As stale, burnt coffee infuses the air
I stir with my consumed keg with particular care
The sun’s angry wife, poking me in the eye
Peeling them open, I see Mormons walk by.
In a suit and tie on, one begins to stretch
Facts and Reality; hungover, I wretch
How can he hold Joseph’s book in his pit
While praising the Lord with his convulsing fit?
Then, the merry man meets with members of his flock
Must be a potluck; one carries a crock.
So tightly wound, she must inch down her skirt
To blindly smile at the golden plates from dirt.
Fifty or so enter as I slightly wake
They won’t leave until the cataclysmic quake
Perhaps they’ll pray for my drunken soul;
I slept in my doorway after a long bar stroll.
Dizzy and sick, I finally rise
Was I listening to Smith’s lies?
I stagger for wine to start my day anew
I’m a Catholic, after all, and that’s what Jesus would do.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Donut Sonnet
Your donut triggers a love sonnet in form
A rumbling desire shakes in my core
A bubbly laugh fixes a fair new form
My bedrock bumbles as never before
Your slightly smile brightens my every day
No winter can exist without your glow
All that matters are the words you say
Is it you or the donut? I may never know.
The stars in your eyes melt mountains and rocks
I garble the rules we use to create
Earthquakes of emotion shake my socks
Is this how it feels to know of your fate?
Your beautiful sun makes men fall as fools
Eschewing the donut, breaking the rules.
A rumbling desire shakes in my core
A bubbly laugh fixes a fair new form
My bedrock bumbles as never before
Your slightly smile brightens my every day
No winter can exist without your glow
All that matters are the words you say
Is it you or the donut? I may never know.
The stars in your eyes melt mountains and rocks
I garble the rules we use to create
Earthquakes of emotion shake my socks
Is this how it feels to know of your fate?
Your beautiful sun makes men fall as fools
Eschewing the donut, breaking the rules.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
POEM: Some Days
Some days I forget about you
Some days I simply pretend
Sometimes I really need you
Because you are a miraculous godsend.
Some days I really need you
Without you the days are long
When I had you, I think I loved you
Sometimes emotions are wrong.
Sometimes I forget my loathing
Some days are just too tough
But when I press my lips to you
Like sandpaper, the aftertaste is rough.
I’m a sucker for my weakness
Which just happens to be you
Some days I’d throw it all away
If only we can start anew.
Some days I think I’ll change you
But you’re a brick wall against a breeze
So I must walk away because when I fight
Coughing, wheezing, I fall to my knees
I love you with all my being
I hate you with the same passion too
Some days I struggle, but I always accept
I’ll never again be with you.
Some days I simply pretend
Sometimes I really need you
Because you are a miraculous godsend.
Some days I really need you
Without you the days are long
When I had you, I think I loved you
Sometimes emotions are wrong.
Sometimes I forget my loathing
Some days are just too tough
But when I press my lips to you
Like sandpaper, the aftertaste is rough.
I’m a sucker for my weakness
Which just happens to be you
Some days I’d throw it all away
If only we can start anew.
Some days I think I’ll change you
But you’re a brick wall against a breeze
So I must walk away because when I fight
Coughing, wheezing, I fall to my knees
I love you with all my being
I hate you with the same passion too
Some days I struggle, but I always accept
I’ll never again be with you.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
A week in the life
What a week here at BWB.
Sunday
BWB was in a celebratory mood on the 4th, reveling in another J-E-T-S victory. Once again, Mark Sanchize played well enough to not destroy his team’s chances against a weak opponent (the Redskins), putting New York firmly into the playoff picture. BWB celebrated with his friend by shotgunning beers well into the night.
The same friend then insisted, with some arm-wringing, on driving me home, promptly receiving a DUI moments after dropping me off. As terrible as that was, and it was, for I am still wrought with guilt, I also arrived home to my roommate’s dog looking sad and disappointed, expecting a furor over the fact she crapped all over the house due to her ever-increasing incontinence.
Monday
Bank statement comes online. I don’t pay attention to it, considering the fact I am lazy and practically illiterate with numbers.
Completely immersed in my self-loathing about harming my good, younger friend by my inactions (i.e. allowing him to drive), I forsake a party I was quite looking forward to and decide to smoke copious amounts of a controlled substance while chugging down Irish coffees with my Burner roommates. The combination of my over-burdening and the alcohol makes me shed a tear or two. “My inaction allowed someone to make a bad decision. It doesn’t matter if he insisted,” I insisted, “I could have prevented it all by making the proper choice. Since I didn’t, it is my fault.”
My friend, we will call her Reb, said, “It doesn’t matter what you did or didn’t do. He was the one who made the choice. At the end of the day, you may have affected his decision that day, but he would have eventually made that decision and paid the price anyway.”
True, perhaps. Still, I can’t get rid of the feeling I ruined my friend and his family’s Christmas.
Tuesday
I have a really boring day at work. She (there is always a “She”) invites me to dinner at her house. She makes fajitas, they are really good. We drink a lot, getting super sloshed (my third day in a row) with another guy, a man I will call T. T isn’t a bad guy, but saying we are good friends is a far stretch. Though drunk, he offers me a ride home, and I accept, attempting to alleviate myself of the burden of his choice with some success. It sort of works. I wonder if it is because he slept with a woman I was at one point very attracted to, yet unable to date.
He’s built as I am built, though he has more hair, and wears it in a goofy faux-hawk. I hate that haircut. It seems I am jealous of every man who has one, but not because of the hair. There’s another with this haircut whom I won’t mention at this point, and if I could trade lives with one person for at least a day, it would be him. I come to this realization while pounding down drinks. Again, the self-loathing comes back, but I allow it to pass this time.
