Kinda hard to have a blog about biking and whatever and not actually ever talk about biking, huh?? Yeah - seems stupid. So, a brief tale:
Yesterday, I had off work and my car needed to be inspected. For those of you who may not be in PA, we need to have this done every year, not once every 2 like NJ or NY. Oh, and by living in a PA city, we have emiisions tests, too. If I lived in the country, that wouldn't be a problem. Such is life. So I have my car at the shop. Incidentally, for those on the east side of Pittsburgh, Bob at MD Autoworks in Wilkinsburg will treat you well - you can trust him. Bob declares my vehicle fit and calls me with the total.
So, I have to get over the hill and into Wilkinsburg to get the car. Fair enough - I have a bike, and the bike rack is on the car. Life is good. So I head off. Now, I'm no good at climbing hills - never have been. I know, I know, it's practice that I need, and the cure to the problem is to keep persisting in conquering it. I make it up the hill eventually, and start down the other side. On my way, I pass through a rough patch of road and POP....a flat tire. I carry a spare tube with me, but I don't have my tools - they are in the car that I'm on my way to get. Usually, I ride on a track, not the road, and I drive to the track...so my tools are kept there.
As luck would have it, I popped in front of a construction supplier warehouse. These guys supply things like industrial generators and small equipment like jackhammers, tampers...things like that. They have a maintenance garage to service the equipment. I need an air compressor and a wrench. It's 15 minutes before they close. Thankfully, the guys working are really nice, and they let me use their tools to change the flat and be on my way. 7 minute change. Not too shabby.
Anyway, on to today's poem. This one is for all those biking friends of mine. Shout-outs to L-A, Mike, Jay, Mayhew, Ben, Suzanne, The Clydesdales, and Patty (Duke sucks.) And I just can't name them all - so if I missed your name, please feel free to insert it here: ____________.
Breathe
Back is hunched, legs sore, air burning through my lungs,
hot and sweaty confines of shackles on my feet,
the mountain in front of me my terror,
for the pain is about to double.
Out of the saddle, a strange dance,
looking as if at any moment, I will simply fall over,
the effort of putting another foot down is so great,
legs are screaming.
The mountain gets steeper in front of me,
the road is straight and narrow,
the only obstacle is pain,
is me.
I only have to remember to breathe.
Meh. It's not my favorite, but it's not bad for 20 minutes of thinking. Most of my poems are hand-written - rarely are any "born-digital."
Thanks for reading.
The Fat Kid
Friday, April 2, 2010
Thursday, April 1, 2010
The Poem Project, Day 1
OK, how to kick off this thing, this experiment, this - my own little Poetry Slam. I'll reach into the vault, and pull out something from a few years ago! Before we begin, though, I'd like to simply say a brief thanks. Thanks to you, whomever you are, for taking this journey with me. By all means, if something I write seems appropriate for you to share with others, please feel free to do so. I'm not suggesting I'm that great, but every once in a while I happen upon something good. Above all, though, I hope you enjoy this ride - I'm looking forward to it.
Something in Common
One sat, book upon his lap, head bowed,
silently letting his mind get lost in
the whiteness of the pages.
Sat another, eyes awake, simply looking
at the passing of people the other couldn't see.
No words were said, no great thoughts uttered.
And yet, in the peaceful quiet, both realized
they shared a common bond.
One stood and walked away - the other left, too.
Opposite paths they strode, but each was changed,
for sometimes, when words are silent, the heart is
able to speak and yet be heard.
I wrote this back in 2000 - I think I was walking outside and saw a couple of people on a bench...or something like that. I know I kind of like this one. No, it's not anything grand or awe-inspiring. It does not take my breath away. But whenever I read it, I am reminded that life can sometimes be simple and quiet, and that those are the moments that sometimes mean the most.
Thoughts are appreciated, comments encouraged, responses are welcome.
Thanks for reading!
The Fat Kid
Something in Common
One sat, book upon his lap, head bowed,
silently letting his mind get lost in
the whiteness of the pages.
Sat another, eyes awake, simply looking
at the passing of people the other couldn't see.
No words were said, no great thoughts uttered.
And yet, in the peaceful quiet, both realized
they shared a common bond.
One stood and walked away - the other left, too.
Opposite paths they strode, but each was changed,
for sometimes, when words are silent, the heart is
able to speak and yet be heard.
