Jumper

When I saw the first trailer for Jumper I was very excited . . . and appalled. The special effects were clearly top-shelf and the story line promised a departure from the mundane; but in that I was horrified! I had written a story just like that when I was 15! Someone had stolen my idea! As it is, no one actually stole anything from me, so all I can assume is that Steven Gould and I are great minds and we must have been thinking alike.

In the summer of 1995 I wrote a short story about a group of teenagers who could jump through time and space. I entitled the story The Wall Jumpers because of the “scientific” phenomenon of jumping “the wall” between this space-time continuum to the next. Anyway, I never did anything with the story, but when I started a band later that year I adopted the name. You can learn more about
The WaLL JuMPeRs all throughout my site and at Pure Volume.

Anyway, in my story the protagonists were good guys who policed the world. In Doug Liman’s Jumper, David Rice (Hayden Christensen) is less than an upstanding citizen. After running away from his home at the age of fifteen, he quickly turns to robbing banks to stay alive. The film has certain coming-of-age elements, but few were expanded and even less were resolved. This may have to do with the director’s vision of a Jumper trilogy, but if Liman’sdreams aren’t realized he’s going to wish he’d done more with Rice’s character to show that he really did grow and change. The very first time we see “grown-up” Rice he’s jumping around his apartment as if in a casual, daily routine. At one point he turns on the news and watches, in apparent annoyance, as hundreds of people are stranded in torrents of flooding water. The announcer says it would take a “miracle” to save these people, and Rice changes the channel. This is clearly a hint as to where Liman wants to take the character in future installments . . . I only hope he has the opportunity to do so.

The basic gist of the film is that there’s a thousand year old feud between Jumpers and Palladins. Jumpers can transport themselves instantly to almost any place in the world. Palladins believe only God should have the power of omnipresence. Though I doubt it had anything to do with the their faulty theology, the Palladin’s motivation for hunting down and brutally murdering Jumpers (with the occasional friend and family member thrown in for good measure) was barely believable. It’s one thing to be jealous of someones powers. It’s another thing to do your best to protect the world from those who would misuse their special abilities. But it’s a completely different thing when your motivation is tied up in your view of God: “I’ll gladly brake God’s 6th commandment (don’t murder) because I don’t think He’d want you disappearing from one place and appearing in another without having to use a door.” I don’t know . . . it seemed a little hypocritical and superficial. 

I’m not going to say a lot about the special effects. It’s true they’re first-rate, but I was more impressed by what they went through to createthe effects. First of all, though it may seem hard to believe, they didn’t rely on any more CGI than they had to. I always appreciate that in a special effects movie. Second of all, the people in charge all sat down months before and devoted countless hours to create the effect from a real-world standpoint. What kind of things influence a jump? Would there be reciprocal effects in the atmosphere after a jump? Do things like emotions, distance, and weather variables have an effect on the way the jump looks and the amount of damage created. For example, one of David’s most violent jumps (causing a supreme amount of damage) occurred as he jumped his murdered father to the hospital. A close examination of each of the jumps in the context of the scene show how the director and crew put a lot of emphasis on consistency. Their attention to detail is refreshing in a world of fly-by-night films.

I was extremely leery about the quality of acting when I saw their line up. First of all there was Rachel, a relative newcomer who didn’t really appear on the Hollywood scene until 2003, and hasn’t done too many movies since. Then there’s Sam. Good ol’ Samuel L. Jackson, the words greatest supporting actor. I wasn’t concerned with his screen presence, but I knew he wouldn’t deliver any Oscar winning performances. And lastly the much debated Hayden Christensen. I was sorely disappointed withhis acting in Star Wars II, and he just barely redeemed himself with his performance in Star Wars III. Let’s just say I was curious to see if he’d grown much as an actor or if he still relied on his Australian Soap training to carry him through.

                 

                  

Overall I say the movie delivered. There were fantastic effects, a decent plot, refreshing acting, and lovable characters (Griffen and Milly particularly). I honestly look forward to future installments: I’m curious what they do between Rice and his mother. Oh, you didn’t know? Rice is a Jumper. His mom is a Palladin. That makes for unique family reunions.

