June 2004 Archives

I'll try to make this painless. I don't think reviewing movies is my best schtick.

I woke up this morning with the hopes of packing some of the smaller items of my room into my Ford Focus and heading out to Alpharetta, Georgia to unload my possessions, temporarily, on my godmother. She wasn't home.

No, wait. That's not right.

I woke up this morning to the sound of a lawnmower engine making very quick passes by my window. It was 8:15. Star's boyfriend was really making tracks on the lawn. Alas, this time he decided to keep his shirt on, and I was denied watching his sweaty, glistening, well-toned bod mulch that lawn into tiny tiny remnants. I pulled myself out of bed, began fixing up the coffee - got as far as the last step - turning on the machine - and went back to bed.

Two hours later I was up again. My alarm was going off. I decided to make something of the day - calling my godmother. No answer.

I logged on and read some feeds, checked the news, did my normal schtick. Then glanced at the time. 11:10. Farenheit's first showing was on in 20 minutes.

Shower.
Glance in mirror. (Damn I'm hot.)
Theater.

First thing I notice when pulling in is the local NBC affiliate truck sitting right there smack dab in front of the doors. Damn, I forgot to shave! I've been featured in some local news clips before -- I know all about the soundbytes -- but this morning I was really thinking I didn't have the star power the public demands. (No matter, they were waiting for the second showing anyhoo.)

Next thing I noticed was the diversity of the crowd at the ticket window. Well. Not really. It was mostly Black and White -- but once in the movie theater -- there were a lot of Grays and Baldies as well. I was happy to see those. Lately I've been thinking that perhaps my parental units' friend Jim was on to something that was yet to be revealed to me when he said:

If you're twenty and you're a Republican - you have no heart - If you're 40, and you're a Democrat - you have no brain.

Or something to that effect. I guess I really shouldn't put that in quotes - but - well - Buttwell -- tee hee hee.

I'm in the theater and I notice the trailers haven't started - so I head back out to get my breakfast. Popcorn and soda. Mmmmm... Unfortunately, some kids group is there, 20 or so, most likely to see Harry Potter - and the lines are exceptionally long. Understandable. I mean - it's 11:30 on a Friday -- who wants to see a movie? Well -- a lotta people showed up.

I tend to judge a movie by how many times I get up to pee. (I have a really small bladder, and it's a rarity that I make it through a movie these days without unleashing the beast.) I peed once during Farenheit.

Unfortunately, about 30 minutes into the movie I got fed up with seeing the bottom half of the screen getting cutoff because the frame was awry and rose to have a word with customer service. So I managed to leave my seat during this movie twice.

No matter. And I'll tell you why.

If you don't like Dubya, I mean really really don't like Dubya -- much like myself -- then you won't learn a lot from this movie. Most of it has been circled around the blogosphere for quite some time -- and most of it still is. The information Moore puts into his film has a timeline that makes you wonder how recently the final cut was made - and how much of a rush there was to put it out there. And therein lies the problem.

This movie felt choppy (as does this review). Kottke wondered aloud what the movie would have been filmed like under different direction -- and having read his comments earlier -- I have to say the same thoughts were nagging on my mind. Moore still seems caught in the viewfinder for a television program. It's good to let a little nervous laughter out -- but the sequence of scenes and the gravity of the material really didn't synch, or synch-out, as well as I would have liked it to. Perhaps that is why while I was at first laughing at Kottke's pondering of how the movie would have been better had it been done in the style of Capturing the Friedman's, I can now see his point (having seen the movie, duh.) Ebert has nuanced that there are pretty much two movies here. You could cut it with a butter knife the split is so evident. The problem is - in those two halves you have one half where Michael Moore finds it necessary to pull out his usual stunts of dropping in on the big guy...ambushing...bringing it on. The other half is a silent observation of the horror of war. I'll address the second half first.

Many people, left and right alike are coming out to criticize one portion of the film in particular. Moore is making the bridge between 9/11 and the Bush's alleged agenda for war with Iraq. In those scenes Moore displays snippets of Iraqi life one could easily associate with a Utopian society -- a boy flying a kite, fine dining, women smiling as they walk through the streets. He then switches over to Bush declaring war (well, not really...military exercises) and a screen full of fiery bombings. The criticism has been that Moore shows a pre-war Iraq that pretty much all the experts have acknowledged is somewhat eschew from reality. I won't argue with that. The mass graves are testimony enough.

