The piece I remember

Did it start as another sunny southern California day? Or was it a gray awakening from the coastal marine layer with the impersonal downtown high rises laying flat against a depthless sky? It was the year of El Nino, I remember that much. In fiction the weather is a great device for setting moods, emphasizing emotions and even foreshadowing. In life weather is the earth’s natural and chaotic whim, which tells us not much more than what we most likely should wear for the day, and even then (in cahoots with many a weather forecaster) in may deceive us into false expectations. So each day when we wake up, sip our morning coffee as we check outside the window and hope the news is correct in it’s assessment of what may be, and based on these unreliable tidbits of information don our vain (yes, no matter who you are: punk, prep, or prim conservative – you express yourself through the clothing you choose to lay down your hard earned pay or maybe even payola for) outerwear to show the world who we are as we roll the dice hoping we’ve guessed the gods' climatic intentions for the day.

Did I wake up in my studio coughing in a haze of smoke choking the room? Was I off balance and foggy from yet another night of double fisting beers and vodka and tonics while smoking (always too many cigarettes) and writing my first screenplay which no one would buy? Maybe I’d had a good night’s sleep and been a good boy the night before and was up and alert and had a well balanced breakfast with my cowboy coffee (I didn’t have a coffee maker at the time so I boiled water, threw in the coffee grinds and strained that through a paper towel into my eagerly awaiting mug to get that all important caffeine kick in the morning). These memories are lost in the mist of time passed swirling and mixing with the haze of smoke that most likely hovered in the all in one room.

Did I work that day at the little downtown coffee shop dwarfed by the surrounding buildings where they paid me next to nothing to do next to nothing. I apologize to baristas everywhere, but you are not creative or inventive like chefs or bakers. You pack the grinds properly, run the water through the machine and make sure it gets into the cup. While there are many boneheads who cannot get even that right, it is not hard. Or did I have the day off work and instead pack envelopes with my seven sentence synopsis,

“’ Vacation’s Key’ is a drama about two hit men on vacation in the Florida Keys. Vince has been hardened by his work, but sees that it is time to leave the trade and cleanse his soul; his passion for oriental literature will not make him as peaceful as the Buddha. John, the rookie, has an immediate distaste for their work; it’s not as easy (physically or mentally) as he thought. Vince finds love with a beautiful bartender named Sabrina. John struggles with inner torment over having committed cold calculated murder. The pair are given an order for a hit in the Keys which they plan to make their last, but the target of their previous operation isn’t as dead as they think and now he’s on their tail. As they try to finish business and set their souls straight, someone else is planning to send their souls straight to hell.”

How many envelopes were packed with that gem of a teaser? How many stamps did I lick mailing it with great expectations to any and all production houses accepting unsolicited scripts? How many waste paper baskets became the final resting place of seven sentences which summarized a year’s hard work and dreams from a young and optimistic writer?

How do you know that today your life will change? In John Irving’s The Hotel New Hampshire Franny observes, “In this world, just when you’re trying to think of yourself as memorable, there is always someone who forgets that they’ve met you.” And again I reference that evil traitor we call Memory! Memory is capricious and most likely in cahoots with our unreliable friend the weather. It taunts us and teases us with many pieces of the puzzle but almost always inevitably guides a piece to the floor where it will get knocked unseen under the sofa not to be added to our whole picture of the world, of yesterday, of today or even nine years from now.

What piece of the puzzle will be added today? I do not know, but I cannot wait to find out. Nine years ago today, on August 21, 1997, in forgotten weather conditions while working on an unmemorable, forgotten script I met my wife. Many pieces of the puzzle picture of that day are missing, but as I see the piece with my wife laughing across the room catching my eyes, that one piece is all that matters. It tells the story which leads to today. So as I walk out the door into the world of experience today and remember that beautiful memory from nine years in the past I have only great expectations of what beautiful little puzzle piece I’ll remember of today nine years from now.

Summer Reading

A few weeks back I promised Jeanne I’d let her know about some books she should read. Quick note: I am a card carrying Harry Potter Fan. As far as Children’s Books go I have two interesting finds.

