NO MORE SUGAR
The early morning sunlight flashed a golden amber as it caught the descending ribbons of maple syrup. The sauce fell in drizzling ropes, first onto a perfectly square pat of creamy butter, and then, unable to contain it’s morass of molasse, it slowly dripped off the sides of the immaculately browned and fluffy stack of pillow-soft pancakes. And with one final squeeze, city councilman Glenn Headwidth had knowingly, and shamefully, dispensed the last drop of sugar in the whole city of Lakeburg onto his breakfast.
There was no more sugar in Lakeburg. What had originally appeared to be a small hiccup in the computers had turned into a riot inducing hellscape; where sugar was like meth, and every citizen of Lakeburg, a methhead. Teenagers, whose storied apathy had been the clarion call to couches for decades, now sprung into militant and frightfully organized action. Single mothers, who had relied on confectionary induced comas to free their afternoons, became baggy-eyed warriors, fighting to replace the saccharine laced sanctity of peaceful, although chemically altered, sleeping children. Systems of bribery and cajolement, utilized by parents and nannies relying on an endless supply of sugar to work as tender, crumbled and what took over was nothing short of anarchic entropy with a slight inclination for the formation of mobs, usually of the lynching variety. Bands of concerned and cracked-out neighbors gathered together, roaming the streets, armed with weed whackers and garden shovels, hunting for any trace elements of the sweetness that once flowed like fountain drinks.
Daytime news anchors began trolling the conflagrated neighborhoods, looking for truly newsworthy distress. In some cases, the tv personalities were using stray packets of Splenda to illicit information they hoped would make for historic news coverage. Several people, convinced of the futility of a continued life without the considerations of a cassonade, immolated themselves in front of the Little Debbie distribution center on Front St. A heap of burning corpses smoldered upon the driveway, blocking access to the center. The continued production of all those cakes and cookies would be in jeopardy without workers, but manpower wasn’t the missing ingredient; what was needed was sugar, something that no one had in Lakeburg. At least, no one was outwardly advertising that they had sugar.
As city councilman Glenn Headwidth ate the final bite of his breakfast with satisfaction, he heard a thunderous pounding at his door. As he approached, he heard the unmistakable and agitated sounds of an angered crowd. Open handed and forceful, the people slammed the councilman’s door, concerned with the local governmental response to this problem. Or the lack thereof. Wondering if answering the door was the right decision, Glenn hesitated with his hand on the doorknob. If he didn’t answer the door, they might think he was not inside. They might move on. He waited as the crowd’s anger slowly rose in intensity. There were shouts outside,
“I can smell it! It smells like pancakes god damnit!”
As the crowd realized that syrup was a key aspect to pancake enjoyment, and syrup was mostly sugar, the noise and anger surged mightily. He backed away from the door and stared at his entryway, open mouthed and stupid. His hands searched his robe absentmindedly; half like he was looking for his car keys, and half proprioceptively reminding himself that yes, he was inside of his body and yes, this was real life. Glenn put his hand on his face and was terrified to find little chunks of syrup and tasty crumbs of pancake stuck to his stupid mouth. He quickly wiped off the incriminating crust and started to form a plan inside of his head. Remembering that his cool rationale, even-handed ability to control crowds, and well-versed persona had seen him through 4 non-contested re-elections, Councilman Headwidth bravely resolved to open the door.
As his hand gripped the doorknob, 613 buckshot splintered their way through his door and viciously embedded themselves throughout his face and torso, effectively ending both his life and his questions about what kind of reception he would receive from the angry mob. With the door jamb blown away, the mob entered Councilman Headwidth’s house, to find the robed official in a bloodsoaked heap of terrycloth, gun smoke and sinew.
Walking slowly towards the body, as if not to wake it up, an elderly member of the mob leaned over and in frustration, addressed the man with the shotgun.
“Well for God sake’s Travis, you shot the alderman!” He drawled, poking at the heap.
“And just how in the hell was I supposed to know he would be directly on the other side of the door? He musta heard us coming." Travis quipped back, shouldering his gun.
He stood, perhaps not as proud as a big game hunter, but as a man who had used his firearm for it’s ultimate purpose, and that, was something. He continued,
“He shouldn't even be here! He should be doing whatever it is that he usually does! His ass should be in Town Hall, or checking drill sites for permits, or...hell I don’t know. He should definitely not be sneaking around his own damned house!"
