Whoever Said "Getting There Is Half The Fun" Is On Crack

Felicitations, Fellow Fliers.

Exactly one year after my trip to Miami, I had an opportunity to go on my second work-related sales conference, this time to Orlando.  During this time I made sure to get my passport in order so I'd never have to deal with that particular nightmare again.  Unfortunately I was soon to find out the hard way that sporting an official passport was no guarantee that the trip would go smoothly. 

Here are some vintage diary excepts from that flight:

Wednesday, March 10'th 

Our flight is scheduled for 5 pm so I've been told to expect a pick-up anytime after 1 pm.  My crew finally rolls in at 2:30.  Mercifully, they have some Smirknoff Erce on da chill and instantly all is forgiven.  Knocked back a few while heading over the new bridge to Dartmouth.  Despite the fact that we're running behind schedule we doggedly stick to our plan of having an early supper at the Mic Mac Bar and Grill.  My concerns about our tardiness evaporate as I enjoy another Erce and devour a tasty club hizzouse sammich.    

We arrive at the airport late, around 4-ish.  While security hustles us through they neglect to give us a boarding pass for our connecting flight.

'Ask about it when you get to Toronto,' we're told.  

The flight to T.O. is unremarkable.  Listened to Dennis Leary's No Cure for Cancer to set the mood.  Between the chain-smoker's acerbic bombast and my concentrated intake of Smirknoff Erce, I find myself working on a Class One headache.  

When we get to T-dot we find out that we're not on the passenger manifest to Orlando.  They go on to tell us that the flight is overbooked and we've been downgraded to 'standby'.  Is this because we went through Halifax so late?  Probably, but it still doesn't explain why we're completely and totally abscent from the system.

An executive class attendant tries to set us up in the system manually but they're unable to procure seat assignments for us.  Can't say I'm surprised since they're trying to cram seven extra people with no valid reservation onto a plane bound for the Spring Break capitol of the world at the last minute. 

After recovering our bags and checking in again, we wait with baited breath as our seat-blessed co-workers board the plane.  We're forced to watch other standbys with 'priority' waltz through the gate ahead of us.  When our departure time comes and goes and our plane begins to roll away we begin to suspect that maybe, just maybe we aren't going to make this flight.  

Damn!!!  We were all so excited to get to Orlando a day early.  We coulda checked in, cleaned up, grabbed some drinks and hit the hot tub.

NO HOT TUB FOR YOU!!!

Instead we're given the option to fly from Toronto to New York City and then catch an early flight to Florida the following morning.  The really galling thing is that our luggage is now en route to Orlando without us.  Thank God I had the foresight to pack socks, underwear and my toofbrush in my carry-on.

We rush Amazing Race-style to our gate to try and catch the NYC flight.  The trip is brief but distinguished by three things:

1. Headache now at least a Class 2.  In the past five hours it's faded and then roared back at least three times.
2. Flying into one of the world's greatest cities at night is almost worth the misery.  I'm still stunned.  I can understand why Fritz Lang was inspired to make Metropolis after flying over Manhattan.  It's a sea of lights in every direction.  In quick succession I inventory the Brooklyn Bridge, Central Park, the Empire State Building and Ground Zero during our approach.  It's downright awe-inspiring.
3. Landing at LaGuardia Airport did little for my migraine.  For a moment there I thought we were gonna pitch on the top of a tenement building.  

The saga continues after we land.  At this stage in the game our "tickets" are nothing more then hand-scribbled notes.  A local Air Canada rep (who I can only describe as Woody Allen's older brother) is kind enough to arrange accommodations for us.  He tells us that if we have any chance of flying to Orlando tomorrow we need to be back at the airport by 7am sharp.  Unfortunately it's already 11:30 pm and we're tempted to just flake out somewhere in the terminal.

Despite it all, I'm kind of psyched to be in New York City.  A part of me wonders if we can get into Manhattan for some sightseeing but as time ticks by, hope for this quickly evaporates.      

We nearly die of exposure waiting for our shuttle to show up.  At one point in time "Sheckie" Allen refers to the driver as a 'mental midget'.  Eventually we end up at the Eden Park Best Western Hotel in Flushing, Queens: birth place of The Nanny, a.k.a. Fran Drescher.  Welp, so much for seeing something cool.

By the time we get to the hotel it's nearly midnight.  Exhausted and starving, we all gather in L____ and S____'s room to order Domino's Pizza and watch an episode of The 5'th Wheel (from the producers of Blind Date, dontcha know).  It's a downright enchanting evening.

K________ gets in touch with some local family members and invites them over.  Before they arrive she likens me to her nerdish nephew.  This is a fair cop, but I have to confess to being slightly put off when the guy shows up and vaguely resembles the Unibomber.

My own room is disconcerting.  Beyond the meat-locker like temperature, there are mirrors EVERYWHERE and the bathroom sells...things.  I finally crash around 2 pm but the unrelenting stream of traffic continuously barreling down the exchange right outside my window keeps me wide-eyed for most of the night.
          
Thursday March 11'th        
          
I mistakenly set my alarm for the time we're supposed to be on the shuttle to the airport.  Fortunately my sleep has been so shitty I wake up twenty minutes before the clock begins to blare.  This gives me just enough time to wash my face, shave, brush my teeth and change clothes.  I kick myself for not showering the night before since I'm already starting to feel a tad "ripe".

We finally get to the airport.  Incredibly the airline rep tells us that she has no record of Air Canada making any arrangement for us and sends us back down to their customer service desk.  Just before everyone darts off I ask if there's room on the plane and if we can at least reserve some seats.  She does this for us and we're finally rewarded with real, live legitimate tickets from Air Canada.  We quickly dash back and exchange these for boarding passes which, to our bleary eyes, look like Golden Tickets to Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory. 

Security at LaGuardia is the worst I've ever seen.  Shoes are removed, belts are whipped off, hats are doffed and anuses are probed.  The TSA agents don't even have the decency to return my boarding pass and passport after molesting me.  I'm almost struck dead with horror when I realize these two precious documents are missing, forcing me to double back and retrieve them.  

When we finally get through the gauntlet of security I celebrate by picking up a NYC t-shirt.  Hey, technically I was there!

I try to sleep on the flight to Orlando but it's virtually impossible.  I find it really hard to sleep on a plane; I always feel as if I'm going to miss something important.  Perish forbid if I don't get that free three-gram pack of stale pretzels that's comin' to me. 

Despite the trials and tribulations it's all worth it when we step off the plane into that gloriously warm and humid air.  Everything looks green and lush and the smell of tropical flora instantly revives our weary senses.  It's the complete and total antithesis of how things look back home.  It's like being transported to another planet.   

Although getting here has been pretty miserable but we all know that it's just a test.  In light of all the awesome experiences we'll probably have over the next three days, all this strife and misery will quickly boil down into nothing more substantial then an amusing story.  

To be continued...

