No-one Understands Me

Two... weeks...

Jeez.

At the risk of sounding painfully romanticized and dangerously teen-angsty, I feel very few people get where I'm coming from. I have felt this way so strongly and or such a long time, I have chosen to adop the idea of non-understanding as my persona in this and in many other spaces.

Even I sometimes have difficulty discerning why I am attempting what I am currently attempting or why I am doing what I am, in fact, at any given time, doing. I am a cypher unto myself.

I don't say this as means of self-pity, I'm just stating a fact that I believe, by and large, to be true. For example:

When I was young, I remember watching a cartoon in which two trains were hurtling towards each other at an intersecting point between their respective tracks. When the time came for them to finally collide, however, rather than smash into each other, they passed each other, the cars of which intersecting each other one by one, and at speed, no less.

I remember watching this and immediately excepting it, and only being curious as to how trains would do that. I asked my dad, who gave me some answer that I only remember as unsatisfying. No doubt, it was something patronizing along the lines of "cartoons aren't real." Well no shit. I never thought cartoons were real, as far as I can remember. However, up until that point, I had thought that they depicted realistic events. It wasn't that I was watching two real cartoon trains partaking in that fantastic happening, just that they were drawings of something that could logically happen in reality, whether or not I understood how exactly that would come to pass.

I feel like, for the most part, people don't really get what I'm talking about at any given time. I feel as if I'm misunderstood, not solely of my intentions, but perhaps the actual literal definitions of the things I've been trying to get across. These instances are mostly evident in fights that break out between the Mrs. and I from me not being too fantastically clear on whatever it is I'm saying, but also in scholastic considerations. I sometimes achieve slightly below what I'm capable of simply because I give an answer that, while satisfactory to me, is not what the professor expected and/or was looking for. This... is bullshit.

I bring this up not only to express my general alienation with the world around me, and the desire for someone, anyone, who could get where I'm coming from with my perception of at least half of it, but also to show how seldom it is that I run into anything that I thoroughly have a problem understanding. I'm normally pretty adept at putting myself in the shoes of other people, and seeing things from a different, sometimes subjective, perspective. It is in this light that I present the following.

What?! WHAT?! The father-in-law? What was it? The ear...

WHAT?!

I don't want to set a precedent for incredulity here at Dead Language after having to deal with that unknown species of mantled marine life, but.... WHAT?

WHAT.

I felt physically exhausted after watching this movie. To this moment, I'm still getting bits and pieces of it, checking in with the Mrs. every now and then (as she watched it with me and the only other person I know to have seen it I am sure does not remember it) to cross-reference my new theorums as to what the hell happened.

So much happens and so much is attempted within the film, and all with almost no effects. No CG time-tunnels, no bullshit green-screened overcrisp doubles who exist solely to show that they do, indeed, have the technology to do so. Just good filmmaking and labyrinthine writing.

Incidentally, you want to see a film that wants to impress you with its use of CGI to duplicate one actor multiple times in a scene (apart from the fact that you are a jackass), go see Multiplicity or something like that. You want to see a film with anything in it, you're asking to see a sub-standard film, simply because you're asking for a quality to stand out of the film, and not be a part of it. On the other end of the spectrum from that Keaton Katastrophe (and, for God's sake, the man was Batman. I need expect no less from him than perfection) is the Jonze/Kaufman anxietyfest Adaptation, which while being one of my favorite films of all time, causes you to forget that Nicholas cage is only one person and not, in fact a set of twins, let alone notice the amazingly difficult shots that Jonze had to capture (the car scene, the party scene, etc.).

Also, I was right. After my previous post and a few more fires (one in Santiago park, one in the Mainplace Mall, and one right next to my house in one of those o-so-utilitarian fields within the curvature of an off-ramp), and an article in the paper stating that the police were beginning to have "suspicions," they arrested a group of juvenile arsonists who stated their reasons for the persistent enflamation was "fun."

I'm not going to say my actions were solely responsible for their aprehension, but doesn't it feel better knowing, in this world of fake cartoons and teenage firestarters...

There's me?

Dead Language. No one understands me. It's... yeah.

Chocodile Nation

I give you... the motherland.

Perhaps not the most complete roster I could have hoped for, but I don't suppose I ever held out much hope to begin with.

...

This past weekend I decided to forego my no account practices (inconsistent and unreliable as they are) and agreed to work an outreach event for the center, namely the San Clemente Ocean Festival, two days of fun in the sun and tons of young buns (as my brother would probably not say... but would most likely think).

The sibling is now working at the Center with me, which is interesting enough, and to add convenience to culpability, our manager decided to send the both of us, and only us, to the Festival to man our booth. Alone. With no supervision.

SCORE.

It was a great two days. We had a great time out there, taking 'er easy and slicin' it fine. We were making little craft necklaces for the kids, which was fun for everyone concerned (save for the occasional little shit that only initially showed interest because they want all the free stuff and soon became spurned when they found out they'd have to do something. Idiots).

