May 28, 2006

Ax Murderer

Finally the weather here is getting warm and I can actually revel in being outdoors again without having to put on 18 different layers and wondering if I'm going to get a cold rash (don't ask ... turns out I'm actually allergic to the cold). And as I was watching a brother and sister run around in the glorious - though terribly humid - weather, I was reminded of when I had first moved from Austin to DFW.

My mom and I were back in her bedroom going through plans for something or another ... I was probably in trouble again for wandering out of earshot, actually, now that I think about it. So we're discussing what to do with me now and we hear this utter, ear-piercing, someone-is-stabbing me-to-death, utter screeching from my little sister who is just about to turn five. Mom and I exchange that startled glance "Oh crap, what the ..."

And Mom motions me to go on.

I flee through the house in full superhero mode, I mean I can't get to the back door fast enough. Pelting pell-mell through the unfinished patio that Dad was building on the weekends and pull up near the shed where my sister is standing, tremulously pointing at the tool shed. You know, one of those hideous white metal things that everyone had in the 70s and 80s.

There is no blood on my sister, but she still hasn't stopped screaming. I can't decide if it's more important to cover my ears or find out what's going on. I mean, that kid has LUNGS.

So, I carefully, with much trepidation, peer around the side of the shed. I am positive that lurking in the corner between the shed and the back fence, there is an ax murderer. There must be. My kid sister is just petrified. I have to protect her.

I should also mention that I wanted to be a cop at this age. This would be my first collar. Impressive for an almost nine-year-old. I screw up all my courage ... peer around the corner ... I am picturing this deranged man, hunched down over his axe.

Nothing.

Nothing at all.

I screw up all my courage again ... he must be hiding back further behind the shed. I walk back there ... I'll be pratically trapped if he lunges at me.

Nothing.

Geez. Talk about anti-climactic.

So, I waltz back around the front of the shed and stand, hands on hips, in front of my sister.

"WHY are you screaming?"

She doesn't hear me the first time. Because she is still screaming bloody freaking murder. Even though there has been no murder. I'm beginning to contemplate one, however.

"WHY ARE YOU SCREAMING?"

With the next breath and the next bit of screaming, only discernable to someone who has spent the past almost five years learning her version of screamed English, I get what the issue is.

Ant.

There's an ant.

On her finger.

The one that she is holding out away from her body. As if that will keep it away from her ... as if that finger is no longer a part of her.

In utter older sibling disgust, I take one glance at the ant on her tiny outstretched hand and roll my eyes. You have GOT to be kidding me.

I start back into the house and she becomes even MORE hysterical. So, as if I had planned it this way all along, I slap at her outstretched finger as I pass by, both whacking her for being a dork and getting rid of said ant, all in one fell blow.

At least the ax murderer theory was more interesting.

Ants. Geez.

Posted by Red Monkey at 4:40 PM | Comments (6) | Storytelling: She was, of course, supposed to be sleeping. | TrackBack | Stumble

May 8, 2006

Good Enough

What makes a book ... or a story or a movie ... good? Is it good because you enjoy it? Because it's enjoyed by many people?

Just what do we really mean by "good"??

I got into a bit of a conversation last night about this because someone who generally likes the same kinds of books as I do made a comment about not liking Stephen King, whereas I think Stevie-boy hung the proverbial full moon. I feel that It was an outstanding book (and I'm weird in that I wouldn't mind if it had been even longer - I know many others would prefer that it had been edited down to something more manageable). Different Seasons, Four Past Midnight, Rose Madder, Misery, The Dark Half, obviously I could keep going for a while. I do agree he's had his duds. I didn't really like Tommyknockers very much and, I'm almost ashamed to admit, I can't get into the Dark Tower books despite having the first several and repeatedly trying to get into them.

But what makes them ... or any other book for that matter ... good?

I happen to enjoy Stephen King books because I enjoy books that are character driven. That's one piece of data that makes It a good book to me. I find the characterizations astute, clever and realistic ... more points in his favor. The writing style is, again, for me, easy to read. Another point in his favor. The themes and tropes that he uses are also ones that I enjoy ... more points.

But ... what if you, Gentle Reader, don't like curse words? Well, then, that would be points subtracted for your enjoyment of It as the book has a fair amount of foul language. What if you prefer less on the characters, a faster pace and more action?

