Monday, April 23, 2007

Spring Spring Spring

I'm in a good state of mind at the moment. Thanks for tolerating uninteresting entries. Or you're welcome for variety. The ToM will roll on, these things need to incubate.

Plot of an upcoming story:

Girl in park, lonely
Notices guys walk by, wonders if they'd be reliable
Makes a composite sketch of her favorite guys, stealing features from each
Projects mental/emotional qualities on them, takes the best for her composite
Goes home, writes it all up into a Classified Ad
Sleeps on it, decides to submit
Gets a load of responses
Sets them all up to meet at the same place, same time in the park by a monument
Goes herself
Ten women show up, at first worried about the others
Eventually realize the set-up, one cries, some laugh, others just leave
Four agree to grab a drink, including our heroine
Something happens that night

Look for that one in Harper's or maybe The New Yorker.

This weekend was beautiful. Spent time outdoors, running and reading and the like. Last night I finally saw Contempt, and thought of this quote, which may not be original and may not be true: Women are essentially simple and spend their lives pretending to be complicated, while men are a jumble and spend their lives pretending to be simple.

The more I think about it, that's probably tripe. Not a good idea to generalize, but I bet we could find at least two humans in the world to whom it applies, so there's truth in it. It passes the world's most lenient test of worth. Good thing, too, my thoughts need to be mollycoddled.

Contempt was great, ps. So far by Godard I've seen:

Contempt
My Life to Live
Band of Outsiders
Breathless

They've all been good. Band of Outsiders was my favorite, but Breathless and Contempt were both great. My Life to Live dragged a bit, but I still give it a positive rating.

On that topic, here is my list of the best American films of 1970s. That's my favorite decade for movies, and these are my favorites. No order, there are twelve total.

Five Easy Pieces - 1971

Exceptionally well-acted film featuring Jack Nicholson, it's basically the story of a talented guy who can't get his life together and hurts a lot of people because of a selfish/noncommittal streak. Interesting to note the director did a few great films in the 70s, then somehow found his way to directing straight to video pornos.

M*A*S*H - 1970

One of the first from Robert Altman, this one is about a MASH unit in the Korean War trying to deal with the shitty realities all around. Very sad, but also one of my top 5 comedies of all time.

Nashville - 1975

Another Altman film, and the last I'll include, though there could be more. This is the man at the peak of his directorial style. The ensemble cast flits in and out of the country music scene in the titular city, building up to an outdoor festival organized on behalf of a populist presidential candidate. Amazing story, great acting all around.

The Conversation - 1974

The outstanding factoid about this film is that Coppola made it as a side project between Godfather 1 and 2. Starring Gene Hackman, it's the story of a sound technician coming face to face with the implications of his job. Was nominated for Best Picture and lost to...The Godfather part 2.

The French Connection - 1971

Gritty, suspenseful detective film starring Gene Hackman. Nothing much to say about this one, just that it's a masterpiece.

The Deer Hunter - 1978

Robert Deniro and Christopher Walken star as small town boys from Pennsylvania steel country who get called on to serve in Vietnam. From the magnificent montage of a Russian orthodox wedding to the disturbing war scenes, to the desolate afterword, this gets my vote for the best of the Vietnam films.

Midnight Cowboy - 1969

Yeah yeah, it's 1969, but it won the Best Picture oscar in 1970, so I'm counting it. Jon Voight plays a Texan with a troubled past who comes to the big city trying to make a career as a gigolo. Enter his pal, Ratso Rizzo, played by the greatest actor of our time, Dustin Hoffman. The relationship between the two is (in my opinion, of course) the best friend dynamic in the history of cinema. Sad stuff.

Dog Day Afternoon - 1975

Al Pacino is a novice bank robber trying to appropriate some funds for his gay lover's sex change operation. Smart, funny, tense, and depressing, I've always found it to be Pacino's best performance.

Deliverance - 1972

Based on James Dickey's novel, this one stars Burt Reynolds and Jon Voight as two of four pals who take a canoe trip through the deep woods of the south. Things go bad, and the friends are forced to rely on one another to make it back to civilization. Voight is incredible.

Badlands - 1973

Terrence Malick's first film, about an outlaw and his teenage girlfriend going on a killing spree. Martin Sheen plays the lead in a logical forerunner to his turn on The West Wing. Or not. Beautiful landscapes of the Dakota badlands.

The Last Detail - 1973

Another Ashby film, this one with Jack Nicholson and Randy Quaid, about two soldiers assigned to take a kleptomaniac to a military brig in the northeast where he's been sentenced to ten years. They decide to give him a good time on the way. A very gray movie, heavy and sad as snow, but also funny.


I made that list a while ago, and it would probably change now if I really thought about it. I should probably see One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest again, that probably belongs there. Also, I didn't include The Godfather movies on purpose, even though they were awesome. Too obvious. Clockwork Orange could be up there too.

Man, Jack Nicholson had a really good decade. Check this out:

Easy Rider (1969)
Five Easy Pieces (1970)
The Last Detail (1973)
Chinatown (1974)
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest (1975)
The Shining (1979)

Those are six films to hang your hat on.

Okay, enjoy the weather. Go running and listen to breezy music. Maybe The Papercuts' album "Don't Go Back," if you feel like a recommendation.

