So, for those not in the loop, at Comic-Con 2011 a panel called "Oh, You Sexy Geek" was held. It featured 8 geeky/nerdy girls (Katrina Hill, Bonnie Burton, Adrianne Curry, Clare Grant, Kiala Kazebee, Clare Kramer, Jill Pantozzi and Jennifer K. Stuller) talking about cosplay, female body issues, women in fandom and other topics you don't generally hear discussed from the female point of view. It was fun and serious, often at the same time and featured a guest appearance from Seth Green, delivering an impassioned speech about geekdom. It may have been dominated by a few strong willed members of the panel and not everything followed a coherent path, but I thought it was a great start to what I hope becomes a great dialogue, not just at Comic-Con but online and at other cons.
Many tomes have been written about the specific content, so I won't duplicate that here. Instead, let me discuss the sudden appearance of someone's drunken dad onto the dais. About 40 minutes into the panel, a guy who looked like that dad who's trying to stay hip by spiking and coloring his hair arrived, grabbed a mic and said "I’m here to represent all the guys in this room who want to stick their penis in every woman up here on this panel." Followed by stunned silence and a few smatterings of laughter.
G4's Chris Gore had arrived. I had never heard of the man before that day. I had never even seen G4, but, judging by Chris, it is, apparently, a channel devoted to the ramblings of man-children. I certainly won't judge a whole network by the drunken hallucinations of one host, but it did leave a bad taste in my mouth for G4.
Naturally, opinions of the "joke heard 'round the Con" ranged across the spectrum. Some found it funny, some offensive and some degrading and misogynistic. Me, I thought it was in poor taste and spoke volumes about the man saying it. I was embarrassed that Chris Gore was the man chosen to represent my gender and he acted exactly like the stereotype. (Thank you Seth Green for showing how a "real man" behaves.)
In another context, it might have worked, say in an Andrew Dice Clay type standup show, but not at a panel dedicated to treating women like women and not a piece of meat in a Catwoman costume. However, if the bad attempt at humor were the only thing Chris had done, I wouldn't be writing about it. But, someone pointed me towards Chris Gore's twitter page, where he has been making incoherent and illogical attempts to defend himself. Oddly enough, he has been channeling Sarah Palin. Playing the victim card, blaming others, failing to admit he may have done anything wrong and defining himself as a "real man." So, since it's a Wed night after work and I haven't posted on my blog in a looooong time, I thought I'd spend a few minutes dissecting the twitter ramblings of Chris Gore. Make of it what you will.
Here goes. (His tweets are italicized)
"I find it sad that acting like a real man is perceived as sexist today. It's the pussification/castration of the American male."
Sarah Palin often talks about how "real Americans," which include herself and those with her view of the world, are under attack from some self-imagined threat. In a similar manner, Chris Gore somehow believes that he is "real man" and he is under attack by some self-imagined threat. What is that threat? Tact, maybe? Self-discipline? Not letting every thought pop out of your mouth?
Here's the thing, men do make jokes about screwing women. A lot. However, we generally do it only when other men are around or when with women we know are comfortable with that kind of thing. I'm not saying it's an admirable trait, but it happens. However, most "real men" know that women are also human beings with feelings and emotions who deserve the same level of respect we want and that they can be pretty darn good friends and/or lovers. We don't treat them as pieces of meat who are there solely for our pleasure. So we try not to go up to random groups of strangers and tell them we'd like to f*** them. Even if it is just a joke.
What kind of guy, would go up to women they don't know and ask them to f***, you may ask? The sad, lonely guy in the leisure suit at a dive bar hitting on women with daddy issues. Chris Gore can't seriously be comparing himself to that guy can he? One can almost hear him at home mumbling "must be a lesbian!"
The 2nd sentence about castration is just typical victim-mentality BS. Like with Sarah Palin, the problem is not with what I said, it's your reaction to it. I can't be wrong, so the problem is you.
"It was meant to be funny. A joke. But frankly, who gives a shit?"
This is a tweet I can respect. He acknowledges that there is some controversy, but doesn't really care. In essence, he is standing up for what he said and standing behind it. Too bad it's undermined by his tweeting about how much of a victim he is.
"I find it amusing that I made that much of an impression. All that tells me is that they're into me. And lacking a sense of humor."
Yes, you made an impression. Much like the panelist who lets out a loud, smelly and languishing fart. People will be talking about that for sure.
Note the ego-stroking way he reassures himself that they must be into him, because, obviously, people only comment on things they deeply love. You never hear people talking about earthquakes, famine, disease and zits right on the end of your nose.
And he ends by deflecting the failure of his joke onto the audience. If you've ever heard a talented comedian talk about jokes that don't work, you rarely hear them talk about how the audience didn't have a sense of humor. They have enough confidence in themselves to admit that the audience lets you know what works and what doesn't work. Only hacks will blame the failure of their "brilliant joke" on the audience.
"The room burst out laughing. It was meant to be funny and those in the room "got it." Don't comment if you weren't there."
I was there, so I guess I'm allowed to comment. "Burst out" implies the whole room, which was not the case. It was more a smattering of laughter, some of it the shocked kind that you get when something inappropriate happens and you know you shouldn't laugh, but you do. Most of the room just kind of sat there in stunned silence. What most people "got" was that an asshat had spoken. And remember, Chris Gore, you weren't sitting in the audience, so don't comment.
"After my comments on the Oh You Sexy Geek panel at #sdcc, 25 people said I was funny & helped lighten the oh-so-serious mood."
Yes, I'm sure some people did agree with you. Just perusing online, I've found 25 people that thought you were not funny. Who wins?
"Aren't feminists known for their sense of humor? I never expect 100% of an audience to like what I say. That would be stupid."
Sarah Palin move here. Those that don't agree with you are slapped with a label like liberal, communist or feminist. After all, if we had to acknowledge that those who disagree with you are individuals with a wide range of beliefs, it wouldn't be so easy to dismiss them.