Well, then, you might not find It very "good."

You see, "good" is relative when we're talking about literature or music or movies or the like. It's not an absolute based for everyone on Ebert or the New York Times Bestseller list.

So how do we judge what is good if there are no absolutes?

Well, it's total anarchy, but it's up to each individual to make that call because, you see, it's all opinion.

You can argue that killing a person is a heinous act and should be against the law, and, therefore, helping someone to live is good. Culturally, most of the Western world would agree with that. But does it then necessarily follow that a book in which someone is murdered is also a bad book? Of course not. But why?

"As a culture, we DO have a meanting for "good", we mean "lots of people like it" [so] if good means lots of people like it, than a book that sells many copies IS a good book."

I think this premise is catagorically wrong. We are often led to believe this is true by the media and the marketers, we're enticed to jump on the band wagon and try Red Monkey Jeans or The Da Vinci Code, or the Next Big Thing.

A book, a movie, a song ... these things are not "good" and they're not "bad." We personally either like them or dislike them or some variation in between. And my thinking Stephen King is a good author doesn't make it so, nor does Mr. O'Rourke's belief that Stephen King is bad make that so either. It means we have differing tastes and opinions and that the word "good" in this context means next to nothing at all.

The Dark Half is a good book, merely means that I enjoyed it. Will you also find it "good"? I don't know. But the more we discuss our likes and dislikes with each other, the more we find people who think like us and validate us ... and the more we find people who think differently and challenge us.

And all of that, in my opinion, is good enough.

Posted by Red Monkey at 9:14 AM | Comments (3) | Storytelling: She was, of course, supposed to be sleeping. | TrackBack | Stumble

May 1, 2006

Controlled Connection

I don't do this often, but thought I'd share an old poem with you. It's somewhat in the slam style. Hope you enjoy.

I was once fast and vibrant,
running thru life at the breakneck speed of a skateboard punk
thrashing my way thru the concrete construction playground
grinding on handrails,
body    board    wheels
suspended madonna in the air and crashing down together.
controlled connection to the ground
connected

and then I banked off you,
skidded to a slow stop
stepped on the end of the deck until it spun
up thru the air
and into my hands.
controlled connection

We strolled out of the concrete granite park
into an apartment and rolled into commitment
knowing exactly how to make the jump at the end of the vert ramp
where Sketchers would land on wood
and wheels would land on concrete

Well, we did land on concrete.

I tore the trucks off my deck and
placed them under your feet
wheels to keep you moving.
And then I patched your motivation
with my board.
Nailed it
to the wall
as you nailed
your hands
to my edges,
chaining yourself to a transportation you didn't understand
but wanted.
and we cruised.

Bearings full of mud
I finally saw:
you had stopped moving.
ground to your own halt
and I alone was moving

your dreams were full
of skateboard punks
thrashing their way thru concrete construction playgrounds
grinding on handrails,
body    board    wheels
madonna in the air and crashing down together
controlled connection to the ground
connected

But you couldn't unchain your hands
from the board
preferring the stigmata of weight
(responsibilities untaken but nailed)
And you couldn't
control
And you couldn't
connect

But you said, happy, as I sailed back up the vert ramp alone:
"You're so fun to watch!
wish you didn't love it so much.
hate myself
wish i were,    not me.
scared.
just trying to hold on.
life goes on, tears or not
please don't hate me.
I've stopped."

And I make my jump at the end of the vert ramp
where my Sketchers land on wood
and my wheels land on concrete,
wheels spinning
foot pushing off the crumbling concrete behind me
and then resting on the back of the board
a quick 180 to make sure
   and another to go on
I continue to move
bearings gliding, spinning
grinding on handrails,
body    deck    wheels
madonna thru the air and coming down together.
controlled connection to the ground
connected movements

moving on
moving

Posted by Red Monkey at 5:13 PM | Comments (2) | Storytelling: She was, of course, supposed to be sleeping. | TrackBack | Stumble

February 7, 2006

How Dry I Am

May 25, 1977.

Oh yeah, some of you geeks already know what this post is about now. Some of you are wondering why in the world I would type that date up there. It's not my birthday ... it's not an important date to anyone in my family.

That May was the end of second grade for me ... the end of the grand Catholic school experiment which had failed utterly and miserably. And, it was also the time period that I got to see my first, real, grown-up movie ... my first PG movie. At first, this movie showed on less than 40 screens around the U.S. In fact, many cinemas had to be bullied into taking the film at all.