EPIC GRUB  The Mic Mac Bar and Grill ain't fancy, but Dear God, it's good.   

EPIC LAUGHS  The first time I heard No Cure For Cancer I nearly died.  Literally.  I was driving at the time and laughing so hard I could barely see through the tears.

EPIC FLICK  Still one of the most startling visions of the future, Metropolis was light-years ahead of its time.   

PROFESSIONAL FAILURE  This is weird since TSA agents spend most of their time trying to strip passengers naked...

FAILURE TO REPRESENT  "Tastefully decorated rooms" my ass.  I sincerely hope they've renovated since then... 

Welcome To Miami!

Hello, Heat-Seekers!

All of the failure and frustration I went through in order to procure my identification turned out to be well worth it.  Miami was the antithesis of grey, dead, slushy Nova Scotia in March.  As soon as I stepped off the plane, the humidity, heat and florid air wrapped around me like an environmental Snuggie.  Everything was vibrant, beautiful and alive.

For the next three days I felt intoxicated.  Probably because I was intoxicated, but sleep deprivation and sensory overload certainly played a part in making the entire trip feel dream-like and surreal.  Keep in mind: our flight had left Halifax at 6:35 AM and didn't arrive in Ft. Lauderdale until 12:30 PM the following day.  To make matter worse, my trepidations about clearing U.S. customs without a passport coupled with my unbridled excitement ensured that I didn't sleep a wink the entire time.

Here's what I do remember about that incredible trip, sketched out bullet-point style to simulate my fractured memory:

• We stayed at the Fontainebleau Hotel, one of the most historic structures on Miami Beach.  In addition to hosting such luminaries as Frank Sinatra and Elvis Presley, the hotel has featured prominently in movies like Scarface and T.V. shows like The Sopranos.  Most importantly, the Fontainebleau was the setting for James Bond's first run-in with arch-villain Goldfinger in the film of the same name.
• It was a beautiful day when we arrived so instead of taking a nap like sensible people we immediately changed into our swim suits and ran down to the beach.  Just seconds after diving into the clear, blue, warm ocean one of my co-workers got hit in the head with a flying fish.  It scared the bejesus out of her and we all decided to play it safe and spend the rest of our time poolside.  
• Speaking of "When Animals Attack", my boss at the time almost had a coronary when he was menaced at one point by a crazed...parrot.  
• Mercifully, the only thing we were obliged to do that first day was attend a two-hour opening session hosted by the bigwigs which segued into an Opening Dinner and Cocktail Reception.  For the record, the phrase "complimentary bar" has a different meaning for Maritimers then it does for most other human beings on the planet.
• In order to justify the obscene amount of money the company was spending on this conference, the second day consisted of eleven hours worth of sales highlights, vendor presentations, business development sessions and "MVP Awards".  The next two days cut this schedule down by half and ended around 1 PM, leaving the rest of our time free for decadent levels of sloth and wanton debauchery.  
• The pro-company rallies we were forced to attend had all the propagandic power of a Leni Riefenstahl flick.  In order to effectively trumpet the endless Powerpoint slides which bragged about the annihilation and / or assimilation of our small-fry competition, we were given inflatable plastic tubes to bang together as noisemakers.  One particularly nauseating session about projected profits was capped off with the sacrilegious playing of "Only In Dreams" by Weezer.  Only corporate pinheads could possibly take a sweet, heartfelt song about wistful longing and heartbreak and turn it into a cynical ode to greed.  Not only did this seriously test my gag reflex, I actually thought about contacting Weezer to find out if they'd actually given their permission to use the song.  I decided not to because I would have dumped all of their CD's into the nearest landfill if they were actually complicit in this travesty.
• As a anomalous cadre of boisterous Canadians, I'm pretty sure we were all universally regarded as uncouth, ignorant savages.  But we were also polite, cheery and friendly to a fault.  Eventually we were adopted by a sales rep who kept us in drinks for the entire weekend.  In retrospect, this guy kinda reminded me of Gil Gunderson from The Simpsons.  Every time we'd try to buy him a drink, he'd get pissed off and say "Hey, if I don't use up my expense account, I'll be in deep shit when I get back".  Funny thing is, I'm pretty sure that our company didn't even stock his company's product.
• In the odd chance that we'd recommend their products to our customers, the vendors gave us an obscene amount of free swag.  I'm not gonna name names here but suffice to say that some members of our little entourage got so many free label makers they could have started up their own dot com business.  
• To meet and mingle with our peers, we were randomly assigned to a table for the closing dinner.  Since I'd just been forced to transition from the customer service department within the same company I remember looking around at all the opulence and saying "Wow, I really wish they'd  do something like this for the good folks in customer service".  Well, as soon as the District Sales Manager I was seated with heard this he cleared his throat, looked down his nose at me and said: "Are you kidding?  Customer service wouldn't even have jobs if not for us!"  Needless to say, the resulting verbal donnybrook between us certainly made dinner an awkward affair.      
• Speaking of food, every morning began with a tremendous free breakfast at the hotel, which some members of our group positively despised.  "I wish I could just go to McDonald's and get an Egg McMuffin," they lamented.  That's when I began to suspect that I was different from most people.    
• After buying a $9.00 rum and coke at the Fontainebleau's bar (not a bad deal in today's inflation-ravaged economy) I was forced to down it in one gulp when everyone suddenly decided that they were going out.  As soon as I got outside I kicked myself for chugging down the precious beverage since people seemed to be walking around with open liquor everywhere.  
• We had a blast strolling along Collins and Washington Avenue.  Amidst all of the evocative neon lights and Art Deco architecture, there was a constant parade of tricked-out vehicles and modified human bodies.  Every time I watch an episode of Dexter in which the title character is shown prowling around SoBe I can't help but blurt "I was there!"  Then I promptly shut up 'cuz apparently it's not cool to have experiences in common with a serial killer.   
• My boss got embroiled in a knock-down, drag-out argument with the owner of an Italian restaurant over their inability to split up the bill.  During this fracas I tried to slide down my seat, crawl under the table and disappear into a crack in the sidewalk.
• During our walkabout we encountered a street magician named "Amazing Adam" who wowed us with his David Blaine-like illusions.  On the back of his business card is a quote attributed to "Adam's Mom" which reads: "This guy is really special!".  Ah, Amazing Adam, where art thou now?  
• After stumbling upon the South Beach home of the late fashion designer Gianni Versace we decided to pose for photos on the very same steps where he'd been gunned down by crazed spree-killer Andrew Cunanan.  Pretty ghoulish stuff, and I've been on a Jack the Ripper tour, fer Crissakes!    
• When my boss tried to take a photo of a pimped-out car the owner ducked down in the front seat and yelled "Hey, man, I've got a warrant!"  
• Based on a second hand rumor that "Matt Damon was going to be there", we hung out all night at an open-air bar somewhere on Pine Tree Drive.  Jason Bourne didn't show up but the bar itself was pretty rad. 
• We found out that electrical storms in Miami are both Wagner-esque and omnipresent.  
• When we got back to the hotel from downtown it was pretty late, around 1 AM.  Instead of going to bed like sensible people, we got into our swimsuits and bobbed around in the Fontainebleau's lagoon-like pool and grottos for two or three more hours.  
• We finally decided to pack it in around 3 am.  As we made our trek back through the hotel's expansive and Babylonian hanging gardens we inadvertently stumbled upon a rather boisterous and acrobatic couple "pitching woo" in a hammock.  We tried to sneak by as discretely as possible but as soon as the guy spotted us he leapt off the hammock and scampered off into the underbrush.  Unfortunately the momentum caused by his vault instantly turned the hammock into a wicker centrifuge which spun the poor girl around two or three times before depositing her on the ground.  Dizzy and perhaps slightly tipsy, our girl bundled herself up, swayed to her feet and then stumbled off in search of her fleet-footed Lothario.              