I wrote this back in 2000 - I think I was walking outside and saw a couple of people on a bench...or something like that. I know I kind of like this one. No, it's not anything grand or awe-inspiring. It does not take my breath away. But whenever I read it, I am reminded that life can sometimes be simple and quiet, and that those are the moments that sometimes mean the most.
Thoughts are appreciated, comments encouraged, responses are welcome.
Thanks for reading!
The Fat Kid
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
counting down....
OK, who's ready?? April is National Poetry Month, but it's also National Jazz Appreciation Month!!! It's like the gods have spoken and declared April to be the month of AWESOME. I know, tax day is in there, too, but that's just to balance out April Fool's Day, and keep the attention where it belongs: on Poetry and Jazz.
So, I've had almost no suggestions as to what people want to have me write about, so you're all going to be left with whatever I can come up with. I'm not claiming it's going to be GOOD, just that it will be. But just to get us in the spirit, I'm going to share with you one of my favorites.
In the spring of 1999, I had a wonderful opportunity to hear a lecture given by then Poet Laureate of the U.S. Robert Pinsky. Mr. Pinsky illustrated poetry for me in a way I'd never heard, and ever since, I have found myself with a new appreciation for the art. He simply stated that poems are about sound. Even if you're reading to yourself, the voice you read with is letting a poem's sound ring in your ear. Each letter, syllable, punctuation mark and meter are heard internally, projected by the Voice. I never understood that principle until - oddly enough - hearing it said. And it made sense to me.
So, here is a work of Mr. Pinsky's that I hope you all enjoy. For those in the business of analyzing literature, I'm sure you'll find a lot in here to think on.
The Want Bone
The tongue of the waves tolled in the earth's bell.
Blue rippled and soaked in the fire of blue.
The dried mouthbones of a shark in the hot swale
Gaped on nothing but sand on either side.
The bone tasted of nothing and smelled of nothing,
A scalded toothless harp, uncrushed, unstrung.
The joined arcs made the shape of birth and craving
And the welded‑open shape kept mouthing O.
Ossified cords held the corners together
In groined spirals pleated like a summer dress.
But where was the limber grin, the gash of pleasure?
Infinitesimal mouths bore it away,
The beach scrubbed and etched and pickled it clean.
But O I love you it sings, my little my country
My food my parent my child I want you my own
My flower my fin my life my lightness my O.
So, I've had almost no suggestions as to what people want to have me write about, so you're all going to be left with whatever I can come up with. I'm not claiming it's going to be GOOD, just that it will be. But just to get us in the spirit, I'm going to share with you one of my favorites.
In the spring of 1999, I had a wonderful opportunity to hear a lecture given by then Poet Laureate of the U.S. Robert Pinsky. Mr. Pinsky illustrated poetry for me in a way I'd never heard, and ever since, I have found myself with a new appreciation for the art. He simply stated that poems are about sound. Even if you're reading to yourself, the voice you read with is letting a poem's sound ring in your ear. Each letter, syllable, punctuation mark and meter are heard internally, projected by the Voice. I never understood that principle until - oddly enough - hearing it said. And it made sense to me.
So, here is a work of Mr. Pinsky's that I hope you all enjoy. For those in the business of analyzing literature, I'm sure you'll find a lot in here to think on.
The Want Bone
The tongue of the waves tolled in the earth's bell.
Blue rippled and soaked in the fire of blue.
The dried mouthbones of a shark in the hot swale
Gaped on nothing but sand on either side.
The bone tasted of nothing and smelled of nothing,
A scalded toothless harp, uncrushed, unstrung.
The joined arcs made the shape of birth and craving
And the welded‑open shape kept mouthing O.
Ossified cords held the corners together
In groined spirals pleated like a summer dress.
But where was the limber grin, the gash of pleasure?
Infinitesimal mouths bore it away,
The beach scrubbed and etched and pickled it clean.
But O I love you it sings, my little my country
My food my parent my child I want you my own
My flower my fin my life my lightness my O.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
"Nature's First Green is Gold..."
Ha! That line should have gotten all of my lit-geek friends' attention!! OK, so I wrote at the beginning of the month that I was gearing up for national Poetry Month and the "Poem-a-Day" challenge. Well, since April is just around the bend, I think it's time to lay down the rules of the Challenge.