This was, of course, Star Wars.

Now, I'm not going to yammer on about how this movie changed my life ... it didn't ... or how it was the greatest movie since Metropolis ... it wasn't ... or even beat that dead horse, which of the movies was the best ... Return of the Jedi, but I'm in the minority here ... instead, I'm going to go back to storytelling.

You see, about six weeks into third grade, we moved to the hated Arlington, Texas. And Butler Elementary. I loathed that school. And, I did not want to make new friends yet again. I had physcially moved 7 times before starting kindgergarten ... and then switched from Pillow to St. Louis to Pillow and now Butler between kindergarten and third grade. I was really tired of making new friends only to leave them again quickly, so I was hanging back a bit at the new school.

I was first introduced to Carrie by a few teachers who thought we'd get along swell, but I rapidly fell in with Tracy and Jill instead. And before too long, we had begun attempting to stage Star Wars during recess.

Now, you have to understand, this is Texas and it must have been spring before we really got this rolling ... nearly a year after the movie had originally come out. It was warm and we had plenty of dried out dirt all around us ... kind of like Tatooine. In fact, here's a shot from GoogleLocal of the school:

Things started out simply enough. The three of us began trying to figure out who would play which role. Obviously, there just weren't enough of us. And none of us wanted to play Darth Vader anyway. So, Tracy invited one of the boys in to play Vader. And then another wanted to be a stormtrooper.

And of course, the fight over who was made to be Luke and who got to be Han.

Of course, everyone wanted to be one of the main characters instead of some random droid or bounty hunter.

Naturally, I had to develop more subplots to accommodate our growing cast.

Soon, I began humming a song while directing the cast of about 50-80 kids (depending on the day) began playing out their assigned roles.

"What's that song you keep humming?"

And this is the only scene I can now recall from the Butler Elementary School third grade production of the much expanded and completely non canonical version of Star Wars.

"Okay, okay, I need Darth Vader and Princess Leia over here."

Two kids scurry across the dirt field.

"Okay, so this is the part where you're gonna interrogate Leia, right?"

Darth Vader nods gleefully. Leia is less than amused.

"Okay, but we're going to do this a little different. See Leia smuggled in some whiskey and she tricks Vader into drinking it."

Both of the other kids are grinning ear to ear now ... "And you're gonna come out of the interrogation all drunk and stuff ... and singing this song." I stopped and whistled a bit of it.

"What is that song?"

"How dry I am." I had seen the name on the bottom of a music box that was shaped like a martini shaker.

And that's how we played it. For about three days we rehearsed the drunken Vader and Leia scene until we had nearly all of the 180 kids in the third grade either rehearsing some part of the movie or in stitches as we had Leia and Vader stumbling out of their "cell" together, shoulder to shoulder, hiccuping like professional B-Movie veterans.

"How ... hiccup ... dry I ... hiccup ... am hiccup."

I don't think we ever tried to give that song more lyrics than that name I'd read on the bottom of the music box.

And, of course, after the third day of rehearsing this "scene," one of the teachers ambled over to watch. She made some snide comment or another about pretending to be drunk, but then wandered back off, leaving us to figure out what to do with our army of Han Solos, the reluctantly whiny Luke and the slew of girls that Lucas had not scripted for us.

Odd, when you think about it really ... we gave Luke more than a few sisters since they all wanted to date Han ... and we had Leia having drinkies with her dad. Funny what we knew even before the remaining films and books and comics and such were out!

Even more amazing when you think about it ... we got about 50-80 kids ... half of the grade level ... to play the same game for about three weeks, all together.

I guess it was an amazing movie after all to have sparked that kind of imagination and interest in that many kids.

Posted by Red Monkey at 11:01 AM | Comments (7) | Storytelling: She was, of course, supposed to be sleeping. | TrackBack | Stumble

January 4, 2006

Living Days

Everyone has had one of those moments in time. You think, "Hey, I oughta ...." My friends in high school talked about going to El Salvador or Nicaragua and helping the rebels. We knew little of the conflict and little of the politics, but it was a neat thing to think. We often talked about "if we had just been teenagers in the 60s, we could have been actively marching for civil rights." Our creative writing class wanted to publish a little magazine of our short stories ... but we wanted a PG-13 rating so we could use words like crap, damn and shit. Hey, we were about 16, 17 years old ... I think almost every one of us had some "curse word" in a story. Our teacher went to bat for us, fighting for our right to free speech. No dice ... the school board was appalled that we'd even had the temerity to ask.

