonderful experiences with people. Time has taken us to different places, and while that time has taken the edge off of me and I’ve evolved into a wildly different man than they knew, old friends have also been open to seeing me in that light. For that, I’m enormously grateful.

The bittersweet comes from looking now and seeing all I missed. These extraordinary people (that tolerated my bullshit) have lived amazing lives, and being privy to some of it now, I feel the sense of loss that comes with time and tide having passed you by. Births, deaths, marriages, divorces, illnesses.

”Why me?”

My first semester at ASU I floundered badly, earning the first “C”s of my academic career. I struggled with discipline, but mostly I struggled with motivation. It took me a while to figure it out, but it was because I was going through the DTs. I had no one to compete with. No one pushing me and keeping me moving forward. Ironically enough, I got what I had always wanted, but didn’t know how to handle it. It took me those first few months to settle in and begin to figure out who I was without my “drug.” Second semester, I got myself together and began to feel the disease slip away. My self-hatred began to calm, and my personality began to develop on its own (if perhaps a bit late).

So the question of “why me?” stopped being a lament. Instead, I learned how to add a word: why NOT me? Open for the first time, I could explore the world on my terms; live the life that I wanted to live. Which has brought me to here. This place in my mind, in my heart, where I am part of a destiny that I do not fear and can embrace.

A thousand other places to be? Sure. But I wouldn’t be anywhere, or anyone, else.

2009-02-23T21:24:00.000-08:00

HOLLY ELDREDGE...

... is not only one of the most attractive women you'll ever meet, she's also a damned fine chef and has redefined the concept of what a cookie should taste like with her amazing baking skills.

*(all of which was not said under duress. really.)

2008-12-31T22:59:00.001-08:00

TWO AND A HALF WEEKS DO NOT SAVE A YEAR

They just don’t. So I won’t be mourning the end of 2008. Instead, I’ll be trying to hit it in the ass with the door as it exits. That’s how much this year sucked.

Why did it suck? The reasons pile up. Death was a big one. First came the shock of Nikki’s accident and passing. 19 years old. A ridiculous freak occurrence. If I didn’t struggle enough with some of life’s insane complexities, this surely put me over the edge. I’d watch the news and wonder why an evil piece of shit like Dick Cheney was still sucking oxygen, and this wonderful girl that I had known since she was a small child was suddenly gone.

Justice?

No such fucking thing, thanks.

Then came the news about Dan. Dan Havens was one of the true good guys, and he was the first person to ever truly make my mother happy. And believe me, that’s no small chore- I was 32 years old before I ever saw the woman genuinely happy. That’s saying something. They were supposed to continue to grow old together, but instead, a third bout of cancer, this one with no cure, cut their story short.

Justice? Fairness? They left the building a long time ago.

My worklife became busy and fulfilling. By contrast, my personal life joined justice and fairness on a lengthy vacation. I have no personal life, honestly. I get out every once in a while, but I don’t move forward. It’s “tread, tread, tread the same old water” and sometimes I start to wonder if maybe I should just stop fighting and drown.

Even then, work suddenly took a jolt at the end of the year when the library announced that it would be laying people off. Will I be one of them? I don’t know, but even if I survive the coming purge, the blow to morale and loss of people we all know will forever change the environment.

Motivation? Check, please.

Creatively? Until the last two and a half weeks, I was so creatively stagnant that it was horrifying. I sealed away my personal creativity and applied it solely to work and to the online magazine I run. I suppose it was a case of almost willful denial- I couldn’t produce shitty work if I wasn’t writing.

Of course, you can’t really produce good work that way, either. Don’t know quite how I missed that part.

Writerboy? He used to live here, but he left. No forwarding address, sorry.

Were there things that went right? Sure. I had some good times. There were some triumphs. But all things being equal… things aren’t very goddamned equal. And the scales were way the hell out of whack in 2008.

I’ve at least woken up creatively over the past couple of weeks, and yet during that time, I have alienated a friend, perhaps forever. It’s amazing to see when someone has a gift for self-sabotage like I do- you should gawk at it, like seeing a twelve-car pileup on the freeway. Watch the rolling heads, everyone!

So there you have it: 2008 can go fuck itself. 2009? Well, I suppose that’s partially up to me. Maybe I can avoid fucking this one up/

Optimism? Never heard of it.

Now where did I put my margarita?

2008-09-29T18:40:00.001-07:00

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.

2008-05-02T15:11:00.000-07:00

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?”

2008-01-22T07:42:00.000-08:00

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

2007-06-01T12:17:00.000-07:00

So, I found out that one of my mentors died on Wednesday.

Mark Harris was never quite the great American novelist. For sure, he wrote a couple of great novels, and a few good ones. He also wrote a couple that stunk. But he was certainly a *writer*, through and through. He woke up in the morning, and his first thought was to write. During the day, he was thinking about writing. When he went to bed, he had the proverbial notebook next to it, ready to write something down if it popped into his head.

I took four or five classes with Mark, and they all worked along a similar line: he encouraged everyone in his classes to write two pages a day. They didn't have to be great pages. They didn't have to be pages to keep. Harris felt it most important to work on your craft; that, and that, in order to get to the good pages you had in you, you had to get the bad ones out of your system.
The university never quite seemed to give him the full respect that he deserved. There were always other writers around, younger ones capturing a bit more of the field's imagination (Ron Carlson, among others), and in the late 90s, he had begun to fade in his output and reputation. His major works, like BANG THE DRUM SLOWLY, were far behind him. But his passion for writing never seemed to diminish, and I respected that.

He had his quirks, and shamefully, early on in knowing him, they were easy to make fun of. He wore thick, bottle-bottom glasses, but with a twist: they had a flip-up element. While many people who wear glasses have a sunglasses element that flips down to cover their eyewear, Harris' flip brought down a second glasses lens that seemed just as thick as the bottom one. He also had one hand gesture that he seemed to prefer using, a "point" that never quite became a point. By the time I finished my final class under his tutelege, I found everything about the man charming; maybe I had needed to grow into my appreciation for him.

I never did quite get the hand of writing two pages a day back then, though I put it into practice when cranking out the first draft of my first novel a bit back. I'm also trying to put it into practice right now while working on another project. Have to get those crappy pages out of my system, after all.

He had left ASU a few years ago, and I don't think I ever really took the time to properly thank him. So today, I am. Thank you, Mr. Harris. Thank you for the interest and time that you gave me and countless other young writers. Thank you for the joy in the words you wrote. And thank you for the smiles you brought to our classrooms. Rest in peace... and may Heaven supply you with an endless ream of paper. Two pages a day in eternity should see you back at the top of your game in no time at all.

/Mason

2007-04-19T21:56:00.000-07:00

WHAT NO ONE REALLY WANTS TO ADMIT ABOUT WHAT HAPPENED AT VIRGINIA TECH

There’s an ugly, unspoken truth about the massacre at Virginia Tech this past Monday, one that no one really wants to talk about or admit exists. And it is this: what happened isn’t really a shock. Anyone who says it’s a shock is a liar or someone living with his or her head outside of reality. No, the dirty little secret behind what happened is that the real shock value comes in that it doesn’t happen more often.

Because, let’s face reality, we know that we’re lucky it doesn’t. Looking at the killer behind what happened at V.T., he was a textbook example of someone ready to go off at any time. He had a long period of isolation and loneliness, his writings became more disturbed, there were reports of him harassing female students and a lack of a dating history, he had a history of psychological problems and medication for them… his paranoia and anger were mounting, and finally he exploded. Sad, horrific, but you’ve yet to hear a single person express surprise, have you? Nope. And they’re not going to, either. Again, anyone who actually does try to is in total denial or a liar of mammoth proportions. He was a known time bomb, and people blithely walked by him every day, ignoring the danger, like people who refuse to use condoms because they figure it can’t happen to them. Let this Monday’s events say it loud: it can happen to you, and if you aren’t paying attention, it will.

I’ve seen a huge rush to point the finger of blame this week, which is pretty standard at this point. I’ve seen video games blamed. Hollywood’s output. The little-known adverse effects of anti-depressants. Even the school itself. But those are simplistic reasons meant to get someone’s name in the headlines. No, I think the real blame lies in the root changes that have taken place in our society over the past ten years and how they’ve changed everything about how we live and one huge elephant in the room:

IT HAS NEVER BEEN EASIER TO BE COMPLETELY ISOLATED AS A HUMAN BEING.

Ever. I mean ever. The ability to become disassociated from the world is one we each possess, and it happens at a younger and younger age.

Think about it. Technology has finally made it possible to live your life without ever having to interact with other people in person. Need food? Grocery stores now deliver. Pizza delivery is a multi-billion dollar business. Hell, even sit-down restaurants affiliate themselves with companies that will pick up to-go orders and deliver them. Need gas in your car? Pay at the pump. Got bills or rent to pay? Use your bank account online to do it electronically. Need some sort of social interaction, but don’t have the skills to do it at a bar? Chat online. Even if you finally realize you need some sort of intimacy, even on a temporary basis, the escort services and prostitutes have joined the techno-revolution and do online-booking. You can move to a new home by booking a truck online, then using the web to set up your utilities and pay your deposits. Even renewing your license plate doesn’t mean a trip to the DMV anymore.

Compounding technology’s influence, it can also actively cause us to turn away from others even when using it to “communicate.” I work at one of the largest universities in the world, and many years ago, I was a student there as well. During my undergraduate years, it was a very different place; it was before 90% of the student population had a cell phone. Today when I walk around campus, I see people barely talking to or acknowledging one another; instead, they’re talking to someone else in their insular world and ignoring those around them. Or, barring that, they have earbuds in, listening to the songs downloaded to their iPods. Conversation between two living, breathing people has declined precipitously. Little wonder, in that environment, that those who feel isolated begin to retreat further into their own heads.

It compounds from there. The isolationist nature of our culture has bred even more superficiality into it as well. With our mighty technological gifts, the distance between the Haves and Have Nots grows. The Haves can enhance their physicality with expensive clothes, plastic surgery, the finest cars… the Have Nots, while not left behind by technology, lose ground as the Haves use that artificiality to widen the gulf. The sneers of those Haves who look down on those that don’t “fit” have never sounded louder; before, those sneers were simply part of a personality flaw. Now, they stem from a sense of entitlement- you do not belong in their expensive, perfectly constructed world, and you must be excised to the margins. Immediately.

I appreciate the irony that I’m sitting here writing this alone in my house, so eloquently and egotistically displaying the results in my own technological vanity space. But the truth is, I am writing this from a place of fear and worry, no matter where I am. Our society isn’t working towards solutions to bring people together; rather, we’re working to improve the technology so that we can streamline and automate even more of human existence. Ultimately, that means we’re going to keep breeding more and more discontent amongst those who feel marginalized and disconnected, and the violence they cause will escalate. You can try and offer up solutions like religion, but that’s not really an institution in good shape right now. Until we find a way to start reconnecting with one another and creating a world in which we can make the isolated join us and feel comfortable, the danger will remain, and the ticking sound in their heads will get louder and louder. We’d all damned well better hope we aren’t around when the mechanism fires.

/Mason

2007-03-16T09:04:00.000-07:00

THE SOUNDTRACK TO YOUR LIFE STORY/MOVIE MEME

Nicked from the always entertaining Kevin Church. Yes, it's a new Happy Nonsense entry. Try not to drop dead from shock, people.

Opening Credits: "Insanity” by Boingo. Might as well set the tone early.

Waking Up: "Virgin State of Mind” by K’s Choice. The hero should always try and start the long day with a clear head, yes?

First Day At School: "Damn It Feels Good to Be a Gangsta" by The Geto Boys. Kids can smell blood in the water, just like sharks and convicts. Walk in like you own the place and don’t let ‘em see you sweat.

Falling In Love: "I Will Follow You Into the Dark" by Deathcab For Cutie. The best song in recent memory about loving someone forever.

Fight Song: "Looking at the World From the Bottom of a Well" by Mike Doughty. Mike Doughty is a god. Mark it down.

Breaking Up: "Wish You Were Here” by Pink Floyd. For the distance never to be bridged.

Prom: "Upside Down" by Barenaked Ladies. I never went to prom. But this underrated gem has a lot of pep and gets the blood pumping, and I’d have danced my heart out at prom if the DJ put in on.

Life: "Pull Me Under" by Dream Theater. This tune always speaks to the part of me that is overwhelmed and wants to lie down and quit. Then the chorus kicks in, and I remember “I’m Not Afraid.”

Mental Breakdown: "Eraser" by Nine Inch Nails. Reznor has made a living out of writing anthems to mental schisms. This is his best one.

Driving: "Hell Above Water" by Curve. The song is nearly a cliché at this point, thanks to movie trailers, but it still makes my foot press harder on the gas pedal.

Flashback: "Existentialism on Prom Night" by Straylight Run. Yes, I didn’t go to prom, but that isn’t really what the song is about. “Sing me something soft, sad, and delicate” captures the raw emotional of the teen years exquisitely.

Getting Back Together: "Going Back To Cali" by LL Cool J. An outside the box choice. “Cali” is, after all, a metaphor in the song, not just a place or the girl herself.

Wedding: "Also Sprach Zarathustra" by Richard Strauss. Every flick should use *some* piece of classical music, dammit, and this is mine. If I’m getting married, I want something a lot more exciting than “Here Comes the Bride”.

Birth of Child: "Blue Collar Suicide" by the Refreshments. Having a kid isn’t always the happiest moments in people’s lives. Accidents happen, lives are detoured…

Final Battle: "Hangman in the Noose" by the Sand Rubies. First: the band named themselves after petrified shit you can find in the desert. Second: rousing, kick ass song that gets the adrenalin flowing. Solid choice.

Death Scene: "Why Me?" by Planet P. I expect my end to come as a sacrifice for the greater good, of course. This song’s lamentation on having to take on that exact responsibility is perfect.

Funeral Song: "Stockholm Syndrome" by Muse. Because I cannot pass up the opportunity for one last snarky shot at the world.

End Credits: "Royal Station 4-16" by Melissa Etheridge. Sure, it’s a train song/metaphor. But my father, a railroad man himself, died on the job, and if I could have convinced anyone to do it, I’d have played it at his funeral. It’s a terrific song, by the way, and one that I’ve never seen her perform live (having had the pleasure of taking in her shows three times early in her career).

Thanks Kev!

/Mason

2007-02-19T14:45:00.001-08:00

Still livin'...

Honest.

/Mason

2006-12-14T08:18:00.000-08:00

I'm not dead.

That is all.

/Mason

2006-05-14T17:45:00.000-07:00

PRANGE-D

A couple of years ago, I started making a concerted effort to watch less television. As it was, many, many other things were eating up my time, so shows I used to watch religiously were shunted to the side. But during that period, I also discovered a new show to watch, and there was no way I was going to be able to let it pass me by.

I’m a complete and total golf fiend, so when I discovered the Golf Channel’s THE BIG BREAK, I was instantly addicted. It was an hour-long pipe of televised crack, and it got into my blood. The premise is simple: a small number of scratch golfers compete against one another in skills competitions, eventually whittling the group down to a two-person, 18 holes of match play finale. No voting anyone off. Just play, and pray your game came with you to the course that day.

Season three was where I first found the show, and that version had women competing for exemptions into two LPGA events. Season four followed six men from the U.S. and six men from Europe playing against each other in a sort of Ryder Cup homage. But season five, which just concluded, was the best so far. It was back to the women, and it featured the best golf, and the most compelling personalities, so far.

Of the eleven women who began the show, seven of them are players on the Duramed Futures Tour, the LPGA’s “minor league,” if you will. Every year, the top five players on the Futures Tour get their LPGA cards and make the jump to the next level, and the next ten get exempted to the final round of Q school. Much like the men’s Nationwide Tour, the Futures has produced some outstanding talents on the LPGA, including Christie Kerr, Christina Kim, and Lorena Ochoa. So having seven of their players on the show meant a huge leap in the quality of what we saw on TV.

I got heavily invested in one player in particular, Ashley Prange. My ears perked up when I heard that Prange was from Noblesville, Indiana; years ago, in another life before I was a desert dweller, I was a sportswriter for the NOBLESVILLE LEDGER, the local paper. That was before Prange’s time, but still, it was the first time I’d ever had someone from my old stomping grounds to follow in a realty competition. It was briefly weird for a different reason, as I graduated from a rival high school to Noblesville, but I shrugged it off and cheered the Lady Miller on.

And the weeks passed… and she stayed alive on the show. In fact, she began to dominate the show. Her golf game was good, her attitude was tough, and she made it through challenge after challenge. And after earning her way to the final two on a day of shaky putting, she came out in the final show and won big, securing the exemption to the LPGA event later this summer, a development package including a sports psychologist, a new car, and other cool stuff. Unlike many reality television programs, the best player actually did win, and it was a gas to watch.

Now, being the golf junkie that I am, a few weeks ago, I noticed that the Futures Tour had scheduled an event in Tucson for the first time ever. Seeing that, there was no way I could pass it up. I had to go check it out, for sheer curiosity’s sake. I missed the Nationwide Tour event that was here last fall, but they’re at least on TV here and there. The Futures events never make the screen. It was time to see what life was like on the second level… and it would be fun to see the players who graced my TV screen this spring as well. Sold!

There is no question about it: the Futures Tour is markedly different from every other tour I’ve seen. Not all the players work with a caddy; instead, a golf cart with a scorer rides with the group, carrying the bags. Getting a grip on who in the group you’re watching can be difficult, too; standard bearers were reserved for the final few groups with the leaders, so it was a bear to determine who you were watching.

Galleries were very tiny; at the Safeway International this past spring, the smallest player gallery I saw was around 75 people; the largest gallery I saw at the Futures event was about twenty people to start, and it withered down to as low as two at one point. That gallery belonged to the most well known name in the field: one Ashley Prange of Noblesville, Indiana.

The Randolph Park golf course where the tournament was being played was a bear. It had more peaks and valleys than an issue of PLAYBOY, and some of the slopes were a torn ACL waiting to happen. Saturday, I arrived and decided to spend the first part of the day just wandering and seeing what I could see, so I started on the 9th hole and began working my way backwards. By the time I reached the 5th, I decided to stop for a short bit; I watched six groups play through, then, I followed the last group I watched until they finished the 9th. At that point, I went backwards again, to the fourth, and walked with them through the 9th again. At that point, I decided that I was going to let my writer’s intrigue loose and I was going to follow the TV star’s group through the afternoon. Tee time was 25 minutes away at that point.

I had some water and then spotted Prange and her playing partners Sunny Kim and Julie Tvede on the practice green, so I took up an observer’s position and watched them putt. It was obvious at the time that Prange was having trouble finding a rhythm with the flat stick. At one point, she missed three consecutive three-footers. It didn’t look to be a focus issue, so I was interested to see how it would play out on the course. Some players take that trouble in practice and push it aside and perform brilliantly during their eighteen. For others, it’s an omen.

After a par on the first hole, the second hole demonstrated that Prange’s troubles on the practice green were an omen. A three-putt dropped her to even for the tournament and began a roller coaster of a day that had an absolutely killer ending. There were occasional flashes of genius; on one hole, she put her drive into the left rough, and was a foot away from a small tree. She had a small angle to the hole, but took out a short iron and managed to drop it eight feet from the cup. The man I was walking with at the time just looked at me with his jaw open, and I could respond only in kind. But again, her putter let her down, and she missed the birdie. It was that kind of day.

Keeping track of scoring tournament-wide was difficult, so no one really had any idea where the cut-line was going to be. Julie Tvede wasn’t going to have a problem, though; she had played gorgeous golf all afternoon. But teeing off at the eighteenth, Prange was three over on her round, and had dropped to two-over for the tournament. I thought this might be trouble; the one thing I did know from my earlier walking around was that there were many players simply tearing up the course. But I figured that with a par, Prange would be fine.

She took a mighty rip at her drive on that final hole, and it again headed left. However, this was the one place she really couldn’t afford to go left; there was another course attached to the Randolph Park set-up, and that meant there were out-of-bounds stakes between the eighteenth and the other course’s first. The drive was about a yard to the left of the stakes, and a ruling from an official verified that the stakes were for both holes. Disgusted with herself, she picked up the ball and threw it to me, the one person who had made it all eighteen with her gallery, and headed back to the tee box, hitting her third shot thanks to the penalty. She finished the hole with a double bogey, five-over day… which was doubly brutal, because those two extra strokes on eighteen took her from what turned out to be the cut line to being cut. Just like that, her weekend was over.