1) Submit an original poem per day for the month of April.
2) Comments are appreciated, but not necessary.
3) If you HAVE to leave a comment, please don't let it be a "YAY!", or a smiley, or anything like that. If you like it, great, if you don't, fine...but if you're going to say that you do or don't like it, please tell me where/what it is that clicks or doesn't click with you. I know what I think of each work and why. Let's keep in mind, this is an exercise for ME. Sorry, but it's my blog, and I get to be a little selfish here.
4) If you feel so inclined to post something you've written, by all means, feel free to do so. If you want an opinion, tell me, and I'll be glad to furnish you with one (along with whys or why-nots) but you will otherwise probably just get a "hey, thanks for posting." Just, please, keep it PG-13...it's art, but this is a family show for the most part, ok? Remember, I have deleting power here. Oh - submitting once or twice does NOT require you to take up the same challenge. So don't feel like you're obligated. I am, but you're not. YES - it's that simple.
5) Topics are largely unlimited, but, as I said before, keep it reasonably clean. For all I care, you can write about a can of tomato soup - or just the label - or some verdant pasture somewhere...it matters not to me. There are no grades here, and no points off for spelling. Free verse, rhyme scheme, iambic pentameter (if you must)...that stuff doesn't matter.
6) This is supposed to be fun. It's poetry, and we're playing with sound and words here. So if somebody (me or someone else) decides to write something and it offends you, keep in mind that you're 1) probably not the target and 2) on my blog, so my paranoid/narcissistic tendencies always win here. If you want yours to win, you will just have to get your own blog. Its free and easy.
OK, with the rules stated fully, the timeframe set, you may consider yourself invited to come with me on this little venture. Participate as you will. Above all, I hope you enjoy the trip. I am excited and looking forward to it. I do not know what it will yield - perhaps something great, perhaps the knowledge that I should never try to make a living as a poet (assuming there are poets who make a good living simply by being poets) - I don't know. That's the point of the experiment.
We now return you to your regularly scheduled program.
The Fat Kid.
1) Submit an original poem per day for the month of April.
2) Comments are appreciated, but not necessary.
3) If you HAVE to leave a comment, please don't let it be a "YAY!", or a smiley, or anything like that. If you like it, great, if you don't, fine...but if you're going to say that you do or don't like it, please tell me where/what it is that clicks or doesn't click with you. I know what I think of each work and why. Let's keep in mind, this is an exercise for ME. Sorry, but it's my blog, and I get to be a little selfish here.
4) If you feel so inclined to post something you've written, by all means, feel free to do so. If you want an opinion, tell me, and I'll be glad to furnish you with one (along with whys or why-nots) but you will otherwise probably just get a "hey, thanks for posting." Just, please, keep it PG-13...it's art, but this is a family show for the most part, ok? Remember, I have deleting power here. Oh - submitting once or twice does NOT require you to take up the same challenge. So don't feel like you're obligated. I am, but you're not. YES - it's that simple.
5) Topics are largely unlimited, but, as I said before, keep it reasonably clean. For all I care, you can write about a can of tomato soup - or just the label - or some verdant pasture somewhere...it matters not to me. There are no grades here, and no points off for spelling. Free verse, rhyme scheme, iambic pentameter (if you must)...that stuff doesn't matter.
6) This is supposed to be fun. It's poetry, and we're playing with sound and words here. So if somebody (me or someone else) decides to write something and it offends you, keep in mind that you're 1) probably not the target and 2) on my blog, so my paranoid/narcissistic tendencies always win here. If you want yours to win, you will just have to get your own blog. Its free and easy.
OK, with the rules stated fully, the timeframe set, you may consider yourself invited to come with me on this little venture. Participate as you will. Above all, I hope you enjoy the trip. I am excited and looking forward to it. I do not know what it will yield - perhaps something great, perhaps the knowledge that I should never try to make a living as a poet (assuming there are poets who make a good living simply by being poets) - I don't know. That's the point of the experiment.
We now return you to your regularly scheduled program.
