I had a crummy day yesterday.  Unfortunately, I don’t allow myself to write publicly about

Specific personal life-related things

How do I fill up countless HTML pages with these restrictions? Simple.  Whenever I need to vent, I find some ridiculously inconsequential aspect of pop culture and make fun of it.  It always makes me feel better.

Today’s exhibit: the first publicity still featuring unknown actor Brandon Routh as the title character in next year’s summer blockbuster, Superman Returns:

Let’s apply the full brunt of my knowledge of Superman lore to this regrettable image.

1. First of all, Superman does not have a “S” symbol on his belt. Do you know why?  BECAUSE THE “S” ON HIS CHEST AND THE RED CAPE TEND TO GET THE IDEA ACROSS.  Lex Luthor does not say “Now let’s see, you are...hmm...let me think...Oh!  I see the ‘S’ on your belt buckle.  You’re my arch enemy!” Why not just give the guy a name tag that says “Hello, I am the Last Son of Krypton”?

2. The character’s bright, primary red and blue colors have been noticeably darkened and muted.  This is, apparently, an attempt to update the character and make him more acceptable to a modern audience. Newsflash:  IT’S A GUY WITH A CAPE.  You either go all the way on this sort of thing or you’re screwed.  Lose the dark colors and get back to the Sunday comics.  What next, a red and blue tuxedo?

3. The “S” on the chest is now a raised, three-dimensional shield rather than an emblem.  It looks like some loser bought a commemorative Superman plate off eBay and pasted it on his shirt.

4. Look, I was in favor of hiring an unknown for this part.  I mean, I don’t want to see Ashton Kutcher changing my oil, much less playing Superman.  But I don’t like the look of this Brandon schlub.  He doesn’t have charisma.  Now, Chris Reeves, he commanded respect.  You’d be all,

“Hey, Chris, anyone tell you that you’re dressed like a total--”

(Reeves SILENCES you with steely yet confident gaze)

“---uh....so, you get your powers from Earth’s yellow sun, eh?”

But this guy doesn’t look remotely interesting.  (And keep in mind that this isn’t a candid shot; he had time to prepare for this.) He’s gazing intently into the distance, and it looks like he’s thinking:

“Now, that’s a nice chick walking over there.  Sure, she’s a bit of a townie with the big poofy hair and pasted-on nails, but she’s got it going on.  As long as she isn’t a butter face.  I hope she doesn’t turn around and see that my underoos are riding up in back.  Or, y’know, that I’m wearing a dumb looking monkey suit.”

Whew. I feel a little better now that I’ve expended my meaningless rage on a meaningless target.  I think I’ll go doorbell ditch my neighbors.

Posted by Greg at 02:04 AM on 04/26/05

Link to This

He: And then she--

Me: (Stops in tracks)

He: What is wrong with you?

Me: (.........)

He: Are you getting a brain freeze?

Me: (Pained expression)

He: What are you, twelve?

My neighbors are tired of all racket coming from my place, and with the water being shut off at midday to fix plumbing problems.  Every day, they gather around my door.  And every day, I have to release black smoke, indicating that the flooring job isn’t finished yet.

Wouldn’t it suck if one of the bishops burned something in the kitchen on the day that they were ready to announce the new pope?  Everyone’s waiting in St. Peter’s Square, and they issue a collective groan when they see clouds of black smoke: “Aw, for crying out loud.  Okay, whatever, we’ll be back tomorrow.” And Vatican officials go running after them “No, come back!  We have a new pope--those are just hash browns.”

I’m really scared that the name of the new pope, Joseph Ratzinger, is a typo and they actually chose John Ratzenberger, who played Cliff on Cheers. That would really suck.  He’d get up to the microphone and wheedle “Most people don’t realize that the papacy has a long and complicated history,” and then proceed to rattle off facts for several hours.

My friends gave me a belated birthday present: tickets for all of us to go to Disneyland. I love Disneyland.  I got very excited and surfed the park’s web page to see if anything unusual was going on.  They have listed, as part of their special attractions, the ability to “meet Aladdin and Jasmine.”

I began to reflect that I’d never let my kids meet Aladdin and Jasmine.  I figure they’d be extremely bitter at this stage in their careers.  Think of it as though you were reading a “Whatever Happened To” article in a newspaper’s entertainment section:

No Longer a ‘Whole New World’ for Old Disney Stars

In the “Meet and Greet” section of the Disneyland theme park, the mood is festive, even magical--that is, until an overanxious parent sneaks out an unauthorized camera and takes a shot of Aladdin and Jasmine.

“Pictures cost 45 dollars!” Jasmine snaps.  “With autograph, 60 dollars!”

Then she remembers herself, and her dark expression turns to smiles.  “But hugs are free!”

