Wanna catch a movie?

This story begins long before the trailers started rolling their shameless advertisements across the big screen at the local theater complex. It begins before the ten mile run that jarred my bones for a little over ninety minutes and the six hours of studying that fried my brain until I was dumber than the GED-toting model I will end up marrying. It even starts before my shift at General Mills, where I logged my contribution to our stagnating economy under the watchful eye of an unforgiving supervisor.

This story begins at 5:30 in the morning when my Radio Shack issue alarm decided my sleepy time was over and the awake hours should begin. Actually it was me who made that decision, but I'd set my alarm in a moment of weakness the night before, not realizing how early 5:30 really is. I had chores, a homework assignment and some personal hygiene problems to resolve before leaving for work. After my travails at the Cheerio factory and a quick rinse in the "Milk Shower," our loving moniker for the sprayer that helps remove the scent of heavily refined, super white flour before we leave for home, I logged some time at my school's library, reviewing the ravings of the lunatic Fourier (the socialist economist, not the physicist) among others and generally preparing for the irritable activity we call "Final Examinations."

When my eye balls were struggling to stay in their sockets, I replaced my books in my backpack, switched the music on my mp3 player from Brooks and Dunn to Blink 182 and went for a run. That, ladies and gentlemen, is how a derelict celebrates a sixteen hour day.

Only the day wasn't over. I ran into a friend on the way to my car who looked at me with a concerned eye [CAUTION VERY WEIRD] and told me to drink some juice, a comment I interpreted as a date invitation. But I'll share the rest of that conversation in another post. It suffices to say that I was looking a mite tuckered.

I was crossing the last street to where my car was parked when my phone buzzed. It was F.

"Hey C, wanna catch a movie?" The request was as enticing as it was impossible.

"I can't, F. I've been running around like a soccer mom all day and I just need to go home and relax. I think I'll just curl up with some Akerlof tonight." I think F figured "Akerlof" to be an adult beverage, but he didn't cop to it when I pressed him about it later.

"C'mon, C! It'll be fun. Everyone is going. And we're catching some dinner at In N' Out beforehand." It was as if F had pushed my "Easy Button." I went from ambivalent to persuaded faster than you can say "Flying Dutchman."

I arrived at the local In N' Out before F and his entourage, so I grabbed a seat at one of the outdoor tables and enjoyed a few slow minutes. Ten feet away from me two teenybopper females gossiped emphatically, never hesitating at the prospect that their words might be picked up by a guileless eavesdropper. I wasn't trying to listen in (although everyone should know that Jane broke up with Todd and it's all Todd's fault for looking sideways at Rhonda and that Jane is thinking about going out with Amanda's ex) but I got an earful nonetheless. Their conversation was like a verbal combat. One person would speak while the other tried desperately to get a word in edgewise. Then they'd reverse roles. In an odd way, their interaction held a chaotic beauty, like seeing lions eating zebras on the Discovery Channel.

Once F arrived, bringing with him the entire female population of the Central Valley, I waltzed (1-2-3, 1-2-3) into the restaurant and ordered with all the desperation of a starving distance runner. The food was delicious - I think even my cooking would have been good after a ten mile run and an overheard episode of conversational combat - but the real excitement started at the theater.

I thought my day was tough, but it was nothing compared to the hero onscreen. Robert Downey Jr. (the guy who loses most of one of his fingers in Kiss Kiss Bang Bang) played an iron-clad special effects character who has bad day after bad day. My ordeal over the last 19 hours was nothing compared to the world changing problems he had to tackle. And putting Lawrence Fishburn in at the end was a great touch. He'll make a great villain in Iron Man 2.

The movie was over and we filed out into the lobby area just as the first pangs of a headache hit. I had been at it too long and my body was finally starting to rebel. I had to surrender or pay some substantial consequences.

That's when F pulled a fast one. "Wanna catch another movie?" Another film was playing (that happens when the theater has 12 screens) and F was leading his entourage into the next flick. I shouldn't have, but I succumbed, shelling out another ten bucks and feeling sorry for myself that I had to submit to such awful bodily torture. It was inhuman what I was doing to myself; the Geneva Convention should come down harshly on my persecutor.

I remember nothing of the second film besides some bright lights and the screaming of the main character at a particularly tense moment in the film. I don't even remember the film's title, other than to say that it had all the creativity of a cardboard box.

