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August 30, 2004
Moon and Cars
This weekend I spent some time riding in cars. Last night I rode in a car up Interstate 90, or something, I rarely pay attention to things like road numbers unless I am doing the driving, but anyway, I rode in a car on one of the highways that gets you from the Albany area to the Boston area.
I react to being a passenger in two ways: I either become very sleepy, or I become very melancholy. Last night it was late and I was weary and the traffic was heavy and aggressive and made me too nervous to sleep, so it was the latter for me.
We chased a huge harvest moon over the horizon for an hour or so until it got higher in the sky and lost its orange glow, and while it was hovering over the ranks of taillights going too fast, too close together in front of us as far as we could see, I thought about how I used to see the moon when I was little. I didn't get what the adults were going on about with the Man in the Moon. I never saw him. I saw a beautiful lady, sitting in profile, wearing a wasp-waisted dress and a big carriage-wheel hat, holding a parasol. I liked that lady. She was my secret, when I looked at her or when I smiled and nodded and never said a word to the foolish people talking about the Man.
Now, one million company logos and cartoons and offhanded cliches later, I don't see the lady anymore. I've come around; I see those big smeary eyes and the round "O" of a mouth that make the Man in the Moon look, not cheerful, but just as alarmed as the zooming idiot tailgaters make me. The lady is gone; I can't trace her image in the shapes, can't force my memory of her onto the shadows that I see now.
I thought about this and then I thought about how I used to ride in cars when I was little. I'm sure that my tendency to get sleepy in cars comes from when I was a baby, when my mom used to drive me around and around the neighborhood to get me to go to sleep. According to family legend I'd sleep blissfully through the car ride, through my mother's careful maneuvering out of the car and tiptoeing with me through the house, and then wake up screaming as soon as I felt myself laid down in my crib. The sense of security I must have felt stayed with me as a child; I've always loved to ride in cars. Being a passenger is an excellent position for daydreaming, letting the sense of motion soothe you while your mind wanders, secure in the feeling that even if you don't pay attention, you're getting somewhere.
Through all those long-ago car rides it never occurred to me while I watched the world go by, driving my mom crazy by gazing out the window but never reading a single road sign, that something bad could happen.
Last night while I sat in the back seat thinking about what would happen if we had to brake suddenly and the pickup truck riding our bumper was slow on the reflexes, while I cursed the jockeys darting in and out of our safe following distance, it occurred to me that I haven't done so well with the growing up, at least in this regard. It might be a sign of immaturity when you can't or won't consider the possibility of an accident. But what's the point of trying to stave off disaster by worrying about it? Last night, my fretful glances out the back window and strained jokes about somebody'd better be in labor did no more to keep us safe than my childhood obliviousness did. The only change I've made is to give myself a sore neck, and that doesn't seem like progress at all.
Now if I could see the lady and the Man, or if I could know about twenty-car pileups but at the same time live the fact that, when I'm the passenger, worrying about those things hurts me and helps no one, that would be something. That's something you could call growing up, I think. Or moving forward.
Posted by hilatron at 02:52 PM | Comments (3)
August 26, 2004
Watch out Brookline!
Oh man, I am ten pounds of evil in a five-pound bag today. All the people I encountered on my way to work sucked, just SUCKED, like that woman who had the nerve to - I can hardly even type it - look at me. Can you believe that? She looked right at me! What the hell?
So I punched her.
Okay, I didn't really but only because I am a wuss.
Anyway, now I am at work and more punchy and stompy than ever. You would not believe the things they are doing to me here, not even counting the horrific expectation that I be here at all, which is of course the worst part. Who do these people think I am, an administrative assistant or something? Whatever, losers. Ask me to make copies, will you? Ha! I am so going to win the lottery and quit and RAIN VENGEANCE DOWN UPON YOUR HEADS AND THEN YOU WILL ALL BE SORRY, JUST YOU WAIT UNTIL THE LOCUSTS COME.
What are you looking at?
Posted by hilatron at 09:16 AM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
August 23, 2004
More Freud
My subconscious clearly doesn't think much of me these days. While drafting an e-mail to a colleague about a project that was delayed for various reasons, I responded to her apology for the problems: "Not to worry! It is at least entirely my fault."
Which, first of all, it wasn't, stupid subconscious, and second of all, I refuse to contemplate the ghastly circumstances under which I could be more than 100% to blame for anything.
Last night I dreamed that Buffy the Vampire Slayer (oh how pedestrian, how lowbrow! Couldn't it be Vaclav Havel or somebody? Also, I must stop reading The Annotated Buffy at work.) saved me from a shootout in a very old, rusty Mini Cooper. Then she dropped me off at superhero school so I would be able to take care of things myself next time. The students had to wear monochromatic unitard/tights/mask ensembles until they reached the upper classes, when they got to design more interesting outfits. I will let you know how my studies go. Perhaps my psyche will start to think better of me when I get my Certificate of Zombie Ass-Kicking.