She is a great woman. I want to be with her, we will see.
Wednesday
Completely hung over, I use the last of my controlled substance and swear never to use any ever again. At least, I swear I will never buy any ever again. It doesn’t help my hangover, in fact it makes me feel worse. I avoid absolutely everybody I can—I don’t even go to the library.
I’m angry and irritable as I head to work and proceed to have the busiest Wednesday night I’ve ever had behind the bar. I hate it back there. I feel so disconnected to everybody and everything. The whole reason I enjoy my job is for the ability to float around, help people out and get some exercise by constantly moving. Behind the bar, I simply make fucking drinks and pretend to care about the lushes who I am compelled to serve.
Once I get home, just before midnight, I text one of my oldest friends, a woman who is my rock, so I will call her The Rock. I ask her opinion of my troubles about how I didn’t help my friend when he obviously couldn’t help himself. She insisted my compassion was a great thing, my willingness to love and help everybody I know, even those I hate, is my greatest asset. I ask, “I help everybody. I love everybody. I am concerned with everybody. And what has it gotten me?”
I’m not drunk, instead simply exhausted and hungry. I am complaining like a petulant child. She simply states, “Your problem is that you are concerned with what you will get out of it. You should do things for others, regardless of reward.”
I don’t buy it. I give to everybody I can, every time I can. Ok, not everybody. I don’t give to beggars. Fuck you. You have to work for it. There is no such thing as a free lunch. Nobody owes you anything at all. If you need help, I understand it. If you want help, I get it because I’ve been there. But instead of being a bottom feeding parasite leeching off those who work for a living, why not attempt to work for a living? There was a reason the lions hated the hyenas in “The Lion King.”
Thursday
Pretty quick morning at work, which was quite welcome. Then, came a text from my roommate, “Hey roomie. Landlord called, he said last month’s rent check bounced.”
That was November’s rent check—a check I gave him a month earlier. He didn’t even attempt to cash it until the 18th. I paid no attention. My online bank statement I had ever so blindly deleted without any thought apparently had been preceded by e-mails concerning this fact, which I had also disregarded as junk mail.
As terrible as this was, and it was, this pit in my stomach was the last thing on my mind. I attempted to do my laundry only to find that the toilet had regurgitated into the washing machine somehow, sending semi-solid floaters into the enclosed space I had planned on washing my whites. After a few runs of hot bleach and soap loads, I quickly washed my clothes with little to no long term effect thankfully.
I then went to another dinner at another friend’s house, that of Reb. Reb is Creamy’s sister. Creamy is the nickname of my good friend and former coworker who moved to California, and who is married to Chowder. Reb and I get together about once a month, probably because we both miss Creamy. She’s a tough, headstrong single mother, and a great positive influence on me. She tells me the things I need to hear, not want to hear. It was a good dinner.
Friday
I spend most of the day at the bank. Multiple withdrawals at varied casinos downtown during the month of November were the causation of my bounced rent check. I suspect who did it; my landlord is semi-understanding. I put in a fraud claim with my bank, though I’m confident I will probably never get that money back. I’m not sure what I am going to do about the money. I might have accidentally screwed the landlord. I resolve to not screw anybody over ever again, whether by my action, inaction, or trusting the wrong person.
Saturday
I sleep in until 2:30 in the afternoon. It is the happiest I’ve been in days and days.
Work sucks, but sometimes work sucks. All things being equal, I’m happy to have one, and I begin finding a supplemental income to make amends and hopefully cash.
Sunday
I wake early. I watch a lot of football. I drink a lot of beer. I get drunk again, though not as hardcore drunk as I would like. That’s ok, now I can write this blog. It isn’t great, but neither are the Jets (though they did win again). I just needed to write and vent again. I’m not sure if anybody will read this and enjoy this, but I didn’t write it for anybody to read. I wrote it because I needed to write it.
Is there an over-arching message to this entire week that I’ve had? Yes.
Is there any reason to be hopeful about the future? Yes.
Will I control my fate and do what is necessary to get the things I want without being overwhelmed with this crippling guilt I constantly feel? Will I ever get over my own self-doubt, myself martyrdom and my secret desire to be everybody’s best friend even without getting to know anybody? Yes.
Old BWB is gone. He was destroyed sometime in this past week. Between cleaning up shit, paying the price of my self-imposed victimization, having heart to hearts with my roommates, She, Reb, and The Rock, and attempting to crawl out of the hole that only booze and money can fill, BWB changed dramatically, hopefully for the better. Only time will tell.
I need a shot or something.
Sunday
BWB was in a celebratory mood on the 4th, reveling in another J-E-T-S victory. Once again, Mark Sanchize played well enough to not destroy his team’s chances against a weak opponent (the Redskins), putting New York firmly into the playoff picture. BWB celebrated with his friend by shotgunning beers well into the night.
The same friend then insisted, with some arm-wringing, on driving me home, promptly receiving a DUI moments after dropping me off. As terrible as that was, and it was, for I am still wrought with guilt, I also arrived home to my roommate’s dog looking sad and disappointed, expecting a furor over the fact she crapped all over the house due to her ever-increasing incontinence.
Monday
Bank statement comes online. I don’t pay attention to it, considering the fact I am lazy and practically illiterate with numbers.
Completely immersed in my self-loathing about harming my good, younger friend by my inactions (i.e. allowing him to drive), I forsake a party I was quite looking forward to and decide to smoke copious amounts of a controlled substance while chugging down Irish coffees with my Burner roommates. The combination of my over-burdening and the alcohol makes me shed a tear or two. “My inaction allowed someone to make a bad decision. It doesn’t matter if he insisted,” I insisted, “I could have prevented it all by making the proper choice. Since I didn’t, it is my fault.”