***

Even though this event was centered around a corporate circle-jerk, it kicked off a life-long passion for travel that lingers with me to this very day.  And although I didn't have a lot in common with some of my co-workers it was an incredible bonding experience akin to my time living in residence.  Even today I still feel a close connection with these people.

And although I despise that company for what they represent and what they eventually did to us, I'm still eternally grateful for the opportunity.  Before everything started to fall apart, I was lucky enough to go on one more of these events, which turned out to be crazier then the first.

But that's a tale for another time.    

EPIC HOTEL  Here's the map of the Fontainebleau Hotel which was included in our orientation package.  Man, I sure wish I could pop into "Coconut Willie's" right now...

Here's the Fontainebleau in all her 60's glory, established in this famous helicopter shot at the beginning of Goldfinger:

E(PICS)  I didn't clean up too bad back then, huh?  Wow, I actually look vaguely respectable...

For some odd reason, I didn't have a camera with me, but here's a sample of the Fontainebleau's Shangri-La like pool area:

And here's a rare photo of me molesting one of the Fontainebleau's many dolphin fountains, taken apparently with George Eastman's prototype camera.  In case you're wondering, that's chocolate milk in that cup, BTW.

FAILED JOINT  This annoying-as-f#@k track got played way too many times before, during and after our trip.  Thank Vishnu I had the foresight to bring along my discman (!) and a copy of the Trainspotting soundtrack to cleanse the palate.     

Do Not Passport "GO!", Do Not Collect Any New Experiences

 
Greetings, Red-Tape Wranglers!

Since I'm not making a ton of money right now (read: any) I've cut back on acquiring a lot of superfluous crap.  I no longer buy movies, books, music and games indiscriminately.  I don't eat out five times a week like I used to.  I make my coffee at home, but since I've always got a bag of freshly-ground Fogburner and a french press, this really isn't a big sacrifice.

About the only luxury I can't quit is traveling.  Honestly, I can't wrap my head around Karl Pilkington types who say that they hate to travel and would rather stay home where everything is familiar. You might as well come out and say that you're completely ant totally opposed to the concepts of "new", "different" and "exciting".

Now although I didn't care to much for my last job I absolutely loved the gig that proceeded it.  I haven't talked much about this mysterious enterprise but it was actually pretty rad.  In fact, for a while there, I actually felt as if I had something vaguely resembling a career.

One of the many cool perks with this job were the annual sales conferences.  Up until that point, the most far-flung place I'd ever been to was Toronto or Montreal.  Imagine my surprise when I was told that I'd be going to freakin' Miami just a few short months after getting the gig.

As a "small boy from a small town", I knew this trip would be a transformative experience for me.  But I had to get there first and current events weren't making that easy.  Keep in mind, this was back in 2003, just two short years after 9/11.  U.S. Homeland Security was cracking down on us shifty, subversive Canadian types who were trying to enter their country without sufficient I.D.  If I was going to go on this trip, I needed to get a passport.

I didn't have one at the time but, then again, why would I?  Travel was certainly something I wanted to do in the future but money had been kinda tight up to that point.  But now, with this sales conference looming, I finally had a reason to procure this precious document.  Unfortunately I had very little time to do it.  Given the fact that I only had a few short weeks to get it rushed out to me, my boss gave all of us Friday afternoon off so we could expedite the application process.

Unfortunately, back then, upstanding, hard-working, law-abiding, tax-paying folks who'd known you for most of your life (I.E. your friends) weren't considered trustworthy enough to vouch for your identify.  In fact, only "pillars of the community" like accountants, doctors, lawyers, dentists or priests could be relied upon to verify who you really were.  S'funny, because, to me, this kinda looks like a roll-call for society's worst charlatans and crooks.  

I didn't know it at the time, but that afternoon would soon degenerate into a desperate, existential bid to prove my mere existence.  The first person I went to see was my dentist, in the time in since my last check up, he'd left the practice and vanished off the face of the earth.  This immediately led me to assume that dentists couldn't vouch for themselves.   There ya go, strike one.

I then went to see my family physician, Dr. Pinhead, er...Pinsky.  Granted, I wasn't in the habit of doing annual physicals back then, but I'd consulted with him before and I was pretty sure that he'd vouch for me.  Yeah, I was wrong.

"Sorry, but I'm just not comfortable signing this," he told me flat-out.

"What?  Why?!?"

"Well, you've only been here one time before and that was four years ago.  For all I know you could be a member of Al-Qaeda."

Asshole.

I had only one option left and I wasn't feeling encouraged.  Even though my optometrist, Dr. Gaetan Lang, had successfully cured my of my irrational fear of eye exams, I'd only seen him a few times in the past.  Would he pull a Pinsky and shut me down?

The sad state of my appearance certainly wouldn't help my case.  Since I wasn't expecting a Mission: Impossible-style assignment that day I'd gone to work looking decidedly scruffy.  And now, with my options quickly drying up, we were getting uncomfortably close to the passport office's closing time.  It wasn't just my own application hanging in the balance, my co-workers were relying on me to seal the deal as well.

Without any pretense to civility I bombed into the optometry office, madly raving like a crazed transient whacked out on crystal meth.  Fortunately, Dr. Lang was just finishing up with a patient and stopped to listen to my disjointed request.  Taking note of my disheveled appearance and palpable panic, the good doctor was kind enough to take pity on me.

"Sure, I can sign that for you," he said, gesturing for me to hand over the application.

"Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you..." I wheezed. 

"So, where are you going?" he asked cordially while he filled out the document.

"Mi..Miami..." I panted, giving a thumbs up to my co-workers standing just outside the glass doors.  Helpfully they were standing there, swapping wisecracks and laughing their asses off at me.

"Oh, very nice," he said, handing the completed form back to me.  "That's a great place to be this time of year.  Enjoy!"