The Fat Kid.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Upcoming Project: National Poetry Month
OK, so the Fat Kid considers himself to be just slightly gifted with words. Not overly gifted, but slightly. With that note, there's an idea that came into my sphere not that long ago that I'd like to share with the estimated 4 readers that I might have. April is National Poetry Month. The folks at Writer's Digest - even though it appears they didn't think my submission to their pop culture fiction competition worth a winning nod (bastards) - have a cool poetry guy who does this challenge thingy - a poem a day for a month. The idea intrigues me. Of course, it's not just picking a poem you like, it's writing a poem each day.
Now, I don't consider my poetry to be my best arena. Oh, it's there, and there are one or two I like, but it's not my strongest suit. Why? I honestly don't know. If I had to guess, it's because I'm a sensual poet - meaning that I write by what my senses guide me to: smell, touch, taste, sight, sound. The poems that I believe are my best center around the senses. So, this project will be interesting. Thirty days and thirty poems. What kind of poems? I dunno...probably whatever strikes me at the time, and I may go back and use some old stuff if I get in a jam. but I'll leave it to anyone who reads this...what do you want to read/hear?
Now, I don't consider my poetry to be my best arena. Oh, it's there, and there are one or two I like, but it's not my strongest suit. Why? I honestly don't know. If I had to guess, it's because I'm a sensual poet - meaning that I write by what my senses guide me to: smell, touch, taste, sight, sound. The poems that I believe are my best center around the senses. So, this project will be interesting. Thirty days and thirty poems. What kind of poems? I dunno...probably whatever strikes me at the time, and I may go back and use some old stuff if I get in a jam. but I'll leave it to anyone who reads this...what do you want to read/hear?
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Customer Relations faux pas....
OK, so the Fat Kid likes junk food. I know, I know, big surprise. Well, I had to get fat somehow. Part of my method for "svelt-inizing" myself, then, has been to cut out most of the junk food. Of course, that does not stop me from stopping by the occasional fast-food joint for a once-in-a-while treat. Last week, I stopped by a favorite guilty pleasure: Taco Bell.
Yes, call it "Toxic Hell", or whatever other nickname you want - it hits the spot when I want cheesy-melty-crunchy-fatty-loaded-with-crap-my-body-doesn't-need goodness. And usually makes me remember why I never ate there often anyway. But, I'd been saving a George Washington for just this occasion, and so I stopped. Why? because they'd been hitting the airwaves with their 89-cent 5-layer beefy-whatever-burrito, and that sounded like the perfect price to get something to tide me over for about 6 months.
So, I pulled into the drive-through, and the young lady on the other end asks me to wait just a moment. Naturally, I have no problem with this, as I have to actually read the 1,000 choice (all under $5) on the menu to make sure they're still offering the 89-cent deal I'm looking for. I find it, and am ready to order, but the lady doesn't come back on the loudspeaker. I wait. I problably only waited for about 2 minutes, but in the strange time-warp that is the drive-through lane, this is an eternity. Galaxies have been created, destroyed, and begun anew in this time span while sitting at the drive-through.
"Hello?" I ask.
"Just a moment, please" said the mysterious disembodied voice of the young lady. "Ok, what can I get for you?"
This is when I realize that I am about to look really stupid, for I know that I have now been rushing the poor lass just to order my precious 89-cent arterial nightmare. And that's ALL I'm getting. Yes, I am now THAT GUY WHO COULDN'T WAIT TWO MINUTES TO KILL MY ARTERIES!!! No, that's not fast enough for me. I proceed to order this tasty morsel.
"Is that it?"
"Yes." Great. Now I am not the only one who knows what a complete schmuck I've just been.
"Please pull ahead."
The window is answered by a young woman who asks me if I've been waited on. Clearly, something is awry inside the Taco Bell (as if you didn't already know that just from the fact that I am at a drive-through). The woman finally gets my order straight, and disappears into the magical kitchen that is built by the same people who designed the Keebler Elves' magical cookie tree interior. She is replaced by the owner of the disembodied voice, who seems your average, normal late teen/early 20-something. Which probably means she was 12, in reality.
Trying to make up for the fact that I have now taken up her precious time by ordering my 89-cent bundle of joy, I decide to be a nice guy, and say casually, "Are you short-staffed today?" This could account for the length of time I was waiting, and makes perfect sense. These things happen. I can understand this, as a semi-reasonable adult. Now, this is where it gets...uncomfortable.
"No," she says as I hand her my dollar. "I was just in the bathroom."
