The Larrison Family Vacation

Barb and I take weird vacations. For instance, McMinnville, Oregon. What's in McMinnville, you ask? Not much. But we went there anyway. I'm still not sure why. Above is a picture from our recent trip to Baltimore. Okay, technically we went there because I had job-related training. But Barb and Elizabeth joined us to make it a family vacation. And Grampa Grumps and Grandma Susy came down from Long Island to amp up the family-ness.

In the picture above the happy family is on its way to a delicious, 10,000 calorie meal at The Cheesecake Factory.

Who needs Hawaii?

The Blackest Show on TV

Queer to be here in Baltimore, especially after watching three years of The Wire on DVD in the last few months. I'm in the schmancy Inner Harbor area, so no corner crews, jackboys, etc. Plenty of black folks, though. Which got me thinking about the aspect of The Wire that, to me, is the most striking and, in many ways, the most significant.

But first, a bit about my trip. I'm here for two weeks of Introduction to Leadership. It's interesting, kind of, but now that I'm writing about it, I'm bored. Nine hours a day of ITL is enough.

So, back to The Wire.

It's just that it's so black. For those not in the know (I'm thinking of you, Mom!), The Wire is an HBO-produced drama about police and drug-dealers in Baltimore, Maryland. It's been praised for it's sharp writing, great acting, and for the way it keeps all the characters human, not demonizing the drug-dealers, not sanctifying the cops. It's a really good show, though not the pinnacle of TV greatness that I was led to believe by all the press it received after the fifth and final season had wrapped.

But it is maybe the blackest show on television.

Now, I'm not talking Cosby Show-black. That's the kind of show where they cast more or less everyone black because it's trying to be a "black show." The Wire isn't a black show, it's just that most of the characters are black because it's set in Baltimore and most Baltimoreans (Baltimorons?) are black. The mayor, police commissioner, the major (of the Western district, 3rd season), the lieutenant, the homicide detective, the special-unit lieutenant, and four of the six regular cops from the special unit -- they're all black. Oh yeah, and let's not forget Clay Davis, the state senator. He's black, too. As are, of course, all the drug dealers and fifty percent of the main character junkies (Bubs' friend Johnny* being, pretty obviously, a token white).

I love the "diversity" of this show because it's not diverse. It's not Star Trek, God bless it, with it's ridiculously-multicultural-Cold-War-era bridge crew. The Wire isn't saying black people are this or that. It's just saying that, guess what, black people are. They're bad guys, good guys, they're politicians, cops, businessmen, teamsters, longshoremen, priests, ne'erdowells, junkies, freaks, drug-dealers, whores, bartenders, cabdrivers... you get the idea.

If I may paraphrase Charlton Heston in Soylent Green, "They're people! Black folks are... people!"

*Aaron speculated that Johnny was played by "that kid from 'Kids'." I checked it out, and he was right. (Thanks, IMDb!) Johnny The Junkie is fucking Leo Fitzpatrick from Larry Clark's infamous 1995 movie about out of-control AIDS-infected adolescents in NYC. I reviewed that movie for the Eagle Newspapers of upstate New York when I was 25. Christ, I was so much wiser then. My intelligence and wisdom actually peaked when I was 19, and knew everything. It's been all downhill from there as I discovered in the most painful ways possible that I wasn't, in fact, the smartest person in the world.

Book baby, book baby!

Elizabeth is now officially confirmed as the fruit of my loins. For one thing, she has a huge head. For another thing, she loves books, as evidenced by this picture.

Also notable in this picture is that she's on her knees. E.R. has been crawling around commando-style for a while now, but hasn't yet mastered the hands-and-knees method. However, she is learning how to lever herself up onto her knees for such favorite activities as pulling every boardbook off the shelf.

She's a good baby.

This Sunday I fly to Baltimore for more VA training. This time it's "Introduction to Leadership," as I am now a manager (guess I did an okay job on my KSAs). I'll be there Sunday to Friday solo, then Barb and Baby E. will fly in. Hopefully Grandma Susy and Grandpa Grumps will come down from Long Island to visit and eat crabs.

As I write this, I can hear Barb reading Goodnight Moon to Elizabeth in the bedroom. We've read that book countless times. It's really an amazing piece of art, but I'll have to delve into the depths of that book later, when I'm sitting lonely in the Baltimore Inner Harbor Marriott with half of a sixpack still left to drink.

Clothes, Lazlo.

Rather than shop for clothes, I have decided to blog about shopping for clothes. Here's the problem: I hate shopping. Most people I know might be surprised to find out that I actually kind of like nice clothes, although I don't own any. I think I've got good (if conservative) taste, I know a little bit about the rules of men's fashion, and I like wearing nice clothes and looking good. I just hate shopping. Plus, I'm cheap.

This is not a good combination.