An investigative branch of the mob had detached and began rummaging through the recently deceased’s kitchen cupboards. There were the sounds of frantic searching followed by loud curses. One of the investigators had found something. The kitchen door swung open and in the hand of a waifish old lady, who was diabetic and had no active need for sugar like the rest and was just along for the ride, was the empty squeeze bottle of Aunt Jemima.
“Councilman Headwidth was holding!” She yelled, clutching the empty bottle with punctuation.
“He deserved what he got.” Travis said with finality. “In a bigger sense.”
Travis’s self-affirmation and absolvement from shooting an unarmed man for eating pancakes seemed almost right. But a lot of things “seemed” on that day.
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
Thursday, October 11, 2012
Finger Exercise #2 - "Key Foods"
By the time I had arrived, the scene had progressed from mild frustration, to regular frustration. The aisles in NY grocery stores only yield so many passing lanes and due to the produce man’s cart of assorted lettuces, the way had become blocked and the only hope of going towards the refrigerated dairy was a large circumnavigation of the onion display. The time for which, none of us had. With the AC on blast, I get in line behind two people. One, an overweight near sighted mother of two horrible children, and a young bespectacled hipster art student.
The mother gets up each morning when her horrible children ask for their horrible sugary cereals. She has a 45 minute commute to her job, consisting of two trains and several stairs, which are becoming harder each day. She has a cup of Folgers in the morning, an iced Dunkin Donuts black with 4 sugars during the commute, a 5 Hour Energy at 2:30, and sometimes a diet Coca-Cola with dinner. Throughout the day there is a static tiredness, an all encompassing and omnipresent weariness. She thinks of herself as a dog person because she wears “sporty” outfits, but the frizziness of her hair, the pedestrian wear in her sneakers and sweat pants, and the far off look in her eye leads me to believe she is a cat lady with no cats. In school she was proud to be an efficient reader, but her interest in fine literature was dispelled because appearing too interested in class was grounds for humiliation at the hands of her young and stupid friends at Richmondtown Prep on Staten Island. She has passed on her passable study habits to her children who are draped at either side of the cart, wearing lobotomized stares in front of the salad dressing, a deep stupidity in their eyes, apathetic and slow as molasses.
The art student wakes up around the 10:30 - 2:30 window and has borrowed this strategy from cable repair men. Most things happening in his life in large bay windows of time. To get to his catering job he would prefer to ride his bike, but having only one gear can be a strain on his little chicken stick legs, so he prefers to take the N to 42nd and transfer to the 1 train to 18th St. He’s been trying to watch his caffeine intake, but if the night before was especially raucous he has little choice but to keep a steady waterfall of coffee, bought at a myriad of establishments, rushing into his mustachioed face. Unlike his grad student friends, he will drink Starbucks and has on occasion enjoyed an iced grande carmael macchiato, because the caramel sauce settles in the bottom corners of his cup and turns into a soft, taffy like sugar snack that jazzes his mouth. He is a cat person, but does not know it yet. His schooling has been top notch and his family came from wealth, so they created a padded playroom for his life. He was always encouraged to work on big problems and not worry about keeping up with standards, as things could be moved to accommodate him, and not the other way around. He learned creativity not from scarcity or resourcefulness, but by the endless streams of support and encouragement from private schools and the terrarium of privilege which now he feels is his job to thwart and refute, rebuke and rebel. He is wearing a stupid hat.
Thursday, June 21, 2012
Press Play and then read the story
Theatre of the Mind
The day after the funeral, the child was awake before everyone, and had begun to establish contact with his recently deceased grandmother. Outside, the birds acknowledged the grey dawn. In front of him lay the gutted remains of a 40 channel mobile CB radio, a soldering iron, green, red, and black wires, a clamp-on ammeter, coiled up coax, and an off-white saucer sprinkled with crumbs and 2 remaining sugar cookies. The child was sitting on his knees in a gardeners position, earnestly turning the RF gain in conjunction with the squelch control. In static colored visions, he heard himself travel outside of his parent's home, up into the sky and further into the ionosphere where electricity traveled unencumbered and reached all the way around the Earth. He whizzed by planets and brushed by comets and gravely nodded to event horizons surrounding sightless black holes, which he knew emptied themselves out into white holes in alternate universes. His grandmother had always loved his imagination, and now he was using it to reach out to her, to make contact with her, to establish a link and a connection, to ensure that there really was a destination at the end of our travels through life. In the end however, he only heard static.
