I first ran into the Pixar Theory a few years back, and I admit that I wasted the next two days trying to piece it all together in my head. Basically, the Pixar Theory goes something like this: all of the movies made by Pixar work together as a kind of mythological collage to tell the story of the development of human and post-human life in an alternate universe. That is, every Pixar movie takes place in the same alternate reality, one removed from ours. So Brave, Incredibles, Toy Story, Monsters Inc, etc. are not individual, unrelated stories, but rather all snapshots of a larger, comprehensive history of evolution as it occurred in a different world.
Check it out and be prepared to have your mind blown.
By the way, linking to this page will obviously result in a lot of spoilers if you haven't yet seen all of the Pixar films: user beware.
Click Here: The Pixar Theory
Thursday, August 13, 2015
Wednesday, August 12, 2015
Our Founding Fathers
I'm attempting to pen a song about the founding fathers for a YA book that I'm currently writing. A group of twelve-year-olds at an urban park district summer camp will be singing it during a Fourth of July pageant that they're putting on. Here's what I have so far:
Big George Washington, who never told a lie,
Stood tall with his troops and the King they did defy.
The Gen'ral of the army and our first President,
Gained freedom for all, 'cept those of African descent.
Then there's Jefferson, a warrior with his pens,
Wrote the Declaration of our Independence.
A man of eloquence, his words saved and engraved,
And fathered several children with a girl who was his slave.
Slave-owner James Monroe, President number five,
Fought against the British and a wound he did survive.
Claimed for our dominion the Western Hemisphere
And made sure that we were the only colonizers here.
Little John Adams, a man of principal
Champion of rights for all who were invisible.
Never owned a slave, which was a point of pride,
The first President in the White House who did reside.
Benjamin Franklin, the only self-made man
He was a thinker and a doer, not a Minuteman.
He fought for democracy and wanted rights for all,
But the slave-holders said "No" and laughed in their southern drawls.
The Fourth President, a man named Madison,
Inherited his land and slaves and annexed the Cajuns.
He thought Africans against the whites might rise,
And that's why he supported the Three-Fifths Compromise.
I'd like it to be lightly humorous and to poke fun at the glaring inconsistencies that these men exhibited, preaching about freedom and equality while holding firmly to their ideas regarding the place of those who weren't born as landed white males.
Certainly, the song needs to be rewritten, but hopefully it's not a horrible first draft...
Big George Washington, who never told a lie,
Stood tall with his troops and the King they did defy.
The Gen'ral of the army and our first President,
Gained freedom for all, 'cept those of African descent.
Then there's Jefferson, a warrior with his pens,
Wrote the Declaration of our Independence.
A man of eloquence, his words saved and engraved,
And fathered several children with a girl who was his slave.
Slave-owner James Monroe, President number five,
Fought against the British and a wound he did survive.
Claimed for our dominion the Western Hemisphere
And made sure that we were the only colonizers here.
Little John Adams, a man of principal
Champion of rights for all who were invisible.
Never owned a slave, which was a point of pride,
The first President in the White House who did reside.
Benjamin Franklin, the only self-made man
He was a thinker and a doer, not a Minuteman.
He fought for democracy and wanted rights for all,
But the slave-holders said "No" and laughed in their southern drawls.
The Fourth President, a man named Madison,
Inherited his land and slaves and annexed the Cajuns.
He thought Africans against the whites might rise,
And that's why he supported the Three-Fifths Compromise.
I'd like it to be lightly humorous and to poke fun at the glaring inconsistencies that these men exhibited, preaching about freedom and equality while holding firmly to their ideas regarding the place of those who weren't born as landed white males.
Certainly, the song needs to be rewritten, but hopefully it's not a horrible first draft...
Friday, August 7, 2015
All the Pretty Horses
Last weekend, my wife asked me to go through several boxes of books that hadn't been opened since we moved into our house three years ago. I trudged upstairs, sat down in the closet, and peeled open the first box, assuming that the process would take two minutes before I decided to sell everything inside to a used-books store.
As with most things in my life, I was wrong.
Twenty minutes later, I was forty pages into All the Pretty Horses, a wonderful, engaging book by the fantastic writer Cormac McCarthy. I would guess that I've read the book three or four times in my life, and it gets better each time that I do. Of course, the book itself doesn't change - the words have been the same since it was first published in 1992, when I was fourteen years old. But the experience of growing and aging and maturing and using a specific piece of art as a kind of milestone along the way is a rewarding experience. I see and understand things at thirty-seven that I couldn't when I was fourteen or twenty-two. This isn't to say that the things that matter to me now are more important than those that caught my eye as a teenager - the needs and wants of a teenager are just as valid as those of an octogenarian.
