6/13/2003

IT LIVES.

Please update your links accordingly, all three of you.

6/12/2003

Moral dillema.

The new site is up and running thanks to Dean Esmay, but don't look at it yet, ain't shit to see. I can't decide whether I should go all-out with a new template, or stick with the old standard. Since it's on MovableType, though, and I don't know anything but the basest of HTML, I don't really know how to do either. Should be interesting.

6/10/2003

Pretty much everyone’s parents are divorced, it seems like, and like most problems it’s only going to get worse. I imagine my son coming home from his first day of school twenty years from now telling me about how they all had to share an interesting fact about themselves and one kid stood up and said his original parents were still married, and everybody was a shocked sort of quiet, and nobody talked to him for the rest of that all-important day, and I imagine telling his mother about this later that night on a long-distance call to Bermuda, where she’s having her honeymoon with her new husband Ricardo.

Since it’s the future, I will be able to smell how it smells on their honeymoon in Bermuda. Every movie portrays the future as full of holographic video-phones, but the movies’ vision of the future has never, ever come to pass. Which is why there will be smell-o-phones, not holo-phones. The home office where I ply my futuristic trade will suddenly fill with the scent of tanning oil and sea salt while I tell her the story of the outcast in our son’s class.

Halfway through the conversation my son will be on his way to get a glass of water and hear his mother’s voice through my office door, so he’ll knock softly on the door and of course I’ll let him in. She’ll say how much she misses him and he’ll say much the same thing, and she’ll ask how school went today and he’ll say good but he can’t wait for summer, because according to the terms of our divorce she’ll spend summers with him and right now it is very much winter where I live when I’m thirty-five.

Phones will have changed greatly, but guys named Ricardo won’t, he will be taller than me and more rippling with muscularity and vaguely Latino, and I’ll hear him enter the room in Bermuda as soon as my son leaves the room in America. I’ll have met him first at our Christmas party a couple years before this conversation, him being my wife’s personal trainer at the time. At the party, shaking his hand, I won’t have expected our statuses relative to the mother of my child to someday change this much. But maybe I should, it’s the future, and you will have been married to just about everyone by the time you hit the grave.

She will get up to help Ricardo with suitcases, and her head will bob towards the table with the phone receiver as she rises and sensitive futuristic instrument that it is, just for one second in my office a thousand miles away I will smell her hair.

We will exchange pleasant goodbyes, and I will hang up the phone, stand up, and go and clean the house, top to bottom, even at 11:45 at night, which is what forty-year old me does when he can feel his heart rebreaking.

6/09/2003

It was four AM, and if that Dashboard Confessional guy would've been there, I would've shot him through his goddamn heart. Through his guitar, into his ribcage with the more shotgun pellets the better. But he wasn't there, his music was playing loudly from an upstairs bedroom while I was downstairs on a leather couch trying fitfully to Sleep It Off. At first I'd had a blanket and a pillow, but Alyx and her boyfriend Andrew were curled up on the floor on the other side of the coffee table, and I was feeling benevolent, and warm. So I gave them the blanket first, then minutes later realized that I had the natural pillow of the couch, all they had was new carpet and each other's arms, so I gave them the pillow too, great humanitarian that I am. I tucked my bare feet in the couch cushions and went back to trying to sleep.

Borders are meant to be crossed. Limits exceeded. Records shattered. Toilets clung to. Kierkegaard said having a rule means you automatically have to break it, to prove you're alive. A clever t-shirt at my store today said "My drinking team has a wakeboarding problem." Another shirt said "Old No. 7." I just about wretched.


Matt Welch on blogging:

I was going to make some joke complaining about having to be on the record 24/7, but the truth is I’m glad there is historical evidence -- and lovely, at that -- of joyful days that my leaky brain is almost guaranteed to forget later.

Indeed. I just realized that, going back through my old blog entries, how many little things I would've completely lost if I hadn't written them down. Welch details a funny experience in Prague years ago he almost forgot, I'm talking about things that happened last week.


I'm going to the library tommorrow. What should I get? Please suggest below.


dcpierson.com will be up and running in a matter of days. My little blog-boy's all growns up. You're growns up and you're growns up and you're growns up.

6/07/2003

There, among all the other colorful produce, is the Angry Grapefruit.

There are other grapefruits, sure, but none of them have quite the same level of personality.

As you walk by, all the other grapefruits remain yellow, round, and respectfully quiet, but the Angry Grapefruit will tell you just what it thinks.

"Hey fatty," it might say, or, "Hey, ugly," or "How 'bout you go die, you fat ugly...uh..."

Occasionally the Angry Grapefruit will lose its train of thought in the middle of a long tirade of insults and swear words.

"Aw crap," it will say, "I can't think today. I need a smoke." It is not only the Angry Grapefruit, it is also the Smoking Grapefruit, on the occasion where it can convince people to buy it cigarettes.

"Come on," the Angry Grapefruit will say, "Just a pack of Camels. That's like $3.69 with tax." Then, as you walk by, inisting to yourself that you have never bought tobacco products for a fruit and you certainly aren't about to start now, the Angry Grapefruit will scream "Where you headed? You can't spare that? Too big a chunk out of the Food Budget, fatty?"

But you'll buy it anyway, even if you don't like grapefruit. Because let's face it, the Angry Grapefruit has personality.

