A Manifesto on Perspective

I occasionally will read things with the express intention of making myself mad. Most of the time this will be a piece of writing on the Internet. Not that I'm not capable of getting my ire up with some good old print journalism, but it's so much harder to get a comment thread going for a page in a magazine. I guess you could post it up somewhere, and attach Post-It notes saying "Ur gay", but it seems like a lot of work. Not that comment moderation wouldn't have a certain visceral thrill to it.

Because, while a badly written article is capable of making me angry, there's nothing quite like the aggregate of human stupidity in a comment thread, reflecting in on itself like a retarded diamond, that truly fills my soul with wonder.

Having read a few of these recently, I've developed a few rules for myself. No one cares, obviously. People comment for their own reasons, and a few words written on a blog that hasn't been updated in years isn't going to stem the tide. But here it is: My rules for not being an asshole on the Internet.

1. Nothing matters.
This is the Internet, the great idiot wasteland. Nothing here is real. No one's opinions matter. The truth does not exist here. Getting mad about this meaninglessness... about your "reputation" or about what someone called you or, anything, really, is as meaningless as farting into space.

2. Be kind.
Vonnegut was a humanist, and he said this, "Damn it, babies, you've got to be kind." The only person who your words matter to on the Internet is yourself. Don't make that person think you're an asshole.

3. There's nothing wrong with hypocrisy.
People throw the word "hypocrite" around all the time, as though proving someone's actions don't match up with their words is anything but an indication of flexibility. If you're not constantly changing your mind about things, you're holding on too tightly to ideas.

4. The golden rule: The more strongly and emotionally you believe something, the less likely you are to be right.
So calm down and find some detachment.

5. I'm lying.
I break these rules all the time. You should, too! Who the hell am I to tell you how to act on the Internet? I'm gonna go have a Coke Zero.

In Which Hermit Will Takes The Advantage Once Again

I'm this close, people! This close to renouncing the concept of friendship.

It's not that I don't love my friends. It's not that they haven't given me aid and succor in dark times. And I don't mean to seem ungrateful for their willingness to put up with my extravagant cavalcade of flaws.

But I am haunted by the fact that, in some alternate universe, there is a me who lives a life entirely devoid of friendship. Stunted and awkward, he makes no social connections at all, never talk to anyone. And I envy this damned soul, people, envy him to the very core of my being.

Because that poor wretch has never seen "Fantastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer."

And, a few years ago, he never loaded himself into the vehicle of a person he trusted, cared about, only to hear "We're going to go see the second Pirates of the Caribbean movie", and find himself recreating the ending of the first Nightmare on Elm Street movie, where the Freddy-Kreuger-mobile locks the kids in and then drives them off to their doom.

Sure, you might say, out of the hundreds or thousands of hours of friendship you've enjoyed, those movies totaled, what, four hours of your life? And, measuring time objectively, you'd be quite right.

But only if you're speaking objectively. Subjectively, I've achieved some sort of Schroedinger's Movie Goer state, where not only am I here typing this, but I am also in both theaters, because both of those films lasted for the entirety of my life.

And all because of friendship, because someone I trusted not to hurt me said "Oooh, Fantastic Four. That looks good!"

Because my hatred for this film knows no bounds, I have no choice but to review it multiple times, in multiple styles.

First, haiku review:

The ultimate fight;
Bad script versus crap actors.
Audience loses.

The wistful, nostalgic review: Say, do you remember the good old days? When you'd go down to the drive-in with your best gal, buy some popcorn and a soda pop for 50 cents, and sit down to watch a film reel of paint drying on a fence? And we didn't have to once look at the most boring chase scene between two cosmically powered speed freaks ever put on film, or watch that guy from Nip/Tuck absolutely butcher one of the greatest supervillains ever inked? Yesiree, if you ignore the racism and the death rate, those were the days.

The review from Incest Fan Weekly: At last, a film that acknowledges that a husband and wife should have no chemistry whatsoever, while a brother and sister should be making sex eyes at each other constantly! It's only natural!

The review from a blind person: Being blind means I couldn't watch the film's sometimes passable special effects. So I had to focus on the dialogue, which is why I am now also deaf (it took some work, but I managed to pierce my eardrums with stale pieces of popcorn). The only relief was that I didn't have to look at poor Michael Chiklis, who looks (so I've been told, via that Helen-Keller touch language stuff) not like The Thing, but like a once-somewhat-respected actor who tried on a bad Thing costume once, briefly, as a joke, and who now cannot seem to remember how to take it off. Poor bastard.

