Archive for December, 2010

2010 vs “2010″

December 30, 2010

This has been a really great year if you don’t count everything that happened. Frankly, the movie was a lot better. And that’s just the problem.

If you compare the last 12 months to 2010: The Year We Make Contact, you’ll be disappointed by the astounding list (seven) of really great things that everybody loved about the movie that never made it to the year.

How could director Peter Hyams have been so far off? His other cinematic fortune-telling, particularly Timecop and Sudden Death, was extremely accurate.

To help us understand in what ways 2010 sucked compared to the movie, here are seven prominent things from the movie that failed to materialize during the last 365 days:

1. Roy Scheider

Where the hell is Roy Scheider? Before I get to the fascinating answer, a little background.

In the movie, Scheider plays Dr. Heywood R. Floyd, an ex-New York-cop who gives up his dazzling life of paperwork for the chance to vacation near Jupiter with some “Russian” friends (led by big-time commie Helen Mirren.) Joining them are two other Americans, John Lithgow and Russell Dalrymple.

Their mission: to try to make sense out of the last 20 minutes of 2001: A Space Odyssey. Scheider’s motivation here was obvious. He was on LSD when he saw A Space Odyssey in 1968. It wasn’t until years later that Scheider realized he’d been confusing it with Planet of the Apes all along.

The sad fact is Scheider died two years ago. So despite his enthusiastic performance in the movie (as measured by the number of times he says “hell” and “goddamn” during the scene where he recites the Lord’s Prayer) Scheider  hasn’t even landed so much as a cameo in 2010. There’s still some time left for him to do a quick walk-on, however, so keep your fingers crossed.

2. The Soviet Union

Movie producers have been clamoring for the Soviet Union’s return to the silver screen, and with good reason. The Soviet Union was a tremendous box office draw throughout the 1980s, serving as the bête noire to every Hollywood star from Arnold Schwarzenegger to Sylvester Stallone to legendary leading man C. Thomas Howell.

The Soviet Union features prominently in 2010. You can almost forgive Hyams for thinking that it would still have a career thirty years on. It was, after all, one of the most over-rated actors of its time.

In this movie, the Soviets and Americans take the world to the brink of nuclear war in a dispute over some Costa Rican timeshares. The conflict at home strains relations between the cosmonauts and astronauts in deep space , who must learn to get over their political differences if they’re ever going to survive Helen Mirren’s fake Russian accent.

In a ridiculous plot twist that in no way reflects current reality, the Russians and Americans actually do cooperate, sharing a single vessel to accomplish a mutual spacefaring goal. Like that’s ever going to happen.

3. The Exploration and Colonization of Space Beyond Low Earth Orbit

Let’s face it. This planet sucks. There’s nothing to do except go to the mall and watch tv.

Everyone wants out. But where can we go? Walking down the street, you always hear people saying, “I wish I lived on a space station.”

And if Hyams’ predictions were even close, we’d all be in outer space right now. Watching tv.

We’d be taking regular shuttles up to the moon (see #7) or traveling the 365 million mile mean distance from Earth to Jupiter.

But the reality is different. Sure, a lucky few of us get to ride the Space Shuttle 500 miles above the Earth, and others of us get to float around the International Space Station (173 miles from Earth), and still others can sniff modeling glue out of a brown paper bag.

But the vast majority of humankind living in the year 2010 must be content with trampolines and other assisted-leaping apparatuses for much-deserved, however brief vacations “off-world.”

4. Chlorophyl on Europa? Eureka!

There doesn’t seem much hope of discovering moss on Jupiter’s sixth moon, Europa, like what happens in the movie.

In fact, it’ll probably be another decade before anyone sends a probe out there to look for signs of life. Of course, Hyams made it all look oh-so-easy.

So, no Europa probes this year, though that would have been a nice way to commemorate the 400th anniversary of the Jovian moon’s first observation by Galileo.

5.  Computer text that makes chirping sounds as it appears on screen

Why doesn’t my computer make a chirping sound as it slowly prints out text across the screen?

That’s how computers are supposed to work in 2010. That is, according to 2010.

You see this effect in a lot of sci-fi movies whenever a character is reading off a computer, or when some vital information is superimposed over an image at the beginning as part of some important exposition.