Regarding the second statement, again, this is a comment I can respect. But, then, if you don't expect the audience to 100% like you, then why get upset at those who don't like you? If you want to be able to say whatever you like, then stop giving a crap when people don't agree with you. Stand behind what you say and screw those who don't like it.
Unless of course, you enjoy playing the victim.
"On a serious note, I find it hypocritical a few misinformed & sexually repressed folks feel they can judge our panel"
This is you being serious? Did you take a "sexually repressed" poll or something? Change "sexually repressed" to "socialists" and "panel" to "party" and you've got a Sarah Palin speech.
"Do they not understand satirical humor when they hear it? And Bonnie baby, you were funny!"
Again with the "blame the audience" routine. Every hack comedian, bad actor or horrible writer blames the audience when their work is not accepted and praised for the genius it is. "I'm a genius!! Damn them for not seeing that." It's a lame defense.
"Forgive me for having a sense of humor. Free expression of ideas is something I love about Comic Con."
"Congress may not make laws abridging free speech, but small-minded Americans do it at Comic Con panels apparently. #intolerance"
This is where he really goes off the deep end. He has about as good a grasp of the First Amendment as Sarah Palin does.
Let's recap. People who disagree with you are not abridging YOUR free speech. They are expressing THEIR freedom of speech. That's how it works. Get a helmet and stop crying.
Isn't this stuff journalism 101?
"I can't believe people are still discussing that panel. So much wasted time/energy. Write a book, make a doc or move on."
Read as "Please stop yelling at me."
------------------------
So, to sum up, Chris Gore doesn't care what you think, unless you didn't like it, in which case you're a sexless, humorless feminist. But he still doesn't care what you think, except for those 25 people who did like it. Bonnie, baby, you're funny. Chris Gore enjoys having the right to say whatever he likes at Comic-Con, but doesn't believe that anyone else should have that right, especially when it comes to criticizing Chris Gore. If you dare to freely express your ideas about Chris Gore, then you are obviously destroying America. Vote Tea Party.*
On the very minor (infinitesimal, really) chance that Chris Gore comes across this, I'd like to remind him of what a man who thinks he's famous once said. "Forgive me for having a sense of humor. Free expression of ideas is something I love."
*Voting Tea Party is not endorsed by the writer of this blog.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Saturday, April 10, 2010
The Highs and the Lows of the Theatrical Life
Imagine that it's 1998. It's easy if you try.
I was doing a play called "Is There Life After High School?" It's a series of monologues, songs and group remembrances told by people in their 20-30's looking back on their high school days. The highs, the lows and everything in between. It's one of my favorite productions and one of the few shows that I can watch myself in and not flinch. Plus it's the show I met my fair maiden (now my dear friend) in so it was a life-changer.
That's me in the back row sporting the mustache, which was actually left over from my last production. My fair maiden (now my dear friend) is also in the picture, but I'm not telling you which one she is. It was a great cast lead by a great director who gave everyone their moment to shine. We all had monologues and featured moments and solos.
If I can brag a bit, I had a killer monologue. How do I know it was a killer? Because this was in the days before I had started studying acting and looking back at the videotape, I can see everything I did wrong and how I could have made it so much better. Yet, every night, I got laughter and applause. Even during the final matinee performance for a bunch of blue hairs who didn't laugh at anything. I walked off stage, honestly surprised they were clapping and went into the men's dressing room to find all the guys doing their best Wayne's World "we're not worthy!"
One night, near the end of the run, something happened that became the stuff of legend. It was a moment that could not have been planned if you tried and a moment that I still don't know how I got myself out of. To set the stage, pun intended, we had a fill-in stage manager that night and the scene before my monologue was about prom night, complete with a disco ball and sparkly lights. A bunch of people reminisce about how special prom was and then Jill bursts on stage with "At my school, the prom was cancelled because of a bomb scare. I recommended this become an annual tradition." Everyone scatters, the disco ball disappears into the ceiling and I come out carrying a desk chair and launch into my monologue.
It was all about a dream that I had, where I had to go back to high school to finish up some classes. The teacher hands out those blue booklets for a test, but I discover that there are obscene pictures all over it. I begin to slowly panic as I try to figure out what to do and I build to a pitch as I try to erase them but more keep appearing.
At that exact moment, right before I shift into the next gear to bring the monologue home, I hear a thud behind me. I remember time slowing down as I turned around in my chair and I see the disco ball lying on the floor behind me and a puzzled drummer staring at it (the band was on stage the whole time.) I turned back around to face the audience, time still in slow-motion and all-the-while I'm thinking "what am I gonna do?," "what am I gonna do?"
As soon as I face front, from out of nowhere I say "and things started falling all over the place" and launch back into the monologue right where I left off. Where that line came from, I have no idea. It was pure improv from the depths of my subconscious mind. And if that ball had fallen at any other point in the monologue, it would not have fit the way it did. If you have to have the set fall apart around you, it's nice when its timing is impeccable.
As soon as I get off stage, the cast was buzzing. Some were impressed with how well I handled it, although none more impressed than myself. The nicest compliment I got was from Mary Kate who said that if that had happened to her, she would have cried and ran off stage.
We come to find out that the stage manager had been trying to tie up the disco ball and she gave it one tug too many, causing it to come off it's hook and plummet to the ground. She was naturally embarrassed and apologetic, but considering how well it turned out, I didn't have the heart to be mad at her. (Later at the cast party, she gave me a miniature disco ball, which I still have hanging in my apartment.)
Talking with audience members afterwards, many thought it was part of the show. The few who realized something had gone wrong were tipped off by the way the drummer seemed dumbfounded by the whole event. So chalk a big victory up for me.
So, I told you that story to tell you this one.