The first is from Pulitzer Prize winning writer Michael Chabon. In 2002 or 2003 he wrote great Children’s book called Summerland. I was first introduced to Chabon at FSU when I had to read The Mysteries of Pittsburgh for my Modern American Novel class under Dr. Douglas Fowler. This is a great book to read after reading (or, preferably re-reading) The Catcher in the Rye. Also, Phlox is one of the best female characters written in modern times (other than those by John Irving – who I’ll deal with in later posts). Next I read Wonder Boys which was later made into a fun film with Michael Douglas, Robert Downey, Jr, and Tobey McGuire. Then came The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay (for which Chabon won the Pulitzer Prize, and is incidentally about comic books -- see my earlier posts for more on the subject). Chabon may be too smart for his own good. Rather than repeating the same old rubbish again and again like the big money makers (insert John Grisham here) he constantly looks for new and interesting stories to tell. This leads us to Summerland. It is full of the great mythology which you come to expect from the genre of Children’s Books. It also deals with baseball. – SIDENOTE: I hate baseball (as a sport), it is BORING! George Carlin is correct when he believes that land mines should be placed in the outfield to spice up the game. But as a dramatic device it is great in both film and literature. Look at books like The Natural (also an amazing movie), and in film there are fun flicks like Bull Durham or even A League of Their Own. -- Chabon juices the sport and its fanatic following for all they are worth and makes you dream of sunny summer days spent on the diamond and the magic that they promise.

Another great Children’s book is Howl’s Moving Castle by Diana Wynne Jones. It is mystical, and mysterious. Like a good Brit, Jones gives us a foggy, tale told in a landscape where the sun always appears to be just about to set. At the beginning of the novel you get the brief satisfaction of knowing where the story is going, but Jones isn’t as accommodating as she progresses. Soon you have to follow her lead into rooms of a moving castle were she controls where we go and what we see. Hayao Miyazaki made the book into a film, which while being probably his worst picture is a great movie. It’s like when you see a worst movie by Woody Allen, Akira Kurosawa or Brian DePalma; it may be their worst effort, but it is superior to most of the best creations by other filmmakers. And don’t worry; having read the book won’t spoil the movie. Miyazaki makes the story his own. There are movies where the strict following of the book is great (insert Sin City here) and there are those where the strict following can be bad – very bad (insert The Hotel New Hampshire by John Irving here). This is just a fun film based on the book. Nothing more, nothing less.

SIDE NOTE: Two great Miyazaki movies you need to watch if you haven’t already… Castle in the Sky. This is a rollercoaster with an eco-friendly message which should be (in that Utopia where we wish to live) a favorite film to all – young and old. Also, Porco Rosso is a must see. I recommend (Japanese native speakers may be excluded) that you set up the English subtitles and, instead of choosing the Japanese Language version or the English language version (with Porco Rosso’s voice by Michael Keaton) setting the French language version with Porco’s voice by the great French actor Jean Reno. Now that is a treat! This film was originally commissioned as a project for a short film by JAL (Japanese Air Lines) as a short animated film to be shown on domestic flights, but Miyazaki got carried away and made a feature length film and we are all better for it. Watch it, hate fascism, and have FUN!

Last Children’s Book recommendation comes from my friend Dan. Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials Trilogy: The Golden Compass, The Subtle Knife and The Amber Spyglass. I’ve actually read none of these, BUT Dan’s rec says it all to me. I’ll be reading these by the end of the week.

Now for an “adult” book. Do you love language? Does it upset you when you hear double negatives fired off at rapid machine gun staccato by the person in front of you in line at the grocery store? Clipped words and slang tend to jar your senses? Hmm, O.C. anyone? Well, check out Guy Deutscher’s The Unfolding of Language: an evolutionary tour of mankind’s greatest invention. This book, besides being informative, is extremely well written. When was the last time you laughed out loud while reading a linguistics book? This was the only time for me, but the laughs were earned and FUN! Deutscher takes us on a tour of language through time and while focusing mostly on Indo-European Languages, gives us an idea of why we speak the way we do and where our language(s) are heading. When you hear others speak in the future you will react and think differently about what you hear. A.S. Byatt loved it and I do too!