A New Twist in Advertising

A long time ago my mother found an encyclopedia in the bathroom. She asked my father if he was doing “some light reading” while using the facilities. He told her he didn’t know anything about it, so she decided to ask me, and what she found out surprised her very much.

It was I who’d been reading the encyclopedia in the bathroom . . . and I was 6.

I don’t know about you, but the bathroom is just plain boring. Sitting there, hanging out with nothing to do (and rarely something to look at) wears at my productive/efficient side. I feel the same way about working out. I hate going to gyms because it’s so mindless. P.S. That’s why I study the martial arts; you have to think to survive, you lose weight while building muscle, and you get to beat people up!

Anyway, so I found a way around being bored in the bathroom . . . just pick up a good book. Ever since I was six I’ve read tons of things on the porcelain throne; everything from magazines to encyclopedias to novels (no, I didn’t read the entire novel in one sitting). In fact, I’ve read the entire collected works of Shakespeare . . . in the bathroom. I was in college, I was really busy with school and work, but I wanted to read Shakespeare too, so I found the most opportune time. There’s nothing wrong with a little Bard in the Bathroom!

Anyway, since I’ve been reading in the bathroom my ENTIRE life, I’ve formed quite a habit. It’s hard to have a seat and not immediately reach for the nearest copy of Writer’s Digest or the next volume of Calvin and Hobbes. This does present a problem, though, when using bathrooms that are not my own. Many times you get lucky and the owner of the aforementioned water closet has their own reading material close at hand, but from time to desperate-time you find yourself in a public stall or in the lavatory of someone who’s illiterate.

This is what I do: if it’s a public bathroom you can use your iPod or cell phone to play games. You can also peruse the stall walls and bulk up on your ghetto slang and pithy perversions. But if you’re visiting relatives with no reading material you have to stoop pretty low. And boy do I ever.

I’ve read the backs of almost every shampoo bottle, can of hair spray, toothpaste tube, bathroom cleaner, and tissue box ever made. I can tell you how much fluoride Colgate has in it compared to Close Up. Did you know that tampons . . . ? Well, never mind.

Like I said, I get bored.

So I’m in my Aunt’s bathroom trying very hard to not give in to my Obsessive Bathroom Reading Behavior (OBRB). I fail miserably. So after reading her hairspray and toothpaste I move on to the contents of her shower, and it’s there that I stumbled upon a very annoying advertising tactic.

You knew I’d get to the point eventually.

I pick up a bottle of shampoo and find an interesting question on the back. Q: What percentage of women wear the wrong bra size?  I must admit the question intrigued me. I casually scanned the bottle for the answer but, to my dismay, I couldn’t find it. It wasn’t there. Instead of the answer I desperately wanted to know there were written very little words that read, “to find out the answer look on the back of our Conditioner.”

I couldn’t believe it! What kind of a pathetic ploy was that. The only way you can know the answer is to purchase the shampoo andthe conditioner together? Granted, I was in a very vulnerable state at the time: I was in a frilly bathroom with no reading material and I’d just been hoodwinked by a shampoo company’s marketing department.

Needless to say I scoured her shower in hopes of finding the conditioner bottle, but apparently the answer hadn’t been important to my Aunt. When I looked at the shampoo bottle again I did find an answer there, but it was obviously the answer to the question on the back of the conditioner tube! Grrr.

So, in the end, I finished my bathroom session highly annoyed. First of all, my Aunt seriously needs a magazine rack or library shelf in her bathroom (preferably with books listed using the Dewey Decimal System). Second of all, that shampoo company needs to get a life. If that’s the best you can do to get people to buy your conditioner I think you need to have a better product.

So just to spite the Big Bad Shampoo ExecsI’m not only NOT going to buy the shampoo or the conditioner, I’m also not even going to look at the bottle as I walk past it in Wal-Mart. Hmph. So there. That’s what they get for taking advantage of me in a compromising situation.

So, in retrospect, all I have to ask is, does anyone know “what percentage of women wear the wrong size bra?”

Green?

I go green . . . I don’t use my air conditioning.

Unfortunately, in my situation “green” means “greenbacks.” By not using my AC I save a lot of moo-la.

But let’s consider for a moment the “go green” phenomenon we’re being smacked in the face with these days. Firstly, I think it’s a great idea. Saving nonrenewable resources, cutting back on unnecessary waste and mindless consuming is a fantastic idea, but when do we cross the line from idealists to hypocrites?