We began organizing an underground magazine ... complete with protest against the school and selling of the magazine off school property.

Most of the protesters were seniors. The principal took one of them aside, said he would withold graduation from anyone who protested, whether we did so legally and off-campus or not. Despite the fact that most of these kids knew the laws and knew that we wouldn't dare do that (most of us were in the top quarter of our class ... including several students in the top 12) ... they ALL caved. Instantly.

Evidently, though, Fort Lauderdale builds them with a little more resolve. After a class on immersion journalism, one student decided that he wanted "to live my days so that my nights are not full of regrets."

And what was his interest? Iraq. He claimed he wanted to broaden his mind and said, "I want to experience during my Christmas the same hardships ordinary Iraqis experience everyday [sic], so that I may better emphathize with their distress."

However, like most teenagers with a bright idea, his plan had a couple of flaws. Now look, I'm a big believer in the fact that "kids" can do just about anything they put their minds to. I'm not one of those "grown-ups" who believes that kids are stupid or that they never think things through, et cetera. I've known a lot of kids who can plan circles around adults.

This boy was not one of them.

He must have started off well as he managed to leave the U.S. without his parents' knowledge. I've no idea what fast one he pulled on them, but he flew to Kuwait and then ... here's flaw number two (I'm working around to number one): he thought he could just hop a taxi and jump across the border from Kuwait into Iraq. I mean, really ... you can take a taxi anywhere, right?

Undaunted by this, he journeyed onward to Lebanon and stayed with some family friends for a few days ... then hopped a plane to Baghdad.

(In a vague and obligatory defense of my friends and I at his age, I don't think any of us had access to that kind of cash ... flight to Kuwait, travel to Lebanon, flight to Baghdad, living expenses in Baghdad ....)

Once in Baghdad, you'd think that since he'd been inspired by a class in immersion journalism, Farris Hassan would now attempt to blend in and immerse himself in the culture.

Instead, he stayed at an international hotel ... and then revealed to himself flaw number one:

Farris Hassan does not speak Arabic.

And, in fact, looking at a picture of him on the BBC report of his little adventure, the boy managed to look very American somehow. Check out this article from the BBC for pictures (and some details).

Evidently the young Hassan didn't really think the lack of speaking Arabic was a big deal ... until he pulled out a little phrase book while in the middle of a marketplace. At that moment, he finally thought, "Hey, I could be in trouble." Apparently people started looking at him funny.

Now, I'm torn on his next action. He went to the local AP bureau and told them who he was and what he had done. Now see, if he was truly there for the experience, wouldn't he have holed up in his room for a few days and tried to study some basic Arabic so he could pull it off? Then again, I've no doubt that Farris was in danger and he probably should have gone home ... but I'm not so sure that he truly lived his days so he would not regret his nights. He saw an international hotel and a few minutes of a marketplace. How was this really experiencing the everyday hardships of the Iraqi people? Yes, he certainly did more in that direction than the average teenager ... but did he accomplish the goal that he set for himself?

I would say no. He did extricate himself from a dangerous situation before anything happened to him and should be applauded for showing that level of good sense.

However, besides not truly considering all of the ramifications of going to Iraq, Farris also didn't seem to truly think through the consequences of returning home after this little escapade. His mom said that "We are going to watch his every move. We are going to take his passport. We're going to limit his access to money."

You'd think that a boy who lives in the U.S. and has Iraqi parents might have thought they'd be a little upset about his trip ... of course, I'm sure that's why he didn't tell them ahead of time.

Oh, and evidently his school wants to meet with his parents before he's allowed to return to school ... evidently they did not consider this an extra credit assignment!

But, I will give him this ... he saw one of those moments and he did make an effort to grab it. He may lay awake at night later on, regreting that he didn't plan the excursion better and actually get to experience Iraqi life as he'd intended to do. But ... he did attempt to grab his moment and live it fully. How many of us can say that?