My friend, we will call her Reb, said, “It doesn’t matter what you did or didn’t do. He was the one who made the choice. At the end of the day, you may have affected his decision that day, but he would have eventually made that decision and paid the price anyway.”
True, perhaps. Still, I can’t get rid of the feeling I ruined my friend and his family’s Christmas.
Tuesday
I have a really boring day at work. She (there is always a “She”) invites me to dinner at her house. She makes fajitas, they are really good. We drink a lot, getting super sloshed (my third day in a row) with another guy, a man I will call T. T isn’t a bad guy, but saying we are good friends is a far stretch. Though drunk, he offers me a ride home, and I accept, attempting to alleviate myself of the burden of his choice with some success. It sort of works. I wonder if it is because he slept with a woman I was at one point very attracted to, yet unable to date.
He’s built as I am built, though he has more hair, and wears it in a goofy faux-hawk. I hate that haircut. It seems I am jealous of every man who has one, but not because of the hair. There’s another with this haircut whom I won’t mention at this point, and if I could trade lives with one person for at least a day, it would be him. I come to this realization while pounding down drinks. Again, the self-loathing comes back, but I allow it to pass this time.
She is a great woman. I want to be with her, we will see.
Wednesday
Completely hung over, I use the last of my controlled substance and swear never to use any ever again. At least, I swear I will never buy any ever again. It doesn’t help my hangover, in fact it makes me feel worse. I avoid absolutely everybody I can—I don’t even go to the library.
I’m angry and irritable as I head to work and proceed to have the busiest Wednesday night I’ve ever had behind the bar. I hate it back there. I feel so disconnected to everybody and everything. The whole reason I enjoy my job is for the ability to float around, help people out and get some exercise by constantly moving. Behind the bar, I simply make fucking drinks and pretend to care about the lushes who I am compelled to serve.
Once I get home, just before midnight, I text one of my oldest friends, a woman who is my rock, so I will call her The Rock. I ask her opinion of my troubles about how I didn’t help my friend when he obviously couldn’t help himself. She insisted my compassion was a great thing, my willingness to love and help everybody I know, even those I hate, is my greatest asset. I ask, “I help everybody. I love everybody. I am concerned with everybody. And what has it gotten me?”
I’m not drunk, instead simply exhausted and hungry. I am complaining like a petulant child. She simply states, “Your problem is that you are concerned with what you will get out of it. You should do things for others, regardless of reward.”
I don’t buy it. I give to everybody I can, every time I can. Ok, not everybody. I don’t give to beggars. Fuck you. You have to work for it. There is no such thing as a free lunch. Nobody owes you anything at all. If you need help, I understand it. If you want help, I get it because I’ve been there. But instead of being a bottom feeding parasite leeching off those who work for a living, why not attempt to work for a living? There was a reason the lions hated the hyenas in “The Lion King.”
Thursday
Pretty quick morning at work, which was quite welcome. Then, came a text from my roommate, “Hey roomie. Landlord called, he said last month’s rent check bounced.”
That was November’s rent check—a check I gave him a month earlier. He didn’t even attempt to cash it until the 18th. I paid no attention. My online bank statement I had ever so blindly deleted without any thought apparently had been preceded by e-mails concerning this fact, which I had also disregarded as junk mail.
As terrible as this was, and it was, this pit in my stomach was the last thing on my mind. I attempted to do my laundry only to find that the toilet had regurgitated into the washing machine somehow, sending semi-solid floaters into the enclosed space I had planned on washing my whites. After a few runs of hot bleach and soap loads, I quickly washed my clothes with little to no long term effect thankfully.
I then went to another dinner at another friend’s house, that of Reb. Reb is Creamy’s sister. Creamy is the nickname of my good friend and former coworker who moved to California, and who is married to Chowder. Reb and I get together about once a month, probably because we both miss Creamy. She’s a tough, headstrong single mother, and a great positive influence on me. She tells me the things I need to hear, not want to hear. It was a good dinner.
Friday
I spend most of the day at the bank. Multiple withdrawals at varied casinos downtown during the month of November were the causation of my bounced rent check. I suspect who did it; my landlord is semi-understanding. I put in a fraud claim with my bank, though I’m confident I will probably never get that money back. I’m not sure what I am going to do about the money. I might have accidentally screwed the landlord. I resolve to not screw anybody over ever again, whether by my action, inaction, or trusting the wrong person.
Saturday
I sleep in until 2:30 in the afternoon. It is the happiest I’ve been in days and days.
Work sucks, but sometimes work sucks. All things being equal, I’m happy to have one, and I begin finding a supplemental income to make amends and hopefully cash.
Sunday
I wake early. I watch a lot of football. I drink a lot of beer. I get drunk again, though not as hardcore drunk as I would like. That’s ok, now I can write this blog. It isn’t great, but neither are the Jets (though they did win again). I just needed to write and vent again. I’m not sure if anybody will read this and enjoy this, but I didn’t write it for anybody to read. I wrote it because I needed to write it.
Is there an over-arching message to this entire week that I’ve had? Yes.
Is there any reason to be hopeful about the future? Yes.
Will I control my fate and do what is necessary to get the things I want without being overwhelmed with this crippling guilt I constantly feel? Will I ever get over my own self-doubt, myself martyrdom and my secret desire to be everybody’s best friend even without getting to know anybody? Yes.