If I had been drinking anything, I believe I would have made my first "spit-take" ever. Seriously? Did I just hear this? Of the million excuses she could have handed me that I WOULD HAVE WILLINGLY BELIEVED, she utters this. Heck, I even GAVE her the best excuse - "Yeah, we're stretched pretty thin" would have sufficed. The following list would also have met with my approval:
"I'm new here."
"I'm training a new person."
"We had a delivery earlier, and I was finishing putting things away."
"We had a difficult order."
"My manager was telling me something."
Any of the above, or anything remotely resembling these would have been acceptable, and I would have thought nothing of it.
No, she broke rule #1 of working the drive-through: Drive-through workers only exist from the navel up. There is nothing below that, because I, the driver sitting at the window awaiting my 89-cent 2:30 AM wake-up reminder of why I shouldn't eat there cannot see anything below the navel of the worker. Therefore, it does not exist. Ergo, bodily functions, even though I KNOW they exist, do not exist on this half-bodied individual!
So, I sit there dumbly as she hands me my change. Thankfully, I notice her nails. They are about an inch and a half long, and painted with some intricate design which probably cost her more than she should have paid. However, it's my experience that women who take such pride in their nails would wash their hands well. If I'm mistaken, please, do not tell me. I do not wish to know. As luck would have it, a small plastic bag containing my 89-cent-er appears, and she hands it out the window to me, wishing me a nice day.
Well, I WAS having a nice day until you decided to ruin it!!! Now, I'm not so sure that I want my prize.
As I left the parking lot, I was debating whether to eat this object just handed to me by a woman coming fresh from the bathroom or to throw it out. Of course, I ate it, realizing that she didn't make it and using my current believe system about a woman with fancy nails.
There are two things I took from this experience:
1) Ignorance is bliss, indeed.
2) Shit happens.
Yes, call it "Toxic Hell", or whatever other nickname you want - it hits the spot when I want cheesy-melty-crunchy-fatty-loaded-with-crap-my-body-doesn't-need goodness. And usually makes me remember why I never ate there often anyway. But, I'd been saving a George Washington for just this occasion, and so I stopped. Why? because they'd been hitting the airwaves with their 89-cent 5-layer beefy-whatever-burrito, and that sounded like the perfect price to get something to tide me over for about 6 months.
So, I pulled into the drive-through, and the young lady on the other end asks me to wait just a moment. Naturally, I have no problem with this, as I have to actually read the 1,000 choice (all under $5) on the menu to make sure they're still offering the 89-cent deal I'm looking for. I find it, and am ready to order, but the lady doesn't come back on the loudspeaker. I wait. I problably only waited for about 2 minutes, but in the strange time-warp that is the drive-through lane, this is an eternity. Galaxies have been created, destroyed, and begun anew in this time span while sitting at the drive-through.
"Hello?" I ask.
"Just a moment, please" said the mysterious disembodied voice of the young lady. "Ok, what can I get for you?"
This is when I realize that I am about to look really stupid, for I know that I have now been rushing the poor lass just to order my precious 89-cent arterial nightmare. And that's ALL I'm getting. Yes, I am now THAT GUY WHO COULDN'T WAIT TWO MINUTES TO KILL MY ARTERIES!!! No, that's not fast enough for me. I proceed to order this tasty morsel.
"Is that it?"
"Yes." Great. Now I am not the only one who knows what a complete schmuck I've just been.
"Please pull ahead."
The window is answered by a young woman who asks me if I've been waited on. Clearly, something is awry inside the Taco Bell (as if you didn't already know that just from the fact that I am at a drive-through). The woman finally gets my order straight, and disappears into the magical kitchen that is built by the same people who designed the Keebler Elves' magical cookie tree interior. She is replaced by the owner of the disembodied voice, who seems your average, normal late teen/early 20-something. Which probably means she was 12, in reality.
Trying to make up for the fact that I have now taken up her precious time by ordering my 89-cent bundle of joy, I decide to be a nice guy, and say casually, "Are you short-staffed today?" This could account for the length of time I was waiting, and makes perfect sense. These things happen. I can understand this, as a semi-reasonable adult. Now, this is where it gets...uncomfortable.
"No," she says as I hand her my dollar. "I was just in the bathroom."