I can't quite remember but I'm pretty sure that I hugged him.  With only an hour left before the passport office closed shop for the weekend we all ran to the car and made a beeline downtown.  It was gonna be tight.  Even if we got down there in time, the chances of us finding a parking space was pretty slim.  Mercifully, our chauffeur that day had a legitimate driver disability window sign, which pretty much allowed us to park in the building's lobby.  We all rushed inside, commandeered an elevator, found the office, grabbed a number and began to wait.  And wait.  And wait.   

With only fifteen or twenty minutes to spare, someone finally called my number.  Now that I had all of my administrative ducks in a row, I confidently strode up to the wicket and cast my paperwork down like a gauntlet of challenge.

"I should like to apply for a passport, kind sirrah!"

The clerk started to look everything over.  Suddenly his brow furrowed.

"Do you have a photo?"

My heart skipped a beat but then I remembered something my co-workers had said earlier.

"I was told that I could get one done here.  I know it's a bit more expensive but I really didn't get a chance to..."

"Sure, sure," the clerk muttered, his eyes flicking towards the clock on the wall.  

"I just need to see your birth certificate."

I pulled out my wallet, located the card and dropped it on the counter.  Suddenly, the clerk recoiled as if I'd just thrown a dead rat in front of him.

"Oh," he said, reflexively pushing the card away from him.  "I'm sorry, but I can't help you."

If I recall correctly, this was the very first time that I ever felt my eyeball twitch.  Instantly I found myself fighting the urge to launch myself over the counter and strangle him with a metal pen-chain.  Instead I took a deep breath and tried to form a coherent sentence.

"And why is that?" I managed to say.

"Your birth certificate.  It's not valid."

"Why?!?"

"It's laminated," winced the clerk.

"Wha...who cares if it's laminated?  The information is still accurate!"  

"I'm sorry, but it's not," the clerk babbled, perhaps expecting an errant fist to come his way.  "Record- keeping rules changed significantly in Quebec back in 1994 so any laminated birth certificates issued prior to that are invalid." 

Stunned and dejected I gurgled my thanks and then pushed myself away from the wicket.  A passport wasn't the only thing out of my reach; the only piece of identification I had was about as useful as a peanut-butter-smeared playing card.  The only good thing that happened that day was the money I saved on my passport photo.  Unfortunately, it was taken under considerable duress and I ended up looking like a cross between Raj Binder and John Baird.   

The following Monday I marched into my boss's office to report the bad news.

"That's it!"  I ranted in frustration.  "It's over!  I can't go!"

"Oh, you're going," he said in his own inimitable manner which I still kinda miss.

"IT'S...NOT...POSSIBLE!" I shouted back.  "I have no valid identification!  At all!  From what I've heard, those customs guys really don't need any extra incentive to bust out a cavity search!"

"Let me tell you something," he replied, matter-of-factly.  "You're going to this.  You see this email here?  It's got seven names on it including yours.  It doesn't say 'maybe David Pretty should come if he can possibly make it'.  This is a work-related event and your attendance is mandatory.  Yeah, you might end up detained in some holding cell  in JFK airport somewhere, but you're gonna try!  So if I was you I'd be gettin' a valid birth certificate pretty damned quick."     

This might sound harsh, Gentle Readers, but it was actually just the kick in the pants I needed to stop feeling sorry for myself and get things done.  Suddenly the glass seemed half-full.  Thanks to my boss and my helpful co-workers, I managed to expedite an application for a valid birth certificate.  In fact, it arrived in the mail just days prior to our departure.

Our flight was at 6:35 AM and I was too excited to sleep.  My boss picked us all up in style around 4:30 AM in a stretch limousine and en route I sipped away at a lethal home-made concoction of rum and coke.  By the time we got to the airport my bladder was the size of a novelty football.  Ah, back when I was young even more stupid then I am now.

Now, I'm not a big fan of wearing logo-tainted clothing but I made an exception on that particular occasion.  En route to the airport, my fellow employees dressed me up in every single company-related garment they could find: hat, jacket, t-shirt, trackpants, g-string: the whole magilla.  By the time we landed in Newark I looked like a corporate-sponsored Heaven's Gate cult member. 

In spite of my thorough disguise, my anxiety shot through the roof as we approached the immigration desk.   

"Stick close to us," my boss whispered.

"Just answer their questions and don't say anything else!" another warned.

"Whatever you do, don't look like you've got something to hide!" a third wailed.

"Shut up!"  I yelled back.  "Jesus, I'm nervous enough as it is!"

As our group fractured and wandered off towards the next available agent my terror level went into the red.  Hoping that I would still blend in as part of the group, I tried to linger behind my boss who was clad in similar apparel.  While everyone else cleared customs without a hitch and then coalesced on the "landed immigrant" side of the queue, I felt a sudden stab of panic when another officer motioned me for me to approach.  With my knees now threatening to buckle, I weaved my way over to him and practically crammed my papers into his downturned face.

"Hello!" I warbled, my voice sounding far too chipper in my own ear.

"Destination?" grunted the agent as he sifted through the sweat-stained documents.   

"Miami," I gulped.

"Purpose of your visit?"

"Business.  Sales conference," I replied.  Was it my imagination or did my voice just break as if I'd suddenly hit puberty?

The agent stopped jabbing his computer keyboard and started giving me the once over.  He finally seemed to notice that I was dressed up like a human NASCAR.

"How's business?" he asked.

My mouth worked silently for a moment.

"I...I'm sorry?"

"Business, how's business?" he demanded, a slight edge creeping into his voice.

"Oh, good, good!"  I babbled.  "I set up small to medium sized businesses with corporate accounts and then hand them over to account managers.  I've been averaging around eleven new registrations every month so things are going pretty good at the moment.  How about you?"

'Shut up, shut up, shut up,' my brain began to chide.

The immigration officer smiled tersely, turned back to his monitor, and clattered a few more keys.  Suddenly I was mired in some sort of weird time nexus, suspended in a prolonged moment of abject chronological purgatory.

Then, all of a sudden, the agent whipped out a stamp, hammered my declaration form, gathered my papers back together and handed it all back to me in a neat bundle.  Despite my initial flinch at the sound of the stamper, I shakily retrieved my documents, mumbled a quick 'Thanks' and then meandered away.

Just as we were all clear of the CHAMBER OF FEAR I was immediately swarmed by my jubilant peers.  For some odd reason, it was one of the happiest and most triumphant moments of my entire life.  I probably would have been even more elated if I knew what was to come.

But that's a story for another time...  

EPICALLY FUNNY In Karl's defense, Ricky Gervais is a bit of a sadist.  
  

EXISTENTIAL FAIL  Ever feel as if your grasp on existence is tenuous at best? 

Don't Worry, You'll Fix It In Post

Salutations, Subsequent Scribes!

True story, Star Wars almost killed its creator.

Due to a constant onslaught of one crisis after another, George Lucas nearly had a coronary while filming A New Hope.  While shooting on location in Tunisia, none of the robots would work.  A freak rainstorm destroyed half the sets.  Anthony Daniels, who played C-3PO, nearly died of heat prostration and had his own foot impaled by the costume.

Even after the production moved into the domesticated environs of Elstree Studios in London, Lucas's woes didn't end.  The seasoned British crew often looked down their nose upon the film's "kiddie" subject matter as well as its young, upstart American director.  Sometimes, after spending hours on a complicated set-up, George would be left apoplectic with rage when the entire crew suddenly decided to drop everything and have tea.  

Just when things couldn't get any worse, they did.  Lucas's startup special effects house Industrial Light and Magic hadn't lensed a single useable effects shot, despite having blown a million dollars well into production.  At the same time, Lucas was fighting a daily battle on set with veteran cinematographer Gil Taylor over the use of soft-focus lenses.  George wanted a dreamy, fairy-tale look for the film, but the prickly Taylor chafed under such specific orders.

Even the actors were overtly willful and contentious.  Kenny Baker, the little due inside R2-D2, fully expected the film to be a complete and utter disaster.  Harrison Ford was particularly critical of Lucas's dialogue, famously telling him "You can type this shit, George, but you can't say it!"  As a result, Lucas became even more depressed, withdrawn and uncommunicative.  Most of the time, his primary direction to the actors consisted of repeating "Faster, more intense!" over and over again.          

As the film started to go over budget and over schedule, another layer of pressure was introduced.  The bean counters at 20'th Century Fox gave the young director a terrifying ultimatum: either finish shooting the film within a week or the production would be shut down.  By splitting the crew into three separate shooting units, Lucas managed to finish principal photography just days before the plug was pulled.

During this particularly trying time, Lucas began to experience severe chest pains and shortness of breath.  Assuming that it was heart failure, George was rushed to the hospital where doctors diagnosed him with exhaustion and severe hypertension.  He was ordered to reduce his stress level and get some rest; two luxuries that he simply did not have.

To get the movie finished under such brutal time constraints, Lucas was often heard to say: "We gotta keep moving.  Don't worry, we'll fix it in post."  Sometimes I wonder if the young film-maker actually believed his own advice, especially after seeing the film's initial rough cut.  By all accounts, John Jympson's first edit of the film came as a crushing blow to Lucas.  It made the movie look like deleted footage from a cheap 70's T.V. cop show.

But slowly, inexorably, things did start to get fixed in post, just like he'd predicted.  ILM began delivering some groundbreaking special effects shots.  John William's grandiose score elevated the sometimes-cheesy material into the realm of myth.  And, most importantly, the masterful editing work by Paul Hirsch, Richard Chew and George's rarely-lauded ex-wife Marcia transformed the listless, boring footage into dynamic and exciting motion picture.  In fact, the trio would go on to win an Oscar for their efforts.

So what's the point of this extended title crawl?  Only this: the lesson contained herein is vital to every single writer.

Many a day I've dragged ass on a piece of writing because I'm totally convinced that what I'm writing is garbage.  But then, when I run it through two or three editorial passes, something magical happens.  First it becomes presentable, then it becomes palatable and then it become something pretty durned good.

For what it's worth: here's my current work flow:

1. Getting an Idea That's Worth The Trouble    Some may argue, with considerable evidence, that I'm not discriminating enough in this regard.  To this, I offer the eloquent rebuttal: cram it with walnuts, poncho.  Hey, at least I never have to deal with writers block, which, frankly, is the kiss of death for any writer as far as I'm concerned.  
2. Filtering Ideas Through A Pen Is Like Pumping Oil Through A Straw  As long as I've got  a stout cup of dark roast coffee in front of me I usually don't have any problem getting my ideas down on paper.  But the process is hideously inefficient and often results in wastage.  I think that's why most people despise the process of writing.  By the time they're done scratching up a journal or mashing their keyboard the Übermensch concepts frolicking around in their head come out looking like something in a David Lynch movie.
3. From Analog To Digital  I often subject myself to this additional step which I admittedly have  a love/hate relationship with.  Although I'm currently typing this directly onto Blogger's blank-white compositional face, I often do a first draft on looseleaf.  I usually do this with my "work-related" movie reviews but sometimes I just wanna write in a coffee shop and I don't want to drag my laptop along with me.  Sorry, but feverishly scribbling something onto filler paper always makes me feel like a kid again.  Even better, people look at me as if I'm going math problems with an abacus.  Despite this seemingly archaic method, I can usually expunge my ideas a lot quicker via these frenetic chicken scratchings then with the old hunt n' peck keyboard method.  To be perfectly candid, I actually hate typing stuff into a computer.  In fact, I despise it with all the fire of a million suns.         
4. Three Words: Fine Tooth Comb  Seriously, folks, this is where the magic happens.  To all the prospective writers out there: don't be discouraged if your first draft looks irredeemably stillborn and twisted.  You'll be surprised what three editorial passes will do for any nebulous chunk of poetry or prose.  On the first read-though, you'll wipe away the embryonic fluid and gently gather your fragile creation into your arms.  With the second bash, your ideas will shakily come to their feet like Bambi on ice, anxious to impress.  On the third and final brush-up, your brainchild will now be standing erect, hands on hips, with bright eyes beaming in a silent challenge to be appraised and appreciated.  

So, please, don't become despondent when you sit down to write something and it comes out all wonky.  Just tell yourself "Don't worry, I'll fix it in post."  It certainly worked out for Star Wars, didn't it?

Note to self RE: the Star Wars prequels: consider writing blog entry about the importance of collaborating with people more talented then yourself.  

EPIC EDIT  See, judicious trimming makes everything better!

EXCISE FAIL  Although her ample contributions to Star Wars have been excised from history like a member of the Politburo, fans really owe a debt of gratitude to Marcia Lucas.

The Wizard

Howdy, All You Fantasy Fans!

In 1933 a wide-eyed thirteen year old kid named Raymond Frederick Harryhausen saw the movie King Kong in theaters for the first of many times.  Above and beyond the film's breakneck pace and wild sense of adventure, Ray was completely be-spelled by the cinematic sorcery used to bring the giant ape to life.  This set the young movie-goer on a life-long quest to glean the secrets of this incredible illusion.  

He soon discovered that special effects maestro Willis O'Brien had used a technique called stop-motion animation to realize the mighty Kong.  This involved the creation of a super-realistic, fully-articulated model which could then be moved and photographed one frame at a time.  The work was beyond painstaking.  If the animator lost track of the character's actions, knocked over a part of the miniature set or experienced a lighting malfunction, he could very well lose hours or even days worth of work.

After decoding this arcane knowledge, Ray set about making his own short films.  Eventually he was introduced to his mentor, Willis O'Brien, who suggested that the young animator take anatomy courses to improve his model designs.  After heeding his advice, Ray eventually went to work for O'Brien as an assistant animator on his new giant ape picture Mighty Joe Young.  He was only twenty-seven years old at the time.

Over the course of the next forty years Ray Harryhausen was the primary creative force behind some of the most imaginative movies in cinema history, including:

The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms

It Came from Beneath the Sea

 Earth vs. the Flying Saucers

 20 Million Miles To Earth

The 7'th Voyage of Sinbad

Jason and the Argonauts

One Million Years B.C.

The Valley of Gwangi

The Golden Voyage of Sinbad

Sinbad and the Eye of the Tiger

Clash of the Titans

These films cast a creative spell upon generations of imaginative kids.  Upon first glance of Ray's indelible familiars, people like Rick Baker, Rob Bottin, Tim Burton, James Cameron, Joe Dante, Frank Darabont, Guillermo del Toro, Terry Gilliam, Peter Jackson, Joe Johnston, John Landis, George Lucas, Dennis Muren, Sam Raimi, Ivan Reitman, Steven Spielberg and Stan Winston were immediately entranced.  When these pop-culture pebbles were dropped into the ocean of collective unconsciousness, those childhood ripples of wonder resulted in a veritable tsunami of adult creative genius.    

I count myself amongst this hallowed company.  When I was only about four years old, I distinctly remember watching this clip from Jason and the Argonauts on T.V.:

I won't lie to you, Gentle Readers: it scared the ever-lovin' crap outta me.  Not because it was Green Slime scary but because I had no idea what I was watching.  I literally thought that this was some sort of  documentary film about some sort of giant living bronze colossus.  Like every other kid who witnesses something like this at an impressionable age, it resulted in a life-long love for all things fantasy.  Instantly I wanted to know how it was done and I needed to see everything related.

Unfortunately I grew up in a day and age when Ray's films had long-since left the marquee.  To make matters worse, VCR's were still in their infancy and the movies sitting on the shelf of my small-town video store were boringly pedestrian.  I had to content myself with pouring over stills of his creatures in Forrest J. Ackerman's Famous Monsters of Filmland or reading about them in movie books.

Which is why the release of Clash of the Titans was such a monumental event to me as a kid.  Finally, this was my chance to see Ray's mythical creations come to life on the big screen.  I certainly wasn't disappointed.  Calibos, the giant Vulture, Pegasus, Dioskilos, Medusa and the Kraken both thrilled and amazed me.  Inspired, I found a book about stop-motion animation in my school library, built some clay models and tried to make my own flick.  Unfortunately Super 8 film back then was w-a-a-a-a-y too expensive so I quickly had to set aside my cinematic aspirations.

As CGI began to develop it eventually usurped stop-motion animation as the primary method of monster creation.  Although digital technology can certainly be well-applied, it often feels about as cold and inconsequential as watching a video game cut-scene.  For example, after catching a few snippets of the recent Clash of the Titans remake I came away feeling distinctly sad.  Unlike Ray's menagerie of memorable monsters, the creatures populating this cynical cash-grab had only a fraction of the tangibility, charm, magic and personality.  

Every time critics accuse tech-obsessed directors like James Cameron and George Lucas of overusing CGI they often get the same response, as if saying it out loud over and over again will somehow make it true.  "Nothing in movies is real!" they always protest, "That building in the background is nothing but a big, flat, cardboard stand-up.  Walk behind it and you'll see a key grip eating a sandwich back there!"

That might make sense in their tech-addled brains, but it sounds downright idiotic to me when you think about it.  Back in 2010, hordes of lucky film fans who attended the "Myths And Legends Exhibition" got a chance to see Ray's stop-motion puppets first-hand.  Sorry, but at the end of the day, the giant scorpions in the Clash of the Titans remake are nothing but a bunch of pretty-looking ones and zeroes.  

Ray wasn't just a special effects wizard, he was the special effects wizard.  Check out the credits for all of these movies; he was literally the only person billed for the special effects.  In fact, he didn't even have an assistant until 1981.  For comparison's sake, stick around for the end credits of Iron Man 3 to see how many people it takes to do this same job now.

I'm sure Ray did what he did because he was entranced by his mentor's movie magic.  But, hopefully, he also knew how impactful his own creations were.  While spending countless hours in a Hollywood basement sweating under hot studio lights and moving rubber monsters around one millimeter at a time, I hope that he just how inspirational he was to countless other like-minded souls.   

Thank you, Ray.  Your creations charmed us, inspired us and kept our inner children alive and well.

Frankly, I can't think of a more apt definition of a master magician.     

 Raymond Frederick Harryhausen  

1920-2013

EPIC TRAILER  If this blog entry comes as a revelation, you may want to take that as a personal detriment and address it right away.  I don't know how many plaudits Ray received when he was alive but I'm pretty sure it wasn't enough.  Hopefully high-profile tributes like this will rectify that deficit...

EPIC MINI-DOC  "If you make fantasy too real, you make it more mundane..."

 

NOT-SO-SPECIAL EFFECTS FAIL  Derp, derp, derp...

Comic Book Confidential Issue # 2

Felicitations, Four-Color Fiends!

Remember back in December when I said that Detective # 450 was probably the first comic book I ever owned?  Well, I lied.  Not a deliberate fib to conceal the real truth that my first comic was actually an issue of Little Lulu but because I picked the wrong one to start writing about.

Y'see, at the tail end of last year I started thinking about my favorite superheroes and why I like them.  This inspired me to dig out my old comic collection to try and pinpoint the very first titles that my parents bought for me.  Now keep in mind, I would have gotten these back when I was only about four years old, so it definitely predates the whole self-aware, allowance-allocation phase of my existence.  

Unfortunately a few of those impressionable early issues have vanished, probably because they disintegrated after years of reading and re-reading them.  Regardless, I did my best to salvage and then inventory what I had left.  This, in turn, helped me to remember several key books that had long since vanished into oblivion.

By the time I was done, I had a rough list of about twenty individual comics.  I then went about cataloging each book's release date which eventually inspired this "Comic Book Confidential" series.  That's all well and good, but for some inexplicable reason, when it came time to write about my very first comic book, I inexplicably started with the wrong issue.  Detective #450 was originally published in August of 1975.  The book I'm about to talk about was published a full year earlier, in August of 1974.

I'm speaking, of course, of Batman # 257.

     
Sadly, this was one of those books that fell victim to childhood attrition, forcing me to re-acquire it last year while on vaycay in Salem, Massachusetts.  Even though I paid a helluva lot more then the original cover price, it was worth every penny.  

This was a actually a really cool run of issues.  From # 254 all the way up to # 262, the good folks at DC gave fans a twenty-page original story plus eighty bonus pages of classic reprints.  All of this for the low, low price of fifty or sixty beans.

The really great thing about these prototypical trade paperbacks is that they were compiled with a specific "theme" in mind.  For example, this one was billed as "Tales of Comedy and Tragedy".  And let me tell ya folks, they ain't whistlin' dixie.  One story might be incredible frivolous, bordering on stupid and the next would be positively gut-wrenching.  For an impressionable l'il shaver such as myself, it made for some pretty schizophrenic reading.

They don't make 'em like this anymore, kiddies.

This issue kicks off with what the cover describes as a "Penguin thriller".  Now, if that sounds like an oxymoron, I'm actually kinda with you.  In fact, up until recently I always thought that the Penguin was a useless one-percenter with a fetish for pelicans and a chronic case of gout.  But then I started playing Batman: Arkham City recently and realized that, in the right hands, any villain can be bad-ass, even someone as supremely lame as the Penguin.

The story begins with King Peeble (?) IV, the "twelve year old ruler of the kingdom of Swawak" arriving at Hudson University for a visit.  Ace college student and arrested-development superhero Dick Grayson is assigned to the unenviable task of taking this unctuous brat on a walkabout.  Looking like a pastier version of Hadji from Jonny Quest, this twerp quickly tells Dick to go pound sand right in the middle of his tour.

"Who cares?  I want to see 'malt shops' where the 'cats and chicks hang out' - just like in the American films!  I am interested in 'Sock Hops' and 'Beach Blanket Bingo'!"

Just as Dick is about to break the awkward news that Annette Funicello is dead, a flock of seagulls (?) decides to reference a different American movie by going all Hitchcockian on the crowd.  While Dick switches into his Robin-flavored Underoos, a helicopter suddenly appears from out of nowhere and snatches up the pint-size royal pain in the ass.  Fortunately, the Teen Wonder manages to capture and interrogate one of the kidnappers.

"Yeah, I'll tell ya, why not?" says the crook.

I guess with all that rampant individualism in the Late Sixties, it was hard to find loyal hired goons back then.  Almost immediately this mook starts squawking like a boiled canary.

"A lard-legged dude named Forster Aptenodytes payed us to put the snatch on the snot."

Welp, I suppose it's a better gig then putting snot in the snatch.  Ewwwwwww.

Armed with this convenient tidbit of info, Dick Grayson races back in the Batcave in his camper van / shaggin' wagon.  After a quick chin-wag, Robin's "guardian and mentor" recognizes "Forster Aptenodytes" as the scientific name "Aptenodytes Fosteri": the Emperor Penguin!

WORLD'S GREATEST DETECTIVE, bitches!

We then switch back to the Penguin's hideout where he's chiding King Weenus not to touch his "private pet", I.E. a fully-grown Emperor Penguin who seems to have a diaperless run of the place.  We soon learn that ol' Pengy is trying to ransom the little shit back to the Prime Minister of Swawak in exchange for dictatorial powers over the country.  Seems legit.

There's also an absolutely bangin' servant girl drifting around in the background who apparently likes to cosplay as Barbara Eden in I Dream of Genie.  Man, this book sure wears it's influences on its sleeve.  Anyway, this thinly-veiled chick (pun not intended) offers a big clue to her identity when she intervenes on behalf of the boy and whispers to him:

"Do not worry!  I've had experience dealing with evil!"  Hmmmmmmm...

Fast forward two days later and our heroes are about to storm the back door of a castle.

"You're sure the King is being held in his own Palace?" the Teen Titan wonders out aloud.

"I'll give you big odds he is," the Dark Knight returns. "Remember...the Penguin's...particularly fond of Edgar Alan Poe's Purloined Letter, the story about a missing paper that's where the hero least expects it - right in plain sight!  Also, the castle is called 'Lu Dlom' in the native language - meaning approximately 'Roost of Wings'."

Um, okay.

En route to the summit we get yet another prime dollop of foreshadowing when Batman and Robin pass by an eagle's nest with three ropes dangling nearby.

"I don't know what that means," Batman says, "But it gives me a chill!"  Testify, brotha.      

At the apex of the battlements we get six glorious panels that act as a pleasant contrast to the past three awesome-yet-relentlessly-dark Chris Nolan Batman flicks:

Meanwhile, inside the palace, King Weeble makes the mistake of bellyachin' about the cold during the Penguin's all-you-can-hork seafood buffet.  Monsieur Cobblepot earns a few brownie points with the reader by coming up with the following vicious verbal smack-down:

"Silence, motor-mouth!  We like the cold!  Whine again and I'll feed you to the eels!"  

While the "anonymous" servant girl demands that the pint-sized monarch be given a blanket, Batman watches intently from the wings:

"Her movements - fluid as quicksilver...unmistakably graceful - and the voice...like sun-warmed honey!  It's her!"

Before the Penguin has a chance to perforate the mystery girl, the Batman and Robin swoop in and relieve the villain of his trademark pointy umbrella.  After making short work of the remaining henchmen, our heroes make the mistake of underestimating Penguin's unconventional pet, who knocks them both out with a perfidious peck from his poisonous poker.  Oh well, at least they weren't taken out by something really embarrassing.  Like Calendar Man, for example.    

Just before they're both hauled off, the servant girl rushes in to comfort the unconscious Dark Knight.

"Darling!  Darling!" she says, vainly trying to rouse him.

"You're fond of him, eh?" the Penguin cackles.  "Excellent!  You'll join him at the Eagle's Nest.  You'll all three swing, suffer...and scream!"

Our dauntless heroes wake up to find themselves suspended from the very same ropes we saw earlier in the story.  Naturally this turns out to be a classic, irrationally-complicated deathtrap.

"What's the Penguin's program?" Robin asks plaintively.

"Observe the nest below - the infant eagles," the servant girl says.  "Their mother will return..."

"And she'll think we're threatening her little ones!  She'll claw us to ribbons!" Batman quickly concludes.

And that's when the big secret is revealed: the servant girl is actually Talia al Ghul, daughter of Batman's legendary nemesis Ra's al Ghul.  In a shameful (but still welcome) script convenience, Talia admits that she was posing as a servant to "learn the state of Swawak's treasure".  So, not only is this chick smokin' hawt, she's also honest to a fault.  Honestly, I have no idea what Batman's problem is.  If I was him, I'd hit that quicker then a super-villain with a glass jaw.    

Thanks to some incredible acrobatics, Robin manages to swing up to a higher ledge.  Suspecting that his whole "execution by eagle" scheme probably wasn't very practical after all, the Penguin grabs an M-16 (!) from a nearby guard and prepares to go all Charles Whitman on our heroes.

But then King Peabo Bryson's testicles finally drop and he attacks the Penguin just as the monacled creep is about to get a bead.  And how does he do that you may ask?  Does he punch him in his pointy nose?  Kick him in the shins?  Punt him in the cubes?  Nope, he  BITES THE PENGUIN ON THE F#@&ING FLIPPER.

He then hops up on the ledge and threatens to huck himself over if Cobblepot makes one false move.  This results in an immediate stalemate since, without the kid's signature, the Penguin's power play is kaput.

Meanwhile Robin uses a well-placed rock to the thyroid to stun poor momma eagle.  After seeing this panel for the first time ever as a four year old kid, I distinctly remember fighting the irrational desire to form PETA.

Then things go completely Batshit™ nuts.  Somehow our heroes manage to climb the ropes and get back up over the parapet.  In all the excitement, King Peabody falls off the wall but manages to get a grip on a "slim gap in the stones".  Then Batman starts doing what he does best: kicking Herculean amounts of ass.  Just look at this panel.  LOOK AT IT!!!

Note: expert use of shit-baked Penguin in extreme foreground.  

Finally it comes down to a mano-a-mano melee between Batman and the Penguin.  Do I even need to show you how that plays out?  Yes, because it's a whole lungful of awesome.

The final four panels are kinda bittersweet.  In a classic scene that's been replayed many times in their troubled relationship, Talia goes to speak to Batman but he totally blows her off:

"You came to Swawak to commit a crime!  You didn't...and you helped us prevent greater crimes.  Maybe... just maybe you've earned your freedom.  Leave, Talia!  Because if I turn around and you're still here, I'll have to make a decision that could ruin me!  For both of our sakes, go!  Please!"

Whoa, heavy, man.

Then things get even more pimp.  King Pebbles offers the Dynamic Duo "rubies...diamonds...anything!" (translation: loose womens) but Batman turns him down in style:

"No, your young majesty...any reward would be either too much...or not enough!"      

Leaving Robin to ponder: 'Hey, one of those diamonds would probably pay for my books this semester, you jerkstore!'

Writer Dennis O'Neil's appropriately melancholy text in the final panel serves as the perfect capper for this tale of "Comedy and Tragedy":

I loved this story.  It taught me several important things, namely:

(1)  Comic book characters can age.  Robin's in university here, which is kinda neat from a continuity point of view.  Hmmmmm, I wonder if he takes all of his dirty laundry back to Alfred every weekend?
(2)  The Penguin was cool enough to warrant me asking for his Mego action figure.  Unfortunately a large part of me still thinks that he's kind of a sad f#@k.
(3)  Don't underestimate a homicidal Emperor Penguin.
(4)  In a related point, sometimes it's okay to kill an animal when it's trying to rip your face off.
(5)  Comic book -- punctuation...is not -- always entirely...accurate.
(5)  ME LIKES GURLZ.  I mean, c'mon, look at this babe:

To this day, the Irv Novick / Dick Giordano image of Batman is still iconic to me.  Yes, I understand why movie Batman is always dressed head-to-toe in black.  Real-life bats are black, all-black is bad-ass, colors photograph light...blah, blah, blah.  But once, just once, I wanna see a cinematic Batman in a dark blue cape, cowl, boots and gloves, with dark gray body armor and a dark yellow belt and chest insignia.

Frankly, Hollywood would be stupid not to pursue this.  Chris Nolan's Batman was so dark, they really need to lighten things up a bit.  Not Batman & Robin or Batman the Movie light.  I'm talking about tapping directly into an aspect of the character that hasn't been covered very much.  And by "very much" I mean not at all.

I'm telling you right now: get Benedict Cumberbatch into weight training, stick him in a dark blue and gray Batsuit and start filming The World's Greatest Detective right the eff now.

Call me, Hollywood.  I can help you make this happen...     

EPIC COSTUME  C'mon, guys, try it.  Just once for me...

FEATHERED FAIL-URE  "The Penguin has chosen an older, heavier female, as he often does, to guarantee a mating..."

Will History's REAL Greatest Monster Please Stand Up?

Hey, Those-In-The-Know!

Take a look at the photo of the five living U.S. Presidents above, snapped yesterday during the dedication of the George W. Bush library.  What's the first thing that pops into your head?

Is it:

"Only these few men know what it's like to have the weight of the world on their shoulders and, as such, the camaraderie displayed in this photo is inherent for such a unique and rarefied brotherhood."

 Or:

"Has someone been moving the wax dummies around in the museum again?"

Or:

"Man, these guys are w-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-y too friggin' chummy with one another!"

Honestly, if I was Obama, vainly trying to extricate the country from the quagmire of poop it had been mired in by my predecessor, I would never attend an event designed to honor George W. Bush, much less pose in a photo with him.  In fact, if I was Obama, I would have sent the cops 'round to pick him up and then sent an A.P.B. out on Dick Cheney and Donald Rumsfeld for good measure.

But no, instead we've got these five bros, acting as if the world isn't going to hell in a handbasket and blissfully hangin' out with a dude who presided over the systemic dismantling of western society.  It's like going to a party and ignoring a massive turd bobbin' around in the punchbowl.

Suddenly I'm reminded of that early-90's episode of The Simpsons when they referred to Jimmy Carter as "history's greatest monster."

"MALAISE FOREVER"

Given Carter's single impotent term in which he failed to rally congress, free the American hostages, keep gas prices down and jump-start the economy, you can see why the Simpsons scribes made this hyperbolicious reference.  To bad they didn't know what was in store for us in another ten years.  In light of what Bush did, Carter looks like a friggin' paragon in comparison.

Hell, just compare the way both retired Presidents now spend their free time.  Carter's worked ceaselessly for Habitat for Humanity and has personally overseen the virtual eradication of the incredibly harmful guinea worm.  And what's Bush been doing all his time?  A spate of bath-time self-portraits, evidently.        

As I see it, there's only one way these supposedly polar-opposite, cyclical spoilers could possibly share the same space together without immediately getting into a Pier 6 donnybrook.

They're really all the same. 

That's right.  If you think that there's a whit of difference between contemporary Democrats and Republicans, then scooch a little closer and I'll straighten that sucker sign on your back.

Obama's a perfect example.  Just like every single sitting U.S. President since Lyndon B. Johnson, he and his party are nothing but shills for corporate interests and the military-industrial complex.  The only difference between Bush and Obama is that Obama is prettier, can string an sentence together and his powers of obfuscation are vastly superior.

Don't believe me?  Then just have a quick peek at his woefully-poor track record, most of which could very easily be mistaken for a Republican mandate:

1. He was slow to remove troops from Iraq and actually intensified the war in Afghanistan.  
2. He extended the National Defense Authorization Act and kept Gitmo open for bid'ness.   
3. Drones!  Drones!  Drones! 
4. He's proffered no market reform whatsoever in the wake of the clearly-engineered 2008 market crash.
5. He's enacted legislation that actually protects comedically evil corporations like Monsanto.   
6. He's secretly authorized the interception of ISP communiques, which is kind of illegal under current federal wiretapping laws.     

IMHO, there's no mystery as to why these guys so buddy-buddy with one another.  It's because they're two sides of the exact same Two-Faced coin.

Hey, Americans, do you really want to change your country?  Then stop voting for friggin' Democrats and Republicans!    

EPIC USE OF PHOTOSHOP:  God, why can't something this awesome be real? 

FAIL-URE OF CHOICE:  “Saddam posed too big a risk to ignore...the world was made safer by his removal.”