Another criticism people are leveling is that the bombing footage he shows is footage of government buildings or the ministry of defense being shocked and awed into obliteration. Why? Well. What other footage is there? Precision bombing is precise on impact. A lens' focus is on its operator's focus. Who was behind those cameras? Think about it when you're watching it. If you're a cameraman - covering a war - expecting a bombing - where do you want to train your eye? Targets? Maybe? I would. From the safety of my hotel. Miles away. Would I hang with that kite flying kid in the slums that could, just maybe, be right next to these buildings? Time to call the cartographer.

Moore can easily repel this criticism. For in the following scenes there are pictures aplenty of dead babies. Yes. Dead babies. Men. Women. Loaded up into a truck to be taken...somewhere. Then there are the U.S. soldiers' accounts of missles gone astray - and more pictures -- and more Iraqi mourning. Not to mention the background of ruined buildings that are definitely not palaces or government offices.

There was one moment in the film that left an impact on me more than the others, just for bringing to the surface a level of ignorance so apparent in this country that perhaps just a teensy-weensie little more attention should be paid to. The mother of a soldier killed in combat sets off on a journey to the White House where she comes across a protestor (not sure on her story). They share a few words, the protestor stating that Dubya is the real terrorist. They are interrupted . I feel for that soccer mom who interrupted them. She has to feel stupid. She better feel stupid. She told that mother who had lost her child in Iraq to "blame Al Qaeda." Now her ignorance is documented.

As for the first half...

I think Moore went into this project looking to make the connection between the Bush's and the United State's relationship with Saudi Arabia and then got slapped upside the head with a war that nobody could stop. Perhaps it began even earlier than that - with the robbing of the Presidency. It seems Moore was collecting an arsenal of material and just didn't know what to do with it. But lo and behold, whilst one was stockpiling and another wasn't, the muse was born.

I found the 9/11 scene to be amazing. We all remember the visions of that day. We recognize the sounds -- we know what happened. The future generations will know what happened. And yet - it's still just as frightening.

I'm losing my groove. I should say this before I pull my sheets up. I am curious to watch the other criticisms of the movie come out. I don't think it really matters. This country is so partisan now that one person will see it and another will not. That's what a uniter not a divider does for you. There is a lotta hype. Don't believe it and you might actually enjoy the experience.

Maybe I'll come back later with some more -- but I've really got to get to bed now...

Some voices sang out against the intrusion, but they were drowned out or beaten back by what had at midday become a mob.

"Where are we supposed to go?" Street asked. I looked around, and really for the life of me couldn't give a clear answer.

"I s'pose were s'posed to get into one of these doorways." My motions only swelled the confusion, my hands swirled round to any number of indentions along Main Street. All glorious truth be told, had some unseen eye seen: I was already ducked into the nearest portico.

We watched blindly. We watched and recognized what we were watching. We tried to turn the channel, but every lens was focused on that blight.

I massaged my neck, my nerve spot, that spot that had grown from constant irritation. A product of my index finger's infatuation, grown nearly a 1/4 inch since the week began. And here I was on holiday. Waking up in the morning feeling more alive with that swelling mound -- pining for the days when pitching tents was noddable.

No...it isn't a turd.

Experimenting with Dynamic Text Replacement...Still ironing it out...

And abandoning...IE was giving me some funky graphics for one word titles, and I was getting a little edgy about load times/bandwith...still gonna mess around with the fonts...

Houston, we have keys.

You know -- I changed my mind.

I really don't think I want to comment on the wedding except to say that I had a really good time and feel honored to have been invited. No matter how I construe the story I'll be leaving certain details out -- so I feel it'd be better just to leave the moments crystallized on the fibres of the mind, and hope that certain others can break off and shatter away forever. St. Lucia is entertaining two very lucky people right now -- if only I were so lucky as to have escaped to another country, escaped the hangover and the guilt that commonly thrives in post part depression. Instead I've been confined to my home, keyless, as in some sort of karmic wonder, my keys were grasped by hands later bound to a steering wheel set on a course for Louisville, Kentucky. It took me two days to figure that out -- and I'm still recovering. My car, meanwhile, still sits in the hotel parking lot.