When the film was over, I stumbled out the glass double doors and staggered to my car. I know that beer and gasoline don't mix, but nobody told me not to try sleepies and gasoline. By the time I got home, I understood why "exhausted" begins with an "e," the only letter in the English alphabet that's doubled over. I went to bed in my clothes and didn't stop to remove my contact lenses. The next morning was a story unto itself.

Alone on Valentine's Day

It's the 14th of February and all across the land,
Little boys and girls take each other's hand.
It's a happy sight, all sweet and pink,
But someone isn't happy, I think.

He's tried his hardest to get a girl,
But when he gets close, most just hurl.
He doesn't smell or look that bad,
He's just too desperate, which is sad.

Amid all the laughter hugs and kisses,
Stands one guy alone, no one misses.
His heart is full of love to share,
If only a girl would dare.

On Valentine's Day when all are happy,
He writes poems, and they get sappy.
His rhymes are weak, his verse uncreative,
It could even be packaged as a sedative.

Love and warmth he does not inspire
But his writing does make others tire
So I'll tell you the story of how I got this way
Alone, miserable and sad on Valentine's Day

It's an open secret that I have been as indefatigable in my search for female attention as a dog and peanut butter. In turn, females have been just as adamant about denying it. Whether it's been Luce or Carrie or, well, all the others, I've had about as much luck as Dennis Kucinich in politics (speaking of which, remind me to pass on the latest about Carrie: never talk politics on a third date). I'm batting like Jason Giambi after knocking off the steroids.

A friend kindly took me aside on Valentine's Day morning and advised that the holiday has diddly squat to do with establishing a relationship and is actually intended as a time to strengthen relationships and renew passions with existing girlfriends. V day is about servicing, that's why guys go out of their way to buy all the goofy chocolate, mawkish cards and childish teddy bears. In Aretha Franklin's terms, girls are "zoomin'" guys on Valentine's Day.

Oops, did my cynicism seep out? Maybe that's why I couldn't get a date yesterday...

The morning wasn't that bad. Most students don't take their beaus to class (unless, of course, it's "take your beau to class day") and I'd almost forgotten about the Holiday when Melanie leaned over and stuck a pink heart on my to-go coffee cup. She giggled when she did so and I think, deep down in her diabolical Melanie mind, she was daring me to forget about my horrid love life. The heart starred at me for the duration of the class. I wanted terribly to rip it off and chuck the cup, remaining liquid and all, but was mesmerized by the anatomically inaccurate shape.

Work at General Mills was even better. None of my coworkers wanted to chat about relationships and the conveyor belt seemed to move more slowly. Maybe Valentine's Day wasn't so bad afterall.

Little did I know how much Saint Valentine had lured me into a false sense of emotional security.

Plans had been laid well in advance for me to get together with my hetero lifemate and watch an action flick, which I figured would be largely unattended. I've known my lifemate since before I met my father and I'd seen my mother's face and we get along really well, apparently, but he still doesn't count as female company.

Walking into the theater reminded me of a scene from Confessions of a Dangerous Mind. If you haven't seen the movie, Chuck Barris walks into the cinema feeling down on his relationship luck. As he sits down, the camera pans away to reveal everyone around him kissing. It's kinda disgusting and, if you're there without a date, it's depressing.

The movie was a gore-fest and the romance wasn't even romantic. Despite these impediments, the couple to my right couldn't get through any of the fight scenes without fooling around and a couple below me started snogging every time the screen went blank. After the film, duos held hands, giggled and skipped away, oblivious to the impact they were having on my psychie. Deflated and wishing the movie had been better, I walked alone to my car (the hetero lifemate drove separately) and meandered home.

On the way back to my house, even the streets were deserted, a reminder of the emptiness of my heart. One car did follow me for a few miles, but it was a police cruiser and I was too worried about making an infraction to enjoy the company.

Maybe I should have purchased a box of chocolates or a bouquet of long stems. Perhaps a little more effort would have had me asphyxiating in the dark corner of the theater with a beautiful girl by my side. Maybe I totally blew Valentine's Day.

Or maybe I didn't. My selfish perspective on the Holiday is as wrong as it is depressing, I just can't help myself. I feel I'm entitled to the attention of others and I have repackaged V day for that very purpose.