It’s been a long time since I was a sportswriter. The one thing you learn as a sportswriter (or a media writer) is that you’re covering humans, and they’re just like you, even if they do this one thing better than most. Prange, having gained enormous exposure through TV, was perfectly normal; she talked to her playing partners, was pleasant to the gallery (she signed a ball for a little boy who had been following for a while, and did so without him asking her for anything), and pulled and dropped the flag like every other weekend duffer. For those who are curious about that sort of thing, she’s actually shorter than she looked on screen- I had thought she was maybe 6’2’’but she’s closer to 5’11’’; there were also a number of complete assholes on the Golf Channel’s message boards who made cracks about her weight, which I found distressing on general principle- what difference does it make how she looks: it’s how she plays that matters; what I saw on Saturday was a player who was fit and who displayed strength and power. Anyone who wants to dispute that needs to take a look in the mirror and examine his own issues, you know? In the end, this young woman was just one of many who was working hard to be her best and make her dream of playing at the next level come true. The rest, the exposure she got… just external.

Before I knew whether or not she had made the cut, I had decided that I wasn’t going to follow her group on Sunday. I had seen what I wanted to see, and who knows; she might have seen this old sportswriter as a jinx who had brought her the crummy round. Still, it was a terrific experience all the way around: I wound up walking close to thirty holes of golf, I got some sun, and I had a lot of fun. As I watched those players who made the cut preparing Sunday morning, I couldn’t help but wonder how their rounds would play out or where their dreams would take them; maybe next year, I’ll see some of them up here at the LPGA event; maybe I’ll see some of them on the next BIG BREAK. But if I had to guess, I’d bet I’d see most of them again at the very same place next year, grinding their way towards a better place and a better life on the Futures Tour. That’s golf as life: your dreams stay the same, but life keeps moving the tee box and letting the rough grow.

2006-03-23T09:21:00.000-08:00

FORE!

Last weekend brought a first, and one that was long overdue: my first visit to a professional golf tournament. The LPGA plays the Safeway International out in the far eastern part of the Valley at Superstition Mountain (a simply stunning place). As much as I’ve always loved the game, I’d never ventured out to a pro tournament, being especially daunted by the size of the PGA tourney that takes place in Scottsdale in February- 100,000 people crowding the sides of a golf course holds no appeal to me. But the LPGA draws smaller crowds, even though the Safeway is one of the larger stops on tour, so I figured it was time to give it a shot.

Tickets were 2-for1 if you bought them at Safeway, so for only $10 I had a ticket. Parking was actually free (when’s the last time that happened at a sporting event?), and there was plenty of it. Free shuttle buses took you to the “front door” from the parking lots, and there was no waiting for the bus in either direction. What an amazing experience.

I shelled out an extra three bucks for a program, and pairings listings were given as freebies, so the day was nicely underway. The Safeway draws one of the best fields in the LPGA; all of the top 50 money winners from last year were in the event, plus hot rookies Ai Miyazato and Morgan Pressel were entered. It was almost too much; with so many great golfers to choose from, it was hard to figure out exactly who to follow and from where.

We decided to try and do a little bit of everything. The first paring of the day to get any serious scrutiny was Christina Kim’s. I became a huge fan of hers during last year’s Solheim Cup, finding her personality and passion on the course very appealing. I hate watching stoic golfers; give me a bright, vibrant person like Kim any day. I root for the type of player I’d want to play eighteen with myself. She dropped two birdies in the last three holes, and I hit the autograph tent and had her sign my pairings book. The day was off to a nice start.

Through the rest of the day, we alternated by sitting, then following. It allowed for the conservation of energy and yet plenty of exercise. We had the pleasure of watching Pressel (who had a miserable round), Annika Sorenstam, Natalie Gulbis, Paula Creamer, Lorie Kane, Stacy Prammanasudh, and many others. I was stunned at how fan-friendly the event was; when you’re watching a PGA event on TV, you can see that every single step the players take is roped off so that no one can get close. Not so with the LPGA; at one point, I we were watching Pressel’s group, and as she finished 15 and headed to 16, she was walking on the sidewalk two steps behind me. Damned odd, really. But cool. Very, very cool.

The autograph tent was a fantastic idea, and for the most part it worked pretty smoothly. The Japanese media waylaid Miyazato and prevented her from ever getting to the table, and I didn’t want to swarm her like so many others did. Other than that, smooth sailing. Christie Kerr had been in an overlong session the previous day, so she came pre-armed that afternoon, having signed a number of her trading cards to give away, rather than risk a repeat. Again, a very warm, friendly experience.

I can easily see me taking a couple of days off next year and following the whole tournament. This was more fun than I had imagined, and an experience I won’t soon forget. The LPGA has a marketing campaign this year centered around the phrase “These Girls Rock!” Damned right; and I’m ready for an encore.

2006-01-07T15:16:00.000-08:00

FLASH FICTION SATURDAY

She slid the martini glass to the side and leaned forward, spilling herself across the table and making sure she that she was presenting herself for maximum effect.

“You heard me,” she whispered softly. “Four simple little words.”

I locked eyes with her and took a sip of my whisky.

“Do. You. Want. Me?” she repeated deliberately, giving me a sure smile that told me she thought she already knew the answer. And she did. But what was I going to say?

Yes?

We had been doing this dance for a year at this point. From the moment she strolled into the office, flashing her wedding ring and enough attitude to break a man, she had sniffed out that I craved her. That I wanted nothing more than to take her home, throw her against the wall, tear every single scrap of clothing she was wearing into tiny strips, and fuck her until one of us died from exhaustion or dehydration. She knew. She thrived on it. Hell, after a while, after I denied and denied and denied, I began to realize that she wanted me to do it. Or at least say it.

I sometimes wondered if I said it, would she get off right then and there, not a finger on her?

But I refused to break or budge. Not me. For one, no matter how much I may be starving, I don’t steal another man’s food. As long as she stuck with him, stuck with his deep pockets and pretty face, forget it. We’d met a few times, and he wasn’t the type of guy I could respect; he lacked anything resembling personality or honor, and I have no use for that. But what he did have was a wife, one he promised himself to, and as someone with a sense of honor myself, I at least respect that.

There was another reason, though, that I refused to give in. I don’t like to lose, you see.

No question, I could have her. But doing so would give her me. After all this time, I’m not so stupid that I don’t recognize a power play, and if I said the magic word, I’d be through. I’d be gone at that point, controlling nothing, not even my own lust, and that was unacceptable. We are all slaves to something, but nothing is quite so intoxicating as power, whether we hold it or desire it. Sitting there at that table, right then, I had a wealth of it, and she wanted it, far more than she really wanted me.

“Aren’t you going to answer me?” she breathed. Her left eyebrow arched. “Kitty got your tongue?”

I let the entendre slide past me. She’d never been this aggressive, this blatant. For a moment, I began to wonder. Maybe things were going south at home. Maybe I should take her at her word. And then I collected myself again, and remembered whom I was dealing with.

The whisky burned my throat as I slammed the rest of the glass down my gullet and stood from the table. I walked around to her side and hovered over her. She gazed up at me, curious, and then stood, beginning to smile as though victorious. She started to say something but I stopped her, whipping my arm around her waist and pulling her into me. I grabbed her hair with my other hand and tilted her head, moving in to kiss her with a vicious intensity. She began kissing me back, hungrily, and her arms wrapped around my neck.

I slid my arm from her waist and trailed it through the small of her back, and he knees buckled for just one second. I let her go at that exact moment, and she slipped backward, and steadied herself by sitting down for a moment. Her head trembled as she looked at me, stunned by the moment.

“No,” I said, hiding the excitement I felt, the quiver working its way through my gut, and I turned to walk silently away.

2005-12-25T16:13:00.000-08:00

OH, THE IRONY

So, today, Christmas, I’m watching the tube. VH1’s “40 Least Metal Moments”, in fact. Great show. I’ve watched it a couple of times previous. Pure, dumb entertainment. But today’s viewing brought something a little bit different.

Why? Because one of the primary sponsors of the presentation was the film RUMOR HAS IT.

In case you don’t know, RUMOR HAS IT is the new Jennifer Aniston romantic comedy, in which she discovers that her mother and grandmother were the inspiration for THE GRADUATE and then seeks out the real-life Benjamin Braddock character (Kevin Costner) and sleeps with him, too.

Raise your hand if “Ewww.”

Raise it again if you can’t even remotely fucking understand what the Hell this movie is doing sponsoring “Least Metal Moments.” Was this a deliberate attempt at irony? If so, it’s damned funny. But do I believe that it is? Not even. Nope.

Now, the year’s top forty video countdown is on, and it’s reminding me of how far away from the “mainstream” of pop music I’ve gotten overt he past couple of years/ Not only have I not seen a good chunk of the videos, but I haven’t even heard a good percentage of the songs. That used to be unthinkable for me. But my tastes and listening habits have taken me solidly into the realm of not only satellite radio (God bless Sirius’ Alt-Nation 21) but away from pop in general. And frankly, watching some of these videos and hearing the songs, I’m not really missing anything.

Bands like Snow Patrol, Straylight Run, Z-Trip, The Mars Volta, My Chemical Romance, and Story Of The Year have rejuvenated my passion for music; more, they have rejuvenated my passion for new and fresh voices in music, and for that, I am very grateful.

In a year that turned out to be some decent moments surrounded by gift platters of shit sandwiches, that’s something I can hold on to and be grateful for.

2005-11-30T09:00:00.000-08:00

29 DAYS LATER

I did it. I really did it.

It took 29 days of working every single day, at least 2000 words every day, and I did it. I wrote a complete first draft of a novel. 67,547 words. What an incredible experience!

The way I wrote was completely new to me. I normally tend to pore over my words as I go, and I tend to go back and correct along the way, but not with this. With the deadline looming, I sat and just vomited words out onto the screen, working in short, furious bursts. The draft is wildly inconsistent as far as quality and depth go, and the tone floats back and forth across various rivers, but I have a complete work, and that's all that counts.

A complete work means I can give the book to some readers I trust and start getting feedback so I can do a second draft. Because there will be a second draft.

RISE CITY: SUZIE may not be the Great American Novel, but I know enough to realize that a lot of it works and is pretty good. And now that I have it, I want to make it great and try and get it into people's hands. Plus, I'm feeling ambitious about it; as I wrote, I found myself discovering little plot points that could be useful later down the road, and suddenly I realized I was writing the first book of a trilogy.

So next November, when NaNoWriMo rolls around, there's a damned good chance you'll find me tied to the computer again, typing away at RISE CITY: MATT. It'll be a long, hard, painful process.

I can't wait!

2005-10-31T19:18:00.000-08:00

I can’t believe I actually used to do this every week.

It seems so long ago, and, well, it probably was. Every Friday, I’d post a new Happy Nonsense column. It was a huge source of pride for me. I didn’t always do brilliant work, but I did the work, and that was what mattered.

But like what happens to so many people, I got sidetracked after my life took some detours. Plus, I have my weekly gig at MoviePoopShoot, so that sort of provides my deadline push. And this place has suffered, much to my chagrin.

It isn’t going to get better anytime soon, I fear.

Starting tomorrow, I am attempting to participate in NaNoWriMo. This is, of course, insane. It isn’t like I don’t still have the weekly gig. I’m also helping an artist create their website, and contributing an article to a fledgling magazine. Plus, I’d like to eat, sleep, and have some semblance of a social life.

Hey, we all have our delusions, right?

But I am going to attempt to use this space to chart my progress on the novel. So there will be some November updates, though they won’t necessarily be reviews and such. But if seeing a man go slowly mad from being overworked, please… please stop by over the next few weeks. You’ll get plenty of value for your entertainment dollar.

Which is why this website is free.

2005-08-08T10:25:00.000-07:00

DECISIONS

First, let me apologize for the sparseness of posting to this page.

It’s been a busy summer. I’ve been working insanely hard to try and get a couple of writing projects off the ground, and that’s eaten up a lot of my time and energy. Throw in trying to have a semblance of a social life and the writing commitments I already have, and something has had to give. Unfortunately, it’s this place. I will try and do better, but I can’t promise anything at the moment.

I’m writing today because we’re at a time near and dear to my heart. Early August, you see, is a time when I get to feel good about the choices I’ve made.

We all make decisions every day that change our course. Most days those are minor corrections at best, but seventeen years ago, I made the first really good decision of my life: I moved to Arizona and started over from scratch.

Not too many people wanted me to move here. And I certainly didn’t get a lot of support or belief that I’d succeed and stay here long term. I grew up in an area that is populated mostly by people who grew up there themselves. 95% of the people I went to school with were staying close and going to a state school, and a solid chunk of them are still living within an hour of where we graduated. It’s pretty much the accepted norm.

And that’s fine for them. If I had to guess, I’d suppose that the great majority of them are very happy with where they’re at. I think that’s cool, though for a long time I admit to believing they were foolish. But I knew I would never, and I mean never be happy with staying there. I was already a depressed and unhappy kid, with an encroaching sense of “life claustrophobia”, and I felt deep in my soul like I had to do something to find myself, and I had to be somewhere else to do it. Small town life is insidious; I would always be that “kid” in my hometown, no matter how old I got. You’re not allowed to grow or change, you see.

So I came out here, and I struggled a bit. I had my moments of doubt, and faithlessness, but as time passed, I got more and more accustomed to life in the desert, and I knew I was home. That this was where I was meant to be. No matter how many people obnoxiously asked me “have you thought about moving home?” as if they couldn’t believe I could possibly be satisfied living out here (and it happened as recently as a year ago!), I kept a straight face, though I stopped being as polite with my responses.

It’s easy to examine your life and look back at the bad choices you’ve made, and wonder how things would have turned out if you hadn’t been so damned dumb, but it’s even more important to take a look back and examine the things you’ve done correctly. I’ve now lived in Arizona just one year less than I lived in Indiana, but I know this: I’ve lived a lot more here than I would have anywhere else.

2005-06-05T21:15:00.000-07:00

FRIDAY FAST FICTION

The plague had taken eight more overnight.

Using what remained of my withered and atrophied frame, I slowly raised myself to a sit. As my pain centers rebelled against this first movement in more than a fortnight, I squinted and focused my eyes across the darkened room, counting the empty beds I had heard being discussed this morning.

Flexing the fingers of my right hand, I spoke out loud what I knew to be true and had been denying: "My bed will be empty soon enough."

It had been no more than six weeks ago when the sores began appearing on the citizenry. No one knew what they were, what caused them, or how they infected us; all that was known was that our best and brightest were at wit's end, and we had begun to die.

The paranoid among us began to talk of treachery. Surely, they believed, those who hate us are responsible for this abomination. They wish us all an early grave, man, woman, and child alike. But then the spies began to report that the sores had begun to appear in the lands of our enemies. It was as if the life drained from those who were still well. Had it been treachery, an offensive could have been mounted to search for whatever cure they might have kept.

I began to wonder, as I the pain was replaced by a serene calm, what form my death would take. A skeleton with a scythe? An angel in white, emitting pure, holy light, giving wings to my soul? I secretly hoped not. For I had lived my life as a warrior, and I wished for nothing less than a warrior's death. That was the most grievous bit of dealing with the rotting sores; I was wasting away, the death of the feeble and infirm.

It was at that moment that I felt a change in my body, a sensation that had been missing for weeks. My heart began to beat, as if rediscovering it's own purpose,and I slipped off the bed and onto my own two feet, the shock of the cold flooring energizing me.

The door at the end of the hall opened.

She was impossibly beautiful. Sharp eyes that pierced my heart, ebony hair flowing willfully around her emotionless face, her stride one of command and authority. Her visage was perfection, one that you would wish to wake up to each morning for the rest of one's life, even though you knew she would almost never smile.

Her steps ended a few feet in front of me. I took in her presence. She was clad in black garments as well, a goddess of darkness. And with that realization, I knew.

I knew.

She gestured towards the door. A crushing sound cascaded from beyond, and the entry exploded with the arrival of four warriors garbed in iron, wielding steel that had surely tasted the blood of thousands. My will began to rise beneath my breath.

My breath.

Her gesture moved to my direction, as if directing the warriors to me. But I was mistaken. For her gesture was a much simpler one: it was a warrior's boon.

My greying flesh took on color once more. Muscle and sinew sang with renewal. My posture became straight and proud. My good right hand felt cold, with no explanantion, until I looked down upon it and saw my sword, tight within my grip.

For the first time in many a moon, I smiled. I bowed to my benefactor, and she gracefully moved aside, offering that smile I was not sure existed. Raising my sword, I took the first of my last steps, the thunder of the gods coursing through my veins.

copyright Marc Mason 2005

2005-05-22T16:53:00.000-07:00

SITH

It didn't suck.

Admittedly, I wasn't holding the film to the highest standards, and I wasn't even sure if I'd see it opening weekend. After all, I thought Episode 2, "Anakin's Creek," was an abortion of biblical proportions. So I openly admit that Episode 3 did't have to go far to make me happy.

Still, I found myself entertained. I shut off my higher brain functions, sat back, and watched Lucas put the pieces together, and goddamn if it didn't start to reel me in. The scenes between Hayden Christianson and Natalie Portman were still uniformly dull and contrived; why Lucas was never able or interested in using Portman's talents to their fullest is a mystery we'll never solve. Christianson's whiny petulance scaled back to just petulance, and at this stage of his life, he actually looks like he could be related to Mark Hamill. But the true star is Ewan McGregor, who looks like he's finally having fun in one of these things. He looked flat-out embarrassed in Episode Two, but SITH finds him gleefully channelling a young Alec Guinness and livening up his every scene with elan and verve.

I may even go back to the theatre and see this one again. It isn't often that you can say that watching a bad guy get his legs and arm chopped off and then catch fire is exhilarating, but then again, why wouldn't it be? That's just what turns out to have entertained people a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away...

2005-05-01T19:18:00.000-07:00

BACK AGAIN

I took the month of April off by accident.

Well, that’s dishonest. It was accidental at first. But halfway through the month, I found myself in the throes of a terrifying burnout, and I realized that I needed to put something to the side. It wound up being HAPPY NONSENSE.

Between my column at Movie Poop Shoot, The Comics Waiting Room, and my efforts at pitching some graphic novels and comics to publishers, all my energy has been invested elsewhere.

That isn’t to say I’ve been away from pop culture. Far from it. I saw three movies in the theatre in the month of April, which is about as many as I saw in the theatre in the calendar year of 2004. SIN CITY was amazing. KUNG FU HUSTLE was awesome. And HITCHHIKER’S GUIDE TO THE GALAXY was spiritually faithful enough to Douglas Adams’ novel that I found myself enjoying it from start to finish.

On television, I found myself surprisingly drawn to John Stamos’ return to the tube, JAKE IN PROGRESS. I’ve never been even remotely a fan of the guy, but he displayed a very charming screen presence, and he was generous in giving his co-workers material to shine with. The odds of renewal don’t look great, but that’s be a damned shame. It deserves another chance. And a better time slot.

ABC is burying another great show, EYES, in a different shitty time slot. Tim Daly, another guy who has always left me flat, is turning in a great performance as the morally challenged Harlan Judd, and the show takes its amoral point of view much farther than I would normally expect from network TV. The one misstep the show has made- reneging on the death of a major character at the end of episode one- is a big one, but it hasn’t hampered my ability to enjoy the show.

Musically, I’ve found myself really getting into some new and interesting bands. The Mars Volta. Interpol. Snow Patrol. Great stuff. I remain relentlessly devoted to listening to Alt-Nation 21 on Sirius satellite radio, as it plays a mix of alternative music much to my tastes.

May brings “sweeps” to the networks, and I’m looking forward to seeing how the amazing LOST concludes its season. There’s also the prospect of changes on SCRUBS, which disturbs me greatly, but I’ll be watching and waiting to see what happens.

I’ll also be trying to post here more frequently. Wish me luck on that.

2005-03-28T13:01:00.000-08:00

The Great Movie Meme – pulled from Alan David Doane.