Don't get me wrong -- I was one of the happiest cats at that ceremony and afterwards...I really enjoyed seeing and meeting everyone. Some I hadn't seen in many a month -- some I'd never seen. Some I may never see again. Then, that shooting star passed out of the night and landed in a big vat of tapioca pudding the next morning.

Cosmic forces are laughing at me. I think they're responding in kind to that moment when Stephen awoke in Athens to my face glowing orange from the reflection of the flames that were surrounding his socks. Or perhaps they were responding to my prancing around in articles of the ex's clothing that showed surprising support, an event I can only hope has not been documented on film. (It's much sexier to use your imagination.) Oh yes, there are plenty of other moments that could be listed -- but as the blisters on my feet can testify - their occurrence is damning enough without having to be sketched out completely here. There are pangs of guilt that come on every so often, strong enough to force out audible apologies. They've been made in the middle of the night to an empty room several times in the past few days, apologies only to the night air. Yes - I've been talking to myself. I've lost my mind.

The hours of my tour here in Georgia are dwindling. The waves are threatening to topple this battered schooner. I fear I may be going in circles as I tighten the sashes of my eyes against the razor rain, unable to recover my bearings as a fog has formed under the glass of my compass. Wiping with sopped clothing, even were it a productive activity, would be rendered doubly useless by the ferocity of this storm. I can only strengthen my grasp, digging my fingernails into my palm, clutching close to my heart the only relic of direction I have left.

I thought that you might welcome a distraction as I prepare my recollections of the wedding -- so I now present a little video of the bouquet toss that left poor Star in tears after coming oh so close to catching those darned flowers....The Bouquet Toss 4MB -- enjoy it while it lasts -- it'll be up until this weekend...sorry! you're too late...

I'm not old enough to remember, or to have had intelligent thoughts concerning the Reagan era. I remember Libya. I remember the wall coming down afterwards.

I am old enough to know what it means to lose a loved one. (I checked the books, you're allowed to add whatever you want in hypothetical years for this one. I'll say I'm still fortunately "young")

I know what it is like to have to say goodbye.

It is tiring. It is long in its own way, but not long enough in another.

When I said goodbye to my grandfather, I was fortunate enough not to have my hand sliced off by the hearse's doors. I kept it on all the way in.

There is a lot of grieving still going on in my family. It comes in cycles. My Uncle George just lost his wife. I'm thinking of him.

It's difficult to say goodbye. It's difficult for people watching over people saying goodbye -- there's a lot of awkwardness. A lot of the time - people who come to say goodbye don't know the others who are waiting to pay their respects. That's just a failure of networks to reach everyone. There's no technology for everyone to patch into each other.

There should be, however, a technology that silences those cameras from the press corps.

I almost lost it when Nancy rubbed the casket, and those...well - they were doing their jobs -- so those cameras went off like buzzards...Isn't there anything to stop that sound? Must every moment be so public? All networks were carrying it -- what is the moneyshot these days? And does it take 17 rolls to get it? I felt for Nancy. My empathy swelled when she didn't want to leave the casket...She should have had all the time she wanted...

Eventually you can let go.

But you shouldn't have to hear the whirs and clicks to prompt you.

If you can silence a gun, you can silence a camera.

Ugggh. This weekend has been a killer.

I guess I really don't know where to begin about the see-store. She is a tough shell to crack. Perhaps, as many are likely to tell you -- it is because she is already cracked. It's a difficult task - but something that must be done, because the previous object sitting there amongst the rest of the heartstrings is urging me on.

Sitting here in my ship, softly swaying from side to side, the dizzying rhythms of the deep calling me away from shore and safehaven, I must admit that one of the stowaways has kept my attention if but by a perverse inclination to take in its loathsomeness out of the corner of my eye. Like on dry land, when speeding across the great terrain one comes upon one of those instances of circumstance where two opposing objects meet in a horrific accident - you can not tear your eyes away from the disturbing scenes ushered to the side of your path. Here I detect this sensation, morbid fascination, emanating from that same thing that has managed to wrangle itself into my world.