Thursday, April 19, 2007

This one's for Egypt

After Spring

Your sister called them agents
when she saw the flag branded
on the steel-blue hull. You waited
through fog, through morning-

her artistic anger stewed
like years before when bitter cold
kept you inside with dad sequestered
and the poor woman unwanted by all
we could name except the coddled mutt
who broke her with a preference
for slight affection and its reluctant crown
rising between crests of irritation
and a cry for old solitude
fashionably recollected in that house
of trap doors and high ceilings
where whispering walls urged
blistering children in limited roles
to loathe the general and vaunt
lonely souls until over-exposure
cast them in harsh tones magnified
to degrees no hero could withstand
when they seared and the waves broke
to be felt all over those rooms
cold and whistling with winter drafts
Little man the warmth has a cost
we never lacked but Little man keep
a clenched fist for the memory
of days when it wasn’t so easy

but it never felt easy
when silence would summon
a ghost with its gavel
while she walked on shattering
shells with a grimace
recalling the moment
abroad in the autumn
his breakable knee when
she could have cried murder
and kept every future
from choosing the tunnel
where views of a gold street
illumined the targets
who caught all the excess
to aid our survival
each day in that fort
that was built like a prison
and how could we know,
the quiet believers,
that all of the windows
could double as mirrors
reflecting the judgments
in clever disguises as
you tried the feat
of escaping in pages
where words from a genius
brought tears and resentment
for all you imagined
kept hidden in corners
so jealously guarded
by dragons with faces
like neighbors and leaders
and every intention
just hammered and hammered
your delicate smile
until it was bitten
by years that had never
been lived by me either

And all that I’m good for
abroad in the summer
is squinting at schooners
that sail from the harbor
and nod through our silence
and heighten the wonder
of finding the angel
again in the ether

See that I’m here,
little sister
you know me-
when you want your own
you just have to ask me.

Tuesday, April 17, 2007

ToM: West Region, Second Round Results

(1) Google
def.
(5) Outer Space, as Conceived by Ignorant, Poor, Elizabethan-era Cockneys

For a passing moment last evening, it looked as though the tournament's overwhelming favorite had begun to retreat. Google, straying for the first time from its YouTube attack, sent out a battalion of American bloggers to confront Outer Space, as Conceived by Ignorant, Poor, Elizabethan-era Cockneys. Armed only with ennui and questionable writing ability, the bloggers were quickly decimated by a series of sickly green, pulsating moons whose three hundred mucous-coated lips spewed devil-red saliva which burned faces and condemned souls to Hell (as Conceived by Ignorant, Poor, Elizabethan-era Cockneys.*)

Acting on their early momentum, Outer Space charged ahead, determined to mount an advance on the central Google server. On its way, however, a concave construct of projector screens played the YouTube-embedded music video "Tonight, Tonight" by the Smashing Pumpkins on repeat. Outer Space slowed, multiple mouths agape, and eventually oozed to a complete bilious stop. One word could be heard repeating like a chant from the collective voice, and it was "Heaven."

Capitalizing on the revelry, Google used thousands of antique Civil War mines purchased illegally on Froogle to annihilate the enemy. Because Elizabethans had no concept of the vastness of the universe, and could only consider outer space on their small terrestrial terms, the internet monolith finished the job in less than fifteen minutes. Following the victory, reporters speculated that the "Tonight, Tonight" sting had been the primary plan all along, and the initial ruinous offensive had simply been a convenient way for Google to thin its bulky ranks of bloggers.


*Their conception of hell is much more accurate than their conception of space.



(2) Unreliable Husbands of the Old West
def.
(3) Bread


Unlike Newt Gingrich, who could not resist the temptation of bread and eventually succumbed in gluttonous fashion, Unreliable Husbands of the Old West showed zero dependence on the ubiquitous vittle. They seemed content to consume an endless supply of tequila and vodka, produced from agave and potatoes, respectively. "We gets our starch from the tsar's madeira," commented one vagrant, using one of vodka's many nicknames and showing a surprising worldliness for a fellow of his stripe.*

Onlookers applauded the rebellious spirit. One loquacious gentleman stood upon an actual soap box and declaimed on behalf of the itinerants. "Truly, these heroes have embodied the American spirit of dependence! We are not slaves to any man or substance, be it red or bread! Like those tax-weary colonists whose bravery preceeded them, our courageous Unreliable Husbands cast off the yoke of grain which has so dominated human cuisine since-"

At this point, the man was accidentally shot by an errant bullet from saloon festivities, becoming the third bystander casualty of the TOURNAMENT OF MADNESS. Nevertheless, the spirit of his remarks pervaded and took root, and Unreliable Husbands of the Old West earned a strong win and the right to play Google for the West Region Championship.


*It was later discovered that this person was not an Unreliable Husband of the Old West, but a confused cast member of the HBO television show "Deadwood."