Posted by Red Monkey at 3:26 PM | Comments (5) | Storytelling: She was, of course, supposed to be sleeping. | TrackBack | Stumble

December 28, 2005

Pigs

During college, I lived in a little duplex on campus. It was a nice little place ... the rent was unbelievably low even for an on-campus place. The drawback was that the place was tiny and only had one small and ancient window air-conditioner ... and this was hotter than hades Texas we're talking about.

So, we moved off campus to another duplex. Doubled the size of our living space (at least doubled) and we also doubled our rent. And, our neighbors became ... well ... let's just say they were interesting. We called the place the Neighborhood of the Pigs. (And realize now, that this was highly offensive to the animal pigs ... who are much cooler than any of these neighbors were.)

On one corner, in front of our new home was an alcoholic who lived with his much older wife. He'd yell horrible things at her periodically ... it was a true joy to listen to. Not.

In the other half our our duplex were the friends who had talked us into moving in here ... wonderful people and it was quite nice to continue to live next to people we actually knew and liked.

On the other corner (we lived on the top bar of a T intersection), however, were the rednecks from hell.

Seriously. These were the people with an American flag as their curtain on the front door ... and one of the largest Confederate flags I've ever seen as their curtain for the living room windows. They had a gorgeous, large front porch that I was jealous of. But, they also had the bench seat from a school bus and the back bench seat from an SUV as the seating arrangement on the porch.

I never did figure out how many people were living there, either. There were at least 3 guys and one woman. And, any given week, there might be as many as 5 guys living there.

They were typical rednecks. They hated our next door neighbors because they were gay. They'd occasionally come outside and scream horrible things at Stacy and Melanie ... and then the weird dyke commune women from two streets over would inevitably come out and just stand in the street and glare at the rednecks until they got scared and ran back inside their house. (Neither we nor Stacie and Melanie knew any of these women ... but they would just magically appear in the street whenever the rednecks began thinking of getting out of line ... was very odd.)

And, of course, the rednecks had a hound dog and junk all over the yard and lined up by their privacy fence. They couldn't have been more a stereotype of a crappy redneck if they'd actually tried to be one. Although, I did find their mode of transportation amusing ... they drove a hearse!

Needless to say, the neighborhood was highly entertaining.

One evening, the drunk's wife was out of town. Not having her to scream at, he came and stood in his driveway, wavering there and looking for someone to yell at.

Redneck Girl came out of their house. With a bicycle. She gets on this red Schwinn 3 speed with the granny seat and handlebars, affixes her little bicycle helmet, checks her tall orange flag (I'm not kidding here) and proceeds to labouriously pedal off.

Drunk Man is happy now. He has someone to yell at. Hands on hips, he screams out "Ya fat cow! You're gonna have to do more than ride that bike once around the block if you want to lose some of that fat cow weight." He continues calling out "Fat Cow" at random intervals.

She rode around the block once ... and retreated back into Redneck Central. It was the only time anyone ever saw her on that bike.

But the most amusing night in Pigs Neighborhood was the night the cops descended on Redneck Central.

You see, the five redneck boys and their girl were sitting in the house when they heard a noise in the backyard. Now, if the front porch was a junkyard mess, the backyard was far, far worse. There were paths of junk, bits of car parts, metal, miscellaneous stuff. One of the rednecks tip-toed outside, heard a noise from a different part of the yard and he high-tailed it back into the house.

They called the police. Because someone was trying to steal their junk. (And they were too scared to confront the burgler.)

Three or four cop cars show up, lights blazing. Some go in through the front door, others head around to the backyard.

The privacy fence falls over.

Turns out the privacy fence was something they had taken from a construction site and just leaned up against their crappy chain link fence. Scared the crap out of the cops when a whole section of fence fell over. But they started laughing. Guns drawn, they continued on into the junk infested backyard.

About 15 minutes later, the cops are laughing their butts off and getting into their squad cars. One last cop stood on the front porch and talked to the five redneck boys and the redneck girl for quite some time.

The prowler?

It was their pot-bellied pig.

The one they forgot they owned! These big, tough, redneck boys had been scared senseless by their own pet.

Naturally, the ASPCA came and picked up the pig soon thereafter. And their hound dog.

So they got a cocker spaniel pup that winter.

Some people never learn.

Posted by Red Monkey at 1:17 PM | Comments (3) | Storytelling: She was, of course, supposed to be sleeping. | TrackBack | Stumble