For example: let’s consider The Green Network? Is their T.V. station going to use less electricity and water than Fox or the Playboy station? Can you really dedicate an entire station to eco-friendly news and shows, all the while burning through just as much jet fuel as everyone else does when they cart their camera crews to Uganda? Is The Green Network’s footprint really going to be smaller than everyone else’s, or are we missing the lumberjack for the trees?

A local radio station in Chicago is having a Green radio show. They’re riding their bikes to downtown Chicago where they plan to interview the pop-rock band Maroon 5. Okay, so you’re riding your bikes. Okay, so the price of admittance is a plastic bag. But c’mon people! Are you telling me Maroon 5 is going to ride their bikes to Chicago? What about all those people driving downtown with their plastic bags? Great, you recycled 300 plastic bags, but how many gallons of fuel (car and jet alike) did you burn through in the process?

It’s like having to drive 10 miles to get to the nearest recycling plant. Yeah, that makes sense.

Here’s my point: By all means, please preserve our planet . . . but don’t undo what you’re doing. We need to be careful that we don’t pull an Oedipus Rex: to save ourselves we become the tool of our own undoing.

Untraceable

 

I’m a pretty decent digital user. I can manage my computer, find almost anything on the web, and occasionally outwit a nasty virus or “hack” my own programs to make them do what I want them to do. That’s about it. Pretty normal stuff.

So when I watch movies like Untraceable, my imagination gets really fired because I don’t get any of the computer jargon they’re tossing around. And while it’s fun to believe they can do that kind of stuff, it’s also extremely scary. Can people infiltrate my computer that easily? Can they steal my life, frame me, or involve me in crime I know nothing about? Can people use the Internet to kill a person?

The thing I really liked about the movie was its platform. The message that the Internet is a dangerous place where twisted and scary things take place every single second of every single day, is a pregnant and timely message. It’s no longer about making bombs or looking at dirty pictures. It’s worse than that. You can watch people participating in the most gruesome and vial practices from bestiality, to rape; murder, to incest. It’s like the whole world is either killing someone or having sex with another. The Internet is a place for anonymous illegal activity and base animal-like behavior. It’s extreme voyeurism at its worst.

During the film a main character is tortured and killed, but in a last ditch attempt to catch the murderer he is able to pass a message to his partner who’s watching the streaming broadcast of his death. His message: “Our Suicide.” In the movie this clue helped the FBI to unravel the killer’s motive and track the perverted SOB down. But the implication of that clue for the real world is cunvulsingly potent.

“Our Suicide.”

As a people, a nation, a generation, we are actively participating in our own suicide. We are killing ourselves by allowing our families, and children, and leaders to become desensitized to the scum of the planet. I used to say that T.V. violence was nothing compared to the Coliseums of old. The ancient Romans were worse than we are because they gloried in stealing the life of innocent people. At least the actors on our plasma screens aren’t actually dying; that’s not their blood; they’ll finish the shoot, receive their check, and head home. But I believe our society won’t tolerate that for much longer. They crave real carnage, and websites like Death.com provide a forum for perverted, sado-masochistic, detestable miscreants who thrive on death and decay.

How long will it be before we start sacrificing our own Christians and televise the whole thing for all to see?

Are we really improving as a society? I don’t really think so. I think technology is revealing our truest fantasies for everyone to see . . . and many of those fantasies are very scary. In Untraceable millions and millions of people actively participated in the murder of three individuals and the attempted murder of a fourth. I believe the director’s portrayal was accurate. I fully believe that people all over the US and the world would log-on and watch every bloody second.

What can we do to stop it? Is there an answer? I believe there is, and it all starts in the home. The government needs to control the world wide web, I think that’s completely legal and necessary. But the first line of defense is to stop rearing a blood-thirsty nation. Parents, monitor your kids. Buy firewalls and filters, block the evil flowing through the fire-wire. There are plenty of people who will continue to promote and view those sights, but hopefully they’ll manage to kill themselves off and a new generation of real Americans who respect each other and are united in the success of humanity will take control.

Then instead of billions of people lusting for gore, those creators of death will find no audience and will be shunned like the vial, twisted, detestable, awful, perverted, sick, excuses for human beings they are.