If I had been drinking anything, I believe I would have made my first "spit-take" ever. Seriously? Did I just hear this? Of the million excuses she could have handed me that I WOULD HAVE WILLINGLY BELIEVED, she utters this. Heck, I even GAVE her the best excuse - "Yeah, we're stretched pretty thin" would have sufficed. The following list would also have met with my approval:
"I'm new here."
"I'm training a new person."
"We had a delivery earlier, and I was finishing putting things away."
"We had a difficult order."
"My manager was telling me something."
Any of the above, or anything remotely resembling these would have been acceptable, and I would have thought nothing of it.
No, she broke rule #1 of working the drive-through: Drive-through workers only exist from the navel up. There is nothing below that, because I, the driver sitting at the window awaiting my 89-cent 2:30 AM wake-up reminder of why I shouldn't eat there cannot see anything below the navel of the worker. Therefore, it does not exist. Ergo, bodily functions, even though I KNOW they exist, do not exist on this half-bodied individual!
So, I sit there dumbly as she hands me my change. Thankfully, I notice her nails. They are about an inch and a half long, and painted with some intricate design which probably cost her more than she should have paid. However, it's my experience that women who take such pride in their nails would wash their hands well. If I'm mistaken, please, do not tell me. I do not wish to know. As luck would have it, a small plastic bag containing my 89-cent-er appears, and she hands it out the window to me, wishing me a nice day.
Well, I WAS having a nice day until you decided to ruin it!!! Now, I'm not so sure that I want my prize.
As I left the parking lot, I was debating whether to eat this object just handed to me by a woman coming fresh from the bathroom or to throw it out. Of course, I ate it, realizing that she didn't make it and using my current believe system about a woman with fancy nails.
There are two things I took from this experience:
1) Ignorance is bliss, indeed.
2) Shit happens.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Of films and literature...and films of literature.
The Fat Kid likes movies. No, wait - that's not quite right. If you ask my wife, there is NEVER a day that goes by that I do not quote a movie. She has likened me to the CBS Television character Anthony DiNozzo (NCIS, Tuesday nights - can I get paid for this shameless plug?) wherein I make a LOT of movie references. I don't know why, but movie quotes stick with me. And they're all kinds of quotes, too, even some from really bad movies, and some "guilty pleasure" movies, too.
One such guilty pleasure film is a childhood favorite, 'The Neverending Story" - you know, with the flying puppy-dragon-fuzzy-scaley-white thing named Falkor (called a "luckdragon," for those in the know) where the boy reading the book ends up being IN the book by the end?? Yeah, that one. LOVE the film, and I can't say why - because in truth, I don't even know. So, imagine my joy when I found the text from which the movie gets its title on the bookshelves where I work!!! I checked it out with a wide grin on my face, just waiting to go on an adventure with Falkor and his buddies. Of course, I expected there to be differences between the film and the text - a few name changes, some minor characters dropped or combined into one part - the usual stuff that simply doesn't translate to film all that easily. That stuff, I can deal with.
What I got when opening the book, though, was a lesson in why Hollywood screenwriters suck, and that a great writer in one culture can often appear as complete and utter moron in another. Or that I watch way too many movies. Anyway, I found that I disliked the book. For those who know me, the Fat Kid LOVES books. Even if I'm not a superfan of the author or the style, I can generally find some quality about the book that I like. (And if you're reading this, Becky, YES - there are even things about Martin's tome that I adore.) This book on the other hand, felt, as its title suggested, like it would never end!!!
I was merrily reading along, enjoying the story I knew and loved so well. I came to the end of the story, and realized something: I was only halfway done with the book! Those damned Hollywood producers/screenwriters forgot half of it!!!! I pushed on, awaiting the further adventures of all my beloved friends/characters. And something happened. The pace of the book slowed, idled, and seemingly came to a halt from which there was no waking. I was stunned. Not only were my fond memories falling from their pedestal, but they were being replaced by something even worse: The fear that I was a grown-up!!!!!
Oh, I pressed on, and read the further adventures. I saw a pattern emerge. The Hollywood choosers-of-movie-scripts made two errors, and one incredibly astute judgment:
Error 1) They failed to make the rest of the movie.
Wise decision 1)They knowingly failed to make the rest of the movie.