Still, her good cheer is seems tested when a rotund child, the size and shape of a miniature Matterhorn, leaps on her lap. She winces noticeably.

Aladdin seems inclined to apologize for his colleague’s mood. “Jas and I have to charge for pictures,” he tells me.  “The theme park only gives us minimum wage to do these meet and greets, and it’s not enough to float the rent.”

But aren’t they still flush with cash following their massively successful movie--plus all the direct-to-video sequels?

The question causes obvious discomfort.  Both Aladdin and Jasmine fidget.  Finally, Aladdin ventures: “Look at the sequels more closely.  The characters’ movements are much more jerky, and they don’t even really look like us.  We weren’t in those movies. They asked us, but we turned them down and they re-cast us with different actors.”

“We figured we were too big for direct-to-video at that point in our careers,” Jasmine sighs.  “We should have taken the work when it was offered to us.”

There lies the irony.  Over ten years after the massive worldwide success of Aladdin, the two key actors from the film--if you don’t count Robin Williams’s memorable work as the Genie--are struggling to make ends meet.  Aladdin himself primarily makes a living doing direct-to-video work in forgettable schlock films such as Monday Bloody Monday and Killed by Death.

“My appearance has actually been helpful lately,” Aladdin explains. “Everyone wants Arab-looking bad guys for their terrorist action plots, so I’ve been doing time in B-movie land.”

He even filmed a bit part as a bad guy on a recent episode of 24, but his scenes were left on the cutting room floor.

“I think that show prefers their Arabs to look more evil,” Aladdin muses. “I’m more like a brown Tom Cruise.”

He’s quick to point out, “But I’ve also done some family-friendly Hallmark channel original movies: My Friend the Genie, Return of my Friend the Genie, and A Genie for All Seasons. If you look at the total body of my work, I think you’ll see that I’ve avoided being typecast.”

Aladdin’s career also wasn’t helped by his high-profile battle with drugs: he checked into the Betty Ford clinic after becoming addicted to inhaling flavored smoke from Hookahs.  The actor’s G-rated image was permanently tarnished, even after appearing in a series of public service ads with the famous tag line, “Don’t Get Hooked on Hookahs.” He attempted to explain his side of the story with a tell-all memoir, You Can Call Me Al, but it quickly ended up in the half price book bin.

Jasmine hasn’t fared much better.  The project which received the most public notice was an eye-opening spread in Maxim magazine for men, which many claim was a deliberate attempt to change her squeaky-clean Disney persona.

“I did think of Maxim as an opportunity,” Jasmine admits.  “I wanted to show people that I’m comfortable with my sexuality.  People just remember me from that last scene in Aladdin where I’m chained up in a harem outfit.  The Maxim pictorial proved I can be so much more than that.”

Jasmine will also be starring in a reality show called The Animated Life, featuring fellow one-hit Disney heroines Ariel, Belle, and Pocahontas.

“Oh, that will be so much fun,” Jasmine says, warming to the topic. “We’ll all be together in an enchanted castle, competing for princes and throwing keggers.  It’ll be completely unscripted--well, except for a few songs. The producers are making us do some because the audience will expect it.”

Wait a minute--Belle competing for princes? So the rumors about her are wrong and she does, in fact, like men?

“Oh for heaven’s sake.” Sounding exasperated, Jasmine is obviously tired of fielding questions about the Beauty and the Beast star.  “Look.  I’ll tell you what I tell every reporter who asks me about this. Belle is my friend, and I’m not going to comment on her sexuality in any way, shape, or form.”

Jasmine adds quickly, “Well, I mean, obviously she’s into animals. Everyone knows that. But aside from that, I’m not going to comment on her sexuality in any way, shape, or form.”

Still, the buzz about The Animated Life has been positive. And when’s all said and done, Aladdin and Jasmine are grateful for their loyal--if aging--fan base, and for the work that comes their way.

“At least we were in a hit movie,” Aladdin points out. “It’s much worse for, say, the cast of Atlantis: The Lost Empire.  Those guys are lucky if they’re asked to open a car wash.”

This weekend I took my friend Frank to Picnic Day.  An annual event at my old school, UC Davis, Picnic Day invites alumni to walk around, eat food, and look at exhibits put on by students.

All I intended to do was eat and see a few friends, but then we found out about an exhibit I had never heard of before: maggot art.

Maggot art is sponsored by one of the biology departments.  The students and faculty observe while adults and kids use a tweezers, dip maggots into latex paint, and let them run around on paper, creating works of art:

The Maggot Art web page claims that no maggots are harmed during the making of these masterpieces, but Frank and I saw the kids pressing the tweezers too hard.

“My maggot isn’t moving,” a kid complained.

“He’s sleepy,” the science student said, retrieving the paint-covered maggot corpse and giving the child a new one.

No maggots harmed during the making of this art?  Give me a break.  And another eyewitness claims one of the kids ate his maggot.