Posted by hilatron at 01:34 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
August 19, 2004
Aftermath
Here is what my garden looked like two weeks ago:
Underweeded, but verdant and pleasing to the eye:
With pretty flowers:
Here is what my garden looked like today when I got home,
after
numerous
"improvements"
which were inflicted upon us by our ass-brained management company, including: landscapers who came to "clean" the patio with less than 12 hours' notice and then apparently did not recognize MY FLOWERS as things that SHOULD NOT BE TORN UP OR TRAMPLED UPON; painters who draped a plastic tarp over the vegetation for two days, smothering most of the survivors; someone doing roof/wall repairs today who rained a pestilence of concrete bits and old paint down upon the patio and then, just to make their point, came onto the patio and trampled it some more.
I think the saddest part of my attempts at recovery was ripping up the remains of my five-foot sunflower.
Rest assured that the fuckers will be receiving a whopping bill for reimbursement after I buy me some new plants.
Posted by hilatron at 10:45 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
August 17, 2004
I Sure Hope David Caruso Never Reads This
Enough navel-gazing, let's push that off the top of the page with some discussion of David Caruso and his hit (?) television series, CSI: Miami.
Set aside for a moment the question of CSI: Miami itself, which is what unholy force prompted the producers to say to themselves "What the hell, might as well do another city, just because we can," or, later, "Let's do this cool Westernish finale to each show, where the characters walk in a row on a beach looking cool in their cool shades, in slow motion, while cool music plays, that would be awesome and cool and not seizure-inducingly hilarious at all, right?" and, finally, "This show seems to be tanking under its own self-involvement! What can we do? I know, let's have two murders per episode! That'll teach all those bastards filling the Ten O'clock Dead Body of the Night slots on the other networks, taking ratings away from us. THEY only have ONE dead body, we have TWO! Not even counting David Caruso!"
So, David Caruso. I used to watch NYPD Blue back when it was "edgy" because everyone else was still using tripods, and I remember that he didn't use to be so soul-clenchingly terrifying. Didn't he used to be sort of cute? A little too intense maybe, but I don't remember ever peeing my pants in fear when he appeared on screen.
Now, though, there are two things that make him just the pure unfiltered stuff of nightmares: the way he looks, and the way he sounds.
I mean mostly, he still looks like the David Caruso we remember, but something's...not quite right. It's not that he's getting older -- in fact, it would be a relief if he did, because instead of aging he seems to be sort of curing. You can still see the lines and contours that made up the David Caruso we used to know, but they are oddly discolored, leathery; his face does not move like a face should. And something is wrong underneath. It appears that his skin is stuffed with shredded softcore noir movie scripts rather than healthy, living flesh. Something inside David Caruso seems to have withered, whimpered and died. And I don't mean to get all metaphysical, but do we really know what transpired during those years between the time he left NYPD Blue in search of movie stardom, and the time he turned up on CSI: Miami, and blighted the depths of our psyches with his ghastly new visage? Do we know what lengths a man will go to, what sacrifices he will make, to escape the career-killing depravity of a movie like Jade?
Then there's that voice, which really needs to be discussed in two parts, because there is the regular voice, a sort of cycling growl that merely adds a layer of threat to even the most mundane statement. That voice just makes you a little uneasy, maybe sets off primal alarms deep within the lizard brain, perhaps resonates in the subconscious for a time: "I'm going to the store for milk," David Caruso mutters, and that night you dream of car accidents and starving puppies. That sort of thing.
And, of course, the other voice, the one that seems to get used when David Caruso is trying to be firm, or intense, or something - I really can't remember because I black out and lose track of the plot line when I hear That Voice. That organ-dissolving snarl, straight from the crypt, that no pregnant woman should ever hear lest her baby come out with glowing red eyes and twenty perfect little claws. I spent a large part of the time I lay awake last night, wide-eyed, trembling, stiff-necked, the horror working upon me like a hit from the crack pipe, wondering what could possibly be in the script for this show that causes David Caruso to use That Voice.
I don't know, and since my eardrums shriveled up and fell out last night at 10:45, I probably never will. But I suspect that being a writer for this show is like walking a minefield - you're always second-guessing yourself, checking to make sure the dialogue you wrote is as innocuous as possible. Lots of "he says pleasantly," "he whispers gently," etc. You don't want to be the guy who writes the line that causes David Caruso to use That Voice. Oh no you don't. Those guys get fired right quick, and then David Caruso appears in their bedrooms at night, smiling like a death's head and saying nothing at all because once you have heard That Voice, the damage is already done.
Posted by hilatron at 07:02 PM | Comments (21) | TrackBack
August 12, 2004
Happy Self-Loathing Thursday!