Old BWB is gone. He was destroyed sometime in this past week. Between cleaning up shit, paying the price of my self-imposed victimization, having heart to hearts with my roommates, She, Reb, and The Rock, and attempting to crawl out of the hole that only booze and money can fill, BWB changed dramatically, hopefully for the better. Only time will tell.
I need a shot or something.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
America is Exceptional. Really?
“My thighs are too big.”
“I’m not where I want to be, financially.”
“I’m a terrible person.”
These statements may or may not be true for you, dear reader, but alas, they are true for many Americans these days. The nation, as a whole, is grossly overweight. We as a nation are so in over our heads with debt that it may not be possible to get out without resorting to a felony. The third statement, well, that comes out of the truth of the first two.
There is an ever-sagging weight hanging around the necks of America, dragging us down to the abyss with the other fallen empires like Rome and Victorian Britain. Some call it depression. Some call it economic uncertainty. Some call it a dystopian novel come to life before our eyes.
“America has become lazy.”
True enough, generally speaking. Too bad that quote was actually spoken by the President of the United States recently. Why would the American people elect as their spokesman to the world a man who repeatedly speaks ill of the very people he is sworn to protect?
The answer lies in the natural depression America as a nation is going through. We are plummeting towards rock bottom faster than Lindsay Lohan on a Saturday night at a meth lab. Perhaps we chose Barack Obama as President consciously thinking he’d make everything all better but subconsciously knowing he’d only ruin us some more, which is what we really want.
Imagine, if you will, America taking a trip to Las Vegas. For hours, years maybe, she has been killing it at the craps table. She rolled the bones better than the lady in Red who had to retire early. She’s made all of her supporters massive amounts of money with her lucky rolls, and she quickly found she herself was up ten thousand dollars. But in comes a new shooter (perhaps a Jihadi?) who proceeds to rack up huge wins while America loses boatloads betting the wrong way. Pretty soon, being up ten turns to being down everything in your bank account and taking out a marker from some Chinese loan shark. It turns that fast. It has turned that fast.
It happened before our very eyes, but the American people went along for the ride to Vegas, too. We were far too blinded by the pretty lights and the bells and whistles that came from being with America. Automobiles, electricity, running water, iPods, cell phones, Wi-Fi, triple shot caramel macchiato, easy-access drugs, cheap sex, free booze, roller coasters and a pair of 3-D glasses shielding us from the true horrors of the world.
Yes, Mr. Obama, America has been lazy. We’ve been weak. We’ve been self-destructive. We continue to be self-destructive. That was why we elected you, after all. You make us feel nothing but ashamed about being Americans. And maybe you are right, maybe we should be. After all, we are evil and dastardly and we throw our gluttonous weight anywhere we wish in order to get more, more, more.
We are about to hit rock bottom, and we know it. We know we are about to collapse in on ourselves into a puddle of our own self-loathing and we shall never arise. “America’s chickens are coming home to roost,” in other words (which just so happen to be your former reverend, Mr. President.)
So, what do we do? Do we allow the Herman Cain-types, those who believe in American exceptionalism and Manifest Destiny (code words for screwing over whomever we want in pursuit of blood money) to take over the government in 2012? Or do we do what nature would do when a forest is killing itself?
“I’m not where I want to be, financially.”
“I’m a terrible person.”
These statements may or may not be true for you, dear reader, but alas, they are true for many Americans these days. The nation, as a whole, is grossly overweight. We as a nation are so in over our heads with debt that it may not be possible to get out without resorting to a felony. The third statement, well, that comes out of the truth of the first two.
There is an ever-sagging weight hanging around the necks of America, dragging us down to the abyss with the other fallen empires like Rome and Victorian Britain. Some call it depression. Some call it economic uncertainty. Some call it a dystopian novel come to life before our eyes.
“America has become lazy.”
True enough, generally speaking. Too bad that quote was actually spoken by the President of the United States recently. Why would the American people elect as their spokesman to the world a man who repeatedly speaks ill of the very people he is sworn to protect?
The answer lies in the natural depression America as a nation is going through. We are plummeting towards rock bottom faster than Lindsay Lohan on a Saturday night at a meth lab. Perhaps we chose Barack Obama as President consciously thinking he’d make everything all better but subconsciously knowing he’d only ruin us some more, which is what we really want.
Imagine, if you will, America taking a trip to Las Vegas. For hours, years maybe, she has been killing it at the craps table. She rolled the bones better than the lady in Red who had to retire early. She’s made all of her supporters massive amounts of money with her lucky rolls, and she quickly found she herself was up ten thousand dollars. But in comes a new shooter (perhaps a Jihadi?) who proceeds to rack up huge wins while America loses boatloads betting the wrong way. Pretty soon, being up ten turns to being down everything in your bank account and taking out a marker from some Chinese loan shark. It turns that fast. It has turned that fast.
It happened before our very eyes, but the American people went along for the ride to Vegas, too. We were far too blinded by the pretty lights and the bells and whistles that came from being with America. Automobiles, electricity, running water, iPods, cell phones, Wi-Fi, triple shot caramel macchiato, easy-access drugs, cheap sex, free booze, roller coasters and a pair of 3-D glasses shielding us from the true horrors of the world.
Yes, Mr. Obama, America has been lazy. We’ve been weak. We’ve been self-destructive. We continue to be self-destructive. That was why we elected you, after all. You make us feel nothing but ashamed about being Americans. And maybe you are right, maybe we should be. After all, we are evil and dastardly and we throw our gluttonous weight anywhere we wish in order to get more, more, more.
We are about to hit rock bottom, and we know it. We know we are about to collapse in on ourselves into a puddle of our own self-loathing and we shall never arise. “America’s chickens are coming home to roost,” in other words (which just so happen to be your former reverend, Mr. President.)
