“Thriller” will forever be one of my favorite songs, videos, and cultural phenomenons. From the subject matter itself to the ghoulish dance number which is still being imitated to this day, what other song can claim to have Vincent Price rapping?
On the man himself, heavy was the head that wore the crown, even upon the self-proclaimed “King of Pop.” Then I read things like this from people I know:
I’d like to apologize for the title of this post, but I can’t. And it’s very likely you know what I’m talking about, that guttural-sounding “duh” speech tone and inflection popularized by every comedian or dramatic actor portraying a certified idiot or mentally handicapped individual trying to vocalize anything at all. It’s like imagining what listening to a Neanderthal that’s been dropped on his head must have sounded like, or maybe a cartoon donkey having a laugh at another character’s expense.
So as I sat down in a restaurant to scarf down a quick bite at lunch, I heard it: that “retard” sound. It was so ridiculous that my first thought was that it was some kid making fun of someone, so I turned to see if the little creep was any “gift from God” himself. Nope, no kid, just a couple of tall ladies in line at the counter (who were facing away from me) and the people running the kitchen.
I belong to a professional critics organization called the Online Film Critics Society (OFCS.org). The website where I post my film reviews is MovieCrypt.com, but as many of you know, I play a character there who takes credit for what I write and say. Sure, it’s a bit of a gimmick and certainly plays to my theatrical nature (blame my mom), but a recently proposed change to the OFCS bylaws for admission and membership felt a bit targeted, only because the language:
5. Write under their real names, or under reasonable, professionally established pen names (e.g., Mark Twain for Samuel Clemens). A member may write under an obviously fictional name, or “in character,” only if the member is also identified by his or her real name in a non-obscure place on the website(s) where the members’ reviews are published. Writers who obscure their identities in order to remain anonymous may not be members of the OFCS.
You may remember the scene in the film Monty Python & the Holy Grail where the characters find the writings of Joseph of Arimathea. They come to the end of the writing to read, “… the Castle of uuggggggh,” and someone actually speculates that “He must have died while carving it.”
Funny? Now imagine if that were true. Now stop imagining.
Following the elections in Iran, the so-called “Twittersphere” is alight with micro-bloggers trying to get the word out regarding protests, government crackdowns, and worse following accusations of a fixed election. Supporting techies are orchestrating denial-of-service attacks against official Iranian government websites while providing secure IPs to allow Iranian bloggers the chance to be heard and cover the chaos. Even the Iranian Supreme Leader (neither of the guys in the election, in case you didn’t know) has called for an investigation, and that’s really something considering that his word is law.
This isn’t standing in front of a tank in Tienanmen Square and having your picture taken before dying. Thanks to global, real-time communication, people in different countries with different freedoms are talking to one another, some very real danger of dying for an opinion. They’re in the street with a cell phone texting messages, taking photos, and shooting footage while trying to stay alive.
Doesn’t the world feels a little smaller again all of the sudden?
It’s Friday, June 12, 2009. A date that will live in infamy as “The Day Analogue Television Died.”
Of course, you won’t notice if you have cable, satellite, or any service pumping programs into your box, even if it’s an old television. You will notice, however, if you’re counting on that old set of rabbit ears or crusty antenna on the roof and haven’t bought a government-subsidized digital convertor box.
Ah, glorious sub-900MHz band! We hardly knew you!
Now go, and bring us fast, cheap Wi-Fi that all North Americans may Twitter!
“Hey everybody! It’s time to play everyone’s favorite broken-family game, ‘Two Ends Against the Middle!’ Whether you’re a divorced mom, a divorced dad, or the kids being used as leverage, everyone can score points! Play in the car, on trips, and on weekends with the parent who only has partial custody! Leave the game or come back in at anytime, because it absolutely NEVER ends…!”
I’d forgotten about “the game” until I realized it was being actively played nearby at a restaurant table. At first glance, it’s just a mom with her two maybe eight-year old girls having a quick breakfast until I realized one was eating ice cream… at 9 am.
The “mom” then played an “itinerary card,” rattling off what she was willing to share about her next few days; this, of course, lulls the girls into sharing what “dad” will be doing (after all, mom did it first). The one with the ice cream could have been dad’s personal assistant with the info that spilled out. This info would be later used for “innuendo cards” against “dad” during their next face-to-face playoff (“Are you actually paying their babysitter now?”)
The girls had scored points of their own, one with the dessert and the other with bright pink Anime hair (on an eight-year old spending the day with “mom”? Figure the odds of “dad” letting her go out like that). Children learn quickly that their part is to hold the juicy stuff back for material gain and to collect “favor cards” which can then be played even on other siblings. Favor cards are usually only good for one visit, so it’s best to exchange those for material wealth such as toys, gadgets, restaurants or entertainment.