And finally, and most excitingly, a guest review from the Universe's premiere food critic:



Thanks, big guy! You're a true friend.

The Internet Is Our Water Cooler: Lost Predictions

Imagine a dimly lit room in the basement of a church. There's a single uncovered light bulb hanging from the ceiling, illuminating a semi-circle of sad-looking men and women seated in metal folding chairs. There's some awkward conversation for a few minutes and then one man stands up, claps his hands, and asks if anyone would like to begin. After a few moments where everyone looks at everyone else, a tall, heavy-set man stands up and begins to speak. He says:

"Hi, everybody. I'm Will (The others all chorus "Hi, Will."). And I've.... started watching Lost again.

I know I said I wouldn't. I know I said that the boring, grating characters and the glacially slow, directionless plots had gotten on my last nerve. That the creeping sense that the writers were making things up as they went along and that there were no answers had sapped my will to care.

And then they gotta go and keep teasing me with the possibility that the detestable Hobbit Rocker will die. I keep trying to get out, and they pull me back in.

So, to overcome my own shame, and because I find it personally amusing, I'm going to post a few predictions about what I think is going to happen during next week's finale. Some of these I developed in tandem with Ian, who I watch the show with, because no matter how painful an experience is, it's always easier to bear if you have someone to make smartass comments with.

Prediction #1: The Island is Actually Limbo

Now, I know the writers have explicitly said that The Island isn't Purgatory. I'm okay with that. But Limbo, man. Limbo! The place where Catholics used to send unbaptized babies before someone pointed out (not that long ago) that condemning children to non-Heaven for something they had no control over was kind of a dick move.

My theory is that all the people on the island are unbaptized babies in adult form. And that The Others are, I don't know, angels, or babysitters, or abortion doctors. I don't know! It's a new theory, it's all very exciting. And it would explain why Doctor Jack has spent the last three seasons acting like The King of Babies.

Prediction #2: The Others Are Planning a MASSIVE Birthday Party

There's only one explanation for why the sinister Others act so... sinister. The secrecy, the lying, the violence, the torture. It's obvious to any informed viewer: They are planning a surprise birthday party for someone, and they are doing their damndest to make sure nobody finds out!

With that ultimate mystery solved, there's only one question left to ponder: Whose birthday is it? Jack and Locke are the obvious front-runners, of course. (Or were, until Ben caught Locke peeking at his presents early and... uh... shot him.) But maybe it's someone else. Maybe they've decided to get Sawyer a heart. Or Hurley some courage. Or Jack a brain. Or Charlie a brain. Or every person on the beach, a brain.

My prediction is, the first half of the finale will be a tense showdown between the Losties and The Others, culminating in explosions, betrayal, and death.

The second half will be a rousing game of Pin the Tail on the Donkey.

Prediction #3: The True Identity of Jacob

A few weeks ago we were teased with glimpses of The Others' purported leader, Jacob, a mysterious being with apparent supernatural powers. Now, the episode itself gave us only a few glimpses of this shadowy character, seen here:



However, with a lot of work and a little luck, I think I've stumbled onto Jacob's dark secret. Because if you examine that photo closely using powerful software made especially for this purpose (I use JacobViewer 2.0, although I've heard good things about OtherScope 4), you'll see the terrifying truth about who's really pulling the strings on The Island:



Jacob may hate technology, but I bet he loves fresh fish and swimming around and eating Eskimos!

Prediction #4: Charlie is Damn Well Going to Die

I'm having party hats and T-shirts made up to that effect. Don't let me down, Lost writers.

A Disturbing Conspiracy Revealed!

After seeing any number of ads for Drew Barrymore's new summer blockbuster, Lucky You, I came to a startling revelation:

I want Drew Barrymore to go away.

I don't want her to die, which is sort of a compliment, coming from me. I just want her to announce to the world that she is disappearing. She's probably got enough of that Charlie's Angels money stashed away that she can buy an island and pay a staff and just sail away from us and never be in movies or on TV again.