So, what do we do? Do we allow the Herman Cain-types, those who believe in American exceptionalism and Manifest Destiny (code words for screwing over whomever we want in pursuit of blood money) to take over the government in 2012? Or do we do what nature would do when a forest is killing itself?
Thursday, November 10, 2011
What Transformers Teaches us About Foreign Policy, or Why Michael Bay May Be a Secret Genius
A funny thing happened when I arrived home from a long day at the mobile office. My roommates were cuddled together watching the most romantic movie in my six hundred volume movie collection, Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen.
Say what you will about the quality of his work, Michael Bay certainly tells interesting stories. His entire career is built upon gluing your eyes to the screen at every moment by filling it with over-the-top action, violence, sex, racist jokes, and every other form of depravity the Ancient Greeks ever stooped to. When you put it like that, it is no wonder he redefined movies forever, creating a brand-new genre of apocalyptic mega-blockbusters in the process.
Armageddon was one movie, yes. But it easily became two (even without a sequel) when Deep Impact was rushed out months before even though it was made as a blatant rip-off. In both of those movies, celestial bodies crash into Earth, killing untold millions of people and causing catastrophic damage which makes World War II crawl in a corner feeling sorry for itself for not being good enough.
The Rock was the perfect example of the desire for unnecessary violence and destruction, as Nicholas Cage and Sean Connery destroy the good half of San Francisco (but really, it would make no sense for Michael Bay to film people destroying the nearly-rotting corpse of the city because there are no romantic trolley cars to eviscerate) before they even contemplate going to, you know, The Rock to fuck shit up.
Bay’s Transformers trilogy takes the apocalyptic genre and sets the bar so high, next generation’s movie directors will have taken their $500 million budget and head to the Third World, offering it as a prize to the nation which successfully invades its neighbor all while filming the carnage in order to “push the boundaries of their art.”
Michael Bay’s insatiable bloodlust and desire to destroy the world, on film, that is, by means of a genocidal war between robots and their unwitting human allies, masks his grandiose statements excoriating massive corporations and governments for their media manipulation and successful propaganda techniques. No word on whether Mr. Bay appreciates the irony of having this message in three movies about toys created by a massive corporation which also produced the film trilogy.
Irony aside, Mr. Bay produces an entirely plausible dystopian universe where secret government agencies exist in order to keep certain information secret. This alternate universe also includes a Los Angeles-type city only minutes away from the Hoover Dam, a giant field filled with airplanes just outside the Smithsonian Institute in the middle of Washington, DC that’s so secluded nobody notices the giant robot walking about, and where Patrick Dempsey is a villain (“Not McDreamy!”)
The world is successfully kept in the dark about robots destroying a major American city which also happens to be the media capital of the world, home to perhaps twenty thousand photographers and millions of camera phones. The group who kept these incidents secluded from sight had apparently been doing it for generations, according to former S-7 Agent Simmons in the sequel.
If you are familiar with the movie, you know the Decepticons are the bad guys who want to take over Earth and make it their new home, complete with a human extermination to get things rolling, which is the exact opposite plot to Avatar, come to think of it. What is it with directors and killing millions of insignificant beings to prove a point?
Anyway, back to the point. Michael Bay relates how dangerous interlocking corporations are working behind the back of not only the American people, but all the world’s people, only being concerned with profit margins and sleek sports cars that can kidnap your wanna-be girlfriend. His most subdued, but perhaps more important point concerns the very fabric of robot society, and also human society.
Who, exactly, are the Autobots? Yes, in the film, they are the heroes. They stand up for the rights of their human hosts, always standing in the way of the nefarious Megatron and the Decepticons, who are portrayed as bloodthirsty and wicked. But from a practical standpoint in Cybertronian culture (the planet the robots are from is Cybertron and it doesn’t exist anymore, so their whole “culture” might not officially exist), they are the villains.
The Decepticons want more of their kind to survive—that’s the entirety of their motivation throughout the film series. They want more energon so they can create more and more of their clan. How is that any different than a man wanting more farm land so he can feed his family for generations to come? Throughout the trilogy, the Autobots are massively outnumbered by their enemies who seem quite good at spawning quantity, though not quality considering Optimus Prime and his allies kick the ever-loving shit out of them all like they are made of the same cheap Chinese plastic their action figures are constructed with.
So, a small minority of tough, battle-tested warriors who were created with guns and swords as natural appendages decimate a larger clan because they are inferiorly constructed? And why do they do this? Because they are political entities attempting to control their respective race.
In the end, the clear minority of the robot populace wins and their species is doomed to oblivion in only a few generations, at least until they figure out a way to not only ring back the villains for a fourth movie, but also another source of energon to sustain their race. Yeah, Optimus Prime, some sort of revered robot demi-god understands that beating his kin Megatron means his race won’t have a new paradise on Earth, but instead be the houseguest that not only destroyed a precious vase, but also allowed the dog to run away, clogged the toilet and accidentally murdered your aunt.
In the end, humans side with the Autobots, not because they are on the right side of the argument when it comes to the robot species, but because they eventually save mankind. I emphasize ‘eventually’ because they only save the world after they pretend to kill themselves, in order to allow the Decepticons to show how evil they are by killing as many people as they possibly can
Moral righteousness never applies to the judgment of the American people, especially the Obama Administration, as portrayed in the film. The Autobots were as morally righteous as they were programmed to be, often threatening their allies, and the war-weary government repeatedly told them to “Fuck off. You are causing too many problems.”