My world. What has it become? I hardly recognize it.

As alluded to previously, the see-store is a creature of mysterious qualities. She began as one thing, and then, whilst away at one of the great learning institutions of this country, became another. Behind those walls some cataclysmic event transformed a loyal patron of hair care products into the prototype for a weopan of mass destruction within that industry.

I can't account for that. I wasn't there.

There are only fractals now. Keywords. A&W. Living at Aunt Susy's. Zeta Tau Alpha. And mosquito netting around the bed in Michigan in the early stages of pre-madonnahood.

I remember watching the grammys when Prince won, I believe his acceptance speech back in 1984 was simply "Thank you," -- but see-store swooned...Pops laughed. I think he was somewhat annoyed because we had to keep switching back and forth from one of his favorite shows...or something. What a strange memory to seep beneath the decks.

I remember slugging my see-store by the garage door in Snellville. I wasn't happy. I was sick of her shit. I knocked her ass to the ground. Then I got the life lesson of never hitting a woman...I still think she learned something that day. As did I.

The developmental years, for me being those teenage disasters, featured little of our subject. She was off - everywhere and nowhere at the sametime. I don't know what lessons she may have learned traversing the country in her jingly outfits - but learned she became - and learned she is still becoming - now working towards becoming a master of education.

I think that perhaps the memory that pops up most when focusing my thoughts on see-store is that of my first Grateful Dead show. It's easy to say now, that having taken in experiences brought about by my presence at such carnival like events has shaped the being that I have become today. It is a being that tries repeatedly to escape its form -- like play-doh that oozes out of the sides of its molder, I have become something of a creature that doesn't want to be bound by any outside fence. I am that worm that you roll over in your hands, continuously expanding snakewise into the world. Eventually I will thin it out, snap, and the remnants will be taken up and smashed into something completely different. Such is life. Such is the end.

Back to the show.

While we were headed out into the midst of this curious parking lot I had the burden of overwhelming excitement that would cling to me, and has clinged to me to this day, of a man on the brink. I was entering into something unknown. There was danger, as was evident in my mother's eyes when she warned me, "Don't eat any brownies or any food from strangers..." Oh. Wow. What the hell was she talking about? Strangers were going to give me food?

I was more concerned with what was lying ahead -- within -- the Omni. I'd prepped myself with several cassettes procured from the local library branch - and walking towards that structure under the summer sun, I was happily wondering aloud what numbers could possibly be unleashed before us that evening. I wondered aloud so eagerly and so often that the admonishment came blunt and straight to the point, "Just don't sing."

I felt I'd done something wrong, and looking around there were so many smiling faces that I couldn't help but wonder whether they weren't all smiling at my expense. Those same smiling faces - cheeks fading away into wild eyes of delight, would continue to surround me in the coming years, though they were of far more comfort after I had released myself from my own microscope.

I remember getting into the arena, sitting around for awhile while the air filled with greetings of friends and a general buzz of excitement. I remember the lights going down and thousands of other small flickering lights answering. I remember a bright light flashing down in our vicinity and a crackling voice coming from something in the dark that wielded a halo of purple hair croaking out "No smoking!" At some point the see-store grabbed me and we waded out into the masses, the music muffled behind us as we stepped into the rotunda, suddenly stepping one foot over the other into higher altitudes, and the music growing louder as we re-entered a portal.

"Welcome to my section," the fellow with the ponytail said at the end of the tunnel.

"This is us," see-store said. And all was well. There was music. There was dancing. There was music. There was dancing. And dancing. And Dancing. And DANCING. AND DANCING AND

"Hey, are you allright?" I turned and looked at whoever it was that had interrupted my groove and my glance was answered by another smiling face of eyes.

"Yeah. uhh. I'm fine." I answered, already feeling teenage sweat quickly flowing into every nervous pore.

"Well, you're just dancing too fast," he said. And everyone around him laughed. And that laughter echoed inside me. And I was sad. And I sat down for the first time all night and see-store turned to me and said,

"Hey, are you allright?" And I looked up at her and told her no, that those guys said I was dancing too fast and I feel like an idiot and

"Those guys are assholes. Don't listen to assholes." She almost literally picked me up and made me dance while turning her evil evil evil evil glare on those guys. Believe me, you don't want to see my see-store's evil glare.