- BOLD movies you own in your personal video/DVD library
- ITALICS for movies you have seen
- Leave plain movies you haven't seen
- Pass it on to three people at the end

The Big Red One (1980)
12 Angry Men (1957)
2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)
28 Days Later (2002)
The 400 Blows (1959)
8 1/2 (1963)
Adaptation. (2002)
The Adventures of Robin Hood (1939)
After Dark, My Sweet (1990)
Aguirre, the Wrath of God (1972)
Ali: Fear Eats the Soul (1974)
Alien (1979)
All About Eve (1950)
Amadeus (1984)
Amarcord (1974)
American Beauty (1999)
The American President (1995)
American Splendor (2003)
The Animatrix (2003)
Annie Hall (1977)
The Apartment (1960)
Apocalypse Now (1979)
The Apu Trilogy (1959)
Around the Bend (2004)
Au Hasard Balthazar (1966)
The Band Wagon (1953)
The Bank Dick (1940)
Barefoot Gen (Hadashi no Gen) (1983)
Batman (1989)
The Battle of Algiers (1967)
Battle Royale (Batoru rowaiaru) (2000)
The Battleship Potemkin (1925)
Beat the Devil (1954)
Beauty and the Beast (1946)
Being John Malkovich (1999)
Being There (1979)
Belle de Jour (1967)
The Bicycle Thief (1949)
The Big Heat (1953)
The Big One (1997)
The Big Sleep (1946)
The Birth of a Nation (1915)
Blowup (1966)
The Blue Kite (1993)
Blue Velvet (1986)
Bob le Flambeur (1955)
Body Heat (1981)
Bonnie and Clyde (1967)
Bound (1996)
Bowling for Columbine (2002)
Breathless (1960)
Bride of Frankenstein (1935)
The Bridge on the River Kwai (1957)
Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia (1974)
Broken Blossoms (1919)
Buffy the Vampire Slayer (1992)
The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (Kabinett des Doktor Caligari, Das) (1920)
Casablanca (1942)
Chasing Amy
Children of Paradise (1945)
Chinatown (1974)
A Christmas Story (1983)
Citizen Kane (1941)
City Lights (1931)
Clerks
The Color Purple (1985)
Comic Book Villains (2002)
Conan the Barbarian (1982)
The Conversation (1974)
Cries and Whispers (1972)
Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (Wo hu cang long) (2000)
Crumb (1994)
Damage (1992)
Daredevil (2003)
Day for Night (1973)
The Day of the Dolphin (1973)
Days of Heaven (1978)
The Decalogue (1988)
Detour (1945)
Die Hard (1988)
The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie (1972)
Do the Right Thing (1989)
Donnie Darko (2001)
Don't Look Now (1974)
Double Indemnity (1944)
Dr. Strangelove (1964)
Dracula (1931)
Duck Soup (1933)
Dune (1984)
E.T - The Extra-Terrestrial (1982)
The Earrings of Madame de... (1953)
Easy Rider (1969)
Edward Scissorhands (1990)
Ed Wood (1994)
Elektra (2005)
The Elephant Man (1980)
El Norte (1983)
Eraserhead (1977)
Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004)
The Exterminating Angel (1962)
The Fall of the House of Usher (1928)
Fanny and Alexander (1983)
Fahrenheit 9/11 (2004)
Fargo (1996)
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (1998)
F for Fake (Vérités et mensonges) (1976)
The Firemen's Ball (1968)
Five Easy Pieces (1970)
Floating Weeds (1959)
Four Rooms (1995)
From Dusk Till Dawn (1996)
From Hell (2001)
Gates of Heaven (1978)
The General (1927)
Ghost World (2000)
Glengarry Glen Ross (1992)
The Godfather (1972)
Goldfinger (1964)
Gone With the Wind (1939)
The Goodbye Girl (1977)
The Good, the Bad and the Ugly (1968)
GoodFellas (1991)
Gospel According to St. Matthew (1964)
Grand Illusion (1937)
The Grapes of Wrath (1940)
Grave of the Fireflies (1988)
Great Expectations (1946)
Greed (1925)
Groundhog Day (1993)
The Hand (1981)
A Hard Day's Night (1964)
The Hearts of Age (1934)
Hellboy (2004)
High Fidelity (2000)
Hoop Dreams (1994)
House of Games (1987)
The Hustler (1961)
Ikiru (1952)
In Cold Blood (1967)
The Incredibles (2004)
It's a Wonderful Life (1946)
Jackie Brown (1997)
Jaws (1975)
JFK (1991)
Jules and Jim (1961)
Juliet of the Spirits (1965)
Kill Bill Vol. 1 (2003)
Kill Bill Vol. 2 (2004)
Killing Zoe (1994)
Kind Hearts and Coronets (1949)
King Kong (1933)
L'Atalante (1934)
L'Avventura (1960)
La Dolce Vita (1960)
The Lady Eve (1941)
The Lady from Shanghai (1947)
The Last Laugh (1924)
The Last Picture Show (1971)
Last Tango in Paris (1972)
Last Year at Marienbad (1961)
Late Spring (1972)
The Lathe of Heaven (1980)
Laura (1944)
Lawrence of Arabia (1962)
Le Boucher / The Butcher (2003)
Le Samourai (1967)
The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen (2003)
Leaving Las Vegas (1995)
The Leopard (1963)
The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp (1943)
The Lion King (1994)
Lolita (1962)
Lolita (1997)
Lost Highway (1997)
M (1931)
The Magnificent Ambersons (1942)
Mallrats
The Maltese Falcon (1941)
The Man Who Laughs (1928)
The Manchurian Candidate (1962)
Manhattan (1979)
The Matrix (1999)
The Matrix Reloaded (2003)
The Matrix Revolutions (2003)
McCabe & Mrs. Miller (1971)
Mean Streets (1973)
Metropolis (1926)
Mon Oncle (1958)
Moonstruck (1987)
Mr. Hulot's Holiday (1953)
Mulholland Dr. (2001)
The Music Room (1958)
My Darling Clementine (1946)
My Dinner With Andre (1981)
My Life to Live / Vivre sa Vie (1963)
My Neighbor Totoro (1993)
Nashville (1975)
Natural Born Killers (1994)
Network (1976)
The Night of the Hunter (1955)
Nights of Cabiria (1957)
Nosferatu (1922)
Notorious (1946)
Not Without My Daughter (1991)
On the Waterfront (1954)
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest (1975)
Orpheus (1949)
Out of the Past (1947)
Pandora's Box (1928)
Paris, Texas (1984)
The Passion of Joan of Arc (1928)
Paths of Glory (1957)
Patton (1970)
Peeping Tom (1960)
Persona (1966)
The Phantom of the Opera (1925)
Pickpocket (1959)
Picnic at Hanging Rock (1975)
Pinocchio (1940)
Pixote (1981)
Planes, Trains and Automobiles (1987)
Playtime (1967)
The Producers (1968)
The Prophecy (1995)
Psycho (1960)
Pulp Fiction (1994)
Raging Bull (1980)
Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981)
Raise the Red Lantern (1990101)
Ran (1985)
Rashomon (1950101)
Rear Window (1954)
Blue, White, Red (1994)
Red River (1948)
The Red Shoes (1948)
Reservoir Dogs (1992)
Return to Glennascaul (Orson Welles' Ghost Story) (1951)
Rififi (1954)
The Right Stuff (1983)
Roger & Me (1989)
Romeo and Juliet (1968)
The Rules of the Game (1939)
Santa Sangre (1989)
Saturday Night Fever (1977)
Say Anything (1989)
Scarface (1983)
The Scarlet Empress (1934)
Schindler's List (1993)
The Searchers (1956)
Se7en (1995)
The Seven Samurai (1954)
The Seventh Seal (1957)
Shane (1953)
Shaun of the Dead (2004)
The Shawshank Redemption (1994)
The Silence of the Lambs (1991)
Singin' in the Rain (1952)
Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (1937)
Solaris (1972)
Some Like It Hot (1959)
South Park: Bigger Longer & Uncut (1999)
Spider-Man (2002)
Spider-Man 2 (2004)
Star Trek: The Motion Picture (1979)
Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan (1982)
Star Trek III: The Search for Spock (1984)
Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home (1986)
Star Trek V: The Final Frontier (1989)
Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country (1991)
Star Trek Generations (1994)
Star Trek: First Contact (1996)
Star Trek: Insurrection (1998)
Star Trek: Nemesis (2002)
Star Wars (1977)
The Straight Story (1999)
The Strange Case of the End of Civilization as We Know It (1977)
The Stranger (1946)
Strangers on a Train (1951)
Stroszek (1977)
A Sunday in the Country (1984)
Superman (1978)
Sunrise (1928)
Sunset Boulevard (1950)
The Sweet Smell of Success (1957)
Swing Time (1936)
A Tale of Winter (1992)
The Tao of Steve (2000)
Taxi Driver (1976)
The Terminator (1984)
Terminator 2: Judgment Day (1991)
Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines (2003)
The Thin Man (1934)
The Third Man (1949)
This Is Spinal Tap (1984)
Three Colors Trilogy (1994)
Three Women (1977)
Tokyo Story (1953)
Touch of Evil (1958)
Touchez Pas au Grisbi (1954)
The Treasure of the Sierra Madre (1948)
The Trial (Procès, Le) (1962)
Trouble in Paradise (1932)
True Romance (1993)
Twin Peaks: Fire Walk with Me (1992)
Ugetsu (1953)
Umberto D (1952)
Un Chien Andalou (1928)
Unforgiven (1992)
Unprecedented: The 2000 Presidential Election (2002)
The Up Documentaries (1985)
Vertigo (1958)
Victim (1961)
Walkabout (1971)
West Side Story (1961)
Where the Buffalo Roam (1980)
Wild at Heart (1990)
The Wild Bunch (1969)
Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory (1971)
Wings of Desire (1988)
The Wizard of Oz (1939)
Woman in the Dunes (1964)
A Woman Under the Influence (1974)
A Woman's Tale (1992)
The Wonderful, Horrible Life of Leni Riefenstahl (Macht der Bilder: Leni Riefenstahl, Die) (1993)
Written on the Wind (1956)
X-Men (2000)
X-Men 2: X-Men United (X2) (2003)
xXx (2002)
Yankee Doodle Dandy (1942)
A Year of the Quiet Sun (1984)
Yellow Submarine (1968)

2005-02-24T14:14:00.000-08:00

Borrowed from Alan David Doane, who borrowed it from someone else... and no, I don't know what number five is supposed to be...

1. Copy this whole list into your journal.
2. Bold the things that are true about you.
3. Add something that is true about you.

01. I miss somebody right now.
02. I don't watch much TV these days.
03. I love olives
04. I own lots of books.
06. I wear glasses or contact lenses.
07. I love to play video games.
08. I've tried marijuana
09. I've watched porn movies.
10. I have been in a threesome.
11. I have been the psycho-ex in a past relationship.
12. I believe honesty is usually the best policy.
13. I love ice cream.
14. I like and respect Al Sharpton
15. I curse sometimes.
16. I have changed a lot mentally over the last year.
17. I have a hobby. I just go to school for it.
18. I've been told I have a nice smile.
19. I carry my knife/razor everywhere with me.
20. I'm partially TOTALLY smart.
21. I've never broken someone's bones.
22. I have a secret that I am ashamed to reveal.
23. I hate the rain.
24. I'm paranoid at times.
25. I would get plastic surgery if it were 100% safe, free of cost, and scar-free.
26. I need money right now.
27. I love sushi.
28. I talk really, really fast.
29. I have fresh breath in the morning.
30. I have long hair.
31. I have lost money in Las Vegas.
32. I have at least one brother and/or one sister.
33. I was born in a country outside of the U.S.
34. I shave my legs (females) or face (males) on a regular basis.
35. I have a twin (or a triplet, or somesuch).
36. I have worn fake hair/fingernails/eyelashes in the past.
37. I couldn't survive without Caller I.D.
38. I like the way that I look sometimes.
39. I have lied to a good friend in the last 6 months.
40. I know how to cornrow.
41. I am usually pessimistic.
42. I have a lot of mood swings.
43. I think prostitution should be legalized.
44. I think Britney Spears is pretty.
45. Slept with a Suitemate.
46. I have a hidden talent.
47. I'm always hyper no matter how much sugar I have.
48. I have a lot of friends.
49. I am currently single.
50. I have pecked someone of the same sex.
51. I enjoy talking on the phone.
52. I practically live in sweatpants or PJ pants.
53. I love to shop.
54. I would rather shop than eat.
55. I would classify myself as ghetto.
56. I'm bourgie and have worn a sweater tied around my shoulders.
57. I'm obsessed with my Xanga or Livejournal.
58. I don't hate anyone. I dislike them.
59. I'm a pretty good dancer.
60. I don't think Mike Tyson raped Desiree Washington.
61. I'm completely embarrassed to be seen with my mother.
62. I have a cell phone.
63. I believe in God.
64. I watch MTV on a daily basis.
65. I have passed out drunk in the past 6 months.
66. I love drama.
67. I have never been in a real relationship before.
68. I've rejected someone before.
69. I currently have a crush/like someone.
70. I have no idea what I want to do for the rest of my life.
71. I want to have children in the future.
72. I have changed a diaper before.
73. I've called the cops on a friend before.
74. I bite my nails.
75. I am a member of the Tom Green fan club.
76. I'm not allergic to anything.
77. I have a lot to learn.
78. I have been with someone at least 10 years older or younger.
79. I plan on seeing Ice Cube's newest "Friday" movie.
80. I am shy around the opposite sex.
81. I'm online 24/7, even as an away message.
82. I have at least 5 away messages saved.
83. I have tried alcohol or drugs before.
84. I have made a move on a friend's significant other or crush in the past.
85. I own the "South Park" movie.
86. I have avoided assignments at work school to be on Xanga or Livejournal.
87. When I was a kid I played "the birds and the bees" with a neighbor or chum.
88. I enjoy some country music.
89. I would die for my best friends.
90. I think that Pizza Hut has the best pizza.
91. I watch soap operas whenever I can.
92. I'm obsessive, anal retentive, and often a perfectionist.
93. I have used my sexuality to advance my career.
94. I love Michael Jackson, scandals and all.
95. I know all the words to Slick Rick's "Children's Story".
96. Halloween is awesome because you get free candy.
97. I watch Spongebob Squarepants and I like it.
98. I have dated a close friend's ex.
99. I like surveys.
100. I am happy at this moment.
101. I'm obsessed with guys.
102. I am bisexual.
103. Democrat.
104. Conservative Republican.
105. I am punk rockish.
106. I am preppy.
107. I go for older guys/girls, not younger
108. I study for tests most of the time.
109. I tie my shoelaces differently to anyone I've ever met.
110. I can work on a car.
111. I love my job.
112. I am comfortable with who I am right now.
113. I have more than just my ears pierced.
114. I walk barefoot wherever I can.
115. I have jumped off a bridge.
116. I love sea turtles.
117. I spend ridiculous amounts of money on makeup.
118. I believe in prophetic dreams.
119. I plan on achieving a major goal/dream.
120. I am proficient on a musical instrument.
121. I worked at McDonald's restaurant.
122. I hate office jobs.
123. I love sci-fi movies.
124. I've never been in love.
125. I think water rules.
126. I am going to college out of state.
127. I am adopted.
128. I like sausage.
129. I am a pyro.
130. I love the Red Sox.
131. I have thrown up from crying too much.
132. I have been intentionally hurt by people that I loved.
133. I love kisses.
134. I fall for the worst people and have been hurt every time.
135. I adore bright colors.
136. I love Dear Abby.
137. I can't live without black eyeliner.
138. I think school is awesome.
139. I think pigtails serve a purpose.
140. I don't know why the hell I just did this stupid thing.
141. I usually like covers better than originals.
142. I don’t like multi-textured ice cream (ex. Chocolate chips, nuts, marshmallows)
143. I think John Cusack is adorable.
144. I fucking hate chain theme restaurants like Applebees and TGIFridays.
145. I need to blog more.

2005-02-20T12:14:00.000-08:00

THE BEST SHOW ON TV?

As a child, I was enamored of BATTLESTAR GALACTICA. Like many boys my age, I dreamed of being Dirk Benedict: pilot, swashbuckler, lover… Starbuck. He was the epitome of cool. The show was exciting, even when it became obvious to even my young eyes that the show was frequently re-using special effects shots, and the episodes became less FX heavy as the season wore on. But I loved it, and I still rather do. It has a place in my heart, a well-deserved one, and I can still enjoy it for the relic that it is.

Like many fans, I perked up with interest whenever someone spoke up in an interview somewhere to discuss reviving the show. Hell, I even bought a hideously unnecessary amount of comics produced by Rob Liefeld’s publishing company because they acquired the license. But it wasn’t until production got rolling on Ron Moore’s “re-imagining” of GALACTICA that I finally believed that the property would ever gain new life. And oh, what life, it has.

Wisely jettisoning the campy barnacles of the original show, Moore and company have turned GALACTICA into a bleak, dark drama. The near-extinction of humanity that sets the story in motion becomes an overriding force that moves the characters on the board. We are suddenly reminded of not only the massive number of deaths occurring through war and terror in our own world, but that we are sitting on a similar method of extinction that the Cylons used to wipe out humanity in GALACTICA. To drive the point home, the Cylons are no longer merely “walking toasters” as the characters describe them; they have evolved and look as human as anyone else. They feel, they fight, they fuck, they bleed, and they believe in God.

And in Moore’s complex worldview, they might just be the good guys. The Cylons don’t see themselves as evil; they see themselves as true representatives of God’s will and plan. If you can find a difference between that point of view and that of a suicide bomber (and last week’s episode delivered a Cylon suicide bomber), it’s a subtle one.

Moore was, in good part, responsible for the best and most complex STAR TREK of all as well, DEEP SPACE NINE. DS9, still one of the only television shows in history to focus on a man of color who was completely devoted to being a good father to his son, was also a complex tale of war, religion, and the struggle to define human nature. In GALACTICA, Moore has taken those concepts much further, as he is free of the heavy TREK continuity and has room to play, having started the show’s mythos from scratch. Moore draws from many of the ideas of the original show, but at each turn, they feel fresh.

Some might tune into the show and find it far too bleak for their tastes, and I can understand that a bit. Looking for a light-hearted moment in the mini-series or the first seven episodes aired in the U.S. is a needle in a haystack proposition. Even the sex, of which there is a surprising amount, lacks a sense of joy or rapture; instead, it is frantic, clawing… a desperate search for connection at the end of the world. There is humor in traitor Baltar’s relationship with his Cylon lover Number 6, but it’s humor derived from the fact that Baltar might just be screaming mad, and you can never quite put away that Baltar’s vanity and carelessness is what allowed the Cylons to begin their attacks and kill billions.

What drives the series at its heart are the women. Mary McDonnell as the reluctant Secretary Of Education turned President Laura Roslin, fighting her terminal cancer and her nature as a pacifist. Tricia Helfer as the seductive and frightening Number 6, manipulating Baltar sexually, yet working to cure him of his atheism as he scoffs at her faith in God. Grace Park as the deeply conflicted pilot Sharon, who comes closer every day to discovering that she has a terrible secret. And, most of all, the amazing Katee Sackhoff, who took an enormous amount of shit from the fanbase when she was cast as Starbuck.

When it was announced that Dirk Benedict’s character was going to be a woman in the Moore version, people got downright rude. But Moore’s instincts were brilliant. Any man cast in that role was going to have a horrendous time with fans comparing him to Benedict’s classic character. By making Starbuck a woman, it sent Sackhoff apart from having to compete with Benedict, and it gave her the opportunity to take the role as her own. She’s done an amazing job, creating a character who’s flawed, self-destructive, and yet heroic. GALACTICA’S writing staff has gifted Sackhoff with one of TV’s best and most complex characters, and the others are right behind her.

The center gravity of the show, however, is the great Edward James Olmos as Commander Adama. Olmos’ intensity is startling, as he anchors every scene he’s in with authority and power, elevating each of the actors surrounding him. Olmos is the indicator that GALACTICA is first and foremost a drama, not a random spaceship show. Each week, even when he’s not the full focus of the story, Olmos finds a way to exhilarate the viewer with Emmy quality work.

GALACTICA has been renewed for a second season already, which is a good sign for fans of quality television. If Moore and his writers can maintain the quality level we’ve seen so far, they’ll be well on their way to making what could well be the finest science fiction show to ever air. I can’t wait to see.

2005-01-23T18:25:00.000-08:00

I LOVE THE ‘05s?

We’re three weeks in. Time to get back to work.

2005 ended rather poorly, culminating in a moment on the morning of the 31st that left me certain that I would never see the sun again. Fresh from this punch to the head from my subconscious, I woke up on January 1st with the certainty that the clock was ticking, and I had a limited amount of time to pull out of my skid. So for the first time in years, I actually set New Year’s resolutions for myself. I’m proud to report, 23 days in, that I’m doing pretty well with them so far.