And when we are old, our children will watch E.T., or, if we are bad parents, 50 First Dates, and they will ask what happened to that pretty lady who looks so horribly sad, like she's dying inside. And we'll tell them, with a wistful note in our voices, that that was the woman who was willing to walk away from Hollywood, where she could never be happy, to live on an island and exist, and we'll know she's out there, no longer straining desperately for us to like her. And we'll smile, and snow will fall on our previously conformist suburb, now forever changed. Our children will point out that this is the plot of Edward Scissorhands, but we will ignore them as we drink our beers and realize that we never, ever, have to see Drew Barrymore again.

Also, I realized that Eric Bana is actually Corey Feldman, post-plastic surgery, propagating a cruel but clever ruse to get his career back.





This explains Hulk, and Troy, and the fact that every time you see Eric Bana, a cold, slimy shiver moves down your back. That feeling? Is Feldman.

Things More Important Than Spider-man 3

Saw Spider-man 3 tonight with Alice and her sister, but that's not what's important right now. There are reviews out there, they're all quite correct in identifying the film's strengths and its faults, but none of that matters because WHOOOOOOOO SPIDER-MAN!!! Let's move on; we have more. important. things. to talk about here, people.

Namely, is Simon Pegg finally going to make a crappy movie?



I've been waiting for Mr. Pegg to screw up for a while, and the tension has been getting to me. After the brilliance of 2004's Shaun of the Dead, I would often find myself unable to sleep, so plagued was I by the spectre of Simon Pegg making a crappy film. I would toss and turn into the wee hours, wondering aloud, "That Simon Pegg is a talented comedic actor. I wonder when he'll sell out and make something really atrocious for a butt-ton of money?" This summer's fantastic Hot Fuzz only exacerbated things, and I haven't slept a wink since seeing it. It's been nothing but staring into the distance, rocking slightly, wondering when the other shoe will drop and Mr. Pegg will go the route of, say, Will Arnett, or Jason Batemen , or Will Arnett, again. Come on!

And now that time may have come. Because I saw a preview tonight for something called "Run, Fat Boy, Run," a title near and dear to my gristle-covered heart. Mr. Pegg is starring in this film, the trailer for which had not only an extended sequence of the actor scratching his bum in boxers, but a blisteringly funny shot of him first cracking several eggs into a glass, and then, get this, spitting the eggs up when he tries to drink them. Haha!

My misgivings about the film were slightly ameliorated by the presence of this man:



This is Dylan Moran. If you know him, it's probably from his performance as David, the nerdy fellow who gets ripped limb from limb (spoilers!) near the end of Shaun of the Dead. He's a wickedly funny Irish stand-up/actor, and in the UK he starred in a TV series called Black Books, where he played the meanest, grumpiest, bitterest man in England. Very much recommended if you can track it down.

So, now we've got an unfunny trailer that inexplicably features two very funny men. My interest piqued, I came home tonight and looked the movie up, only to get a nasty shock that brought everything into perfect, terrible focus. The director of Run Fat Boy Run, the man who managed to point a camera at Simon Pegg and Dylan Moran and not fill me with joy? Well, that would be this man:



The Schwimmer.

The man who managed, through a raw lack of talent and charisma, to be the least likable of a group of people that included a drug addict, a woman whose only talent is getting sympathetically dumped, and a person who willingly married David Arquette. This is not a talented man.

His previous directorial credits include, and are pretty much limited to, two episodes of Joey. I wouldn't trust this man to direct traffic. He has the natural leadership capabilities of a lemming, the vision of Ray Charles, and the sad-sack, mopey, dead-eyed presence of.... I don't know. Similes fail me. There is nothing more sad-sack, mopey, or dead-eyed than David Schwimmer, and I can only assume he recruited Pegg and Moran by addicting them to some horrible drug and then cutting off their supply until they agreed to be in his directorial debut. Or maybe he used voodoo.

Complicating things is the presence of the film's writer, pictured below:



Michael Ian Black. Mr. Black is the wildcard here. He's pretty odious on all of those "Do You Remember Last Week?!!!!!" VH1-nostalgia-for-sale shows. But the short-lived Stella on Comedy Central was pretty intriguing, and he wrote this, which is what I link people to when they ask me what the hell McSweeney's is all about. My feelings on his role in the proceedings could go either way.

So, is Simon Pegg doomed to make a crappy movie? Is he dragging Dylan Moran down into hell with him? Were Ross and Rachel really on a break? Was Stella actually funny, or did I just want to think it was? It forms a tricky equation, one I've represented thusly:



Which, translated back into English, means that only time will tell. I'm gonna try not to lose any sleep over it, but I'm not optimistic.