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Finger Exercise - "TradeWinds"
Each
morning, depending on where I train my eyes, I can see in the distance
at least 17 17 year olds, walking to St. John's Preparatory Academy in
uniforms. The uniforms start from the bottom. Black shoes; these are
usually a simple affair, handled with a flare for the boring and a
tendency to look somewhat “orthotic” in their general appearance.
Below-knee stockings for girls; a sometime fantasy for sock lovers,
topped by a feltish gray short skirt. Same shade of gray slacks for the
boys, industriously pleated to gain maximum seriousness. The tops are
navy blue sweaters which snuggle white dress shirts. The girls general
appearance is an iconic fashionable encryption of a carnal set of datum,
accented in some anime-specific way to exaggerate a sexual dawn already
underway. Some of these girls are turning into what will later be
beautiful women. But for now, most of them are beautiful in the
potential way a chrysalis reminds us of a future butterfly. Or moth.
Some of these girls are definitely moths. The boys also have insectual
traits, praying mantis arms, chameleon fashion sense in regards to their
chosen cadre, and some have small beady eyes like social spiders,
cocksure of the strength of their webs. Most of the boys are too long
for their faces and have a smug awareness of themselves as they
ungracefully slice through the sidewalk traffic. A selfish time for them
containing the first cracking of the crab shell of their egos,
unwittingly anxious to be dipped into the clarified butter of manhood
and devoured by the eventual and thankless life of the common 1st world
adult. Of all of the things these high schoolers are, it’s really what
they leave in their trails that stays with me, the olfactory traces of
their emergent, proud and self-centered worlds floating on the clear
morning air in Queens.
This is a time of flag planting. This is a time of cologne spritzing. This is a Cosmolopolitan time of ripping and rubbing sample pages of perfume on your wrists and neck. This is Axe body spray. This is what dad smelled like, this is what smell The Body Works girl sold you, this is smelling exactly like a candy store, this is freshly washed and conditioned hair hanging in tight, heavy, clean tentacles, this is heavily applied deodorant spray, gel, powder, roll-on, this is Aqua Velva, this is Brut, this is second-hand cigarette smoke, this is unwashed hair smelling like skin and dry grass, this is fruit spray, this is Tommy Girl, this is pineapple shisha, this is mango splash, this is the smell of a lintscreen. All of this is what trails behind these budding adults and collects on the motes of the humid morning air in my neighborhood in western Queens County.
This is a time of flag planting. This is a time of cologne spritzing. This is a Cosmolopolitan time of ripping and rubbing sample pages of perfume on your wrists and neck. This is Axe body spray. This is what dad smelled like, this is what smell The Body Works girl sold you, this is smelling exactly like a candy store, this is freshly washed and conditioned hair hanging in tight, heavy, clean tentacles, this is heavily applied deodorant spray, gel, powder, roll-on, this is Aqua Velva, this is Brut, this is second-hand cigarette smoke, this is unwashed hair smelling like skin and dry grass, this is fruit spray, this is Tommy Girl, this is pineapple shisha, this is mango splash, this is the smell of a lintscreen. All of this is what trails behind these budding adults and collects on the motes of the humid morning air in my neighborhood in western Queens County.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Friday, February 10, 2012
Local Rapper Battles Baby Panda, Wins.
Originally featured on elevendytwelven.blogspot.com
VS. 
Ronald Shortblock reporting
RIFLE, CO––MC Chillability showed his self-quoted “Freeziness” to a wowed-out crowd as he crushed a baby panda with rhyme lasers last night.
It was due to be a massive battle, a struggle of wit and cleverosity, but ended in panda-shaped shame. Venom like this came from Chillability:
You'll high five me then I slap your face
You can't pull a peace treaty, Asian panty waste
I'll flood your homeland like the 3 fu%#in' Gorges
Take your mom panda some flowers that are gorgeous
I'll destroy ya'
Such lyrical face-melting like this was usually followed with an obscene gesture, Chillability’s secret intimidation technique, and at one point he spit in the face of the stupid, stupid panda. The small animal’s only reply to such debasement, if one could call it a reply, was:
hrghnhghr... Slurgh.