So the show ended, with Baba O'Riley as the encore. I don't remember much else of it -- but I do remember that see-store and I had shared something. Perhaps the first something of substance in quite some time...

(There was, of course that time that we were both rehearsing for Cheaper By the Dozen while she was in high school and I told the director that see-store had quit and then found out that I totally got it all wrong and then got the part and I'm really sorry see-store but I swear that at that age I can't be held responsible for delivering messages of that magnitude...I still don't know what I was supposed to say...but I was damn good in Cheaper By the Dozen!!)

Some time later, or perhaps sometime before, time is but an invention of man, see-store presented me with the object in question. Once again I was hesitant in my acceptance, but there was no willishrinx to usurp my acquisition, and I found myself somewhat reluctantly accepting the object under discrimination. Many years have passed, but I find myself more than ever before that the following conversation took place:

"What the hell is it?"
"It's a monster. It's cool. Want it?"
"Uhhh...I don't know."
"Well, take it. It's yours."

So there you have it. A monster. She went about explaining the spine and the mouth and tail...Something you will have to decide for yourself upon a secondary perusing of the object...But point them out she did, with enthusiasm -- an enthusiasm I see rarely effected in persons I meet in the world. Which is why I think that the see-store should be taking this opportunity to voice that enthusiasm, becoming a beacon of weirdness that yezbick.com so desperately needs more of. We have set up her home - but I fear that perhaps she is a little like me at that first concert -- worried about dancing too fast. Therefore -- dear readers, be you of blood or of some other earthly connection -- I call upon you to hereby add your own say -- no matter how fast you dance -- to let the see-store know that the emptiness in the cyberspace set aside for her is unacceptable. PLEASE. For the love of all that is...errr. ummm...yezbick? just leave a comment and let see-store know we'd all like to know what exactly goes on in the mind of a Yezbick-Bays on the west coast.

Thank You. Good Night. And now you can all get back to your reality television and Ronald Reagan OD.

Oh...and I guess you probably want another object to think about too....

And this time we'll make you think...

Back when we were living in Michigan, Pops worked for Ford Motor Company, Moms was aschoolin', Commodore 128s were still viable alternatives for PCs, and my brother and I were skateboarding fools. See-store had either already headed off to Central Michigan University, was out on a date with "way too much make-up on for a young lady" or this episode is just stretching too far back into the past for my beleagured mind to recall.

A normal day for me then would likely have had as its foundation several hours of education at Our Lady of Good Counsel in Plymouth, followed by a few diversionary hours outside where I would try my damndest to tag along with the brother, my tiny legs cranking out short inefficient pumps along the concrete - the skateboard wobbling out of control in its effort to buck me. Often I would be admonished and sent home -- in which case I would make an effort to break out the bat and ball and entertain myself until dinner time by tossing that ball up and smacking it out into the vast park that rolled from our backyard. If this refused to carry enough diversionary power to last until dinner, I might have grabbed the mitt and a tennis ball, waltzed over to the side of the house and whipped that ball against the brick wall a few times.

I'd become rather good at using the sidewalk that ran about two feet from the side of the house as a ricochet if I got tired of fielding grounders. Just fire that ball down at an angle and watch the physics in action as it smacked up and against the side of the house, it's trajectory now an angle akin to a pop fly. I'd plant myself under these "towering drives" lost in a make-believe game where I became Chet Lemon, making yet another amazing grab for the Detroit Tigers. Many of those pop flies wound up landing on the neighbor's roof, the result of a young boy's overzealous throw. After flying overhead and disappearing over that line in the sky, I heard it bouncing along and tempting fate with its hops. Sometimes it found a temporary home in the eavestroughs way up high where I couldn't reach and I'd have to go back into the garage and take a whiff of those brand new dunlops.. I'd simulate entire games out there under the sun, morphing into my favorite ballplayers, exhorting myself to win yet another World Series, and earn that gold glove as Alan Trammell, and to hell with Tony Fernandez, who in reality always seemed to be the better fielder - but couldn't catch my adulation like ole number 3.