The year has also gotten off to a quick and healthy start in the world of pop culture, leaving me with topics I can write about here for some to come. But at the top of the list comes VH1’s latest entry in the I LOVE THE series, the 90S, PART DEUX. Now, I’ve enjoyed each of the previous pieces of the LOVE universe, but I can admit that the first go around with the 90s was easily the weakest of the bunch, and I wondered if the concept (or the commentators) had played out. This became particularly glaring when you put part one up against the weekly snark-brilliant BEST WEEK EVER, which takes the concept and gives it an edgier, absurdist, self-deprecating tone that the LOVEs can lack. So I went into PART DEUX with my guard up.

There was no need.

I LOVE THE 90S, PART DEUX was, after watching all ten hours, the best effort in the series, period. I found myself laughing out loud much more frequently, and the editorial choices were much sharper and cleverer than they had been in previous efforts. Plus, the performers themselves seemed to grasp that there was something needed to put some juice into this effort, and at many times their comments took on a very “meta” sensibility. Perfect examples came when Hal Sparks “locked himself up” with The Club, and noted it was what VH1 did with him when it wasn’t using him for the series or when Beth Littleford beat the viewer to the punch while discussing the Energizer Bunny keeping “going and going and going… just like VH1’s I LOVE THE series.” But the producers themselves seemed to take up their efforts another notch, whether it was briefly inserting footage of SUPERMAN 2 when talking about Terrance Stamp and PRISCILLA, QUEEN OF THE DESERT (“Kneel before Zod!” juxtaposed with Stamp in drag was a hoot) or, in a segment about raves, taking the “impressions” of techno music by a number of the commentators and actually mixing it together into a passable piece of house music.

The one single misstep actually came at the very end of the 1999 episode, as it closed with a look at the negligible VARSITY BLUES, a film that didn’t deserve the screen time, and none of the cast had really anything interesting to say about.

After a shaky outing in part one, Michael Ian Black actually performed quite well this time around, showing some smarter comedy chops and a self-deprecating spirit that replaced his previously overwrought ironic detachment. Stalwarts Sparks and Rachael Harris did their usual outstanding work, but we also got some outstanding work from comedian Godfrey and the loopily loveable Juliette Lewis. Plus, rebounding from their unfortunately stupid segment in part one, “Jay and Silent Bob Rename Your Favorite TV Show,” the dynamic duo scored much better with PART DEUX’s “Jay and Silent Bob’s Guys We’d Go Gay For” which fit the two characters perfectly. “Ben Stein’s Pimpest Tracks” was also a great bit, playing off of Stein’s hilarious deadpan persona to perfection.

Where do they go from here? Will VH1 retire the series until 2014? Will there be a second 70S take? I dunno. But if I had to guess, I’d bet we’ll see REVENGE OF I LOVE THE 80S, sooner rather than later. Or maybe I LOVE THE 90S 33 1/3.

Mason

2004-12-31T14:46:00.000-08:00

THANK GOD IT'S OVER

There were a lot of great things about pop culture in 2004. SPIDER-MAN 2. Netflix. Sirius Satellite Radio joining Dish Network. The Olympics. The Red Sox. LOST. SCRUBS. Reading the BATTLE ROYALE novel and A GENTLEMAN'S GAME, the QUEEN AND COUNTRY novel. Watching SO CLOSE, RETURNER, and the late 90s GAMERA trilogy on DVD. ANCHORMAN: THE LEGEND OF RON BURGUNDY. I could go on.

But in the final analysis, 2004 was one of the worst years of my life on a personal level, one that I'd mostly like to forget. It sucked serious monkey balls. It shat on my cereal. It was one kick in the balls after another. 2004... I'm glad it's dead. I'm glad it's dead.

2004-12-13T19:38:00.000-08:00

THE STORY OF THE YEAR

Looking back at the year in popular culture, on the surface it could be difficult to pinpoint the most important story of the year.

On television you have the emergence of shows like LOST and DESPERATE HOUSEWIVES. The continued excellence of SCRUBS. WITHOUT A TRACE began to find the audience it truly deserves as ER steadily declined. In movies, the year opened with RETURN OF THE KING dominating the multiplex and the Oscars. SHREK 2, SPIDER-MAN 2, and THE BOURNE SUPREMACY proved that sequels didn’t have to suck. Jamie Foxx stepped up and became a mainstream star. In music Usher essentially took over the world… until U2 returned and reminded people why they’ve long been thought of as the world’s greatest rock band. Great stuff all around. On a personal note, Sirius Satellite Radio came to Dish Network, and I’ve never been happier to listen to my television in my life. God bless Alt-Nation and the new music and bands it has brought into my life.

But this year, the medium was the message.

2004 was the year that the battle lines were drawn between the forces of freedom and the pencil-dicked bureaucrats and censors at the FCC who decided that they were the arbiters of America’s taste and culture (well, them and the self-appointed PTC). 2004 was the year where Janet’s tit put us on a perilous path towards the totalitarian state.

What’s obscene? What’s indecent? Everyone has a different definition. However, people like the PTC asshats believe that their definition is the only one that counts, and for whatever reason, they have their hands far enough Michael Powell’s ass to make him puppet along to their spam efforts at filing complaints about programming. What these jackoffs don’t seem to possess is the capability to change the damned channel. I guess you can only train a monkey so much before it just starts to get bored and starts throwing his shit at the passersby.

Lawsuits, threats, idiocy… if it wasn’t real, you wouldn’t be able to write it, because it’s too goddamned dumb. But there’s a war underway now, one in which we are actually forced to cheer for FOX?

Hit with a nasty fine over one of their programs, FOX has come up with a novel (and likely successful) way of challenging that fine: the V-chip. You remember that, right? Legally has to be in all Vs built these days? Backed heavily by Al Gore? Well FOX’s viewpoint is that because the TVs are all equipped with the chip, and people can control it, they shouldn’t be fined because the stupid motherfuckers who want to protest didn’t block the damned show and it’s their fault for not doing so.

Brilliant, really.

I could go on and on about the hate that the FCC and the PTC inspire in me, but my blood pressure might get a little wonky. Frankly, I think it’s a matter of time before a group of people band together and sue the shit out of the PTC under RICO statutes. Some of their tactics are pretty close to being problematic as far as restraint of trade issues and interstate commerce issues. Out there is a clever lawyer looking for a way to make them suffer for being the fuckwits that they are. I can’t wait. I want to join. But in the meantime, there’s a war to be fought, and there are multiple fronts. I know which side I’m on…

I’ll see you on the battlefield.

2004-11-21T19:38:00.000-08:00

INSANITY

Leave it to sports to upstage the rest of the pop culture world in the last seven days.

Last Monday had the MNF controversy with Terrell Owens and Nicolette Sheridan, and what an abysmally hypocritical stink that caused. I love the game of football, but the NFL continues to fucking embarrass itself when it does things like complain about how that intro was unworthy of its family audience. Excuse me?!

Is the same NFL that is in an active sponsorship partnership with an erectile dysfunction drug? Yep. Not to mention that the other ED drug companies sure seem to find it easy enough to advertise during the games as well. Maybe they just should have teamed up to assault the “family audience”; after all, I suspect there were plenty of fifteen-year old boys who had four hour erections after watching Sheridan drop her towel.

And honestly… there was no bad language. No actual nudity. And you could see just as much skin on the sidelines watching the cheerleaders… or buying their calendars (God bless the Eagles cheerleaders and their lingerie). The NFL’s response is merely so much bullshit.

How about they apologize to the family audience for their role as a haven for scum? That’d prove they actually care about their image. When they remove Leonard Little (killed someone drunk driving, got a slap on the wrist, arrested for DUI again), Jamal Lewis (federal drug trafficking), Ray Lewis (obstructing a murder investigation), Michael Pittman (multiple arrests for assaulting his wife), and so many others from the field and from their licensed products like their video games, I’ll take the League office seriously. Until then, they need to shut the fuck up.

And then Friday night, the NBA exploded with the fight in Detroit. As a lifelong Pacers fan, I was incredibly distressed by the whole proceedings. There was absolutely no excuse for the conduct that occurred, players or fans. Today, the league laid down some stiff suspension penalties, including Ron Artest for the rest of season. It suspended the next two worst Pacer culprits for what amounts to a third of the season as well, and that means that the tam has lost its three best players. Indy went into this season a good favorite to go to the finals out of the Eastern Conference, and now they are basically reduced to also-ran status. And rather than complain or whine…

…they need to shut the fuck up and take it, too. I don’t want to see union representatives moaning and pissing. I don’t want to see pointless appeals. I don’t want to see those players suing the league because they were disciplined for their stupidity. Just this once, I’d like to see an athlete say “You know what? I fucked up, badly, and I deserve to pay for it. No matter how much I was provoked, I knew better, and I shouldn’t have done it.”

Pardon me if I don’t hold my breath.

2004-11-05T17:30:00.000-08:00

As what I would consider a moderate, centrist Democrat, I walk away from the 2004 election with no sense of surprise, a ton of outrage, and a marked sadness about what exactly the events of November 2nd mean.

I’m not surprised Bush won, no matter what the late polls said heading into Tuesday. If there’s one thing history has taught us, it’s that the Republican party is the better of the two in energizing its voters and getting them to the polls, particularly the older and more conservative members. If the Democrats could ever solve this problem with the younger, more liberal voters, they’d be golden. Pardon me while I don’t hold my breath. It isn’t like they’d have a platform to draw them in with anyway.

My disgust with my party might actually outweigh my disgust with the 59 million people who actually cast a ballot for George W. Bush. Putting their faith in a good man with an unfortunate lack of charisma might have been acceptable in some election years. But not in a year like this one, when the polarization of America was on its way to being fully complete. The double talk and the slipshod nature of what the campaign had to say basically boiled down to “John Kerry Is Not George W. Bush. You Hate Bush? Vote For Kerry.” Now, for someone like me, that’s plenty reason enough to vote Kerry, let alone my party affiliation. I think Bush and his cronies are about the most evil sons of bitches to roll down the pike since Woodrow Wilson was in office, and that’s no small feat. But for that voter who is somewhere on the fence, you have to give them a better reason to choose your candidate than “I Ain’t Him” and the Democrats never did a credible job of doing so.

They never even put up a fight, really. No matter how many opportunities Bush’s blatant stupidity and Cheney’s arrogance offered during the debates, neither Kerry nor Edwards ever dropped the veneer of staying “on message” and went for the throat. It was awful. Chance after chance went by. Four years removed from the Democrats’ finest leader of the past forty years, they ignored everything that Bill Clinton taught them about standing their ground, digging into the trenches, picking the fight, and still coming out of it looking like a good guy. It was a telling fact that James Carville wasn’t running this campaign; no one else has the stones to go toe-to-toe with Karl Rove.

I am still pretty pissed, though. Even through all the stupid mishandling of the campaign, I still had hope that people would be smart enough to figure out just how they’d been had by the Bushies. I guess that makes me even dumber than I believe them to be. I read one account of an African-American male who called into a radio show and spoke out about why he voted for Bush on a moral basis, that he liked his anti-abortion and anti-gay marriage stances. Now, I can almost take this at face value on the abortion thing. But the gay marriage thing?

It wasn’t too long ago that miscegenation laws were still on the books in this country. For those who don’t know what that means, it means that it was an offense punishable by imprisonment for blacks and whites to marry or have sex. Those laws weren’t put on the books or enforced by nice moderate and liberal folks. They were enforced by people of pasty skin who believed that African-Americans were less than human, the types of folks who burned crosses on lawns. It was liberal activists, and quite frankly, no shortage of gays and lesbians, who provided strong emotional and public support for their repeal. Scant years later, the Bushies have managed to help folks forget, and it saddens me immensely. On the bright side, I am close to three couples of mixed race, and they all voted Kerry. I guess maybe it’s a question of being in direct benefit that helps you remember.

On the flip side, there’s the area I grew up in, central Indiana, where open racism helped Bush. I finished with it a long time ago, escaping before the hatred and deep religious conservatism could corrupt my life any further. This is an area of the country where there is a barely subtle undercurrent of feeling that it doesn’t matter where we’re fighting a war or why, all that matters is that non-white people are being killed, and that’s okay, because they aren’t really people anyway. It’s sickening. Ironically, it’s the younger generation of the poor there who are most likely to wind up in the armed forces, whether by choice or eventual draft, and they’ll be the first to wind up in pieces on the front lines. Vote or Die, indeed.

And now, we are left with the arrogance. Bush and Chaney are claiming a “mandate” has been given for their agenda. What a load of crap. If 49% of the electorate has rejected your agenda, you don’t have a mandate. In fact, it’s pretty difficult to believe that all 59 million who cast a ballot for the Bush ticket actually believes in their agenda. There are plenty of people who weren’t comfortable changing presidents in the middle of an armed conflict. Many folks just weren’t convinced that Kerry was right for the job. I even know of one person who just hated Teresa Heinz Kerry and refused to vote for John out of spite. Instead, I have to figure that Bush might have drawn 50% of support at best. The question is: what does that really mean?

I think it means that Osama Bin Laden has already won, and he’s probably gloating like a bastard right now. Thirty-five years ago, a fracture developed in this country over the war in Vietnam, and it has never really healed. There have been periods where the sutures held up well enough, but right now, they’re torn out and blood is leaking at a pretty decent clip. Half the country is interested in creating a more faith-based nation and repudiating laws that offer equal opportunities for everyone, no matter who they love, or how. The other half is a disorganized wreck, made up of so many subcultures that it cannot field a unified voice. And that leaves America as a tinderbox, dangerously close to igniting in an inferno of pain and desperation. Things haven’t been this close to the edge since 1861… and 1776 before that. More people than ever are even giving up, as websites and embassies for other nations are seeing record inquiries from Americans considering getting out while the getting is good. I’m not sure I can blame them. Watching as this happens, the enemy can only be rubbing his hands with glee as America is destroyed from within.

I’ve always been an idealist when it comes to this nation. I was raised with a strong sense of fair play, and the belief that equality was for everybody. I believed in a nation that was strong enough to accept all ideas, all peoples. But now, that is a dream deferred, a dream dead at the bottom of a shallow grave in the desert. If November 2nd showed us anything, it’s that no matter how many times we try to resuscitate it, that America is beyond our grasp now. What remains is to see what comes next. The revolution started November 3rd.

2004-10-30T15:29:00.000-07:00

ALMOST A COMET

I’ve been away for a little while, attending to some personal business, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t been paying attention to the pop culture-sphere. I’ve been faithfully following LOST, DESPERATE HOUSEWIVES, and SCRUBS. I’ve made time for BEST WEEK EVER. Sirius’ satellite radio channels are now on Dish Network, so I’ve been listening to excellent commercial free radio through my television. I’ve devoured the DVDs of THE PUNISHER and FARENHEIT 9/11. I’m not laying down on the job.

But none of it compared to the nights of Sunday, October 17 through Wednesday, October 27.

Watching the Red Sox complete the single greatest comeback in sports history and go on to sweep the St. Louis Cardinals to win the World Series is one of those things I will remember for the rest of my life. Seeing this event happen, absorbing the awe-inspiring stories that took place on and off the field- it was a truly priceless experience.

My earliest experience with the Red Sox and their curse came in 1975, before I was fully cognizant of what it was all about. What I did know was that my grandfather and I were big Cincinnati Reds fans, and they played a hugely tough series against Boston and won in seven games. I had no clue how much that would have devastated New Englanders at the time. Then 1986 rolled around.

In high school, one of my favorite friends was a guy named Alan Ely. Alan was a jock, but an unusually witty one. He was as amiable a personality as I’ve met in my life to boot. And like me, he loved all sports, perhaps none so much as baseball. And we both had an abiding appreciation for the New York Mets of that era. Doc Gooden, Keith Hernandez, the rest of them… they were a gas to watch, and at the time, the public had no clue of just what fuckups they were behind the scenes. So even though Alan had graduated the spring before the series, we were both cheering hard for the Mets. And the Sox?

The fuckers were a strike away from being eliminated by my beloved California Angels in the playoffs. One. Fucking. Strike. I was aware of The Curse at that point, and when the Sox finished off my team, I hoped and prayed for The Curse to live on. And thanks to stupid managerial decisions, it would for another eighteen years.

But time passes and your outlook changes and fate intervenes. Alan is lost young to cancer, leaving behind a wife and new baby. Eventually, I fall ass over teakettle in love with a diehard Red Sox fan. You watch her and feel her pain as the Sox fall short again in 2003. Then your hometown team trades your favorite player, one of the best playoff pitchers in baseball history, to her ballclub, and you find yourself following the team right with her. And then they do the impossible and come back against the Yankees. And then they allow generations of New Englanders to die in peace when they dominate their way to the title.

So it became a dual victory in a way. Sometimes, you realize just how much you love someone simply by watching how they feel about things that have nothing to do with you. Feeling her relief and relaxation after the Sox recorded the final out on Wednesday was worth any price. When I mess up, I at least have the capability of trying to do something about making her feel better. This one has been out of my hands. I am grateful to this bunch for picking her, and the rest of Red Sox Nation, up and carrying their broken hearts home and mending them. Now, and hopefully forever, the rest is up to me.

2004-10-10T17:55:00.000-07:00

While I Was Out...

I've been busy. Honest.

Life has been pasing by pretty quickly, and I just haven't had a lot of time to write in the past couple of weeks. But rest assured, the world of pop culture hasn't been passing me by. I've become addicted to LOST, and not only that, but ABC has captured my imagination with another of their new shows, DESPERATE HOUSEWIVES (Eva Longoria is just about the yummiest thing to hit television that wasn't cooked by Emeril Lagasse in years). I spent the last few years turning on that network for Monday Night Football, and that was only if it was a decent match-up. So I tip my hat to them on their turnaround.

I have about another week or two of things to catch up on, and then I'll get back to a regular postings here. I promise.

Thanks for your patience.

2004-09-20T19:15:00.000-07:00

My Prerogative

I almost feel sorry for Britney Spears. Almost.

Look, at this point, the girl can’t take a shit without someone taking a picture of it. But when she’s stupid (and gross) enough to take that shit in a gas station restroom and walk in and out of it barefoot? Come on. Eventually, you’re either smart enough to think it out ahead of time, or you deserve the public trashing you’re going to take.

She snuck off and got married this past weekend for the second time this year, this time to her skuzzy looking backup dancer Kevin Federline. That’d be the same guy who dumped his seven-month pregnant girlfriend to take up with Ms. Spears. Obviously not a genius, ya know? So now Brit, at the paltry age of twenty-two, is a step-parent of two. Hopefully she’s not in charge of teaching them hygiene while the two kids are around on Kevin’s weekend.

Honestly, though, does anyone expect this marriage to last? Her first marriage was a Vegas affair that was quickly broken up by her parents. That guy was a childhood friend from her hometown, and he almost seemed like he had a few things going for him (like, say, not abandoning the mother of his children while she’s pregnant), but apparently things like actually being single and knowing their daughter for a long, long time weren’t cutting it for the Spears clan. They’d rather have the guy with stupid looking facial hair and a gift for future paternity suits. Good thinking, those Spears folks.

If I were from the south, I would find the entire Spears family an embarrassment to my heritage. Britney is pretty much the living embodiment of every “Farmer’s daughter” joke ever told at this point, and her family are right behind her. Jeff Foxworthy must watch these people and take copious notes. You might be a redneck if… you appear in public wearing a t-shirt that says, “I’m A Virgin… but this is a really old shirt.” Classy. Brit mad such a big deal out of her virginity early on in her career, before Justin Timberlake got to hit it, but now you wonder if it wasn’t all a big smoke screen. Maybe she was warming up so that down the road she can marry a cousin or something and it will all just seem natural. Has she covered a Jerry Lee Lewis song yet?

Oh yes… speaking of covers. Her latest song is a cover of Bobby Brown’s “My Prerogative,” and it’s an abortion. I’m sure Brit felt like she was making a statement about taking control of her life and not caring if people thought it was fucked up and absurd. Whatever. Brown’s song was a danceable “fuck you” to those who felt like he shouldn’t do anything but sing with New Edition for the rest of his career, and it rocked out. But poor Brit… poor, poor Brit. I think it’s much more likely that her attempt at “fuck you” will be met with a mighty yawn from the buying public. And that’s their prerogative.

2004-09-11T15:22:00.000-07:00

Legends For The Fall

Over the summer, I made the mistake of adding another TV show to watch that I hadn't before. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

One night, relaxing after a long and hideous day, I found myself sucked in by a marathon of SCRUBS being shown on NBC. It was so well-written, so strongly acted... God, was I pissed. Because I knew the ratings for the show were always a bit shaky, I found myself cringing inwardly. It was absurdly unique television, witty and smart, expecting the viewer to play on its level and refusing to back down and play dumb. Normally, this is a sure sign a show is doomed, particularly on network television. Immediately, I was addicted.