But something about that kind of approach never jived with a male college student, ticking away the final months of his derelict teenage years. So, I wrote a poem.

Brisingr Preview

BOREDOM WARNING: The following post will hold minimal interest to those unfamiliar with Christopher Paulini's Inheritance series (including already-published Eragon and Eldest).

SPOILER WARNING: Plot and/or ending details follow.

One of the most anticipated novels of the year is Christopher Paulini's Brisinger, the 3rd installment in the Inheritance Trilogy Cycle. Folks are dying to know what happens next in the rather epic tale of Eragon and his Saphira.

We wrote Paulini a very nice letter, and he agreed to send us the unfinished Brisinger manuscript. We read it, and now offer you this plot summary for those of you who can't stand to wait for September 20th:

The story begins with Eragon abandoning his freshly-victorious army so he can help his brother Roran track down his girlfriend Katrina, who has been captured by the Ra'zac. Almost immediately after Eragon loses sight of the army, Galbatorix himself swoops down with his dragon and has a Surda sandwhich with Urgals for seasoning and the Carvahall townspeople for desert. There are only a handful of survivors, including all the major characters. Nasuada is believed dead but of course she isn't really - she just got lost in a bog.

Eragon knows that he is too weak to take on Galbatorix directly, so he flees into the Spine with Roran, where they bump into Angela and Solembum. They have a lengthy and mildly amusing conversation which has no bearing on the plot, at the end of which Solembum utters some impenetrably mysterious riddles and turns into a rutabaga.

They proceed along the Spine eating less than is humanly possible. Nights are bitterly cold, but Eragon uses the magic word Brisingr (hence the name) to surround their camps with a ring of fire every time they go to sleep. This has several effects: It keeps enemies away, keeps Eragon and Roran warm and makes it obvious to anyone a hundred miles around where exactly they are.

Eventually they randomly fall into a hole in the mountain and stumble on a city hidden by magic from the eyes of those far off. It is populated by a race more or less exactly like Hobbits. You could say that Paulini ripped this race off of Tolkein's Lord of the Rings, but you would be mistaken, because these people are called Bar'u'ab'dualötís, so obviously he made it up himself. The Bar'u'ab'dualötís are a peace-loving people (as you know if you're at all familiar with Lord of the Rings); they want no trouble, but Eragon's ring of fire has attracted an army of Ra'zac. The Bar'u'ab'dualötís are forced to fight for their homes and turn out to be pretty good fighters for no explicable reason. Eragon's magic does plenty of damage, but the Ra'zac do something sneaky to his mind during the battle and he has strange nightmares for the rest of the book.

The good guys win of course, but they take heavy losses in the form of warm Bar'u'ab'dualötí bodies the reader barely knew the name of anyway. Of course, the heavy losses aren't actually dead - they just got lost in a bog. Eragon captures the Ra'zac leader (who's name is Arbaghdallrencarfithroughtheriver) and finds himself in a moral quandary. He can either torture Arbaghdallrencarfithroughtheriver to find Katrina's location or risk not saving Katrina at all. True to form, Eragon deals with this decision by hanging out and waiting for something terrible to happen.

He only has to wait two days. Arya, who found Eragon using magic instead of the rings of fire, appears that night and confides several important pieces of information. First, she explains the origin of the Bar'u'ab'dualötís. Here's a shocker: they come from Over the Sea just like everything else. Roran wonders aloud what's so special about Over the Sea that gives it such auto-generating powers. Arya curses him in the ancient language so he can never speak again. She says that these things must not be spoken of until the author figures out "where the heck this world comes from anyway."

Arya uses her magic to pry open Arbaghdallrencarfithroughtheriver's mind and find out where Katrina is.

They continue on their journey. They are escorted by four Bar'u'ab'dualötí. These four are led by a slightly handsomer chap named Imn-ot'fro-do. They march to Gil'ead with no idea how they'll save Katrina. On the way, a handful of survivors from the Surdan and Urgal armies join them. "Anything Saphira's master's brother's girlfriend," They reason.

