David Crake

Never

noreply@blogger.com (David Buchta) — Fri, 09 Mar 2012 20:12:00 +0000

I'll never be able to save any money.
I'll never get a new computer.
I'll never get enough sleep.
I'll never have enough time.
I'll never get this book done.
I'll never get anyone to read it.
I'll never be skinnier.
I'll never see Europe.
I'll never visit Japan.
I'll never get to quit my day job.
I'll never have silver hair.
I'll never be this whiny in real life.

History

noreply@blogger.com (David Buchta) — Thu, 23 Feb 2012 19:11:00 +0000

So apparently Google is changing the way they handle your information, combining everything you do in Google's products together. Or something.

This includes your search history, which I thought was just saved locally on your computer. Nope! If you're signed into your Google account (Gmail, etc) and do some searches, that information is saved to your profile. There's a way to clear it out and sorta keep Google from collecting it, but not entirely.

Anyway, I wondered just how far back Google kept my search history. Pretty far, it turns out: July, 2006!

Let's see what I was doing back then:

Aw, I was looking up Tom Waits lyrics. And skin care? I have no idea what was going on there. July 28th was all Tom Waits lyrics too.

Aside from a staggering amount of news sites, I was curious about the Eraserhead baby. (Apparently if you use Google News, every article you click on goes into your search history.)

I was at a complete loss as to what this could be. Was I looking for some weird porn? Nope, just a skateboarding deck made by Hook-Ups.

This must be right before I moved to Virginia! How sweet.

Yep, because from then on it's all Virginia stuff. I miss the Naro.

I was wondering when this would show up.

A present and a tattoo came out of this one!

I still love both of these people.

Apparently I was curious about us?

BOB

The Cannibal

For a costume party. I looked pretty boss as Eugene.

It seems I search for this once a year.

This is when I'd just gotten my iPad, and was looking for a ~~pretentious~~ awesome wallpaper to match.

I'm not sure what to say about this one.

Catching the Doctor Who bug.

Hurricane's a commin'!

Only one of these ended up being helpful, the rest were just a bunch of self-righteous assholes.

It's all true.

Woo!

Creepy...

Months of my life have been taken up as a result of this, and hopefully it will continue on through the year.

We decided against it.

Ten points if you know what this is.

Yahoo Answers is great.

And there you have it! Almost six years of Google searches. "Where's the porn?" you may wonder. If you're using Google to find porn, well, I'm not sure what to say. Honestly I doubt it's feasible, or even possible.

I cleared and "paused" my history after this, deciding that I don't really need to have years and years of my Googling on the record, although it was fun to look back.

- David

Valentimes - These Are The Things I Love

noreply@blogger.com (David Buchta) — Tue, 14 Feb 2012 18:48:00 +0000

Like, enough to get a tattoo:

My boy

My girl

Sweets & Coffee

Tom Waits, and people singing along with Tom Waits

Writing (or the closest approximation to it I can manage)

Books, books, and books

Truly good movies

Now if only I could love *sob* myself!

- David

Calling It Quits

noreply@blogger.com (David Buchta) — Sat, 11 Feb 2012 00:33:00 +0000

Last night I finally shut down my Facebook page.

Ever since we went on a cruise this time last year, my Facebook participation has dropped. I shut off all the notifications that were sent to my phone and immediately noticed a difference in my day. My phone wasn't constantly interrupting me with shit I didn't care about, and anytime I felt it vibrate, I could be almost certain someone was communicating with me. It was like a breath of fresh air.

Once we got back to the real world (which was a sad, sad, day--I vow to live on a Disney cruise as soon as possible) I kept the notifications off. I couldn't go back to that noise.

Fast forward a year. Even after multiple purges of my friends list and hiding all that stupid Farmville shit, the "news feed" was still a long list of crap I scrolled past without bothering to read. Aside from a few family members and a very few actual friends, I glossed over 99% of what was spewed there:

"My kid is so cute today he-" Skip, my kid is cuter.
"Check out this hilarioious video!!" Skip, seen it already. Last week. Not funny.
"Wow u think u know a person until they stab u from the back. U know who u are." Skip, stupid drama.
"Who's down for getting sloshed at The Drafthouse tonight?" Skip, I don't live there anymore and wouldn't anyway.
"My frans are the best!" *picture of girls in a bar, making duckfaces* Skip, duckface.

And on and on, ad naseum.

So one night, laying in bed, I decided to shut that bitch off. Then I felt it: an odd sense of dread. Like I was going to miss out on something important if I didn't have a Facebook account. I tried to figure out what that could be, but all I could come up with was a vague feeling of, "Well, someone might try to contact me!" even though I knew that never happened. Or if it did, they had a (usually better) way other than Facebook to get in touch with me.

Still, the feeling persisted, so I put it off. A part of my brain kept rationalizing my continued use of something that only wasted my time. It told me that I'd lose touch with friends, that I'd talk to my family less, that I'd be abandoning people and closing myself off to social interaction. When I really thought it through, though, these reasons rankled me. Really? I'll lose my friends? My family will fade off into the distance, never to be heard from again? I'll be choosing to be an outcast? This is what it felt like, but rationally I knew it wasn't true.

Then it hit me: Facebook had cleverly tricked me (and I'm sure many others) into thinking it was the only way to keep in touch with my friends. That abandoning Facebook was equal to abandoning my loved ones. Which is pure horseshit.

Once I realized this, good old-fashioned spite took over and I posted notice that I was shutting her down the next morning. By about 10:30pm that night I clicked the link to deactivate my account and haven't felt a twinge of regret since.

Because really, fuck you, Facebook. There are far, far better ways to keep in touch with my venerable homeboys and girls than you:

E-mail! I love e-mailing because it's like tiny writing projects. I love it so much, I still take the time to put a dash between the "e" and "mailing". And when I e-mail someone, I can say whatever the balls I want without having to worry about everyone I know seeing and commenting on it.

And with Gmail (which I take for granted everyone uses, but maybe not) we can Gchat! For years and years my best friend has been a dude I've met once in real life, but with the exception of Kasey and Jonas I talk to him more than anyone else. How? Over Gchat. I'm on it all day.

Texting! Another thing I'm on all day. Coordinating with Kasey, setting up dinner plans with my aunt, or saying howdy to faraway friends, it's my favorite and de facto standard of communication.

Telephone! Usually I'm not going to call someone, but I could.

Twitter! I use the crap out of Twitter. Not as much as some people (I still don't have alerts sent to my phone unless someone directly messages me) but anytime I post here or to my Tumblr a link gets tweeted. I've also "talked" to my favorite author a handful of times via Twitter, which is bomb.

Tumblr! This is where I post all the cool shit I run into on the Internet, and in combination with Twitter it's how I let everyone know, "Hey, cool shit over here." I like it much, much better than Facebook's timelines or newsfeeds or whatever they're calling it now.

This blog! I've been horrible about steady blogging, I know. But still. I couldn't post something of this size on my Facebook page, now could I?

FaceTime! I wish more people would FaceTime with me. Currently my only FT buddy is Kasey's brother, and usually that's to tell Jonas goodnight when he spends the night over there. But c'mon man, this is the future! It should be FaceTime all the time!

Handwritten letters! You bet your ass I actually do this. Usually to say thanks to my grandma and other people, this is the way it used to be done, and it is an enjoyable bitch. Especially if you're a badass and write strictly in pen like I do. But it's the most personal, awesome way to really show someone you care about telling them whatever it is you're telling them.

Typed letters! You can also bet your ass I'm going to start doing this, now that I have a typewriter. Want a typewritten letter? Just let me know, I'll mail that shit straight to your door.

Face to face. Yep, the OG style of communication. Right in someone's grill. Body language and all. Even though I kind of shy away from immediate, close-proximity conversations, this one has to be my favorite.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, I don't need Facebook, and neither does anyone else. I know it's so easy, and literally everyone and their grandma is on it, but it's crap. There's no meaning there. It's all just a bunch of people spamming each other.

Carve out some of that wasted Facebook time for other things. Read, write, go outside, play, bang, take a bath, call someone up, hang out, have a conversation. Actually do something. Something to make all your Facebook friends wish they had been there.

- David

Why We Love Movies

noreply@blogger.com (David Buchta) — Tue, 07 Feb 2012 00:00:00 +0000

Film Crit Hulk posted a great list over at Badass Digest about why we love movies. Everything he mentions that I've seen, I agree with.

Click here to see the list and the responses yourself. Below are my additions:

"BECAUSE THE 'SU-PER-MAN!' MOMENT IN IRON GIANT MAKES HULK CRY ALL 53 TIMES HULK HAS SEEN IT."
I'm crying right now just reading this. At work. At my desk.
"BECAUSE ETERNAL SUNSHINE OF THE SPOTLESS MIND MADE HULK A BETTER HULK."
Ditto.
Because "Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade" is the most perfect fucking movie and no one can convince me otherwise. Go watch it again.
Because without "Brick" my son would never have been born.
Because "Poltergeist" took on an entirely different (and unexpected) dimension after I became a father.
Because the semi truck flip in "Dark Knight" literally put me on the edge of my seat.
Because an emoticon-faced robot pats Sam Bell on the back in "Moon" and breaks my heart.
Because "The Fall" has some of the saddest and most beautiful shit I've ever seen. ("Don't leave me, my friend! I'll tell everyone they were your ideas!")
Because of Wall*E
Because "Scott Pilgrim" pumped me up like a kid seeing the TMNT movie for the first time.
Because without "Shrek 2" I wouldn't have been introduced to Tom Waits.
Because David Lynch taught me something crucial.
Because Wes Anderson has gotten me through some of the toughest times. "The Life Aquatic" in particular. So much so, that I don't even care it's a cliche to like him.
Because "The Fountain" came right after my brother's death.
Because "Sympathy for Lady Vengeance" is fucking amazing.
Because of Doc Holliday in "Tombstone". And Wyatt Earp, for that matter.
Because this list could go on forever.

And I really could go on and on.

- David

I Can't Stop

noreply@blogger.com (David Buchta) — Tue, 31 Jan 2012 22:33:00 +0000

Thanks to Kottke.org!

All These Things That I've Done

noreply@blogger.com (David Buchta) — Thu, 26 Jan 2012 01:21:00 +0000

I suspect I have spent just about exactly as much time actually writing as the average person my age has spent watching television, and that, as much as anything, may be the real secret here.

-William Gibson

Things I've done instead of writing:

Watched TV
Arguably "unnecessary" cleaning
Munching and snacking
Sat in front of the TV
Reading through the 200+ blog items in my Google Reader (read: busy work)
Wrestled with my son
Bugged my girlfriend just to get attention
Reading four books at a time
Long showers
Called family members
Caught up on some TV
Saints Row, Portal(s), Limbo, Mario Kart
Went to bed at a "reasonable" time

I need to make a conscious effort to ask myself, "Dude, is watching Glee better than writing?"

I think most of us know the answer.

- David

Now if it was Kids In The Hall that'd be an entirely different matter altogether.

An Open Letter to the Cunt That Stole My Bike

noreply@blogger.com (David Buchta) — Fri, 06 Jan 2012 22:42:00 +0000

Have you seen me?

What the fuck, asshole? You unlawfully entered a garage to steal only my crappy bike? I assume you left my aunt's Mercedes-Benz and my cousin's car with a trunk full of speakers and tools alone because you are scared of prison, and settled instead to slink away with my sole mode of transportation as a cowardly foray into crime, unable to handle the big time stuff like prison and anal rape, which I still think you deserve.

Did you even look at it before you stole it? Did you notice how it was dented in places, and covered in scratched, water-faded, crude stickers? How everything not painted over was rusting, and had been for some time? Did you try to adjust the seat so you could ride a hasty retreat, only to discover it was rusted in place at the perfect height for its rightful owner?

Didn't you look at the pedals, and realize you'd need special shoes to use them, and that one pedal was actually broken? I hope you tried to ride it away. I tried to ride it without bike shoes once--the specialized pedals rotated under the flat soles of my shoes and I racked my nuts good on the top tube. Hopefully whatever pitiful genitalia you have suffered the same fate. I'd almost pay to watch that.

I'd had that bike for about five years. That's twice as old as my son. I'd ridden it regularly for years as my one and only. Motor vehicles have come and gone and broken down, but I always had that bike. For a couple of years it's been the only way I could get to work. I slowly upgraded some of its parts, but I wasn't greedy. Some new handlebar tape here, wheels from Craig's List there, a sticker or two. As I mentioned before, almost everything was rusted into place so I never had to fuss with it. It was beat up and kinda ugly, but it had personality. Just like me. And it did exactly what I wanted it to do every time I needed it, even when I neglected it.

I learned how to truly ride on the bike you took. I learned to enjoy riding in shitty weather, when the wind was so strong I thought my lips were bleeding from the impact of the rain and each gust almost pushed me into another lane entirely. I learned how to survive traffic, and not in bike-friendly Portland, but military-happy Norfolk, where young kids with too much government pay tested how close they could buzz me in their souped-up cars and the roads looked like they'd been through a war. I learned the simplicity of fixed-gears, and that if I wanted to go faster I had to love the burning in my legs and do it myself. I learned track stands and skid-stops and foot-downs and alley cats and a dozen other ridiculous, amazing, enjoyable things. I met some fantastic people, one of whom became a great friend, because of that bike. And now it's gone. Not because of an accident or old age, but because some piece of shit decided to take it.