To start a game, all you need are a pair of recent divorcees (who probably could move on with their lives but can’t stop sniping at one another long enough to bother) and at least one child being raised by those parents smart enough to realize their worth as a weapon, a scout, and a prize to be won. While the game goes on forever, no one ever really wins, and many times the players simply forget that all they ever do anymore is play.
Ultimate Variation – When you’re in a competitive and smart group of siblings, you can pull in more players (spouses and distant relatives), especially if you play at Thanksgiving dinner every year. There’s just no limit to the layers of pointless complexity you can go to!
Not so long ago, I attended the decommissioning of the aircraft carrier I was stationed on in the US Navy, the Big John, USS John F. Kennedy CV-67. The keel was laid the same month I was born, and when I saw it decommissioned, it was like watching a funeral for a skyscraper. What was once alive with five thousand plus sailors and officers was suddenly lifeless and quiet, and then everyone walked away in silence.
Recently on a trip to Orlando, Florida, I realized that the mall I’d stopped in, Fashion Square, felt familiar. I didn’t recognize it, but I felt it; I’d been there, and I’d been there a lot. I went to boot camp in Orlando, and the mall was just west of the base. A few years back I saw the base was closed down, but wondered what it looked like now.
Like my old ship, it was gone.
Well, almost gone. Blue Jacket Park now stands where our parade grounds and “grinder” used to be (I promise it didn’t look any where near as nice as it does now). A small memorial with a plaque marks the spot to suggest that, for thirty years, it was a training facility for new sailors. But could all of it really have been completely removed and an entire suburb put in its place?
Trying as hard as I could to line up where the old streets were and where the new streets ran, I manage to find my way to the eastern most part near the lake, and there was something of the old base still. There used to be a McDonald’s right next door to the A-school barracks, a six-story, two-towered building of light yellow bricks distinct for only having tiny square windows in the top of the walls. The towers are still there for now, dingy and broken down with neglect, but everything else is long gone. A sign says they won’t be there for much longer.
There are little shops tucked in among upscale housing that I can only imagine what they cost. Fifty-five acres of land, the plaque had said. The only other bases I’d ever been to was Norfolk, Philadelphia, Jacksonville, and the San Diego training center. Three of those five are now gone, and Jacksonville is eagerly awaiting a new carrier from Norfolk. Was it really so long ago?
You know, I’ve both been managed and in management, and no matter which end of the production pipe I’m in, I can’t keep my mouth shut when I see an obvious breakdown in communication followed by that frustrated look of “But no one’s listening!” While I don’t have an MBA or anything, I have taken classes, attended training, and done the jobs. Is it possible I could have a unique perspective on all of this, or is it really smarter, more profitable, and in keeping with a positive atmosphere to keep silent when bouncing off of brick walls?
One more thing: I’m an extroverted pessimist, a very rare personality type, a drive to act when confronted with imminent failure. I see the worst, size it up, and begin making corrections accordingly. If a table wobbles, I find a cheap way to hide the shim for the short leg to restore balance. When I execute a solution, you rarely know a crisis was ever averted.
Sadly, over-thinking executives seem to be trained to fear words that oppose “optimism” because nothing good comes from “seeing the glass half empty.” Sorry, I don’t buy that; if you go through life with the actual belief that nothing is wrong until a crisis occurs, you’re going to be blindsided every time. Looking for the potential for crisis is an opportunity for correction while the writing is on the wall, a chance to refill before the glass runs dry.
Or maybe I’m full of it and clueless. Meh, I’ll write it up anyway.
To be continued…
It happens maybe twice a year at most, and I usually burn through it in half the time most others take. But I can always feel it coming on: slight throb when I turn my head too quick, I actually turn the fan off at work, and I feel tired but not sleepy. If I can power through the next day and a half of work, I can burn it out this weekend and save my vacation days (crap… decided to take one anyway. No sense in giving it to everyone else, although I have no idea who gave it to me).
I’ve learned that if I sit very, very still, it’s not so bad.
Time for some soups and 7-Up Sprite. You know, I can’t drink Sprite any other time, so if I think I’m sick and it tastes good to me, I’m sick.
Good thing it’s THIS weekend, too, ’cause I have plans for the next. I also start getting some trippy dreams absolutely free of charge.
Ever notice that, each time you move, as you unpack boxes and things, you never quite put them in the same place. Did the new space inspire you to place things differently, or was it just a random accident that you opened a particular box before another one and the contents went where something else used to be?
As I’ve started reshaping ThinkingSkull.com, I’ve also had to create work arounds for the things I wanted to include, even if I couldn’t show them the exact way I wanted. Taking the opportunity to redesign something almost from scratch has also forced me to think differently about both implementation and execution…
Uh oh. Now I’m wondering if anyone reading this thinks I’ve gone completely off the reservation. And lookie! My picture comes with the comments now!
Kevin A. Ranson 