But I digress. The story of John Grady Cole and his flight from the South Texas town of San Angelo into the expansive and dangerous freedom of Northern Mexico is thrilling, compelling, and so well-written that it hurts to read it. For the record, I have never read a Western novel save those of McCarthy, and am resolutely uninterested in the genre when he is not the creator. That said, as a life-long city boy who doesn't find the story of cowboys and ranching and desolate desertscapes interesting or romantic at all, I salivate at McCarthy's intense physical descriptions of horses as though I had been raised on a ranch.
If you haven't read this book yet, do yourself a favor and read it. It's one of those rare books that can change your life in a small and subtle way, and any work of art that can accomplish that is worth your time.
As with most things in my life, I was wrong.
Twenty minutes later, I was forty pages into All the Pretty Horses, a wonderful, engaging book by the fantastic writer Cormac McCarthy. I would guess that I've read the book three or four times in my life, and it gets better each time that I do. Of course, the book itself doesn't change - the words have been the same since it was first published in 1992, when I was fourteen years old. But the experience of growing and aging and maturing and using a specific piece of art as a kind of milestone along the way is a rewarding experience. I see and understand things at thirty-seven that I couldn't when I was fourteen or twenty-two. This isn't to say that the things that matter to me now are more important than those that caught my eye as a teenager - the needs and wants of a teenager are just as valid as those of an octogenarian.
But I digress. The story of John Grady Cole and his flight from the South Texas town of San Angelo into the expansive and dangerous freedom of Northern Mexico is thrilling, compelling, and so well-written that it hurts to read it. For the record, I have never read a Western novel save those of McCarthy, and am resolutely uninterested in the genre when he is not the creator. That said, as a life-long city boy who doesn't find the story of cowboys and ranching and desolate desertscapes interesting or romantic at all, I salivate at McCarthy's intense physical descriptions of horses as though I had been raised on a ranch.
If you haven't read this book yet, do yourself a favor and read it. It's one of those rare books that can change your life in a small and subtle way, and any work of art that can accomplish that is worth your time.
Thursday, August 6, 2015
August 6, 1945
70 years ago today, the United States dropped an atomic bomb over the city of Hiroshima, Japan, killing an estimated 150,000 human beings before the end of the year. I think that it's important to recall the social and cultural context in which this horrific act occurred. Too often, when we Americans consider our history (when, in fact, we deign to consider it at all), we tend to whitewash out uncomfortable details that might cast a pall on events which many believe merit nothing but proud celebration. When we talk about the Constitution, we often can't be troubled to speak about the abhorrent fact that black people weren't even considered human beings by our founding fathers, and that the full-out genocide of the native population of North America was already well under way.
When we think about the end of the Second World War, and about the decision to drop two atomic bombs on Japanese civilians, we must recall the unspeakable racism against the Japanese that had become commonplace since the surprise bombing of Pearl Harbor.
Caricatures of Japanese men with Coke-bottle glasses, buck-teeth, and squinty eyes were everywhere during the early 1940s, and American pop culture staples such as Loony Tunes and Mickey Mouse proudly joined the raucous chorus of hateful, racist tirades against the Japanese. All of this served to dehumanize the Japanese, which made it acceptable to treat them as animals, undeserving of the rights and consideration normally granted to human beings.
Consider the shameful internment of Japanese and Japanese-Americans that began in early 1942 with President Roosevelt's Executive Order 9066. The American government rounded up over 100,000 people of Japanese ancestry from the West Coast, most of whom were American citizens, and herded them into camps in the interior of the country. The reason given was that they were somehow a danger to the war effort against the Imperial Japanese government, though no proof was EVER offered to justify this claim. To its everlasting shame, the Supreme Court upheld this grotesque practice in 1944, pointedly avoiding issuing an opinion on whether the United States government could simply round up American citizens and imprison them without providing them with due process.
Given this atmosphere of lawlessness and rampant racism, it is no wonder that most Americans were perfectly okay with dropping an atomic fireball on a densely-populated city and incinerating its people. After all, they were only Japanese, and Americans had greedily sucked in years of anti-Japanese propaganda designed to turn them into lesser creatures.