On December 7th I've got to go to Baltimore, MD (Bodymore, Murderland, for fans of The Wire) for "Introduction to Leadership" training. I am expected to dress as a middle-manager in the government should dress -- meaning shirt and tie during the day, with a jacket (or, heaven forfend, suit!) for the post-training banquet. My Pierre Cardin suit is from Goodwill, not properly tailored, and is still spattered with mud from Aaron and Wendy's wedding five years ago. No go. My blazer is also from Goodwill. It's a traditional blue wool blazer, and it fits nicely, but I hate the shoulder pads. God I hate shoulder pads. Do all dress jackets have shoulder pads? I'll wear the damn thing in a pinch, but not comfortably, because I feel like a pin-headed frankenstein in those shoulder pads.

Shopping online is tempting, because you can be tremendously lazy, and sit in your club chair "shopping" while consuming the better part of a bottle of Chardonnay. That's what I've done tonight, and it's taught me what I already know: my tastes are boring as hell (love that Gap!), I'm too casual to be dressy, and I'm cheap (fifty-nine fucking dollars for a shirt!). The problem is, ultimately you don't know what you're getting, whether it will fit, etc. Therefore, the mall beckons.

Ugh.

The World Ends With Me

Back in July I wrote about the amazing complexity of the combat mechanics of my Nintendo DS game The World Ends With You. Pretty sure that blog entry was called Holy Effing Ess! The picture above shows the two screens of the DS that the player has to deal with. On the bottom is Neku, the main character -- the player's proxy (the slouchy kid with the red hair) -- whom you control with the stylus. Above Neku is character Shiki whom you control with the 4-way directional pad (see those arrows leading to the three different ESP-card symbols?).

It's an incredible achievement, this game, for a couple of reasons. One: the combat is so daunting as to appear impossible, but ends up being very possible even for a 38-year old geezer such as myself, after which it becomes superfun. To reiterate: the combat is really fun (not always the case in RPGs). You could play the game for the combat alone, and it would be worth the price of admission ($39.99, in case you're wondering).

But there's also a story to this game. TWEWY doesn't pretend to be "open ended" or "emergent" -- it's got a story to tell and it tells it; you're just along for the ride. But it's a good story. And it's not about High Elves and noble Paladins. It's about teenagers in Shibuya, Tokyo, Japan, dealing with survival, friendship, betrayal, fashion, and marketing -- all of which, with the possible exception of the former, are big deals to most teenagers in the moneyed world.

Barb hates videogames for no particular reason. The World Ends With You is the first game that made me really feel like she's missing out. It's a great work.

Plus, did I mention that it's fun as hell?

The One Billionth Blogger ...

...to say that I'm glad Barack Obama was elected president of the United States. I don't expect miracles from the guy. He's inheriting New Orleans post-Katrina. Bush has made a wreckage of the United States. I know some conservatives. I'm a recovering conservative myself. And I know that Bushloyal conservatives feel that he's being handed a raw deal by the media (note to self: blog entry on The Myth of the Liberal Media), but that history will look more kindly on G.W.Bush.

Ha! Ha!

It's a laughable idea, so I laugh. It's been said so many times that it no longer has any impact, but that doesn't make it less true: George W. Bush is stupid. He's not mentally-incompetent-stupid. I'm sure he could balance a checkbook. He can fly a fighter jet, for goodness sake. He's not a village idiot (bumper stickers notwithstanding). He's just a dumb guy. He's gullible. He's ignorant. He's narrow in scope. He's manipulable.

Most important: he's history. Fuck 'im. I'll leave his legacy to the historians, who will fill his chapter with debacle and devastation: Iraq, Gitmo, Patriot Act, Katrina, Credit Default Swaps, et al.

Still recovering from my conservative youth, I have to say that perhaps the worst thing that Bush has done is put us on the path to Socialism. Nationalized banks, government majority-owned insurance companies, and now General Motors coming to whinge at the federal hindtit? What the hell? My 18-year-old conservative self reminds me from the past: let the weak die. It's the natural order. If GM, Chrysler, or Ford aren't able to turn a profit making a product that almost every human on Earth wants, fuck 'em (if you'll excuse the continued thematic use of F-bombs). If I, as a taxpayer, am going to share in GM's loss, I better fuckingwell share in their profits.

Notice the anger?

As Trudeau asked recently in Doonesbury, what's the deal with nationalizing risk while continuing to privatize profit?

Movie Review: Speed Racer

The Wachowskis come back with a vengeance after the hideous, moneygrubbing disappointments that are The Matrix 2 and 3. I blame it on Joel Silver, their moneygrubbing producer, who convinced them that artistic bankruptcy was worth hundreds of millions of dollars.

Anyways, Bound is a great movie, The Matrix is a great movie, and guess what? Speed Racer is a great movie.

Speed Racer is a guy. That's his name. Speed Racer. He lives in a world kind of like ours, but much more colorful, where a popular sport is a type of auto racing wherein the cars are like gymnasts, springing about the track like living things. Somehow the laws of physics are different in this world, so as the 3000 pound cars are flung about, the necks of the drivers do not snap like so many toothpicks. Accept it. The movie is true to its fantasy in that it sets rules and lives by them. The cars are acrobatic, but they have limits, and their moves aren't invented on the fly for the convenience of the script.