Let’s face facts: Children are maggot killers. Everyone who has a child is unleashing the equivalent of maggot genocide upon the world.  Soon the entire environmental balance of the planet will be thrown off, thanks to these tiny, paint-slinging bug murderers.  I ask everyone to rethink this whole procreation thing before it’s too late.

(And I’m not just incensed about this issue because the kids hogged the maggots and Frank and I didn’t get a chance to make any art before the booth closed.)

We did, however, manage to go to the young democrats booth and get free sunscreen.  Only democrats hand out free sunscreen; republicans would be all “You forgot sunscreen so fend for yourself and learn a lesson for next time.” And, of course, they would be correct.  It didn’t help in my case anyway; I always forget how balding I am, and I forgot to slather up my widow’s peak. So there’s a section right at the edge of my hairline that got burned.  It looks like Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer’s half-submerged nose.

It was a nice day, although it’s interesting hanging out with Frank because I only know her because she started leaving comments on this blog.  Friends will ask me, “How do you know each other?”

And I forget that not everyone speaks geek: “I know her because she makes comments on my site.”

“What’s wrong with your sight? I thought you wear contacts.”

I’ve been having a strange recurring dream where I’m back in school and completely unprepared for it.

Ever see Top Secret?  There’s a scene where Val Kilmer is being tortured by Nazis. He drifts into unconsciousness and dreams he’s late for a test and he hasn’t studied. He screams, “My God...I’m back in school!” And then he wakes up and realizes he’s being tortured by Nazis and he says “Thank goodness.”

Well, I’m actually having that dream.  The first few times I just ignored it.  But I recently had it again, which means it’s been coming and going now for several months.

Is it because my brain is somehow reacting to the fact that I spent most of my life--all through my 20s--in school?  Is it some sort of sublimated anxiety about current projects at work? I don’t know.  But I remember that when I was little, I could sometimes concentrate during my waking hours and eventually control my bad dreams.

It really is possible to do this.  It just takes practice.  I would simply think about the way I wanted my dreams to go, and then when I slept I could often make it happen.  And, apparently, I need to brush up on this skill because I need it again.

Since I now have a blog, I thought I’d write my dream script here to help project it into my conscious and unconscious mind. It’s not as easy as it sounds--I tend to digress and scripts don’t always go as planned.  But let’s give it a shot.

BEGIN DREAM

(I walk into class.)

ME: What the hell am I doing back in school?  Do I have a test?

MRS. VAN DUSEN: Damn right you have a test.  And you haven’t studied.

ME: I do not have a test. I’m an adult.  I have a job.  I am not taking a test.

VAN DUSEN: GET IN YOUR GODDAMN SEAT BEFORE I TEST YOUR HEAD IN THE PENCIL SHARPENER YOU SNIVELING MISCREANT.

ME: Yes ma’am.

(Laura Chan, Stacey Anderson, and Kelley Kesey enter.)

LAURA, STACEY, and KELLEY: Hi Greg! Since you always gave us creepy looks in school, we wanted you be the first to know that it’s hot and we’ve decided to strip down to our underwear.

ME: Hey, that’s a good idea!  I’ll take control of this dream by imagining Mrs. Van Dusen in her underwear.

(Looks at Mrs. Van Dusen)

ME: Okay, not my best idea.

VAN DUSEN: I WILL GRIND YOUR BONES TO PASTE.

LAURA, STACEY, and KELLEY: (crooning together like a Greek chorus): Underwear!  Underwear!  Underwear!  Also, there was a miscount in the vote.  You won class president, and you were voted Most Likely to Keep all Your Hair by just about everyone, and--

(Star quarterback Gil Tourner enters and shoves me against the wall and kicks sand in my face.)

GIL: Get lost.  The girls are coming with me.

ME: Hey!  I think they were just getting to the second verse.

(Gil and the girls EXEUNT.)

VAN DUSEN: WHERE THE HELL DID ALL THAT SAND COME FROM?

ME: Aren’t you going to give him detention or something?

VAN DUSEN: AFTER I GRIND YOUR BONES TO PASTE I WILL PAINT THE WALLS WITH YOUR BLOOD.

(I shoot out DEATH RAYS and destroy her.)

ME: So much for the test.

(I take off into the air as the entire planet turns into a big foaming sea of beer and also they decide not to remake the Pink Panther movies and House Majority Leader Tom DeLay gets a tremendously painful ingrown toenail.)

-END-

Hmmm, well, that didn’t stay entirely on script.  Still, not bad for a dry run.  I believe when the time comes, I can make a few very subtle improvements.

This weekend I was trying to help my friend have a memorable birthday party while staying relatively sober because I had to drive home later.

At one point someone started passing around a breath analyzer. It was small and plastic.  It looked like it came out of a crackerjack box.