For example, imagine the below passage appears at the beginning of my movie, superimposed over an establishing shot of a smoggy, rainy Los Angeles:

It was the year 2010. Earth had become intolerably dull. Some people wanted to live on a space station. Others watched Blade Runner again. The re-release. The one without narration. It was better that way. We already understood the noir motif without Harrison Ford’s voiceover beating it into our heads.

But you have to imagine all this text appearing to the accompaniment of a “chee-chee-chee-chee” or “deet-deet-deet-deet” sound as each letter pops up on screen.

My computer is not capable of providing this sound, as opposed to all the computers in 2010. So most of the time, I am forced to make the deet-deet-deet sounds with my mouth while I type.

6. Domesticated Dolphins of New Mexico.

I used to hate those kids in my neighborhood who had their own pet research dolphins. They were spoiled little show-offs.

The only time I got a pet research dolphin was when one got snagged in a drift-net, only to show up later mixed in with my tuna surprise.  Granted, it was always a pleasant surprise. But when it comes to frolicking in the living room, chunks of dolphin meat just don’t stack up to a living, intact dolphin. For one thing, drift-net dolphin chunks start to stink up the house after a few hours and your mother makes you bury them in the back yard next to the potatoes.

Of course, thanks to Hyams, I had expected to have my own intact dolphin by now. His movie indicates that Roy Scheider’s character lives in New Mexico. In the opening scene, we see Scheider working on one of the radio dishes at the Very Large Array, which is in the middle of a semi-arid plain in New Mexico.

Then in a later scene we see Roy Scheider’s bratty little son feeding not one but two dolphins in their home aquarium.

So, if people in the middle of the New Mexico desert can keep dolphins at home, the movie strongly suggests anyone can.

But, as things turned out, these are the only dolphins you’ll find in New Mexico now.

7. Pan Am

The now defunct airline Pan Am makes a cameo in this flick in a tv commercial that features stock footage from 2001, with a narrator who announces, “convenient non-stops to the moon and all major space stations…On Pan Am the sky is no longer the limit.”

Poor Pan Am. The airline suffered a lot through the 1980s, from helicopter disasters on the roof of its Park Avenue Headquarters to the Lockerbie Bombing to all kinds of management and route problems. The company started out the decade selling its headquarters to Met Life, though its famous logo remained hovering high above Grand Central Station until 1991 or 1992 when the airline effectively gave up the ghost.

I don’t remember exactly what year that happened, but I do recall feeling a part of my childhood had been erased when the Met Life logo went up.

Words that Wound and Other Yuletide Festivities

December 25, 2010

Christmas came early to our house this year.

It arrived way ahead of New Year’s Eve.

But not before St. Patrick’s Day stopped in for a beer just because it “happened to be in the neighborhood.”

This made Christmas very uncomfortable, of course, after their ugly fight at Thanksgiving.

They had exchanged…words that wound.

The flowers of the pohutukawa tree. The pohutukawa ("drenched with mist" in Maori) is sometimes referred to as the New Zealand Christmas Tree.

Now the two sat in the lounge for what seemed like an eternity of stilted, awkward conversation.

Christmas couldn’t take any more. It got up to leave, insisting it had a million “little chores” to do at home.

Which was all for the better, frankly, seeing how the holiday had caught me off guard.

I’d forgotten to get Jacquie a present.

It's beginning to look a lot like the Nihotupu track in the Waitakere Ranges. This stream feeds the Upper Nihotupu reservoir, part of Auckland's water system.

Jacquie handed me a small object wrapped in colorful paper, with a fussy little ribbon.

“What’s the occasion?” I said.

“Ha ha, Simon, you’re so funny,” she said. “You’re the funniest person in the world. I don’t know why people don’t walk up to you on the street and give you a million dollars and name their children after you. And you’re so nice and considerate and you never use words that wound. Open your present.”*

It was an iPod Nano (6th generation).

I was touched. But that was beside the point. I was moved. This was a surprising gift. I hadn’t owned a personal listening device in ages.

“Where’s the cassette go?” I said.

“––.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I know it takes CDs.”

The Upper Nihotupu reservoir has a capacity of 336,000,000 gallons. Dam, that's a lot of water. Here the liquid passes through a pipe, as you can see. I'd been carrying 0.079251616 gallons of what you see there until just before this picture was taken.**

The device, as it turned out, imposed a steep learning curve that taxed all my faculties.