Cut to 2007, when I'm doing a play called "Music From a Sparkling Planet." This one is about three guys who spend their days trying to avoid growing up by dishing trivia about sci-fi, TV and old movies. (Side note, the play takes place in the Tri-State area, so a lot of their references were familiar to this Jersey-bred-boy.) One day they begin to reminisce about Tamara Tomorrow, a local TV host and they decide to track her down. The play cuts back and forth between the present day and the past as we watch these guys cope with their lives and see the rise and fall of Tamara Tomorrow.
One thing that makes this play unique, is that the past and present will occasionally overlap. Lights will come up on two different set pieces and two scenes will run parallel with dialogue intersecting or overlapping. If you ever get a chance to perform in a play that uses this device, do what I should have done.
Run. Run fast and run far. Run until your tiny little legs can't take another step, then hail a taxi and keep going.
Getting that type of scene down will be the hardest thing you will ever do. While memorizing dialogue is not always easy, when it's written well, it at least has a flow about it. It's generally a conversation that's headed to a specific point and, if you know the scene well, you can accommodate any detours that come up. It's quite a different story when your flow is interrupted by a line said in another scene that has nothing to do with what you're doing. It becomes very technical and makes you stay in your head instead of staying in the moment.
To top everything off, the final scene has all five actors in five spots on stage, essentially giving a monologue about what they've learned. Except they give their monologues one line at a time. And it's not like there's a flow where you always say your line after actor 4. No, it could come one time after actor three, the next after actor one and maybe there's five lines before you speak and the next time there's only two. Frustrating does not even begin to describe the hell we went through getting this play down.
Despite all this, the five of us managed to pull it off almost every night. I say almost, because this story would not be worth telling if there weren't an almost.
One fateful night, we get to the closing scene. We're probably about a page into it, when one of the actors JUMPED TWO PAGES AHEAD. We all stood there like a collective deer in the headlights and you could hear us all thinking "oh, fuck." To our credit, we tried like hell to rescue it. We all started spouting out lines, miraculously not stepping on each other as we tried to bring the scene back around. It was like the train had jumped the track, was still going 80 mph and we were trying to get it back on the rails. After what seemed like hours, but was only minutes, we managed to get to the same point in the script and we could finish the play with our last shred of dignity.
Like most actors, I'd seen train wrecks happen on stage before. I've probably caused some and I know I've gotten us out of some. I'd had some good things happen and some bad things happen. It's just the nature of live theater and part of what makes it thrilling.
But until that moment, I had never wanted to cry and run off stage.
I was doing a play called "Is There Life After High School?" It's a series of monologues, songs and group remembrances told by people in their 20-30's looking back on their high school days. The highs, the lows and everything in between. It's one of my favorite productions and one of the few shows that I can watch myself in and not flinch. Plus it's the show I met my fair maiden (now my dear friend) in so it was a life-changer.
That's me in the back row sporting the mustache, which was actually left over from my last production. My fair maiden (now my dear friend) is also in the picture, but I'm not telling you which one she is. It was a great cast lead by a great director who gave everyone their moment to shine. We all had monologues and featured moments and solos.
If I can brag a bit, I had a killer monologue. How do I know it was a killer? Because this was in the days before I had started studying acting and looking back at the videotape, I can see everything I did wrong and how I could have made it so much better. Yet, every night, I got laughter and applause. Even during the final matinee performance for a bunch of blue hairs who didn't laugh at anything. I walked off stage, honestly surprised they were clapping and went into the men's dressing room to find all the guys doing their best Wayne's World "we're not worthy!"
One night, near the end of the run, something happened that became the stuff of legend. It was a moment that could not have been planned if you tried and a moment that I still don't know how I got myself out of. To set the stage, pun intended, we had a fill-in stage manager that night and the scene before my monologue was about prom night, complete with a disco ball and sparkly lights. A bunch of people reminisce about how special prom was and then Jill bursts on stage with "At my school, the prom was cancelled because of a bomb scare. I recommended this become an annual tradition." Everyone scatters, the disco ball disappears into the ceiling and I come out carrying a desk chair and launch into my monologue.
It was all about a dream that I had, where I had to go back to high school to finish up some classes. The teacher hands out those blue booklets for a test, but I discover that there are obscene pictures all over it. I begin to slowly panic as I try to figure out what to do and I build to a pitch as I try to erase them but more keep appearing.
At that exact moment, right before I shift into the next gear to bring the monologue home, I hear a thud behind me. I remember time slowing down as I turned around in my chair and I see the disco ball lying on the floor behind me and a puzzled drummer staring at it (the band was on stage the whole time.) I turned back around to face the audience, time still in slow-motion and all-the-while I'm thinking "what am I gonna do?," "what am I gonna do?"
As soon as I face front, from out of nowhere I say "and things started falling all over the place" and launch back into the monologue right where I left off. Where that line came from, I have no idea. It was pure improv from the depths of my subconscious mind. And if that ball had fallen at any other point in the monologue, it would not have fit the way it did. If you have to have the set fall apart around you, it's nice when its timing is impeccable.
As soon as I get off stage, the cast was buzzing. Some were impressed with how well I handled it, although none more impressed than myself. The nicest compliment I got was from Mary Kate who said that if that had happened to her, she would have cried and ran off stage.
We come to find out that the stage manager had been trying to tie up the disco ball and she gave it one tug too many, causing it to come off it's hook and plummet to the ground. She was naturally embarrassed and apologetic, but considering how well it turned out, I didn't have the heart to be mad at her. (Later at the cast party, she gave me a miniature disco ball, which I still have hanging in my apartment.)
Talking with audience members afterwards, many thought it was part of the show. The few who realized something had gone wrong were tipped off by the way the drummer seemed dumbfounded by the whole event. So chalk a big victory up for me.
So, I told you that story to tell you this one.