6/06/2003

Forgive me if this comes out muddled, I can barely see the screen. Was just watching the replay of the MTV Movie Awards, and I think there were two Russian girls screeching an obscenely bad popsong, and I'm fairly certain there were thousands of shameless wannabe actress/dancers dressed as schoolgirls making out, but I honestly couldn't tell you because there was TOO MUCH FUCKING STROBE LIGHT. I was on the ground, thumping and twiching, and I'm not even epileptic. It was bad. It's as if they realized the American public could no longer be shocked, and decided to blind us all instead.

It's true, the American public CAN no longer be shocked. But MTV hasn't gotten the memo yet, which is why this year's Video Music Awards will be broadcast live from one of Christina Aguilera's ovaries. Which one? Call our 800 number now and vote!


Alright, Blogosphere, now we're going to play a little game. It's called "I blather on and on about how you should link my friend Guillermo's blog, and then you link Guillermo's blog. Deal? Deal.

Guillermo lives in what I'll describe here for the sake of you going and looking as a haze of booze and women, although he's trying to cut down on the booze, and fend of the women with whips and chairs. He's like Hemingway with skin pigmentation. Tony Pierce with capitalization. This majestic post features Charles Dickens, drunken old ladies, rancher's daughters, and nostalgia. This one, intoxicated escapades and faded love behind the scenes on a Disney cruise. A good portion of his archives aren't working (thanks, Blogspot) but what is working is worth a read. And if you like what you see, you should link him. I know links are like your special flower: you should only give them away to someone you love, or promises you acting work. But I think you could learn to love Guillermo. Don't you?

While I'm on the begging-for-other-bloggers tip, is Grandma's medication-she-needs-to-live money burning a hole in her pocket? Why not steal it while she's sleeping and give it to Treacher? Like Grandma, he's bone-thin, but his condition is caused by poverty and starvation, as opposed to extremely advanced, logic-defying, downright repulsive old age.

Come on, people. We're all in this Internet together.

6/04/2003

Blargh.

Tengo que hacer un otro "draft" de mi obra de teatro. Que lastima.

Sorry, we were speaking bad Spanish at dinner (not like this house is bilingual, it was just fajita night) and it sort of stuck with me. If you didn't take four years of high school Spanish to reach the pinnacle of linguistic comprehension that I have, I said I have to do another draft of the play, what a shame. And it is a shame, not that I have to do another one, but that I will probably once again put it off until the deadline, and it will both suffer and be bolstered as a result.

Basically, I've gotten into the habit of doing the real meat of my playwrighting in long, caffeine-powered late night binges, more often than not the day before deadline. It's good, because it forces me to do it, and if I didn't have that gun to my head I'd fart around endlessly and produce less-than-stellar work. It doesn't matter if I don't have it all figured out yet, I have to figure it out, hopefully before sunrise. And I do. Problem is, the frantic pace sometimes makes me sloppy, and while the resulting stuff is at least COMPLETED, it's sometimes a little rough around the edges. So it's two sides of a pretentious writerly coin. It's like if you discovered heroin enhanced your creativity. The good news: for whatever reason, it seems to help. The bad: It's HEROIN, dipass.

You can see my concern.


If Pixar were a woman, I would marry it.

If Pixar were a man, it could probably talk me into things I wouldn't normally be down for.

If the Bible were about Pixar, I would follow it religiously. (HA!)

Because you see, the thing about Pixar, that differentiates it from the opposite sex, or all-powerful deities, or life in general, even, is it never disappoints. Five movies they've made, by my count, and every one of them has ranged in quality from great (A Bug's Life) to obscenely wonderful (Monsters, Inc.) And while not every one of them has been my favorite movie in history, you'd be hard-pressed to find more perfect films, both in the technical and the classical sense. They take us places we've never been, they make us care about the characters, they make us "ooh" and "ahh," they make us laugh, and if you're a girly-man like me, they occasionally make you cry.

They could easily fall back on the milquetoast Disney formula, and trust the stunning visuals to keep the audience subdued (Wachowski Brothers, I'm looking at you.) Disney tried that, in fact. The result was called Dinosaur and it was a piss-poor excuse for a movie. Why? Because it has soul. Pixar's like James Brown: It's nutty, it's eccentric, but dammit, it's got soul. (Pixar has not to my knowledge ever gotten fucked up on PCP and threatened people with a shotgun for using its bathroom, but I'd probably forgive it if it had.)

If I were a modern Hollywood actor, I would loathe Pixar. I'd drive by their offices at night with a Mercedes full of molotov cocktails, because they were threatening my career. They manage to create, with a bundle of pixels and elbow grease, a multitude of believable emotions greater than the combined abilities of all the Freddy Prinze Juniors, Paul Walkers, and recently, Ben Afflecks, all of whom can barely muster one (naked desire for a paycheck.)

Finding Nemo raked in 70.2 million dollars this past weekend, and earned every last damn one of them. Compare that to Disney's last animated effort, Treasure Planet, which opened with 12 million bucks and dropped, fast. People trust Pixar to deliver good family films, ones they won't have to praise by saying "At least I didn't want to claw my eyes out!". People trust Pixar to tell a good story, and Pixar delivers. The same can probably no longer be said about Disney, who, Lilo and Stitch being the exception, stopped being about good stories a long time ago.

So, long story short, see Finding Nemo and remember it is that makes movies wonderful, and what miracles can occur when smart people do work they enjoy.

Also...this just can't come out soon enough.

UPDATED: Spanish at the beginning fixed. "Tengo que." Yea, I knew that.