By the way, if you stumbled upon this blog because you were googling ”bestiality, incest, rape, murder, killwithme.com, death, porn, sex,” or any other sick site . . . this is a message for you:

You are ”our suicide.”

Delusional Sex

Last night So You Think You Can Dance blasted back in full force. Old favorites and contenders made it back to the audition stage. There was growth and versatility. There was stunning new talent and originality dripping off the boards. There were tickets to Vegas going out the door at every turn. And the contortionists and poppers took the night!

But there was also total disaster.

Men in whitey-tighties (a.k.a. “underpants,” and “clean slates”). An Italian egotistical maniac possessed by his own sex-appeal. Super heroes dancing styles no normal person can abide. And Sex. That’s right . . . Sex on stage.

For the past three seasons, “Sex” (preferably known as David) returned to prove to the judges that he is a dancer.

Once again he failed miserably.

The thing is this, there were a lot of people at the auditions who couldn’t dance, but most of them were man and woman enough to admit they couldn’t dance. Granted, there were a handful who had bad attitudes; blaming the judges for ”not knowing talent when they see it,”  and discriminating against “tall people.” But the fact of the matter is . . . most of the contestants who didn’t know the difference between hip-hop and an epileptic siezures understood (deep down inside) that they honestly can’t dance. That’s why many hopefuls resorted to cat costumes, underpants, wrestling masks, and “fat niches.” They knew their dancing would fall flat on it’s face, so they hoped to shock (or gross-out) the judges into giving them a ticket.

But “Sex” was in a category all of his own. He was genuinely delusional. Please, understand that it is not my intention to be mean. I don’t believe in tearing people down unnecessarily, but I do have a MS in counseling and my professional opinion is this guy has some serious problems. I can look past the bad hygiene, the non-existent fashion sense, and the fact that his sole supporter (emotionally and probably financially) is his mother, but I can’t look past the fantasy world he lives in.

When the host of Dance, Cat, asked “Sex” why he came back, he told her that he did a really good job the first two times and that he “almost made it in.” Video recaps quickly showed us that he was lying through the gaps in his teeth. The judges had torn him to shreds. The whole time he stood there completely expressionless, apparently not taking in a word they said. When Cat asked him why he “came back for more,” he was completely incapable of forming a response. Either his speaking skills quit him, or his brain couldn’t grasp why she would ask him that question? We were soon to find out why he didn’t understand the question. 

His routine started out with the same nonmoves and 3rd-grade-dance-class steps that have become his trademark (picture Joe Dirt doing rapid pelvic thrusts. No wait . . . don’t.). Halfway throught the routine he went back and repeated the exact same steps and techniques he just finished doing. It was a replay . . . and it didn’t get any better. But the best part of the routine came at the end when he left the stage. Apparently he thought he was finished because he ran off stage while the music was still playing, and didn’t resurface until Nigel cut the tunes. I guess Sex decided he didn’t need to prove himself anymore. I know I was thankful. I grimmaced through the same disgusting routine . . . twice, why cycle through for a three-peat?

But the real shock, the biggest mind-blowing minute came after his “dance.” The judges, as before, ripped him to shreds. Mia was relatively polite, she said he “grew” from season two’s audition to season three, but that he didn’t grow much for season four. Mary wasn’t polite at all. In fact, she couldn’t believe Mia had been as nice as she had. Mary gave “Sex” the thrashing he deserved. Lastly, it was Nigel who refused to even call him “Sex,” and let the world know that his real name is David. Then the important question was asked, “Do you have any formal training?” David’s answer was appalling

David claimed to have studied dance for “many, many years.” He went on to inform the judges that he’s studied with “many, many” of America’s dance “masters” and that his education and subsequent performances have taken place over the course of “many, many years.” He even said he has “many, many fans” who think his moves are “sexy” (which is the reason he calls himself “Sex” in the first place).

It was actually very sad watching him and his mother interact with the host, each other, and the judges. The family has severe issues to work through, and David needs to come to grips with reality. Unfortunately I don’t think we’ve seen the last of “Sex.”

But hopefully we will see more of David.