WEST REGION CHAMPIONSHIP:

(1) Google
vs.
(2) Unreliable Husbands of the Old West

Monday, April 16, 2007

ToM: Midwest Region, Second Round Results

(5) Bobbing For Apples
def.
(1) The Rosetta Stone


In a year replete with surprise upsets, it should come as no shock that Sunday's action saw two underdogs advance to the Midwest Regional Championship. In the opening match, yet another top seed fell, leaving Google as the tournament's only surviving one-seed. The Rosetta Stone, after violently decimating Babe the Blue Ox in the first round, came into the day as heavy favorites against insouciant upstart Bobbing For Apples. Sticking with the tactic that proved so effective against Babe, the Stone invoked ancient Gods and scaled the firmament's of a rust-red barn directly over a group of children engaged in the eponymous opposition activity.

At the apex of the slanting tin roof, poised next to a rooster-bedecked weather vane, the Stone tumbled forth with deadly accuracy. Yet at that exact moment, one of the children below had captured a rosy fruit and stood to celebrate. The four other competitors lifted their heads to view the spectacle, and the descending Rosetta Stone landed directly in the full barrel, impacting none of their heads.

Though some water was displaced by the splash, enough remained to completely cover the fallen tablet. Terrified, the children sprinted away screaming, and Rosetta Stone proponents insisted that the retreat signified forfeit. Officials on scene agreed, and only required that the submerged stele free itself from the barrel to claim victory. Hopeful supporters kept a vigil for three hours, but despite a prodigious climbing ability, swimming was beyond its means. As the sun reached its meridian, and activity inside the barrel ceased, officials congregated and determined that the children had instigated the match's only successful maneuver by eluding the crashing slab, and thereby earned advancement.


(7) Toothpaste
def.
(3) Greenery Day in Japan


The evening match can effectively be called a case of poor luck, with a determined, strong competitor handcuffed into serving its opponent with each well-intentioned advance. Known for unerring discipline and tireless work ethic, Greenery Day's army of tree-planters went to work fast and early, sprouting new and variegated forests in trademark fashion. Predictably, oxygen levels rose, which in the past has hindered opponents and led to victory.

With Toothpaste, however, Greenery Day faced an opponent whose cleansing qualities were only fortified and enhanced by the uber-oxidized environment. Normally taken for granted as a bathroom fixture, Toothpaste's new cleansing abilities cast it into the limelight, earning universal laudations. Before day's end, Toothpaste had booked an interview slot on The Morning Show, been chosen as Time's Man of the Year, and had its cardboard container officially selected by Oprah's Book Club.

Relegated to anonymity, Greenery Day in Japan proved incapable of variety, instead clinging robotically to the original blueprint. Upon notification that Toothpaste was the overwhelming winner, the Greenery Day Army committed mass suicide by impaling themselves through the pointed crowns of Bonsai trees. In a gesture of sportsmanship, Toothpaste offered to clean the teeth of the dead, but only on the condition that they receive a Christian burial. The terms were rejected by His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Akihito.



MIDWEST REGION CHAMPIONSHIP:

(5) Bobbing for Apples
vs.
(7) Toothpaste

Friday, April 13, 2007

ToM: South Region, Second Round Results

(5) The Concept of English
def.
(8) A Child's Peashooter


Following its stunning first-round upset of David & Goliath, A Child's Peashooter found itself in the unenviable position of competing sans ammunition. Its lone pea had been used to great effect against the Philistine giant, but faced with a company of wildly-spinning cue balls, it could only lie in wait for inevitable destruction.

Ineluctably, the destruction came. In mere chaotic moments, the once-proud peashooter was reduced to splinters by repeat high-velocity cue ball attacks. Yet for the second match in a row, great controversy surrounded The Concept of English's victory.

"In my mind, the win against A Child's Peashooter had nothing to do with 'English'," said renowned cellist and TOURNAMENT OF MADNESS super-fan Yo-Yo Ma. "It was just a bunch of billiards balls flying straight. Whatever spin they might have had didn't matter in the least. If this was a movie, I'd accuse the writer of rank negligence."

Following these comments, Yo-Yo Ma was bitten by several snakes, and all his cellos were destroyed in various fires.

After its first-round triumph over The Know-Nothing Party, The Concept of English faced allegations of collaboration with Pope Pius IX. It is not known whether the 19th-century Roman Catholic leader continued his support in round two, but critics maintain that the motive for revenge against a child's toy which destroyed a key figure of the Old Testament may have proved too strong a temptation to resist.


(7) Vladimir Nabokov
def.
(3) My Friend Dustin

In a see-saw battle which lasted fourteen days and featured innumerable elegant twists on the English language, history's pre-eminent novelist narrowly edged the game associative dynamo. Although the outcome was in doubt for most of the fortnight, Nabokov showed too much class over the final day, and Dustin's ambitions collapsed when he inadvertently connected two of the Russian's most famous works, completing a strange circle and verifying the author's claim that the entire breadth of human knowledge and beauty is contained within his oeuvre. As My Friend Dustin struggled to conjure some topic on which Nabokov couldn't claim influence, journalists on scene transcribed the fatal stream-of-consciousness narrative:

Dustin: "Greek...Greek History...Plato...Play-Doh...Elephant...Trunk...clothes...vacation...retreat...elite...replete...Lolita...Greek Pita...Bread...Sandwich...Peanut Butter...Jelly...Deli...Pickle...Tough Spot...Hot Spot...Hell...Heaven...Church...Bell Tower...Spire...Pyre...Funeral Pyre...Pale Fire..."

