» Fringe Blog – Writing on Film, Culture, and Things on the Fringe

A Slight Change in Wording

jelewis8 — Thu, 14 Feb 2008 23:02:06 +0000

It’s time to say what is surely on the hearts, tips, tongues, lips, and toes of everyone who has encountered the shameful farce of Valentine’s Day:
Is Western Culture this desperate?
The answer, in case you want to skip the diatribe below, is yes. Congratulations. You may now go home and bump the mattress with your spouse (pre-sexing not endorsed on this blog) or nuzzle with your puppy and pretend it’s a significant other. (Cats are naturally unfazed by feelings of amorous delight, so attempting to show them affection may result in your disembowelment. Keep away from the feline.) If utterly desperate, one may seek solace by dry humping the corner of the couch. It will, however, only make you feel more embittered and dirty, not to mention disgust your roommate(s). On second thought, don’t hump the couch.
We live in an age where fetid feelings of infatuation pass as meaningful. We came to believe that our emotions were tantamount to reality, and since the height of emotional consumerism is Valentine’s Day, our belief in the power of the V has since reached epic proportions.
What if Valentine’s Day was renamed as Vagina Day? There you have a cut-and-dried, no-nonsense holiday without a hint of remorse or obfuscation. Coming from the perspective of a male, who is required by law to pamper and cosset the lust of his life within an inch or two of hers, Valentine’s Day boils down to one thing–a social exchange of goods for service. Economically speaking, at its basest point, the gettin’ it on makes the gettin’ of chocolates/ flowers/ candy/ cards all worth it. Guys don’t care about the flair and circumstance. They don’t need or want the cards and candy. But they really appreciate the physical exchange that may take place after the end of a long and emotionally exhausting day.

From a female perspective, I can see how Vagina Day might not be the popular alternative to what is traditionally “their” holiday. So in a bid to make things more equitable and satisfactory to the fairer sex, I propose instead the following:
No Expectations Day. Defining it as a Day will instill the proper attention it warrants (very little), and the ones who deserve it will receive their love in heart-shaped boxes. The ones who need it will have to work through that need to get to the root of their feelings. The ones who don’t need it will simply accept what happens, because they are not coddled by simpering commercialization of romance anyway. And they will find themselves on the receiving end of their partner’s truest expression of appreciation and devotion, uninfluenced by the possibilities of mattress olympics.
For those who don’t have love in their life, the day will pass like any other, their expectations unchanged from the day before. They will seize the moment, the Day no longer having the power to constrict their happiness.
And for Western Culture, a subtle redefinition of what it means to be in love may occur. At the very least, it will convert those cynical enough to write anti-Valentine’s Day screeds every year into suspicious but acquiescent fellows and ladies.
May that be so. For now, Happy Anti-Valentine’s Day.

Something Sweet This Way Comes

jelewis8 — Fri, 28 Jul 2006 15:29:10 +0000

There’s an uncanny feeling you get when you know something’s about to change. It’s not at all like when you try and squeeze off a silent and hopefully non-lethal bit of stinky wind and realize you’ve squeezed a little too hard–that’s mild shame and even a bit of disappointment (“I thought I was in control here”), mixed with the usual run of regret (“Why did I think that wouldn’t happen?”) and disgust. Nor is it like the anticipation you feel before going on a trip, though it’s more in that vein. That’s a peculiar momentum of emotion, one that is neither happy nor sad, but looking forward to new sights and smells and the dissembling the anger over rising gas prices, knowing it’s not really the gas company’s fault, but simply a factor in the global exchange of products and services, which really took off in the 1800′s, when commerce on a global scale became the known reality. Hard to think that gas prices today were set in motion by some guy who invented the steam engine a few hundred years ago. Then again, it’s all money in or out of the hand anyway, and you could argue your way back to Adam and Eve if you wanted to, claiming that if God hadn’t invented fruit, we wouldn’t have Israel and Hezbollah going at it like two kindergarteners in a sandbox.
Whoa, way off track. That uncanny feeling, the feeling of change I am experiencing, probably has a French word to describe it, a word that carries within it all the necessary definitive properties, without actually containing any descriptives. Like deja vu. You know exactly what it is. Even if you don’t, because you’ve had it before. Like now. You’ve read this Fringe post before!
Anyway, I woke up feeling the world was the same old stinky grey tenement, but I was strangely satisfied, understanding that it was only temporary. I am not sure if the feeling comes from knowing I’ll be seeing sunny weather within an hour or two. No matter the source or the expectations, I feel that change is in the air. There’s probably a thousand Broadway songs that have been written about this topic, but none with this particular brand of sweetness.
I finished up the script I’ve been slavering over like a canine with a bone of contention, confident in the last 110 pages, not so much at the first 15. That’s the most important part, in a way, because it sets the expectations for the rest of the script. Anyone who decides to read past that first rough patch may find the rest a larf, but will they make it that far? So instead of sending it out like I am prone to doing, straight out of the gate, I’ve held onto it. But I haven’t looked at it. I’m letting it germinate. I’ll go back to it fresh, see what sprouts. The hand of God, perhaps.
So in the meantime, good things come to those who jog patiently. Waiting is for suckers, at least in this town. I’m jumping back into the novel, and will (I state that emphatically, though minus italics, despite the fact that it’s easier to use them than type all this, and looks better too) finish before the end of August. I’m also waiting to hear back from a potential animation job (who would have thunk it–me in animation?) that could be worth a few clams, and I also have the usual run of little freelance gigs that have somehow kept me afloat.
I’ve been here a year, and things have, in some ways, greatly changed. Other things are no different than they were when I last looked at my bank statement. But there’s that old feeling again. I know something’s up. I don’t know what it is, but I feel hope and Spring and hear the vague sound of cash registers. Though it might just be church bells. Something’s in the wind, and it smells perfectly sweet.
Have a great weekend, I’ll see you Monday.