We could tell ourselves that this little boy deserved his pain and suffering because he was only a Jap. We could celebrate our deep commitment to freedom and human rights and self-determination while simultaneously ignoring such images because these weren't people. They were savages, they were barbarians, they were animals, they were Japs.
70 years ago today this happened. The United States dropped an atomic bomb over the city of Hiroshima and killed 150,000 human being. Human beings just like you, just like me. Vile, racist propaganda made this abhorrent act acceptable. Do not allow such propaganda to skew your view of the Other around the world.
People are people, no matter where they're from or how they look. Don't let this happen again.
When we think about the end of the Second World War, and about the decision to drop two atomic bombs on Japanese civilians, we must recall the unspeakable racism against the Japanese that had become commonplace since the surprise bombing of Pearl Harbor.
Caricatures of Japanese men with Coke-bottle glasses, buck-teeth, and squinty eyes were everywhere during the early 1940s, and American pop culture staples such as Loony Tunes and Mickey Mouse proudly joined the raucous chorus of hateful, racist tirades against the Japanese. All of this served to dehumanize the Japanese, which made it acceptable to treat them as animals, undeserving of the rights and consideration normally granted to human beings.
Consider the shameful internment of Japanese and Japanese-Americans that began in early 1942 with President Roosevelt's Executive Order 9066. The American government rounded up over 100,000 people of Japanese ancestry from the West Coast, most of whom were American citizens, and herded them into camps in the interior of the country. The reason given was that they were somehow a danger to the war effort against the Imperial Japanese government, though no proof was EVER offered to justify this claim. To its everlasting shame, the Supreme Court upheld this grotesque practice in 1944, pointedly avoiding issuing an opinion on whether the United States government could simply round up American citizens and imprison them without providing them with due process.
Given this atmosphere of lawlessness and rampant racism, it is no wonder that most Americans were perfectly okay with dropping an atomic fireball on a densely-populated city and incinerating its people. After all, they were only Japanese, and Americans had greedily sucked in years of anti-Japanese propaganda designed to turn them into lesser creatures.
We could tell ourselves that this little boy deserved his pain and suffering because he was only a Jap. We could celebrate our deep commitment to freedom and human rights and self-determination while simultaneously ignoring such images because these weren't people. They were savages, they were barbarians, they were animals, they were Japs.
70 years ago today this happened. The United States dropped an atomic bomb over the city of Hiroshima and killed 150,000 human being. Human beings just like you, just like me. Vile, racist propaganda made this abhorrent act acceptable. Do not allow such propaganda to skew your view of the Other around the world.
People are people, no matter where they're from or how they look. Don't let this happen again.
Saturday, August 1, 2015
The Subtle Joys of Illiteracy
Last night, older daughter got out of bed at around 9:00 and came to the top of the stairs.
"Daddy?" she called down.
Being a complete and total sucker, I arose from my position on the couch and made my way upstairs to see what she wanted.
"What is it, sweetie?"
"Daddy, I can't fall asleep."
This was cute the first time she complained about it six months ago. Ever since that first night, it's become a wearisome part of our nighttime routine.
"Okay, honey," I said, walking her back to the room she shares with younger daughter. "Let's get you back in bed."
I go through my nightly spiel about how it's okay if she can't sleep, that sleep is something that you can't force, that the important thing is to just rest and to keep quiet so that she doesn't wake up her sister. She stares blankly at me and nods complacently, ignoring me completely.
She lays down and I pull her blanket up over her just the way she likes it. She reaches over, picks up one of her books, and opens it up.
"Sweetie," I say calmly, successfully hiding the fact that I want to start yelling wildly, "it's time to go to sleep. This isn't the time to read."
She nods patronizingly. "It's okay, Daddy. It won't take long: I can't read yet."
"Daddy?" she called down.
Being a complete and total sucker, I arose from my position on the couch and made my way upstairs to see what she wanted.
"What is it, sweetie?"
"Daddy, I can't fall asleep."
This was cute the first time she complained about it six months ago. Ever since that first night, it's become a wearisome part of our nighttime routine.
"Okay, honey," I said, walking her back to the room she shares with younger daughter. "Let's get you back in bed."
I go through my nightly spiel about how it's okay if she can't sleep, that sleep is something that you can't force, that the important thing is to just rest and to keep quiet so that she doesn't wake up her sister. She stares blankly at me and nods complacently, ignoring me completely.