Upon uttering this last title, Dustin dropped to his knees, exhausted and demoralized. The venerable writer approached and, in a seemingly magnanimous gesture, offered his hand. When the fallen opponent reached to accept, Nabokov withdrew in a juvenile gesture. Dustin collapsed face-first in the dirt, and the Russian danced gleefully to the disgusted boos of a pro-American crowd.

As he circled the stadium, gesturing profanely to spectators, Nabokov tore his cardigan in two, revealing a t-shirt with a picture of a peashooter snapped in half. The text below read: "You're Next!" When fans began to laugh, pointing out that A Child's Peashooter had lost days before, he feigned humiliation. Yet as the mocking reached a fever pitch, the writer had another surprise in store- he ripped the t-shirt in one swoop, exposing a tattoo on his bare chest. The inked image brought a sudden hush to the arena; a series of cue balls, cracked and useless, were crushed beneath a bookshelf containing Nabokov's novels.




SOUTH REGION CHAMPIONSHIP:

(5) The Concept of English
vs.
(7) Vladimir Nabokov

Wednesday, April 11, 2007

ToM: East Region, Second Round Results

(4) Meryl Streep def. (1) Creighton Blue Jays On any normal day in the TOURNAMENT OF MADNESS, a one-seed falling in the second round would be cause for surprise. But on the eve of Creighton's match against Meryl Streep, an unbelievable gaffe on the part of coach Norton Douglas made the outcome all but inevitable. Speaking to reporters in the lobby of his hotel, he called Meryl Streep's integrity into question, accusing her of poor parenting. The excerpt below captures the worst of the ill-timed remarks:

"And, what's...what's the story with her daughter...that Kate Hudson? A different last name? To me, that's just...that's being a bad mother, to put it bluntly. You don't let your kid take another last name just for the sake of having a different identity. Just so she can land a few movie roles? You let her make up a whole new name, for that? I'm sorry...maybe I'm old-fashioned, but where we come from, out in Kansas, folks stress family values. Plus, it's widely known that Kate Hudson is promiscuous."
Unfortunately for Mr. Douglas, he ignored certain key facts: 1) Kate Hudson is not widely known as promiscuous. 2) Kate Hudson's mother is Goldie Hawn, not Meryl Streep. 3) Kate Hudson did not make up her own name. Her father is the comedian Bill Hudson. It was Ms. Hawn who chose to keep her maiden name after marriage. 4) Creighton University is in Nebraska, not Kansas. The story exploded in the morning papers, and popular sentiment shifted to Streep. A disheartened Creighton squad never stood a chance. Star point guard Eddie Santangelo shot a mere 1-17 from three point range, and Streep's 'Oscar Defense'- placing her various statuettes in dangerous positions on the floor- effectively hindered the Creighton attack. At the half, they had scored only 9 points, and Coach Douglas sat on the team bench with his shoulders hunched, the picture of a defeated man. Streep kicked off the second half by performing the "fuck fish" monologue from "Adaptation." The crowd erupted, unaware or unconcerned that the lines belonged to the character of John Laroche, played by Streep's co-star Chris Cooper. Completely overmatched, the Creighton players left the court to catcalls and derision. (2) The USSR Red Army Hockey Team, 1975 def. (6) The Atlantic Ocean On the morning of the match, the Atlantic Ocean entered a period of widespread calm referred to as 'The Halcyon Days.' Usually occurring before the winter solstice, this legendary annual timespan ushers in fourteen days of complete calm, when not even a slight ripple disturbs the surface of the otherwise unpredictable and turbulent ocean. Red Army team members, upon taking the ice at the neutral Reykjavik Arena, could harly believe their good luck. "I am not believing what I see," said astounded netminder Vladislav Tretiak, in broken English. "I think 'oh, maybe huge salt waters from Atlantics make us into food for fish. But no, we win. Soviet Russia win again." And win they did, as the lone team in the arena, scoring exactly one hundred goals in three periods of play. The Atlantic's strategy of overcoming Iceland (and with it the arena and the entire Red Army team) with a series of shark-led tsunamis faltered when it couldn't summon a single wave. Coastal residents of Iceland watched in fear as thousands of sharks congregated near the shore, but their trepidation became outright joy when the creatures were forced to retreat to the deep. "For the first time, we have defeated the sharks that have terrorized our country for centuries!" said Icelandic premier Gzryuny Ven Der Bang. In addition, national poet and songwriter Ermitz Smits-Bakker composed a new national anthem to commemorate the event. Translated, the lyrics are as follows: Iceland! Iceland! You have faced the great whites! They have come in fierce hordes! Like they have done before! Oh those years, they were difficult! Difficult years, O Iceland the Brave! Your children were eaten, oh yes! You could not swim, except in their mouths! But now there is one white greater! This time a separate white knew triumph! A white land free of sharks! It is you to whom I refer, Iceland! Iceland! White Country! Iceland! White Paradise! Now your children are not eaten!* *It should be noted that much of the poem's beauty is inherent to the Icelandic tongue, and is therefore lost in translation. Also, there are more exclamation points in the original. EAST REGION CHAMPIONSHIP: (2) The USSR Red Army Hocket Team, 1975 vs. (4) Meryl Streep

Tuesday, April 10, 2007

A Healthy Dose of Pain

Last night I had the longest, strangest dream of my life. A bit of an epic, actually. It kept referencing itself, switching locations and people, but coming back to close the circles. Unlike most dreams, it seemed to end at the perfect spot, even though the ending was sad and a bit terrifying. I've tried to map it out here, because it's pretty interesting, but my divisions are going to be laughably imperfect. I'm reasonably sure of the sequence, and I'm positive on all the details. Unfortunately, I think there was a beginning I've forgotten, and other small details must also be gone for good. Anyway, here it is, unedited and true. I hope it's somewhat interesting for the synchronicity, if nothing else, but I'm jotting it down more for myself, so if you get bored and stop reading I can't say I blame you. However, there's a surprise ending.