The interesting thing I noticed was the some kids were really good at making the necklaces, and I found myself thinking that maybe, if I could pay enough attention, I could find the kid there at the festival that could make necklaces the fastest and the best, and I could somehow spin that into a lucrative cottage industry involving kid-made necklaces and an exhorbitant price fueled by pity and preciousness.

I'm not sure at what exact point I realized my one creative business outline had become The Last Starfighter meets Oliver Twist but I quickly abandoned my plans for rapid wealth.

...

I really need to work on getting registered. I feel like I might just forget to do it.

I mean, of course, as a sex offender. I would hope you'd realize that.

...

Recently, I took a trip to Six Flags with the Mrs. because... I suppose... I enjoy the possibility of dying.

Say what you will about thanatos and the love of danger, but in the end I'm the one who can spend most of a given ride pondering the many ways that I could easily die, how little would have to take place for one of those ways to unfold, and how likely it would be that I, pitiful human that I am, would be able to do anything about it once these events were set in motion.

FOR EXAMPLE:

At the OC Fair, which I recently attended (awesome awesome I petted a straight-up zebra) there is a ride called "Tango," which is, I can assure you, no... forbidden... dance. I guess.

Basically, the thing whips you into the air then, like a kitten on the end of a rope, swings you about while simultaneously spinning you around. Afterward, it steals your wallet and makes fun of your performance in bed. Needless to say I rode it. I rode it like crazy. I rode it as if I were crazy.

I rode the fucking thing because I must be fucking crazy.

Why did I do this? Why did I like it so much? It shouldn't be this much fun to be in a state in which it would be extremely easy to die.

Yet, there I was, Six Flags, in beautiful Valencia California. Much like its sister city, Riverside, Valencia has all the cultural and botanical splendor of post-war Afghanistan, with its glorious dirt fields and population of largely unemployable mental cases. Folks: no matter how bad your life is, no matter how little money you make or how far you need to get away from whatever life you're leaving behind, it is preferable to live in Whalecock, Alaska than to ever set foot one step north of Los Angeles. Northwest? Well... if you stay on the 1. Beautiful coastline, wonderful places to visit, a gorgeous testament to our state pride. Northeast? Well... you'll eventually end up in Nevada, and there's nothing wrong with that. But North?

When the devil was finished corrupting Adam and Eve, he set up permanent residence here on earth that he might keep a close eye on his immoral investment. Be able to put his hand in should the need arise (which I'm sure it has on more than one occasion), and be able to do so in a quick and timely manner. He came to earth and chose a spot to call his home here on this planet.

That spot is Modesto California, and once you move north out of the culture of Los Angeles, you are on the slow boat to the Devil's House. La Casa del Diablo. And the places you pass and the people you meet are obviously tainted by the dark magics that eminate from his stronghold, in some meth lab's basement in some filthy, forgotten central california suburb. Like people living too close to Chernobyl who are losing hair or missing teeth, the places closer and closer to central California show a blasted, hateful taint from their evil epicenter.

Valencia is no exception.

As soon as we got out of the car, like a punch in the gut we were hit with the unrelenting heat of the place. Regardless of any relative position to the equator, it seemed that the Dark Lord liked his climate a little on the balmy side, with not so much as a breeze to cool us. Being the sheet that I am, I expected to be mesquite roasted within the hour.

Six Flags was a lot of fun, but with just enough problems to warrant us complaining and recieving free passes to come back whenever we'd like, which is pretty awesome considering we only needed one admission and a Coke can to get in. When you do the math, we actually made a profit on our trip to the amusement park. The problems we faced were pretty much anything that wasn't an active ride on one of the roller coasters.

Now, Six Flags is a slightly different animal than, say, your Disneyland or you Knott's Berry Farm. They are not concerned with any of the frilly niceties those places have come to be known for (customer service, edible food, acceptable locations, etc.). Instead, Six Flags seems chiefly concerned with putting your ass in the seat of an extremely fast moving machine, and allowing you to be moved fast by it for about a minute or so. Awesome, but the time in between these brief flurries of awesome is surprisingly barren.

There's a lot of walking at Six Flags. Yes, there's a lot of walking at any park, but at Six Flags there's nothing between one stop and the next, which is a good hundred yard away. Nothing. There are sections with food and a section with carnival games, but for the most part the majority of the day is spent in travel from one attraction to the line for the next. Waiting to see the next glimpse of accelerating steel over the horizon.

During the gold rush, someone would find some glimmer of wealth and that small mining prospect woud cause a boom town to erupt. People flooding the spot, not caring about the luxuries of life or, indeed, if anything other than food and water were present, concerned only with the idea that, perhaps, if they gather around this spot, they, too, could strike it rich. You'd therefore have these ramshackle towns, not well-thought-out, not flushed out with all the necessaries of modern life, but just enough to live on. Enough to survive out there, close to the gold, close to the motherlode.