She lays down and I pull her blanket up over her just the way she likes it. She reaches over, picks up one of her books, and opens it up.
"Sweetie," I say calmly, successfully hiding the fact that I want to start yelling wildly, "it's time to go to sleep. This isn't the time to read."
She nods patronizingly. "It's okay, Daddy. It won't take long: I can't read yet."
Friday, July 31, 2015
MXC - Most eXtreme elimination Challenge
So, perhaps the acronym doesn't work, but this show was absolutely amazing. I hope that you've already familiarized yourselves with the unparalleled joy that is watching the cramp-inducing hilarity that was MXC. For better or for worse, the show is now off the air, but from for five glorious years, from 2003 - 2007, viewers were able to watch contestants who were an intriguing combination of brave and stupid perform ridiculously nonsensical stunts, all set to the biting commentary of Kenny Blankenship and Vic Romano.
But let me back up for a moment... It all originally began as a Japanese game show called Takeshi's Castle, a weekly serial whose premise was that Count Takeshi, the owner of a besieged castle, and his assistant would create challenges and obstacles in order to fend off waves of attacking soldiers. These obstacles would include, say, rolling giant cardboard rocks down narrow, walled-in slopes, while daring contestants (attacking soldiers) to find a way past the rocks and to the castle walls.
Simple enough.
Now, first things first: MXC is simply the episodes of Takeshi's Castle dubbed in English and transformed into slapstick comedy. The premise of MXC was that two men, Vic Romano and Kenny Blankenship, host a game show where contestants attempt to successfully pass obstacles while being mercilessly mocked. Vic Romano is the name given to man who plays Count Takeshi in the Japanese original, and Kenny Blankenship is the man who plays the count's assistant. Mind you: all of the footage is the same. All that has changed is the commentary, and that, apparently, makes all the difference.
Along with Vic and Kenny are Captain Tenneal, a field marshal of sorts who guides the contestants through each challenge. He begins each episode by conversing with the contestants as they're grouped en masse before releasing them into the field by shouting, "Let's go!" Guy LeDouche is the field reporter for the show. He goes around and interviews the contestants before and after attempting the obstacles, and consistently makes inappropriate comments of a sexual nature to contestants both male and female.
In short, each episode is twenty minutes of non-stop laughter interspersed with sympathetic flinches when contestants injure themselves (as they often do). ABC created an obvious and horrible ripoff of the show called Wipeout. I urge you to never, ever watch it. Watching garbage like this only encourages TV executives to continue torturing us with similar outrages.
Go to youtube and watch a clip or two. Then go and buy the complete series - it's totally worth it.
But let me back up for a moment... It all originally began as a Japanese game show called Takeshi's Castle, a weekly serial whose premise was that Count Takeshi, the owner of a besieged castle, and his assistant would create challenges and obstacles in order to fend off waves of attacking soldiers. These obstacles would include, say, rolling giant cardboard rocks down narrow, walled-in slopes, while daring contestants (attacking soldiers) to find a way past the rocks and to the castle walls.
Simple enough.
Now, first things first: MXC is simply the episodes of Takeshi's Castle dubbed in English and transformed into slapstick comedy. The premise of MXC was that two men, Vic Romano and Kenny Blankenship, host a game show where contestants attempt to successfully pass obstacles while being mercilessly mocked. Vic Romano is the name given to man who plays Count Takeshi in the Japanese original, and Kenny Blankenship is the man who plays the count's assistant. Mind you: all of the footage is the same. All that has changed is the commentary, and that, apparently, makes all the difference.
Along with Vic and Kenny are Captain Tenneal, a field marshal of sorts who guides the contestants through each challenge. He begins each episode by conversing with the contestants as they're grouped en masse before releasing them into the field by shouting, "Let's go!" Guy LeDouche is the field reporter for the show. He goes around and interviews the contestants before and after attempting the obstacles, and consistently makes inappropriate comments of a sexual nature to contestants both male and female.
In short, each episode is twenty minutes of non-stop laughter interspersed with sympathetic flinches when contestants injure themselves (as they often do). ABC created an obvious and horrible ripoff of the show called Wipeout. I urge you to never, ever watch it. Watching garbage like this only encourages TV executives to continue torturing us with similar outrages.
Go to youtube and watch a clip or two. Then go and buy the complete series - it's totally worth it.
Monday, July 27, 2015
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