1) It started in my stepfather's old blue Toyota truck. The sky was cloudy and a little dark, but it wasn't raining. The passenger seat had an old tattered seatbelt, tied off into semi-functioning strap, and I played with the frayed edges. We were driving on my high school's baseball field, heading toward the football field (it was a big complex where all fields merged, the football field doubled as the baseball outfield, and the home-side bleachers were also home-run territory). I saw sitting on the bleachers, among the crowd, three high school friends, Josh, Kyle S. and Kyle F. I waved, but they didn't see me or didn't respond.

We drove toward the endzone, over the field and without interrupting a game, and he dropped me off at the admission gate. I have a vivid memory of the corner approaching, and wondering where he'd drop me off. He had a strange habit of circling around things or leaving me off well ahead of the destination, which was always a point of anxiety. Once away, I had the feeling of being older, and was happy for it, because I knew in real high school days I'd feel self-conscious walking down the sideline among all the cool kids and upperclassmen. My stepfather drove off.

2) I moved toward the fifty yard line, feeling confident, and noting at least one familiar face standing against the small fence separating bleachers from field. Then I saw my oldest brother T. walking toward me. We both smiled and planned to shove each other at the same time. Neither succeeded, our simultaneous action only serving to disrupt each other's balance for a moment. He laughed and moved away. At this point, my friends who I was supposed to meet on the bleachers were lost from the dream. Next I saw my youngest brother K. reclined on the ground, watching the game. He was a bit older, maybe fourteen, indicating that some time had passed.

It seemed to be the first time we'd seen each other in a while, and he wasn't as shy as I remembered. He stood to hug me, and it was a bit awkward since we had different motions planned, but there was warmth. In real life, K. is one of the people I care most about in the world, even though I live far enough from home that we don't see each other as often as I'd like. In the dream, he became one of the few recurring themes. I was introduced to his girlfriend, whose name was Alissa. She was a thin girl, and seemed annoyed at something. She'd been lying down in front of him and to the right, and she stood up, gave me a quick smile, and said something cutting to K. before walking away. Interesting, because in college I made a film where the surrogate for the girl I'd been in love with was named "Alissa," and earlier that day I'd watched it for nostalgia's sake. In K. I see myself, partly, so the parallel is curious.

3) Also on the field was a step-cousin C. She was taking care of a small child I didn't know, teaching her something I can't remember, but I think came from a book. I haven't seen C. in years, so it was a strange cameo, and it somehow led to the livign room of my dad's old house. Inside, C. took the child and left, followed closely by my step-mother, who had appeared. Both seemed to be a bit condescending toward me, or mildly reproachful at least, and I wasn't sure why. Their departure left me with K. and my youngest sister S.

I somehow knew it was my sister, but she didn't look anything like my actual sister, and she didn't seem interested in seeing me. I tried to call her by old nicknames and make her laugh, but it wasn't happening, and she went away. It had become somewhat clear that I wasn't the most welcome person in the world, and nobody reacted warmly to me except K. He and I went outside to kick a soccer ball.

4) On my old front lawn the day was still overcast. We kicked the ball around a pond and three tall maples, and it was a very pleasant experience. The satisfaction of leading someone perfectly with a pass manifested itself, and this was odd because that feeling is something I get from throwing a football, not kicking a soccer ball. Nevertheless, it was the same. Finally the ball rolled down the hill and crossed the road, and threatened to roll down a gully into the forest facing our house. Somehow K. stopped it right at the edge and laughed.

5) Next I was at the football field again. A friend from college was there on the sidelines, and I said something to make him laugh. He was the kind of person who made you feel like a million bucks when he thought you were funny, but also had a way of attracting people that made them court his approval to regain that feeling. Breaking away from that group of friends was one of the difficult choices I had to make, because it led to a good deal of isolation. But I never belonged anyway, and my actions more or less made the choice for me.

6) Suddenly I was in the game, and that need for approval and belonging returned. We were starting at the softball field, though, strangely, and had to get to the endzone all the way at the admissions gate where I'd been dropped off by my stepfather before. The situation was desperate, time enough for one play only, and a full field to go. There were announcers present, somehow, and they kept talking about my love life in vague terms. We got down to the line, and my younger cousin M. was the quarterback. I was the right guard, for some reason.