After six hours of screaming, one sprained wrist, third-degree burns all about my face and torso, a torn ligament and 25 mg of Valerian, I finally managed to upload a single tune.

Caribbean Queen by Billy Ocean.

The situation was turning ugly.

I know what you're thinking. So I'm going to come out and say it to clear the air of...words that wound. This isn't a Hobbit hole, ok? That's just such a stupid, obvious joke. This is a damned tunnel. Alright? Just a tunnel. Not a nasty, dirty, wet tunnel, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy tunnel with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat. It's a tunnel that passes under the MAXX rail-bed and leads from the east side of Auckland Domain to Parnell (where the wankers dwell.) Hobbits use this tunnel to commute to work, and to sell drugs and sexual services to one another.

I called technical support.

I told them I was having trouble manipulating the controls on Nano’s little touch-screen.

“I see what the problem is, sir,” the tech support person said.

“You do?”

“Yes. Your fingers are the size of Hungarian sausages. Lay off the Ring Dings, if you can be bothered, and maybe in a few years you’ll be able to enjoy one of our fine products.”

I was going to yell at the tech support guy for using…words that wound.

But on second thought, he made a valid point as far as my physique was concerned.

You see, my Nano had gone missing for a while that day.

Jacquie and I looked everywhere. Things seemed hopeless. I tossed my head back in Joan of Arc fashion and just as I did that, the Nano popped out from a fold of adipose tissue between my second and third chin. We figured it must have slipped in there while I was eating a Ring Ding.

“You’re probably right,” I said. “Got any other helpful tidbits?”

“Yes,” the tech dude said. “Your blog is getting lame, bland and repetitive.”

“‘Getting’?”

“Bravo,” he said. “Well done. Didn’t see that one coming. Please, no more. I don’t want any part of it. That whole ‘Christmas came early this year’ bit as a segue into this Nano routine? Nuh-uh. Total crap.”

“I know what you mean,” I said.

A disused railroad siding in a layer of adipose tissue between Auckland Domain and Parnell, near the Hobbit tunnel. (Note Hobbit feces). "Look," I said to Jacquie. "It's the G train. Finally." Even the Nano tech dude would have to admit this was a very humorous comment because the G train is a subway line in New York notorious for long waits, unannounced disruptions, and mildly irritating graffiti featuring...words that wound. Thus the implication here is that the "G train " was so tardy in its arrival that the motorcar corroded to the level of decay (pictured), making for a whimsical moment of absurdist satire that sophisticated people on one-and-one-fifttieth continents can enjoy. Note the added layer of humor in the suggestion that a NYC subway line could be extended to NYC's near-antipode, which would be highly impractical even if it were technically doable.

I couldn’t think what else to say.

Tech dude’s cherished yuletide sentiments had wounded me in the sebaceous area between my second and third chins.

I threw my head back in pain, adding my trademark Joan of Arc flourish. A Nano shot out of my adipose folds, soaring through the air, smashing against a Ring Ding.

I was about to hang up on the tech dude when Jacquie furiously grabbed the phone out of my hand.

“I just wanted to say one thing to you,” she screamed. “Merry Christmas.”

Then she hung up.

Then she turned to me.

Then she screamed again.

Then she said “Well, do you have a gift for me?”

Traffic signs in New Zealand often provide confusing or self-contradicory information, resulting in hundreds of thousands of wounds and deaths, costing the nation a few hundred dollars in lost productivity every year. But sometimes you come across a traffic sign that is relatively clear. New Zealand's written driver's exam always has at least one question regarding what to do when approaching the sign pictured above.

As a matter of fact, I did have time to prepare something.

“Here you go honey,” I said.

I handed her an envelope.

She was getting all teary eyed.

She opened the envelope, pulled out a note I’d written, and read out loud.

“‘I.O.U. one fantastic gift,’” she said. She looked at me, astonished. “But that’s what you got me for my birthday.”

“Not exactly,” I said. “This time the note was written on toilet paper.”

Jacquie was disgusted. She used several “words that wound,” alluding to uncomfortable-sounding objects orienting themselves in time and space to my nether region.

Then she smelled the IOU toilet paper and gagged. “Is that brown ink or is that what I hope it isn’t?”

“I’ll never tell,” I said. “But I’ll say one thing: getting a Hobbit to take stool-softener and spell out a letter with his own excrement is not as difficult as everyone makes it out to be.”