You've never seen a movie like this. It is gorgeous. There are clear nods to videogames (e.g. Rex failed to hit the "quicksave") and anime, but the Wachowskis succeed in crafting their own style that's absolutely like nothing you've ever seen before. It's pop art, or I'm Roy Lichtenstein.

I've basically given up on action movies, but I was actually interested in the races in Speed Racer. They're exciting, despite the unreality. Somehow the movie creates a reality that has enough weight to keep you interested while being incredibly fluffy and neon.

Plus, there's fatkid- and chimpanzee-humor, which works, again, better than it should. I was amused by Chim-Chim in a way that I'm not normally by movie monkeys (cf. Cutthroat Island).

And: real actors! Susan Sarandon and Emile Hirsch and Matthew Fox are all fantastic. John Goodman is typical John Goodman, which isn't bad. Chim-chim should get a friggin' Oscar. There are ninjas.

Don't get me wrong. This movie is not for every one. Speed Racer is a strange movie made by strange filmmakers who are real artists taking something idiotic (or so I assume -- I've never seen the cartoon) and making of it something real, something beautiful, something that has a few strong things to say about art and family, and a lot to say about cinema.

Damn You, DFW!

Wednesday morning over cereal I was staring at my bookcase and thinking, "Can't wait for David Foster Wallace's next novel." The last one was Infinite Jest, the best novel of the 21st century that was published in the 20th century. I love that book unconditionally. It is mind-blowing. Reading it makes you smarter and better. But it's been a pretty long time since Infinite Jest (13 years now), and his other novel, The Broom of the System, is not so good. I've contented myself with his essays (awesome) and short stories (very good, occasionally extraordinary). His is a voice that makes an intense direct connection to me and people like me.

Or I should say, "His was a voice...," because David Foster Wallace killed himself yesterday. He was 46.

So Nerdy It's Painful

I'm something of a nerd myself: former D&D player (complete with subscription to Dragon magazine!); video game connoisseur; blogger. But this bumper sticker/t-shirt/dice-bag-embroidery, is so cringe-inducing I want to track down whoever foisted it on the world and smack them upside the head with my +2 baseball bat.

I saw it today on an otherwise normal-looking Honda Civic and had to wonder for the 100th time who would a) pay money for this nerdy, unfunny aphorism; and, b) adhere it to their car to proclaim their complete misunderstanding of the concept of humor.

Let's analyze this phrase. "Do not meddle in the affairs of dragons" -- sound enough advice, I suppose. Dragons are massive, fire-breathing monsters. Their lairs are boneyards, strewn with the picked-clean remains of those who have meddled. Most people in a world with dragons would not need to be advised not to meddle, any more than you or I need to be told not to meddle in the affairs of grizzly bears, or chainsaw-wielding serial killers.

"For you are crunchy" -- are humans crunchy? I mean, we have bones and all... but crunchy? Would you describe a pig as crunchy? A hippo? I guess one could argue that dragons are big enough to eat humans whole, in which case we'd be crunchy in the same way that a game hen is.

"And taste good with ketchup" -- this is what seals the awful deal. A dragon with a bottle of Heinz 57 on top of its treasure pile? For God's sake, dragons are cool! Ancient, wise, fierce, gold-hoarding, nearly-unstoppable killing machines that breathe fire and fly! But a dragon crunching on a knight or hobbit after drenching it in tomato ketchup is stupid and uncool and the inclusion of that image makes this the worst bumper sticker in human history.

Every time I think about it, I want to switch sides and become a bully.

Soapbox

No, I'm not going to get up on a soapbox and rap at ya. I'm gonna talk about the 2008 Portland Adult Soapbox Derby, which happened today. This is the third I've attended, and for some reason the magic was missing. The first year I was knocked out of my socks and into a bubbling whirlpool of awesomeness -- how could I have lived in Portland so long and not been hip to this most cool event? People making incredible non-motorized cars and careening down Mt. Tabor, an inactive volcano, at top speed? Not only were the cars absolutely mindblowing (in both categories: Art and Science), the atmosphere was the epitome of southeast Portland greatness: cool families, scurvy hippies, blondes with dreadlocks, shirtless skaters, eight million bicylists of all stripes, the occasional square from the west side, and everyone clutching a sweating can of PBR and having a blast.

Last year I also had a good time but I was in the midst of a non-drinking period and that took a bit of the fun out of it -- but not much. Instead of pounding brewskis, I made a movie.

This year was the first that Barb could attend (as in past years she was working retail which means Saturdays) and, of course, Elizabeth Rose. It was fun, still, but not as magical as in the past. Maybe it was the weather: HOT. It's almost 6pm right now and it's 99 degrees out (90 inside). Plus, the baby was fussy and couldn't be calmed. We left after maybe an hour or so because she became inconsolable.

There's always next year.