When David realizes there’s an serious problem in his life, seeks out help to ground himself in reality, and actually takes real dance lessons . . . I will be glad to see him audition next year. Then, assuming he’s done these things, I think he’ll deserve a ticket to Vegas.

Idol

America got it right!

Little David was adorable. He also had a bunch of talent, especially for his age, but there is no arguing that Big David was the one to win. He is a true proffessional through and through.

I was afraid Archuleta would win by the simple fact that millions of teenie-boppers around the world thought he was cute. But it seems America has their head screwed on tight this year. Kristi won Dancing with the Stars, and David Cook won American Idol. Both contestants proved they were the best, not only in personality appeal, but in sheer talent.

So congratulations David Cook. I’m proud to call you my American Idol.

Dancing with a Star

Kristi deserved it.

In a reality-TV soaked society where– on one end the outcome seems scripted, or on the other side, chosen by an ignorant audience– it’s refreshing to see a competition where the best man (or woman) wins.

The American populace, by and large, has no clue how to dance or sing. But when they take the opportunity to learn from the show’s judges and actually apply what they’ve learned to their voting, the outcome is amazingly accurate.

Season Five’s Dancing with the Stars saw a phenomenal female dancer, Sabrina Bryan, cut incredibly too early. Why? Well, no one knows for sure, but even Dancing’s hosts were completely blindsided by that one. They couldn’t believe it! I couldn’t believe it! In fact . . . I stopped watching. My favorite (and on the most talented of the bunch) was voted off. So why did it happen? Probably because people were voting for their “favorites” without taking talent into consideration.

So, yay for Kristi! She’s no stranger to competition that takes physical finesse and prowess. She was the obvious winner from the beginning, yet she constantly improved. She genuinely earned it.

I’m proud of you Kristi.

I’m proud of you America. You got this one right!

Whoa . . . Forever!!

Wow, I know it’s been a long time since I blogged. I feel like I should apologize, but at the same time, I’ve been so ill lately I went on holiday. My body was thankful for the respite and it rejuvenated my soul.

Some of you may be wondering where I spent my holiday . . . actually, I stayed home. Of course you’re now wondering how I could have found such relaxation and peace in Chicago! I admit the snow accumulation has been unprecedented. In fact, I can’t remember the last time we had this much snow. But unlike the average Chicago-en, I love the frost and freeze.

In truth, I love experiencing all four seasons. They’re like beautiful changes of scenery all in the same place! By the time Summer is getting old, Autumn (my favorite season) takes over, but even Autumn can wear out its welcome. Winter, sub-zero though it may be, is a much needed change at the end of a brown November. What about Spring? Though I’m not one of those people who associate Winter with death, Spring definitely brings new life.

 Well, that’s enough rambling for now, but I can’t say how consistent a resident I’m going to be here on WordPress. I realized I was using this blog as an excuse not to work on my book! Wow, we writers will sometimes do anything to get out of writing.

So Long Friends,

Kevin

The Chocolate

I love cell phones . . . or, should I say, mobile phones.

The communicatory accessibility cell phones deliver sends delighted shivers down my networking spine. I love the fact that anyone who knows my number can grab me by the sleeve whenever they want. On the flip-phone-side, I loathe those ignoramuses who spend their hard earned money on a mobile phone that resides in the land of “Lost,” or “Turned Off” ninety percent of its day.

Still, despite my adolescent-like crush on mobile phones, even they can tick me off. Normally I’m upset at the person who owns the phone, or the network that slings the phone’s signal, but today I’m upset at that matchbox-sized devil. I recently purchased the new Chocolate by LG. Let me say I’ve always loved LG’s, and even though the first Chocolate had some issues to work through, I heard they were improving on their faux pas. I had faith LG would pull through for me. And they did. The antifeatures that caused b.c.Chocolate owners to smash their phones in rage have been reworked on their A.D.Chocolate counterparts. In short, the hardware rocks . . . but the problem lies in the software.