The new season is off to a tremendous start. Episode two last week was a gem, with a joke at the denouement that was both disgusting and subtle at the same time. One of the episode's plots revolved around a man arriving at the ER with a light bulb fully inserted and stuck in his rectum. Now, plenty of jokes were made about this predicament, and yet they still didn't cross the line into obvious or stupid. It was astonishing. Instead, the episode played out as a treatise on conflict resolution and receiving proper credit for doing good work, the light bulb playing an ultimate role in righting a wrong against the doctors who are able to eventually remove it without breaking or it putting the patient into surgery. It was brilliantly, awesomely done.

The show's cast is a terrific ensemble, having found its rhythm at an early point, I'd guess. The star turn belongs to supporting cast member John C. McGinley, an outstanding character actor for years who has found the role of a lifetime as the mentor to the younger doctors on the show. Every scene, every bit of dialogue from his mouth, is a revelation of just how good an actor an be when paired with the right role.

Adding film actress Heather Graham has not been nearly as intrusive as I would have figured upon, and the show has made good use of her "outsider" status, having her build a full relationship with only Sarah Chalke's Elliot while their friendship creates tension with the rest of the cast. It's the perfect way to blend her in to the show.

It's also worthy to note that Zach Braff's success with GARDEN STATE hsn't gone to hie head, as he continues his low-key approach to the show and his willingness to humiliate himself at the drop of a hat. SCRUBS is, without any doubt in my mind, the best written comedy on the air right now. I just hope it sticks around.

2004-09-06T16:12:00.000-07:00

”QUARTERBACK… NEW YORK JETS…”

I was sick one day last week, and I couldn’t help myself. I suppose that means I was sick in two ways.

Flipping through the program guide, daytime was its usual wasteland of shitball programming. But crossing through the movies section, one listing jumped out at me: FLASH GORDON. Yes, that one. The horrible, cheesy, piece of shit sci-fi “classic” from 1981. Featuring the acting “talents” of Sam J. Jones and Melody Anderson.

I couldn’t turn it on fast enough.

When it came out, I loved it without reason. Somehow the horrible acting, witless plot, garish sets, and laughable special effects whizzed right past me. Max Von Sydow slumming his way through the scenes, trying his best not to laugh about the fact he’s stuck in that turkey. Brian Blessed chewing the scenery like he hasn’t been fed in weeks. Topol offering up enough ham to feed New York at Easter. A pre-Bond Tim Dalton doing his best to play the film seriously and praying it doesn’t take his career down the tubes. It’s brilliant in its badness.

Seeing it now, not only are those things magnified to the viewer, but also the sheer level of monetary waste and skimping is amazing. Where the special effects look like they cost about $6.99, the ornate costuming is stunning. Each world of Mongo has differently dressed natives, but none quite so well dressed as Ming’s local subjects and concubines. Apparently the production spent the majority of its budget on silk and sparkles. I suppose that ensured that erections-a-plenty would spring up in their teenage audience and bring them back for repeated viewings.

I have no idea if that worked.

Still, it was worth the two hours to walk down that nostalgic path. And yes, I will admit, I giggled like a kid more than once, and not only because of how bad the film is. It’s instructive to go back and look at the things that helped us along on our way into becoming who we are and developing our tastes. Sometimes, it’s the best way to make sure we don’t make the same mistakes and regurgitate the meal.

2004-08-26T19:40:00.000-07:00

One Guy Got It Right

Thanks, Allen Johnson.

Not for falling and skidding, scaring the life out of me and making me wonder if half your face had peeled off before you looked up. That I could have lived without. No, I want to thank you for showing restraint and class when so many would not have done so.

You laid on the track for a couple of minutes absorbing what had just happened. You came to Athens the Captain of the U.S. track team. You were expected to win a medal in the hurdles. And yet the dreams of gold were dashed so quickly, so harshly. It was painful for you, and for your countrymen who were behind you cheering. But your actions on the ground and after you got up made you a champion.

There was no screaming. No yelling. No swearing. You didn't cry. You didn't claim that the race was rigged. You didn't suggest that your hurdles were at a different height than everyone else's. You didn't blame other racers for bumping you. You didn't protest that the track conditions in your line were inappropriate. You simply sat there, stunned, and then picked yourself up with dignity and left the track. Dear God.

I suppose it says a lot of bad things about track that I am quick to praise something horrible that happened, but there you have it. Watching that moment, I was proud to be an American. Unlike the obnoxious Maurice Greene and his "bring out the fire extinguisher" nonsense, I knew right then that if yuou had crossed the finish line first in the finals and claimed a gold medal, you would have comported yourself with quiet dignity. And frankly, in an age where sportsmanship seems to be at an all-time low, especially among male athletes, you became, to this writer, a national hero.

2004-08-21T23:09:00.000-07:00

Olympic Thoughts

I'm not just saying this because I'm a stright male. Seriously. But aside from the men's swim team, who provided maximum entertainment with a heavy dose of class, I find it difficult to watch or care about any men's sports in this Olympiad. It is the women who continually provide the most interesting and competitive moments in these games. Mainly because, when you stack one gender against the other, the women have a lot fewer dicks on the playing fields.

Granted, Svetlana Khorkina isn't exactly a charmer, but even then, she's far more compelling to watch than the U.S. hideously awful "dream team" of men's basketball players. I've grown to loathe the NBA over the last seven or eight years, as the quality of play and actual skill level of the players has gone way down and the preening fuckheadedness and macho bullshit of the players has gone way up. Khorkina is at least out there on the floor, age-wise past her prime, busting her frozen personality's ass in one last grand attempt to retire fulfilled, while the "dream team" just seems to care about getting their minutes and shot attempts. Wake me when they finally get knocked out without a medal, won't you?

I'd rather watch true dominators at work. Misty May and Kerri Walsh are destroying the field in beach volleyball. Jenni Finch, who I watched when she was a collegiate player at the Dreaded U. of A., is helping lead the monstrous women's softball team towards a medal. Then there are the swimmers: Natalie Coughlin, Amanda Beard, Kara Lynn Joyce and the rest. What an amazing group! I knew early in the day that the 4x200 relay team had broken the last standing (and tainted) East German swimming record in shattering fashion, and yet watching it, I found myself literally on the edge of my seat with excitement. That's great sport.

So if you give me the choice between watching the men's sprinters in track and field puffing out their chests and showing more machismo than Erik Estrada in 1979 or watching Jenny Thompson end her storied career by struggling in her last two races... I'm going to take Thompson, a true champion who has been doing it for a long time and doesn't talk about herself in third person.

Throw in the women's basketball team, and there's not even a question about what this Olympics is about. In a year when the games have returned to their cradle, in a city named for a goddess, for sixteen nights in a row... it's ladies' night. And oh, what a night it is.

2004-08-18T15:22:00.000-07:00

CRUSHED

I should have known it was coming.

CBS' publicity machine had really cranked up in the last week or so, and we began to see AMAZING RACE contestant and "little person" Charla Faddoul popping up all over the place. Charla was the inspirational story of the summer; equally cunning, charming, and determined, she had set out to change peoples' perceptions about what those who are short in stature could do. She succeeded wildly.

Partially, she was helped by the fact that her racing partner, cousin Mirna, acted the part of weakling and halfwit too often. While Mirna was one of the few people in the five years of the show who actively tried to appreciate and enjoy the opportunities the race provided, all too often it was Charla who bailed out the duo, either by eating two pounds of caviar in one sitting or in carrying a slab of beef that was damned near the same size as her.

Their continual squaring off against the asisnine and hot-tempered Colin and his way-too-good-for-him girlfriend Christie made for interesting drama as well. In short, Charla and Mirna make for great fucking television. So like I said, I should have been suspicious when Charla began appearing more in the media over the last week.

Because last night, the race's foibles caught up to them, and they finished last at the pit stop, leaving them eliminated from the contest. I wanted to throw things at my TV.

No more Charla. No more Mirna trying to cop a feel off of beleaguered host Phil Keoghan. No more watching someone with all that heart and determination succeed in the face of overwhelming odds. The Race continues, and I with it... but it has a lot less personality.

2004-08-12T18:32:00.000-07:00

The Best Show On TV

As the summer months continue to pass, and TV continues to sink further and further into the morass (Thanks, Fox!) I find that there are really only three programs that are must viewing for me, a total of two hours a week that I don't want to miss. Those are some slim pickings, considering how many channels I have.

I've discussed THE AMAZING RACE already. BEST WEEK EVER is a televised form of crack cocaine, stunningly addictive in its blythe and withering looks at our popular culture. I sort of consider it an inspiration to this column. But right now, I cannot imagine a better show on television than the brilliant, subversive, and non-sequitor laden SEALAB 2021 on the Cartoon Network.

The geniuses behind the "Adult Swim" block of programming came up with a doozy on this one. Taking one of the worst cartoons of all time (SEALAB 2020) and fucking up the characters and premise, each episode is a bizarre and senseless bit of perfect pop culture that tickles the brain as well as the funny bone.

Season one's "All That Jazz" might just be one of the single best pieces of animation ever made. It opens with Captain Murphy entering a highly secured chamber in Sealab, only for the audience to discover that the chamber simply contains the soda machine. However, the machine steals his money, and in an attempt to free his soda, the achine tips over and lands on the Captain, crushing his ribs. And that's where the real fun begins.

For no apparent reason, of course, there's a scorpion in the room, and it begins to taunt him mercilessly, stinging him randomly. Trust me- it's appallingly funny. Then the soda machine begins to randomly fire sodas at Murphy's head, knocking out his teeth. Honest- it's a pants wetter. Now here's where it gets completely off-the-hook bizarre: the rest of the crew has left Sealab and gone to a concert, and rather than return, they go on tour as roadies for the band, which leaves Murphy trapped beneath the machine... for fourteen months.

The episode's brilliance explodes from there. There's a cleaning robot (the same robot that was with the good guys in the awful Disney sci-fi flick THE BLACK HOLE) that keeps coming into the room and cleaning up Murphy's teeth, and it begins to make a necklace out of them. Murphy begins to be able to communicate with the scorpion, allowing it to lay its eggs in his naval and becoming addicted to the sting/venom. He also begins to have flashbcks to his childhood as the son of a carny. And right now, you think I've lost my mind.

However, I'm serious. Not only does this mess stick together in awe-inspiring fashion, it elicits huge laughs at every turn. For these amazing writers to turn out material this clever, time after time, is truly a rare feat. I honestly never get tired of watching and re-watching these tasty little masterpieces, and I recommend that more people get on the bandwagon. All you need is a bit of a twisted sense of humor and about ten minutes of your time.

2004-08-08T19:01:00.000-07:00

WHY I DON’T OWN A HOME VIDEO GAME SYSTEM

Well, first and foremost because I don’t ever want to be so much of an asshole that I take it seriously enough to murder for the damn console. There’s a story running right now about some people being murdered for the theft of an X-Box. Fuck almighty. If you need one that bad, steal another one from the fuggin’ store. There is no game of Doom 3 that can’t wait until you’ve outrun a fat old security guard. Kids get dumber every year.

I like to read books. Beyond that, I like to read magazines and comics. I like listening to the radio and the occasional album. It’s baseball season, and I can almost always turn on a game. These are all qualities that it seems, on the surface, no one in American society under the age of 22 actually possesses anymore. I think I’d prefer to hold on to my uniqueness.

The prices for new games is ridiculous. $50 for a new release like Doom 3? Blow me. In fact, you could get a hooker to blow you twice for that. Maybe more if she’s addicted to drugs. Or, you could buy Paris Hilton’s porn tape and jack off for years to it for that kind of money. Hell, for $50, you could pay a girl to dress up like Paris Hilton and blow you. And any of those ideas beats the shit out of losing hours of sleep playing Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas. “One Night In Paris,” indeed.

I know there are a lot of nice, normal people who have them, but honestly, I would feel like a complete loser if I had a home video game set. That’s just who I am, no apologies.

Really…. Shouldn’t we all have better things to do with our time?

2004-08-03T15:41:00.000-07:00

THE INNOCENT’S A BROAD

There aren’t enough “broads” anymore in pop culture.

Sure, we have plenty of dainty and “Gosh, aren’t I feminine?” types littering the landscape. I suspect we’re stuck with Jessica Simpson for years to come. But where are the tough women? Where are the women you wouldn’t arm wrestle on a bet, because you know they’re gonna kick your ass? I can only think of one place:

The Amazing Race.

If you aren’t watching the best “reality” show on television, a show that doubles as one of the best shows on TV, period, then you’re missing out. Certainly, the bandwagon appears to be growing; it’s one of the highest rated programs on the air this summer. But it has room to grow, and you really ought to be watching, because as the race sheds teams, the toughness of the challenges and the travel increase dramatically, and more screen time is devoted to the human drama facing each duo. Brilliant, brilliant stuff. Plus, it has broads.

One pair of racers in this edition are so-called “soccer moms.” I think of them more as “bowling partners,” as they are featured in the introductions on the lanes and in their league shirts. They also have a (disturbing) tendency to wear matching clothes during the race legs as well. They’re fun, loveable, and you can cheer for them because they play fair and with a sense of integrity, even though you get the sense they’d kick you square in the balls if it proved necessary. They’re also not stick-thin models like some of the competitors, instead looking like normal, sturdy women of fortitude. It’s easy to make the jump to believe that they could throw back a couple of beers and watch a game with you and be right at home. In short: broads.

A different type of broads in the race are little person Charla and her cousin Mirna. Controversial in their style and demeanor, these two have captured my heart and my rooting interest. Charla is a kick-ass wonder, not backing down from any challenge thrown at her, and yet savvy enough to play on people’s pity factor because of her stature. I like that she uses every available weapon in her arsenal to succeed. Mirna can be damned annoying, but she also has a nifty verve, at times taking longer in the challenges than necessary in order to enjoy the experience of being halfway around the world and doing things she never felt possible in her life. One of the best early moments of the race involved Mirna lagging a bit at a Uruguay destination in order to dance the tango with a local man. Looking at her face, you could see that she was immensely turned on and could have stayed for quite some time. Most contestants don’t have this attitude, focusing solely on the next stage of the race, and I dig that about her (and Charla). Again: they are two fun-loving broads.

It feels weird to say the TV is missing Bea Arthur. But, I think it is. Where have all the good broads gone? And will this age of PC casting and body obsession, will we ever see any great ones again?

2004-08-01T15:28:00.000-07:00

RETURNER

Not only is that the name of a kick ass Japanese sci-fi action flick (rent it- trust me), but it's also ME. I'm going to be working over the next couple of days to add a couple of bells and whistles to this bad boy as I get underway with a brand new mission, so keep your eyes peeled. Happy Nonsense is back in business...

Marc

2004-07-02T10:21:00.000-07:00

The return is nigh.

I've even figured out exactly what the change is going to be.

When Happy Nonsense returns at the end of this month, it will no longer be an every Friday type of deal. It will be a "whenever I'm damned good and ready" deal. Maybe even multiple times a week. Plus, the focus will turn away from my personal life and onto our popular culture. I have done a poor job of putting my pop culture expertise to work for a long time now. Those days are over.

Happy Nonsense: Pop Culture Confidential...

Coming August 2004.

Marc@MarcMason.com

2004-05-28T18:49:00.000-07:00

-30-

It isn't forever. I promise.

There are a lot of people out there who have faithfully tuned into this column, week in and week out, some since it started in October of 1999. I can't even remotely begin to tell you how much that has meant to me.

There are also plenty of people who have just occasionally dropped in here and there, and I'm grateful for them, too. Every single person who came and read. Thank you. Thank you.

Right now, I just can't do it for a while. Everything has gone horribly, horribly wrong, and I just don't have the energy, the focus, or the drive to sit here and write. I have other writing assignments that I am going to have to turn what's left of my energy and focus upon. So something has to go on hiatus. That something is Happy Nonsense.

In fact, hiatus is a good word. Give me a month. Six weeks. It might be less. I don't know. Maybe I'll even couch the return in TV terms: Happy Nonsense, season two. Who can say?

I invite you all to follow me at Movie Poop Shoot and The Comics Waiting Room in the meantime. Again, my many thanks.

Mason out.

Marc@MarcMason.com

2004-05-21T13:02:00.000-07:00

27

It took 30 years.

My grandfather started taking me to major league and minor league baseball games when I was around four years old. From the earliest possible age, I fell in love with the game. The history of it, the greatness of its players from generation to generation, the purity of the sport. Baseball was my very first love affair.

I played. In fact, I played really well. In the ten or eleven seasons that I put on a uniform and went out on the diamond, I played in hundreds of games. And I never saw it happen.

When you love the game, there’s always ways to express that love. I subscribed to Baseball Digest for years. I collected baseball cards as an almost secondary religion. And of course, you cannot resist the lure of the crack of the bat, even when it doesn’t involve your team.

So over the years, I have been to hundreds of major and minor league games. Hundreds. That doesn’t include all the high school, Base Ruth League, or Little League games I’ve been to. And I‘d never seen it happen. Each and every season, I have also found ways to watch probably a hundred games or better on the television as well. Thousands of faceless games flashing across the screen. Occasionally, I’d see something truly great, but there continued to be one small gap in what I wanted to finally experience.

Sure, I’ve been watching one game and had the network do cut-ins to let the audience follow what was happening. I’ve seen the end, the jumping, the joy. But never start to finish, pitch one to pitch last. More often, I have seen pitch one to pitch break-up, like Reggie Jackson snatching one away from Nolan Ryan after eight and two-thirds back in 1979. Ben Davis chicken-shit bunting to take one away from Curt Schilling in 2002, violating one of the oldest “off the books” codes in the history of the game. Each tantalizing time, I’d wonder if I would ever get lucky enough to see it happen.

Tuesday, I came home from work feeling more than a bit lost and stranded. Many crises had beset me, and would continue to through the week. But I remembered to turn on the TV and watch the Diamondbacks game. Randy Johnson was scheduled to pitch, and he was in a dark place after his previous start, having lost a 1-0 classic. I was wondering how he’d react to the media firestorm he started when he criticized the team.

27 up, 27 down. That’s how.

Finally, after decades, I got to see a no-hitter from start to finish. Even better, I saw a perfect game, only the 15th of the modern era. It was as thrilling as I could have asked for, and even more gut-wrenching to watch late in the game as he got closer and closer to history. But Johnson did it, and it was amazing. I shed a tear of joy that I was fortunate enough to have been able to see it. I only wish my grandfather could have, as well.

Marc@MarcMason.com

2004-05-14T21:13:00.000-07:00

SHHHHHHH!

Silence is golden. Let's take a moment in honor of the dead.

Marc@MarcMason.com

2004-05-07T16:51:00.000-07:00

That's With Two "P"s

Appalling. That's the only way I can describe this week.

Gross abuse of prisoners by American soldiers. A school coach who gave one of his athletes an award named "The Crybaby" because the kid had the audacity to want to play, rather than sit on the bench. And Major League Baseball selling the right to Sony Pictures to put Spider-Man2 logos on the bases during a late June weekend.

At least the public outcry made MLB wise up and yank the promotion.

Each and every week it seems more and more like I no longer actually live on a sane and rational planet. Instead, I wake up, read the papers and the internet, and feel more certain that I have been transported to an alternate reality. A couple of teenagers on a boys volleyball team were pissed that the junior varsity kids beat them to the chance to eat first while on a trip and assaulted a JV player by whacking him in the head... with their dicks. Come on... tell me there's a portal back to the other, happier place.

Tell me that I didn't read an article today where the citizens of the town where of one of those soldiers busted for torturing Iraqi prisoners came from didn't back up her actions, refer to any person of ethnicity or color as "subhuman," and suggest that Iraw should just be eradictaed off the map because of that.

Assure me that a big-time liberal activist and writer wasn't forced to expose himself as a fraud this week when it turned out that all that motivation he took from his experiences as an Army Ranger was bullshit, considering he'd never been in the service.

Explain to me just exactly how everything is going to be "okay" when I read about a marauding pack of drag queens who, deciding that they must arrive at DQ beauty pageants in the finest style, have been stealing the finest cars from southern dealership lots en masse.

Anyone?

Anyone?

Marc@MarcMason.com

2004-05-01T00:05:00.000-07:00

Normal

It's nice to be normal. This has been the most normal week Rebecca and I have had in I don't know how long.