Cut to 2007, when I'm doing a play called "Music From a Sparkling Planet." This one is about three guys who spend their days trying to avoid growing up by dishing trivia about sci-fi, TV and old movies. (Side note, the play takes place in the Tri-State area, so a lot of their references were familiar to this Jersey-bred-boy.) One day they begin to reminisce about Tamara Tomorrow, a local TV host and they decide to track her down. The play cuts back and forth between the present day and the past as we watch these guys cope with their lives and see the rise and fall of Tamara Tomorrow.
One thing that makes this play unique, is that the past and present will occasionally overlap. Lights will come up on two different set pieces and two scenes will run parallel with dialogue intersecting or overlapping. If you ever get a chance to perform in a play that uses this device, do what I should have done.
Run. Run fast and run far. Run until your tiny little legs can't take another step, then hail a taxi and keep going.
Getting that type of scene down will be the hardest thing you will ever do. While memorizing dialogue is not always easy, when it's written well, it at least has a flow about it. It's generally a conversation that's headed to a specific point and, if you know the scene well, you can accommodate any detours that come up. It's quite a different story when your flow is interrupted by a line said in another scene that has nothing to do with what you're doing. It becomes very technical and makes you stay in your head instead of staying in the moment.
To top everything off, the final scene has all five actors in five spots on stage, essentially giving a monologue about what they've learned. Except they give their monologues one line at a time. And it's not like there's a flow where you always say your line after actor 4. No, it could come one time after actor three, the next after actor one and maybe there's five lines before you speak and the next time there's only two. Frustrating does not even begin to describe the hell we went through getting this play down.
Despite all this, the five of us managed to pull it off almost every night. I say almost, because this story would not be worth telling if there weren't an almost.
One fateful night, we get to the closing scene. We're probably about a page into it, when one of the actors JUMPED TWO PAGES AHEAD. We all stood there like a collective deer in the headlights and you could hear us all thinking "oh, fuck." To our credit, we tried like hell to rescue it. We all started spouting out lines, miraculously not stepping on each other as we tried to bring the scene back around. It was like the train had jumped the track, was still going 80 mph and we were trying to get it back on the rails. After what seemed like hours, but was only minutes, we managed to get to the same point in the script and we could finish the play with our last shred of dignity.
Like most actors, I'd seen train wrecks happen on stage before. I've probably caused some and I know I've gotten us out of some. I'd had some good things happen and some bad things happen. It's just the nature of live theater and part of what makes it thrilling.
But until that moment, I had never wanted to cry and run off stage.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
In Which It Takes 20 Years
Tonight, in acting class (and don't worry, this is not a story about my "process") I read through a scene with Nicholas Downs, a very talented actor. I'd been wanting to work with him for some time, but we just couldn't find the right scene. Tonight, we found it, a scene from "Coyote On A Fence" by Bruce Graham. We managed to get all the way through it without Janet giving us any notes, which is rare. Nor did we get the infamous "what is this scene about?" In other words, it went pretty well.
After it was done, a classmate asked if this was our first time reading that scene. When I responded in the affirmative, she then asked how we did it. The only response I had was "experience." Like many things in life, there are no shortcuts to being an actor.
Sanford Meisner once said that it takes 20 years to become an actor. As I approach 17 years, I wonder sometimes if it'll take twice that. True, I'm much better at it then I was that August night in 1993 when I stepped onstage as part of the ensemble of My Fair Lady and said my one line: "What d'ya take me for, a fool?" I find I'm much more emotionally available and open on stage than I used to be. I'm much more trusting of my instincts and my talent. I've even learned how to accept a compliment.
But, much like a muscle, it's still something that has to be worked on to get its full potential. When I'm lazy or not thinking I still find myself speaking too fast or letting my mind wander during the scene. I don't always do all the legwork I should and I still get nervous before going up. Monologues are still a weakness of mine, because, for some reason, I'm uncomfortable being alone on stage.
As a side note, the first time I did a monologue in front of Janet's Master Class, a room packed full of actors I assumed were much better than I, I used my old standby monologue from "Lakeboat" by David Mamet. I killed. Afterwards, my friend thought I had cheated by using something I'd been working on for about 8 years. I told him, "of course, I did. You think the first time I get up in front of all you guys I'm gonna work on something new?"
So, back on point, while it is very nice to hear a younger actor ask you how you did something, it also reminds you that you got where you are by just plowing through it. It takes as long as it takes and everyone has to find their own pathway there. Part of it involves discovering your strengths and your weaknesses and working on both. Part of it involves letting go of your ego, but at the same time finding your confidence. And part of it involves just plain old hard work and experience.
After it was done, a classmate asked if this was our first time reading that scene. When I responded in the affirmative, she then asked how we did it. The only response I had was "experience." Like many things in life, there are no shortcuts to being an actor.
Sanford Meisner once said that it takes 20 years to become an actor. As I approach 17 years, I wonder sometimes if it'll take twice that. True, I'm much better at it then I was that August night in 1993 when I stepped onstage as part of the ensemble of My Fair Lady and said my one line: "What d'ya take me for, a fool?" I find I'm much more emotionally available and open on stage than I used to be. I'm much more trusting of my instincts and my talent. I've even learned how to accept a compliment.
But, much like a muscle, it's still something that has to be worked on to get its full potential. When I'm lazy or not thinking I still find myself speaking too fast or letting my mind wander during the scene. I don't always do all the legwork I should and I still get nervous before going up. Monologues are still a weakness of mine, because, for some reason, I'm uncomfortable being alone on stage.
As a side note, the first time I did a monologue in front of Janet's Master Class, a room packed full of actors I assumed were much better than I, I used my old standby monologue from "Lakeboat" by David Mamet. I killed. Afterwards, my friend thought I had cheated by using something I'd been working on for about 8 years. I told him, "of course, I did. You think the first time I get up in front of all you guys I'm gonna work on something new?"