Now, I have to spend what little money I have on getting a new bike. You probably saw my aunt's house, with her hot tub and Mercedes and meals cooked by something other than a microwave and thought, "Dayum, they must be loaded! They won't even notice!" Well I'm not loaded, and my bank account is definitely going to notice. The money you've forced me to spend was supposed to go towards a new apartment, but I can't exactly go without transportation, can I? Your shitty crime has put me between a rock and a hard place, and I can only hope you get busted for something worse one day, finding yourself in prison between two men (or women, whichever is worse) of ill-intent named Rock and Hard Place. Preferably in the shower. With broom handles.

Have you ever had dental work done? You know how your mouth feels foreign for a couple days afterward, like not everything is fitting together the way it used to, and you can't stop noticing it even though it's driving you crazy? That's what it's going to be like for me with a new bike. The endless tinkering. The adjustments. The worrying that my seat isn't the right height and it's going to blow my knee out. Luckily I found what frame size I use from an old e-mail, because I sure as hell don't remember that shit. I figured I'd never need to know, or to re-adjust anything, you dickless/titless bastard.

Some of that shit can't be replaced! The only things of worth on that bike to anyone but me are the wheels, and the sprocket. The retro-reflective Deep-V wheels aren't made anymore, and I doubt I can find them again. Besides looking cool and being rare, they were a safety feature that increased my visibility at night, especially in the headlights of a car. They were scratched up too, so I doubt they're worth very much. The sprocket came from a bloke in Australia and had a lifetime warranty. It's beefy and well made and would have lasted me forever. I'm not sure that he's still making them. Even some of the stickers were the last of their kind. So thanks for that, dick/bitch.

Worse probably still, is now I'll have to worry about every subsequent bike I purchase. I shouldn't have to be thinking, "Well maybe I should have locked my bike to something, inside of the locked garage, which you can only enter through the locked fence into the yard..." More than my bike, you've stolen my sense of security. If it had been left out in plain view, that's one thing. But inside a locked garage? That's just... ridiculous. And kind of scary.

I'm happy to report that my bike's serial number, make, and model were registered with the National Bike Registry, and I have reported your theft to the Portland Police Department, along with Craig's List and BikePortland.org. With any luck I'll get it back and you'll have to suffer for taking it. Bike theft probably isn't very high up on the scale of things, but I'm sure breaking and entering are. Like I said, inside of a locked garage is another thing entirely, and the locksmith just confirmed you did actually break in. We didn't forget to lock shit.

Maybe you're just some kid being retarded or something, I don't know. Everyone does stupid shit in their lives. If my bike just magically reappears I'll close the police report and everything. But I doubt that will happen. I'm sure Jenny is going through the bicycle version of a chop-shop, getting cannibalized for parts and sold for scrap. Which is a shame, because to me there was no better bike out there. Seriously.

So eat shit and die, you terrible fuck. Jesus, what's wrong with you?

- David

The Places I've Lived

noreply@blogger.com (David Buchta) — Tue, 03 Jan 2012 21:37:00 +0000

...that are populous enough to have Google Street View. Made with this found via Prosthetic Knowledge.

Phoenix, Arizona

Harbor Tower, Virginia

Middle Street, Virginia

Aunt's House, Portland

And now,

Golfview, Portland.

Probably moving in this weekend! Pics surely to follow.

- David

I'm 29 Now

noreply@blogger.com (David Buchta) — Sun, 01 Jan 2012 20:38:00 +0000

It's time to change a few things:

I'll keep some of it though.

I really, really, really need 2012 to be the year that I get some serious creative work done. Like really. Every day. It's my only goal this year besides getting my own computer.

Otherwise, I'll turn 30 in 364 days and just start cutting myself.

2011 wasn't bad and ended with some great, positive changes: Moving to the wonderful city of Portland (and making it safely), winning a new job at a great company that actually pays well, getting back into cycling, and finally being able to get Jonas (and us) a bunch of stuff for Christmas.

Here's to keeping that momentum going, and rolling with the punches. Here's to keeping in touch with friends and family through something other than Facebook. Here's to better decisions, but not too many. Here's to exercise and recycling and bars and intoxicants. Here's to music and books. Here's to being us for real this time.

Have a great year, see you back here, real soon.

- David

INSTAGRAM

noreply@blogger.com (David Buchta) — Wed, 30 Nov 2011 22:59:00 +0000

I'm going to blog soon, I promise. In the meantime, I'm loving Instagram on my new phone. Find me as davidcrake.

Relocation

noreply@blogger.com (David Buchta) — Mon, 03 Oct 2011 17:02:00 +0000

It's officially official: We are moving to Portland. Notices have been given, leases are ending, and resumes have been sent out. There's no going back.

It didn't feel truly final until I e-mailed my resignation. Telling family, friends, and notifying the landlord is one thing, but quitting a job is another--it can't easily be undone. The last time I did this--quit a job I loved and relocated--it was from Phoenix to here, and while it hasn't been entirely perfect I haven't regretted my decision for a second.

Virginia gave me a fresh start after a bad time. Although they were on someone else's dime the months Kasey and I spent poor and jobless were wonderful. We had nothing to do but wait for employment and find free ways to entertain and feed ourselves. We spent so much time walking around our neighborhood in that first year we're almost sick of it now, having seen (and probably photographed) every square foot of its gorgeousness a hundred times over. My first couple of years here burned bright with the last magic of my youth, and sometimes when walking with my son along the river or driving down London Boulevard towards home an echo of it reaches me from those days, and for a second I'm in love with life again.

My son was born here, and without moving cross-country he would never have happened. The historical district we live in and the antique building we've called home has provided photogenic backdrops that other snap-happy parents would kill for. When we look back at his baby pictures from wherever we end up we'll remark on the beauty of Olde Town Portsmouth, and how much we loved living there (along with what a gorgeous baby Jonas was, of course.)

As it is now, however, without the benefit of time, distance, or nostalgia, we cannot wait to leave: the tunnel traffic and a lack of decent public transit, the cost of living and scarcity of decent-paying jobs (although that's everywhere, apparently), the sub-par public schools (also possibly everywhere)--but most of all, the pervasive humidity. Like the tell-tale heart, the humid climate of Hampton Roads is no longer something I can bear. Above all else it pounds in my head, "Get out, get out, get out." Growing up in the temperate Pacific North West and then living in the deserts of Arizona have not accustomed me to handle the oppressive moist air, and five years here have done nothing to change it. Even Kasey, who has lived with it most of her life, has grown tired of this climate. For those who have not experienced it, thick humidity drowns you as soon as you step out of the cool embrace of air-conditioning, easily ruining any outdoor activities. I much prefer the triple-digit temperatures and blast-furnace summers of Phoenix.

Why Portland? Mostly because of family. My aunt lives in the city and has generously offered to put us up at her place until we get settled. The rest live in Idaho, an easy day's drive through gorgeous country instead of a horrendous, expensive, soul-sucking thirteen hours of flying across the country. Kasey's dad basically lives in San Diego and hasn't spent near enough time with us or his grandson, a predicament shared by everyone in my family. The trips and visits have been great but too few and far in between.

Also, it's beautiful! I love the climate (including the misting rain I'm told to expect) and we'll be nearer to amazing things like ski mountains, redwood forests, my grandmother's "cabins", and the annual Twin Peaks convention. Nothing ever happens here and I'm positive Portland will have more to offer in terms of concerts and events. LA will also be relatively close, where all the art shows happen, and I'll be nearer to my dream of becoming friends with David Lynch and visiting his compound. I know New York is big for art too but we've never made it up there, and I'd rather drive nine hundred miles south along the beautiful West Coast than three hundred and fifty miles up the drab East Coast. Have you ever been on the New Jersey Turnpike? It's bleak.

I've always planned on moving closer to home when it was time to get settled, even if I wasn't always aware of it. I left Idaho right out of high school, harboring dreams of living out east. Even though it took me a few years, and I ended up in Virginia instead of New York, I'm able to check it off my list. We have a kid now, and from the beginning we knew he wouldn't be raised in Hampton Roads. The past couple of years family has become more important to me, and it's time for Jonas and I to be a part of mine before the opportunity is gone.

Luckily Kasey's family is following us out there, too. Her mom and Jonas' Aunt Kelly will be packing up and driving coast to coast right along with us, and her brother will be meeting us there. I couldn't be happier; Sheila and Kelly are such big parts of Jonas' life and we'd all miss them terribly, and I've always wanted to hang out with "Uncle Daniel" more. He's been out of state since I've lived here and his visits are always too short. Plus I owe him some money and it'll be easier to pay him back if I see him all the time.

They say you can't run away from your problems and mostly they're right (although when I left Arizona I traded all my problems for one--get a job.) Kasey and I are looking forward to a new start more than running away, however, unless you count the climate. As long as I've known her she's been aching for a big move, and I'm always ready for a major change. I'm glad events have fallen into place so that it can finally happen.

There are things I'm going to miss here. Historic Olde Town is a hidden gem, nestled between the Elizabeth River and the sketchy parts of Portsmouth. It's strangely peaceful and isolated, even though the homeless congregate outside of a 7-11 just a handful of blocks away. People here are generally well-off and friendly; you can walk your kids and your dog safely, even at night. It's full of gorgeous homes built in the eighteen- and nineteen-hundreds and tall, shady trees. We enjoy the benefit of being right outside of the "city" while having easy access to it. The quaint paddle-boat ferry takes you to Downtown Norfolk just across the river for $1.50, with the mall and restaurants a short walk away and the eclectic neighborhood of Ghent not much farther than that. I doubt there's another neighborhood like it.

Almost more than Olde Town, I'm sad to be leaving my job. My boss is three hours north in D.C. so I have a lot of very enjoyable autonomy. The people on my team are a swell bunch of guys, from my fellow help desk technicians on up to my boss' boss; he found me a job to apply for at one of our sister companies in Portland and talked me up to the manager. My direct supervisor is just a hell of a nice guy and has never stopped advocating on my behalf, from the day he generously gave me a second chance to make the interview after some car trouble to offering himself as a reference after I resigned. No one could ask for better coworkers. The office itself has a surprising number of great folks. Out of the ninety-ish people I support only a couple are... difficult. I'm going to be hard-pressed to find a better place to work. I can only hope the company in Portland takes me on, and that it's as great as its sibling.

If circumstances allow (and Kasey consents) I'd love to swing by Arizona to see my old GoDaddy crew and take the absolutely beautiful drive up through the Grand Canyon, Utah, and eventually home in Idaho before going to Oregon. During the years I lived in Phoenix I'd make the twelve-hour drive frequently, and I've been talking about doing it again for years. The route is almost entirely scenic two-lane back roads that wind through green hills, red desert plateaus, and tiny forgotten towns. From what Google Maps says the side trip would only add about ten hours of driving time--a payment I would gladly make for such a gorgeous drive.

Almost all of my worries now are purely logistical. Once we were decided enough to put an end-date on our lease and my aunt offered us a place to stay most of my fears dissipated. Now we just have to begin the tedious work of sorting, tossing, and packing everything we own and then getting it into a truck. Once we pull out of our neighborhood for the last time, however, I know it's all going to be downhill from there. In a good way.

We're excited for what the future holds. There is so much to look forward to: a new city--a new coast!; the cross-country road trip, visiting family and friends along the way; being a bum for at least as long as it takes to drive there; the forced reduction of clutter from our apartment and our lives; and being close to my home state and my family, starting over fresh. It's cheesy and cliche, but I can't wait to begin the first day of the rest of our lives. Even if it is going to start in a Penske truck.

A Clockwork Vegetarian

noreply@blogger.com (David Buchta) — Mon, 19 Sep 2011 14:13:00 +0000

I am no longer a vegetarian.

I've been meatless for roughly six years. Back in the day, when I was the fuzzy-headed, over-excited Buddhist of my youth, I tried to force myself off meat over half a dozen times. None of them took. I loved steak, bratwurst, hot dogs, bacon, all of it (except fish), and I'd always go running back to them no matter how much failure and shame I felt. Did I care about animal cruelty? Yeah, of course. Was that the largest motivating factor? No, although at the time I believed it was. I hated PETA (and still do) but non-participation in the killing of animals is a huge part of what was then my new religion/life philosophy, and I wanted to be the perfect Buddhist.

Despite many unsuccessful attempts, one day something finally fell into place. Not only could I resist meat, I found it was repulsing me. The texture came to be the worst--the word "gristle" went from an abstraction to something sickeningly tangible. One night in Phoenix as I sat on my balcony in the still desert air I knew the time had come, and I hadn't gone back. Aside from a couple rookie mistakes (bacon hiding under a thick layer of cheese, the omnipresence of gelatin) I never knowingly strayed.

But as the years went on I found myself tiring of this self-inflicted diet. In my experience it became too limiting, and either my waning youthful energy or dwindling compassion have tipped the scales enough that it just isn't worth the hassle. I'm sure some of this is due to my present environment as Hampton Roads isn't overburdened with meatless reseraunts, although I have good reason to believe much of America is the same. I'm also one of two vegetarians I know and I'm not the kind of asshole that expects others to kowtow to my individual dietary choices. Friends and family make allowances for me, but they don't expect me to eat meat and I don't expect them to forgo it. If I find myself somewhere with many "cruelty-free" restaurants my stance may change, but I'm too fond of convenience and certain fast-food establishments to go full veggie again.