YR L1CNS 1S RTRDD

jelewis8 — Thu, 27 Jan 2005 08:09:40 +0000

I’ve nearly had it with people who put the kind of car they drive on their license plates. In fact, my disgust with these kinds of people goes beyond my dislike for the jerks who put those “My kid is an honor roll student at Milk Dud High School” stickers on their bumpers. Like we care!
No, I’m not some mean old man who’s grown bitter and tired of the world. In fact I am a young man who’se grown bitter and tired of the world (on Tuesdays, at least). I find both practices patently offensive to intelligence, common sense, and rules of nomenclature. We know you have a Dodge Viper because it says so in chrome letters on your bum. Is there really a need to reassure me that you do indeed have a Dodge Viper by putting VIP3R on your license plate?
The fact that you used a 3 for the E means that some other idiot already took VIPER. That should have been your first clue that this would wind up on some anonymous blogger’s site. If you read Time Magazine (which you don’t, you’re not the type, I can tell by your license plate), you’d know that bloggers are a powerful force. We can wreck your life. You don’t want to get on our bad side.
Your second clue should have been the look the DMV lady gave you when you requested that sequence of letters. Those DMV clerks can smell pathetic before you even take a number, and believe me, they smelled it on you like cheap cologne from Bath and Body Works:
Looking for an enhancer for that lame Emo bullcrap you call a persona? This time, wrap yourself in the alluring scent of Loser. This whiny, freshman underoo cologne combines the irritating musk of your first failed sports tryout, the dungpile fragrance of all of your romantic failures, and a mealy-mouth, butt-kissing office jockey stench that will surely leave you breathless with pathetic gasps for air through your tiny, malformed lung tissue. It debuts on your birthday — to commemorate the day the world’s biggest wiener was born — and will be available in any cheap outlet store or your favorite body care and home fragrance essentials shop. When you want to smell like you, choose to Lose with Loser Scent and accompanying soaps and shampoo.
The last clue, and most glaringly obvious one, was the fact that you thought it was a good idea to put VIP3R on your license plate. What have I told you before? Any thought that starts with “I think this would be a good idea” should immediately be jailed, sentenced, and then drawn and quartered in a very public ceremony that will leave all other stupid thoughts quaking in mortal fear of being sent up the pike in a similar style. Get it!?
Now when it comes to vanity plates, one must approach with care and caution. Not every vanity plate must be funny, but it should be a socially viable message, ie. one that most of the driving populace can “get” and appreciate, if not admire. This means no plates with your initials and those of your lover/partner/driving instructor. I’m serious. It must contain the most amount of information in the space provided, and must be clever. In other words, B0BSCKS is lame.
TI 3V0M, on the other hand, is exceedingly clever, as the full weight of its message is only appreciated when looking at it in the rear view mirror.
When possible, you must form a vanity plate that contains multiple meanings. Entendres are clever, as are personal intents that become, by dint of social perceptions, jokes and teasers.
Here’s one I like: NDFLMKR
There’s two, maybe even three legitimate conclusions you could draw from this plate. It’s got mystery, but also style and a sense of confidence that proves that the driver of this car–a 1990 Honda Civic, in this case–isn’t afraid to bare his passion, his soul, and possibly his body in pursuit of the noble art of cinema. Or it might just be that he’s from North Dakota. Alas, neither of those explanations is true (there is a third alternative), but are examples of a private life becoming a public joke.
I won’t tell you how I know all this, I’ll just say that one gets more questions regarding said license plate in parking lots and at traffic lights than you will believe.
All this is to say: if you’re going to remind us all what kind of car you drive by putting the make and model of it on the license plate, don’t be surprised if you find yourself the subject of ridicule on some guy’s website somewhere. If you’re contemplating making this socially suicidal move, just think:
It could be you. And you really, really don’t want it to be you.