In all fairness, yes, it rhymes, but is nowhere close to witty or coherent, two things that the judges look for in such verbal bullet-based blitzkriegs. A fact Chillability knows all too well. Please note other licks of the organic box-cutter that is his tongue:
Your a long way from China b*tches
Like my dishes
I'll choke your Yin if you touch my Yang
I'll cover you in curry and feed you to orangutans
I’ve reached 3rd base with like 20 sluts
While you were busy comin’ out ya’ momma's butt
Has a heavier truth ever been told? The crowd last night--some of which were Chillability’s own “The ChillBillies” entourage--thought not, while the panda just sat and had the look in its cowed eyes like it had just been molested in the mouth a little bit.
Monday, December 5, 2011
In The Distance Ahead
Folks,
It has been a minute. A quick fill-in the blank -
I have been in contract negotiations with several entertainment lawyers who are trying to secure a deal for me to play the part of a doctor on TV, so I can get a job playing a doctor on a commercial, so I can safely and legally say "I'm not a doctor, but I play one on TV." I'm also trying to bring in more revenue from this blog so I may or may not be enjoying the mellow taste of Nantucket Nectars' Tuscan Lemonade, reading Danielle Steele's new heartwringer "Underneath The Trestle" replete with stunning character development, and engaging my friends via social media's latest darling "The Deuce" which uses GPS in your smartdevice to inform all your friends when, where and how you used a public restroom.
The following tidbits are in line with the WhaleHawk Diaries aesthetic. Moments brought forth from the cloth of existence, taking the shapes of present moment reminders. I thank you for your audience.
In the past couple of weeks I have forced myself to become aware of new things as I walk around the city of New York. When you walk on the streets of this fine city, with such selfless citizens, you take in A LOT of information. Looking at every person passing you by can cause a low-grade influx of paranoia and or anxiety. You're trying to assess a whole host of potentialities; "Is he dangerous? Is she the 'hottest' girl I've ever seen? I like his shirt. She can't fit into those jeggings. Do these high schoolers even KNOW who Billy Preston is?"
In an effort to have a calm and peaceful walk, instead of looking at the ground, or dealing with the tsunami of human face related emotions, I have decided to train my eyes on things not usually looked upon. The word "cornice" popped into my head so when I walk around Astoria, or in Manhattan I look for the cornice work on buildings, or, exactly 1/4 inch below the part where the edge of the building meets the sky.
Also noted on my walks are the choices of architectural ornaments I see on buildings. What catches me off guard is that a designer dedicated themselves to designing things that would almost NEVER be noticed (besides a WhaleBlogger and architecture students). But it looks beautiful and I share a moment of delayed gratification with these stone embellishments, a party for one with these inanimate objects. As I walk and promote a stillness within, I remark on these unremarkable things and put them into my fanny pack of wonderment.
This morning on my walk to work, I was remembering a portion of a book I read on the Alexander Technique. This certain part dealt with walking and keeping your head and neck in 'proper' alignment. The author suggested to look 100 yards into the distance while you walk. I started to do this and began to feel something open up inside my grey matter. I was not constantly scrutinizing the faces of passing people, I was not observing the architecture, I was staring....into the future.
I'm telling you people I experienced a moment of pure presence. I felt like a cylinder opened up from the point of my retina and stretched all the way into the distance. I was reacting to traffic that was happening at least 10 blocks ahead of me. I could clearly make out cars, coats, and the mannerisms of that area off in the distance. I trusted the direction I was going and confidently stayed free of any pedestrian accidents. It was almost like looking through a pinhole camera. So I opened up the internet and she showed me the goods.
Turns out "distance looking" is a HUGE deal! My friends Chad and Z (huge video game fans) also referenced this as an essential to their gaming regimen. Our eyes are muscles and they need to be worked. Problem is, the human eye was not designed by creation for extended use in close-work (reading, computers, factory work, sewing etc). We have become so focused on what's directly next, what's on the email, FaceBook, Twitter, what's the next project, what's this person think of this IM, what's the next opportunity; that we fail to both physically and spiritually "take in the big picture."