Which is one of the reasons I'm going back. A vegetarian cannot get something on the go without many repeats of the same, unfulfilling items. I love French fries, but I want something more. Ironically I've never been much of a salad person and somehow doubt the drive-thru variety would be very good. I cannot count the number of times I've been in a car redolent of the smell of burgers, chicken sandwiches, and chili dogs while I desultorily munched on paltry fries. It makes sense for these establishments to be short of vegetarian fare, but it doesn't change the fact that it leaves me out, and I'm finally through with it.

Fast food joints aren't the only offenders. Regular sit-down restaurants are also ill-equipped to serve my kind. Unless it happens to be a specialty shop the choices are still sparse, and my aforementioned non-assholishness keeps me from subjecting kith and kin to places they will feel limited, usually paying more for a meal that to them seems lacking. It's odd and counter-intuitive, but natural, flesh-free foods cost more than those which require whole animals to be raised, killed, and processed for consumption. This isn't even taking into account the organic and free-range items usually offered at such places for even higher prices. Vegetarians are then forced into giving special instruction and modifying menu items, which yield mixed results and has the added worry that wait staff will make mistakes or simply disregard the wishes of a customer easily assumed to be nothing but an overly-particular nuisance. Waiters and waitresses have it hard enough, and I strongly dislike feeling like an extra bother.

Worse still, however, is the recent realization that I no longer have a choice to eat meat or not. After more than six years of a meatless diet my body is no longer used to animal protein. Earlier this year I performed a little experiment and ate a small amount of gelatin. "Intestinal gridlock" is how I'd describe the result, and that came from a single packet of Pop-tarts. Imperceptibly I had passed some border and could no longer choose what I wanted to eat. Merriam-Webster defines a vegetarian as "one who believes in or practices vegetarianism" (a little tautonymous, but it is a dictionary after all). If one doesn't have a choice are they truly vegetarian? Is someone who is forced from doing evil truly good? If not, then I haven't truly been vegetarian in some time, ever since I stopped caring and could go along by gastrointestinal coercion alone. Maybe I'm just being spiteful, but this is my biggest reason to return to the omnivorous lifestyle.

Not surprisingly Google has more results for becoming vegetarian than the other way around. (As a side note to all those people who Googled "How do I stop being lazy/shy/gay" enough times to make it the top results: chin up; you're obviously not alone.) "Vegetarian" wasn't anywhere on the instant results list and I found only one article that was useful. The rest of it was pretension and self-righteousness as only the anonymity of the Internet can support, not surprisingly from angry fellow vegetarians and vegans. One person posing the question of safely adding meat back into their diet for health reasons was met only with derision: "Go hunting, then you'll never eat meat again." "All these people who claim they 'need' to eat meat for health reasons are just selfish. Man up and stick to your diet." "Go out and eat a rare steak right away, that will cure you of wanting meat." "Want to stop being vegetarian? Go vegan." Notice the original plea for help--how does one reintroduce meat safely into one's diet--goes completely ignored. It appears these people care deeply for the plight of all animals save one--the human animal.

And it's not just stereotypical PETA zealots that are dickish and rude. When the first vegetarian came into existence so did his antithesis--the heckling carnivore. Meat-eaters seem to love nothing more than a vegan or vegetarian to poke fun at, good-naturedly or otherwise. There have been no end to the comments and remarks at my expense every time the subject is broached, and with every new acquaintance and set of coworkers it begins again. The slights aren't offensive in and of themselves, rather the insult comes from their repetitiveness and their lack of creativity and wit. You can only hear "Hey, wanna go out for some steak? Haw haw haw!" so many times before it becomes unbearably old. Not as bad but still frustrating is the inescapable question of "So, what do you eat then?" in any of its forms and insinuations. In the beginning it was exciting to explain vegetarian diet to the inquisitive, but after so many years the luster has definitely been lost.

The one helpful article confirmed what I had suspected: after years of vegetarianism my body wouldn't be able to handle meat right away, and I'd have to gradually step myself up to full omnivore status. Broths would be first, followed by small portions of fish and white meats like chicken with the skin removed (mentioning skin removal is still a little unsettling), and red meat last, as it is the single most difficult food for the human body to digest, vegetarian or otherwise. In addition to the above advice, the author was also thoughtful enough to add a section on the psychological effects of consuming meat again. She warned of the possible ridicule from veggies and meat-eaters alike, and a sense of failure for abandoning a chosen diet. She suggested letting the insults roll off one's back, along with encouragement and support. It was really quite endearing, as well as refreshing in a sea of haughty jerks on both sides of the food pyramid.

---

I found myself decided. That night I cooked pasta and held a cube of chicken bouillon over the pot; it smelled like concentrated, metallic chicken broth and was very yellow. I dropped it in with the multi-colored spiral noodles and meat-free pasta sauce without ceremony. Crushing the moist cube between the tines of a fork I hoped it would actually dissolve and not just hide in clumps within the sauce, to be discovered during surprise bites of intense chicken flavor. Luckily it did mix and I sat down to my first non-vegetarian meal in over half a decade.

It tasted almost exactly the same as the first half of the pasta I'd prepared a week earlier. I definitely noticed the taste of chicken, however, and would have noticed even if I hadn't known it was there, but it wasn't overpowering. I shared the pasta with my toddler son, the only other vegetarian family member until he started eating solid foods. I liked the way it tasted and kept an internal eye open for any impending stomach pain. None came, and even though I experienced brief images of hens congregating in a sunlit chicken coup and told myself I was eating them, I felt nothing. We finished the big bowl of noodles together and I slept that night, untroubled.

The next day I waited for indigestion that did not come. I went through my normal workday looking forward to lunch, where I'd have chicken-flavored Ramen noodles for the first time in years. I'd eaten the Oriental flavor for some months at the start of my dietary confinement before realizing it wasn't meat-free. Back then I was militant but lazy like many of the young vegans I knew, and couldn't be bothered to read the ingredients until later. I loved the cheap noodles in their warm Styrofoam cups and was excited to enjoy them again. Before Noon the smell of Ramen drifted down to me over the cubicle wall. My neighbor apparently had the same idea for lunch and I took this to be a sign that today was definitely the day. As soon as I caught a break I unwrapped a cup of noodles from the employee break room and filled it with steaming water from the coffee maker, closing the lid and keeping it there with a plastic fork. It smelled fantastic, and I returned to my desk to eagerly await the three minutes of required cooking time.

By the time I was able to get to it something like twelve minutes had gone by, but the cup was still very warm in my hands. The wavy noodles always remind me of permed hair and the broth was the same waxy yellow of the bouillon cube. It tasted as delicious as it smelled, and I can't remember enjoying a lunch at my desk quite as much. I ate three-quarters of it before I realized there were small soggy pieces of actual chicken in it, something I'd forgotten in the intermittent years. "Oh well," I thought with the anticlimactic indifference of a virgin who unexpectedly finds himself deflowered. I'd crossed a threshold but felt no change. Chicken broth was one thing, but actual flesh was another--I was no longer a vegetarian.

The next night I put a small pan on the stove and began cooking half a package of kielbasa for my son's dinner. He has the infuriating habit of eating only part of whatever we make for him (unless we've cooked for ourselves, in which case he wants it all), and I half-planned on trying a bite or two of whatever he didn't finish. As the crescents of sausage began to hiss in the pan I looked at the packaging before wrapping it in tinfoil: "beef kielbasa" it said between the horseshoe shape of the meat. Maybe I wouldn't be scavenging his leftovers. But as the sausage began to brown and crackle in its own delicious-smelling grease I thought maybe a few bites wouldn't hurt. I constructed a plate of mozzarella cheese and French bread slices, adding the seared disks into a small pile and pouring the remaining grease over a few pieces of bread. The smell was tantalizing, and I hardly sat down before eating one of the flavored bread slices. It was fantastic, with a hearty, spicy flavor I hadn't tasted in years, all from a humble piece of bread with sausage drippings. My tongue overrode my trepidation and by the end of the night I'd eaten the majority of the sausage myself. As I ate my first bite of beef--a meat I wasn't planning on eating for some time, if ever--my girlfriend watched my face expectantly for signs of disgust. She saw nothing but enjoyment.

My biggest fear in making the transition has been painful indigestion, but so far there has been nothing. I wouldn't hazard a bucket of KFC but things are progressing surprisingly well, and by this rate the legendary Chick-Fil-A could be in my near future. At this point I plan to stay "mostly vegetarian", a term that would annoy me if I wasn't the one using it. (Just like being pregnant, either you are or your aren't, and I've ranted against too many faux-veggies claiming to be full members to let myself by without comment.) I've come to love certain meat substitutes more than the products they originally replaced and cannot see myself abandoning them when grocery shopping.

Aside from pain my two biggest concerns are health and, unsurprisingly, weight-gain. Accurately or not I consider a meatless diet the main factor in my more-or-less state of thinness during a period of otherwise very poor eating and no exercise. In the two years since Jonas' birth I have had no physical exertion aside from the constant lifting of an ever-expanding child, and somehow have stayed relatively skinny and kept a surprising amount of definition in legs that were carved on two straight years of heavy bicycle riding. While a vegetarian diet can be more healthy than one containing meat, in many cases (mine included) the only difference lay in what it lacks. Candy, soda, junk food, and a constant stream of coffee the approximate color and sweetness of vanilla ice cream have composed my food intake for the past six years--proof that vegetarians are at least as unhealthy as anyone else. Regardless, I do still worry that the added strain of animal fats and flesh will be the monkey wrench to my system that finally brings on the merciless weight gain I'm certain is waiting for me on the eve of my thirties. I could start exercising and use the momentum of this change to enact other, healthier changes in my diet, but I'm not going to. I know myself better now than I ever have, and I just won't be able to muster the energy required.

At the time of this writing I've consumed approximately an entire package of beef sausage on my own to no ill effect, aside from a heaviness after eating that vegans and vegetarians are exempt from experiencing. This morning, however, I packed up my vegetarian rib-lets (one of the many miracles from Morningstar Farms, who will continue to enjoy my patronage even after I've become fully converted) and headed off to work, and will be happy come lunchtime with my meal of meatless magic. But who knows, now that I can accept any lunch invitation from coworkers the possibilities seem endless...

Root Canal

noreply@blogger.com (David Buchta) — Mon, 12 Sep 2011 16:21:00 +0000

"...About as much fun as a root canal." This is one of those old, sarcastic jokes I've known my whole life but can never remember hearing outside of movies from the 80's.

Until recently I really hated brushing my teeth. I just couldn't motivate myself to do it. The two minutes spent standing in front of the sink felt like hours of wasted time. Wasted, because my teeth felt fine: no pain, no sensitivity to hot or cold, no problems. They weren't sparkling-white like one of Meyer's vampires but I didn't look like I had scurvy either, which was good enough for me. So I maintained a minimal brushing routine.

That is until the pain started. It began as all things do, as something small: just a little sensitivity to extreme temperatures, which I treated by covering the afflicted tooth with the inside of my cheek, shielding it during those first few drinks of a fresh cup of coffee or a newly opened can of pop. But the sensitivity grew into a subtle background tinge that never went away. I stepped up the brushing a little but soon fell back into old habits.

Eventually the tooth was screaming instead of whining, and one night in August I couldn't sleep because of the pain. I lay in bed trying every mental trick I knew but my entire body tensed and shuddered as waves of pain emanated from my mouth. I tried not to think about how effective dental torture must be. The next morning I opted out of work and Googled dentists in my area. I called one based not only on its extreme proximity but also the quality of the website and the glowing testimonials found there. Miraculously they were able to see me for an emergency appointment, and at 9am I sat in a brand new office on the third floor of a brand new building a short walk from my apartment. When I stepped off the elevator a picture of the dentist shaking President Obama's hand greeted me. Already I was impressed.

I was led to a room almost immediately and only had a few minutes worth of reading before the dentist came in. He took the time to be warm and friendly even though I could tell he was busy. I didn't mind at all; I was grateful they'd been able to squeeze me into what looked like a full day. He asked about the problem and had me open wide. He had barely craned his head to peer into my mouth when he said, "Oh yeah, I see what's going on there." The night before even my bleary eyes had seen it in the harsh light of the bathroom mirror--a dark, gaping cavity in the molar farthest back in my mouth. I felt a little better knowing I hadn't been overreacting.

He had a dental assistant with a charming smile and fantastic dreadlocks do a series of X-rays while he attended to his other patients. When he came back to inspect the panoramic, monochromatic map the many X-rays had created my fears were confirmed: the molar needed a root canal, and there were a couple cavities besides. I had mentally prepared myself for this, but it was still hard news to hear. They ran my insurance and the woman behind the front desk (named Sparkles) exclaimed over a stack of forms that I had very good coverage. They worked out a plan to get the root canal completely taken care of, which would max out my coverage for the year. The rest would have to wait but they had that all planned out, too. Even with my fantastic dental insurance I'd still be paying $445 out of pocket. We set an appointment date for after my next non-rent payday and I left the office with three prescriptions, two for pain and one for penicillin.