Can’t argue with the logic, frankly. But being stuck in the middle of a war between powers you would much prefer leave you alone leaves you with two choices: pick a side and probably die or don’t pick a side and die anyway. First, they chose the Autobots, working secret to stop the evil Decepticons. They did this when it was to their advantage. Then, the world switched sides when it was clear the Decepticons were stronger. Only then, after realizing how bad they really were, did they welcome back the Autobots, the saviors of their way of life.
Hopping in bed with whoever offers us the best deal at the very moment? Is that the American way?
Umm…
No comment.
Say what you will about the quality of his work, Michael Bay certainly tells interesting stories. His entire career is built upon gluing your eyes to the screen at every moment by filling it with over-the-top action, violence, sex, racist jokes, and every other form of depravity the Ancient Greeks ever stooped to. When you put it like that, it is no wonder he redefined movies forever, creating a brand-new genre of apocalyptic mega-blockbusters in the process.
Armageddon was one movie, yes. But it easily became two (even without a sequel) when Deep Impact was rushed out months before even though it was made as a blatant rip-off. In both of those movies, celestial bodies crash into Earth, killing untold millions of people and causing catastrophic damage which makes World War II crawl in a corner feeling sorry for itself for not being good enough.
The Rock was the perfect example of the desire for unnecessary violence and destruction, as Nicholas Cage and Sean Connery destroy the good half of San Francisco (but really, it would make no sense for Michael Bay to film people destroying the nearly-rotting corpse of the city because there are no romantic trolley cars to eviscerate) before they even contemplate going to, you know, The Rock to fuck shit up.
Bay’s Transformers trilogy takes the apocalyptic genre and sets the bar so high, next generation’s movie directors will have taken their $500 million budget and head to the Third World, offering it as a prize to the nation which successfully invades its neighbor all while filming the carnage in order to “push the boundaries of their art.”
Michael Bay’s insatiable bloodlust and desire to destroy the world, on film, that is, by means of a genocidal war between robots and their unwitting human allies, masks his grandiose statements excoriating massive corporations and governments for their media manipulation and successful propaganda techniques. No word on whether Mr. Bay appreciates the irony of having this message in three movies about toys created by a massive corporation which also produced the film trilogy.
Irony aside, Mr. Bay produces an entirely plausible dystopian universe where secret government agencies exist in order to keep certain information secret. This alternate universe also includes a Los Angeles-type city only minutes away from the Hoover Dam, a giant field filled with airplanes just outside the Smithsonian Institute in the middle of Washington, DC that’s so secluded nobody notices the giant robot walking about, and where Patrick Dempsey is a villain (“Not McDreamy!”)
The world is successfully kept in the dark about robots destroying a major American city which also happens to be the media capital of the world, home to perhaps twenty thousand photographers and millions of camera phones. The group who kept these incidents secluded from sight had apparently been doing it for generations, according to former S-7 Agent Simmons in the sequel.
If you are familiar with the movie, you know the Decepticons are the bad guys who want to take over Earth and make it their new home, complete with a human extermination to get things rolling, which is the exact opposite plot to Avatar, come to think of it. What is it with directors and killing millions of insignificant beings to prove a point?
Anyway, back to the point. Michael Bay relates how dangerous interlocking corporations are working behind the back of not only the American people, but all the world’s people, only being concerned with profit margins and sleek sports cars that can kidnap your wanna-be girlfriend. His most subdued, but perhaps more important point concerns the very fabric of robot society, and also human society.
Who, exactly, are the Autobots? Yes, in the film, they are the heroes. They stand up for the rights of their human hosts, always standing in the way of the nefarious Megatron and the Decepticons, who are portrayed as bloodthirsty and wicked. But from a practical standpoint in Cybertronian culture (the planet the robots are from is Cybertron and it doesn’t exist anymore, so their whole “culture” might not officially exist), they are the villains.
The Decepticons want more of their kind to survive—that’s the entirety of their motivation throughout the film series. They want more energon so they can create more and more of their clan. How is that any different than a man wanting more farm land so he can feed his family for generations to come? Throughout the trilogy, the Autobots are massively outnumbered by their enemies who seem quite good at spawning quantity, though not quality considering Optimus Prime and his allies kick the ever-loving shit out of them all like they are made of the same cheap Chinese plastic their action figures are constructed with.
So, a small minority of tough, battle-tested warriors who were created with guns and swords as natural appendages decimate a larger clan because they are inferiorly constructed? And why do they do this? Because they are political entities attempting to control their respective race.
In the end, the clear minority of the robot populace wins and their species is doomed to oblivion in only a few generations, at least until they figure out a way to not only ring back the villains for a fourth movie, but also another source of energon to sustain their race. Yeah, Optimus Prime, some sort of revered robot demi-god understands that beating his kin Megatron means his race won’t have a new paradise on Earth, but instead be the houseguest that not only destroyed a precious vase, but also allowed the dog to run away, clogged the toilet and accidentally murdered your aunt.
In the end, humans side with the Autobots, not because they are on the right side of the argument when it comes to the robot species, but because they eventually save mankind. I emphasize ‘eventually’ because they only save the world after they pretend to kill themselves, in order to allow the Decepticons to show how evil they are by killing as many people as they possibly can
Moral righteousness never applies to the judgment of the American people, especially the Obama Administration, as portrayed in the film. The Autobots were as morally righteous as they were programmed to be, often threatening their allies, and the war-weary government repeatedly told them to “Fuck off. You are causing too many problems.”
Can’t argue with the logic, frankly. But being stuck in the middle of a war between powers you would much prefer leave you alone leaves you with two choices: pick a side and probably die or don’t pick a side and die anyway. First, they chose the Autobots, working secret to stop the evil Decepticons. They did this when it was to their advantage. Then, the world switched sides when it was clear the Decepticons were stronger. Only then, after realizing how bad they really were, did they welcome back the Autobots, the saviors of their way of life.