Because I badly wanted to be accepted, but also wanted to trick them into winning the game, I played off the announcers and tried to sum up the desperation of the game with self-deprecation. I said "this is like trying to make love in an ice house." There was a bit of silence, and then laughter, and then my cousin the quarterback started to repeat it, but the center to my left thought he was saying 'hike' and snapped the ball. I burst through the line and sprinted for the corner. The journey there mimicked the earlier one in my stepfather's truck. I didn't have the ball, so I don't know what I was doing, but I felt surprised that nobody caught me, since I've never been fast. In any case, we tied the game with six points, and we'd have to make the extra point to win.

7) There was a celebration of the game at my old babysitter's house, which was across from my grandparent's house. K. was there again, along with a bunch of other kids. I was younger too, I think, and we all had towels. We went into the back yard, which was a swampy marsh area, and swam. It was getting late in the day, and more overcast than before. The scene had a strange feeling of post-disaster, but the kids still played happily. I went to retrieve my towel by the sidewalk after swimming, but the neighbor there (not my babysitter) told me it was my brother's towel.

8) I went across the street to my grandparent's. The day became sunny. I felt their presence by the back yard parking lot, and think I may have seen them. I left soon and walked down the road that leads to a cemetery. This was very brief, and I never reached the cemetery, and the concept of it didn't even enter my mind, I think.

9) The dream moved to a classroom. I was standing at the front, speaking with someone anonymous. Other people my age were hunched over desks. I was shorter, thinner, and had a buzz-cut. My bearing was vaguely military, or, more accurately, a poor imitation of the military tough-guy attitude, and my arms were crossed. I was telling the person the story of the game, and a lot of other things about myself. Finally, I came to the tale of a physic's test. I began to retell, but realized I'd reached the present and the test was awaiting me. The person smiled and gestured to the seat, and I took a breath and went over to begin.

10) Back at the football field, my cousin was getting ready to kick the extra point to win the game. Only my dad was around with some people I didn't know. They were fans of our rivals, and he was teasing them because he lived in their town. He made little comments that they semi-tolerated. I asked my cousin if he wanted a tee to kick from (a block, actually, black and with little divots), and he said yes. We re-hashed the game winning play, where he said my line, got the ball, and ran for a touchdown. A faceless center snapped the ball, I held it, and felt tremendous anxiety. He kicked the ball through the uprights, in my head was pure elation.

11) I returned to my babysitter's, where K. and I and the other kids were still swimming in what appeared to be questionable conditions. The old gray sky had returned. Again, I left the group and walked by a scattering of mittens everybody had thrown off before swimming. On the other side of the street, a child who was three years old at most was by himself, but didn't seem scared, just happy.

12) Back at the classroom, I was sitting next to a girl who was very kind, telling her this story with the same self-important (but not malicious) military bearing. Apparently, someone had driven by and seen the same child, and had a wrist bracelet with a number to call in case of this type of emergency. They called, and I hated this person, because they were an informant type from outside the community and didn't realize the child was tethered by an invisible string that kept it safe. A government agent came to visit the family, but he was laid back and not regimented like everyone expected, and he just gave them a warning about the child and the unsanitary swamp conditions. This was a big relief, because for whatever reason, the stakes were high in the case of conviction.

At that point, my Physics test was handed to me. It was in a booklet, and the Physis section was soggy and wet with nothing written on it. I became very worried, and told the girl I didn't do so well. "That's okay," she said. "You'll go to Newport and it won't even matter." I understood that I'd told this girl I was going to a school called Newport. I became a little hopeful, and when I flipped the pages of the book, I saw an essay. It said my name was John, and it mentioned Newport University. Soon, though, the sentences turned nonsensical and disoriented. The writing devolved into chicken scratch. It became clear that Newport was a delusion, and the last sentence of the essay contained the phrase "I have to tame the beast."


That's when I woke up. It was 3am. I looked out my window and half expected to see the devil's staring in at me. Then I checked my own thought processes to make sure I hadn't gone schizophrenic. Everything seemed to be in order, but it took me a moment to regain myself. I turned on the lamp and wrote it all down.

It's difficult, because it's impossible to capture the feeling of the dream with insufficient words, and it doesn't help that I'm interrupted at every turn. But I've never had a dream like it before, and maybe I never will. It included so many people who are important to me, the only notable exceptions being my mother and my friend Brandon. The second return to old scenes, too, is new to me. It almost followed the path of an improv show, which may mean that the system is entering my head. On paper it seems like a random jumble, but at the time it felt like an epic.

I haven't tried too hard to analyze it yet. The end, I think, signifies that my character throughout was imagining his role in things, turning real situations into fantasy, and was probably insane. This would explain the tepid reaction by everyone but K. The parallel of the original truck ride, along with the run in the football game, seems like an overlap, a person who may have imagined themselves in a real game, sprinted toward the endzone from a different field, and possibly interrupted the real game. What's really strange is that my run stopped right before it reached the real field, at the exact spot where the truck entered. So if it was an overlap, my delusion changed toward the end.

The recurring presence of K. might be an indication of my worry for his future, and his difficulty with the Alissa girlfriend character might be the prelude. It was also interesting that he was the only person to really treat me in a kind manner, other than the girl in the classroom.

Ah, this is useless and silly. In the end, I'm grateful for the dream, despite the sad ending. I think the feel of the story, the arc of the highs and lows and the general atmosphere, is more important than what it may have meant. The basic lesson I take is that even in my/John's demented state, the sadness and elation were still beautiful, maybe more so for the imagination.