The penicillin did wonders, as did the generic Ibuprofen that Walmart uses. The third prescription had more warning labels and seemed to be the serious one. I held off taking those until the other two weren't cutting it. Unfortunately I learned too late that the generic Codeine does jack shit against even the tamest pains. One particularly terrible night I tripled up on Tylenol PM and two of these "hardcore" pain pills and nothing happened. Finally I just became so exhausted I fell asleep curled up in the fetal position. I had to push the root canal back a month for financial reasons, and the week I spent without penicillin while I waited for a refill was the worst.

The day eventually came and I woke up early to eat breakfast for once. I didn't want to pass out from pain and low blood-sugar, something that had happened before when I failed to eat before a tattoo. I'd felt a little light-headed and slipped in slow-motion to the bare cement floor looking for the water cooler, waking up to the tattoo artist offering Skittles and smiling at me like I was an idiot. A single parfait is all I wanted or had time for, and it would have to do. I dressed, packed my bag, and woke my sleeping girlfriend for a kiss goodbye. She whispered admonishments to contact someone for a ride afterwards if I needed, which I good-naturedly protested. With fifteen minutes until my appointment began I set off down the street, reading as I walked through the breezy morning air. Traffic flowed into my neighborhood towards the rising sun at my back and garbage trucks stopped to dump dumpsters into their metal holds.

At 8am the waiting room already had four or five people reading magazines in the comfy red chairs. The TV over the large, half-circle fish tank blared the "news". All of it was pre-anniversary 9-11 dramatics. I did my best to ignore it and focus on my book, and I was called back shortly. The room was small, clean, and welcoming. Almost the entire facing wall was filled by a square window that looked out into blue sky and white clouds. I watched a man in t-shirt and jean shorts exit the building opposite and enjoy a cigarette before climbing into a white van and entering tunnel traffic. I read and tried to relax while an assistant got everything ready on trays behind me. The dentist came in and we exchanged chitchat while he washed his hands and put on fresh blue latex gloves. His daughter had just started pre-K and he seemed excited to have her in school.

We talked briefly about our kids but all too soon it was time to get to work. My chair was slowly reclined and a big wad of numbing gel was placed between my cheek and gums. Despite the large amount, the shots of anesthetic still hurt worse than I remembered and I winced visibly, gripping tight the arms of the chair all five or six times the needle stabbed deep into my gums. The dentist apologized and I tried to grunt that it was okay. I was left alone to allow the chemicals to take affect while they tended to other patients.

He came back presently and started in without a word. The assistant had already clamped the tooth off and stretched a dental dam over what felt like half my face. He took a small drill from the tray behind my head and began right way. From the informative video they had me watch on the root canal process during my last visit, I assume this is when he ground the molar down to a round stump and started the large bore hole down into the pulp. Only once during this part of the procedure did I feel anything, jumping sideways away from the low rumble of the drill, and the dentist was quick to shoot some more of the good stuff directly into the tooth with a tiny, angled needle. Afterward he regularly injected anesthetic between bouts of drilling. I knew from that same instructional yet unsettling video (despite all obvious efforts to the contrary) what the large, triangle-shaped drill was doing: hollowing out my tooth of its tender pulp, right down to the roots. I made the mistake of opening my safety-glassed eyes to see the drill covered with red and white bits and a large white suction tube fill red with my blood.

Now, I'm not squeamish. At all. I love gory movies and it takes nothing short of real-life horrific trauma to make me look away. That being said, I nearly fainted. I blanched at the very least. I felt pinpricks of sweat all over my body and tried not to wonder what would happen if I threw up at this point in the procedure. Even though I felt nothing that was being done to me, at some level my body knew that blood belonged to it and didn't like that one bit. It took a few minutes of slow, deep breathing to calm down while he drilled on.

From there everything was amazingly smooth. While my new tooth-well dried the dread-locked assistant turned on the TV and I found a "Law & Order: SVU" marathon, my favorite. The only other pain came during the filing and shaping of my temporary crown, when the dentist accidentally pinched my lip sharply against the edge of my lower teeth. My stay was also slightly extended due to sickness on the part of three-quarters of the staff, leaving only the dentist and the one assistant for a whole suite full of patients. I didn't care, SVU was on and nothing hurt. I put my arms behind my head in the dental chair and enjoyed some hassle-free TV watching, something of a rarity at home.

After a few tries the temporary crown stayed on and was shorn down so my bite (or "occlusion" as they say in the field) didn't feel wrong. I shook the dentist's hand, thanking him for everything and refusing his apologies for the delay. The dental assistant held up a mirror so I could check myself before going out into public, joking that I'd be mad if she let me go outside looking a mess. I used a wet paper towel to clear a couple stubborn drops of dried bonding agent from my cheek and nose. I thanked her for all her help and she told me I was a real joy to have.

As I paid my dues to Sparkles at the front desk she had me write down the name of the book I'd been reading (which is "The Terror" by the way, and it is amazing) while she ran my card. No prescriptions were given and I didn't expect any. Even though I was still very numb in the bottom-left quadrant of my face I felt surprisingly fine. More than I would have allowed myself to hope for earlier that day. I decided against a ride home and easily walked the few blocks under my own power. Which, to be honest, was a little disappointing; that part of me that loves ridiculous experiences had been looking forward to stumbling home through pain and the fog of medication.

As it was I made it home easily, tonguing the foreign crown all the way. It felt rough and out of place in a mouth I'd become very acquainted with since my first appointment, unable to stop exploring the cavity with my tongue and dental floss. I'd received no instruction on when it was safe to eat solid foods but I didn't want to risk it. Luckily my girlfriend's mom was able to bring over vegetarian soups and my favorite thing of all: French bread. While I waited for my food to arrive I was reminded just how much comfort I derive from eating. I kept getting up to look in the kitchen for some kind of relief. Also I hadn't eaten all day and was starving.

After a bowl of tomato soup and a miniature loaf of bread I felt very contented. Enough in fact to curl up on the couch to a bad horror movie and sleep for the next four hours. When I finally woke up the anesthetic had worn off, and my tongue hurt. At first I thought a sharp protrusion on the crown had rubbed it raw, but after inspecting a long bleeding gash in the mirror I realized it must have been bitten while still numb. It was the only thing in my mouth that gave me any trouble all night. The pain was enough to cure me of any lingering curiosity towards have my tongue pierced, however.

Maybe advances in dentistry have come a long way in the ten-plus years since I've been, or maybe Idahoan dentists are cruel, but this dreaded root canal ended up being the best dental procedure I can remember. I wouldn't want to do it again, as much to avoid the pain of the needles as shelling out over $400, but I can say now that root canals really aren't so bad. Hell, if this is what root canals are like I can't imagine how easy plain old cavities are now. Technology, am I right?

And Doctor Holland, if you're reading this, you the man. Even without that picture of you shaking Obama's hand.

Doctor Who (actual) Review - Night Terrors

noreply@blogger.com (David Buchta) — Fri, 09 Sep 2011 03:58:00 +0000

I'm back with another review! The previous one I'm chalking up to learning experience; I realize it was very lengthy and more of an overview than a review. So fear not, you readers of little time and attention span, this one should be more concise and more recognizable as a general review than a play-by-play recap.

Last weekend's episode of Doctor Who is about an adorable little British ginger kid in the cutest little striped pajamas who's afraid of everything. In fact he's so afraid that not only are his beleaguered parents participating in some of his borderline OCD rituals, but his call for help is heard across space and time to reach the Doctor via the psychic paper (which is my favorite Doctor Who invention). The last time someone called out to him this way it was River before she was kind of annoying, and David Tennant was gracing us with his toothy grin and Converse sneakers.

"Haven't done this in a while," the Doctor says as he runs around the TARDIS console, moving levers and making noise. "Done what? What are you doing?" Amy asks. "Making a house call." Queue the title sequence! Which, incidentally, sounds very "X-Files" since season five began. I'm used to it now but I like the original better--just like a lot of things since Moffat took the reigns.

Rory, Amy, and the Doctor search a humongous, boxy, interesting-looking apartment building that makes me think of Oldboy. The whole episode has a very clean, slightly surreal look to it that I really enjoy. Almost everything takes place inside of the apartment complex but the set designers or location scouts did a great job. Ever since season five began they've had high production values but something about this episode in particular stands out.

The Doctor accidentally passes himself off as being from Social Services and sits down for a cuppa with the dad, who explains the problem:

"Now it's got completely out ov hand. I mean he's scared to deaf of everyfing," he says.
"Pantophobia," the Doctor replies from his nonchalant position on the couch.
"Wot?"
"That's what it's called: pantophobia. Not a fear of pants though, if that's what you're thinking, it's a fear of everything. ...Including pants I suppose, in that case. Sorry, go on."

The kid's dad has probably my most favorite accent, the lower-class English accent; I could listen to it all day. Besides the accent the dad is very likable and thankfully spends a lot of time in front of the camera. As the parent of a two year old I identify with this character, who's just a worn out guy trying to help his kid and get his life under control. Rory and Amy become separated from the Doctor in a "It's a Good Life" kinda way and find themselves in what appears to be an abandoned mansion, so this guy gets to be the Doctor's sidekick throughout the episode.

Which is completely fine by me. These stand-alone (sometimes arguably throw-away) episodes give us a much needed rest from the loud barrage of "epic" events Moffat has been assaulting us with. It's become tiring and tedious, and I'm very nearly sick of them. These more classic episodes place the focus back on the Doctor where it should be, which is another thing I miss from the previous seasons.

And seriously, how can you move focus away from the Doctor? Especially when he's being played as energetically and charismatically as he is by Matt Smith. He's not as pretty as David Tennant (who will always be my Doctor) and he doesn't pull out glasses whenever he reads a computer screen (which I dearly miss), but I think he's blowing all expectations away, even with the mistakes Moffat is making in the show. Every rapid syllable, every joke that goes by almost too fast to catch, every flurried movement and hurried explanation is just a joy to watch. Much more enjoyable than Rory's (hopefully ended) waffling or Amy's cliche hot-/thick-headedness.

Moffat stated in an interview that the "real story" is all about Amy and her journey after coming into contact with the Doctor. At the time I heard it (sometime back near the middle of season five) I was mostly in agreement, however he has since taken it to extremes. The Doctor has been relegated almost to a plot device for Amy and Rory's Story, which is, excuse my language, fucking sacrilegious. In the days of Russell T. Davies due attention was paid to the companions and their developments after meeting the Doctor, however the overall focus was much more on how the companions, the current monster-of-the-week, and his haunted past were affecting him. The Doctor was always the center of our attentions.

In the same interview Moffat said the Doctor is basically a fixed character, meaning he's set in his ways, he's not changing, no story there. Which would explain the direction (or lack thereof) Moffat is taking with him. It's a grievous mistake to consider any character--especially what should be the main one--as stagnant, and blasphemous at the very least.

Luckily this episode is mostly free from the multiple seasons-wide story arcs Moffat has setup (and has less than five episodes to resolve or I'm going to coordinate a revolt) and can just be spooky fun. There's some great speeches from the Doctor and in the character of the kid's dad we get a temporary companion that isn't a pain in the ass. All of the wonder and stupefied looks with none of the bossiness and short skirts. The villains of the episode are creepy and the special affects associated with them are great. As I've mentioned the little boy and his dad are very likable and at the end of the episode they totally get me misty-eyed. Just an all around well put-together, light-hearted, fun episode.

Sort of like the Lodger episode from Smith's early days: you could show it to your friends or Doctor Who fans who haven't caught up to the Twelfth Doctor yet and very little would need explaining or be spoiled. A fellow fan and coworker told me this episode was originally slated for a different air date and I can totally see it. Of course they have to tie it in with at least one of the major story arcs, so at the end they spliced in a short clip of the view screen back on the TARDIS with the same date-of-death fact sheet we saw three times in the previous episode, which is my one and only complaint about Night Terrors.

I realize Steven Moffat is known for his writing skills and complex plots, but Night Terrors really made me miss the days of Russell T. Davies and episodes that stood on their own and weren't overly preoccupied with the companions--companions with an inherent shelf-life that won't outlast the Doctor or his fans.

Doctor Who Review - Let's Kill Hitler

noreply@blogger.com (David Buchta) — Tue, 06 Sep 2011 21:03:00 +0000

I'm a week behind, but for some of you this may still be full of spoilers. I basically do a rundown of the entire episode.

I love me some Doctor Who. I haven't seen any of the Pre-Eccleston stuff but I'm more than familiar from 2005 on. I have the soundtracks, a couple of sonic screwdrivers, and have had a couple my Doctor Who Reddit submissions hit the top of the hot list. Am I the world's biggest Doctor Who fan? Not by a very long shot. But I'm more than just a passive viewer: I'm attached to The Doctor and have very strong opinions about this show.

For some ~~retarded~~ unknown reason, this season has been split in two. We had seven episodes before a three month break and the weekend before last started the second half off with an episode entitled "Let's Kill Hitler". Steven Moffat is the man behind some of the best Doctor Who episodes since it started back up in 2005, and has been in charge since season five. His other awesome TV show, Sherlock, has also been broken in two. I kind of understand the theory behind these two-part seasons, but I think it's a bad idea. It feels like too much waiting. That could just be me, however; this is the first time since I've started watching Doctor Who that I've been caught up and have had to wait for new episodes. Three months is a long time when you're used to watching entire seasons at a time.

Obviously there was a lot of build up for this episode. Online conjecture from fans, trailers, teasers, and major cliff hangers all added to the suspense. And who knows, maybe the wait did what it was intended to do--if Hurricane Irene hadn't knocked out the power I would have been right there on Saturday watching along with the world.