By this time in the day, Dad would have pulled up, and usually came by rifling through the mail, his big sunglasses covering his eyes, a big goofy grin on his face and call out, "Hey Kevin," or "Kevin me-boy" or something in a sing-songy voice. "Watcha doing?"

"Playing baseball." Dad would continue to try to illicit a response with follow up questions, "How was your day?" and that sorta thing, but like a young Ari Fleischer I would manage to deflect and avoid, focusing instead on the diving stab I would have to make in order to keep that runner at third. Eventually Dad would finish sorting the mail and head inside.

Sometimes Dad just went straight inside. That usually meant it was a long day at work...But I'm glad now that more often than not he tried to say something to that crazy son of his who was fascinated by a ball and a brick wall.

It wasn't long after that that Moms would call me in to wash up for supper in the middle of one of these vitally important games and how could you interrupt me and don't you realize we're playing for the pennant here?!. I'd walk in through the garage, throwing my mitt down, head inside and take a left (I think) towards the bathroom where I'd wash up and join the rest of the family in the kitchen for dinner. (Oh the stories the dinner table, or backless benches could tell if they could only find their voice.) Following dinner it was time to do homework and no you can't use the computer until you finish your homework. Using the computer usually meant fighting my brother over who used it last and it's my turn and you're such a jerk. Then I'd cry and get to use the computer. Then brother would call me a name and get in more trouble.

If see-store was home she'd just sigh heavily and roll her eyes around so much you'd think she was having an epileptic fit.

Well - I can't remember the exact occurrences of the day in question -- but the odds are that one or more of the above happened. What I do remember is Mark and I hovering over the object in question, with Dad looking over our shoulders, asking us what we thought about it.

"What is it?" I asked.

approx: "What do you think it is?" He replied.

"It looks like a fishing pole." Indeed, when it was firmer and you held it out at arms length in its younger days, it sorta kinda but not really resembled a fishing pole.

"I think it looks like brains!" Mark snickered. "It's cool, can I have it?" And thus was the transfer completed.

Now, I may have this all wrong. As, for one thing - it is highly unlikely that this object ever made it out of Michigan and all the way down to Georgia when 4/5ths of our family made the journey -- leaving see-store behind to ferment in her newly found hippiedom of Ann Arbor, Michigan. But wound up down here it did, in the hands of Willishrinx, who passed along the, uh, object when he cleaned house before the move to Alaska. Now it lays in the back of the ship, eyeing me over, wondering what its fate will be...

How do you remember it, Willi?

Okay, time for the second object:

I've been packing boxes. Not as much as I should - but enough to realize I'm gonna need more boxes.

I've been coming across plenty of items that I've had to think twice about whether or not to hold fast or jettison over the side of the ship to sound to their watery graves...I'm all the more hesitant as the wake behind me is currently little more than a few scant inches from the shore. Letting go now would mean watching the ripples from splashdown overtake the trail of progress and bring about a bout of melancholic seasickness from the ensuing rocking.

Anything I've had to think twice about has been put into a pile at the tail end of the craft. It's like urban sprawl - only - well - it's dining room sprawl.

Mostly these items are just staring back at me now - begging, pleading, not to be thrown overboard. I mean -- it's much too difficult to part with some of them - as each has a story -- and perhaps that's what I'll do to keep fresh items sprouting up here before your eyes -- take a snapshot -- tell a story...

Many of these items will be easily recognizable by my brother --- who is welcome to share in his experiences. Undoubtedly, the same goes for my see-store - who if she would just give a damn could tell a story as well. The same goes for many of my remaining friends. So what fun can there be in snapshots? Well. I'll have to trick them out a bit -- give you a view through the periscope, and after a click or two -- unveil the entire object.

As it is already quite late and I don't much feel like pushing a story out that isn't ready (it's never a good idea to push things out if they aren't willing, that's how accidents and injuries happen -- just ask Star, or the Dooce), I think I'll start this little series off by posting the pic first -- letting y'all eye it over for a while as the creative juices build in my head, thereby constructing a more salubrious environment for revelation. Have a look at it - wonder - and then click on for the complete object. The story will follow on the next calendar date -- along with the ensuing object of mystery. So without further ado: