Best Movie, Science Fiction

This category gets a short shift in any awards ceremony. The old people who vote still probably do so by pen and then send the ballot via snail mail. They are not hip to technology. They, in fact, still use the word hip to describe something those newfangled gadgets the kids are playing with nowadays. There have occasionally been some sci-fi movies that garnered respect, Avatar, obviously comes to mind. (Side rant: Avatar was stupid. It was yet another example of the great white man coming in to save the nature-loving savages from their evil enemy, other greedy white people. The only difference is that this time, it was in 3-D with day-glo colors. James Cameron and his ego can go bite it.) But mostly, they are ignored.

A goods sci-fi movie has the same things any good movie in any genre should have: good plot, good script, good actors. However, it also needs good science and good internal logic. Inception had neither. If you think about that movie for more than a minute, you need a Tylenol. Lots of summer blockbusters are fun to watch, but don’t even try to be anything other than eye candy. I’m okay with that. But the best sci-fi movies create more than two hours of entertainment. They create worlds. They create a whole new way of seeing reality.

So, here are my top five. I am ignoring the obvious, standard choices such as Blade Runner and Alien mostly because they didn’t resonate with me.

1. The Matrix. Obvious, yes, but still worthy. I remember going to see this in the theater with a work buddy and having literally no idea what I was about to witness. I thought it was going to be a fun ride. It was so much more. The sequels may have been awful, but that original is a shining example of how to think big.

2. Dark City. This is my dark horse contender. It is deliriously weird, but creates a fascinating world where everything can change at a moment’s notice. It’s just cool. I know that isn’t exactly a Roger Ebert worthy review, but I don’t want to spoil any part of it for those who haven’t seen it. So go see it.

3. Serenity. My love of all things Whedon-esque is well documented. This movie, a love note to all the fans of the cancelled TV series, Firefly, was a fantastic way to bid farewell to our intrepid crew. I think it works as a stand-alone movie too though. It’s funny and sad and cool and fun and it even has a Buffy-Bot. What more could you possibly want out of a film?

4. The Abyss. Sure, Terminator is probably the best of Cameron, but Linda Hamilton’s Minnie Mouse voice drives me to distraction. Plus, I can never get my head around the chicken/egg conundrum of how John Conner had to send his dad to knock his mom up. I much prefer The Abyss. The ending sort of sucked (What happened to decompression?) but the very real fear of being trapped under the ocean and dying a slow, cold, wet death really hit home for me.

5. The Star Wars Trilogy. The original series, not the second set of movies and not any of the special edition versions George Lucas keeps releasing. Nope, I am talking about Luke, Vader, Leia, Han, Chewie, C-3PO, and R2-D2. These movies are part of my DNA. I still get my dad Star Wars related gifts and always will.

I may have very basic tastes and my geek cred might be in jeopardy, but the list stands.

Hijacked

I’ve hijacked my wife’s blog to use it as my own soapbox.

Consider this your fair warning – I recognize my wife is the superior talent when it comes to communication, be it verbal or written. I attempt here not to duplicate or replace, but simply borrow an established medium to vent.

Those of you who are regular followers of the blog are aware, I’m sure, that we have just moved into the home that we will, by the grace of God, finish raising our family in. We’re done. No more moves. No more real estate transactions, ever. I’ve said more than once in the past month that I’ll burn this fucker down before I pack another box.

But this isn’t about that. This is about me confronting my issues, and confessing to the cyber world my shortcomings. The entirety of that list is enormous, but there’s one that surpasses all others.

I hate stupid people. Not the normal, average, every day stupid people, but that segment of the population that really makes me question whether or not Darwin was wrong. The ones that really make you think, “How the hell do these people reproduce?” These are not the folks who stop at yield signs, nor are they the folks who use the 10 items or fewer lane to check out 45 items. These aren’t the morons who try to talk on cell phones in elevators, or the ignorant assholes who can’t seem to park between the white lines. I’m even willing to forgive those idiots who can’t merge onto the highway (it’s really simple, if you can’t figure it out, you probably shouldn’t be driving).

No, the ones who have me currently wishing for the ability to use the force to choke the living shit out of them, are the folks who answer the phones at my TV/Internet provider. It shouldn’t be all that difficult. I call, they answer, the issue gets resolved. Under no circumstances should it take 3 fucking weeks, 18 phone calls, 3 supervisors, 4 tech visits, 2 routers, and 4 set top boxes in order for me to watch a simple football game as I surf the web, and use the fucking DVR I am paying an arm and a leg for in order to record something for later viewing. Jimminy freakin Christmas!

I realize that this is, as my lovely wife would phrase it, a first world problem. There are many people throughout the world who don’t have enough to eat, a roof over their heads, or the freedom to make choices to try and enrich their lives. But none of them are reading this, and I can’t solve their problems today – cause I‘m too busy trying to figure out how to make my fucking TV work properly.

I am a college educated man, with a degree in engineering, and pretty well versed in most things technological. I actually have a soft spot in my heart for tech support folks - throughout my career, I’ve had some sort of Customer Service responsibility in just about every job I’ve had. During one fateful late night support call, I actually had to utter the words “Is the CD in the drive?” I get it – people are stupid, and when I was on the other end of the line, it was always the moron calling in who couldn’t find his ass with both hands and a map.

But really – where the fuck do they find these people? Isn’t unemployment still at 9.something percent? Why the hell are the people at my internet provider still employed? Are there no better qualified people out there? There has to be – it’s statistically impossible for all the unemployed folks to be stupider than these guys. How fucking hard is it to get dispatch on the other line and find out when the tech will be at my house? You’ve got e-mail, instant messaging, chat, text messaging, a multi-line phone system, and can’t get through to an internal department? Jezzus – please tell me you are sterile.

Also, when I get transferred to another department, why the hell do I have to re-verify my name, account number, address where the service is installed, e-mail address, and alternate phone number to contact me in case we are disconnected? I’ve seen CRM systems from the other side – they not only know all that, but my shoe size, what I’ve had for breakfast and the last time I got laid. Don’t make me fucking go through the entire script again – use the information in the system – it’s not like we’re passing Post-It notes around with a name scribbled on it.

And I sure as shit should not have to describe the problem I am currently experiencing. If the first fucker didn’t note the problem with enough detail, then go ask him – I’m tired of reciting the same facts over and over again. I’m not lying, you’re not fucking Matlock, and this isn’t a murder case. My freaking cable’s out – fix it.

And goddamn it, you can see that this the 15th time I’ve called in the past three weeks – don’t you think the previous 14 people had me unplug the box, wait 15 seconds, and plug it back in? Or do you just assume that the previous idiots didn’t know what they were doing either? I’m sure you were listening when I told you that I have three other boxes, my original and two replacements that you have already sent – and it still doesn’t work. What makes you think that the box that you send out is going to work? What part of “DON’T SEND ME ANOTHER BOX” did you not understand? Please, don’t have kids – just buy a dog instead.

In the end, it turned out to be crossed wires. Literally – wires plugged into the wrong hole. Why it took 4 visits, 18 phone calls, 4 set box boxes, 2 routers, 3 supervisors and 3 weeks to figure this out, I don’t know. But I do know that all the time I invested in this first world problem of mine is time I will never get back. Let that be a lesson to you all –when all else fails, unplug all the wires and start over.

Jessie's Girl

I have a friend, let’s call her Etsy, that is really, really into 80’s rockers. Her Top Five starts with Tommy Lee and goes downhill from there. Tommy Lee. A man I wouldn’t touch with a HAZMAT suit, who is probably a case study in STD’s, and is the textbook definition of “skeevy.” If a guy looks like a coked out death zombie with bad hair and who hasn’t bathed since Reagan was in office, Etsy will gleefully throw her panties at him.

Etsy just went to see Rick Springfield. She gleefully posted pictures of herself rubbing his sweaty back. (I hope there is a shot for that.) Now, let’s do a little math. Jessie’s Girl came out in 1981. Giving old Rick the benefit of the doubt that the girl in question (never named, because let’s face it, the fact that she is Jessie’s is what makes her desirable, not any actual quality she possesses in her own right) was of legal age and you add the full thirty years since that song came out, then if I do my math right, Jessie’s girl is getting ready to turn 50. Do you feel old yet?

What I wonder is this - what do those aging rockers see when they look into the current crowd? Back in their heyday, their fans were bra-less teenagers and come hither 20-somethings. Now? Not so much. There isn’t a bra in the world that could help most of his current fans pass the pencil test. That goes for all the aging rockers out there. I went to see Duran Duran back in college. Even back in those dark ages, we thought they were retro - and they are still touring! Can you imagine night after night after night after night having to sing the same songs, with the same level of enthusiasm, all while watching your audience creep toward middle age right along with you? That’s got to be a level of hell created solely for musicians.

For nostalgia purposes, let’s discuss New Kids On The Block. I wasn’t into them, but many of my friends were. They were only a few years older, so their concerts must have looked like all-you-could-shag buffets. What did it look like this past summer? I can’t imagine they gained a new crop of teenage fans, so it’s those same women who had their posters on the wall all those years ago, relieving their high school years singing along to all the worlds. That buffet must look pretty damn unappetizing.

So, do you think they rockers play make believe? Do you think they still send out security to find the youngest, prettiest girls to send back to their dressing rooms? The ones who still think sleeping with Rick Springfield would be a notch on their bedpost and not an immediate appointment to a clinic? I know half of them must be married by now, with kids, and the only thing they find interesting in their fans pants is their wallets. But the other half, the ones with the plastic faces that barely move who still struggle into leather pants and vests? How much longer can Rick look out into the crowd and sing about Jessie’s girl without said girl being hauled up onstage in a wheelchair?

It’s a sad, sad fate to be an aging rocker. Sadder still to be Etsy, the girl whose love for them will never, ever die.

Thank You

I have obviously invented moving with children. At least, that is how I acted. While it was an onerous process that lasted over a year, the reality is that I sold my home in the worst real estate market in decades, without losing money, and managed to purchase my dream home in a fantastic location for an excellent price through the services of the best real estate agent ever. Overall, I have nothing to complain about.

However, that didn’t stop me from whining about it from start to finish. I have friends who moved while pregnant, who moved across state lines while pregnant AND starting new jobs, and who moved across state line while pregnant AND whose husband’s new job required his overseas deployment to a hot, sandy place. While my husband did change jobs (twice!) during the year, both were at his own choice. Sure, it added to the stress of life, but what doesn’t?

But I bitched, and I moaned, and then I bitched and moaned so more, and then, during the last two weeks, I bored people to tears with the intricacies of environmental law. (Did I mention my dream home came with its own 10-ton pile of contaminated dirt?) I practically put out hourly reports on the status of my packing and unpacking, and acted, as a whole, as if my real estate transaction was of monumental significance to many instead of just significant to me. In short, I was a right ass.

Thankfully, I have a legion of wonderful friends who never complained about my admittedly self-centered behavior. They allowed me to vent. They offered advice, opinions, and options. They cared for and fed my children when I needed time to get stuff done. They acted as lawyers, counselors, design experts, and handy men. They put a beer in one hand and a slice of pizza in the other when the stress of selling/buying was done but the stress of moving/unpacking had yet to begin. They sent encouraging texts, e-mails, and FB posts. They got my kids from point A to point B when I wasn’t able to ferry them myself. They brought donuts. They brought cards. They literally plucked my crying son out of my arms and brought him into his classroom. They brought history books on my new neighborhood. My husband affectionately refers to this group of people as the Gaggle. If it weren’t for the Gaggle, I never would have survived the past year. In fact, without the Gaggle, I wouldn't have survived the past five years. I love the Gaggle

Without family, I wouldn’t have survived move-in weekend. Seeing all of your stuff in boxes, piled high, room after room is both exhilarating and overwhelming. Where the hell does it all go? And how the hell do I put it away without tripping over a kid? Eldest BIL and SIL to the rescue! They took the kids out in style, spoiling them rotten and giving them a day of fun to remember. Youngest BIL and SIL did just as much heavy lifting by literally doing the heavy lifting. Forty boxes of books, six crates of Christmas decorations and several boxes simply marked “misc. attic” were all hauled in during a day of high humidity. Plus, as an added bonus I got to give hours of unsolicited advice to my pregnant SIL. A captive audience! Fun!

So, what have I learned during the last year of my life? First off, that I am incredibly lucky. I didn’t grow up in this area. I only moved here eight years ago, knowing no one and nothing. But now, less than a decade later, I am rich with friends. I have The Gaggle, many of them strangers I met at library story time, whom I could now call in the middle of the night in an emergency. I have people who have helped me in innumerable ways for no reason other than they wanted to help. They weren’t looking for thanks. They weren’t looking for anything other than a way to help a friend. And to all of you, I say thank you. Sincerely and utterly, thank you.

I will now never utter the words real estate, closing, or moving ever, ever gain. You’re welcome. ;)

A House is Not a Home

A little over a year ago, we decided to sell our house. That first moment, when we started to take some of the art off the walls, when we started to put all our books in boxes, and when we started to anticipate moving our family, was when our house stopped being our home.

It’s weird, that first showing, when you realize someone is going to walk into your house, the place where you raised your babies, where you make late breakfast on Sundays, where you walk around naked after a shower, and consider whether they want it for their own. They are going to look at your nursery, with all the animals inexpertly hand-painted on the walls and consider what color they will paint over it. The room you sat and rocked a child in, night after night, for years, is suddenly going to be childless. There will be no nightlight softly illuminating its walls, no music box adding birdsong and falling water to the darkness. I have spent more time in that room than any other, soothing, changing, comforting, loving, reading, and playing with my children. I taught my children that their bedrooms were safe havens, places of shelter from storms, nightmares, and the world outside. My son, with his animals smiling down on him, my daughter, with her princesses watching over her will now have to get used to new configurations of light on their walls, new sounds of night falling outside their windows, and a new path to the bathroom.

Before the endless packing started and the walls started to close in due to all the boxes, I could walk around my house in a blindfold and never bump into a wall. I knew where the furniture was placed, which step was last before the floor, how wide the bathroom door was left open all by sense of touch. I always thought that in case of emergency, it would be effortless to grab what I needed and get out because it was placed in the same spot night after night. How long will it take me to find my way in my new home? How long before I understand its configuration without stubbed toes and muffled curses? When I won’t need to turn on a light to wander downstairs for a late-night drink out of the fridge?

In a home, everything has a place. Your keys go here, your shoes go there. This shelf holds boxes of pasta, that shelf holds the olive oil. You know where to find a flashlight when the power goes out, and how far to turn on the hose when the sun comes out. Right now, I feel like I am living in a really crappy hotel. It has only the most rudimentary supplies, nothing has a place, and everything feels temporary.

While I will miss the quiet stability of this house, I am quite looking forward to the adventure of the new one. The first trip to Target will be epic. After years of bemoaning the lack of counter space, the closeness of quarters, it will be nice to have a little more elbow room. I already live so much of my life in the new town that the move will be more of a homecoming than a farewell.

For seven of the eight years in this home, my job has been my kids. So when we pull into the new one, with real oak floors instead of laminate, with a stone façade instead of siding, with real wood-burning fireplaces instead of push-button gas ones, with windows and skylights and porches galore, I hope my husband feels proud of what he has accomplished for his family. I hope he surveys his expanded little kingdom and is happy. I know I will be. That house, with its unknown corners and undiscovered delights, is going to be our new home.

And the Best Picture Goes to . . .

It is now time to move on to the best movies, drama category. This one gets tricky. Do I go for movies that were utterly fantastic but that I never, ever, ever want to watch again? Back in college, we did a double header of Dead Man Walking and Leaving Las Vegas. It was the most depressing night of my life, and made me want to both drink and kill myself, but damn, those were good movies. Do I choose style over substance and put Snow Falling on Cedars on the list, which I still remember as being the most beautifully shot movie I have ever seen. I wanted to crawl into that cinematography and live there forever. Do I stick to the official Oscar winner list, or veer off into Independent Spirit and BAFTA winners? How about movies that were perfect upon first viewing, but I know would fall apart upon repeat viewing such as Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and Inception? Or do those two go into the best movie, sci-fi category? Does animation count? If so, then WALL-E deserves a spot on the list. Do I stick to made in America, or do I include foreign films? Decisions, decisions.

In the end, I picked movies that stuck with me, like a good stew, adding weight to my life. They may not be your choices, but they are mine.

(I will note that like most of my top comedic choices, my husband either hates these movies or has never seen them. How we have survived our entire marriage with only one television is a mystery to both of us.)

So, in no particular order, here are my top five movies, drama.

1. Heavenly Creatures. I still remember watching this for the first time. (Hi MJ!) It is visually stunning, emotionally upsetting, and features Kate Winslet’s debut performance on film. It is based on a true story about two teenage girls who formed an unusually strong attachment to each other and committed murder in order to keep from being separated. It sounds blah on paper, but in execution, it is fantastic. Trust me.

2. Schindler’s List. Obviously, this movie is just a tad depressing. A bit, really. Some of the scenes are almost painful to watch, they are so horrifying. However, the performances are all around stunning. Ralph Fiennes made being a sociopath look good. Plus, I think a large part of my love for this movie comes from Liam Neeson as Schindler. In every scene, he looms large, he cannot be ignored, even just sitting quietly, he is riveting.

3. The Godfather, Part II. This movie is better than Part I because of Fredo. Plus, there is no whiny Italian bride wasting any of my time. God, that woman was shrill. The second movie in the trilogy (which should have been the last), really gets you invested in past Vito and present Michael and shows that it really is all about who you can trust.

4. Goodfellas. The end all and be all of mob movies. If the Godfather is the epic tale of one family’s rise to prominence in the world of the mafia, Goodfellas is the down and dirty story of one guy in the mob. Sounds similar, but they couldn’t be more different. Joe Pesci manages to be horrifying and hilarious all in the same line reading, leading to some incredibly quotable lines of dialogue.

5. The Age of Innocence. I hemmed and hawed about this one, but I watched it practically on repeat and loved it every single time. If Joanne Woodward could narrate my life with the same dry wit and eye toward detail, I would be a very happy person indeed. In fact, I think it is the narration that sells it for me. It’s a simple story about repressed love in early New York society, which sounds tedious, but it actually quite torrid. No one gets nekkid and the ending is heart-breaking, but the actors sell it, even Winona Ryder.

So, once again, agree, disagree, just watch them at least once.

The Day the Earth Stopped Standing Still

Look, I realize that for many millions of people around the world, an earthquake is just another day in paradise. But for the East Coast, they just don’t happen. It’s like being on a lake and watching a great white eat a water skier. It could happen, it just doesn’t. It’s not on the level of having the Loch Ness monster suddenly pop up and ask for an interview, but it is pretty damn close.

I happened to be sitting at my desk in the back room of my home. I had guys working under the house on my crawlspace all day. My kids were upstairs watching a movie. Quite suddenly, my desk started to shake. My initial thought was that it was the guys under the house. As I started to make my way through my kitchen and down the hallway to my front door, the entire house started shaking around me and there was n noise somewhere between the growl of wolves and the odd sound of wood under pressure. Walking through the hall, I felt like I was in a horror movie – things seemed so much slower, everything was in Shaky-cam, and the hallway seemed to go on forever. I realized I wasn’t having some sort of massive dizzy spell/psychotic break when I heard my daughter crying from upstairs. Surely, she and I were not hallucinating at the same time. By the time I made it out the front door with my daughter by my side, my mailbox (built on top of a pole) was swaying as if in a stiff breeze. The guys in the truck looked at me like I was nuts when I asked them if they had just caused my house to shake. Only when the neighbor came out looking as surprised as I was did I realize it probably wasn’t the contractors.

I know it didn’t take long, didn’t do any damage, didn’t hurt anyone, but what it did do was shake me to my core. I have taught my kids that home is a safe place. It doesn’t matter what type of storm is raging outside. Under my roof, within my walls, with me and my husband, they are safe and sound. And then the walls shook.

It took me all day to get my equilibrium back. Now, I know Left Coasters can “stir their coffee with a 5.8”. That’s great. But us East Coaster’s are considered more grounded for a reason: because our ground doesn’t shake. It has always been firm beneath our feet. I don’t think there were any hysterics, no holy men coming forward to proclaim that the end was near and that it was time to sacrifice a goat to appease the dogs. Well, except for my husband, and he was just hoping to forestall Hurricane Irene from ruining our coastal vacation this week. In fact, the coolest part of the experience is how much we all shared it. Facebook lit up like a Christmas tree. The Twitterverse went nuts. With cell phone towers jammed, texting became the communication of choice with my husband and his family. Sure, we didn’t need to check in with each other. The already infamous picture of one plastic lawn chair out of four being knocked over by the jolt does indeed give the right picture of how minor the quake really was. However, we weren’t calling to find out if our houses were still standing; we were calling to share stories.

Let’s be honest. The earth should only move for some very specific occasions: great sex, powerful thunder, bombs, and nearness to public transportation. If you were lucky enough to be getting lucky when the quake moved the world, then I hope you enjoyed it. You’ll never have better again. If you were unlucky enough to be driving or in motion enough that you missed the motion of plates shifting, then I am sorry for you. You missed out on an experience that will hopefully never be repeated. A moment when a dozen states, with countless millions of people, all stopped at the same moment in time and thought, “What the fuck?”