My woes started this way. I wanted an I-Pod . . . very badly. I also needed a new phone . . . very badly. Well, how could I find  more perfect marriage of phone and MP3 player than the Chocolate? Inexpensive, yet rock’n. So I bought the Maroon Confection, but instead of euphoric groans of exstacy I found myself brushing up on a wide array of euphemisms. The MP3 software is atrocious! Converting songs, downloading them on to the phone, arranging them into playlists, actually playing the music itself . . .  AHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Normally a phone’s programming is amazing even though the phone itself breaks down a year before your “New Every Two” kicks in. The Chocolates system is agonizingly weak. Verizon (which I adore as a mobile provider- p.s. congratulations commercial, bespectacled-Verizon guy on the birth of your T.V. baby!) advertises that you can put 4 gigs of music on your phone. But to actually labor through the eternal process of downloading that many songs on your Chocolate would sever the cerebral cortex and drive the user into an unrecoverable state of incensed insanity.

I saw only one way to rectify my problem. Since I loved the Chocolate’s features as it applied to phone usage, I kept the phone. But when it came to music, I bought an I-Pod.

The Post-Holiday Post

Well, it’s over.

I hope none of you are the kind of people who want to commit suicide the first of the year. It’s sad, but January is a seriously depressing month for average America. Why? The answer lies in our twisted thinking.

Too many human beings live for nothing. I don’t feel like bringing up a quasi-scientific debate or a religion-celebrating harangue, but honestly people, if all we did was evolve from monkeys . . . what’s the point of life? There is no point. That’s why corporate America lives for weekends, holidays, and vacations. People pour themselves into an imagined, forecasted event. They spend all their money preparing for the event, psych themselves into an anticipated lather, but when it’s all said and done; when the carbonated fizz of expectation has misted away to reveal the brownish reality . . . so they jump off of an expressway. The dream didn’t pan out. The vacation wasn’t long enough. It wasn’t fun enough. I’m broke because I spent too much on presents. I drank to much. Can that be all there is?

Yes my friends, if you evolved from a monkey then that’s all there is. But, if you have a higher purpose in life you can revel in the fact that there are a million more important things in life to pour yourself into than a 2 week vacation over Christmas. Enjoy the time off, but don’t contemplate ending your cousin-to-a-monkey-life because the sole goal of your existence didn’t seem as glittery up close.

It’s 2008 people! Make something of your life! The weekends will come and go, but it’s in the day-to-day grind (in the little things) that your life will find true meaning. If you don’t live for the weekend you’ll enjoy it that much more.

Happy New Year! 

Pancakes

My Dad is making pancakes this morning.

I love my family.

I don’t readily align myself with people who flounder in the choppy waters of gender-stereotyping . . . usually because they’re wrong. What does this have to do with pancakes and family? Let me explain.

Right now I’m sitting in the basement of my parents house typing this blog. My parent’s home is made out of paper, so I can easily hear my father in the kitchen making pancakes. But he’s not alone. My mother and my sisters are also in there. But they’re not talking about superficial dates or freckle-deep anecdotes. They’re talking pure philosophy. They’re debating theology. They’re hashing out ethical dilemmas over a smoking pan of Dad’s Special Pancakes.

People say that women communicate “face to face” with questions and conversation. They also say that men communicate “side by side,” sharing common tasks and projects in an attempt to bond. Though stereotypes are generally true, I seem to know all the exceptions, and I think you know a bunch of them too. My dad doesn’t have to be flipping pancakes to debate my sisters about movies themes. He and I don’t have to be fishing to delve into taboo topics like relationships.

All of my male friends can sit around for hours just discussing. Learning. Growing.

But right now it’s my family. In fact, they’re so involved in their topic they can’t hear the phone ringing. One second please.

**************

Well, it wasn’t that important. My cousin called to tell us he’s coming over.

But I promise you this, when he comes over he’ll slip seamlessly into the ongoing debate and flaunt his opinions and theories without missing a beat.

That’s my family: Stereotype-breaking, constantly-communicating, pancake-flipping, wonderful people!

I love them.

Christmas Eve!

I couldn’t possibly scrawl my feelings for Christmas in a single weblog. Even though there are no pages, just endless streams of digital parchment, I don’t think my mind could interpret into words the billions of emotions and abstract webs of fascination and delight I experience at this time of year.

So here’s one little anecdote to leave you with this beautiful Christmas Eve.

I’m with family right now. My sister and I, though professional and reserved in our respective corners, are like match to fuel when we’re together. The fireworks of raucous laughter and incessant playing are contagious, nigh intoxicating. Now I just need to figure out who the match is.