I'm sorry to report that I was mostly let down. I've come to expect a certain calibre of writing and wit from Doctor Who, even if it is a show about a time-traveling alien in a police box getting into adventures through space and time. Steven Moffat has written some amazing episodes with touching and complex plot lines. He makes full use of time travel to do some fantastic and dramatic things and has displayed an almost Whedon-esque ability to plan ahead.

Which is why the first seven minutes are so annoying. A character named "Mels" is introduced as the life-long and bestest friend of Amy, the second main character after the Doctor himself. We've never heard of Mels before. Ever. No passing mentions, no photos lurking in the background, nothing. We're subjected to a montage of Amy and Mels growing up together, in which Mels is obsessed with the Doctor and always gets herself into trouble because of it and Amy is always bailing her out. Even if she wasn't being shoe-horned into the story I'd still hater her--she's the type of two-dimensional "bad girl/boy" character (complete with black leather) that's so prevalent and so insulting in scripts these days.

We first see her barreling through a wheat field in a stolen Stingray (in England!) and skidding to a stop inches away from the Doctor and his TARDIS, police sirens close behind. She then nearly dry humps the TARDIS before pulling a gun (in England!) on the Doctor and delivers the line from which the episode takes its name: "You've got a time machine, I've got a gun. What the hell, let's kill Hitler." No reason is ever given or inferred. I hate to agree with my girlfriend on this point but the entire Hitler thing seems to be entirely for shock value. Later in the episode Hitler gets shoved into a closet and entirely forgotten, never to be mentioned again.

We cut from the the title sequence back to the TARDIS flying out of control, filled with lots of smoke and yelling. Mels has shot the TARDIS. Why? Because the Doctor said she wouldn't be able to. What a rebel. They careen through blue skies and presumably time towards Berlin, 1938, where we see a cheap SyFy channel Star Trek knock-off of a crew piloting a robo-ship that looks like a janitor. The ship itself is pretty crap, and not in the trademark everyday-odds-and-ends way of the Doctor's TARDIS (which actually has a reason behind it) or the lovably-cheap overall look of the previous seasons before the obvious increase of production capital came in. Everything about it seems poorly designed, e.g., a woman from the ship's art department travels to one of the robot's eyes to physically verify a target's skin color (because the last time they relied on the sensors it came out green) and we see the ship is riddled with robotic antibodies set into the floor so that one must step over or around them every two steps.

The robo-ship stalks a Nazi into his office and begins to slowly change its appearance to mimic his, with mechanical sounds and everything. Apparently it can't mimic glasses, so it steals them from the stupefied Nazi (which makes a metal scraping noise as they slide over its temples) before beaming him on-board with a miniaturization ray. The poor, nearly-sightless German stumbles down the catwalks for a moment before being menaced by blurry floating objects with some pretty good lines: "Remain calm while your life is extinguished." "You will experience a tingling sensation and then death." "It is normal to experience fear during your incineration." They look like robotic jellyfish with tazers and are the best things about the ship. "Who is he?" the captain asks. "Just some dude, guilty of some hate crimes and stuff." "Okay, let the antibodies have him." So they just kidnap people without any idea who they are? Way to be cautious with time travel there, guys.

The mechanical doppelganger makes his way to Hitler's enormous marble-floored office where the man himself is doing paperwork. The robo-ship declares Hitler guilty and announces "justice mode activated" before a bright light shines from its mouth to presumably kill der Fuhrer for his crimes against humanity. Just then one of the pseudo-Trekkies goes, "Oops, wait. Wrong year guys, we're too early!" Who the hell gave these guys a time machine? You'd think someone would have checked the year before Operation Smite Hitler claimed one life (a Nazi life, but still) and announced itself to the target. It's amateur hour on the S.S. Craptastic, apparently.

Luckily for Hitler the wounded, out of control TARDIS crashes through the window, knocking the robo-ship down and saving his life. As the Doctor and pals pile out and stand agape at having saved Hitler the robo-ship gets up (slowly) from the floor behind them. Hitler pulls his 1930's Luger from its holster and pops some caps in its metallic ass, apparently doing significant damage to the ship as we see sparks showering the tiny crew while they throw themselves around inside.

Rory (who looks better this episode than ever before) stands up and clocks Hitler in the face, turns his own gun on him, and tells him to sit down and shut up. Go Rory! He's awesome during the entire episode, cold-cocking another Nazi for his motorcycle and thankfully, finally, getting into the full swing of hanging with the Doctor. It's taken him long enough--he's been a hesitant, complaining, dumb-struck pansy for too long. (Rory the Roman notwithstanding. His toughness never felt believable to me, and all of that was erased in the universe reboot anyway.) There's nothing wrong with being overwhelmed at first by the Doctor's shenanigans but it gets old fast, and Rory has been wearing it thin for almost two seasons now.

Hitler got off a few wild shots before Rory decked him and put him in the closet, and an errant bullet hit Mels in the stomach. Woo! I was rooting for her exit the moment she opened her mouth. But to my dismay she begins to to glow with the signature FX of a Time Lord regenerating after being mortally wounded. I couldn't believe it. Seriously, Moffat? "Mels" is really Melody Pond\River Song, Rory and Amy's missing baby and a major reoccurring character since season three? I've come to expect more from you.

Done another way--a better way--Amy finding out that she grew up with her own child as her best friend (and naming her daughter after what turns out to be her daughter) would have been fantastic. As it happened though, the execution was forced and so rushed that it feels like a hasty afterthought. Had Mels been in the show longer than literally eighteen minutes it could have had so much emotional force. Instead it comes across as annoying and more than a little insulting.

The freshly regenerated Melody\River now stands before them as the character we've been curious about since Tennant's reign. She explores her new looks giddy as a hyperactive fourteen year old. "That's... Melody." Amy says in disbelief as she runs around the room annoyingly. I feel you Amy, I feel you. The only joy I got out of this young Melody\River is when she says she'll gradually make herself look younger to freak people out, a nice reference to the fact that we first saw her character when the actress was three years younger. Alex Kingston always looks fantastic, though. While Mels lay dying the crew of the clanky robo-ship discovered her true identity, and that her crimes make Hitler's almost inconsequential by comparison. "Melody Pond," Captain Jerk says as the camera zooms on his face dramatically, "the woman that kills the Doctor." Dun dun dunnn!

After Melody\River is finished excitedly checking out her hair, her teeth, and her new butt we're finally treated to something enjoyable: she gets down to the business of trying to kill the Doctor. What follows is a fun series of gags where Melody\River pulls a gun on the Doctor and fires, but wait! When everyone was distracted he'd taken all the bullets out. River was expecting that so she goes to pull a second gun out of the leather vest, only to find the Doctor has switched it with a banana(r). She finds the real gun but ha! The Doctor already removed the clip. It's a very well timed game of I know that you know that I know that you know that I know that you know the gun isn't loaded. If this is what it's like when Time Lords duel it's a shame there aren't more around.

In the end Melody\River gets the upper hand, sweetly planting a poisonous peck on the Doctor's lips in a move he should have anticipated given her past/future history (past for us, future for her). River stands on the ledge of the broken window, looks out over Berlin on the eve of war, and decides to go shopping. She warns Rory and Amy not to follow and disappears out the high window like Batman in a flowing leopard-print shirt.

Thus poisoned, the Doctor sends Rory and Amy after Melody\River while he drags his rapidly failing body into his wounded TARDIS. He collapses on the floor, unable to reach the console. Activating the ship's (heretofore unknown) voice interface he's presented with the holograms of his past companions from Rose Tyler on. Sadly each is just a still image that the Doctor rejects as the ship's visual representation after only a few seconds on screen. It would have been fantastic to have Billie Piper or Catherine Tate come back to the show even for five minutes. The Doctor asks for someone he isn't filled with guilt over and Amelia Pond, the young version of Amy, appears before him. I really like the little Scottish girl they got for this character, which I like probably more than the adult Amy.

In an adorable but slightly computerized voice young Amelia Pond informs the Doctor that he has thirty-two minutes to live. She repeats the line, "In thirty-two minutes you will be dead," with characteristic computer-stubbornness through the Doctor's quick-fire banter. He can't regenerate (surprise, surprise; any self-respecting fan knows Matt Smith is signed on for another season and they already cheated to keep the same actor once) and there is no cure for the Judas Tree poison in his system. The Doctor is upbeat as always, and just needs something for the pain so he can use his thirty-one minutes of remaining life to the fullest. The hologram has nothing to offer him on this. He begs, "Amelia, listen to me. I can be brave for you, but you have to tell me how. Please, help me..." He begins to pass out when we hear Amelia--not the subtly electronic voice of the hologram--say, "Fish fingers and custard." The Doctor's eyes snap open and the music rises. "What did you say?" But the hologram is silent. It took me re-watching the episode with headphones to verify the differences in voices, but it's there. This is the kind of subtle clue Moffat excels at, and I'd bet my favorite pen this comes back later in the season. "Fish fingers and custard!" the Doctor laughs as he pulls himself up and gets the TARDIS going... somewhere\when.

Speaking of subtle clues, the Doctor wears a new coat at the beginning of the episode and comes back from (presumably) getting himself some fish fingers and custard in a tux. Any time he changes clothes I'm suspicious, as Moffat has used this in the past to signify characters from a different point in their time steam. What one initially takes to be a continuity error or a meaningless wardrobe change actually turns out to be significant later on. I'm hoping the sudden and unexplained change into a tuxedo comes back around to be the kind of timey-wimey awesomeness I love Doctor Who for.

While the Doctor is off self-medicating, River has been busy toying with Nazis and brandishing machine guns at an entire resteraunt full of Germans, ordering them to disrobe so she can get some new clothes. Rory and Amy are in hot pursuit on a motorcycle taken from the second Nazi Rory clocked in his continuing out-of-character awesomeness. "Can you even ride a motorbike?" Amy asks. "I suppose so," he says, "it's been that sort of a day." You go, Rory Pond! Keep this kind of thing up and I may actually be sad to see you go.

But wait! The Nazi was actually the robo-ship in a new disguise. If a skinny Brit can take this thing down with one punch I'm thoroughly convinced it's a piece of crap. The robo-ship gets up, constructs its own motorcycle, and follows the Ponds. When it catches up to them at the restaurant of fleeing Germans in their unmentionables it looks exactly like Amy, and turns its head (slowly) towards them with a mechanical clicking noise you'd think wouldn't happen with technology capable of time travel. Cut to Melody\River playing dress-up in front of the mirror when "Amy" walks in, stone faced. Meanwhile Rory and Amy wake up on board the S.S. Craptastic and get chased by the antibodies before one of the crew members arrives. He slaps on electronic ID bracelets which signifies them as "authorized" and stops the attack.

Dopple-Amy accuses Melody\River of killing the Doctor and hits her with the same beam of light from its mouth that was going to kill Hitler. Just then the Doctor appears, upright and in tails, top hat and everything, leaning against his TARDIS dramatically. The robo-ship shuts off the beam and everyone turns to look at him. "You're dying," Melody\River exclaims, "and you stopped to change?" He spins around flourishing a stylish cane, "Oh, you should always waste time when you don't have any. Time is not the boss of you. Rule four-hundred and eight." The cane opens at the top to reveal his trademark green sonic technology and he scans robo-Amy. "Sonic cane," he says with a grin. "Are you serious?" Melody\River asks. "Never knowingly. Never knowingly be serious, rule twenty-seven. You might want to write these down." It appears he has begun mentoring her already, something fans have suspected for awhile now.

The Doctor's body is still shutting down despite his unflagging excitement, and he cries out in pain between jokes as his legs become unresponsive. Melody\River tries to run but is caught in a force field by robo-Amy and screams in pain as she is punished for her crimes. The Doctor yells at them to stop and engages Captain Jerk in a conversation that explains their purpose: They travel through time to extract those who've never been punished for their atrocities and "give them hell" (which we figured out like twenty minutes ago.) If it wasn't for their British accents I'd say these guys were Americans. The Doctor gains access to his own data sheet aboard the robo-ship and the audience is given some information on the overall story arc concerning his apparent death. None of it is shocking or exciting and does nothing but confirms the time and place, which we've already seen and he probably knows.

Finally the Doctor begins to succumb to his fatal poisoning, writhing and yelling in pain, barely able to move. A member of the S.S. Craptastic declares him finished and resumes punishing Melody\River, the force-field around her turning red and appearing to burn her. The Doctor implores Amy (still aboard the robo-ship) to stop them any way she can as he crawls along the floor. Amy uses the sonic screwdriver to disable all of the electronic ID bracelets and the antibodies come out of the floors to kill everybody. The crew abandons ship by "beaming up" (tossers) and Melody\River is released.

Rory and Amy are trapped in the ship however, and hordes of the antibodies are coming for them. Amy has the microphone that allows her to speak through the robo-ship and yells for the Doctor's help even though he's dying himself. I really liked the concept of Amy trapped inside a robot of her own likeness, calling for help through her mimicked voice as it stands inert.

The Doctor forces himself to stand painfully, falling again as he tries to make it to his TARDIS while Amy yells a few feet away. He begs River for help, barely able to move. Melody\River doesn't yet know who that is and wants information first. The Doctor pleads, "GRRAH JUST! ...help me," his teary eyes right up in the camera. I know he's not going to die, but I still nearly cry at this point every time. Matt Smith just gets better and better as the Doctor and his acting here is very powerful.