6655321

On Wednesday the 19th of July I played a tournament chess game at the San Diego Chess Club against Fawsi Murra. Sr. This is a game I was (numerically) meant to lose; Murra is rated almost 250 points higher than me on the ratings scale. After move four I spent a moment trying to remember the name of the opening position we had reached. Was it the Taimanov or the Kan? The two are similar, but there is a difference. I also didn’t really know how to play against either system. I remembered that you could set up what is known as the Maroczy (mah-rock-see) Bind against the two systems, but wasn’t sure (couldn’t remember) how to handle the bind against these two systems. The only time I normally use the Maroczy Bind is against Accelerated Dragons (don’t they sound intimidating? Not just Dragons, but accelerated ones at that!). I made a decision and using the advise from a book by Grandmaster Andrew Soltis to think analogously when you don’t know an exact position, and played it as if it was against an Accelerated Dragon. I played my best and after making okay moves for two and one half hours I finally made a “weak” move on move number 22 which handed the initiative to my opponent. How did he follow up? He blundered and hung a piece. I immediately saw his error, but spent two minutes verifying it before I set in to begin the kill! On move 28, in a hopeless position, Mr. Murra resigned. Victory was mine!

How did I as a chess player who’s been playing avidly for three years not know the name of the opening position reached on move four? Strangely enough, this is not uncommon. Case in point, at Wijk aan Zee in 1990, Viswanathan Ananad who is one of the strongest grandmasters in the world had to spend several moments after move number three to remember the name of the opening position reached. So at least I’m in good company when it comes to forgetting the names of openings. But how is it that I can remember the first fourteen moves of the 1959 game Bernstein – Fischer or fourteen or so moves into the Chigorin variation of the Main Line Ruy Lopez, but not even know the name of an opening on move four? You’d think it was because I reached the other positions more often, so well duh!, but that is not the case. Another odd example is when I play my friend Rob in blitz games at the coffee shop. He almost always plays the Sveshnikov Sicilian against me. No problem, since he always plays it I should be well armed. Sort of… On move sixteen he never plays the “book” move which is strongest in the variation, but I never remember how to punish him for his “mistake.” It could be easy to rationalize this with the dismissive, “Gee, that Sam sure has a poor memory.” But that would not be quite right.
My friend Dan e-mailed me the other day telling me about his summer reading and the books he plans to teach (again) this fall at College. For most of he books he mentioned the character’s names only, knowing that was enough for me to know what books he was speaking abouthe wrote “...then back to Beowulf, Arthur, Hamlet, Bernard Mark, poor Winston Smith, and little Alex. I bet you remember his convict number -- I never can.” “Of course I can,” I thought, “It’s 6655321.” Now I haven’t read that book in at least 10 years, but Dan knows that I still remember the convict number for a character?! So much for my poor memory.

Now how the heck can I remember the convict number for a fictional character from a book I haven’t read in a decade, but when I’m driving to work I often wonder silently, “Did I turn the coffee maker off?” Is it distance in time (along the lines of us remembering the past more easily than the near present)? No. I can remember all the different verb conjugations from this last year of studying Japanese (recent), but cannot even remember a single Russian verb (from 16 years ago), so that can’t be it. Is it repetition? No; I turn the coffee maker off everyday, and I don’t read A Clockwork Orange everyday (it’s been ten years). Also with repetition, Dan reads the book once or twice a year, so it should be him that remembers the convict number and not me, right? How about importance or significance? Well, I think it is much more important that the coffee maker is off keeping my home from burning to the ground rather than some dastardly Storm Trooper who may one day have me cornered and in the absence of fanatics dressed as superheroes to protect me, he offers up as my only hope of survival, if I can tell him Alex’s convict number from A Clockwork Orange he will spare my life. I don’t think that will ever happen, but on the off chance it does… Woo-hoo! I am saved!

It’s a strange thing then this abstract called memory. Think about all the things you do recall and the myriad of information which often escapes you which you wish to retain. “What’s it going to be then, eh?” As you ponder this over the next minute or two, or preferably over the next few days, also remember and ponder Keats’ final line to “Ode on a Grecian Urn” which I remember after not having read it in about five years, “Beauty is truth, truth beauty, -- that is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.”