Error 2)They made a sequal instead. And a third installment, which, if you've seen it, I highly recommend a stay in the nearest psychiatric ward and or visit to a hypnotist to block it forever from your mind.
The Hollywood-ers KNEW that they couldn't sell this movie to the public if they left the second half of the book in, that's why they didn't do it! A few changes, some changed dialog, a little more here, and less there, and they discovered they had TWO movies instead of one!!!! I think this is where cocaine usage was at its highest popular level, incidentally, because it was a horrible, horrible, very bad film, more resembling a pile of dung than anything else. Yes, it's true: not everything out of Hollywood should be remembered, especially if it highlights Ben Afleck's acting "ability", a George Lucas script, or anything ever done by Jonathan Brandis, whose eyebrows do more acting than the rest of him combined. Although - to Bradis' credit, he was still young in this picture...I can only hope he's improved with age and experience.
So there you have it. My childhood fantasies are smashed, I've dredged up memories of very bad films, and my faith in Hollywood is yet again crushed by the overwhelming idiocy that reigns supreme in the front offices of movie studios. One of these days I will remind myself to not tempt fate and read the books from whence movies come. Well, unless it's a Michael Chrichton (RIP) novel.
One such guilty pleasure film is a childhood favorite, 'The Neverending Story" - you know, with the flying puppy-dragon-fuzzy-scaley-white thing named Falkor (called a "luckdragon," for those in the know) where the boy reading the book ends up being IN the book by the end?? Yeah, that one. LOVE the film, and I can't say why - because in truth, I don't even know. So, imagine my joy when I found the text from which the movie gets its title on the bookshelves where I work!!! I checked it out with a wide grin on my face, just waiting to go on an adventure with Falkor and his buddies. Of course, I expected there to be differences between the film and the text - a few name changes, some minor characters dropped or combined into one part - the usual stuff that simply doesn't translate to film all that easily. That stuff, I can deal with.
What I got when opening the book, though, was a lesson in why Hollywood screenwriters suck, and that a great writer in one culture can often appear as complete and utter moron in another. Or that I watch way too many movies. Anyway, I found that I disliked the book. For those who know me, the Fat Kid LOVES books. Even if I'm not a superfan of the author or the style, I can generally find some quality about the book that I like. (And if you're reading this, Becky, YES - there are even things about Martin's tome that I adore.) This book on the other hand, felt, as its title suggested, like it would never end!!!
I was merrily reading along, enjoying the story I knew and loved so well. I came to the end of the story, and realized something: I was only halfway done with the book! Those damned Hollywood producers/screenwriters forgot half of it!!!! I pushed on, awaiting the further adventures of all my beloved friends/characters. And something happened. The pace of the book slowed, idled, and seemingly came to a halt from which there was no waking. I was stunned. Not only were my fond memories falling from their pedestal, but they were being replaced by something even worse: The fear that I was a grown-up!!!!!
Oh, I pressed on, and read the further adventures. I saw a pattern emerge. The Hollywood choosers-of-movie-scripts made two errors, and one incredibly astute judgment:
Error 1) They failed to make the rest of the movie.
Wise decision 1)They knowingly failed to make the rest of the movie.
Error 2)They made a sequal instead. And a third installment, which, if you've seen it, I highly recommend a stay in the nearest psychiatric ward and or visit to a hypnotist to block it forever from your mind.
The Hollywood-ers KNEW that they couldn't sell this movie to the public if they left the second half of the book in, that's why they didn't do it! A few changes, some changed dialog, a little more here, and less there, and they discovered they had TWO movies instead of one!!!! I think this is where cocaine usage was at its highest popular level, incidentally, because it was a horrible, horrible, very bad film, more resembling a pile of dung than anything else. Yes, it's true: not everything out of Hollywood should be remembered, especially if it highlights Ben Afleck's acting "ability", a George Lucas script, or anything ever done by Jonathan Brandis, whose eyebrows do more acting than the rest of him combined. Although - to Bradis' credit, he was still young in this picture...I can only hope he's improved with age and experience.
So there you have it. My childhood fantasies are smashed, I've dredged up memories of very bad films, and my faith in Hollywood is yet again crushed by the overwhelming idiocy that reigns supreme in the front offices of movie studios. One of these days I will remind myself to not tempt fate and read the books from whence movies come. Well, unless it's a Michael Chrichton (RIP) novel.
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