Powerful enough even for the psychotic Melody\River to help him, piloting he TARDIS just in time to save her parents (Rory and Amy) from the antibodies. She takes them all back to the Doctor, who's dying on the marble stairs of the Nazi restaurant. He asks to speak to Melody\River and tells her to find River Song and tell her something, which he whispers into her ear. She moves away from his face to reveal that he has died. Melody\River asks Amy who River Song is, and Amy has the abandoned robo-ship show her. It begins to change, turning into Melody Pond\River Song, who is so affected that she walks to the Doctor's body, hands aglow with regeneration energy, placing them on either side of his face and bringing him back to life. "River no," he starts but she leans down and delivers her signature line: "Hello, Sweetie," and kisses him. No poison this time.

Bright light fades in and we see a weak River in the hospital. We learn she used up all of her regenerations (Time Lords only get twelve usually) saving the Doctor's life. "She'll be absolutely fine," the nurse says. "No she won't," the Doctor replies, "she'll be amazing," placing a new TARDIS-design diary next to her bed. The same diary future versions of herself have been sporting since River's first episode in 2008.

Back in the TARDIS we see the Doctor has downloaded the S.S. Craptastic's records on himself and now definitely knows the place and time of his death, down to the minute. Rory and Amy ask, "The River that we know, in the future, is in prison for murder. Who's murder?" The Doctor turns towards his view screen with his own picture on display but looking at Rory (significantly?) before smiling and turning it off, saying nothing as he fritters around the ship's console. "Will we ever see her again?" Amy asks. "Oh, she'll come looking for us." "Yeah but how?" "Oh Pond, haven't you figured that out yet?"

Cut to the Lunar University, year 5123. "Why do you want to study archeology?" a professor in a bow tie asks an unseen person. River leans into view and says, "Well to be perfectly honest Professor, I'm looking for a good man." I can't help but mentally add: TO KILL.

And so ends the mixed-bag premier episode of the 2nd half of the season. I can only hope the rest of the episodes turn out better than the 50/50 awesome-to-annoying ration of this one. A word of advice to Moffat and his team: more Doctor, less Pond. Companions come and go, but the Doctor is for ever.

Slow Down

noreply@blogger.com (David Buchta) — Thu, 01 Sep 2011 17:52:00 +0000

I'm almost positive my ADD is back in full force. As a child I was diagnosed and prescribed Ritalin (which was horrible for a grade-school kid) until we found a homeopathic alternative and I eventually grew out of it. Or as I'm thinking now, just figured out how to work around it. Listening to music, multitasking, and other tricks allowed my brain to jump from one thing to another while still keeping it on somewhat of a leash. I learned a method to the madness and stopped needing medication.

Jonas, my son, has thrown me into relapse. It has been impossible to concentrate on anything for longer than five minutes for over two years now. All of my tricks are useless--a toddler is a force of nature that cannot be reasoned with or controlled. Unless he's asleep it's his world and we're just living in it, the tempos of our lives set to his frenetic toddler beat.

His influence extends even to the relative calm of my cubicle walls. My brain has adapted itself to match his attention span in what can only be an attempt at self-preservation. It automatically changes focus, sometimes several times a minute, from work to reading to writing to I'm hungry to maybe I should clean out my bag to I want a new song and back through the list, repeat ad nauseum. Even under the best circumstances and with no outside distractions I cannot easily force myself to stay on one task. It is counterproductive to any endeavor and frustrating in the extreme.

Recently I have discovered one new trick that seems to work. I suspect this is due to some neurological change that comes with being a parent and constantly listening out for signs of distress or destruction, but whatever the reason auditory distractions have become the most powerful and constant offenders of my concentration. The TV, the dog's breathing, neighbors upstairs moving around, any noise instantly jerks my attention away. Even well-known music can be too distracting if I'm really trying to focus, which is a pity as good music not only blocks out the noise of the world but creates one of its own where you are the only inhabitant--the perfect situation to get solid work done.

Thankfully I have PaulStretch. PaulStretch is a free program that slows down and stretches music files while keeping the notes intact. The music keeps its tone or pitch or what have you (I'm not a musically technical person) but the song becomes so much longer. Drum beats become the sounds of waves crashing, words are lost and become abstract notes spanning many seconds, your favorite songs become ambient, dream-like versions of themselves. It's quite interesting and can yield some amazing pieces of music that at once sound familiar and brand new.

To get an idea of what I mean here are some of my favorite stretched songs:
Ave Maria
Jurassic Park Theme (I did not make this one)
Clair de Lune
Kanada's Death (from the movie Sunshine)

The best part for me is the length (shut it) and beautiful yet unobtrusive music I can create with a few simple steps. My stretched songs have become a lifesaver. I can once again enter a place isolated from the everyday noises that derail my trains of thought like sticks of dynamite on the tracks.

If you want to create your own stretched songs start by downloading PaulStrech here. It's an executable file so there is nothing to install. Run the program and browse to the desired file. It only accepts MP3s and WAVs so you'll have to convert any other file types (I use Free MP3 WMA OGG Converter) before it will accept them. Now as I've said, I'm not a technical person when it comes to music. PaulStretch has a ton of other features I do not understand and therefore do not fool with, so go here if you want more information on what it can do.

Once you have chosen your music file, look at the slider near the top of the window that says Stretch next to it. This is where you chose how "long" to stretch the song. I usually do 7x but 8x is default; it all depends on how you want it to sound. To hear your song click the play button at the bottom of the window. This is the preview before you render it, so experiment with the settings until you get something you like. I'm lazy and simply set it to 7x and give it a quick listen to see how it sounds.

This is a good time to mention that some songs sound horrible stretched out. Usually the more simple the song the better; too many parts can make the end product sound like like a lot of harsh, chaotic noises instead of music. If you like what you hear click on the "Write to file" tab near the top of the window. Next to the large "Render selection" button you'll see two boxes with percent signs. This is where you can crop the song down if you like by entering a range. Otherwise just hit the render button to start saving your file. Browse to where you want to save it, pick .wav or .ogg for the file type (.wav is probably best) and click "Render".

Done! All that's left is to find your file and enjoy. Convert the file back to MP3 if you need to and put it on your favorite portable music device for a private music seclusion on the go.

Now please excuse me as I cloister myself within the Doctor Who theme slowed down by 700% so I can get some work done.

I Don't Know About Writers

noreply@blogger.com (David Buchta) — Tue, 30 Aug 2011 04:56:00 +0000

Click for full GIF-y goodness

I don't know a lot about writers. I (regrettably) didn't go to the type of college that would make me study them and although I definitely have hero worship for a handful of authors I'm not the kind of guy who reads their biographies. A quick run-through of Wikipedia is usually enough for me.

But I do know what resonates with my own experience as a human being trying to make the best sentences I can. On a recent hurricane-inspired car trip I listened to my favorite portion yet of A Moveable Feast on audiobook. I'll save you some Googling if you've never heard of this book (as I hadn't until recently): It's a collection of memoirs from Ernest Hemingway of his life in Paris during the Twenties. I became interested in it and Hemingway after seeing Midnight In Paris, although I had read and liked The Old Man and The Sea very much a few years ago, and more recently A Farewell To Arms.

The particular chapter is called "Birth of a New School" and begins with Hemingway writing in a cafe when some jerk comes in and starts blabbing in his ear, breaking his concentration and ending the sweet stretch of writing he'd just been enjoying. Hemingway tries to ignore him but he just won't shut up: "He was in full cry now and the unbelievable sentences were soothing as the noise of a plank being violated in the sawmill." I laughed in the car picturing the scene and how often I was in a similar situation. Of course Hemingway tells him off and makes him promise never to come into that cafe again while I just secretly plan to write my transgressors into stories one day, painting them as the irritants they are. Take that, office coworker! I like Hem's way better but I'm not an asshole, legendary, lauded, or otherwise.

Another "author" whom I've identified with recently is Jack Torrence. From The Shining. Yeah, the guy Jack Nicholson plays. Before you make a face, hear me out. Lately I've been reading an incredibly in-depth analysis (almost to conspiracy-theory levels) of The Shining and it inspired me to reconnect with one of my all-time favorite movies. Not only that but the twenty-plus chapters of analysis, theories, and possible symbolism of everything from the elevator doors to the man in the bear suit have opened up new interpretations for me.

So I've watched it a of couple times recently, and one of the scenes I've always loved is when Jack is such a complete and perfect asshole to Wendy when she interrupts his writing. It's such a deliciously tense scene and Nicholson is the only actor in existence who could have pulled off being that shitty in such a believable way. It's amazing; if you haven't seen it in a while you should do so soon. I've actually gone through that scene frame by frame and taken screenshots of my favorite facial expressions for a little idea I've had. Remember those "Today I'm Feeling..." things where you could stick up a wide range of facial expressions to display your current mood? Imagine one made up entirely of Jack Nicholson's Shining faces.

Now, do I really wish I could cuss people out when they interrupt my work? Sometimes, sure. Do I want to ban them from my hometown Starbucks or stack their body parts neatly in another room? Of course not (well, maybe the banning one). I just understand what Jack and Hemingway felt at being disturbed, which isn't surprising in this age of distraction. The thirty-six hours I recently spent without power saw more writing than I get done in an entire week, which is truly depressing. And it's not just texts, the Internet, Netflix, and other forms of digital entertainment, but I'm a father and a pretty attentive boyfriend as well. Which I love being, but sometimes a guy just needs a couple hours to sit and work.

Writing is so slow, it requires so much time and concentration--unbroken time and concentration--that it's supremely difficult to find space to do it in. You (and by "you" I mean "I") can't do quick little pieces of it on the crapper or for the five minutes our toddlers entertain themselves in. We need stretches of time to get anything usable down on paper, and even then there are no guarantees. It's not like digging a ditch where time spent equals a measurable result. How do other writers do it? Maybe I should start reading biographies. Or hotel-sitting in the mountains. It's maddening, and I don't quite know how to go about it.

I could just ask for help, but I know I'm not going to. Bribes? I don't really have anything besides my natural endowments... like my good looks, full, coffee-colored hair, strong hands, etc. Maybe I could do something sneaky and subtle and a little bit cowardly, and leave a note where someone could find it and they'd take pity on me and see what they could do.

You know, because of the endowments.

This Is My Affliction

noreply@blogger.com (David Buchta) — Sat, 20 Aug 2011 20:03:00 +0000

Hi, my name is David, and I'm a Grammar Nazi. And a Spelling Nazi... and a Punctuation Nazi.

A lot of my earliest memories have books in them. My dad is a life-long, avid reader and our home was always filled with books. When I was very little he had built shelves from old wood and made a library in our house. I remember running between the towering shelves made from rough, weathered wood and the green shag carpet they stood on between my toddler toes. I used to study the strange covers of his science fiction novels and try to divine the story held behind them, lost in my imaginings for what felt like hours. The bathroom always had two or three books within arm's reach of the toilet, and I learned early that it's the best room in the house to get any actual reading done; something that has come in handy now that I'm a father. Where else can you sit in privacy without distractions, safely locked away from toddlers and their constant demands?

One day I worked up the courage and asked my dad to help me pick out one of his books. I remember standing in front of the shelves with my father, shyly looking over his collection while he smiled down at me. I wonder now what that was like for him, to have his thirteen-ish son ask for a book that was way above his comprehension and maturity levels. For whatever reason he didn't tell me to run along and read one of my Goosebumps, but picked out a paperback book and handed it to me. I think it was Childhood's End by Arthur C. Clarke, author of many sci-fi classics including 2001. It must have been during my middle school years that I started reading Clarke and Robert A. Heinlein, science fiction giants that were well beyond my young mind. Somehow I made my way through them, stretching to grasp what I could and probably understanding less than half of what I read. But I kept coming back and my dad kept giving me things to read, and I will be forever grateful.

Another early memory is of a grade school teacher marking red all over my handwriting test because I had been using word-wrap. Whenever I ran out of space on the line I'd put a dash within the word and carefully continue spelling it on the next line like I'd seen in my father's books. She had marked every instance wrong, even though I had done it correctly. I went home, picked out a fat novel at random (I think it was Clavell's Tai-Pan or King Rat, both of which I now have in my own library) and looked at the first page I flipped to. Sure enough, there was word-wrapping all over the thin, yellowing pages. That was the first time I realized a teacher could be wrong.

When I first became aware of my "affliction" in high school I was apologetic and a bit ashamed, like I had an uncontrollable facial tick that made people uncomfortable. Around that time I was in Advanced Placement English and proud of it (even if we did have to read Adventures of Huckleberry Finn), although being a "geek" wasn't cool back then, and geeking out about grammar and punctuation wasn't the sexy trait we know it to be today. But as I grew older I went from mousy to militant when it came to speaking and writing correctly, even with the invention and popularization of AOL-speak and Internet lingo. Much like my fervent atheism at the time, I had a very strong opinion on the matter and I was going to put it right in your face whether you asked for it or not. I attribute much of my typing speed and accuracy to countless hours spent backspacing and retyping misspelled words, and Keyboarding class in high school (which I elected to take) was one of my favorites.