Without going into a great deal of boring detail about my current irrational and prompted-by-nothing-in-particular emotional state, now would be an excellent time to tell me that I am not, in fact, an untalented ambition-free loserhood-destined hack with poor housekeeping and money management skills who sucks at a level previously unsucked. Thank you.
Posted by hilatron at 12:45 PM | Comments (7) | TrackBack
August 11, 2004
Message from the Editors
Dear Readers,
Moments ago, we received an urgent telegram from Hilatron, which reads as follows:
"HELP HELP WORK SPIRALING OUT OF CONTROL STOP TASKS COMING FROM ALL DIRECTIONS STOP PHONE, E-MAIL RELENTLESS STOP REQUEST BACKUP STOP PLS SEND SNACK CAKES, ROBOT ARMY STOP"
Hilatron quaintly insists upon calling out the robot army under the most mundane of circumstances, and steadfastly refuses to contemplate the extensive costs incurred with each deployment. (Key-winding alone puts a huge dent in the budget, and we won't even get into the toll on our reserves of WD-40.) Therefore, we dispatched an undercover operative to investigate before taking drastic measures. Batt-Op Unit KX576, Red Enamel Division, just filed this report via walkie-talkie:
"I am standing next to Hilatron, who is cowering under the conference room table brandishing a pad of Post-Its and threatening to 'annotate the shit out of' anyone who comes any closer. Although I have been unable to perform a complete diagnostic, my sensors indicate that her multitasking node has shorted out.
"The situation here is grim. Multiple ambushes have been carried out on the to-do list front, including assaults on Things That We Thought Were Already Done, Things We Totally Forgot About, Things We Just Heard About, and Things We Should Have Heard About Last Week But Didn't.
"Diverting time and resources from the main field of battle, Hilatron's forces have been depleted by a near-constant barrage of irritated telephone callers. Her Goddammit I'm Just the Receptionist defense system is in shreds, and barbs are getting through left and right.
"It appears that Hilatron's protective aural processing unit is also damaged. She reports that the voices of her co-workers sound like 'howling banshee wails' even when they make pleasant small talk, while the most mildly phrased request is clearly excruciatingly painful to her.
"Do not, I repeat DO NOT, send in the reserves. It is chaos here. My assessment is that additional robot operatives would simply meet the same fate as Hilatron. I believe that our best option at this point is to apply Hostess products and a faux-serene attitude until we are able to make a safe retreat. Expect our return at approximately 17:30 today. Please have beer chilled and stompy music turned up loud when we get there. KX576, signing off."
And so with baited breath, we await the safe return of our brave undercover agent and the beleagured Hilatron. Rest assured, we will keep you posted of further developments.
Yours in solidarity,
The Editors
Posted by hilatron at 11:16 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
August 05, 2004
Freudian Typo
"Dear [Lawyer],
I just faxed you the documentation for [that thing that we're working on]. Please let me know if there's anything else I can be."
Now, sure, I probably replaced the more sensible "do" because I was thinking ahead to "Best, Hilatron." But how apt, really! I am always feeling like I'm playacting different roles these days. I have a lawyer?!? What the fuck? The me I know doesn't do things like that.
Posted by hilatron at 10:12 AM | Comments (3) | TrackBack
August 04, 2004
Please Pardon Me if This Is Hackneyed
If I could solve one problem, I think I would be all right here.
Here is the thing: picture me, if you will, as a little robospider in the middle of my web, the strands I built stretching around me in all directions. Let us say that each strand represents a worry, a goal or a care: here is can we find a better place for Dad?, here is I still have to get a tax ID number, here is someday I'd like to own a house, etc.
My little spider self can pick a strand and climb nimbly along for a certain distance – oh, how impressed you would be at the coordination of my little legs! How thoughtfully I approach each concern, each woe, each happy possibility!
But before I reach the end of the strand I am on, I invariably look to my left or to my right, and there I see another strand, looking no different, no less tempting or urgent than the one I've chosen. My dainty spider foot cannot resist the urge to reach out and touch that strand. And, lo and behold, what do I find there but some other need to be fulfilled, waiting patiently for my regard, as vibrant as the last time I visited it and every bit as important. And next to that one, another. And next to that one, another.
And so what happens is that I never really get anywhere with any one piece. I venture out, and return to the middle, over and over again; I crabstep sideways and call it progress. I start out on organize the bathroom cupboard and end up on oh fuck credit card debt, and somehow I don't notice, in all the whizzing to and fro, that neither one is any more dealt with than when I started.
Sometime in the last six months or so I have lost the knack for tunnel vision. Maybe I've just got too many things to maintain at the moment. But I suspect that this problem, while it seems new, was lying dormant all the time. I could never handle those choose-your-own-adventure books, either, always second-guessing and coming back to see where another choice would have taken me. Do they put "damn the torpedoes" in a pill these days?
Posted by hilatron at 12:37 AM | Comments (2) | TrackBack