This microscope is an inexplicable part of the penguin habitat exhibit at Kelly Tarlton's, a sort of combination aquarium, wildlife exhibit, children's museum and, at night, corporate event venue. My new employer held its Christmas party there.

Then the doorbell rang. It was the Apple tech guy.

“Would you please, please, end this stupid post now?” he said. “It’s terrible and nobody’s read this far because it’s Christmas and you’re already at like 1,250 words.”

They served a buffet dinner that included several kinds of meat.

“I’ll think about it,” I said.

A segment of tentacle at Kelly Tarlton's has absolutely no friends. It's not attached to anyone. It just likes to hang out in formaldehyde.

“OK,” I said. “You’re right.”

“Thank you,” the tech guy said.

“Merry Christmas.”

Another fine specimen. Although it has nothing to do with this picture, Kelly Tarlton was the inventor of the underwater viewing tubule used by many modern aquariums.

* Quote taken verbatim.

**Because I pee’d in the reservoir.

Gardening is Fun and Easy

December 13, 2010

No matter how hard I’ve tried not to, I’ve learned a lot about New Zealand since moving here.

If not for Meat Week at the Pak 'n Save, I'd never have learned you could buy it by the liter.

Take gardening, for example. I didn’t know until recently what a popular hobby it is in New Zealand.

Everyone’s doing it. Buying shovels, coming home late at night, digging holes in dark corners and putting something I couldn’t quite make out (but looked quite bulky) in said hole.

Plus, there’s composting. I bet most Kiwis get into gardening just for the compost heaps.

Now, if you grew up in the Bronx, as I did, you’d think gardening was strictly reserved for that guy down the block with his shirt tucked into pleated suit pants pulled up to just under his man-breasts, the guy who always bragged that his was the best homemade wine in the neighborhood and he’d  let you try some if you went down into his basement.

But you’d be wrong: gardening isn’t just for creepy loners who produce consistently bold, complex Cabernet Sauvignons year after year after year despite whatever else the police might say.

Gardening is for everyone.

And as the weather in Auckland plods tepidly into summer, I find the thumbs I’ve been sitting on all year have turned green for whatever reason.

It's impossible to say what's more fun: watering plants, or popping a couple Valium and watering whatever gets in the way. (Photo by Philip-Lorca diCorcia)

It was Jacquie that turned me on to “the scene.” She’d already bought a bunch of flora for the deck, including a young olive tree (pictured).

One day we were reading in the lounge.

“Do you mind if I read some of my gardening magazine out loud?” she said.

“––,” I said.

She started in on an article about mulch. After she finished, she took her watering-can (pictured) and poured it over my face to wake me up. Then she started in on the next article and when she was done with that she took her watering-can and poured it over my face. This must have gone on for two or three hours before she got to a feature that caught my interest. It was about the joys of pulling potatoes out of the earth.

“Wow,” I said.

“I know,” Jacquie said. “Have you ever watched potatoes being dug out of the ground?”

“Once, but unfortunately they had to re-buried right away.”

That’s only partly true.

There was a small courtyard behind the house I grew up in, a cobbled area for us and the neighbors to park our cars.

And there was a narrow plot of dirt back there, hemmed in by thorny roses and an apple tree that produced very sour fruit.

And once in a while, my parents tried to plant vegetables.

And one morning we got a rooster instead. We don’t know where it came from, but it mysteriously vanished a few days later, on what turned out to be what my mother called “Stuffed Capon Night.”

So as far as my experience with gardens is concerned, sometimes it was famine, sometimes it was Meat Week, but I never saw potatoes being dug out of the ground.

Well, that’s all in the past now. And if there’s anything I’ve learned recently it’s that the past is better off in the past.

If you don’t napalm your epidermis with Veet, how can you show off your sexy new top-of-the-line sea-girdle? This old newspaper ad is taped to the window of the sometimes offensive Antique Alley on Dominion Road. The ad offends me for obvious reasons. I mean, as a trichotillomaniac, why singe away your hair when you can pluck?

Another Antique Alley classic. A toby jug shaped like a man holding a toby jug. It's like an infinity mirror for dipshits.

These days, I’m all about helping around our nascent garden, in sort of a hands-off, supervisory role, with a concentration in quality control.

Watering the fern. Jacquie's one of my star waterers.

Only through trial-and-error can you determine which plants thrive on vodka martinis and which plants don't.


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