My atheistic enthusiasm has mellowed with age and sounds now like an old man yelling from his porch, shaking his tiny fist, while my grammatical fanaticism has only gotten stronger. However, I have since learned that it's more socially acceptable to complain about someone behind their back than to their face (a sure sign of maturity), so at least I'm making progress. Usually these complaints happen for an audience of one, either my special lady friend or amigo Alex. Thankfully both are similarly afflicted and never shake their heads at my tirades or tell me to lighten up.

And why would they? If you are an adult and English is your first language there is no excuse beyond laziness for writing and spelling incorrectly. (Speaking is a bit of a different matter: you can't go back and change your words if you've said something incorrectly, and I have a soft spot for accents, dialects, and slang. Also, I get flustered and say weird things when speaking with people face to face.) This is especially true considering the ubiquity of electronic communication, as nearly all devices and software have spellcheck installed and enabled by default. Those squiggly red lines underneath your words aren't there for decoration.

Basic grammar, spelling, and punctuation is something we were taught well before finishing high school, and while things like Calculus and Spanish can easily fade after graduation due to disuse there is simply no reason to let your English waste away. We are bombarded with it every moment of our lives and people "write" now more than ever in this age of the ever-present Internet. Which, incidentally, has this awesome thing where you can search an online dictionary and find out how to spell "irregardless" and then discover that it isn't actually a word and stop using it.

To me it's like we're all cooks, baking these little pastries we give to each other. Maybe it's something cupcake-sized like a text or a status update, or something more in the cake range like blog entries and articles. Now imagine eating a tasty little creation and CRUNCH, your teeth bite down on an eggshell. Worst feeling ever, right? It hurts your soul somehow, and your brain freezes for that awful second as your teeth grate across the food equivalent of a chalkboard. You don't want to take anymore bites in fear that you'll find another one. This is what it's like for those of us who still give a damn about spelling and grammar. Each time you misspell a word or completely disregard punctuation: CRUNCH CRUNCH CRUNCH. It's horrible.

So please, have a heart and take out those eggshells. Use the resources available to you and take the time to sound as intelligent as you probably are. We're not asking for confections that would make Marie Antoinette squeal, but only to keep our gums from bleeding. On behalf of spelling, grammar, and punctuation ~~Nazis~~ enthusiasts everywhere, we thank you.

- David

Okay

noreply@blogger.com (David Buchta) — Fri, 12 Aug 2011 04:27:00 +0000

My jaw throbs as I drive towards home, the muscles on the left side of my face creating shadows in the harsh light coming through the window. I clench and release, clench and release, grinding the flat surfaces of my teeth against each other in punishment as I weather the million tiny annoyances of a day. Beyond watching out for the other drivers I'm only vaguely aware of my surroundings or the storm in my head, but I know it's there. Somehow it's come to always be there.

I stop behind a red soft-top Jeep with a loosely hanging thick plastic window. This feels like the hundredth delay of my short commute. They recently changed the timing of the lights at this intersection and it never works in my favor. Two lanes of traffic leave the Naval hospital and head towards the tunnel, crowding across the intersection like rats mobbing at the edge of a sinking ship. Apparently I've caught this light right as it's turned red because it is refusing to change. This just adds insult to the endless stream of debilitating noise crushing my teeth together.

The song playing from my phone slowly rises to its pinnacle; a complex but almost expected meld of different instruments: violins in two or more parts, a guitar making music rather than cliche guitar sounds, a xylophone, even something that sounds like a small wooden box being dropped gently as percussion. There are no words, no vocals. The individual parts each starting out quietly with their own fragile voices, joining and being joined by others as they build together. At first you can't get a handle on the tone; something precious and beautiful you loved has ended and will never be again, and the ashes of it float down around you like a grey snow.

Then the violins rise like beams of light parting heavy clouds. The other instruments follow close behind, individual rays moving over the landscape together as the sun shines into my face off a corner of the Jeep's plastic window swaying in the breeze.

And suddenly I'm held by this song I've heard fifty times. Waiting at a light and surrounded by cars my eyes brim with release as the torture of my mind is quieted. There is just the music, the sun on the windows, and the blue sky above a black canvas roof. It is like someone has come to save me at the last moment.
"Okay," I say in a voice on the edge of tears, "Okay. Okay. Okay." It's going to be okay. Everything is going to be alright. For this brief moment I believe it to be true no matter what happens later. At least I have this, now, finally.

The light changes and I turn the corner. The Jeep has gone on elsewhere and I don't see where it goes. This used to happen often but hasn't in some time. Maybe years. "Where have you been?" I ask as an aftershock moves through me briefly and is gone.

Walking in the door my family smiles at me and I'm able to genuinely smile in return. Maybe it will be okay. Who the hell knows.

4th of July Vacation, Part 1 - Getting There

noreply@blogger.com (David Buchta) — Sun, 17 Jul 2011 17:32:00 +0000

Sometimes you can go home again, although it will probably be a major pain in the ass.

I was last home four years ago for Christmas. Since them I've moved across the country, gained and lost a handful of jobs, become a father, and lived in three different apartments. Family and friend (just the one) have visited sparsely since we live roughly two thousand miles from my old life. I love my rural home state and the people in it but we never make it out there. We have no money, and when we do it's spent on more localized things. Plane tickets are expensive and there's always something we've been wanting instead nipping at our ankles.

My grandmother put the trip together, as always. She makes the arrangements and I am only too happy to carry them out. One day she will call and ask about a series of dates a couple of months away, and I play professional and say I'll have to double-check but they should be fine. This is courtesy on her part and formality on mine--I'll make sure the dates work. I've put in two weeks notice without hesitation to make one of her trips.

This trip was handled by a woman at the travel agency my grandma has a vague association with. She either owns or owned it and all of our travel arrangements go through there. I contacted Judy (who I may have met in person, I can never remember) and she always sounds like she expects my call. Whenever I contact the agency I give my full name and am transferred immediately. Judy took down some information about Kasey's name and Jonas' birthday but knew the rest already, including the dates my grandmother suggested and our closest airport. Our conversations are always cheery and short. Judy is a professional. A few days later our itinerary arrived and I glanced over it for any glaring issues. I worried about the multiple connecting flights only because I knew Kasey would.

Later I learned she had good reason. Our final destination was Idaho Falls, Idaho, just under two thousand miles from our apartment in Virginia. It took three separate planes and thirteen hours to get there, which would have been hard on anyone without the added difficulty of gate changes, delays, a fussy thirty-pound toddler and his unwieldy twenty-pound car seat, and motion sickness on his part.

After the first flight I discovered the behemoth car seat was rated for use in aircraft but not designed for it. The space through which the seat belt goes is barely large enough for my fingers to fit in, and only after we landed did I discover the latch of the buckle requires enough space for its entire two inches to make a nearly 180-degree arc before it releases. Frantically I tried to unbuckle the car seat while everyone else deplaned and my son looked at me with an expression that wavered between annoyance and worry. Finally I worked out how to force slack into the buckle centimeter by centimeter until I could bodily shove the car seat into the wall of the plane enough to free it. The second plane had the buckle coming from the other side and my trick did not work no matter how raw I made my fingers. The entire plane was nearly empty before I discovered how to unclip the seatbelt from the frame of the seat itself, which I was certain you couldn't do, and carry the stained car seat and toddler off the plane.

Stained, because it was on this second flight into Denver that Jonas got sick. Being afflicted with motion sickness, I had already taken nearly the daily maximum dosage of Dramimimine to steel myself against nausea, the worst sensation available to man. The flight had been turbulent enough to delay the beverage cart once or twice but finally we were able to purchase a fruit and cheese plate for $8, credit card only. Jonas wolfed down juice, cheese, and grapes as there had been no time between flights to eat and he must have been starving. As we began our descent the turbulence worsened. Jonas, who had been sitting very still, began to make little coughing noises. My eyes were closed to aid the Dramimine but I looked over in time to see a good portion of his juice and grapes come silently back up from his stomach. I don't know if this is true of all young children or particular to Jonas, but he never makes any of those classic noises associated with being physically ill. Endearingly and to her credit Kasey immediately began comforting him with a voice unaffected by being stuck next to a vomiting child inside a turbulent airplane. He became understandably upset by his first experience with motion sickness and Kasey did the best she could with the small amount of baby wipes we had brought onboard.

Once on the ground Jonas completely recovered and I cleaned his shirt with paper towels and changed his diaper in the men's room. The plaid blue shorts he'd been wearing were too wet with sick to put back on. Since we didn't have a change of clothes he spent our time in Denver with the faint sickly-sweat smell of partially digested juice and grapes and ran around the airport pointing to the biplanes hanging from the ceiling and other objects of interest in his red shoes and without pants.

It is worth mentioning at this point that either from having to sit still for hours on end or natural toddler grouchiness Jonas had been perfectly frustrating the entire trip, save for those times when he was distracted by takeoffs, landings, or sleep. I suppose he could have been worse but at the time it was hard to imagine.

All airports seem designed to purposefully place connecting flights as far away from each other as physically possible. Coming and going, an hour-long layover was barely enough time to perform an accelerated death march from one gate to the other before immediately having to board, with eating and elimination having to wait until the Fasten Seatbelt sign was turned off. Our layover in Denver was no different, except the added insult of three gate changes which ended back at the original gate and an hour delay. Each change required the better part of a ten minute walk with our carryon luggage, exhausted Jonas, and his car seat weighing us down like we were pack mules.

We had been traveling for at least ten hours straight when threats to cancel multiple flights due to weather conditions were announced. Outside the bunker-like terminal that had obviously been built after the rest of the airport, it rained softly while lightening could be seen above the horizon from every window. The people crowded into the small outbuilding were showing obvious signs of frustration and exhaustion, faces frowning and upturned to the flat-screen monitors on the walls searchingly or from habit. One woman who seemed dressed for a day at the beach loudly berated the gate attendant while her husband stood by looking too tired to care.

Finally we were allowed to board the tiny plane, which was too small to use a jetway. We walked across the tarmac and up a wheelchair-accessible ramp in the misting rain. There was a brief scare as the captain announced over the intercom that they were waiting on a maintenance issue to be checked out. I was too exhausted to be concerned with broken planes and could only worry the flight would be cancelled. I didn't care if we might crash, just get us the fuck out of Denver and our traveling over with. Shortly we joined a dozen planes taxied on the runway all trying to make it out while they could, and I watched rain drops make paths on the window in the dark while we waited. It was after 11:30pm MST, which made it 1:30am our time. We'd left the house at 1:00pm that day.

Jonas fell asleep on the plane and I had difficulty unhooking the seatbelt from the seat. The stewardess had given me a seatbelt extension but it hadn't made any difference. The captain, a friendly-looking balding man with glasses and a skinny build, came back to help just as I was able to unhook it. My fingertips were red and raw and later I noticed dried blood where I'd torn the thumbnail up from the skin underneath it. I smiled at the attendant and the captain as I hefted the car seat with Jonas asleep still in it down the isle, and we walked across the tarmac towards a set of double doors unsure of where to go.

We entered the tiny airport and almost immediately ran into the baggage claim. Jonas woke up as I set him down to grab our bags but only made a tired face and squinted against the light. No one can look as tired as children. I called the hotel and they sent a van over to pick us up within minutes. The driver was Hispanic with rimless glasses and shorter than I was. He opened the sliding door and I worked on getting the car seat fastened while he put our bags in back. I tried to ask him if there'd been any bad weather but he couldn't understand me until I repeated and simplified my question a few times. The hotel was a short drive from the airport and when we got out the air felt cool and clean on my face. The driver unloaded our bags and stood quietly at the back of the van while I unloaded Jonas. When I turned back to tip him he was already climbing into the seat. I wasn't sure if I had any bills smaller than a ten and was too worn out to care very much although I felt bad about it afterwards.

I provided my credit card to the desk clerk and we checked into room 334 on the 3rd floor, not quite at the end of the hall but far enough from the elevator that I shook my head at all the walking we had to do. We dropped the bags as soon as we got into the room. The clock between the two beds said 1:34. Between the curtains I could see a broiling river below the small hill of the hotel and a white building that looked like a monument or a church with a gold statue on top centered almost perfectly in our window.

Surreally Jonas appeared to have found a second wind. He moved around the room picking things up and seeing what he was allowed to touch. "Aren't you tired?" we desperately implored, but he only shook his head spitefully. I pulled the covers down on one of the beds and pulled Jonas up into it. He protested loud enough for me to wonder if the neighbors could hear him. He was too tired or the bed was too tall for him to climb back down and I attempted to cuddle next to him and inspire sleep, but he whined and pushed me away. Kasey crawled in with him and he didn't make a sound. I half-seriously pouted in a chair near the sliding glass door and glared at his tiny back. He whined for a bottle while making the sign for it in Kasey's face and I stomped from the chair to the luggage to the bathroom and made him one from the sink faucet. I shoved the bottle at him in mock anger and threw myself on the other bed face down.

Soon he was finished and I wormed my way into the bed with them, Jonas between us. Before turning out the lights I set the alarm on my phone for 8:30, less than six hours away, just in time for the complimentary breakfast my dad had told me not to miss when I'd called him from Denver.

The next thing I remember was the perfect yellow sun and its reflection on the river shining through the rectangular part in the curtains directly into our faces through the clean morning air of Idaho.

Not Even That, Anymore

noreply@blogger.com (David Buchta) — Mon, 13 Jun 2011 19:27:00 +0000

I've started numerous entries with some variation of the line, "I'm almost thirty years old now." Apparently I couldn't believe it, although evidence was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore: the invitation to my ten year high school reunion, the fifteen pounds of unnecessary flesh that's been subtly accruing around my midsection, and an increasing bafflement over "young people" and whatever the fuck it is they think they're doing.