Hopping in bed with whoever offers us the best deal at the very moment? Is that the American way?
Umm…
No comment.
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Perambulating through my mind tonight--I think its the coffee
If they started today, but they don’t, I’d pick the Packers, but don’t yet quote me on that. Though on a better note, I am 9-3 straight up on my picks this week!
I caught myself doing it; playing that tricky game. Like a body blow to the chest we never saw coming, the fact that the NFL regular season is almost half over struck me with a desire to be sick and keel over. How can something so good, so enjoyable, something we all waited oh so long for almost be on its way out?
If it is almost over, isn’t it prudent to look over who may or may not be playing for the Lombardi Trophy come February. I took a gander at the current NFL standings after the Sunday games for Week 8. I thought the thought we all think: if the playoffs started today, who would win?
First thing to strike you: not only would both the Houston Texans and the Cincinnati Bengals both make it to the playoffs, if the playoffs were determined today, as of this writing, they would play each other (most likely Saturday afternoon) in the Wild Card Playoffs, meaning one of them would advance to the Divisional Playoffs. The other Wild Card game would be between the erratic San Diego Chargers and the number six seeded New England Patriots.
Even in San Diego, one would assume Tom Brady and company would be favored, meaning its likely Mr. Bundchen would travel back to Pittsburgh against the current top seed in the AFC, the Steelers. While two perennial playoff teams meeting is no shock, the thought that one-half of the AFC Championship Game would be up for grabs between the Bills, Texans, and Bengals (all who would host New England, should the Pats advance—they would.) Notably missing the playoffs would be (so far, of course) the Ravens, Jets, Raiders, and Chiefs.
Besides the revelation the San Francisco 49ers would qualify for a first round bye, the NFC seems quite stable and almost chalk. The Packers are practically laminated at the number one seed, and the Giants have a precarious two game lead over the rest of their division. The weakened Saints would host the dirty Lions, while the G-Men would get last season’s number one in Chicago. Those games would be total crapshoots, but tending toward experience and home field, New York and New Orleans would seem fit to advance. (Note: we said the same thing about the Saints last year—being locked into a Wild Card victory. Note: we’ve said many, many times the Giants were practically guaranteed a playoff berth—before they wilted like a fern in a shut-in’s house.)
The Packers would be a prohibitive favorite to win the whole thing, besides being my choice, and I foresee the Niners being knocked out by whomever is lucky enough to stumble into that cupcake victory, much like the Bears lucked into playing the Seahawks and not the Saints in the playoffs last season. C’mon, the final four NFC quarterbacks could be Aaron Rodgers, Drew Brees, Eli Manning (all Super Bowl MVPs) and Alex “Yes, I am still starting for an NFL team and not blowing it” Smith. Which one of these things don’t belong? You don’t need Grover to figure this out.
Though picking the Patriots in the AFC isn’t picking the chalk number one, it sure feels like it, but perhaps that’s the Jets homer in me. They’d play the Packers, who’ll probably repeat. BWB has mentioned it previously; the Packers are the best team who have ever taken the field, this season anyway. They can air it out when it is to their advantage, but they can also have a great small game they can use to exploit the opposing defenses. Considering I am a gambler, perhaps I should put some money on this now. Faithful readers, I shall let you know.
In other nonfootball news
Ok look, I have quite a lot of interests, football is merely one of them. I also am aware this blog is called Brett Without Borders and I’ve been quite light on non-football related blogs of late, but frankly, who wants to write about a Presidential election when none of the Republican candidates including (but not limited to) Ron Paul, Herman Cain (my two favorites), Mitt Romney and the rest don’t have a snowball’s chance in DC—I mean hell—of beating our incumbent.
That’s not to say the President has done a remarkable job thus far. Anyone who knows me knows I am not a fan of him. The economy sucks. Really sucks. So bad I’m considering man-whoring on 4th Street bad. Not only do I sense his victory, I am almost positive it will happen. This nation seems to be on the brink, and we, as a whole people, seem to be reaching our boiling point, as evidenced by Tea Parties and Occupy “Insert City or Group or Whatever other noun will make a funny joke or pun.” These are the days people flock to demagogues, charlatans, and devils in disguise to solve every problem they encounter. While that would seem to lean towards an upstart Republican, you must remember we already have a demagogue charlatan in the White House who is already clenching his executive powers tighter than a nursing home resident after her prune juice.
And who wants to write about that?
(Except me, who not only just wrote about it briefly, but is also using this general theme in my upcoming manuscript, which should be ready in the coming weeks.)
Hey, guess what? Celebrities are people too—and they love the pipe! (allegedly)
Lindsay Lohan has become the most recent survivor of the affliction generally referred to as “meth tooth.” While BWB would never accuse anybody of sucking their career, friends, life, money, sanity and looks down the tube and through their discolored and dying front teeth, Miss Lohan certainly seemed willing to rock that part of her Halloween costume for quite a long time. Upon being notified she was a few weeks early in her dress-up, she now has a new set of pearly whites, to go along with her pale and gaunt skin. Now, Lindsay, just introduce yourself to the sun and you will be all set!
In news concerning actors who, you know, actually act
Should the world end in December of 2012, I will be okay with it. After all, Batman will be coming to the big screen one last time, as will the Avengers. This past decade of being a comic book fan and an extreme movie buff and obsessive fan has been nothing short of a dream come true. And though I am an Emma Stone fan (okay, for the interests of full disclosure, I’m one step below obsessed—whatever that step is.) Normally, I attempt not to rant like this, or if I do, at least provide some amount of news and information. I have none today, I just wanted to say how much I’m looking forward to seeing Batman’s back broken and seeing Tommy from 3rd Rock from the Sun become a bona fide movie star.