So, back on point, while it is very nice to hear a younger actor ask you how you did something, it also reminds you that you got where you are by just plowing through it. It takes as long as it takes and everyone has to find their own pathway there. Part of it involves discovering your strengths and your weaknesses and working on both. Part of it involves letting go of your ego, but at the same time finding your confidence. And part of it involves just plain old hard work and experience.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
In Which I Hate The Media
OK, as a point of order, let's note the fact that the "Batman" TV show ran from 1966 to 1968. That's 42 years ago.
Let's also note that catchphrases usually run their course within 2 years.
Given all this, there is no earthly reason why headlines about comic books have to lead with "Biff! Bam! Pow!"
"Rowan & Martin's Laugh-In" ran far longer than "Batman," yet articles about comedy don't lead with "Sock It To Me!" You never see, "Watchoo talkin' 'bout? Madonna adopts African baby." And any writer who leads an article on animation with "Ay, Carumba" would be drummed out of the press corps.
Yet, when it comes to comics, a 42 year-old show is still king. It's become so prevalent that it wouldn't surprise me to one day see "Biff! Bam! Pow! Explosion at Comic-Con leaves hundreds dead, many injured" or "Biff! Bam! Pow! Comic creator arrested for sleeping with underage student" or "Biff! Bam! Pow! Stan Lee dead at age 280 from heart attack."
TV news has its own blindside when it comes to comics. Every year at Comic-Con, news vans are parked outside all day and camera crews roam the floor. There are many legends in the field available to interview, many stories to cover, a lot of normal people having a good time. Yet if you watch the coverage, all they show is the freak show side of the con. I have never seen anybody who was not in a costume being interviewed by the media. Mark Evanier could host a panel where he resurrects Jack Kirby to do sketches for everyone and the media would rush by the room to catch a heavyset guy stuffed into a spandex Green Lantern outfit.
Last year, one moronic TV reporter felt the only way she could report on the con was to dress up in costume and ignore any ignore any part of the convention that didn't revolve around costumes. Look, we understand that reporters are a superstitious and cowardly lot and that we strike fear into your hearts. But the nerd or geek is really not that much different from you. If you cut us, do we not bleed? If you punch us in the face, do we not cry "my glasses!"?
I'm not saying don't show the costumes, I'm just saying make it a part of the story not the entire thrust. Keep in mind that this is an event that draws over 125,000 people and pours an estimated $60 million dollars into the local economy. Even Glenn Beck could find a compelling story in all that.
I know doing actual reporting is hard, just like math. I know that the news media has lost its desire for serious reporting, opting for an endless stream of talking heads and offering no objective analysis themselves. But maybe if you start small by finding out why that guy is sitting at that table, it might give you an appetite for bigger and better things, like integrity and truth.
And one final thought, GDFE (Google Does F---ing Exist.) The guy who created Peanuts is Charles Schulz, not Schultz or Shults or Schuls. The two men who created Superman were Siegel and Shuster not Steven Seagal and Schuster or Rodgers and Hammerstein. Spider-Man is spelled with a Hyphen, Superman is not.
If the media can't be bothered to do the most basic of fact checking, why should I believe they can be trusted to report on the bigger issues of the day.
Let's also note that catchphrases usually run their course within 2 years.
Given all this, there is no earthly reason why headlines about comic books have to lead with "Biff! Bam! Pow!"
"Rowan & Martin's Laugh-In" ran far longer than "Batman," yet articles about comedy don't lead with "Sock It To Me!" You never see, "Watchoo talkin' 'bout? Madonna adopts African baby." And any writer who leads an article on animation with "Ay, Carumba" would be drummed out of the press corps.
Yet, when it comes to comics, a 42 year-old show is still king. It's become so prevalent that it wouldn't surprise me to one day see "Biff! Bam! Pow! Explosion at Comic-Con leaves hundreds dead, many injured" or "Biff! Bam! Pow! Comic creator arrested for sleeping with underage student" or "Biff! Bam! Pow! Stan Lee dead at age 280 from heart attack."
TV news has its own blindside when it comes to comics. Every year at Comic-Con, news vans are parked outside all day and camera crews roam the floor. There are many legends in the field available to interview, many stories to cover, a lot of normal people having a good time. Yet if you watch the coverage, all they show is the freak show side of the con. I have never seen anybody who was not in a costume being interviewed by the media. Mark Evanier could host a panel where he resurrects Jack Kirby to do sketches for everyone and the media would rush by the room to catch a heavyset guy stuffed into a spandex Green Lantern outfit.
Last year, one moronic TV reporter felt the only way she could report on the con was to dress up in costume and ignore any ignore any part of the convention that didn't revolve around costumes. Look, we understand that reporters are a superstitious and cowardly lot and that we strike fear into your hearts. But the nerd or geek is really not that much different from you. If you cut us, do we not bleed? If you punch us in the face, do we not cry "my glasses!"?
I'm not saying don't show the costumes, I'm just saying make it a part of the story not the entire thrust. Keep in mind that this is an event that draws over 125,000 people and pours an estimated $60 million dollars into the local economy. Even Glenn Beck could find a compelling story in all that.
I know doing actual reporting is hard, just like math. I know that the news media has lost its desire for serious reporting, opting for an endless stream of talking heads and offering no objective analysis themselves. But maybe if you start small by finding out why that guy is sitting at that table, it might give you an appetite for bigger and better things, like integrity and truth.
And one final thought, GDFE (Google Does F---ing Exist.) The guy who created Peanuts is Charles Schulz, not Schultz or Shults or Schuls. The two men who created Superman were Siegel and Shuster not Steven Seagal and Schuster or Rodgers and Hammerstein. Spider-Man is spelled with a Hyphen, Superman is not.
If the media can't be bothered to do the most basic of fact checking, why should I believe they can be trusted to report on the bigger issues of the day.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
In Which I Describe the Info Desk Trifecta.
If you're a retail employee, here's a very simple game you can play to make the day pass quicker. You can even create betting pools amongst the staff.