To quote a role model of mine, however, "It's not the years, Honey, it's the mileage." It seems all my life I've been looking forward to being an old man. As children we cannot wait to grow up, and first learn the perils of getting what one wishes for when we do. Most people look back in longing, and I am no stranger to nostalgia. Surprisingly, though, my subconcious appears to have taken the more logical route and looked forward for respite from the present, wishing instead for grey hair and suits rather than care-free summers and school days. I'd rather be the Tom Waits version of myself than the bucktoothed, painfully worrisome version I was during my adolescence.

Sadly, obviously, I've romanticized some parts and completely overlooked others. For instance, the perceived self-confidence and hard-won collection of life's lessons that older men seem to posses is something I've been looking forward to. The inherent, negative physical changes are something I, along with all the previous-young, believed would not apply to me. People have always prophesied the end of my enviable metabolism, and for years I have been laughing them off. Dietary doomsday is finally mushroom-clouding on my horizon however, just when I'd reached the point of actively reworking my style into one that doesn't depend on Internet t-shirts and the same two pairs of jeans.

Vegetarianism may have assisted in prolonging my unfettered eating habits if I'd stayed physically active, but innumerable circumstances conspire against our acheiving any constructive activity; it's a wonder we can even get dressed in the morning. My own inherent laziness notwithstanding, a two year old son and a climate of frequent, smothering humidty are chief among rationalizations deployed to half-heartedly defend against my own internal castigation.

I'm also beginning to suspect that the confidence and bemused detachment I attributed to maturity is nothing more than being too worn down to effectively care. I simply do not have the energy required to be upset by the majority of things that once bothered me, while trivialities now plunge me into a black mood. The aperture of my ire seems to be collapsing, and only allows successively smaller and smaller objects to come into focus. I cannot tell if this is growth, or surrender. Ironically it's a kind of sick, angry self-confidence that follows a muted ability to care, as the imagined judgements by those around me are finally becoming internalized through repetition; I no longer wonder if the terrible whispers of self-doubt are true or not. I have inundated myself with them too long not to believe them.

Through the years I've looked ahead with a smile of pleasant expectation, but as I get older I see people of all ages are unsure, unhappy, and making the same mistakes they did when they were young. Optimists will try to use this to their advantage, saying I am not alone, no one is perfect. I'm only twenty-eight, but these last two years have worn my optimism down to the nub, and taught me that solidarity among the suffering is as common as snowballs in Hell. Everyone is too occupied with their own escape to reach back and pull you out of the dungeon as well. History has made clear what I can expect: Living alone, while my child makes his own life in a different part of the country, with bi-monthly phone calls and visits even less frequently.

What can I do, if anything? One of the hardest things about writing honestly (especially about oneself) is remembering that it doesn't have to be lasting to be true. This is the truth right now; tomorrow it may be different, but that shouldn't excuse me from telling it, although too often I convince myself it does-both on and off the page. I'm marking the side of a sailing ship to show where I dropped something overboard, but it's still important to me that I do it. See, we're already moving past the point where it fell in.

So, what to do? Read, write, work, eat less, move more, listen to music, play with my kid, cuddle, clean, throw out all my clothes, cultivate my style, be kind, call my folks, get up early, sleep in late, surprise my girl, surprise myself, breathe, live, enjoy it.

-David

I Been Reading Some Books

noreply@blogger.com (David Buchta) — Mon, 13 Jun 2011 03:16:00 +0000

Here's a list and some parts I like of them.

I just finished "Billy Dead" by Lisa Reardon. I immediately liked the main character, Ray. The entire book is told from his perspective and begins after his brother, the town asshole to say the least, has been murdered.

Here's an excerpt I like:

"Jean's handling the Malibu okay for the liquor she's had. We're quiet, hanging limp somewhere real nice, halfway between awake and passed out. The red dot of Jean's cigarette sits above the steering wheel. I watch it swoop through the dark toward her mouth. It flares for a second, then swoops back again. That's when the deer pops up from the pavement smack in front of the car. A doe, red eyes staring straight at me, froze solid.

"'Oh,' says the doe in a brown velvet voice. 'Oh, no.' Like her heart's broke at the thought of dying already. Her disappointment is soft, giving up, resigned to the death about to hit her. My foot slams into the floorboard, kicking for the brake."

Luckily the deer escapes, untouched. The subject matter of the book is a little hard to take, I'll admit. There's domestic violence and worse, much worse. But it's one of those works that isn't about the horrible things that are happening, but the way they're presented and the things that happen after which make it so good. The main character is so well done I miss him already, and I about cried once or twice.

Also in rotation for the last couple of months is "The Bloody Chamber", a collection of loosely related short stories by the amazing Angela Carter. I'll never be done saying how much I love this woman's writing. She's the first author I've read where I regularly stop and shake my head at how well she can put a sentence together. Her skill is the kind that simultaneously inspires and depresses because it is just that good.

The following is from the story, "The Lady of the House of Love", which is like a mix of Nosferatu and Snow White:

"She rises when the sun sets and goes immediately to her table where she plays her game of patience until she grows hungry, until she becomes ravenous. She is so beautiful she is unnatural; her beauty is an abnormality, a deformity, for none of her features exhibit any of those touching imperfections that reconcile us to the imperfection of the human condition. Her beauty is a symptom of her disorder, of her soullessness."

If you've ever seen In the Company of Wolves you know the type of stories to expect from Angela Carter, as that movie is based off a story in this book. I also have a collection called "Burning Your Boats" which is definitely worth picking up.

Two eBooks I've been impressed all to hell with are "We, the Drowned" and "Touch".

"We, the Drowned" is "an epic tale about a small village by the sea" that spans a generation or two, at least, beginning in 1848 in Denmark. It reminds me of a collection of oral histories centering around Albert Madsen, beginning with tall tales of his father, following through with stories of his childhood and adventures as a young man sailing the world in search of his father, through the First World War, and beyond. I'm about halfway through on page 285. I love the stories in this book; I get seasick and I feel like I have hardcore sailing experience, and I love a book that spans a character's entire life. It feels like I've grown up with Albert, and I'm sad that at the current point in the book he's an old man.

"Touch" has turned out to be great, albeit accidental, companion book to "We, The Drowned". It has the same oral history feel to it, but this time the subject is a logging town in Canada, ~~founded~~ tamed by the narrator's grandfather. This book is full of powerful moments, realistic and otherwise; from the story of how hundreds of birds suddenly flew into the shack of a man about to starve to death after his dog seemingly calls to them by singing, to the sudden childhood loss of the narrator's father and sister after they fall into the iced-over river. I'm loving the realistic yet dreamlike quality of this book.

As these are both eBooks I've been reading for some time, getting excerpts is going to be too much of a pain. Just head to your local Barnes and Nobel or take my word for it and pick them up. If you have to pick one between the two, I'd go with "Touch".

Books, electronic or otherwise, are cheap and wonderful. Go out and get a couple. Give your passive entertainment a break for a while, exercise your brain, expand your horizons and your vocabulary. Then challenge someone at Scrabble or Words With Friends (I'm DavidCrake, btw) and show off all your work.

- David

There Are No Words

noreply@blogger.com (David Buchta) — Wed, 27 Apr 2011 20:33:00 +0000

David Lynch Signature Cup Coffee from David Lynch on Vimeo.

*takes huge breath in*IloveyouDavidLynch

Solo Trip - First Day

noreply@blogger.com (David Buchta) — Tue, 26 Apr 2011 07:17:00 +0000

And so ends the first day. With a deer. Possibly an evil deer.

It's Midnight MST and I'm exhausted from jet lag, work, and editing. So this may be a little ~~terse~~ truncated.

My co-worker Marcel and I met for the first time shortly after the previous entry was posted, although we've interacted electronically here and there for a year. He's a super nice guy and the first Venezuelan I've ever met.

Plus we both look younger than we are so that's cool. I pegged him as mid- to late-twenties. Nope. Hermano is thirty-six with three kids. I hope I look that good when I get there.

After spending a few of our remaining Sunday hours on location and meeting Tim (another hella nice IT guy, who says "fer" like me) we decided to get some food. I still felt slightly nauseous if I moved my head too fast, but I was starving. We followed Tim's directions and found a Mexican joint that happened to be closed, but luckily a Thai restaurant was near at hand. Being laid-back fellas we quickly decided that was good enough. Marcel tried a Thai iced tea for the first time and enjoyed it, along with all but licking (ha, butt licking) his plate clean. For my part I made a sizable dent in my tofu Pad Thai but had to take a bunch of it home. In all our getting-to-know-you talk I left the white cube of food at my table, and a very nice Asian woman braved the rain/snow to run it out to me.

Speaking of which, everyone here is nice. I've typed that word a hundred times already, but everyone here is just so nice. Wait staff, other drivers, tourists, everyone. And genuinely, too, not like that east coast stuff we have going for us. I truly believe they're all just good people who'd give me a blanket or a tow if I needed it and wouldn't mind one bit. I love Virginia but it feels good to be in the part of the country I grew up in.

After dinner Marcel and I retired to our rooms and I tried in vain to find something on TV. Really, ScyFy? What is this shit? I used to love you man, but you've changed. All night there was nothing on at all. Have you ever seen the beginning of the original Superman movie? They basically play the whole god-damn film with badly ripped off Star Wars credits. I thought I was watching the end and they were recaping.

Luckily the lovely Kasey was available for phone time, and we talked until we were both exhausted and had to sleep. It reminded me of our long distance courtship. As did the way in which I "slept" like utter shit, if fading out of consciousness for twenty minutes at a time can be called sleep. Sleeping alone is total, total rubbish.

Seven o'clock came early, and I risked a glance in the mirror. I looked and felt like a mugshot. I hopped in the shower and almost orgasmed as both the temperature and pressure melted the tension in my back and made me believe in life again. Which isn't the only great thing about the suite I got put up in. It's spacious, colorful, has a kitchen, desk, big TV, wifi, and comfortable enough bed. I could easily spend more than four days here, if it wasn't for the lack of familial necessities.

I met Marcel for our complimentary breakfast and we both reported slow starts to the day. He read the sports section while I ate grapefruit and yogurt. A multicultural current moved around the compact dining area and I noted two news stories of dangerous animals appearing in populated areas. One was a large alligator in a bathroom and the other was a mountain lion in someone's backyard. I watched as a woman fired a tranquilizer dart from a rifle and mused aloud that I would love that job, as I love to shoot but hate to kill. Marcel told me he doesn't hurt a fly and shoos insects outside (including a tarantula in Haiti once) whenever the occasion calls. Nice guy, that Marcel; he's making a very good impression for Venezuela.

Work went by well. We got a lot done and everyone was helpful and friendly as we discovered the process of moving them over to our network. I took about fifteen pictures of Pike's Peak from office windows as the day went on. In the course of giving us a run down of all the things we had to see in Colorado, one woman off-handedly informed us that the purchase of marijuana was legal in Colorado. I have no idea how this is possible or why I didn't know it before. You'd think it'd be news or something, like when states legalize gay marriage. Maybe I need to read the paper more.

Hunger hit hard around Three and we finally left for lunch. We gave the Mexican place another try, and I had The Best burrito ever. The size of of my son's thigh (which is large, just sayin') and covered in cheese, all the vegetable innards were baked and actually seasoned. I think chefs hate vegetarians and shun us when it comes to giving us the good stuff, but not in Colorado Springs. I wish I had one right now to cuddle with as I fall asleep. Then Marcel busts out with a dessert order of Tres Leches, which is basically a brick of white cake with three kinds of thick, sweet milk poured on it and topped with coconut whipped cream. Yeah, exactly.

I don't know how we did it, being full of that awesomenes, but we got a bit more done at the office before exploring downtown Colorado Springs. We couldn't find any parking so we just drove in circles and took pictures out of the windows before heading to The Garden of the Gods. The visitor center was closed (pft, government hours), but the park itself welcomed us with family photo ops and three deer. We pulled over and took pictures, and I even tried to get Kasey on Skype to show her the prettiness, but I had no signal. Apparently it worked enough though that Jonas saw me and waved, which just breaks my heart. I miss that little jerk.

It kinda started raining so we left and found the Wells Fargo ATM we'd been hunting for down town. Unfamiliar grocery stores always freak me out a little, hitting home the point more than anything that I'm not in Kansas anymore. (I'm not sure if that sentence makes sense, just go with it please.) We took the long way home (thanks entirely to my 3G iPad and Google Maps) and saw more mountains, clouds, and deer. We tried to take pictures, but point-and-shoots can only do so much from a car window in the failing light of evening. I've been spoiled by Kasey's DSLRs and almost can't stand the tiny Olympus I brought with me.

Sadly Jonas fell asleep right as I got in, but Kasey and I spent an enjoyable couple of hours on Skype and our cellies, making faces and watching Cure videos. I showed her my room and she answered Lightroom questions until she needed to go keep Jonas company in our bed.

And then somehow photo/video editing and blogging turned into 1:00am. I suspect I'm getting drone-y, so feast your eyes on yonder Flickr fruits:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/buddhadave/sets/72157626455947643/detail/

Hopefully I'm tired enough to actually sleep, now.

David