Upon arrival at Gil'ead, a terrible battle breaks loose. Just when all seems lost, Murtagh shows up out of nowhere and agrees to help Eragon because he feels bad about all that mean stuff he said at the end of Eldest. Together, the brothers defeat Galbatorix's million thousand soldiers and burn the dungeon (but only after extracting the prisoners). Katrina isn't there, which means they just wasted two hundred pages of effort. Eragon, Roran, Arya, and Murtagh have a meeting to decide what to do next. During this meeting, a wounded imperial soldier sneaks up and tries to shoot Eragon in the back. Elva shows up out of nowhere and jumps in front of the arrow. She is lost in a bog soon after. The enemy is captured but Arya doesn't want to torture him because he's human and not a worthless Ra'zac.

So Trianna, leader of the Du Vrangr Gata, shows up and tortures him instead. The poor man reveals that he doesn't know where Katrina is, but he does know a secret tunnel into Galbatorix's palace. As if on cue, a bunch of Varden show up who say they can lead him to the entrance to the tunnel but go no further because a strange and convenient force has been placed on the entrance so only dragon riders can pass into it.

They reveal several other juicy tidbits:

1) There are actually three more dragon eggs at least.
2) No one has any clue where they are.
3) That thing back in the chuck wagon wasn't a watermelon.
4) It was a dragon egg, and it seems to be hatching for Imn-ot'fro-do into a strong green male.
5) Nasuada isn't dead, she's just lost in a bog.
6) Katrina has been spotted in Helgrind, which Eragon should probably have known she was in all along. That dirty rbaghdallrencarfithroughtheriver was a liar!

On hearing this news, Arya dies of despair. Dies. Of despair.

The book ends with Eragon in a moral quandary.

Notice: The Sky has not Fallen on our Heads.

The end of the day usually finds us FCN contributors huddled over our computers playing pac-man or chatting about our miserably failed love lives with people we've never met (presumably mass-murdering 50-year-old circus freaks). Last night was not one of those nights. The fact is, last night was special. The world nearly ended.

We know. We should have posted a warning to tell you to call your loved ones and say that one thing you had been putting off saying. But after extensive deliberation, we decided to keep quiet about doomsday and post an apology the day after. That seemed easiest.

Also, we didn't want to get too close to our computers. A friend of ours directed us to the following research:



We stared at the screen in stunned silence for a full thirty seconds after watching. Then we sprang into our Cloverfield Survival Plan (which doubles as an Asteroid Survival Plan in a pinch). The bulleted procedure is listed below. We followed it to the letter.

1) Get to the highest part of the building and look around.
2) Make a few wise cracks.
3) See something. If it is Cloverfield, it will be on the horizon obscured by buildings. If it is an Asteroid or a Nuke it will be in the sky. If it is Relatives, it will be on the road.
4) Person who was defamed most by the wise cracks says: "Did I tell you or did I tell you?"
5) Panic and run around for awhile.
6) Scramble, tripping, to the lowest part of the building.
7) Scream incoherently.
8) Person who was defamed least from the wise cracks says: "We can take this thing."
9) Any remaining person says: "Are you crazy?"
10) Run outside, preferably using the back door, preferably barefoot with shorts and a tacky t-shirt.
11) Stand in a circle facing out.
12) Wait until someone begins running in a random direction, at which point all others must shout: "Are you crazy? Come back!"
13) When the someone does not obey, the others must follow reluctantly, muttering grim prognostications.
14) Proceed in this direction until any noticeable event occurs. Examples include: a) Being stepped on by Cloverfield, b) being struck by an asteroid c) bumping into a Relatives, or d) getting lost.
15a) If the world has ended: post an apology on FCN.
15b) If the world has not yet ended: sprint in a different direction.
16) Find a place of ostensible cover. Gather in a loose group and pant frantically.
17) Propose a few hair-brained theories for the origin of the threat.
18) Dig a hole.
19) Get inside.
20) Fill it in.
21) Have everyone call their moms and let them know where they are and to call them if and when the crisis is over (how's that for a sentence?).
22) Wait.
23) Improvise from then on.

It worked perfectly. We ran upstairs and peered out the window. For a few moments, we said nothing. We made jokes at the expense of the anonymous contributor who found the video. Then we saw a red flashing light moving slowly toward us. Within moments, we were scrambling out of someone else's backyard pool yelling: "It's over! It's over!" The neighbors joined us because they had no common sense and/or like to play along and/or don't read FCN. All of us were barefoot (we scrupulously removed our socks on exiting the house in accordance with the plan).