Monday, we went out to a movie test screening. Tuesday, we went to a Diamondbacks/Cubs game. We enjoyed nights at home the past two nights. And tonight, we went to a concert and hit our favorite bar afterward.

This isn't something that we get to do frequently. It's something I am going to treasure.

And now, we're off to go to bed, to lay together as man and woman, lovers. It's the perfect way to finish.

Marc@MarcMason.com

2004-04-23T13:48:00.000-07:00

Half-Mast

Pat Tillman was my all-time favorite Sun Devil.

Even before Pat went on to the NFL, and eventually made his fateful decision to join the Army and serve his nation, I had a deep and abiding love and respect for how he played football and how he played life. He was the kind of person that, in your weaker moments, you wished you could be. Honest. Dependable. Someone who put 100% of himself in everything he did. And yet somehow, he managed to stay humble.

The announcement this morning that Pat had been killed in action in Afghanistan was a blow, not only to people like myself who were fans, but to the campus where I graduated from and still work at. The Governor ordered flags flown at half-mast here at ASU, and things are unusually still and quiet today. It's like the wind was knocked out of 45,000 people.

Most of you have seen or heard the stories about what Pat did. Looking at free-agency and a healthy $3.6 million payday from the Arizona Cardinals, Pat instead came home from his honeymoon in May 2002 and decided that his life needed something else, and that he had a purpose elsewhere. He declined to sign, and instead he and his brother Kevin joined the Army and went for Ranger training. Pat declined every interview request made of him at that point, preferring to be just another guy who was going to serve his nation's armed forces. He promised that after his three year commitment to the Army he would return to the NFL, and you never doubted him for a second. He was just that kind of man.

How many of us could have done that? I like to believe that I am a relatively principled person, and someone who sticks to his beliefs, but if accepting $3.6 million meant keeping myself out of mortal harm, I'm not sure there's a guiding ideal on Earth that would stop me from cashing those checks. I don't know anyone else who feels differently, either.

As the casualties have mounted in Iraq and Afghanistan over the last few months, there has been a quiet anonymity to the fallen. We're no longer being fed bullshit stories like Jessica Lynch's rescue, and heroes like Lori Piestewa have dropped off the radar. In fact, since the official "war" ended, we aren't really seeing any names at all. Today that changed.

The death of Pat Tillman might well turn out to be a pivotal event in the Middle Eastern conflicts. He wasn't just a young kid from North Dakota; he was a public figure, someone that people had seen on television and known of before he went into the service. What worries me is that the politicos on each side will find a way to get propaganda value out of Pat's sacrifice, and what will happen to his family, who don't deserve that pain. His brother Kevin serves in the same unit with Pat. How frightened must they be right now?

Wars are generally fought by, and compile the deaths of, forgotten heroes. That's the very nature of conflict. The generals, those with stars on their uniforms, are the ones who write books. Pat Tillman, had he lived and returned to play football again would have never written a book. But his story is one in which we will all be forever able to share. Rest in peace, PT. You did the Sun Devils, the Nation, and your family, proud. God bless.

Marc@MarcMason.com

2004-04-16T22:39:00.000-07:00

Kill Marc

Marc worked. Marc lunched. Marc saw the excellent Kill Bill V2. Marc stuck around. Marc went to dinner with friends. Marc got home very late.

Marc will be back next week.

Marc@MarcMason.com

2004-04-09T21:26:00.000-07:00

Throwing Feces

All stories are better when they include a monkey. This was concluded tonight at happy hour, and there were no dissenting voices. So mote it be.

Yesterday, national security advisor Condy Rice finally ~~lied~~ testified in front of the 9/11 commission. Her remarks were widely interpreted by various pundits, and the meanings were never clear. But the highlight of the day's testimony came when the senior monkey on the commission reacted to Rice's denials by shitting in his hand and flinging it at Miss Rice's brifecase, where it settled in between some OPEC price reports and a small bag of lipsticks.

Much better.

This week at work I received one of my two annual evaluations. I kick total ass at my job, so there really wasn't anything of substantial interest in it, except for when I was praised for my quick thinking and the lives saved when I stopped a rampaging monkey from re-programming our computer network to make it endlessly re-type the complete works of Shakespeare.

That works for me.

But the problem with that second one is that the monkey didn't throw any excrement. Stories where monkeys throw excrement are better than the ones that don't. It's a rule.

Maybe what that really means is that our human stories would be much better if humans took the time to throw their own feces at other people and objects. I have a wonderful picture in my head of John Kerry, mid-debate, tiring of W's incessant blather and whipping a nice, steaming fresh, pile of turds at him. That would give a new definition to what makes someone Presidential material; we'd vote for the guy who eats the most fiber.

I should be in charge of the world. Me, and my pet monkey, who shall be called "Fatdick." (Don't ask.) I wonder how to get on the ballot for that? Who do I have to shit on to make that happen?. Oh yeah- if I were a Republican, that answer would be "the electorate."

Marc@MarcMason.com

2004-04-02T21:17:00.000-08:00

Lone And Level Sands

My depression began to shift and evolve into other outlets this week. It wasn't that I felt better or anything like that- I don't. But I did begin to acquire a sensation and feeling of rage that flickered and flamed inside of me at various times this week.

In certain ways, the rage was beneficial: I was working out one evening while completely in its grip, and the 24 minutes was almost literally over before I realized I had started. I wish it were always that easy to do Tae Bo. Of course, that would also mean I might be ready for the next level tape.

On the flip side, there are few things that hurt more than rage unexpressed. It's one of those feelings that moves around your gut and begins to eat away at you from within. Unexpressed rage is a soul-eating virus for which there is not an antibiotic treatment. It blows.

It may sound funny or even stupid, but I did manage at one point to find a creative and useful way of working through it. It may be only because I love science fiction, but I'll take what I can get. I sat and closed my eyes, and I tried to filter out the noise in the vicinity. Then (don't laugh) I pictured myself sitting on a pile of stones, holding a broken bone in my hand, and began to just beat the holy living fuck out of everything in sight. I swear to you, I thought I felt the wind from my rapid arm movements cascading across my face. There was no monolith in my visualization, and I didn't finish by throwing the bone straight up in the air, but it was all good nonetheless.

See? Being a semi-geek does have its usefulness.

Marc@MarcMason.com

2004-03-26T21:32:00.000-08:00

Long Day Down

Early and long day. Up early so I could go to bank for Bec and then work 8-12 shift. Spring training baseball game with my friend Julie and my friend Orchid, whom I haven't seen in a year. Fantastic ballgame, and it was "hat day" to boot. My new Angels cap rocks.

Sidebar: we get to the game, and Julie looks down to see that she's essentially out of gas. Not good when you drive an SUV. So after the game, the traffic backup was so bad that we couldn't risk getting into it. We'd have expended the fumes before we ever got out of the lot. So we pulled under a tree to hang out and listened to music while staring at the hill in front of us. Much to our good fortune, the hill was populated by an ugly RV, and the users of the RV came back pretty quickly. Turns out, these guys (all in their 30s) were road tripping from San Diego and they invited us up for alcoholic beverages and to hang out. It was a great way to kill an hour, I'll tell ya that. Then we set forth to meet friends at our current favorite watering hole.

So I finally dragged myself in around 10pm from the bar. Tired. Worn out from the time away, and the time spent outside in the warm. I'm filthy, my hair is disgusting, and I am in desperate need of a shower. It was a pretty damned good day.

It's nice to know I can still have them, you know?

So after a very stressful week, I am ready to rest. I am doing all the right things for depression, particularly making sure to get out and have an active life. We'll see what today may have done for me in the long run.

Marc@MarcMason.com

2004-03-19T15:07:00.000-08:00

Looking For A Handhold

You see various means of escape here and there. Wednesday, you go see one of your favorite bands in concert. The NCAA Tournament begins, and that's always an interesting diversion. There's more live music on tap for tonight. It's something to keep you busy as you try and find a grip on the side of the crater and start climbing out.

But there are always forces aligned against you, even when you are happy, and this week is no exception. Those poor people in Spain who died in an action that allowed terrorists to essentially rig an election. Work pressing down on you and stressing you out. Horrible, strange dreams that plague and haunt your nights. What good is it to sleep for ten hours if you wake up feeling physically destroyed? Not to mention the recurring nightmare that the most evil and corrupt administration running this country since Woodrow Wilson still has a chance to be re-elected. Fuck almighty.

When I get depressed, I experience an unusual "disconnect" that makes me feel like I am operating my life from just left of my body, shuddering and screaming helplessly as I watch the events around me taking place. I guess this probably stems from my ability to remain detached from a great deal of life's emotional chaos even when I am feeling well. But the shitty thing about depression for me is that there is no remote control... and I can't shut off the damned TV.

Marc@MarcMason.com

2004-03-12T21:06:00.000-08:00

Crater

Been more tired than I should be. Realized that I have slid into a bit of a depression in the past week. Life is making me feel smaller and lesser, as though I am at the bottom of the crevasse looking up the sides for freedom and escape.

Sort of leaves me not in a place to be here right now. It happens, I guess. I'd rather not give less than my best, so I won't.

Marc@MarcMason.com

2004-03-05T21:46:00.000-08:00

It's Late

Long day. Went to Tucson for some job training stuff. Rebecca went with me and we made a day of it, driving around a bit and going to El Charro for the U.S.' best Mexican food. Came home, and we had a bit of a wine tasting, popping the cork on two different reds. I even let her win at Scrabble. So I now have a buzz and am really tired. So I'm off to bed. Until next time...

Marc@MarcMason.com

2004-02-27T14:48:00.000-08:00

Valedictory

Four years. In four years, you can complete high school, to which I paid very little attention. In four years you can graduate from college, which I did not, nor did I care to. In four years you can also build a life with someone you want to be with forever, which I have done, and I can certainly verify that I've put more effort into that than college and high school combined.

Rebecca and I celebrated four years together this week, and we did it quietly for the most part. Choosing to go out and celebrate tonight rather than on a weekday, we instead passed the time cuddling on the couch and watching me pass out on the loveseat at 9:30pm. From this, great romances are made, yes? But really, it was nice, as nice as any anniversary we've had, because it was calm and stress-free, which is sort of unusual for us.

We've been very lucky to get past some of the obstacles placed before us in the last four years, but at every turn, it seems like we've realized that it is worth the effort and the occasional troubles, if it means we get to be together. And isn't that what it's all about?

My friends Linda and Sally just celebrated their 17th anniversary together a few weeks ago. I have no idea how that feels for them, but I do know one thing: Rebecca and I really want to find out.

Marc@MarcMason.com

2004-02-20T20:57:00.000-08:00

Horror

This week I've been watching the scandal over the Colorado football program like a hawk. It seems like the bigger it grows, the more it distresses me.

I'm not an alum of CU. Never even visited the campus. And that's one of the primary reasons why I am concerned. You, too. Because any person of conscience should be eyeing these events with disgust and horror, wondering what can be done and how it can be stopped everywhere else.

Rape is not a crime to ever take lightly, and it does not deserve anything less than forceful response from the law and the community. Confronted with the allegation that one of his players was raped by another, the Colorado coach forgot to even pay lip service to being appalled. Instead, he derided female place kicker Katie Hnida as a "girl" and a "bad player." As if this excuses the crime! Supposedly, we have evolved past the point where we think that rape is "acceptable" in any form, let alone as a punishment....for not successfully putting the ball between the uprights.

But hey, if Coach Scumbag wants to set us back to a prior era, then let's run with it, shall we?

My McBurger didn't come plain, as asked? Everyone in line gets to tie the cook to the fryer and start pounding away. Tears could be special sauce, right? Cut me off at the stoplight? You get pulled over, bent through the window, we all nearby pedestrians get a turn. I'm sure the traffic backup won't mind the show. And hey, if you want me to play football for your school, and the girl you sent to show me around doesn't want to give me any ass? Well that ain't gonna fly. It's her fault for being there, right?

It's the cook's fault for screwing up, right? The driver's for cutting me off? So taking by force is justified, right?

What a load of horseshit. Coach Scumbag just doesn't get it.

Maybe you don't actually know someone who's been a victim. I do. The first girl I ever loved was victimized by a neighbor, and no one helped her or believed her. Instead, she got the blame. So hearing Katie Hnida's tale brought back a large, painful memory, and seeing Coach Scumbag turn around and intimate that her plight was brought on just because she was a girl and not a good football player... it made me want to vomit.

I want to believe that Barnett will finally get it, but he won't. The neanderthals never do. I hope and pray that someone puts a stop to the nonsense in Colorado, and at all the other schools across the nation that we aren't hearing about, but I find it hard to believe it will. And I wish to God that we'd evolve way past ever even having the idea to forcibly sexually assault anyone, ever, as a species. But I won't hold my breath on that either. It seems big and pointless to leave yourself open to even care.

So I ask for this instead: if we're going to de-volve, and if we are going to still have a segment of the population that believes that this crime is acceptable, and blaming the victim is the way to go, it's time to take it to the next level. If you lie to the American public, and you waste lives in a foreign nation on a personal war, and you send American jobs out of the country and call it a good thing for everyone... you get fucked up the ass by the entire Colorado football team. And you have no one to blame... but yourself.

Marc@MarcMason.com

2004-02-13T19:32:00.000-08:00

Not Tonight, I Have A Headache

Have spent the week battling a vicious cold. Damned near completely lost my voice. Definitely lost my energy and enthusiasm. So this week is a bust. Enjoy Hallmark Day tomorrow, though. If you can.

Marc@MarcMason.com

2004-02-06T18:49:00.000-08:00

Fear And Hate

I am a deep liberal. I believe so deeply in civil liberties that I'd risk my life for them. But yesterday's decision by the Massachusetts Supreme Court allowing gay marriage was probably the exact worse thing that could happen. Not because I'm not in favor of gay marriage- I am hugely in favor of it. But it comes at the worst possible time I can imagine.

The Democrats have a front runner for their choice to try and beat Bush, a goal I think we're all behind. But he's also from Massachusetts. And that's a killer.

No one is better at playing the politics of fear and hate than the Bushies. No one. They frightened people of terrorists so badly that they stopped believing that it was acceptable to question the government's actions. And you can be goddamned sure that they'll seize on John Kerry's MA roots to stir up old ladies in Iowa who are scared to death of homosexuals.

It won't matter what Kerry's opinions are. Karl Rove and company will link Kerry and gay marriage like green eggs and ham. They'll go to Mississippi and convince every backwater hick missing all but three teeth that Kerry is going to send the married homos to live in their neighborhood and to destroy their church. It gives them a way to demonize Kerry by linking him to the Different, and people are terrified and hateful towards the Different.

Can you imagine if the gay couple was black? Oy.

So there will be a huge effort to destroy Kerry this way. The focus will be moved from Iraq, lies about WMDs, AWOL National Guard service, and the biggest deficits in history...in short, Bush and Rove will steer the conversation about our nation's future away from anything important.

Gives you a really bad feeling doesn't it? Because it's exactly how they work, and they're relentless. Ask Bill and Hilary Clinton. And pray for John Kerry. Pray for him hard. Because he's about to get fired upon by an enemy who won't rest until he is destroyed. God help us all.

Marc@MarcMason.com

2004-01-30T21:47:00.000-08:00

Gah.

Bowlin', bowlin', bowlin'....though my thumb is swollen... keep them pins a rollin'.... raw hide.

Just bowled for the first time in over a decade. I was okay at first and sucked worse and worse as the game went on. Pain in the arse game. My shoulder is killing me and my thumb hurts like a motherfucker.

Spare me a column this week, please.

Marc@MarcMason.com

2004-01-23T15:58:00.000-08:00

Childhood's Dead

Literally.

Completing a sadness that just about every kid in my generation can feel, Bob Keeshan, known to us as the great Captain Kangaroo, passed away today. Following last year's loss of Fred "Mr." Rogers, our icons are now gone, a gaping void left in children's entertainment. There is no more safety, and precious little joy left in the what children now consume on television.

Don't get me wrong- I love SpongeBob, and a good chunk of what Nickelodeon puts on the air is entertaining for young and old. But there's no real flavor or character to the shows beyond the animation, and the most high profile kids TV that feature real humans, Out Of The Box and The Wiggles, are creepy. The humans lack the capability to speak to kids the way Keeshan and Rogers did, and they come across as condescending and trite.

Keeshan, Prince Valiant haircut and all, was a man who seemed to have a limitless patience and compassion for youth and how they felt. He had an honesty that most young kids feel like adults lack; young Bobby and Susie have a bullshit detector that sniffs out Mommy's nonsense very easily, but Captain Kangaroo never set off that detector. He inspired trust in kid and parent alike. You knew he wouldn't lead you wrong.

So, thanks Captain. You left an indelible mark on my youth and made things just a bit better every day that I tuned in. I hope that Heaven' children are sitting in a studio waiting for you. The show, as always, must go on.

Marc@MarcMason.com

2004-01-16T19:16:00.000-08:00

Whatever Happened To?

Whatever happened to musicians who understood what it means to be a musician?

The main goal of most bands used to be: play loud music, then fuck hot chicks. It didn't matter if the guys in the band were attractive or not, and they didn't have to try to be. They were in the band or they were the starring solo artists. Period. Music+Songs= Poon. A very simple equation.

The last thing that they were supposed to do was write songs specifically for the purpose of getting themselves laid.

John Mayer has to be the worst offender these days. You listen to his songs and you can just imagine his face in the studio as he lays down another track. "Ahhh. Another effort that will assure me all the chicks I can handle and more. Woo hoo!" It's no coincidence that the chorus lyric "Your body is a wonderland" can easily be replaced with "I'll get all the ass I can." For fuck's sake.

Even Aerosmith, a band that used to be kings of the "pick a groupie to blow me backstage" scene has slid into making wretched power ballads like "I Don't Want To Miss A Thing" that make the young girls swoon. Christ. It's like they finally realized they were older than dirt and decided to whip up musical Viagra.

I miss the old days.

Marc@MarcMason.com

2004-01-09T17:49:00.000-08:00

No Forgiveness

Pete Rose has reared his ugly head again this week, releasing a "tell-all" book in which he finally admits he bet on baseball...after lying and denying for fourteen years. Rose seems to hope that this will help him earn reinstatement to the good graces of Major Leage Baseball.

I hope it helps him burn in Hell.

When I was four years old, my grandfather came back from a trip to Cincinnati with a copy of a book that Rose had written, a diary of the 1973 season titled "Charlie Hustle." I was captivated by it, especially as an early reader, and Rose became my favorite player, my idol. I was young, and life was good.

I was born a right handed hitter, and I was a real good one from the start of my first season of play at five years old. This was back before T-Ball, when adults actually threw the ball to kids underhanded. But at the age of seven, I decided that I wanted to be more like Pete, and I began learning how to also hit from the left side of the plate. Rose was a switch hitter, and I didn't want to let my hero down by not trying and succeeding at it. So I did.

And that was the way my youth played out. If Rose put another book out, I bought it. If there was a new Rose baseball card, I did my damnedest to get one. If Rose was going to be on TV, I either set the VCR, or I was home to see it. I cried when he broke Ty Cobb's all-time hit record. Baseball was my first love, and Rose was the representation of that love.

Then I moved off to college, that intensity behind me perhaps, but those memories and those feelings golden. I'd even wear number 14 in his honor that first year of college. But then the shit hit the fan.

Reports surfaced that Rose had been betting on baseball, and that the Commissioner was investigating him. I didn't want it to be true. At first, I believed Rose's protestations that it was nothing but a huge witchhunt with no valid purpose. But it seemed like every week that I opened my mailbox and pulled out the latest Sports Illustrated, the allegations and the proof got more and more detailed and it was harder to deny Rose's actions in my heart.

Then came his banishment, his refusal to admit his wrongdoing, and his utter absence of anything resembling an apology. Prison followed because of tax reasons, but the damage was already done...to every kid like me.

Rose has now published his horrid, and ultimately un-contrite, book admitting his wrongs, but he still doesn't get it, and he still hasn't turned his apologies or contrition in the direction they should have gone fourteen years ago.

How many of us were there? How many kids worshipped Rose's clay feet, and were destroyed inside by that ordeal in 1989? How many had so much of their childhood darkened and ruined by Rose's greed and stupidity?