A reading of .08 meant sober.  I had had two beers and a shot, so I wasn’t sure where I’d end up.

My breath was .03.

My friend’s breath was .12.

Mission accomplished.

Work has finally begun on my floors.  This means that my toilet is in my shower stall, and my referigerator is in my living room.

I tried asking the guys how long my fridge would be in my living room.  They don’t speak English.

It’s pathetic how little Spanish I know after taking four years in high school.  The only phrase I can ever remember is Mi tío tiene una pluma.  Unfortunately, the fact of my uncle possessing a pen rarely has any bearing on whatever situation may be at hand, so this scintillating feat of linguistic dexterity does not suggest time well-spent for an hour a day, five days a week, from ages 14-18.

I tried to remember the days of the week in Spanish: ”Lunes, Martes, Miércoles...is Thursday Huevos?  I think so, but those are also eggs.  Huevos Rancheros. But why would they call them ‘Thursday Eggs’? Maybe it’s because once upon a time, it was customary to eat omelettes on Thursdays.”

Incidentally, the Spanish words for “Saturday” and “Sunday” would make a good name for an opera singer.  “My dear, get your hair done and put on your finest dress.  We’re going to the city plaza tonight to catch Sábado Domingo.”

Anyway, I finally said ”Jeuves?” And the guys nodded ”Si, si.” The thing is, a few days later, I’m sort of used to the refrigerator being in my living room.  It’s actually awesome.  I don’t have to get up to get a snack or a beer; I just reach across and snag it.  Why isn’t it always this way?

You might wonder: what about the recessed space in your kitchen where the refrigerator is actually supposed to go?  It won’t go to waste. I’m thinking I’m going to use it to build a pillow fort.

I should go into business as an interior designer.

The Yeti got me going with the idea that the pope might be chosen just the way Buffy the Vampire Slayer was--that there’s someone next in line to become “magically popey.” In the TV show, a young girl is chosen by the Powers that Be and empowered to fight the forces of darkness.  When she dies, another slayer is called to take her place. As the Yeti implies, there’s a similar concept behind the pope; people might mourn his loss, but another one will pop up pretty soon and there’s always popes-to-be waiting in the wings.

Then I started thinking about the final episode of Buffy, where the good guys changed the rules and cast a spell that activated all the slayers-in-waiting.  Suddenly, there were hundreds of superpowered girls ready to protect the earth and avenge the innocent.  I’m forced to ask: why don’t we do the same thing with the pope?  Let’s not just choose one of them. Let’s find all the people who would be in line to become pope and just say “You’re all popes. Get on it.” We could give them a bunch of big hats and just like that! we’ve made the world a safer place for humanity. 

Buffy is our guide: We shouldn’t settle for one when we can have many.  I don’t mean to be ridiculous and suggest that we call them slayers, or anything.  I would call them the “popepourri.”

Shopping for a one-year old’s birthday is easy.  The stores arrange the toys by age, knowing that babies have no idea what they like anyway.  For example, the “YEAR 1-3” section has a bunch of colorful, battery-powered animals that say cute things.  The only way you can go wrong is if you accidentally buy “Early Naptime” or something.

But I was surprised to see that the years kept on going.  I walked down the aisle and saw YEAR 5-10, YEAR 15-18, and YEAR 20-25.  I walked all the way up to my age, YEAR 30-35, and saw a large comfy chair with a glass of scotch strapped to the armrest.  I sat in it and immediately the voice of Jessica Alba started whispering stock tips.  I thought about buying it, but there was a lot of assembly required.

In shopping for my niece’s present, I learned a lot about what’s popular in the world of babies.  For example, there’s this children’s band called The Wiggles.  For some completely bizarre reason, they have the outfits and the haircuts of actors from the original Star Trek series:

They have books and albums.  It was weird, because after learning about them I started seeing them everywhere: I drove past the Oakland Coliseum and damned if they weren’t coming to play live.  I mentioned this to my sister-in-law, and she said “We could take Cameron to something like that in maybe a few years.”

And this makes me sad, because no children’s band ever lasts that long.  They always break up.  For example, the lead singer refuses to share his instruments, or the drummer develops a bad cake habit.

It’s amazing to me what my brother and his wife are doing to prepare for Cam’s future.  They are interviewing--interviewing--at pre-pre schools.  That’s so they can get into a good pre-school, and then get into a good kindergarten, and so on until they ensure her future.

I think it’s nice they’re doing all this, but I don’t really think it’s necessary.  I never worried about what pre-school I was going to get into; my academic strategy was to stay out of juvenile hall long enough to take the SATs.  And here I am--a completely functioning adult with a rich, meaningful career.

Now I’d better stop blogging; I need to go zone out in a meeting for an hour and then go back to my cube and play Tetris until it’s time to go home.