I came across a site which gives exercises for the eyes to individuals not willing to get prescription glasses. While I am all about holistic approaches, if you can't see, you should really go see an eye doc and not rely on Jah to help your myopic-ass when you get behind the wheel of a school bus.
One of the exercises is "distance seeing" -
"Practice distance-gazing while walking. Look out the window into the distance to distinguish objects at or slightly beyond the far-limits of what you can see now. This practice helps to push back your "vision limit" to see further. Remember to always focus on objects you can see and strive to bring them into clearer focus. Relax your gaze. Never strain. Read distant signs, distinguish license plate numbers of passing cars. Watch birds in flight. Watch aircraft disappear into the horizon. Count stars at night."
Another site had a link to an article written about this same practice of challenging your visual sense. It tells of a woman who was busily running an errand -
"At first she noticed she was just focused on the errand and not really seeing what was around her. She reminded herself to be more present. In order to be more present she had to slow down her pace, which she did, noticing that she could now breathe more fully. She found that in order to 'see'...she had to walk even more slowly, and then as she did so the world became brighter, clearer and had even more depth. Her previous experience of being present was incomplete; it had not included her visual system." - From this paper.
The reason for all of this is to help snatch these moments back from our ego identified world, and maintain some dignity in snuggling the present. I suggest you try this. The goal is to not become a tracker in the jungles of Belize, or to become a "seer" into other dimensions. The point is to use your body, to center your body. Are there any tips you have on remaining present during the day?
Until next time -
"The dark shadow we seem to see in the distance is not really a mountain ahead, but the shadow of the mountain behind - a shadow from the past thrown forward into our future. It is a dark sludge of historical sectarianism. We can leave it behind us if we wish." - David Trimble
It has been a minute. A quick fill-in the blank -
I have been in contract negotiations with several entertainment lawyers who are trying to secure a deal for me to play the part of a doctor on TV, so I can get a job playing a doctor on a commercial, so I can safely and legally say "I'm not a doctor, but I play one on TV." I'm also trying to bring in more revenue from this blog so I may or may not be enjoying the mellow taste of Nantucket Nectars' Tuscan Lemonade, reading Danielle Steele's new heartwringer "Underneath The Trestle" replete with stunning character development, and engaging my friends via social media's latest darling "The Deuce" which uses GPS in your smartdevice to inform all your friends when, where and how you used a public restroom.
The following tidbits are in line with the WhaleHawk Diaries aesthetic. Moments brought forth from the cloth of existence, taking the shapes of present moment reminders. I thank you for your audience.
In the past couple of weeks I have forced myself to become aware of new things as I walk around the city of New York. When you walk on the streets of this fine city, with such selfless citizens, you take in A LOT of information. Looking at every person passing you by can cause a low-grade influx of paranoia and or anxiety. You're trying to assess a whole host of potentialities; "Is he dangerous? Is she the 'hottest' girl I've ever seen? I like his shirt. She can't fit into those jeggings. Do these high schoolers even KNOW who Billy Preston is?"
"I'm the 5th Beatle and a real-life Lando Calrissian!"
"Looking at faces is quite mentally demanding. We get useful information from the face when listening to someone, but human faces are very stimulating and all this takes processing. So when we are trying to concentrate and process something else that's mentally demanding, it's unhelpful to look at faces." - So says this British article.
In an effort to have a calm and peaceful walk, instead of looking at the ground, or dealing with the tsunami of human face related emotions, I have decided to train my eyes on things not usually looked upon. The word "cornice" popped into my head so when I walk around Astoria, or in Manhattan I look for the cornice work on buildings, or, exactly 1/4 inch below the part where the edge of the building meets the sky.
Also noted on my walks are the choices of architectural ornaments I see on buildings. What catches me off guard is that a designer dedicated themselves to designing things that would almost NEVER be noticed (besides a WhaleBlogger and architecture students). But it looks beautiful and I share a moment of delayed gratification with these stone embellishments, a party for one with these inanimate objects. As I walk and promote a stillness within, I remark on these unremarkable things and put them into my fanny pack of wonderment.