Six Flags feels a lot like that to me. It feels like they found a roller-coaster quarry and built up an amusement park around it as fast as they could, so they could corner the market on them thangs and get people a-comin' out to 'em. Out in the middle of nowhere, poorly-planned-out and with almost nothing to speak of in the way of operations beside the running and riding of these mechanical monstrosities, the boom town of Six Flags thunders away, drawing more dreamers each and every day, none of them ever striking a single kiddie-coaster to their names, but surviving in that harsh civilization just the same.

Somehow. Because inedible turkey legs cost five bucks.

For fuck's sake.

But it was still a great time. Those rides are insanely fun and I went on Batman: The Ride three times. I liked to think that the ride was Batman, a manifestation of his very being, and that by riding it I was becoming one with him. I would look up into his huge metal beams and say, "Hello, Batman. Where are we going? Flying around like crazy, are we?" And he would fling me out into space, catching me, spinning me so fast tears run from my eyes yet holding me securely like a kitten, like a forbidden lover.

And then I totally got my picture taken with a Batman suit and the picture looks as if I were talking to it which, on some level, I was.

Batman's not the tallest ride. It's not the fastest ride. It's simply the ride operating at the peak of its potential performance. The ride is Batman, and Batman is the ride. Sure, it's not the tallest or the fastest. It doesn't need to be.

He is Batman. He is better than you or I or any of us.

He doesn't need to be.

I used the word forbidden twice in this post and have never been prouder.

Borogroves

Cigarettes cause Cancer.
Tears, however, cure cancer.
Being a GOTH
Break even.

...

I hate to break this to you, Death Cab for Cutie, but that is not the sound of settling.

That... is the sound of the Turtles breaking it down.

...

I have been SUCKING lately in almost all aspects of life. I've fallen behind on the whole "writing reviews" thing in a BIG way, I haven't worked on the script at all for the film I wanted to get done this summer, I haven't updated here in the internet equivalent of a short dynasty, Viewtiful Joe is a fucking wrench of a video game, and there is a cancer sore (or chancer sore, if you prefer) underneath my bottom lip that is threatening to hurt more than a direct shot through the testicle. Thank god for Orabase and, to a lesser extent, the artistic imperative and need for inspiration, etc.

There is, however, a lighter side of the news I have to report, and while this may seem somewhat frivolous so soon after its sound denouncement, it is nonetheless true, and therefore bears report.

Though I cannot remember how it came about (best guesses stem from boredom and an unusual predisposition for caffeinated beverages and snack-treats), it came to be that I was on the internet reading about the Lewis Carroll poem "The Jabberwocky." At the risk of being gay, I love this poem. I really do. If one can be said to have a favorite poem, as one could be said to have a favorite anything, than this would certainly be mine. Manxome. Gallumph. Mimsy.
Bandersnatch.

Oh yes, love it I do indeed. And anything to do with it, as it turns out. There was one site I found, however, that seemed to know more about things having to do with it than, let's say, God.

The site listed each and every reference to the poem ever made in the history of mankind, or at least seemed to think it did, and one of these references, much to my delight, was on the Muppet Show. Evidently, the Hensonites had done a dramatization of the poem for an episode with Brooke Shields. Brooke Shields?

Brooke Shields.

In addition, the report indicated that the Jabberwocky itself was made Muppet into the manifestation of the famous Tenniel illustration.

Awesome.

But how to see this episode? No channels really show any episodes of the classic Muppet Show anymore, and even if they did, what were my chances of catching the correct one?

Did I dare check Netflix, knowing even its immnse databse was limited from my previous inquiries regarding rare and obscure titles? Did I dare look specifically for the episode starring Brooke Shields, let alone ensuring their possession of any one of the Muppet Show tapes? Did I dare dream?

I did!

And I was rewarded for my incredulous faith! Not only did they have the episode I needed, but the entire collection of the Muppet Show's tapings, and I recieved theDVD containing my precious playlet the next day! I watched the whole thing! Including the Jabberwocky! IT WAS AWESOME!

Anyway, I'm inordinately happy about getting to see that, rather than having it forever lodges in the ever-growing "how-would-that-be" section of my mind, let alone the fact that it was basically one of the most vicerally pleasing things that I could personally hope to percieve. Certain things will always appeal to me. Spartans, Voodoo, and the Jabberwocky are at the top of that list.

So here's the thing. Without the help of the internet, I never would have seen that episode (indeed, might have even forgot about its existence), and would not have been afforded the immense giddiness I now feel. The internet, perhaps sensing my displeasure and disappointment, had saw fit to return itself to a position of admiration in my eye.

And so, I hereby return your title, internet. I return your lands and rights, and all priviledges thereto. May you continue to serve me well, and may our days be long and happy.

Well done, the Internet.

Well done indeed.

Did gire and gimble in the wabe.

...

....Aaaa.....aaaaa.....

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!

FOR THE LOVE OF GOD WHAT IS IT?!??!!

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!