Led by a neighbor, we ran out into the street and stood in a loose circle looking. The neighbor saw the light and pointed. We all squinted. Then the neighbor started running down the road. "Are you crazy?" One of us cried. "Come back!" But he was long gone.

"Must be the radiation from the thingie," I said. It passed as a wise crack. We followed the neighbor.

Then we heard a honking horn and a bright light lit up in front of us. We didn't stop to think. We ran, screaming incoherently. I dimly remember crashing through a window and over a couch on which people were sitting watching a movie and eating popcorn. Eventually we reached a city park and stopped, gasping for breath.

"There's only one thing left to do," I said. My fellow contributors, the neighbors, and the two dozen people who had joined us in our flight nodded in unanimous consent. We tore apart the monkey bars and used them to tear apart nearby cars, the pieces of which we used as shovels. We dug a nice big hole, then climbed in and pulled the dirt over us, using the monkey bars as breathing tubes. Then we called our moms, even though the reception was terrible. A few hours later, our moms talked us into coming back out and we went home, covered from head to toe with dirt and sweat.

Well, the world didn't end, so it was worth it. The plan worked.

You're welcome.

FCN sees “Cloverfield”

“Let’s go see a movie.” A statement not a question, the line is uttered with no regard to consequences or costs, direct or hidden. Friends are over and conversation needs stimulation. A movie is just the thing.

But what to see? I like chick flicks, but F and N hold an automatic veto over any movie directed by Anne Fletcher. The visiting friends suggest the Johnny Depp movie, a proposition that is quickly asphyxiated with a chorus of “nos.” N puts forward his bid, a film with a couple of Academy Award winning actors that are probably closer to retirement than their next nomination, but no one is in the mood for a movie about a couple codgers end-gaming their life. F wants to see Enchanted, again. Yeah, right. The arguments buzz around like bees in a Penn and Teller magic trick. People change sides faster than Mitt Romney and preferences go from comedy to drama and back again like the F-Train. Even ambivalent viewers turn into ardent advocates as soon as choices are presented. The debate is fierce and enemies are made. Nobody is permanently hurt, though, and a choice is made before the clock strikes an hour.

None of us are sure who’s idea it was – the end of the film had us pointing fingers like a six year-old in a candy shop – but someone introduced the name “Cloverfield,” a virally promoted disaster movie shot entirely with hand held cameras. The merits of "Cloverfield" were never heavily explored but, by virtue of the fact that all the other films were disqualified, “Cloverfield” got the selection. It's a movie about a monster, filmed by a badly shaking cameraman who didn't know it was all computer generated and/or ketchup.

I wont drag you through the hour and twenty minutes of dizzying and horrifying film footage that was flashed before our wide-eyed faces, except to say that the plot moved exceptionally slowly and was a grating regurgitation of every other disaster movie plot, except it was worse. When the credits rolled, a gentleman sitting behind me muttered “Is it over? [Boy], what a waste of money. I should have just left a tenner at the foot of the movie poster.” Great piece of critical analysis, that. He should start a blog.

I, for one, have never witnessed such a tepid reaction to a movie in theaters. All fifty plus people in attendance sat stunned for over a minute before picking themselves up and walking shakily toward the exit, rubbing their eyes. The roomed seemed to spin slowly and I was a little nauseous as I stood up to follow their lead. Looking at the back of so many heads in dim light exiting a building reminded me vaguely of a scene in the movie. Which scene, you ask? All of them.

The baby boomer in attendance speculated that it was the “worst movie she’d ever seen,” a perspective that has been proffered for a dozen other cinematic productions. I thought the movie was creative, but was upset that all the attractive females were killed off (sorry, is that a spoiler?) and that the monster’s soft side wasn’t exploited by the directors.

F made the mistake of defending the movie’s concept publically and was berated excessively for his lack of taste. Defending bad movies is tantamount to making bad movies on the hierarchy of cinematic sins. It might even be worse than defending that limited release Hannah Montana production. Goodness, F, grow a tongue.

By the time we got home, the dizziness and arguments had worn off. We hopped out of the car and looked around. After an awkward pause, somebody asked: “So, now what do you want to do?”