The object is to answer as many questions as you can without moving from your position. Now, at my store, this is a hard game to play, because we are required to take the customer to the section and put the book in their hand. But there is no obligation to lead them to the bathroom, cafe or first and second floors, you can simply point the way.
The basic unit is the Trifecta. In order to score any points, you must answer three questions in a row without moving. If you get two questions about the cafe and one that requires you to leave the desk, you start over. Conservation of words is just as important as conservation of movement. For example, if a customer asks where DVD's are and your reply is "the first floor," that counts. If you have to describe where on the 2nd floor a certain book or section is, that does not count.
A simple Trifecta is worth 5 points. A Trifecta is worth double the points if it consists of the same three questions, such as three questions in a row about the location of the bathroom.
You also get double the points if a customer is so stupid that, after you answer their question, they turn in the direction you pointed and ask you the same question again. If they ask a third time, you get 10 bonus frustration points.
20 bonus frustration points are awarded if, when you direct a customer to pay on the first floor, they either snottily point out that the sign at 3rd floor cashwrap says "Main Cashier" or gripe about having to pay on the same floor where the exit doors are. I guess some people want to pay upstairs and then take a zip line out the window.
If you get four questions in a row, you get triple points. Five questions is six times the points. Six questions in a row is statistically possible, but so unlikely that if it happens, you're the automatic winner for the day.
If a customer comes back to the desk and tells you that they could not find the first floor (true story) you are automatically awarded all points garnered by all players on that day.
If you're playing under Marquess of Queensberry rules, only questions about the cafe or the bathroom count in the Trifecta total. You can still earn frustration bonus points, but they are worth half the value.
The object is to answer as many questions as you can without moving from your position. Now, at my store, this is a hard game to play, because we are required to take the customer to the section and put the book in their hand. But there is no obligation to lead them to the bathroom, cafe or first and second floors, you can simply point the way.
The basic unit is the Trifecta. In order to score any points, you must answer three questions in a row without moving. If you get two questions about the cafe and one that requires you to leave the desk, you start over. Conservation of words is just as important as conservation of movement. For example, if a customer asks where DVD's are and your reply is "the first floor," that counts. If you have to describe where on the 2nd floor a certain book or section is, that does not count.
A simple Trifecta is worth 5 points. A Trifecta is worth double the points if it consists of the same three questions, such as three questions in a row about the location of the bathroom.
You also get double the points if a customer is so stupid that, after you answer their question, they turn in the direction you pointed and ask you the same question again. If they ask a third time, you get 10 bonus frustration points.
20 bonus frustration points are awarded if, when you direct a customer to pay on the first floor, they either snottily point out that the sign at 3rd floor cashwrap says "Main Cashier" or gripe about having to pay on the same floor where the exit doors are. I guess some people want to pay upstairs and then take a zip line out the window.
If you get four questions in a row, you get triple points. Five questions is six times the points. Six questions in a row is statistically possible, but so unlikely that if it happens, you're the automatic winner for the day.
If a customer comes back to the desk and tells you that they could not find the first floor (true story) you are automatically awarded all points garnered by all players on that day.
If you're playing under Marquess of Queensberry rules, only questions about the cafe or the bathroom count in the Trifecta total. You can still earn frustration bonus points, but they are worth half the value.
In Which I Describe My Dating Failures
Every day, people from all walks of life come up to me and say "hey, does this bookmark work on all books?" Their second question is, invariably, "hey, you're a good-looking, nice guy with a great sense of humor. How come you're not married yet?" Now, mind you, the person asking this is never a young, attractive, funny and nice girl who's looking to get lost in my eyes, but you can tell they mean well by their prying, overly-personal questions.
So to save time from answering these incessant questions, I will henceforth refer people to this post wherein I reveal how the universe has chosen to mock my desire to be in a committed, loving, monogamous relationship.
Let's start with true things that have happened to me.
Since turnabout is fair play, here are some dumb things I have done on dates.
Thus endeth the lesson.
So to save time from answering these incessant questions, I will henceforth refer people to this post wherein I reveal how the universe has chosen to mock my desire to be in a committed, loving, monogamous relationship.
Let's start with true things that have happened to me.
- At least 3 times in my life, I've had a great first date with someone and then within a week heard some variation of the following story. "I really had a great time the other day. However, there was a missed connection (someone I used to like but who wasn't available at the time) who recently popped up. I'd really like to see where this leads, so I'm sorry to say I can't see you again."
- After asking someone out, I received a Christmas card from them. In the handwritten note inside, she started with a very lovely greeting, then proceeded to tell me that she had just broken up with someone and was not interested in going out with me. Who sends a Dear John Christmas card?
- About 3 hours before a new year was to begin, I got a call from a young lady I had been pursuing. She was on her way home to Massachusetts and she wanted to tell me that she wasn't interested in going out with me. Really, you not only did this on New Years Eve, but waited until you were out of state?
- Coming back to a girl's apartment after the first date and finding a flower and a card on her stoop. Thinking that was a bad omen, I still allowed myself to fall for her. Cut to six weeks later when she tells me the flower was from a "missed connection" and that she was dumping me for him.
- Paraphrased actual phone conversation. "Hi, this is Dave. I was wondering if you'd like to go out sometime." "Oh, I'd love to. What did you have in mind?" "Do you have a favorite restaurant?" Pause. "Wait, is this Jeff's friend, Dave?" "Yes." "Oh, I thought it was my boyfriend Dave." Needless to say, I did not get a date.
- In my 30's being hit on by a woman in her 40's at a bakery in Maine, who hinted, very strongly, that she liked the Whoopie pie.
- In my 40's being propositioned by a Russian in her 40's who worked at a Michael's Crafts. She actually said, "we could go in the bathroom...just kidding." But, I could tell she was not kidding.
- After asking someone out in high school, getting a full-page letter from them explaining why they think I'm a great guy, but they are not looking to date anyone at the time because of blah, blah, blah going on in their life. Within a month, they were dating someone.