The extended branches of my family get together on this most glorious Eve to celebrate the birth of our Savior. The sweet fellowship, food, and festivities will extend deep into the latest ebony, littered with rainbow lights and a deep, pale moon.

By the time the masses (approximately 30 some people) fade into the cracks and crevices from which the appeared, the remnant that’s left will try to find a relatively comfortable place to crash while we await Christ’s Day. All the beds will be packed and sleeping forms will invade the most unlikely places, including the bath tub. This reminds me of one particular prank I played on a sleeping cousin, cuddled dryly in the basin of my parent’s tub. Sigh.

My place of honor, reserved for the eldest boy, was wherever I chose. My choice? Push out the chairs and throw down a sleeping blanket . . . I’m sleeping under the dining room table. Why there? Don’t be silly, everyone knows the answer to that question.

So there we are. A house full of family, every nook and cranny nooked and crannied, me in my kerchief under the table . . . and Christmas waiting on the door step.

My narrative could continue long into the New Year, but I only wanted to share with you some of the sweet eccentricities of my family. I know most of you share in my unique love of quirky family traditions, and I’d love to hear about them. Tell me what crazy things your family does for the holidays.

Until then, this is Kevin Olsen signing off from under the dining room table. Merry Christmas and God bless.

Who Wants to be a Millionaire?

I need your help understanding something. Normally I can “wrap my brain” around very complex ideas, I’ve developed my own existential philosophies, and I consider my emotional levels to be nigh unfathomable. :-) Still, nighttime TV renders me completely flummoxed.

When “Who Wants to Be A Millionaire” first aired, it was the first of its kind to offer contestants a shot at one million dollars. But nowadays I can go on TV, sing 10 songs, and win a million dollars. I can answer 10 questions (pulled from grades 1-5) and win a million dollars. I can even open up 26 random briefcases for a chance to win a million dollars. Better yet, if I try to guess how Americans feel about poll questions I might win $10,000,000! Each of these game shows requires nothing more of me than basic elementary knowledge, memorized song lyrics, or pure dumb luck.

But if you want to showcase your own unique style of prestidigitation (an art that takes years of intense labor to refine and hone) Phenomenon will let you compete for $250,000. If you want to revolutionize your 350 lb. life by dropping that killer fat and entering into a totally healthy and life-extending existence, The Biggest Loser will let you compete for a quarter of a million dollars. Once you’ve dropped that weight you could strut your stuff on America’s Next Top Model and walk away with contracts totaling less than half a million. Better yet, if you want to parade your knowledge (amassed over years of intense scholastic endeavor by the attaining of advanced degrees) Jeopardy will let you compete for less than $100,000 a run.

I don’t get it.

Maybe it’s because I’m not smart enough to play on Jeopardy . . . but I just don’t get it. The nice thing is, I bet you I’m Smarter than a Fifth Grader. So, being smarter than a 10 year old can win me more money than multiple years of extended education!

I’m not sure if it’s a problem of new concept vs. old-school gaming. Maybe people don’t care about the super-hard stuff. Maybe dropping those deadly pounds isn’t important enough to America to drop 1 million dollars on the winner. Maybe we just like to get rich quick without having to break a sweat.

Unfortunately, I can’t give you an answer. I wish I could. I wish it made sense. But I’ll tell you this much, The Biggest Loser is the biggest winner in my book . . . a million dollars or not.

Harry Potter & the Order of the Phoenix

I am a huge fan of Harry Potter. I don’t care how many foolish mistakes Rowling makes while platforming for her books and ideals, the story she’s created will be remembered as long as there are people who read.

So it follows that I’m a huge fan of anything Potter-related. I own both sets of books: the American and the British releases, and yes . . . there is a difference. I own all the movies. I even own a replica of Harry’s wand. But we’re not here to talk about wands, let’s get to the movie.

Since I am crazy about the story, that makes me a harsher critic. For example, I think Micahel Gambon’s portrayal of Dumbledore has been consistently dismal. If only poor Richard Harris was still with us; he truly understood the complexities of the magnificent character. I also think that certain of the directors (sorry Alfonso. And Mike, you’re almost on my list too) have tried to hard to realize their mundane visions and got in the way of Rowling’s spectacular dream.