This morning on my walk to work, I was remembering a portion of a book I read on the Alexander Technique. This certain part dealt with walking and keeping your head and neck in 'proper' alignment. The author suggested to look 100 yards into the distance while you walk. I started to do this and began to feel something open up inside my grey matter. I was not constantly scrutinizing the faces of passing people, I was not observing the architecture, I was staring....into the future.
I'm telling you people I experienced a moment of pure presence. I felt like a cylinder opened up from the point of my retina and stretched all the way into the distance. I was reacting to traffic that was happening at least 10 blocks ahead of me. I could clearly make out cars, coats, and the mannerisms of that area off in the distance. I trusted the direction I was going and confidently stayed free of any pedestrian accidents. It was almost like looking through a pinhole camera. So I opened up the internet and she showed me the goods.
Turns out "distance looking" is a HUGE deal! My friends Chad and Z (huge video game fans) also referenced this as an essential to their gaming regimen. Our eyes are muscles and they need to be worked. Problem is, the human eye was not designed by creation for extended use in close-work (reading, computers, factory work, sewing etc). We have become so focused on what's directly next, what's on the email, FaceBook, Twitter, what's the next project, what's this person think of this IM, what's the next opportunity; that we fail to both physically and spiritually "take in the big picture."
I came across a site which gives exercises for the eyes to individuals not willing to get prescription glasses. While I am all about holistic approaches, if you can't see, you should really go see an eye doc and not rely on Jah to help your myopic-ass when you get behind the wheel of a school bus.
One of the exercises is "distance seeing" -
"Practice distance-gazing while walking. Look out the window into the distance to distinguish objects at or slightly beyond the far-limits of what you can see now. This practice helps to push back your "vision limit" to see further. Remember to always focus on objects you can see and strive to bring them into clearer focus. Relax your gaze. Never strain. Read distant signs, distinguish license plate numbers of passing cars. Watch birds in flight. Watch aircraft disappear into the horizon. Count stars at night."
Another site had a link to an article written about this same practice of challenging your visual sense. It tells of a woman who was busily running an errand -
"At first she noticed she was just focused on the errand and not really seeing what was around her. She reminded herself to be more present. In order to be more present she had to slow down her pace, which she did, noticing that she could now breathe more fully. She found that in order to 'see'...she had to walk even more slowly, and then as she did so the world became brighter, clearer and had even more depth. Her previous experience of being present was incomplete; it had not included her visual system." - From this paper.
The reason for all of this is to help snatch these moments back from our ego identified world, and maintain some dignity in snuggling the present. I suggest you try this. The goal is to not become a tracker in the jungles of Belize, or to become a "seer" into other dimensions. The point is to use your body, to center your body. Are there any tips you have on remaining present during the day?
Until next time -
"We are never tired, so long as we can see far enough." - Ralph Waldo Emerson
"The dark shadow we seem to see in the distance is not really a mountain ahead, but the shadow of the mountain behind - a shadow from the past thrown forward into our future. It is a dark sludge of historical sectarianism. We can leave it behind us if we wish." - David Trimble
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Wherever you go, there you were.
People.
I have been decidedly silent as of late because I sunk a lot of money into a movie about a traveling family of coats, who meet up with a vest and...it did not go good. The premise was spot on (who hasn't had a coat?) and the story was gold (vest teaches them about letting go, everyone learns something). It just didn't gain the traction we had hoped with the focus groups. Why, you aren't asking me because I can't hear you? I'll tell you why.
Nostalgia.
There was nothing for people to associate with so the backers didn't want to go full tilt with the Sanders! Money is only interested in making money. Look at this oddly chosen quote from producer Tom DeSanto of Transformers and XMen -
“The studios are so dependent on pre-existing brands, they’re not allowing anything new into the pipeline,” he said. “They want to know what was the video game or what was the comic book. It’s shortsighted. But what’s being missed is the next generation of new stuff. Because nostalgia is creative death.”
Never mind the fact that this guy just shit in his own sandbox, he has a great point. Are you noticing a lot of nostalgia based entertainment hitting your cultural windshield?
Just this morning they announced they are going to re-do Dirty Dancing. Again. The reason was blatantly put "it made $214 million." So money gets to make money. But remember when they already tried to do this?
ugh.