- Doing most of the talking on the second date. On the third date, wherein we just watched a movie, she dropped me because I didn't talk enough.
- I'm the only guy in history who has had 'friends-with-benefits' without benefits.
- After a 10 year stretch of no serious relationships, my sister asked me "are you gay, not that there's anything wrong with that."
Since turnabout is fair play, here are some dumb things I have done on dates.
- Sitting through one and a half DVDs before I got up the courage to kiss a date for the first time. Keep in mind, she was making it very obvious that she wanted a kiss by snuggling up close and holding my hand, yet it still took me forever to make the move. Being the suave guy that I am, I wound up playing it very smooth. I said "hey," she turned her head towards me and I kissed her. She never let me forget the "hey."
- Leaning in for a goodnight kiss, her turning her head and me ending up kissing her ear!
- Not realizing the difference between a "heavy flirter" and a "light flirter." A heavy flirter will make very sexually suggestive remarks but have no intention of seeing them through. They rev the engine but don't want to go for a drive. A light flirter is more subdued and coy, but much more open to taking a drive around the block. Never take a heavy flirter at their word, it'll just frustrate you.
- Dated a woman who was separated but not yet divorced. Always wait for the divorce to be final and ideally at least a year behind her. Trust me, you do not want the emotional baggage inherent with the end of a marriage.
- In college I was house sitting for my boss, who lived in a log cabin in the woods (true story.) One night I brought my girlfriend over for a dinner. A storm came up and knocked a power line across the only road out. We had to spend the night. Let's just say, I didn't take advantage of what could have been a very romantic evening.
- Wrote a note asking her to reconsider her decision to dump me.
- Dated women who had so much baggage, you needed a U-Haul to go to dinner.
- Not only did I look at another woman during a date, I made a comment about her outfit. In my defense, she was wearing overalls and nothing is sexier than a woman in overalls. But, still, it was an idiotic thing to do.
Thus endeth the lesson.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
In Which I Tell The duck story.
This is a story that has become a legend in my family. It is a tale that will be passed down from father to son through the ages.
Many, many moons ago, in the time of High School Reunions, I fell in love with a fair, young maiden. She was beautiful, funny, intelligent and had a kiss you would die for. But, like many relationships, we had our moments, especially when it came to sleeping arrangements. My fair maiden had the habit of stealing the covers as well as the majority of the bed. Of course, we would start out the evening with an equal share of bedspace, in accordance with God's plan (1 Thebidia 12:2-4), but during the night, I would awake shivering to find my blankets gone and my body about ready to fall off the edge of the bed.
(Note to my impressionable readers, no unseemly activities happened on that bed. We merely played rigorous games of "chess" or slept. After long days of building homes for Habitat for Humanity, feeding the poor at the Soup Kitchen and teaching adults how to read, we would come home exhausted and since my house only had three bedrooms we had no choice but to share the one bed.)
On one particular evening, I awoke cold and about to meet the floor up close. I turned to see my fair maiden sprawled across the bed and with my voice full of love, I hollered "you're hogging the bed."
She bellowed back, with a voice one uses to calm frightened children, "you have just as much room as I do."
At this, my heart was so overflowing with concern for my fair maiden's spatial awareness, that I lept from the bed. Now, at the time, I had a set of sheets that had vertical rows of ducks on them. How fortunate, in that I could demonstrate in clear, impartial terms just how much bed she had. "You have seven ducks, I have three ducks!" By this point, my voice was so poetic and loving that if my words were cartoons, they would be made of butterflies and flowers.
Having the facts pointed out in such a loving and kind manner, since nothing says "I love you" more than cold, hard science, my fair maiden relinquished her excess ducks and we spent the remainder of the night in loving repose.
Cut to a month or so later when I hosted Thanksgiving dinner at my home. Not only was this the first time I hosted Thanksgiving, it was the first chance my family had to meet my fair maiden. The evening was going fine, until halfway through dinner, when my fair maiden told the above tale. Followed immediately by the part of the Sprint commercial where the pin drops.
Now, it's not that my family were particularly uptight or conservative. It wasn't that it was such a shocking story. But, it's one thing for your parents to be philosophically aware that you're playing "chess," it's quite another to be confronted with the fact that their son is, indeed, playing "chess" and he's playing it with this woman in front of them. It's just the reverse of children thinking about their parents playing "chess." You know your mom and dad played "chess" but you don't really want to hear about all the moves that lead up to checkmate.
The rest of the evening went fine. My fair maiden and I eventually drifted apart, but remain good friends to this day. My parents and I never spoke of the duck story again, but it has become an ongoing joke between my brother and I. If families can have catchphrases, it would be a toss-up between "I have three ducks" and "what are you trying to do, get hollered at?" But the later is a story for another time.
Many, many moons ago, in the time of High School Reunions, I fell in love with a fair, young maiden. She was beautiful, funny, intelligent and had a kiss you would die for. But, like many relationships, we had our moments, especially when it came to sleeping arrangements. My fair maiden had the habit of stealing the covers as well as the majority of the bed. Of course, we would start out the evening with an equal share of bedspace, in accordance with God's plan (1 Thebidia 12:2-4), but during the night, I would awake shivering to find my blankets gone and my body about ready to fall off the edge of the bed.
(Note to my impressionable readers, no unseemly activities happened on that bed. We merely played rigorous games of "chess" or slept. After long days of building homes for Habitat for Humanity, feeding the poor at the Soup Kitchen and teaching adults how to read, we would come home exhausted and since my house only had three bedrooms we had no choice but to share the one bed.)
On one particular evening, I awoke cold and about to meet the floor up close. I turned to see my fair maiden sprawled across the bed and with my voice full of love, I hollered "you're hogging the bed."
She bellowed back, with a voice one uses to calm frightened children, "you have just as much room as I do."