Comic-Con Part II

Back-story:
I don’t remember when I first “found” comic books, but it must have been somewhere around 1976 when Star Wars first came out. I don’t remember what comics I first read. Who bought my first comic? My mom? My stepdad? Me? No clue.
I do remember when comics became magic. When the Capps family took a bunch of us neighborhood kids to Zeno’s comic book store anticipation mounted minute by minute for the oh so long (about 15 minutes) drive there. A bunch of snot nosed suburban kids piled into a Suburban (back before the entire nation of the United States decided to create an oil crisis by driving no vehicle that got more than 12 miles to the gallon) headed off to spend our weekly allowances. What were we going to spend our unearned money on? Decisions had to be made. If I buy and read Micronaughts will so-and-so then trade me for The Hulk. Or should I get Fantastic Four and after reading it trade for The Avengers? Marvel comics were the brand of choice. No one in my little neighborhood of ranch style homes and neatly manicured lawns, my little universe, at that time read DC Comics. You were an instant pariah if you mentioned it. “DC means Dumb Comics,” was always the first words heard (because as children we are so witty) if someone mentioned Superman or some such DC title.
Early on we were taught the insidious idea of “collecting” comics. We learned to bag and board and protect the comics from any damage. All reading was done ever so carefully as to not damage the mint condition we acquired the issue in. One day these little books would be worth vast fortunes (oh, beautiful capitalist dreams!). And the weekend ritual of alternating parents driving us week in week out to Zeno’s continued. Through cold, wind reddens your cheeks winters, polleny time to start mowing the grass springs, sultry stay indoors from 11 to 2 it’s just too hot summers to the leaves are all kinds of wonderful reds, yellows and browns falls the trips and purchases continued. As our appetites for consumption and storage of these beauties increased our unearned allowances sadly did not. Soon we were mowing lawns, raking leaves and cutting firewood (depending on the season) to get more money for these treasure we would hide and horde and one day (when we were nice and old, like say, maybe twenty) sell and retire with the fortune we’d made by reading glorious tales of Superheroes and keeping the delicate, slender tomes in “mint” condition.
Along with collectability came “trading.” Most children are involved in some form of trading, from comics to baseball cards to whatever it is that tickles the fancy of your little crowd. Trading is and art. It is early business school. Each participant has to win the trade while making the other feel that they received the better deal. Pretty heavy stuff for 10 year olds, eh!? I don’t remember who came out ahead most often in my little crew, but I’d bet it was Tim; he’s become the best businessman I know. Then again, maybe he got all the bad deals out of his system young and learned the lessons some of us are still learning.
You can tell a lot about a person by the comic books they read. Tim was a Spiderman guy; he knew what he wanted and was focused. Mark was The Avengers. All Captain America and Iron Man (before Tony Stark went through that whole drunk phase) and patriotism rah, rah. Mark is the kind of patriot all Americans should be. I was an X-Men guy (issue 94 and after. The first 93 issues need to be collected worldwide and bound together and titled “The X-Men almost save the day, are almost killed by the villain, but Professor X shows up just in the nick of time and saves the day,” then tossed into the Ocean and we can get on with the stories where Chris Clairmont kept Professor X busy and the X-Men had to fight for themselves.). X-Men fans, like their mutant minority friends usually feel (however unnecessarily so) a slight alienation and injustice in the world. Eric was the bold one who let us mercilessly chant “DC means Dumb Comics,” again and again and broke the mold by reading Teen Titans. I’ve lost touch with him, but he took a different path than the rest of us and I hear is a highly successful Hospital Administrator. The characters from these books inspired countless debates (before we were worried about taxes, corporate governance, the environment, death penalty, etc.) over lunch room tables and on sports fields or in backyards. Who’d win in a fight (and it did matter that your chosen hero would win!), Kitty Pryde or Vision? Wolverine or Hulk? Silver Surfer or Dr. Strange? If you see the comics we read and heroes we followed, and then view how each us are now, there are no surprises.
Somewhere along the way the same old superheroes against villains started to get thin. Gee, will the X-Men beat the Brotherhood of Evil Mutants again? Duh! And even though we didn’t read DC Comics, Lois get a clue… Clark Kent is Superman! And for me, The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles changed everything. In issue 8 or so there was a “guest appearance” of a character named Cerebus. An aardvark?! And next thing you knew I was reading all kinds of stuff – always bagging and boarding and keeping them in the best possible condition – from Fish Police and Adolescent Radioactive Black belt Hamsters (a beautifully shameless take of you know who) to weird non-continuous books like the Kafkaesque “Ashes.” And of course, to this day I am still working my way through Cerebus (hey, I know already! I said it before and I’ll say it again, “It took Dave Sim 25 years to write the dang thing, even at my snails pace I’ll finish reading it in half the time!”).