Monday, April 9, 2007

She met another blind kid at a fancy dress...

Cooking. For 20-somethings in New York, it is all the rage. Men don aprons in the same thoughtless manner that a child might wear a baseball cap. Fanciful dishes with exotic ingredients grace the tables of precocious couples, who eat gingerly while sipping an appropriate wine. They share secret smiles across a scratched wooden table, bound romantically, they imagine, by intricate culinary concoctions. Regional magazines adorn their covers with comprehensive, arbitrary lists of acceptable eateries. Recipe books are no longer perused solely by spiritless stay-at-homes in an effort to forestall alcoholism. Even unaffiliated publications, with reputations to protect, cede precious pages to sonorous descriptions of aroma and taste- designed, one thinks, to stimulate arousal. Yea, the very fabric of existence is infiltrated with foreign spices and additives, and the simplicity we have known falters, obscured by the steam from overactive kitchens.

I am not a fellow much seduced by food. Though I consume my share, I am contented, even pleased, by three slices of deli turkey on white bread, slathered with excessive yellow mustard. Or pasta, cooked for eight minutes in a boiling pot, topped by store-bought marinara with an Italian name, yet manufactured in Delaware. Even omelets, more in the shape of a tortilla, filled with packaged swiss cheese and buffalo sausage. Oh, and let us not forget plain cereal, bobbing in a sea of two percent milk. These are the mainstays of my diet.

Friday evening, I dined with a friend at a restaurant called "Planet Thai." Here, I ordered a spicy tuna sushi roll. I successfully mixed a potion of soy sauce and wasabi in the tiny stoneware platter provided, and found the combined flavor pleasing. As an appetizer, it quite sufficed, and I felt content at my foray into prandial extravagance.

For the entree, I risked attempting the infamous 'Pad Thai' dish, perpetually vaunted by peers who fancy themselves gastronomes. Following the raging success of the Spicy Tuna rolls, I had high hopes indeed, and was crushed to discover that the putrid meal was an ill-fated combination of sauteed onions topped by a runny mixture of peanut butter and toilet water. I stormed out in a huff, leaving my friend to pay the bill. I doubt very much if I shall ever frequent that establishment again, and the insipid company of my gaping mate will not be in anything like high demand.

Today, having neglected to visit the grocers on Sunday, I fell back to the old standby of sweet and sour pork from a Vietnamese establishment on Third Avenue. It is one of the few Celestial plates to be trusted; the residuum is a boggy pastiche of stringy flora gathered by children in oriental swamps and tangled into quart-sized blocks by undiscriminating farm-hands whose own sense of taste has been annihilated by a lifetime's exposure to Agent Orange.

I found it adequate.

Tuesday, April 3, 2007

On a Beech tree rudely carved

An abeyance, for now, in the TOURNAMENT OF MADNESS, while I attend to other matters in advance of a four-day vacation, whose duration will be passed without proximity to our little work-a-day blogosphere.

Due to recent travels along the eastern length of New York, weekend sleep has been scarce, and I've fallen into a regressive pattern of afternoon naps and morning misery. This is to be expected, of course, when all energy is concentrated on the short evening hours where a young man's activity is expected to peak. Nevertheless, the forthcoming hiatus will come as a welcome reprieve, and may afford a chance to regain a proper circadian rhythm. I must admit, however, that the preponderance of investments in future slumber have yielded precious little in the way of return.

There is something terribly obscene about the typo "teh." It is worse by far than any other misspelling, grammatical error, or miskeyed term in our native tongue. Exactly why this is so, I can't quite explain, though I theorize that it hinges on our perception of "the" as a bulwark of language, without which our manifold nouns would crumble into pidgin nonsense. Too, there is the error's guttural pronunciation, calling to mind our thoughtless neanderthal predecessors, whose resurgent influence is keenly observed in the youthful zeitgeist. The congregating hordes of English debasers- enemies from within- would be wise to make use of the corruption as their principal arme de choix.

Now, a rhyming alternative history poem about the airborne dog fight between Baron Von Richthofen and Eddie Rickenbacker, which may have occurred had the former not perished a mere eight days before the latter's first foray.


FLYING CIRCUS, RE-VISITED

Fearless Eddie Rickenbacker
left his helmet in the locker
and said unto the gens d'armes,
"Today my soul is free from harm."
He swaggered to the waiting plane-
a Nieuport 28 from Spain-
and once the rear guns were aligned
(and confidential papers signed),
he made the tiny engine sing
and woe! the Hat (was) in-the-Ring.

Sipping on his grail of tea,
the Baron smiled, sick with glee.
He thought of evil things he'd do
aboard the Albatross D-2.
A finger traced the Kaiser's crest;
the wicked German beat his breast.
Soon with gestures quick and mean,
he drank a human blood canteen
and in a flash- his craft aloft-
the deathly red beret was doffed!

The pilots met above the lake
called Jungfernsee ("the steady drake")
and circled twice around before
they made the mounted guns to roar.
But Rickenbacker saw his chance:
he flew up close, he drew his lance
and leapt into the German plane-
a tactic some had called "insane."
But with a shout of "U-S-A!"
he slew the baron; Oh, hooray!