I caught myself doing it; playing that tricky game. Like a body blow to the chest we never saw coming, the fact that the NFL regular season is almost half over struck me with a desire to be sick and keel over. How can something so good, so enjoyable, something we all waited oh so long for almost be on its way out?
If it is almost over, isn’t it prudent to look over who may or may not be playing for the Lombardi Trophy come February. I took a gander at the current NFL standings after the Sunday games for Week 8. I thought the thought we all think: if the playoffs started today, who would win?
First thing to strike you: not only would both the Houston Texans and the Cincinnati Bengals both make it to the playoffs, if the playoffs were determined today, as of this writing, they would play each other (most likely Saturday afternoon) in the Wild Card Playoffs, meaning one of them would advance to the Divisional Playoffs. The other Wild Card game would be between the erratic San Diego Chargers and the number six seeded New England Patriots.
Even in San Diego, one would assume Tom Brady and company would be favored, meaning its likely Mr. Bundchen would travel back to Pittsburgh against the current top seed in the AFC, the Steelers. While two perennial playoff teams meeting is no shock, the thought that one-half of the AFC Championship Game would be up for grabs between the Bills, Texans, and Bengals (all who would host New England, should the Pats advance—they would.) Notably missing the playoffs would be (so far, of course) the Ravens, Jets, Raiders, and Chiefs.
Besides the revelation the San Francisco 49ers would qualify for a first round bye, the NFC seems quite stable and almost chalk. The Packers are practically laminated at the number one seed, and the Giants have a precarious two game lead over the rest of their division. The weakened Saints would host the dirty Lions, while the G-Men would get last season’s number one in Chicago. Those games would be total crapshoots, but tending toward experience and home field, New York and New Orleans would seem fit to advance. (Note: we said the same thing about the Saints last year—being locked into a Wild Card victory. Note: we’ve said many, many times the Giants were practically guaranteed a playoff berth—before they wilted like a fern in a shut-in’s house.)
The Packers would be a prohibitive favorite to win the whole thing, besides being my choice, and I foresee the Niners being knocked out by whomever is lucky enough to stumble into that cupcake victory, much like the Bears lucked into playing the Seahawks and not the Saints in the playoffs last season. C’mon, the final four NFC quarterbacks could be Aaron Rodgers, Drew Brees, Eli Manning (all Super Bowl MVPs) and Alex “Yes, I am still starting for an NFL team and not blowing it” Smith. Which one of these things don’t belong? You don’t need Grover to figure this out.
Though picking the Patriots in the AFC isn’t picking the chalk number one, it sure feels like it, but perhaps that’s the Jets homer in me. They’d play the Packers, who’ll probably repeat. BWB has mentioned it previously; the Packers are the best team who have ever taken the field, this season anyway. They can air it out when it is to their advantage, but they can also have a great small game they can use to exploit the opposing defenses. Considering I am a gambler, perhaps I should put some money on this now. Faithful readers, I shall let you know.
In other nonfootball news
Ok look, I have quite a lot of interests, football is merely one of them. I also am aware this blog is called Brett Without Borders and I’ve been quite light on non-football related blogs of late, but frankly, who wants to write about a Presidential election when none of the Republican candidates including (but not limited to) Ron Paul, Herman Cain (my two favorites), Mitt Romney and the rest don’t have a snowball’s chance in DC—I mean hell—of beating our incumbent.
That’s not to say the President has done a remarkable job thus far. Anyone who knows me knows I am not a fan of him. The economy sucks. Really sucks. So bad I’m considering man-whoring on 4th Street bad. Not only do I sense his victory, I am almost positive it will happen. This nation seems to be on the brink, and we, as a whole people, seem to be reaching our boiling point, as evidenced by Tea Parties and Occupy “Insert City or Group or Whatever other noun will make a funny joke or pun.” These are the days people flock to demagogues, charlatans, and devils in disguise to solve every problem they encounter. While that would seem to lean towards an upstart Republican, you must remember we already have a demagogue charlatan in the White House who is already clenching his executive powers tighter than a nursing home resident after her prune juice.
And who wants to write about that?
(Except me, who not only just wrote about it briefly, but is also using this general theme in my upcoming manuscript, which should be ready in the coming weeks.)
Hey, guess what? Celebrities are people too—and they love the pipe! (allegedly)
Lindsay Lohan has become the most recent survivor of the affliction generally referred to as “meth tooth.” While BWB would never accuse anybody of sucking their career, friends, life, money, sanity and looks down the tube and through their discolored and dying front teeth, Miss Lohan certainly seemed willing to rock that part of her Halloween costume for quite a long time. Upon being notified she was a few weeks early in her dress-up, she now has a new set of pearly whites, to go along with her pale and gaunt skin. Now, Lindsay, just introduce yourself to the sun and you will be all set!
In news concerning actors who, you know, actually act
Should the world end in December of 2012, I will be okay with it. After all, Batman will be coming to the big screen one last time, as will the Avengers. This past decade of being a comic book fan and an extreme movie buff and obsessive fan has been nothing short of a dream come true. And though I am an Emma Stone fan (okay, for the interests of full disclosure, I’m one step below obsessed—whatever that step is.) Normally, I attempt not to rant like this, or if I do, at least provide some amount of news and information. I have none today, I just wanted to say how much I’m looking forward to seeing Batman’s back broken and seeing Tommy from 3rd Rock from the Sun become a bona fide movie star.
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