I have been decidedly silent as of late because I sunk a lot of money into a movie about a traveling family of coats, who meet up with a vest and...it did not go good. The premise was spot on (who hasn't had a coat?) and the story was gold (vest teaches them about letting go, everyone learns something). It just didn't gain the traction we had hoped with the focus groups. Why, you aren't asking me because I can't hear you? I'll tell you why.
Nostalgia.
There was nothing for people to associate with so the backers didn't want to go full tilt with the Sanders! Money is only interested in making money. Look at this oddly chosen quote from producer Tom DeSanto of Transformers and XMen -
“The studios are so dependent on pre-existing brands, they’re not allowing anything new into the pipeline,” he said. “They want to know what was the video game or what was the comic book. It’s shortsighted. But what’s being missed is the next generation of new stuff. Because nostalgia is creative death.”
Never mind the fact that this guy just shit in his own sandbox, he has a great point. Are you noticing a lot of nostalgia based entertainment hitting your cultural windshield?
Just this morning they announced they are going to re-do Dirty Dancing. Again. The reason was blatantly put "it made $214 million." So money gets to make money. But remember when they already tried to do this?
ugh.
And then there was the explosive ratings for Nickelodeon's re-runs of their 90's line-up, ala Clarissa Explains It All. And then Star Wars Clone Wars, and then the Thundercats reboot, and then the Yogi Bear movie, and then Ghostbusters 3, and Fast and Furious 6, and then Mortal Kombat, and then your friend's shitty 80's themed party, and then The Land Before Time 52, and then the Flight of The Navigator remake, and then SpiderMan the musical, and then Spider Man the reboot, and then a Total Recall remake, and then The Crow remake, and then your friend's shitty 90's themed party, and then the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles reboot, and then the Judge Dredd reboot, and then Quisp, and then, and then, and then.
It takes a certain person to continue the brave and thankless work of producing works of art. It also takes a certain person to monetize and economize a thing like art and view it from only a lucrative stance. Somehow we both got thrown into the same boat, and we need one another to survive. Great shows do horrible in focus groups. Somehow, an 'original' idea gets through and smashes our notions of what we needed. What we wanted to be shown. As artists, it's our job to go out there and make something new.
But you'll say (and you won't because you're looking at a screen) What about derivative works, there is nothing new under the sun, Pygmalion, The world in six songs, there is nothing new except what has been forgotten, we live in a remix culture, together we are larger than the sum of our parts, I'll be more mature if you will, everything we learn we are only remembering, how is all this possible and you can buy a taco for $0.39?
Think of the influences of the past as trampolines not as the scalps and face-skin of dead people to wear to a costume party.
Be inspired by the world and contribute to the fabric of the here and now without the training wheels of yesteryear.
There are plenty of great original ideas out there and the tide of recycled ideas is inevitable. However, it is our duty to fight against and lambast this cultural Kevorkianism and work on our work. The more we do this, the more we put time in between us, and our eventual nostalgic pining for the styles of 2012. Remember when you read that blog about remembering about reading that blog?
People. I know my movie about traveling coats didn't pan out, but I bet for sure you ain't ever heard of that idea before!
It takes a certain person to continue the brave and thankless work of producing works of art. It also takes a certain person to monetize and economize a thing like art and view it from only a lucrative stance. Somehow we both got thrown into the same boat, and we need one another to survive. Great shows do horrible in focus groups. Somehow, an 'original' idea gets through and smashes our notions of what we needed. What we wanted to be shown. As artists, it's our job to go out there and make something new.
But you'll say (and you won't because you're looking at a screen) What about derivative works, there is nothing new under the sun, Pygmalion, The world in six songs, there is nothing new except what has been forgotten, we live in a remix culture, together we are larger than the sum of our parts, I'll be more mature if you will, everything we learn we are only remembering, how is all this possible and you can buy a taco for $0.39?
Think of the influences of the past as trampolines not as the scalps and face-skin of dead people to wear to a costume party.
Be inspired by the world and contribute to the fabric of the here and now without the training wheels of yesteryear.
There are plenty of great original ideas out there and the tide of recycled ideas is inevitable. However, it is our duty to fight against and lambast this cultural Kevorkianism and work on our work. The more we do this, the more we put time in between us, and our eventual nostalgic pining for the styles of 2012. Remember when you read that blog about remembering about reading that blog?
Friday, August 5, 2011
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