But Rose doesn't care. He only cares about getting that plaque in Cooperstown and about making money. For years, I felt as though he should be re-instated if he apologized, and apologized to the right people and meant it. But he hasn't. Instead, he's cast a pall over this year's Hall Of Fame selections by drawing the attention to himself, rather than waiting his turn. So fuck Pete Rose. Fuck him, and don't ever let him in the Hall Of Fame. Not while he's drawing breath on this planet. Because he's destroyed and ruined to many things; kids' dreams, the integrity of the game of baseball; and any feeling that he could ever be rehabilitated into someone worthy of the Hall. Never. No forgiveness.

Marc@MarcMason.com

2004-01-02T21:16:00.000-08:00

The Future

I'm waking up to it every day. I roll over, rub the crap from my eyes, brush my teeth, and there in the mirror it stares at me. A great gaping maw of "what next?" eyes me with bemusement and waits for me to decide what to do.

As the new year dawned yesterday, I was feeling like I should have been ready and primed for deep and serious action, but instead I found myself buried in the past, watching a marathon of I LOVE THE 80S on VH1 for around ten hours. It was pathetic. On the day of renewal, I was rotting away on my sofa, shutting off my brain. What a waste I was. I avoided the future like it had an STD.

I think the events of the last couple of months have left me in a bit of a fugue, to be realistic. Blown assignments, spaced out priorities...I've been functionally useless. It's amazing that I've managed to bathe myself. Tuesday I forgot to brush my hair, and I managed to leave my house looking like that. Horrifying. If I were a horse, someone would have put a bullet in my head.

But there is no escape, you know? The future is there, awaiting me, planning for me, knowing that I have no other course but forward in the long term. So I'll do my careful best to plot a decent path...and hope that can make all the difference.

Marc@MarcMason.com

2003-12-26T19:50:00.000-08:00

Obsession

What do you do when obsession is finished?

For eleven days, it consumed me. Top to bottom, this house had to be cleaned, scrubbed, redesigned, remade. I had a limited window to do it in. I had every waking minute that I was home to work with.

I had a deadline that was longer than eleven days.

I don't want to complain about finishing early. I think my efforts not only look wonderful, a truly transformative change for this living space, but the whole place seems bigger somehow...like I discovered 200 square feet that didn't exist previously in the floorplan.

But now I am consumed in the fire of "Now what?", a brutal realization that I shot my cleaning load too soon. I have accomplished this amazing task, but I have no other tasks in which to fill the space I had been given. This presents a very large problem for me.

I require a new obsession. That is the only simple solution. I'm open to suggestions.

Marc@MarcMason.com

2003-12-19T18:01:00.000-08:00

Fat guy. Red suit. Jolly, jolly and all that rot. I need a week off. Gotta finish shopping, or write some Christmas cards, or cry into a beer or something. See you after X-Mas. Happy Holidays, etc.

Marc@MarcMason.com

2003-12-12T13:25:00.000-08:00

If I Were A Woman...

I'm offended on behalf of (almost) all the women I know by one particular chunk of television advertising during the Christmas season. I'm referring, of course, to jewelry store commercials.

They may all be for different establishments, but that doesn't matter...they all have the same theme: women are golddiggers.

One commercial shows a woman floating around a party and noticing the jewelry being worn by the other women there. She is informed at every turn that the husband or boyfriend in question shopped at a particular place. The woman in question then proceeds to find her husband, drop trash in his drink and stomp away from, we are now to believe, the cheap bastard she married. It isn't far off to guess that he'll be in the doghouse for a while.

In most of the other commercials, we see the man in question give his girl a shiny bauble and watch her swoon into his arms. In one commercial, I'm pretty certain that you can see the woman's underwear slide off because they're too damp to stay up. It's horrible. What the Hell kind of Christmas message is that? "Buy her jewelry, and with any luck this Christmas she'll put out."

I guess I'd prefer a subtler, less offensive approach. Something with class dignity.

Hmmm. Maybe Carrot Top is available?

Marc@MarcMason.com

2003-12-05T13:23:00.000-08:00

Can Stop The Music

There's an excellent article in today's USA Today about the continual slow death of the album while interest in singles as downloads rises. They make a number of good points about the freedom to choose the type of music you want versus what's available, and there's some lip service paid to the idea that touring is really the only true way left to reach the fanbase anyway, but I think they gloss over the primary trouble spot, which is:

Not enough good albums are being made that will continue to support the format.

Look, you can't sit there and tell me that the disc Britney Spears released a couple of weeks ago has 60 minutes of interesting and worthwhile pop music on it. There's no fucking way. Anyone who buys that disc is likely getting two or three decent pieces of pop and seven pieces of wretched shit that, if possible, most people would edit off the damn disc.

So why bother? Wouldn't it be a much more brilliant move for someone like Spears to admit that they have no clue how to put together a full length album of quality (and even thematic) music, and instead just put out a new single every couple of months? Maybe every three years or so, put together a compilation disc? It'd be sort of like going from monthly comics to the trade paperback format. And best of all, she'd make money twice, not to mention from the touring. And think of the integrity involved: when was the last time a pop artist decided not to soak their fanbase for dogshit in digital? I'll give you a hint: it wasn't a hip-hop artist.

Leave making albums to those who really know how to make one. Peter Gabriel. U2. Nine Inch Nails. Neil Young. Bruce Springsteen. Quality performing artists. And leave the dogshit out of the other end of the equation. There's nothing wrong with good, solid, quality pop music, just the accompanying dreck that takes up the rest of the tracks.

There are any number of ways to save the struggling business of making music. This would be a great start.

Marc@MarcMason.com

2003-11-28T20:45:00.000-08:00

THANKFUL

Oh, come on! Who does he think he's kidding?

Waking up this morning and reading the news that "President" Bush traveled to Iraq for Thanksgiving with the troops was enough to make me want to vomit up the amazing meal I ate yesterday. I saw a bit of footage of it, and I think he spoke, but I didn't bother to turn up the volume. What was he going to say? "See, Iraq isn't nearly as dangerous as the newsmedia would have you think?"

I suppose we should just be glad that he didn't try and quote FDR: "We have nothing to fear but fear itself" has way too many syllables for him not to mangle it beyond recognition.

Having the Moron-In-Chief in Iraq yesterday and back in the U.S. today is a slap in the face to every poor sonovabitch in uniform still stuck back there. "Thanks for fighting and dying, troops! Maybe at Christmas we'll send Charo!" If Bush can haul his idiot ass to Iraq, then we can haul some soldiers home to spend time with their families...permanently.

But of course, the charge ahead for controlling the Middle East remains unabated. Our friends and loved ones continue to die on a daily basis. And Bush sat at his Texas ranch today in his little cocoon of safety, not giving a flying fuck about the deaths being charged to his soul, because he thinks God is talking to him (through Dick Cheney and Karl Rove, no doubt).

So while I had one of the best Thanksgivings of my life yesterday, one that will stay with me for life, I can't put the plight of my fellow Americans aside. So I continue to pray for their safe and speedy return, and hope that the end of the Bush Administration draws nigh a year from now. There's been enough death, thanks.

Marc@MarcMason.com

2003-11-21T21:49:00.000-08:00

Charge!

I want to see charges brought, and I want some heads on a plate.

Look, Michael Jackson crossed the line into a freakdom from which there is no turning back years ago. He's already been charged with the same crimes once before (and bought off his accuser), so there's no reason for any person with an ounce of sense to ever leave their kid alone with this guy. It wouldn't be so much of an issue if Jackson had been caught fucking one of the llamas on his property, but this is a kid, goddammit. So I reiterate: charges need to be brought against the real guilty party here: this kid's parents.

You wanna pimp your kid's ass to a freak? Fuck you. Don't bitch if the fucking deal goes sour. You want to give your kid a nice normal childhood? Fuck you. Don't send your kid off to spend the weekend with a forty-year old man who has openly admitted that he lets the kids who stay over sleep in his fucking bed. Either way, this kid's parents get the biggest "Fuck you!" that I can offer. Assholes.

But they aren't the only guilty party here. Looking beyond them, and beyond Jackson, how about the charities that still do business with El Freako? Look, I appreciate that charities need every little bit of help that they can get. But there's an ethical line that needs to be drawn. Would they accept a suitcase full of cash from a cocaine dealer? No. So why do they continue to accept the assistance of an accused child molester? Where is that little voice in the backs of their heads telling them that maybe there's a higher principle that needs to be followed?

Or maybe they should start taking the suitcases full of cash.

All I know is that there are assholes a plenty in this case, and they aren't all named Jackson.

Marc@MarcMason.com

2003-11-14T23:14:00.000-08:00

How To Drive Someone Insane In 3 Easy Steps

1. Take away their entertainment for three days. This week my satellite went on the fritz and I lost most of my favorite channels for the better part of three days. Live with a woman who has children who think TV is God, and you start to see the problem. I enjoyed having the time to read, personally.

2. Attempt to fix the satellite yourself by trying to use a combination of the recycling bin and a chair to get on the roof. So I don't own a ladder...big deal! It was perfectly safe as far as I was concerned.

Women. Hmph.

3. Dream cheat on her. Have her dream that she walks in on you nailing some other woman in the guest bedroom. Have her dream this repeatedly through the night. Take this as seriously as possible, because she's actually nauseous and hurt by how it made her feel, and laughing would be really fucking wrong.

So if you see Rebecca anytime soon, and you wonder why her right eye is red and twitching, now you know. And I didn't have to lift a finger to cause it.

Marc@MarcMason.com

2003-11-07T20:11:00.000-08:00

Potpourri

D-Day is December 14th.

I am a train wreck of heartbreak and sadness right now. I barely remember what happened during a day by the time the day is over.

I worked out a good chunk of the logistics for a writing proposal I've been mulling while walking the other day, and when I sat down to write it out it had all left me. Characters, situations, full story concepts; poof.

My brain is not firing on all cylinders.

Train wreck bigger than me: Average Joe on NBC this past Monday. Poor bastards making assholes out of themselves in order to get a hottie to pay attention to them, but instead of preening in a bar, they do shit like tapdance and give her action figures as gifts. Fucking horrible. But you couldn't take your eyes off of it. I wanted to turn away, but I couldn't. I kept thinking that it couldn't get worse, but it just kept sliding downhill.

My life is that of an average Joe. Fuck.

Marc@MarcMason.com

2003-11-01T13:58:00.000-08:00

SHHHH. Sleeping. Long week. Kid had appendix out. Not a single trick-or-treater last night. Sleeping. Boo!

Marc@MarcMason.com

2003-10-24T20:48:00.000-07:00

This Thing I Love Without Reason

Maybe I’ve just had a hard time letting go of certain elements of my youth, but for whatever reason I am thoroughly addicted to VH1’s “I LOVE THE 80S” and its ilk (“I LOVE THE 80S STRIKES BACK” and “I LOVE THE 70S”). I just finished watching the final hour of STRIKES BACK, and already I feel empty inside because it’s over. Goddammit, where is the justice??? Why must this magnificent pop culture Cliff’s Notes be complete???

The show’s hour long looks at each year inevitably bring something back to mind that I have forgotten about, or something that I had very little familiarity with at all. Sure, I watched THE SMURFS, but I never saw a single episode of JEM. I owned a TRAPPER KEEPER, but I never wore L.A. GEAR. But I think we all watched MY TWO DADS at least once, so at least there are some cultural touchstones that we all share. God bless Greg Evigan.

I think what really makes the show fun for me is are the celebrity commentators that VH1 uses to help the reminiscing along. Rich Eisen, now freed from ESPN, really ups his humor quotient in STRIKES BACK. Juliette Lewis is twenty times more charming and appealing talking about her childhood and whether or not Samantha Fox was a skank than she’s been in any film she’s made since NATURAL BORN KILLERS. Virginia Madsen shows that she’s aged spectacularly and will likely be sexy until she’s seventy. But the real stars this time out are Hal Sparks, Donal Logue, and Rachael Harris.

Sparks has been charming in the earlier efforts, but this time around he manages to knock almost every single bit he does out of the park. Even when he has to discuss Rainbow Brite, Sparks finds a way to make me snort. I used to watch him do TALK SOUP, but he was never as good there as he has been in VH1’s little retrospectives. Donal Logue has always been a very funny guy, but for STRIKES BACK he seemed to kick it up a notch. He added a comfortable anger to his bits, never missing a chance to poke a hole in an inflated bit of pop or tip over a sacred cow. VH1 actually recognize his brilliance this time by adding a new segment to the show: “Donal Logue’s Unfinished Thoughts On…” A couple were a bit unnecessary, but for the most part, Logue batted for high average.

The third bright star of STRIKES BACK was Rachael Harris. I was pretty unfamiliar with her work, though a cursory look at her IMDB listing tells me I’ve seen her in plenty of things before. Harris is dryly witty, treading a constant thin line between mocking the topic at hand and admitting love for it. She gives off the impression of being amusingly embarrassed about her own personal participation in the decade, as we all probably should. I’ll definitely be keeping my eye out for further work from her. And yes, I did finish the ten hours of pop highlights crushing on her a bit, too. It’s the glasses. But she’s a comedy genius, dammit. So bite me.

Wisely, VH1 cut back on bits from the now over-exposed Mo Rocca and the annoying Michael Ian Black. Black at least doers a better job of reining himself in during most of the shows, but a little Rocca can go a long way, as those who saw The Smoking Gun’s television special can attest. But in the end, you just have to look past the commentary, and marvel that we survived those fashions, those hairstyles, and those music videos with our dignity intact. Well, most of us anyway. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to find my parachute pants and Vuarnet sunglasses. I want to look cool while getting my hair feathered.

Marc@MarcMason.com

2003-10-17T18:16:00.000-07:00

One Heartbeat

Talk about worry!

The last few months have produced a lifetime of stress. Sleep has come and gone. There’s been sniping, yelling, anger, and crying. But over the last few days, it increased a thousandfold thanks to one brutal and damning fact:

I live with a Red Sox fan.

Diehard Red Sox fans are a different breed. If I ever want to shut Rebecca up or just make her blood pressure go up, all I need to do is utter the word “Buckner”, and suddenly, her skin goes from pasty white to beet red. Much to the detriment of my karma, I actually find it amusing. But until this past week, I’ve never had to see and contend with her in full fan mode, including what appears to be an ulcer that grows with each opposition hit and run.

Now, I consider myself to be a passionate sports fan. I cheer long and loud, and I liver and die with my teams in loyal fashion. I’ve always felt like I’m a class “A” enjoyer of our national pastime. I wear the colors, but I don’t riot when we win. But I have nothing on a diehard Sox fan.

Being a Boston fan means being committed to living and dying at the drop of a hat. It means shedding blood and sweat over each batter that a Sox pitcher faces. And it means crying and hurting deep inside when the Sox lose.

So last night, when Manager Grady Little stupidly left Pedro Martinez in for three batters too long and cost the Sox a trip to the World Series, I adopted a new role in my relationship with Rebecca: I’m the guy who says “Wait until next year” and tries to make the hurt and the tears go away.

It’s sort of weird, actually. All the shit we’ve been through lately, and it was the Sox dropping game 7 to the hated Yankees that left me feeling the most helpless in trying to mend her broken heart. It’s just a game…indeed. But for a little while, it made life seem not so bad.

Marc@MarcMason.com

2003-10-10T20:27:00.000-07:00

Roller Coaster

It all got off to a bad start.

First, my privacy and space were violated in a very unacceptable fashion, and the perpetrator was not punished. Then the brass where I work decided to dump a shitstorm on me and my co-workers, right in the middle of our busiest month of the year. That, at least, has the potential for us to turn it into a positive somewhere down the line, but not at the moment. So by Tuesday, I was pretty close to losing my cool and start slapping the living fuck out of the next person who pissed on my Pop Tarts.

Thankfully, I was able to have a couple of positives by the end of the week.

Thursday afternoon, I went to an on-campus rally where Presidential candidate Howard Dean spoke. I haven’t been as impressed as many others have seemed to be by Dean, but I wanted to see the man up close and get a picture of who he was in person. I came away with a much better feel, and a much rosier outlook on the good Doctor. Dean was personable, forceful, and presented himself clearly. He articulated his feelings and his viewpoints well, and to my eyes it seemed like he had been watching video of Bill Clinton on the campaign trail and taking some pointers from it. If Dean can continue to be as well-spoken, coherent, and even-keeled as he was yesterday, he has a chance to make people really take notice, and the race in 2004 to dethrone the evil emperor and his oil cronies could get interesting and close. So the good guys might just have a fighting chance.

Today, I saw Quentin Tarantino’s return to the big screen, KILL BILL, and it is every bit as good as advertised. It is a kick ass action film, and insanely violent, but the artistic quotient of the film is so high that you leave exhilarated, not sickened. Choices such as shifting to black and white, or blue and black, or even an anime cartoon create an atmosphere of hyper-reality that has to be experienced to be believed. It was worth the six year wait.

So I guess my week was rescued by hope and violence. That may not be the most intelligent hook to hang your hat on, but I suppose in 2003 you take what you can get.

Marc@MarcMason.com

2003-10-03T20:21:00.000-07:00

Anonymity

I don't know who I am today, and I don't really care.

I remain totally unappreciated in my time, even for the simple things. Every task is a thankless one. I wish I knew why I even bother.

Can't I just tender my resignation and quit?

Marc@MarcMason.com

2003-09-26T15:48:00.000-07:00

I Didn’t Mean To Turn You On

Fuck. I used to want to be Robert Palmer.

Reading the stories of his passing this morning transported me back in time to another era, another Marc. As a child of the 80s, I was able to enjoy Palmer before he broke out as a solo artist, during his studio time with Power Station, and late through his last serious chart breakthroughs. In a decade marked by power pop from a man who would eventually go completely insane (see: Jackson, Michael) and hair-driven heavy metal (see: too goddamned many to count), Palmer stuck out like a sore thumb to me in the best possible way.

One thing that I think never changes for teenage boys, no matter the decade, is the desire to be in a band and achieve musical stardom. I think it’s imprinted in our genetic code; that, or it’s simply a response to the fact that guys in the band are the guys who get the girls, and that’s pretty much all we cared about. You can accept whichever excuse you like, but I was no different. In 1986, riding high on my newfound ability to drive an automobile, being a rock star was one of the things that really consumed me. If Hagar had decided to split with Van Halen after one album, I was fuckin’ ready, you dig? But then Palmer came along and my idea of the kind of rock star I wanted to be was forever changed.

Palmer was a man who seemingly didn’t know how to leave his house looking anything less than suave and cool. His sharp black suits and shiny shoes gave him the appearance of a singing James Bond; had he pulled out a PPK Walther and shot John Taylor in the video for “Some Like It Hot” it wouldn’t have been a shock. It would have looked as natural as him sitting down at the bar and ordering a cosmopolitan. But it was his videos for solo efforts such as “Addicted To Love” and “Simply Irresistible” that sealed his cachet. Those blank but gorgeous women playing as his band behind him not only held the attention of the viewer, but they locked you in to Palmer’s essence; you not only thought it was a great song, and that Palmer was a cool guy, but you couldn’t help but feel like it would have taken no effort for him to turn around after the cameras were off, grab a couple of the girls, and head off for the penthouse suite.

So what, you ask? Didn’t just about every rock star have that capability?

Sure. But Palmer was different. Your basic Vince Neil or David Lee Roth stood with their security guards and ordered up Heavy Metal Harlot #3 and Sister Skank #5 and slithered away to the back room, but that wasn’t who Palmer attracted. Palmer attracted women with a bit more of a mature and sophisticated nature, not ones you needed to de-louse upon stripping. It always struck me that Robert Palmer was the guy who’d play a club date and then wind up meeting the businesswoman and her friend who came to the show still dressed from that day’s meetings, and who then decided that they would try anything just once. Order that man another martini!

I also think that gave him the ability to sing his songs in a much more serious fashion than maybe others could have. Palmer could take a tune about turning down a woman for sex (“I Didn’t Mean To Turn You On”) and you believed that he was a guy who had to do it on more than one occasion. He was so sincere, and such a reservoir of cool, that there was no potential for self-mockery there, no falling into the trap that Dean Martin eventually set for himself.

So yeah, when I was 16, 17, 18-years old, I wanted to be in a band, and I wanted to be Robert Palmer. Eventually I let the dreams of music, but I never stopped being the guy who was attracted to mature and sensual looking women in great shoes. We all need something to carry us over, right? I’ve taken a few other things from him; you’ll rarely find me anywhere without the ability to groom myself. Change of clothes, mints, deodorant; it’s in my bag, baby, and it’s important to me. So today, I offer up a hearty thanks to Robert Palmer, and my best hopes for him in the afterlife. May he rest in peace. And may he look damned good in doing so.