But, with all of that said, I think Order of the Phoenixis one of my favorites. On the positive side, this is the best job Michael Gambon has done. He chiseled off that un-Dumbledore-like, roughshod facade and lightened up a bit. I actually enjoyed his performance.

As directing goes, David Yates did a phenomenal job himself. The scenes, acts, shots, and cinematography beautifully complimented the characters and plot-line of Harry Potter.

There were a number of story-changes though. In the past Steve Cloves and Rowling were very close as they crafted the screenplay. In Order, the newcomer Michael Goldenberg worked solo . . . and it shows. His adaptation showcased some important character developments, for example: Ginny’s continued admiration of Harry. Also, in the book Dobby helped Harry find the Room of Requirement. In the movie Neville discovers the room. That’s not a such a bad thing since Dobby’s character makes fewer and fewer appearances while Neville eventually comes into his own.

Still, there were important elements completely jettisoned. Dumbledore and Harry’s heart-to-heart at the end. The revelation that Voldemort is half-possessing Harry was so powerful in the book, but in the movie was thrown away by Severus. And why did Cho have to be the one to turn in Dumbledore’s Army? C’mon! Goldenberg wrote a completely sideline plot just to cater to this changes. Also, when the DA is discovered by Dolores Umbridge, she manages to break into it. Number 1: you can’t break into the Room of Requirement. Number 2: Harry tries to do it throughout the Half Blood Princeand is unsuccessful . . . because it can’t be done. Allowing Umbridge to explode her way in was a poor choice.

Like I said, I’m a detailed critic when it comes to Harry Potter, and there are a number of other things I could say on the subject, but I want to leave you with this.

 The Order of the Phoenixis one of the best Potter films to date. I bought it the day it came out and I don’t regret it. The confrontation between Dumbledore, Voldemort, and Harry is outstanding on every level, and the Triad of Potter (Harry, Ron, & Hermione) improve in their acting with every take.

Olsen’s Rating?

“A” for overall genius, acting, story, cinematography. They would have received an A+ if Goldenberg hadn’t gotten frisky with the script.

Childhood Playthings

I was recently inspired by Rhea (http://rhea7.wordpress.com/) to revist my childhood playthings. She has an amazing fascination with crayons, and though I cannot write as prolifically about my favorite addiction, it possess the same sway over my heart.

I love Play-Doh.

 

I’ve never considered myself a three-dimensional artist. I have a cousin who throws clay with the best of them, but I never quite got the hang of it. Play-Doh is no different. I couldn’t make a dog or a house. I got pretty good at snakes though! To be honest, I didn’t really want to make anything with the Play-Doh. I didn’t crack the air-tight seal of those yellow, plastic cans to form a work of art . . . I just wanted to play with the Doh! Another reason I never crafted sculptures is I’ve always hated mixing the colors. Over time you’re left with hues like “Sludge Brown” or “Insect’s Insides.” The primary colors of Play-Doh are so bright and appealing I couldn’t stand to adulterate them. So, I’d choose one shade at a time, spend hours squeezing and rolling it (making various species of snake), then carefully put it back, picking out- if necessary- any unwanted specks of different-colored Doh.

The colors are great, but I especially love the feel. I love to squish it between my fingers and mash it in my fist. If preserved properly that stuff can last for YEARS. It’s the perfect mixture of mailable-suppleness I’ve ever encountered. Well, there’re a couple things that are softer and more tender than Play-Doh . . . but this is neither the time nor the place.

Still, the most addictive thing about Play-Doh is the smell. It sounds sick, but I love to sniff Play-Doh! I’ve been known to pop open a can just to take a second’s whiff. It’s almost like a drug that calms my spirit and floods my mind with ancient moments of childish joy. I’m an extremely olfactory-focused person. I love smells, and Play-Doh is so vital. Did you know they actually made a Play-Doh cologne to celebrate it’s 50th anniversary? I haven’t been able to find a bottle to buy, but you’d better believe I will when I get my hands on one!

Play-Doh is by far one of my weaknesses. I love playing with it. I love being around people that are playing with it. I wish they made a shampoo that smelled like Play-Doh.

Call me strange. Call me childish. Call me a Play-Doh addict. That’s fine. Rhea and I will just take our crayons and Play-Doh and go home!