Monday, April 2, 2007

ToM: West Region, first round results

Good news. Last night, nearly asleep, I thought of a word which contains at least one letter from each of the 10 vertical columns of the keyboard. It does so in 13 letters total, and is approximately an adverb. As such, it is not perfect, but constitutes a significant leap forward for typographic linguistics. There are roughly 250,000 words in a thorough English dictionary, and if anybody knows of a 10 letter entry, neither plural nor adverbial, which uses one and only one representative from each column, please inform me at your earliest convenience. I apologize if I've neglected proper punctuation (by the omission of a single comma?) at any point in this paragraph.


THE WEST REGION, FIRST ROUND RESULTS

(1) Google
def.
(8) All-Male A Cappela Groups

In the fastest victory in TOURNAMENT OF MADNESS history, Google swiftly dispatched the well-meaning, heartwarming, but ultimately ineffectual undergrad crooners. While the musical octet (calling themselves "Eight Guys, No Girl, and at Leasta' Bass!") tuned to a pitch pipe, Google set up a high-definition projector and screen. Soon, the YouTube video of All 4 One's 1994 R&B hit "I Swear" began to play. Completely rapt, the a capella singers drifted toward the screen, forgoing any plans to actually perform. The individual members were heard to mutter such awe-struck platitudes as "this is fucking art," and began to mimic the group's dramatic body language, placing clenched fists on their hearts and leaning forward slightly, eyes closed, to mouth the lyrics.

In the ensuing two minutes, gesticulations and lip-synching brought all eight to a position mere inches from the projector screen, at which point they wrapped the canvas in a circle, creating a tight cylinder with themselves at the center. Strange moans and caterwauls were heard inside, climaxing at the second chorus. At least one audience member vomited, and the general mood of those in attendance could be euphemistically described as "uncomfortable." It was a stark relief when a bespectacled Google representative set the screen on fire, consuming the lives of all eight and effectively ending the match.


(5) Outer Space, as Conceived by Ignorant, Poor, Elizabethan-era Cockneys
def.
(4) Flowery Language

"Hyacinth and amethyst adorned the landscape of her heart, betrothed to fragrant oakmoss and blazing scarlet upon the amorous lovestrokes of an incandescent horizon," began Flowery Language, reaching forward as if to grasp something beautifully intangible. Before it could continue in this vein, it was approached and violently torn apart by a bulbous, oil-slicked space creature with throbbing veins, one gigantic eye, jagged spikes, small, awkward flippers, seven mouths, and a twelve-foot erect penis.


(3) Bread
def.
(6) Newt Gingrich

Opening with impressive fervor, Gingrich assailed Bread with populist rhetoric, attempting to associate the well-established food with wealthy, out-of-touch, ivory tower liberal professors. Fifty percent of spectators vehemently agreed, mimicking his anger, while the other half seemed befuddled and frightened. Yet when pressed for specifics, Gingrich and his supporters only responded with more bile. To the bewilderment of the Bread faithful, the momentum continued unabated after Bread's logical speech on its origins and importance to human cuisine, backed by impeccable research and exhaustive fact-checking. Gingrich seemed on the verge of a narrow victory when, in a seemingly fatal error, he proved unable to resist the allure of the exact thing he preached against.

In a feeding frenzy, he ate bread for four straight hours, eventually rendering himself incapable of standing. Despite what some called "inexcusable greed and hypocrisy," almost none of his supporters rescinded, instead concocting elaborate excuses which, when parsed, proved fallacious at best. Gingrich, lying prostrate on the arena floor, bread crumbs bedecking his over-extended suit, gurgling like an infant, still appeared on the brink of winning. Unfortunately, he chose that exact moment to eat a slab of Dutch Rye. Even Gingrich's enormous throat was too narrow for this last piece, and he began to choke, spewing bread pieces onto four of his five chins. Despite the vocal support of his constituents, everyone was "too disgusted" to help, and the former Speaker was medically disqualified. When reached for comment, liberal professors in ivory towers said they were happy about Gingrich's defeat, but "were sort of hoping he would advance and eventually be torn apart by a space monster with a twelve-foot erect penis."


(2) Unreliable Husbands of the Old West
def.
(7) Awkward Silence


After decades of responding to the furious silence of wives and other loved ones with resentful hollerin', violence, and continued drinking, Unreliable Husbands of the Old West were completely unfazed by Awkward Silence. In fact, judging by post-match interviews, it's not clear whether the victors were ever aware of their opponent, or even that they were competing in a tournament. The unceasing clamor, resulting in much internecine conflict, including four deaths by gunfire and one by a broken chair over the head, left little room for the challenger to exercise its subtle machinations. "We're more effective around insecure teens, middle-aged office drones with little-to-no personality, and disparate groups of shy people," said an Awkward Silence Spokesman. "Hats off to Unreliable Husbands...they really outgunned us today." The spokesman then shifted uncomfortably as reporters were left to wonder if the pun was intentional.


Second Round, WEST REGION:

(1) Google
vs.
(5) Outer Space, as Conceived by Ignorant, Poor, Elizabethan-era Cockneys

(2) Unreliable Husbands of the Old West
vs.
(3) Bread