2003-09-19T22:43:00.000-07:00

I'm kind of sick of talking about negative shit right now, so I'm stepping off for this weekend. I will begin a desperate search for the positive as soon as I can find the time and get back to you all in a week.

Marc@MarcMason.com

2003-09-12T14:38:00.000-07:00

”Death is everywhere…there are flies on the windscreen…”

Wow. I was hoping to get away from depression topics this week, but for fuck’s sake! The 9/11 anniversary yesterday rolled in, and then today the entertainment world was rocked by the losses of Johnny Cash and the eternal John Ritter.

Herein, I shall share a few thoughts about death:

9/11 Thing that pisses me off the most: the victims being used as propaganda fodder. Folks, no matter how much the Bush Administration tries to claim that those poor souls died for your freedom, it’s bullshit. The people who died in those tragedies died for someone else’s radical philosophy and their hatred. They died because there are millions of people who loathe the American way of life. But they did not die because they put on a uniform and went out and advanced our way of life (the Pentagon victims not withstanding). Dressing up insanity in any cloth is still insanity, whether it’s the government or Al-Qaeda. The 9/11 dead are in the afterlife because they had freedom. There’s a difference.
Johnny Cash: He was 71 years old, and he still looked like a man you just didn’t want to fuck with in a bar fight. He was still making relevant and interesting music as well. We could all take more than a bit away from Cash’s full and rich life.
John Ritter: This is the one that was a real gut punch for me. Ritter wasn’t even outwardly ill, he just collapsed on the set of his latest sitcom. Six days shy of 55-years old. Christ. Ritter helped define a generation of television comedy for me. He was a consummate professional who always seemed to be able to find a laugh in a script, even if there wasn’t one. Yes, Three’s Company launched him to mega-stardom, and rightfully so; the show had plenty of jiggle, but it was our ability to love Jack Tripper and follow him into the most absurd situations possible that kept it on the air. Later efforts such as Hooperman and Hearts Afire weren’t as huge, but they began to show us that Ritter’s talents were varied and mighty indeed. But it wasn’t until people began taking chances on him in drama, whether his excellent work in Sling Blade or his disturbingly creepy turn as a villain on Buffy The Vampire Slayer, that Ritter really began to get the respect he should have been accorded his entire career. Entertainment is lessened without him.

I’d love to give you a brilliant closing today, but I’m out of words. And I’m tired and talking and thinking about death.

Marc@MarcMason.com

2003-09-05T22:33:00.000-07:00

Why Am I Still Alive?

A few years ago I was discussing some of my darker thoughts on our world with my friend Debbie, when she recoiled in horror at some of the things I had to say. “Why,” she asked, “do you even bother breathing if you really feel that way?”

Good question.

I didn’t have a good answer for her then, and honestly, it took me quite a few years to come up with one, because I wanted an answer that was truthful and full of meaning. So sue me. I also had no clue at that point in my life why I hadn’t already swallowed a bottled of sleeping pills or eaten a gun. But now I know.

The reason that I’ve never committed suicide, no matter how depressed I’ve been at various junctures in my life, is because I am a very arrogant son of a bitch.

What it boils down to is that I believe the world is a much more entertaining and interesting place as long as I’m in it, and it’ll suck for too many people if I leave prematurely. Nature has to take its course in order for my life to have the most thorough impact, and I’m a man who is rightly concerned with his legacy. Sort of makes me Presidential timbre, doesn’t it?

Plus, I’m not one for making and leaving a mess. Even before I met Rebecca, I was one of those rare straight men who was concerned with cleanliness and tidiness. Death by gun could ruin the paint and carpet. Bodily function failure at the time of passing could also do very unfortunate things to the carpet. That’s just not acceptable. If it happens by accident, that’s one thing. But to intentionally kill any chance my next of kin have of getting back a security deposit? That’s just rude.

I lost track of Deb years ago. I think she moved back to Maryland and got married. But if she was here, I’d make her read this so she had her answer. Now the rest of you all know, too. So if you ever hear that I died under mysterious circumstances, or someone claims that I committed suicide, don’t you believe it. Play amateur detective or do whatever you have to to discover the truth. Maybe you’ll even get a movie and book deal. Just make sure that Tom Cruise plays me in the flashback sequences.

Marc@MarcMason.com

2003-08-29T21:07:00.000-07:00

I'm in a rut.

I'm in a really shitty place right now, and I frankly lack the will and concentration to write. The world continues to spiral down the toilet around me, and I don't think I can offer any greater insight than that, and that isn't any insight at all. So, fuck it. I'm taking a second week in a row off. Please don't hate me or stop coming by. I promise I'll have my shit together again soon

Marc@MarcMason.com

2003-08-23T11:20:00.000-07:00

I'm apparently so lazy that I'm even a day late announcing that I'm taking the week off. Brilliant, huh?

Marc@MarcMason.com

2003-08-15T11:49:00.000-07:00

Fair And Balanced

Today, bloggers nationwide are observing "Fair And Balanced Day" as a show of support and solidarity against FOX NewsCorp's stupid and vicious lawsuit against satirist Al Franken. Now, even though I post "Happy Nonsense" through a blog, I don't consider it one as such. However, for today, you can bet your ass that it's a blog.

FOX's stunningly snotty lawsuit, charging Franken with trademark infringement for making fun of them, comes as another dumb decision in a long line of them, the first being that they actually decided to refer to their broadcasts as "fair and balanced" with a straight face. With modern day William Randolph Hearst, Rupert Murdoch, owning and running the show, neither of those words even remotely describes the hawkishly conservative drivel that escapes the lips of a FOXnews anchor. For FOX to even imply that they have the remotest credibility as a serious news organiztion is quite the joke.

Murdoch's darlings have actually pointed out this week that they've never had a scandal hit their newsroom like CNN's "Tailhook" problem, or the New York Times' fiasco with Jayson Blair. You know what? They're right. Of course, you run plenty of risks when you're actually trying to report news that matters and that isn't dictated by one of the wealthiest Republicans on the planet, and eventually, you're gonna get burned. It's a fact of life. But at least those other outlets are trying. There's a recognition at CNN, the Times, and other places that maybe a keener eye must be applied to the world around us, and an eye that isn't filtered by money, political action committees, and greed. FOX, on the other hand, seems committed to promoting the continual deaths of American soldiers in Iraq as a good thing because the war mongers at the top of the American food chain count among them their own version of Citizen Kane.

I happen to think Al Franken is a damned funny guy. I've read most of his work, watched a large amount of his political commentary on TV, and I always seem to feel like he's someone that'd be a fantastic lunch companion. Interesting, lucid, and witty. He even has a good sense of humor about being a liberal and can make fun of himself and the rest of us who fall into that same category. He's someone you can respect for being who he is.

I dare you to ever find that to be the case for his humorless pursuers.

Marc@MarcMason.com

2003-08-08T10:26:00.000-07:00

Today marks fifteen years that I’ve been in Arizona. That’s a helluva thing.

I suppose to a huge extent that I’m really a very lucky man. Many people go through life wondering and questioning where they should be, but I’ve been able to solve that. The first time I came to Arizona to visit, I knew that this was where I should be, no doubts at all. This place felt like home.

It isn’t just that my friends and the life I’ve created for myself are here, either. There’s a sense of comfort for me in that I’ve had the opportunity to watch the city grow around me and become something greater than it was when I got here. I feel very protective of it in that way. Many cities back east are constrained by their borders, never again having the opportunity to aspire outwards, merely upwards. Yes, at certain times moving outwards has inspired some bad urban sprawl here, but for the most part, this big, beautiful valley finds ways to include instead of exclude.

Then you move beyond our city and you see the rest of the state, and you know why I’ve never left. Stunning mountains and mesas. Rich, thick forests. Beautiful lakes and rivers. Arizona isn’t just a stark desert hotland; it is an enormous full ecosystem stacked at multiple elevations. You need not drive far to find snow in the winter (if you like that sort of thing), or if you live in the north, you can find warm sun in the winter when you’re tired of freezing. Plus you get the added bonus of a marvelous multi-culture thanks to our proximity to Mexico, and suddenly you realize how boring the Midwest really is. You can’t get a decent flauta in Indiana.

So here I remain. In the end, I may be here alone, but you’ll find me. I’ll be sitting on top of Camelback Mountain, basking in the glory of what God has created, looking at his works and despairing that nothing I create shall ever be as lovely as this place where the lone and level sands stretch far away.

Marc@MarcMason.com

2003-08-01T21:44:00.000-07:00

I'm suddenly in an unusually decent mood. I'm sure that won't last.

The week has come and gone mostly without incident. More U.S. soldiers are dying in Iraq every day, and hope grows dim that we will find an exit solution anytime soon because this adminstration doesn't seem to give two fucks about the soldiers they've sent over there. Every life that is snuffed out is a tragedy for someone left behind, and the growing legions of young widows left to raise small children and parents who have instantly outlived their children thanks to the naked greed of a bunch of idiot oilmen makes me physically ill. The lack of any worthy reason to be there has passed the level of mystifying and is rapidly approaching evil.

See? I'm pissed again already. You can depend on me!

My message from last week got to a couple of people at the minimum, which was nice. I was hoping to hear from more, but you take what you can get.

My mother, now to be known as "Robocop" (thanks to her kinky-special pacemaker), is on the road to Virginia and bored to death. I still think that's better than sitting at home in Indiana, though. She's training people for her company, which means she gets to show how smart and competent she is, even if she's doing it in the backwoods.

And speaking of "on the road to", Bob Hope died earlier this week. I watched all those NBC specials as a kid and never really laughed, but I adored him anyway. He was safe, and he meant something to our society. He also entertained both of my grandfathers overseas in the mid-20th century. But I think his biggest accomplishment was living a remarkably full life that we all can envy. May he rest in peace.

Marc@MarcMason.com

2003-07-25T10:49:00.000-07:00

A Message to the Hamilton Heights High School class of 1988:

I wish I was there.

I really wanted to be there this time. Five years passed, and you couldn’t have dragged me back there. Ten years hit, and it seemed like maybe it was a good idea, but I decided against it; the timing was poor, and my zest for the idea was pretty low. So I stayed home. But this year was going to be different.

I started dreaming about it, actually. I think the week I got the invitation, I dreamt about the reunion three days in a row. My subconscious added different facets to the gathering each time, but the point was clear in my head: show up. See some folks. Have some laughs about the old days. Let some shit go. It was sounding like a pretty good plan

Good plans have a way of getting kicked in the genitals, though.

For those of you who don’t know, I left Indiana about two and half months after we graduated the Hammy, and I pitched my tent in Arizona. I went to Arizona State University, got a degree, and then had a typical crisis for many of us when I graduated and realized that I didn’t want to work in my field. So rather than go back to work for the state corporation commission as an investigator, or work as a counselor at a shelter for battered women and their children, or go to law school, I delved into my school job and became an information and technical librarian. In short, I teach people in libraries how to use the technology, and I also do IT work, keeping up my department’s computers and working in the network. I also design web pages and other fun things like that. ASU has the fifth largest computing network in the United States, and what that means is that I almost always have the most up-to-date technology to play with, and there’s always something new to teach and learn. It’s challenging work at best, and stupidly boring at worst. Probably a lot like whatever job you do.

I met my beloved Rebecca in early 2000, and we’ve been happy together since. Before that, the romantic life pretty much sucked. Some of you got married right out of high school, some of you waited a while, and some of you are still single, but we’ve all gone through the pain of shitty relationships at one point, and we know how that goes. I think I was in AZ for eight years before I ever went out with someone who wasn’t a complete lunatic who made me miserable, so even waiting four more years after that to meet Rebecca (I affectionately call her “Monk”, which is short for “Love Monkey” – you don’t want to know) was worth it. She makes life worth waking up for every day. She had been married before to a man who had three daughters, and they all three consider her to be their mother, so she’s kept joint custody of them and two of them live with us. Jessica is a fourteen year-old attitude problem, and Krysten is a seven year-old little peanut who calls me “Daddy” since she was very young when she moved to be with us and really doesn’t know her biological dad very well. Those guys who have kids understand real well what it’s like that first time your child calls you “Daddy”; few experiences can ever match it.

But with kids come problems, and this past spring, we had a huge one with the elder one, and it completely ate our savings fixing it. Since then, we’ve tried to put the money aside so that I could catch a flight out there this weekend, but things like having to replace all four tires on our car kind of killed that, so here I am, sitting in the desert while you’re all there hanging out and having a good time.

I suppose what I’m really trying to say in telling you all this stuff is that fifteen years later, I’m simply a person doing his best to get by in our crazy world. Back at HHHS, we each had our sets of friends, our activities, and our struggles. We didn’t all like each other, and many of us had nothing in common then, but that isn’t necessarily true now. High school is a brutal and somewhat de-humanizing experience, and that’s difficult to accept. Frankly, I didn’t do so well with it, and it contributed greatly to my desire to move as far from Indiana and start over fresh when we were done. I felt like if I stayed there, I would never grow past the perceptions and the hurts I had when I was in school. So sweating in the desert was a good thing for me.

I was angry when I left Indiana, and I stayed that way for a while. In the fifteen years that have passed, I’ve been back to Indiana seven or eight times at most, and not once since Christmas 1998. But now I’m sorry I can’t break that streak this weekend in order to see you all. I was ready.

We’re all 33-34 years old. We’re grown-ups, like it or not. Families, jobs, bills, fears. You aren’t who you were in 1988. I’m not who I was then. For years, I didn’t care about that, but now I sincerely do: I wanted to know who you all were, and I wanted you to know who I was, too. I’m just sorry that I didn’t get that chance this weekend, and I hope and pray that I get that chance again in 2008. I wish each of you the best, and that you have a happy and safe reunion. Thanks for listening to me babble on incoherently for the last few minutes.

Marc@MarcMason.com

2003-07-11T22:15:00.000-07:00

If the world had ended this week, my feelings would not have been hurt.

In fact, if it had, I would have probably been pleased, because there was nothing interesting or worthwhile about being a human over the last seven days. I had the marvelous privilege of being reminded that, work-wise, I am nothing but a trained monkey without the benefits, because instead of me shitting in my hand and giving the turds a righteous fling, instead I am the target of flying shit. So, "thanks" to the complete fucking wastes of human lives who decided I was their toilet this week. May you all burn slowly in Hell.

By the end of Tuesday, my depression was nearly paralyzing. Today, it is coming and going in waves, so we'll see how that goes from here. In the meantime, this is the time of year when I genuinely get out of town, so next Friday, the 18th, this space will be occupied by this little bit of writing. I'll return on the 25th. Take care, all.

Marc@MarcMason.com

2003-07-04T22:47:00.000-07:00

Let Freedom Ring

The U.S. had a birthday today. I just wish she looked and acted younger. Unfortunately, she keeps taking more and more abuse from her leaders, and the old girl is fraying at the edges. Two more blows landed on her this week, and she’s wobbly. Somebody see how much time is left until the bell and get the cut man ready!

First, in “Of course” news, our faux-President apparently claims that God spoke to him and told him to liberate the Iraqi people. This leads to the obvious question, which is: which opponent of Bush is God speaking to and demanding that he liberate the American people? For fuck’s sake! Did one of the shrubs outside the oval office catch fire and Bush just start interpreting the crackling? Anyone out there who really believes that God is speaking to Bush Jr. must be someone whose lips are moving as they read this. It’s much more likely that Bush has returned to his drunken frat days and that the worm at the bottom of the tequila bottle told him to go check the tire pressure on the presidential limo. How the fuck can anyone take this moron seriously?

Then, the Bush administration announced that they were cutting off arms sales to 35 countries. Now, normally, this would be a good thing; selling arms to anyone is fairly dubious. However, the reason that these countries were cut off is because they support the International Court…you know, the one that holds people responsible for war crimes? Crimes like illegally invading a sovereign nation? Hmmm…..whatever could bother the Bushies about that? Say, where are those weapons of mass destruction again?

It used to be that watching fireworks go off and listening to semi-patriotic songs was fun. Now it just feels empty and hollow. Now it just feels like so much propaganda. Innocence is long gone, and hope is slipping rapidly away through the fingers of a very unstable man. It looms large that King George is ripe for overthrow once again, 227 years later. November 2004 isn’t that far away.

Marc@MarcMason.com

2003-06-27T23:09:00.000-07:00

Bah. I have the weekend to myself, I'm relaxing, and I don't feel like bitching about anything. So no new column this week. I'll be back with nothing but love next week.

Marc@MarcMason.com

2003-06-21T09:18:00.000-07:00

Anal Rape Comes For The Archbishop
Karma is a harsh, harsh mistress. However, I’m very happy about that for once. You see, one of the world’s biggest scumbags got his this week, and happiness in Arizona abounds.

Bishop Thomas O’Brien, who spent thirty years as the head of the Phoenix diocese of the Catholic Church, was arrested this week on the charge of a felony hit-and-run accident. A pedestrian unsuccessfully survived a meeting with O’Brien’s windshield, and the good Bishop didn’t stop to bother and help. Oddly enough, however, if he had stopped, O’Brien would have avoided any charges at all, unless he was drinking, particularly since the pedestrian was jaywalking. Hmm…what was that I read that said he was at church before that performing ceremonies, etc, and hitting the sacramental wine? Can’t wait for those lab results! I smell a bigger felony charge coming!

Some might say that committing that crime hardly makes him one of the world’s biggest scumbags, and they’re right. It’s his other crimes that make him one of the world’s biggest scumbags. O’Brien had recently signed an agreement with the local prosecutor acknowledging what most of us around the Valley had known for years: he’s spent the last thirty years covering up rampant sex abuse, obstructing justice to make sure his abusive priests weren’t caught, and transferring them to other parishes without informing anyone, including their new bosses, that they have a kiddie molester on their hands. That allowed for plenty of repeat offenders, and he obstructed the truth when the lawsuits came, too. In short, he was just as much an advocate for pedophiles to find new prey as he was for people to find God. Good thinking there, Tommy…you waste of a fucking life.

Countless lives have been ruined by this piece of shit’s disinterest in doing the right thing. His failure to speak up and advocate for harmed children speaks louder than any sermon ever could. And then the son of a bitch had the audacity and luck to get an immunity agreement. Sickening. So, yes, he is indeed one of the world’s biggest scumbags. You can quote me on it.

Now, ol’ Tommy might have finally found a crime that he could run from, but not hide. A witness to the accident followed O’Brien until he was sure he had the license plate number, and the damage to O’Brien’s car was pretty extensive. Hit-and-run could carry up to four years, and if it turns out he was drinking, it goes up to manslaughter and more years. And then Karma kicks in

You see, child molesters and child killers are the one type of person even the inmates can’t stand. They tend to feel like they deserve extra punishment for being such wretched low lives. So I expect that O’Brien will find himself a marked man on the inside, and likely separated from the general population. Too bad. Because the right inmate would show him exactly what it felt like to be a child that O’Brien left unprotected from a serial molester. And that would be the best Karma of all…feeling the pain of your victims. Good luck sitting down, mister Bishop…and enjoy Hell when you get there.

Marc@MarcMason.com

2003-06-13T21:19:00.000-07:00

It’s been a helluva week.

I turned 33 on Tuesday, and I have to say that I’m pretty damned sick of getting older. Getting older wasn’t supposed to happen to me. It was only supposed to happen to those around me, while I Dorian-Greyed myself through the next several decades. Needless to say, I find the fact that I’m not to be totally unfair, and I’m looking for someone to sue.

I’ve also had some emotional ups and downs in regular life, too. I’ve begun to feel a great swell of guilt about Rebecca and I’s relationship, and I’ve been struggling with wondering if I am dragging her down from leading a better life. We’ve both made some sacrifices to be together, but more and more I’ve wondered if she isn’t sacrificing too much in order to stay with me and maybe she’d be better off leaving me and finding more happiness somewhere closer to her family. In short, I’ve felt like an albatross.

It took me until today to really talk to her about it, and even then I wasn’t sure what to say. Well, to begin with, I couldn’t say much more than “I’m sorry” over and over through my blubbering. I don’t want us to break up, but I don’t want to take the best years of the greatest person I know’s life away from her either. I had imagined for days what it would be like if she admitted I might be right and what it would feel like if I did the stand up thing at that point and let her go. I’m just grateful that it didn’t play out that way, because for the last couple of days I was pretty sure it would.

I also had a horrendous week at work, and my emotional distress at home caused me to overreact in some stupid ways about other situations as well. So 33 hasn’t gotten off to a real flying start. Maybe I should just hope that I turn 34 pretty soon.

Marc@MarcMason.com