At this, my heart was so overflowing with concern for my fair maiden's spatial awareness, that I lept from the bed. Now, at the time, I had a set of sheets that had vertical rows of ducks on them. How fortunate, in that I could demonstrate in clear, impartial terms just how much bed she had. "You have seven ducks, I have three ducks!" By this point, my voice was so poetic and loving that if my words were cartoons, they would be made of butterflies and flowers.
Having the facts pointed out in such a loving and kind manner, since nothing says "I love you" more than cold, hard science, my fair maiden relinquished her excess ducks and we spent the remainder of the night in loving repose.
Cut to a month or so later when I hosted Thanksgiving dinner at my home. Not only was this the first time I hosted Thanksgiving, it was the first chance my family had to meet my fair maiden. The evening was going fine, until halfway through dinner, when my fair maiden told the above tale. Followed immediately by the part of the Sprint commercial where the pin drops.
Now, it's not that my family were particularly uptight or conservative. It wasn't that it was such a shocking story. But, it's one thing for your parents to be philosophically aware that you're playing "chess," it's quite another to be confronted with the fact that their son is, indeed, playing "chess" and he's playing it with this woman in front of them. It's just the reverse of children thinking about their parents playing "chess." You know your mom and dad played "chess" but you don't really want to hear about all the moves that lead up to checkmate.
The rest of the evening went fine. My fair maiden and I eventually drifted apart, but remain good friends to this day. My parents and I never spoke of the duck story again, but it has become an ongoing joke between my brother and I. If families can have catchphrases, it would be a toss-up between "I have three ducks" and "what are you trying to do, get hollered at?" But the later is a story for another time.
Monday, March 15, 2010
This is the kind of stuff that only happens to me.
A few years ago, a director friend of mine was going to be doing "Of Mice and Men." He mentioned that he had the perfect part for me. My ears perked up at the thought of playing Lennie or George. He leans in and says, "do you remember the guy who kills the dog?" I immediately said, "that's what you think of when you think of me? The guy who kills the dog?"
Another story. A director calls me up to help fill a last minute replacement in her production of "Urinetown." She talks a few minutes about her vision of the play and how another director spoke so highly of me, that she'll cast me without an audition. Feeling flattered, I ask what part she has in mind. Her response, "a pee person."
A good friend says he has a script that I would be perfect for. I ask him to briefly describe it. I would be playing a has-been, alcoholic author.
I should end by saying that I am quite comfortable with the term "character actor." It's what I am and it's what I do. Often the character parts are far more interesting than the leads, even if they do involve less kissing of attractive women. But, like everyone on the planet, I do have an ego and it is amusing when your idea of yourself gets juxtaposed against your acting abilities. But one thing these experiences have taught me is that actors have to learn to view themselves from the outside. Your strengths as an actor are not the same as your strengths as a person.
In other words, don't be afraid to play the dog killer.
Another story. A director calls me up to help fill a last minute replacement in her production of "Urinetown." She talks a few minutes about her vision of the play and how another director spoke so highly of me, that she'll cast me without an audition. Feeling flattered, I ask what part she has in mind. Her response, "a pee person."
A good friend says he has a script that I would be perfect for. I ask him to briefly describe it. I would be playing a has-been, alcoholic author.
I should end by saying that I am quite comfortable with the term "character actor." It's what I am and it's what I do. Often the character parts are far more interesting than the leads, even if they do involve less kissing of attractive women. But, like everyone on the planet, I do have an ego and it is amusing when your idea of yourself gets juxtaposed against your acting abilities. But one thing these experiences have taught me is that actors have to learn to view themselves from the outside. Your strengths as an actor are not the same as your strengths as a person.
In other words, don't be afraid to play the dog killer.
In Which I Join the Blahgosphere
Can we all just agree that blogosphere is the worst word to describe a group or collection of items that has ever come down the internet pike? I can accept "blog" as an abbreviation of "web log" because, god knows, we need to remove as many letters as we can from words or else the terrorists will win. We're a busy people, we don't have time for excess syllables or letters. Thanks to texting, we will one day be communicating like the cavemen with just a series of grunts. (See Appendix A)
But then we come to "osphere" which takes us out of the world of text reduction and into corporate speak. We could have simply added an "s" onto blog to describe the collection of blogs that now scatter across the farthest reaches of the internet. But no, we had to make it sound fancy and more important than it really is. Corporate America is more than happy to take all those letters and words that texters throw away and use them to make small words longer. For example, most people have "skills" that they use to accomplish various tasks, but if you wear a suit and tie, you have a "skill set." There is no appreciable difference between the two, except that some consulting firm got paid a lot of money to advocate the later.
If we had to go fancy, why not do it animal style. A group of cows is a herd. A group of dogs is a pack. A swarm of bees. A quiver of cobras. A bundle of frogs. A stretch of giraffe. And my favorite, a congress of ravens. Of course, knowing human nature, we would probably go with "A world of blogs" which would get abbreviated to "woblog" and bring us back to the same number of leters we started with.
Appendix A
Sample texts of the future.
?
?!
LOL
But then we come to "osphere" which takes us out of the world of text reduction and into corporate speak. We could have simply added an "s" onto blog to describe the collection of blogs that now scatter across the farthest reaches of the internet. But no, we had to make it sound fancy and more important than it really is. Corporate America is more than happy to take all those letters and words that texters throw away and use them to make small words longer. For example, most people have "skills" that they use to accomplish various tasks, but if you wear a suit and tie, you have a "skill set." There is no appreciable difference between the two, except that some consulting firm got paid a lot of money to advocate the later.
If we had to go fancy, why not do it animal style. A group of cows is a herd. A group of dogs is a pack. A swarm of bees. A quiver of cobras. A bundle of frogs. A stretch of giraffe. And my favorite, a congress of ravens. Of course, knowing human nature, we would probably go with "A world of blogs" which would get abbreviated to "woblog" and bring us back to the same number of leters we started with.
Appendix A
Sample texts of the future.
?
?!
LOL
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