Then, somewhere along the way I started reading Kafka rather than a Kafkaesque comic. Macbeth beat out Magneto. Martin Amis provided all the angst I’d ever need. Dang it, I grew up.
Luckily for me my wife, through the Japanese’ almost insatiable appetite for manga got me back into comics. I reentered through Monkey Punch’s “Lupin the 3rd.” From there I started reading Tezuka, and on and on.
Present day:
This revitalized interest in a story format from my youth led me to revisit the comics of my youth. I had recently reread the older X-Men (issues 94 and on – you know what needs to be done with issues 1-93!). I then wanted a new (to me) story to follow monthly. {Other than television and early movie matinees, there is a scarcity of serialized fiction. Rather odd since some of the literary greats – insert Charles Dickens here – used just this format to tell their wonderful tales} Since all of the comics of my youth continued generating mythology even while I was off doing “more adult” ventures, it would be hard to get into a story and catch up on 12-16 years worth of back story. So, I found a relatively new series and jumped right on in and let the storytellers and artists take me for my monthly journeys. Fun stuff. Now I’m back on the hunt for more new material to gobble up on relaxing days off of work.
So, hopefully you read my post regarding my adventures at San Diego’s Comic-Con 2006. After suffering through lines no one should ever have to stand in for admission to anything other than those much vaunted “pearly gates” (yes, we’re back with religions references) and battling dehydration only to be saved by an angel of a person, my friend Ikoi, I was able to gain entrance and get some new (at least to me) comics for my reading please over the next few weeks. I found some where the art grabbed me and it appears that the stories will be as good to boot. Here’s the run down. Kabuki by David Mack (he did art for Daredevil by Marvel as well). The first book I picked up is “Circle of Blood” which has a contrasty black and white artwork, but following volumes the style of art and even mediums used change depending on the storyline. I actually bought the books from Mack himself. He was a nice, unassuming character interested in my interest in his work. Refreshing. Wildflower by Billy Martinez. This is another black and white production, but there is excellent shading giving the art depth and the feel of color. Shi by William Tucci (with an introduction to the volume by none other than Chris Claremont – oh, savior of the X-Men). There was a black and white volume available at an excellent price with lots of issues covered in it, but since the original series was in color I decided to spend a bit more and see the artist’s (and their team’s) true “intentions.” I’ll give a review of these in the next few weeks once I’ve had ample time t swim through their glorious oceans.
Lastly, let’s never forget my dues ex machina, the one and only Ikoi. She picked up a volume for me by one of her favorite artists, Douglas Paszkiewicz (how do you think spell-check reacted to his last mane?). The series is Arsenic Lullaby and the volume is “The Donut Cometh.” I never would have picked it up on my own. The art is not “bad” by any means, but it is not the type which would normally grab my attention. In fact, at times it appears almost as if a teenager who’s not quite sure which direction his style will take has drawn the book. Oh, beautiful deception! This is irreverence at its best. I read the entire volume over four sups of coffee on my porch in a single sitting. NOTE OF CATION: If a voodoo witch doctor names Voodoo Joe who leads an army of zombie fetuses (just one of many continuing stories in the collection) would offend you, this is one to stay away from. However, if you want to see just how low in humor one can go and still have you laughing, but not sick, this is one great book. The style of art is genius because it presents the material in a visually palatable manner.
Also, I recently read in two days Danger Girl: The Ultimate Collection. The story is the summer movie Hollywood has owed of for decades, but never followed through on. J. Scott Campbell’s artwork jumps off the page and he draws the women all red blooded men the world over have always wanted to see, but the proportions just aren’t physically possible in nature. As far as some kick-ass, gun a Porsche up past 150 headed to the edge of a cliff summer reading goes, this is the goods!
And now… The POINT. It doesn’t have to be comics. You’ll know what it is for you. Whatever it is that inspired you as a child, consider revisiting it now as an adult. You might find, like I have, a new appreciation of that pass-time and your childhood. It could also provide a richer understanding of your self now as an adult. Look back with fondness and look forward with childish dreams.